The Gulf (66 page)

“Captain, I recommend we go through the mine field.”

There was nothing else. He didn't know how thick the mines were here. But at the speed they were making—creeping through, with no bow wave and very little noise—they just might make it. If they were lucky.

“Steady on—what do you recommend, Dan? Shortest path through.”

“One-one-oh ought to do it, sir.”

“Steady on one-one-zero,” said Shaker. It sounded very loud. “Quartermaster, log that I have the conn for that last order and from now on.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dan went out to the wing for a quick look around. Behind them, a slowly distancing flicker now, the base burned on. The last firing had ceased. They didn't realize
Van Zandt
was still in the harbor. The paint job was working. As his eyes opened fully, he made out things in the water, and stiffened before he realized what they were. Debris from the anchorage, broken hulls, bodies, too, no doubt. He turned his face upward and shouted angrily, “Lookout!”

“Sir!”

“Have you reported this stuff? Report everything in the water!”

“Hell, sir, what difference does it make? We can't maneuver.”

News traveled fast, Dan thought. “Report it anyway! You hear me?”

The voice turned fatalistic and persecuted. “Aye, XO.”

“You've been doing a good job up there,” he called. “Don't slack off now. Keep it up and we'll get home okay.”

As he went inside, he heard the anonymous voice mutter, “Did you hear that? The fucking XO said I done a good job. Give me a break!”

He had to smile. Sailors would never change.

“There you are,” said Shaker. “I'm passing the word for all hands not involved in damage control to get topside. I want them all up on deck. I need you to go down and see what kind of shape we're in.”

“Okay.”

“Check the bottom damage and see what progress we're making on the fires. You know what to do. Call me back soon as you can.”

He saluted and went below. The hatches were opening and men were coming up. Quietly, in their battle dress and life jackets, not saying much. He noted that beside each DC fitting, sealing off each compartment from its neighbors, a petty officer stood, ready to close it instantly.

In DC central, Loamer sat at a table with four phone talkers. He looked much older than twenty-two tonight. The compartmentation diagrams were tacked up beside him, and he was drawing on them with a grease pencil. “How's she look, Percy?” Dan asked him.

“I think we're making headway. Repair Two's getting the fire in chief's quarters under control. They lost three men to smoke.”

“Dead?”

“No, collapsed. They're back aft now; Doc's taking care of them along with the other wounded.”

“How about the AMR?”

“That's not so good. We're flooding in five places and that's one of them. It's full to the access hatch. Unfortunately, that loses us a third of our bilge-pumping capacity.” Loamer pointed to a diagram of the tanks and voids that lined the hull. “We're tore up bad, XO. Repair Three and Five are down there rigging eductors. It's not shell holes. I think it's split seams. I've got flooding boundaries set. What worries me”—he paused to scan a fresh message—“is the weight. That imposes a hogging stress. If the keel's been weakened, it may break her back.”

Dan studied the diagram. Loamer was right. Hundreds of tons of water forward … “How about the other damage? Helo hangar, the hits to starboard?”

“Hangar fire's out. We got personnel casualties but the hull's sound there.”

“Sounds like you're doing all you can. You know we're going through the mine field now. Knock off everybody you can to get topside.”

“Okay, XO, but most of us snipes are gonna have to stay on station.”

Guerra was one compartment aft, in main control. The engineering officer was glum. The engines were fine, but when he turned the shaft, there was no thrust. He could supply just enough power, with three generators running on battle short, for the fire pumps, interior lighting, and the APU. Dan told him the same thing, to get everybody out of the spaces who didn't have to be there, and left.

He came out in the central passageway to find himself in a makeshift aid station. The men lay on litters, moaning and some of them crying. There was blood on the deck, real blood, slick and glistening, and a first-class DK he bent over did not respond to his touch. He went out on the flight deck, saw Fitch and Golden at work, and didn't interrupt. Farther aft, sitting and lying about, the crew was silent, looking back toward the island. There was the flare of a lighter, but before he could say anything, three men near the would-be smoker had their hands over it.

He was turning, ready to head back to the bridge, when the forward half of the ship jumped. A gush of fire came out of the stack, momentarily lighting the entire flight deck. The blast shot flame a hundred feet out of the intake louvers.

He hoped, as he ran forward, that Guerra had acted swiftly. Whoever had been in the engine room would stay there, now, for good.

As he came past the midships area, he heard a cracking groan. Settling fast now, the frigate was breaking up. The superstructure was buckling as beneath it the hull folded like a jackknife. The men on the boat deck fell back, reaching for him, asking him what to do.

Dan told them to stand by, word would be passed.

Climbing the last ladder, he thought for just a moment of another time he'd run like this through a dying ship. On the
Reynolds Ryan.
But
Ryan
had gone down in the midst of a task force. Friendly boats had been alongside minutes after she went down. While
Van Zandt
was sinking in hostile waters. Hours might go by before help could arrive.

A dull sound reverberated from the darkness, and he caught the ghostly glow of falling water. The column of flame had attracted attention from shore.

The bridge was dark. No power now. Shaker was standing by the steering console, looking down at the bow. Dan saw that the sea was licking around the bullnose.

“Captain, I'm back. Did we get a message off before we lost power?”

“Yes. I sent it out fleet broadcast and followed it up with an HF call.”

“Do you think they'll understand? When we don't answer anymore?”

The captain looked wordlessly at him, and Dan thought, How blank his face is. The same look he'd seen on James John Packer's face that long-ago night: the look of the man who has lost everything.

Shaker was still thinking, though, because the next thing he said was “Did we get everybody up from below?”

“Not everybody, but I estimate three-quarters of the crew was topside when the mine went off. They're at their life-raft stations. I think we should start getting them clear.”

“Mr. Charaler, pass that word on all the sound-powered circuits. Complete the muster, then abandon ship. Nearest friendly land—”

McQueen said quickly, “Fifty miles southeast, sir, coast of Dhubai.”

“Pass it, Stever. Make sure Radio gets the word. It's not real deep here. That means emergency destruction charges on the crypto gear before they vacate. The rest of you in the pilothouse”—Shaker raised his voice, though everyone was still—“get the hell down on deck. Get aft. Help the wounded. Stick together. And good luck.”

He turned away, and Dan saw him hesitate for a long moment. Then he went to the chart table. He took a position report form, scribbled on it for what seemed an interminable length of time. Finally, he held it out.

“Sir?”

“This is for you.”

There were things he ought to be doing. He had to coordinate the muster, then get down on deck.… He stiffened as he realized what he was reading.

Admiral Hart: Lenson's testimony was the truth. Mine was not. I intended to fire a nuclear weapon against Iran. I have fought the ship hard and the men all did well. Please consider the matter closed. Very respectfully, Benjamin Shaker, Commanding, U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt.

He raised his eyes to Shaker's. The captain looked tired. Or maybe just resigned. “Thanks … Ben. But what does this mean? You're not leaving her?”

“All things considered, Dan, maybe it's best I stay.”

“I hope you'll reconsider.”

“Thanks, XO. Now cut the chatter and get hot.”

“Aye, sir.”

Buttoning the note into his pocket, Dan turned to go. He paused once, at the top of the ladder, looking back up into the darkened bridge. But Shaker, one shadow among the others now, had already vanished from his sight.

0210 HOURS: ABU MUSA ANCHORAGE

Lift a hand, dip it in the inky sea.

Drive a fin downward, then up, biting his bloody lip, stinging with salt, to keep from crying aloud.

Foot by foot, more slowly with each stroke, John Gordon fought his way toward the open sea.

His eyes were open but he could not be said to see. Loss of blood and a nearby shell burst had turned him from a man into a smashed, struggling insect, jerking across a darkened floor toward a hole to die in.

He'd stayed below after leaving the raft till the screaming hunger for air drove him up again to the flashes and detonations. The shadow that had tracked them, killed Everett, and wounded him was waiting thirty yards off, engines idling. Between them was the nose of the raft, bobbing weakly, like a dying seal. A light came on, swept across it, and reached out toward him.

He dived again. Finned away, angry at himself for ditching his gear. Now he was alone, hunted, and his only weapon was a knife.

He was down there when a sudden concussion squeezed him like a mouse in a cat's jaws. It shook him, then went on and on, an endless throbbing crush. It could only be the mines going off. He tried to count them, but somewhere in there his mind went black as the sea.

He came up again into the whine of props. The boat was on him. The light came around. He ducked his head in reflex but was too exhausted to dive again.

This then was the end. He thought that dully, without much regret. At least he'd done his job.

He heard shouting from the boat, excited screams. For a moment, he was confused. No shooting? Capture? Then he raised his head.

To something terrifying and huge looming out of the night. To the whine of turbines and singing throb of huge props at maximum speed. To a destroyer, head-on, a huge black shadow above a phosphorescent roar.

It was almost on him when it heeled, showing him black length, and then the air above him exploded as her guns went off. Deafened, blinded, he tumbled helplessly in the bow wave, choking and fighting to stay on the surface. Sucked down, the screws would shred him with the pitiless efficiency of a garbage grinder.

He came up, whooping air in and out, and tried to inflate his vest. He had his hand on the stem when a second ship solidified from the night. As it roared by, he dove, driving himself down in weak panic, and stayed in the warm, dark womb of the sea for as long as he could. His ears throbbed to the hammering pulse of a single screw.

He came up and surged again in its wake. After a while, still unable to see for the flash-blindness, he got his vest inflated.

He turned on his back and began swimming again, weakly, away from the shore. Behind him the ships were outlined against the fires.

They were firing almost continuously. The great orange balls of flame lit up the island like flashbulbs.

*   *   *

And now he stopped swimming. His arms no longer moved. He was surprised he'd been able to for so long. He'd felt the wound through torn rubber after the ships passed. Half his buttock was blown away. No way to tourniquet or bandage it.

So that was that. He floated without thought. His leg no longer hurt. Had just stopped, almost magically, gone numb like his water-swollen fingers and feet.

He was no longer afraid. His mind was serene now. He was grateful for that. Blurry white sparks chased themselves across his eyeballs. Tracers, he thought dimly, then realized they existed only in his retinas.

He began to slip downward. There wasn't enough air in the vest to hold him up. He should inflate it, but the cartridge was exhausted, and he found he couldn't get the oral inflation valve to his lips. His head slipped under, and the sea closed over his open eyes.

Something animal in him fought him upward, and he floated exhausted at full length. But he knew he couldn't do that again. Where was he? Somewhere in the mine field. The tide … the tide would set him out through the length of it. The mines didn't worry him. A body wouldn't trigger them. But he was going the wrong way for the pickup. Drifting out, into the empty Gulf.

He knew then he would die out there.

*   *   *

Some time later, he heard a splash. Not far away. He opened his eyes again. He couldn't see anything there. Nor could he see the stars, nor the flames, though he knew they must exist. Loss of blood, he thought slowly. Optic nerve goes just before you lose consciousness.

Someone bumped into him. Arms struck him; there was a muffled grunt of surprise. “Hey,” said a voice, guarded, suspicious.

“Hey,” whispered Gordon.

“Hey, who're you? You from the
Adams?
”

The voice sounded young. Some sort of accent, not southern, definitely not New England. “No. EOD,” Gordon said after a while.

The voice was silent for a time. Something exploded, back on the island, and he heard screams and dying groans from far off.

Gordon had an idea then. He gasped as a wave came over his face, coughed, then got it out. “You got a life jacket?”

“No.”

“I do. Take it,” he whispered.

“What? Hey, man, you might need it.”

“Wounded. Can't swim anymore. Don't argue.”

“Does it work?”

“Just blow it up … the valve.”

Then he couldn't get any more words out, even whispering. The sea heaved warm under him, warm and dark and waiting.