The Gulf (55 page)

“Mr. Shaw, I am going to leave that to the carrier. I'm not going to make tactical decisions based on political PR.”

Shaw said, gently, “You're to take the recommendations of this working group into consideration, Admiral. That's clearly indicated in your orders.”

“Crap,” said Hart. Several of the diplomats winced.

Shaw said, his voice just a shade grayer, “We're talking about an operation in support of U.S. policy, Admiral, and that would be a decided positive—”

“Crap,” said Hart again, interrupting him in mid-sentence. “We're not talking about policy, we're talking about men's lives now. You've already moved me to Abu Musa. Now you're telling me what ordnance to use.

“Well, I'm not buying that. That's not advice, that's meddling in military operations. If CBUs are the safest way for my pilots to destroy this base, that's what I'll use. End of discussion.” He swiveled away from Shaw, caught Blair in his sights, and let off a salvo at her, too. “Yes, meddling. Like
you
've been doing since you got here. What about it, Miss Titus? Any more ‘recommendations,' ‘advice,' or ‘consultations'?
Are you done screwing around with us?
”

She was instantly angry. “That's unfair, Admiral. You complained to me about not having a free hand. I got it for you! Where do you think this order came from? From a negotiated agreement of both houses with the Executive. Stop whining and carry it out!”

Shaw tried to interrupt, but she went on. “You wanted a chance to hit them. Hit them, goddamn it, and face the consequences!”

Weber said, “Uh, I don't think we need to drag personalities into this discussion—”

“He's the one—” she said, but then stopped herself. No one else spoke.

“Abu Musa, then,” said Weber. He shoved his chair back and turned off the recorder, looking relieved. “Abu Musa, seventy-some hours from now. And that's close-hold, everybody, no talking about it outside of this room or another secure space.

“Thank you all for attending. This conference is adjourned.”

They got up. The door opened, and the attachés filed out. Blair lingered, however. Hart was gathering up his charts and files, his cheeks still flushed. As soon as the recorder went off, he'd lit another cigarette, and it hung now from his lips, shedding gray chips of ash on the table.

He ignored her, talking rapidly to Byrne. Finally, she said, “Admiral.”

“What?”

“One last thing—the ships you're going to send in.”

“We discussed that already.”

She stood by the table, her arms crossed. She wasn't sure how she felt. Still angry—yes, at his accusations. But also—scared. And not only for Dan.

“I know, but I was wondering”—she heard the tremor in her voice with sudden terror, but pressed on—“wouldn't the
Mobile Bay
be a better ship to send in than the, the frigate? It's so much more capable. And it's on station there now, closer—”

“Wait a minute,” said Hart. They were alone now. He brought his eyes up slowly, then narrowed them, tilting back his head as if, she thought, he was peering at her through bifocals. “Wait a minute! I know why you're asking me this. My chief of staff said he saw you with one of
Van Zandt
's officers. Is that what this is all about? Something
personal?
”

He said it the way a doctor would say
malpractice lawyer.
Suddenly, just like that, she hated him.

She said in a tight, frozen voice, “All right. That's correct. I'm asking for a favor.”

“A
favor.
”

“That's right.”

“That I not send the ship your … friend is on; that I send another in her place.”

“That's right,” she said again, and her voice trailed off to nothingness in the insulated room.

“Forget it,” said Hart. “
Van Zandt
's the best I've got for the mission. For the mission
you
want done. And her assigned crew,
all
her regularly assigned crew, is going in on her.”

The smoke made a circle in the air. Then he hesitated, half-turning back to her. She stopped breathing, torn between fear and hope. When she saw his eyes, though, she knew there was no ground for hope. Not from this man.

But now his voice wasn't angry. It was tired. And there was no hint of reproach anymore. “You know something, Miss Titus? I know Lenson, too. And Shaker. And a lot of other men on that ship and
Adams.
But I've got to send them, anyway.

“So you got us this deal, is that it? Thanks. For doing your job. But welcome to the real world. It's not all equations and budgets, is it? Now somebody's got to point at a man and tell him, Go out there, and be ready to die.

“I'm disappointed, Blair. It's kind of sad. I was starting to respect you.”

She stood alone in the empty room, wanting to cry or scream but unable to do either. She felt as if part of her had died. Hart's last words echoed like a knell.
Starting to respect you.

Till now, she'd thought of herself as a professional. Focused on the quantifiable, on the facts. Emotion prejudiced analysis. Therefore, it had no place in her business, which was
truth
and
efficiency;
no place in her career—the most important thing in her life.

Hold lightly, Blair. It's over in a heartbeat.…

And now she'd given way to it. In the worst, most degrading way.

Then something inside her heart said, horrified, Isn't it natural to protect those you love?

She shuddered. What was she doing? Where was she going from here?

She didn't know. But she couldn't think about it now. Someone was calling her from outside. Saunders. He sounded angry.

She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and went out.

30

U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt

SHAKING and with pounding heart, not with fear but with the insulted rage of innocence accused, Phelan stood at attention outside the executive officer's stateroom. Across from him, Chief Nolan leaned against a bulkhead. The humming air was cold. Colder, he thought with furious hatred, than it ever got where the enlisted lived.

He sniffled, and Nolan's eyes flicked. “Straighten up, you worthless piece of shit,” he rasped.

He raised his shoulders a quarter-inch, then let them slump back. Fuck him. The chief master-at-arms. Big deal.

But no matter what he told himself, no matter how he sneered inside at the fat chief and all he represented, he couldn't stop trembling.

It had occurred to him more than once in the hour he'd been standing here that this time he was in real trouble.

He hadn't expected Nolan that early. Sick call wasn't till after quarters, and sick bay was off limits till then. After all, it was a medical space. People weren't supposed to just barge in. So when the door eased open and the fat face stuck itself in, he'd frozen, too deep in the rush to move or speak. The chief, glancing around absently, had asked him something—something about Fitch—and then, suddenly, seen what he was doing. Seen his arm palm up on the blotter, the paper and foil scattered, the little specimen cup.

And the needle.

Not that it was a big deal. It wasn't as if he was mainlining, like an addict. He'd just been skin-popping. It was just to be able to do his job; he wasn't worth a shit in the morning these days. But he'd realized then, in that moment of simultaneous euphoria and horror, that he'd forgotten to lock the door.

“Come to attention, Phelan,” rasped Nolan again. Bernard gave him a go-to-hell sneer. If he wanted him at attention, he could fuck a duck.

Boots rattled on the ladder. It was khaki, the XO. He looked tense already. Phelan came to a boot-camp attention, shoulders back, thumbs along the seams of his dungaree trou.

Dan blinked at the waiting CMAA, the mustached, swarthy man beside him. Remembered, and suppressed a sigh. “This him, Chief?”

“Yessir. Seaman Phelan.”

“
Hospitalman
Phelan,
sir,
” the little man barked.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. There's a lot”—Dan paused—“a lot going on today.”

“That's all right, sir. Waiting won't hurt this guy none. Give him time to get it out of his system.”

Dan wondered what Nolan meant. Then thought, That's what we're here to find out. He slid past them, leaving the door open. The chief flicked his eyes for Phelan to follow.

Inside, Bernard glanced around enviously. Private desk, sofa, books. A porthole, pictures on the bulkheads. A lot nicer than a two-by-six bunk, with people playing cards all night, slamming doors, farting in your face as you lay in your rack. The only trouble was that the overhead lights were too bright. He thought of asking the XO to turn them off. No, that wouldn't be smart.

Lenson stood in front of the porthole for a moment, blinking into the morning. He was remembering how Sturgis had looked when it became evident there was no way of telling which version of events to believe, his or Shaker's. The agent was still pursuing the investigation, broadening it now to the rest of the officers and crew.

Phelan, watching him with the attention a rabbit gives a hawk, saw the XO hadn't shaved yet. He thought angrily: We got to, though. Take your fucking time, us peons got nothing better to do than wait on you.

Dan turned. “Where's the Doc?”

“I guess down below, sir.”

“This man works for him. I want him here before we start.”

“Aye, sir. Use your phone?”

Lenson nodded. Nolan spoke briefly on the bogen, then hung up. “He's on his way, sir.”

“Lieutenant Wise; captain's cabin,” announced the 1MC. Dan turned the speaker down, then sat and took a message out of a basket. He looked at it, massaging above his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He wondered what Pensker had told them. Would he back Shaker up? Or would he figure it was time to come clean?

Phelan watched him, seething. Go ahead, ignore us, he thought. We're just dirt to you. Army, Navy, the officers were all the same.

He stayed braced, though. It seemed like the smart thing to do.

Fitch came in a few minutes later. “Shut the door, Doc,” said Lenson, sliding the message out of sight and leaning forward.

“Uncover,” barked Nolan.
“Two.”

Dan began, the words routine: “Hospitalman Phelan, this is XO's investigation. It's carried out to see if there's evidence to warrant writing up a formal charge. No punishment will be awarded here. However, the same rules for your protection apply as at captain's mast. You have the right to remain silent and to make no statement. You have the right to call witnesses to your defense. Do you understand everything I've said?”

“Yessir,” Phelan snapped.

“Chief, what do we have here?”

Nolan cleared his throat. “Well, sir, like I said on the bridge, at approximately oh-six-forty-five I was coming back from the fantail. I stopped at sick bay to see if Doc was in. Wanted to ask him if he could retest my body-fat percentage. I've lost ten pounds since my last physical.”

He paused, then resumed his official voice. “Petty Officer Fitch was not in sick bay. Hospitalman Phelan was. I observed that the safe was open, that there was drugs out in front of him, along with other paraphernalia, and that he had a needle in his arm. He looked spaced out and didn't answer at first when I spoke to him. I asked him what he thought he was doing.

“He said he was giving himself a vitamin shot. That didn't sound right, so I took charge of the syringe and the drugs and the candy, everything that was on the desk, and called the Doc. When he got there, I turned subject man over to his custody and went to notify you.”

Dan nodded. He didn't think about what he'd just heard. He remembered it, but he hadn't thought yet. It was only one side of the story. “Okay. Doc?”

Fitch nodded solemnly. He looked grave and important, regretful and vindicated all at the same time. The prick, Phelan thought, this is just another chance for him to suck off an officer.… “Yessir. When the Chief got me down there, I first made the observation that the controlled-substances safe had been opened. I then—”

“Let's have the short version,” Lenson interrupted. “What was he doing?”

“Injecting himself with morphine. Near as I can tell. I think what he did was open one of the blocks, dissolve it in water, heat it, then do a subcutaneous injection.”

“Morphine? Medical morphine, from the emergency stock?”

“Yes, sir, that's right.”

Dan felt sick. He took his cap off and set it to one side. Then, for the first time, he looked up. Phelan kept his eyes straight ahead.

“Okay, what have you got to say?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“What do you mean, nothing? This is serious, Phelan.”

“Yes, sir, I know it is.” He'd been thinking all this time about what he was going to say. The bit about the vitamins had almost gone down with Nolan; he'd seen the doubt in his eyes. With Fitch here, though, that might not work. At last he said, “Sir, I don't know how this goes. I never was up to one of these before. Don't I get a lawyer or something?”

Dan stared up at him, trying to catch the eyes, but they slid around his like oiled marbles. “This is the first time you've ever been at mast?”

“Yessir.”

“Never went to mast on the—what was it, the cruiser you missed movement on—”

“
Long Beach,
sir. No, sir.”

“We still don't have your records, do we?”

“I don't think so, sir.”

“Well, about a lawyer: This isn't an official mast yet. As I said. Now, if you want to talk lawyers, we can find out if there's one attached to the staff here. Only it won't be a mast then, it'll be a court-martial. Got that?”