The Med (59 page)

“Get in here, shithead!” Cutford shouted in his ear, jerking him back. He stared, unable to look away, as the ramp ground upward, cutting off the light. Something shoved him, something he dimly recognized as a heavy hand, and he stumbled back into the shelter of the amtrac.

The eyes of the others met his in the dimness, and huddling together they waited for the shells to fall.

31

U.S.S.
Guam

Lenson stretched in his seat, looking across the crowded, bright compartment with a premonition of triumph. A fierce grin crimped the fatigue lines tight around his eyes. He had forgotten his days without sleep, forgotten the months at sea, forgotten Isaac I. Sundstrom.

Urgent Lightning was rolling like a well-oiled machine.

The marines were solidly ashore, and moving rapidly inland. Not a shot had been fired, and they had taken only one casualty, a man who ran into a rotor during the helo insertion. Lenson could hardly believe, even now, that sitting deep in the steel vitals of the flagship he held a handset that linked him with live men, real ships. He was remembering all the times he, and the others with him, had practiced this. The schools, the months of drills, study, exercises.

Now it was for real—and it was working.

For the first hour after the leading elements crossed their lines of departure, he had kept the whole team on the edges of their chairs. The first wave to hit the beach had rolled out of the amtracs and dug in instantly at the first dune line, covering the troops in boats behind them. But the beach was deserted. He had followed the cautious probes inland, putting the wave commander's frequency on a loudspeaker so that everyone in the compartment could hear. But there was no resistance. No troops or even civilians were reported on the beach.

The second and third waves hit and moved quickly up to the front line, consolidating the initial toehold and then leapfrogging forward onto the beach road.

At 0700, when the mobile column, sorted out and remounted, launched itself inland toward Qoubaiyat, the atmosphere in SACC relaxed. Men slouched back in their seats. They stayed alert, but the excitement waned. Lenson laid down his phones and stretched, glancing at the map. They were by no means home, though the landing itself, the most vulnerable moment in an amphibious raid, had gone off well. But perhaps this would go more easily than they'd feared.

He rubbed his eyes and focused them on the chart, opening the operation order to check reported positions with those he had assigned for the postassault phase.

Ships first. The amphibs, empty now, were steaming slowly in separate boxes of sea ten miles out. To seaward of them
Virginia
patrolled; she was now at the northern edge of her area. Good; any Syrian air strike would come from that direction.

Farther inshore, the two escorts were lying to only a few thousand yards off the beach.
Ault
had reported in at 0700. He had swiftly established comms and briefed her gunnery team by radio. He felt far more confident now: Her arrival had quadrupled his seaborne firepower.

He blinked, and shifted his attention landward. The militias and regular army units that Byrne had sketched in from Sixth Fleet intelligence reports worried him. Several of them lay between the MAU and its goal. He knew that some of the positions and strengths reported were guesswork. And no one could predict their responses when faced by an unexpected body of fast-moving U.S. troops. Some of the Lebanese, the Maronite militias, should be friendly, or at least neutral. Even the Syrian-backed Shi'ites might not interfere—if the diplomats had done their job.

I'll worry about that when it happens, he thought. We've got our plates full here. He stretched again, feeling good, and thought for the first time that day about food.

At 0730 the column of amtracs from the beach reached the ALZ, and the two forces joined. Lenson relaxed a bit more. The heliborne troops probably hadn't realized it, but out on their own above the road, unable to move except on foot, they'd been prime targets.

Byrne, beside him, was staring into a pub and looking worried. Dan turned down the speakers and punched him lightly. “Jack, what's wrong? Somebody split an infinitive?”

“Real droll.”

“What's that you're reading?”

“Intel summary on Syria.”

“You're worried about them?”

“Aren't you?”

“They pay guys back in Washington to do that, I thought.”

“I hope they do,” said Byrne. “The action back at State must be fierce. Think about it. The obvious course would be to get word to Damascus that we'll be coming ashore this morning, that our target is the terrorists and only them, and that opposition will bring retaliation in overwhelming force. But they had to time it: allow them enough hours to warn their troops and client militias, but not tip our hand so far in advance that a leak would lose us the element of surprise when we hit the camp in the final assault.”

“That's obvious?”

“Of course. But then, if you warn the Syrians, they might just as well decide to defend their border. In the last analysis, it might depend on which way the USSR, their protector, advisor, and overall Big Brother, tells them to jump. So if some junior Middle East expert makes the wrong decision—or makes the right one and the President overrules him, if
anybody
screws up,
anywhere
along the line…” He let his voice trail off.

“I get it now,” said Dan grimly. “Instant powdered MAU.”

“Or worse,” said the intel officer. “If the Soviets back them up and we don't, or can't, back down. Why do you think we went to nuclear alert? I guarantee you, every missile boat we have at sea is checking its firing data right now.”

Both of them looking worried now, they looked back at the map. And above it, the clock whirred on.

*   *   *

He was gnawing at a leg of cold chicken a few hours later, part of a box lunch sent up from the mess decks, when things began to go sour. He had his first intimation of trouble when Flasher stiffened and sat up, phone pressed to his ear. He was on the circuit to Haynes, near the head of the column.

Dan stiffened too, and laid the drumstick down. “Red—what is it? Damn it, pipe down, you guys.”

Flasher waved his hand; wait. The buzz of conversation stopped, and men turned their heads to listen.

“Put circuit eight on the horn,” Lenson said to McQueen.

When the speaker cut in, the tension in SACC snapped instantly back to high pitch. Every man in the room could hear the landing-force commander's deliberate voice firsthand. No. More than that. Lenson swept the table in front of him clear, pulled a fire form to him. They could hear the rattle of small-arms fire and the crunch of mortars, terrifyingly close. Every man in the room had reached for his handset then, by reflex, and so had Lenson; but at the last instant he snapped his selector switch to a dead portion of the spectrum.

“Goddammit,” he shouted. “Everybody back to your own net. I'll handle this. Regular procedures!”

“Dan, I got two Intruders orbiting—”

“What's their fuel state?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Christ. Mac! Where's Haynes' grid position? Leading element?” At the map, the petty officer reached far into the hills, laid his hand on a curved segment of road. Lenson half-rose, squinting to make it out. “Forget it, Jack. It's too far inland now for them. We've got to use the guns.”

“Use them, then.”

“No,” said Lenson again, still holding the switch closed. “Not yet. He hasn't requested it.”

“He will,” said Flasher.

Haynes did, then. Lenson screwed the handset into his ear; the circuit had gone faint for a moment. But the next words came through clearly.

“Overkill, this is Green Bench Leader. Call for fire. Indirect. Grid location, North, four three seven seven. East. Niner four zero zero. Fragmentation, variable time. Will control. Over.”

“Green Bench, this is Overkill. Roger your call for fire.” He scribbled. The pencil snapped and he dropped it and grabbed the next. “Indirect. Grid North, four three seven seven, East, niner four zero zero. Fragmentation, variable time, will control, over.”

“Green Bench, roger, out.”

“Mac! Check those coordinates!”

“Nothing on the map, Lieutenant.”

“Double-check. No houses? No roads?”

“Bare ground, sir. Nothing but the other side of the hill.”

“This has to be a test, Dan,” said the intel officer urgently. “To see if we'll support them with force. Hold this for me,” he snapped to one of the other men, handing off his handset. “Be right back.” He shoved his way past chairs and ran out of the room.

“Let's get it on the air,” said Flasher. He reached for the form.

“Hold it, goddammit, Red. We got to get Sundstrom's permission.”

“Screw that, Dan! Those guys need cover!”

“I know. And they'll get it just as soon as I have the commodore's chop on it.” He bit at his lip and flipped the intercom on. “Flag bridge, SACC. Commodore, please, emergency.”

A moment's pause, seeming like minutes, though it could not have been over four seconds; then Glazer's voice. “He's listening, sir. Go ahead.”

“Commodore. Lenson here. We have a call for fire from Colonel Haynes. He's under attack.”

Silence. Then, “Mr. Lenson, Commodore wants to know what kind of attack.”

“Hostile fire, sir! We need clearance to
use Ault
's guns.”

Another pause, then, finally, Sundstrom's voice. Nice of him to push his own talk button, Lenson thought. “Dan. Let's all keep a cool head, now. That's what it's all about. Is this a serious situation? I'm not going to release heavy weapons just for snipers.”

“It's not snipers, sir. Sounds like mortar fire.”

“
Sounds
like? Better find out, Dan. A mistake here could get us in real hot water. I can't give permission to fire without knowing all the facts. I'm not going to fly off the deep end like that.”

“God damn him,” muttered somebody in the silent room. They were all quiet, listening to the dialogue over the intercom.

“Lieutenant,” said McQueen, “Colonel Haynes wants an acknowledgment.”

“Acknowledge. Tell him we're getting it cleared,” Lenson said, very fast. To the intercom he said, “Sir, Commander Byrne—I mean, I believe they're testing us. If we don't respond, they've enough forces in the area to destroy the MAU. It's urgent that we support the troops ashore.”

There was a moment's hesitation. Then, “I agree, Dan, to the utmost. You're preaching to the choir when you tell me that. But we have other requirements laid on us, too. This is a touchy situation, diplomatically. I have to bear that in mind. Call him back—call the colonel—and ask him for an estimate of the numbers and armament of the force he's encountered.”

“Do it,” snapped Lenson to McQueen; then, letting up on the “press to talk” lever, so that his voice would not reach the bridge: “Red, get on the net to
Ault.
Their callsign is ‘Gunslinger.' Give them the target coordinates. Double-check those numbers and make them read them back! Have them load with VT, fuzed for air burst, but make sure they understand not to fire till they get a ‘batteries released' from us.”

“Roger,” said the N-3.

Byrne came back, panting, and slid into his chair. He thudded a weighted briefcase on the table and began hauling out folders. “Jack,” said Lenson, “double-check defilade fire for five-inch thirty-eight. Make sure trajectory for full-charge load will clear seventeen-hundred-meter hills at a range of twenty-nine thousand yards.”

“Right. Dan—”

“Sir,” McQueen interrupted, “Colonel Haynes says he can't see them. He doesn't know who they are. But they have at least four heavy mortars, and they've got the column pinned down. He can't advance till the road ahead is checked for mines. They're getting plastered there; he's got casualties. He wants fire now.”

He could hear the mortars, booming out of the still-open circuit to the interior. He could hear the growl of amtrac engines, the rattle of rifles, sporadic, as if the marines were firing at random. Faintly, a thin tremolo over the bass of battle, a scream laced the still air of the room.

“Trajectory checks out okay,” said Byrne.

“Right.”

“Dan,” said Flasher, very softly, and Lenson turned his head. Their eyes met across the room. “
Ault
reports ready. We ought to fire.”

“No, Red,” said Lenson, just as quietly. “You heard him. This is the commodore's decision, and he has to make it.”

“Lieutenant Lenson?” said the intercom.

“Here, sir. Haynes estimates four mortars, sir, and that means at least twelve men. Probably more to carry ammo.”

“Can he see them?”

“No sir, he says he can't see them. They're over the top of a hill from him.”

“What's on the other side of that hill, Dan? Has anybody bothered to think about that?”

Lenson bit back anger, focused dutifully on the chart, checking once more. “Nothing, sir. We double-checked the map. No houses or anything shown.”

“But they could be there. A map doesn't show everything. I could be authorizing fire into a village. That's a favorite terrorist tactic, decoying our fire onto the population.”

Lenson couldn't believe his ears. He recognized the familiar whine. Sundstrom was digging in. Next would come the bluster. He would deny everything, distrust everything they told him. He glanced at the men who watched him, and said weakly, “Sir, this is a
new
map. They don't build villages that fast in the hills of Lebanon.”

Byrne was digging furiously in the briefcase.

“Let's send the air in for a look. Don't we have recon helos standing by? I can authorize that. Let's use those, Dan. Use your head.”