The Gulf (58 page)

“Mine understands,” said Gordon. He smiled slowly.

He opened the door and looked for his men. They were already standing, picking up their gear.

“Let's go,” he said, and shut his mind off from everything but the mission.

IV

THE STRIKE

32

U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt

STANDING by the copier in Radio central, the first stapled-together sheaf hot in his hand, Dan suddenly had to perch himself on a stool. The shock, the numbness in the backs of his thighs, was that great.

They weren't being relieved, sent back to the States, as he'd expected when Commodore Ritchie handed him the buff envelope. And inside it, sealed, the red one.

His mouth twitched humorlessly as he recalled the rumors. The exec didn't hear scuttlebutt directly, but one of Nolan's jobs was keeping him abreast of the mess decks. All the officers were being relieved; they were getting a new CO; a new XO; and the most imaginative, they were going to Colombo, Sri Lanka, to help victims of the recent earthquake rebuild the city.

Imaginative or not, they all fell short of reality.

Van Zandt
was going to penetrate and destroy the most dangerous Pasdaran stronghold in the southern Gulf.

He turned the pages slowly, bemusement easing off into disbelief. Then that, too, was scoured away by sharp black print.

Suddenly everything that had happened that day made sense.

Hart had been waiting on the pier when they pulled in. He'd come aboard as soon as the brow was over, followed by a string of staffies and technicians. Dan had had a short private talk with him, basically a repetition of the interview with Sturgis.

He'd thought there'd be some decision then, some kind of summary judgment. When it was over, though, when Hart stood with somber courtesy to dismiss him, he couldn't tell what sort of impression he'd made.

Nor did he know what, if anything, the techies had found in the missile mag. But when he'd gone out after seeing Phelan, an unmarked truck was pulling into position by number-two line. A line of tan-uniformed Bahraini troops was sealing the jetty off. And eight U.S. Air Force military police were holding their weapons ready, facing out in an alert circle, as two gray warhead containers were swung off the forecastle by a vehicular crane.

Van Zandt
had gotten under way shortly afterward, anchoring in the southern neck of Sitra Bay. And just now, the operations deputy had come by in Hart's barge.

Now, looking at what he held, Dan understood. Operation NIMBLE DANCER. Good title. They'd have to be damn nimble to pull this one off.

Situation, mission, execution. Concept of operations … chart, see enclosure. Their route was a shaded corridor through a crosshatching that he immediately saw spelled mine field. On the heights of the island were symbols for missile batteries and guns.

Good Christ, he thought. For a moment, he considered the possibility that Hart was sending them in to get rid of them, to moot the whole question of his accusations and Shaker's trustworthiness. But no, there were better explanations. If this was a retaliation for Hayes and Schweinberg, for the LNG tanker attack, it would have to be carried out right away.
Van Zandt
just happened to be available. This was a little late in the twentieth century for a suicide mission. The wrong navy, too.

The chief banged in the last staple. “Here's the other copies you wanted, XO.”

“Thanks. One goes to Lieutenant Wise—” Dan stopped himself; they were marked Top Secret. “Never mind, I'll take them around myself.”

“Aye, sir.” The radioman lingered, obviously longing to read what he'd just copied. Dan shook his head fractionally. The chief shrugged and disappeared into the transmitter room.

Besides,
Adams
was going in with them. And he'd seen something about an air strike, mine clearance, electronic countermeasures. He flipped back and forth, already imprinting data on his brain. Once the raid began, he'd have no time to look things up.

And there wasn't much time to get ready. The execution date time group translated into early morning, the day after tomorrow. Thirty hours from now.

He stood up at last and stretched, looking at the overhead. Letting himself out of Radio, he made his way to the bridge.

Topside it was night.
Van Zandt,
anchored at short stay, swung gently in a wind soft as veiled lips. And now he caught, to his right, Shaker's top-heavy silhouette against the city glitter. He was leaning out over the splinter shield. From alongside came the clatter of buckets, the rattle of tools, faint cursing. Dan moved up beside him. They hadn't talked since the magazine. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

Shaker didn't turn, just grunted. “Yeah?”

“XO, Captain. Got the op order copied.”

“Give it here.”

Shaker didn't look at him. Dan felt the tension like a thin steel diaphragm between them as the captain crossed to the chart table, flicked on the light, and scanned the first few pages. He stopped at the concept of operations, studied it in silence, then, as Dan had, flipped to the chart.

“Have we got this graphic they refer to here? JOG NG forty dash nine?”

“Yessir. Let me get by you there … here it is.”

He unrolled it and taped the edges to hold it down. Together, they stared down at Abu Musa. Irregularly triangular, like an arrowhead pointed northeast. Surveyed in peacetime, it showed nothing on the island except a hill, on the northeast point, and a lighthouse.

Dan went into the chart room and returned with the
Sailing Directions.
They studied the two pages on Jazirat Abu Musa. Mostly low, numerous hummocks, dark brown due to iron oxide … a ridge of hills on the west … west side fronted by rocks and reefs, not to be approached closer than one mile.

“Rough piece of territory,” grunted Shaker. “Can we get in where they show the base?”

Dan considered it. There was only one entrance. That was bad; it would be covered in advance by overlapping arcs of fire. The western side of the island was unapproachable and the south had drying flats extending out three-quarters of a mile. A
shamal
-proof anchorage lay off the southeastern tip. This was where the IRG base had been established. The Boghammers and other craft would be moored there, or alongside a small pier.

“I think so. If the channel's cleared.”

“How will we know if it is?”

“I haven't read the whole thing yet. But according to Annex Y, there'll be an EOD team inserted just after dark. They'll clear a Q-channel along here, leading in through the anchorage to the piers. As we approach, they'll mark the lane with infrared flashlights.”

Shaker grunted doubtfully. He was studying the “execution” section now. “Then, let's see. We come in, make a pass at the pier, do a minimum-diameter Williamson turn, another pass, then steam out through the same channel.” He walked his fingers across the chart, then showed his teeth. “What about navigation? Going in silent, we won't have radar till the shooting starts. And this light on Jabal Halwa, that's going to be out, unless they have some very stupid guys in charge. How we going to know where we are?”

“That shouldn't be a problem. Not with satellite fixes.”

“We only got one receiver, Dan. What's our backup if that craps out as we go in?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well … DECCA, but…” He stared at the chart, realizing that mines and Iranians weren't the only dangers. It wasn't overprinted for the old British electronic-navigation system. If they were off track going in, they'd run onto the shoal to the south of the anchorage. He could see that all too vividly,
Van Zandt
perched high and dry in the dawn. And if they didn't navigate carefully once past the mine field, they'd wander into it again. “We'll have to keep an accurate dead-reckoning trace.”

“
Real
accurate. What about tides?”

“Six feet. Slack water, high tide will be at two.” Dan paused. “I wonder … didn't Commodore Ritchie discuss this with you, sir? When he left these?”

“He did, yeah, but not in detail. I sort of thought there'd be a bigger force. Not just two ships.”

“There's no room for more.”

“I see that now,” said Shaker. “We'll have to go in column astern, as it is. But I want to do our own navigating, not just follow
Adams
in blind.”

“Right.”

“And then when we get in close enough, if we do get in, I guess we're supposed to blast the shit out of them with the guns.”

“I don't see any restrictions, Captain. It just says ‘take under fire and destroy boats and shore facilities.'” Dan paused. “I'd let them have everything we've got. Standards as we come in, aimed at the Silkworm batteries, then guns, right down to .50s when we're off the piers.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Shaker. “What about our torpedoes?”

“On the small boats?”

“No, no, on the piers.”

“I don't see why not.”

When Shaker spoke again, he somehow sounded more cheerful. “This is awful close range. World War Two stuff. Will our missiles work this close in? And our torpedoes are for antisubmarine work. Will they run straight? And detonate on contact?”

“I'll find out, sir. I'll check with Pensker and the leading TM.”

Shaker lifted his head. In the light reflected from the chart his face was a mountainous terrain, his eyes the empty pits of volcanoes. He said, “We ought to talk about this thing between us, XO.”

Dan leaned both hands on the chart table. Making his voice neutral, he said, “I'm ready.”

“You were wrong to turn me in. Someday you'll understand how wrong. But I don't hold it against you personally. I understand why you did it.”

Dan wanted to ask, Then why don't you confess; wanted to ask him why he'd lied; why if he couldn't admit it, he didn't just resign. But something stopped him. In the face of an attack on Abu Musa, it seemed inconsequential. Twenty-nine hours from now, they both could be dead.

If they weren't, then either he or Benjamin Shaker had to destroy the other. There was no other way.

“Anyway, maybe we shook something loose. Look. We got to work together on this raid. After that, we'll see what happens.”

He swallowed. Anger, betrayal, and a remnant of his old admiration struggled in him for speech. He had to admit that in one respect at least, Hart's planning was dead on. For a mission like this, there was no better choice than Ben Shaker.

At last, he managed, “I guess we can leave it at that for now.”

“Okay.” Shaker's voice went brisk. “Now listen. We got to hustle butt in the next twenty-four, XO. Get this around to the department heads. I want it memorized tonight. But nobody else sees it till we get under way, understand? I'll talk to the crew on the 1MC after we're clear of land. Hart wants us out before dawn; we'll weigh at oh-four-hundred. We got to have the sides done before then.”

“Right.”

“Send Pensker and Lewis up to see me. I want to meet with the missilemen, torpedomen, and gunners' mates separately tomorrow. Let's see.… Break out and test all our night-vision equipment. Fresh batteries, the works.”

Dan was jotting in his notebook. “Test fire,” he suggested.

“Yes, damn it, yes. We'll fire a calibration as soon as we get clear of land. We'll have the pre-action brief, officers and chiefs, at eleven. Can you have a blowup of the island ready by then?”

“I'll put Mac on it.”

A muffled splash came from outside. They glanced toward it, but neither moved. “Think of anything else?” said the captain.

“That'll get us started.”

He felt Shaker's hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. “We'll have to think smart and move fast to come through on this one, XO. That reminds me. How are the personnelmen doing? You got them started yet?”

“On what?”

Shaker said quietly, “We're going to lose some people on this one, Dan. Maybe a lot. Especially if they don't get that mine field cleared. I want the next-of-kin forms updated and sent ashore. Check on the Doc, too; make sure the battle dressing stations and sick bay are rigged for casualties.”

He paused, looking out at the gulf of darkness to seaward. “And there's something else, too.”

Dan waited.

“If anything happens to me, I want you to take charge. Immediately. And fight the ship the way I'd fight it. That means to the fucking end. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get hot, XO.”

“Aye, sir.”

He gave McQueen the navigator's copy and moved out to the wing. Looking down, he saw by the light of strung bulbs twenty men alongside, bobbing on Turani's paint floats. They were working like madmen with long-handled rollers, brushes, and from aft came the clatter of a sprayer. “Hey!” he shouted. “Alongside!”

“Yo!”

“Who's that? Stanko?”

“Yo!”

“Boats, is Mr. Charaler down there?”

“He's back aft, sir, just a minute and I'll get him.”

“Tell him to meet me on the flight deck.”

“I'll pass that, sir.”

The first lieutenant was waiting by the deck-edge lights when he got back aft. His trou and T-shirt were smeared with paint, and he had more on his forehead, where he must have wiped away sweat.

“How's it going?”

“Uh, we got problems.” Charaler wiped his forehead then, laying a fresh deposit. “We don't have near enough black. So I'm stretching it with deck gray. Won't be dead black like the captain wanted, but it'll be pretty close.”

“What's estimated completion, Steve? We want to get under way by oh-four-hundred.”

“By
when?
Shit … shit … we'll get it done by then.”