The Gulf (30 page)

“Thank you. Areas to be cleared … this Farsi Channel, it's up north, isn't it?”

Miller reached for a keypad; one of the middle screens changed to show the upper Gulf. “Those green circles are the minesweepers,” he said, highlighting an area. “They've just sortied from alongside
Coronado.
The Channel sweep will start tomorrow morning.”

She asked a few questions about the antimine patrols, about intelligence collection. It had been obvious to everyone on the Hill that the Iranian mine laying had caught the Navy flatfooted. With the Reserve callup, though, it seemed as if they had a handle on the problem. She handed the message back without further comment.

“Well, now … how about that coffee?”

“I'm ready. Oh, and could you direct me to a rest room?”

“Let's just go up to my cabin. You can use the head there.”

She took her time, repairing the ravages of the helicopter trip. When she came out, smoothing back her hair, a servant was laying out silver beneath a painting of Farragut. The officers stood; Miller introduced his exec. Byrne pulled her chair out for her. They can be so polite, she thought. As long as you know your place.

The steward served out coffee, cream, and pastries. “Now, Captain,” she began, “I'd like to talk about your perceptions of how we're doing in the Gulf. What else do you need? What shortfalls do you see?”

Basically, Miller didn't see any. He talked about the ship's capability some more, then said, “This is the first high-tempo ops the Navy's seen since Vietnam. It's a tactically demanding mission: constrained rules of engagement, very narrow waters, and a dedicated enemy with a wide spectrum of weapons, some highly sophisticated.

“I don't think anybody will deny we've had setbacks. But when we did, we studied our errors, changed our tactics, and moved forward again. We've been flexible. When the enemy introduces new tactics, we have to change our warfighting approach to respond. I think Admiral Hart has done that.”

“What about the speedboats? The Boghammers. They're small, fast, and have very little radar signature. Can you even pick them up?”

“We track them every day.”

“In the Clarence Strait? And out of Abu Musa? But if you're tracking them, how come they're still hitting shipping in and out of Hormuz?”

Miller frowned. “As you said, they're fast. Since we're not officially at war, we can't attack them till they demonstrate hostile intent. So they wait till we're not around, duck out, hit a tanker or two, then duck back in. Occasionally we can scramble fighters or armed choppers to intercept them, but it's difficult. If we could go in and wipe them out, the attacks would stop.”

“But their bases are in Iranian territory.”

“Uh-huh,” said Miller. He offered her a brownie. She shook her head. “We
have
responded to the small-boat threat. We've tuned our radars for small targets and outfitted Gulf-bound units with heavy machine guns and grenade launchers. I've read the ‘experts' who say we ought to have our own speedboats out here. Pardon my French, but that's a crock. You don't fight small boats with small boats unless you have a lot of people to sacrifice. The U.S. Navy doesn't operate that way. Anyway, they know we're ready, and they don't attack our warships.”

“They don't attack anyone's warships. They go after commercial traffic. Insurance rates have tripled this year for Gulf-bound tankers. Did you know that?”

“It doesn't surprise me.”

“I can see it doesn't impress you, either. The Navy doesn't pay insurance, does it? But what it means, Captain, is that this multibillion-dollar fleet we're maintaining here is incapable of protecting shipping. It can deter sorties by what's left of the Iranian Navy and Air Force, it can escort a few ships at a time, but it can't stop what essentially is maritime terrorism.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Miller, suddenly flushing. “You're holding us responsible for not doing something that we're specifically restrained from doing. Those are safe havens for the Pasdaran, and it's Congress that's holding us back from hitting them.”

Blair put her cup down. “Don't pull that stab-in-the-back bullshit on me. That's getting to be the standard response when you people fail, isn't it? Congress wouldn't let you win! If you were more efficiently organized—”

“Whoa, both of you,” said Byrne soothingly. “Just let's back off now, and try to look at it calmly.”

“I'm calm, Mr. Byrne, very calm. I just don't like to have utter
bullshit
served up to me as an excuse.”

“If I get an order to go in, I'll go in,” said Miller tightly.

“In this ship? No way! Captain, we paid too damn much for it to risk this floating Pentagon in anything less than defending a carrier against a full-scale Soviet air attack.”

There was a rap on the door then, and the man with the clipboard let himself in. He paused, seeing perhaps the echo of angry words in their faces. But Miller waved him in. As he read, his face darkened.

“Bad news?”

“A few minutes ago, my tactical action officer alerted the convoy to an approaching air contact.”

“What happened? Did they shoot it down?”

Miller cleared his throat. “Well, no. It was identified as a civilian airliner.”

“Who identified it? Could you tell what it was from here?”

“Well, I'll be perfectly honest with you. Not always. In this case, the frigate made the final call. But the important thing is, she was ready.” He paused. “Also, there's been another raid. On a Greek freighter. It's on fire. One of
Van Zandt
's helicopters, and one from a British destroyer, are taking off survivors.”

She wanted to say, And what about the attackers? Did you even see them on your expensive displays?

But there was a time to go easy, let the facts speak for themselves.

She, Byrne, and the two ship's officers sat in silence after the radioman left. Finally, she said, “So you see the problem. What can we do about it?”

“An air strike?” suggested the exec.

“Ineffective,” said Byrne gloomily. “With the hand-held missiles the Pasdaran have now, the pilots can't go in low. And going in high, they'd never hit Boghammers.”

“Well, all I can say is, you people had better think of something.”

“We've also got to worry about that damned two-oh-nine,” said Miller. “When and where it'll show up—”

Byrne started. Before he could speak, Blair said, “What's that?”

“It's a submarine. It's—”

“That's classified,” said Byrne.

“You said she was cleared.”

“Not for that.”

“Not for what?” She turned on Byrne, who was hunched guiltily over a cherry tart. “The Admiral said
everything,
Mr. Byrne. Did he not? What's this about a submarine?”

“There may not be any. It's just a rumor.”

“Let's have it.” She was angry now. “Let's have it all. Is this what you were whispering about in Bahrain? Do you want me to call Talmadge, tell him you're holding out on me?”

“No. But I don't want you to overreact, either.”

“You let me judge what I'll do. Now tell me what a 209 is, and why you're so worried about it.”

The intel officer sighed. “It's a West German-made submarine. The Shah bought two. One was delivered, just before the revolution, but it was never operational.

“Now, though, we've”—he lowered his voice till it was almost inaudible over the hum of the ventilators—“This is highly classified, Blair, because it's derived from certain listening systems that we're not, uh, really supposed to have in the Indian Ocean. Our ships' COs know, but no one else.”

“You mean you've been—no, don't tell me any more.” She closed her eyes. “Okay, so you've detected a submarine. Where is it?”

“We don't know. Yet. We know it was under way for a brief period, possibly for training or system tests.”

“Why is one submarine such a threat? Can't you deal with it?”

“We could in the open ocean. But the Gulf's so shallow, most of our gear won't work. Nobody's gear would. It's not a case of buying the wrong stuff, sonar's just not very effective there. We're talking about a very advanced, quiet boat, specifically designed for shallow-water operations. If the Iranians start torpedoing ships, that's a different matter than some fanatics firing rocket grenades. That would stop all the traffic. It would cut off oil to Japan and Europe.”

“Entirely.”

“That's right.”

“Can our nuclear submarines track it?”

“Again, they'd deal with it easily in open ocean, but they're too big to go into the Gulf.”

“So what does Admiral Hart plan to do, Mr. Byrne?”

“We're looking for it. Recon flights, satellite photos, and electronic intercept, as well as the listening stations. Sooner or later, if it's there, we'll spot it. Once we know where it is, then we can set up an antisubmarine screen outside its harbor.”

“And then what? Sink it as it comes out?”

“Well, it'd have to show hostile intent first.”

“Or we could sink it by mistake,” said Miller thoughtfully.

She was about to ask exactly what he meant by that when a telephone buzzed. The CO reached under the table for it, listened, then said, “Thank you, she'll be back there in ten minutes—Ms. Titus, helo control reports your transportation is inbound. Let's see, think I saw your bag last in CDC. I'll send a man for it.”

They got up. She hesitated, then said, “Captain, thank you for your time. I'm sorry, but you have to ask hard questions to get useful answers.”

“I understand,” said Miller, but his mouth was grim as he held the door for her. “I hope you find what you're looking for. Whatever the hell it is. And then go home, and let the professionals fight the war.”

She stopped, there in the doorway, with enlisted men waiting outside. After a moment, she murmured, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I don't pussyfoot, Ms. Titus. I say what I think, and I think you don't belong here.”

“Is that so.”

“Here's your bag,” said Byrne, emerging from a side door. “The helo should be waiting, let's—”

“Tell them to go back to the barge,” she said, holding Miller's now-startled eyes. “We won't be needing it tonight. I'm staying aboard, Captain. Find me a bed, please.”

“Blair—”

“You're not staying on this ship,” said Miller flatly.

The enlisted men looked at each other and melted, unobtrusively but very suddenly, from sight.

“I'm not?”

“No. It's against the law. And I don't want you.”

“Give me the briefcase, Mr. Byrne. Thank you. Captain Miller, do you see this letter? This authorizes me access to all military facilities in the Persian Gulf area for purposes of investigation on behalf of the Senate Armed Services Committee. This is a military facility, is it not?”

“It's not a Goddamned facility, it's a
warship.
There's no place to put a woman. Steward! Take her bag to the flight deck.”

“That's mine. I'll need it tonight. Don't put your hands on it.”

The man stopped, looking first scared and then glancing, in mute helplessness, at his commanding officer.

“Uh, Blair, overnight visits are not authorized—”

“Mr. Byrne, unless you are going to help me, please keep quiet. Captain, the only way I'm going on that helicopter will be kicking and screaming, and I don't think you'd enjoy what would happen once I got ashore. I need to see Admiral Hart tomorrow. So, I'm going to stay.” She decided her sweetest smile was called for. “Now is the time for you to give in gracefully. Don't you think?”

Miller stared down at her for another five seconds, his face looking like a balloon about to pop, before he wheeled suddenly on Byrne. “You're Hart's Goddamned rep. Does he expect us to run a damn hotel for visiting … visiting…” He stalled, then spat out,
“civilians?”

“Given the situation, Lee, I don't think we have a hell of a lot of choice.”

Miller wheeled and began shouting. “… my inport cabin,” he finished. “And hang some Goddamned sign on the door so people don't walk in. Jesus Christ!”

“That's not very graceful. But it'll do.” She smiled at the enlisted man. “Now you can pick it up. Thank you. Follow us, please. Captain … lead on.”

16

U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt

THE late-morning sunlight poured through the tempered glass like boiling water. Hayes's feet were cramping again. The helmet chafed against his neck, he was sweating under the body armor, and heat rash itched at his crotch.

Mattocks and the other mechanics had worked all night repairing Two One's hydraulics. The plane had passed its final check just before dawn. Since then, they'd been aloft, describing slow circles fifteen miles out in front of the convoy. He hadn't had the stick one minute of that time. He was uncomfortable, hungry, bored, and sleepy.

He glanced at Schweinberg. The dark curve of the visor hid his face from sight. Not that he was exactly longing to see the full red cheeks, the flat, stupid eyes.

Buck studied the stickers plastered on his HAC's helmet. The American flag, Day-Glo on Mylar backing; a Seminoles decal;
SHIT HAPPENS
; another,
MUSTACHE RIDES
5¢; and the squadron insignia, a curvaceous angel in high-heeled boots plunging a sword into a submarine.

His own helmet was as bare as it was issued. He didn't think stickers for the NAACP, ACLU, and the Unitarian Church would go over real good.

Virgil Hayes thought he put on a good front. Weight lifting and an occasional street joke seemed to satisfy the men he worked with. But sometimes he felt surrounded.