Tomahawk (61 page)

Flash
…
roar.
Number seven. Number eight followed, climbing slowly out over the sea, then vanishing into the multitude of stars. He clung to the rail, strength ebbing with each successive wave of sound. It was hard to breathe, impossible to think.

With a bone-rattling bellow, missile number nine emerged, back on the starboard side again. Smoke co-cooned them, then blew aft. He recrossed the pilothouse on wobbly legs to watch it balance itself on a rippling cone of white flame, fingernailing itself into the sky with that terrifying deliberation.

“Ten,” he screamed into a sound beyond all overcoming, unable to hear his own voice. “Eleven.”

With the same eardrum-battering bellow, number twelve emerged, performed a heart-stopping correction maneuver, then recovered. It straightened itself out, pointed its blunt nose at the constellation Perseus, and departed into the sky.

He stood mute and motionless, till gradually a sound penetrated the ringing in his ears: a sound from deep in the ship, from behind him in the pilothouse, from below and around him.

The whole crew was cheering, screaming, pounding one another's backs.

Only he stood apart, staring up at where the last missile had disappeared.

The 21MC on the bridge woke. “Bridge, SWC: Salvo firing complete.”

“Bridge aye.” The officer of the deck snapped the
transmit key and looked at Dan. “You okay, sir? Didn't suck any of that smoke?” “No. No, I'm all right.”

“Must be a good feeling. To be responsible for that.” He didn't have words to answer. He just nodded once and looked around again at the now-dark sea, at the darkness that surrounded them all, through which they set their course. Then he turned and groped his way below.

“Get that key back to Mr. Kyriakou. Stow and lock the ABLs. Close after doors.”

He stood once more behind the curtain. The darkness inside thfe ship seemed different from that outside: protective, embracing. His ears were still singing, so he didn't hear Foster calling him at first. A petty officer touched his arm, pointing.

Foster sat with legs crossed, fragrant smoke curling from the corncob. He said, “You were up on the bridge during launch?”

“For about number three on, sir.”

“Here's the fire key back, sir.”

“Thanks, Perry…. We saw one of them fly out—on

TV, I mean—but it didn't seem to make transition.”

“That was number five, sir. I'm familiar with the failure mode.”

“We'll gin up the after-firing report, but if you could press an eyeball to it before it goes out…”

“No problem, sir. Happy to.”

“Perry says you saved our butts when the RASS jammed. Says he still doesn't know how you did it. There'll be a separate message back, about your indispen-sability.”

“I'm not indispensable, sir.”

“Humble, too.” Foster grinned, checked his watch, and swung his legs down. “Well,
America
and
Coral Sea
should be just about finished launching the air strike. Now comes the hard part—waiting. Ted, pass ‘Secure from general quarters.' Tell the bridge to come up to twenty knots and open the range.”

Dan stood there after the captain went forward. He thought of going down to the computer room, checking how things had gone there. Or else of hitting the rack, finding somewhere to lay his head.

Instead of doing either, he went out into the passageway. Down a ladder, making his way carefully through the eerie ruby glow of darken-ship lighting, then down another.

He felt his way through the darken-ship screens and let himself out into the darkness. Groped his way blindly to the lifeline, and stood there, swaying, buffeted by the sea wind as the battleship left her launch course and increased speed, swinging north to open the range between her and possible retaliation.

Save for the wind, there was no sound—at least at first. Then his ears sorted out other sounds, mingled in the rushing roar that was a great ship plunging through the sea. The crashing hiss as the hull sliced through the waves. A continuous deep sigh, like an ongoing breath, as air was sucked into the intakes far above. No other sound, and on the face of the deep, no other light but the far-off running lights of their escort, moving up now to take position ahead.

Above him, the stars; and among them, far to the south by now, the winged machines that for a little time had wakened from the sleep of inanimate matter, and for a little while thought and knew in their dim way. And after that brief consciousness would plunge downward, to die in a fiery bloom of destruction. Never having known, never having understood the reason for their existence.

Gripping the lifeline, he looked up at the constellations. He'd done it again and again at sea, but each time it was new.

They blazed and shimmered above him, clear and ach-ingly brilliant at the zenith, watery and shimmery closer to the invisible horizon: stars that for thousands of years had guided men over the pathless sea. Here, far from the glow and stain of land, they shone down so close it seemed he could reach up and grab a handful.

“I hope I did the right thing,” he said to their silent glitter. “If I didn't, I'm sorry. And you know, it isn't as
if you gave us what you could call crystal-clear orders.”

He looked up into the depths of the universe, and all at once understood something.

He was part of it. He didn't know clearly what part, or what his function was supposed to be. Only that, in some dim way, he belonged.

It wasn't a revelation, or anything like that. It was just a reassurance. And it didn't last. But he knew now it never did. It was only a glimpse, a moment transient as forgetting; a knowledge that faded away even as you realized it was there, shrinking in your grasp to the hard cold pebbles of dead ideas, the withered leaves of lifeless words.

He stood there for a while longer, and then went below.

VI

THE
AFTERIMAGE

39

 

 

 

A week later he stood in Niles's outer office. Carol was typing. He took a turn around the room, fidgeting. The latest issue of
Time
was on the coffee table. The cover showed an F-111 hurtling through the air. The legend read RAID ON LIBYA. He flipped it open, curious to see how they'd covered the strike.

Most of it was devoted to the Air Force. He could see why. The 48th Tactical Fighter Wing's Odyssey from Britain to Libya and back had been the longest combat fighter mission in history. They'd lost one plane over Tripoli, most likely to a surface-to-air missile. Between that and the Navy strikes from
America
and
Coral Sea,
all the terrorist-related targets had been damaged, and much of Libya's air-defense infrastructure destroyed. The dictator himself had appeared only once since then, and he seemed shaken and confused. The article speculated one of the bombs had narrowly missed the tent he slept in. His usual strident advocacy of mass terror had been noticeable by its absence.

But to Dan's surprise, no matter how far he flipped, there was no mention of Tomahawk. No photos, no text. It just wasn't there.

Nor had he heard anything about it on the television news, or in the coverage of the raid in the
Post.

Not that he couldn't supply the box score from memory.
New Jersey
and the two subs had fired a total of twenty-one missiles, all the TLAM-Cs in the Med. Two had gone haywire at launch. The others had performed as
advertised, sliding in under radar coverage to destroy antiaircraft missile sites, command centers, and communications facilities. The incoming strike aircraft had arrived over a confused and largely paralyzed enemy.

Of the six missiles assigned to the chemical-weapons plant at Sidi Garib, five had completed the long overdesert flight and impacted within the confines of the plant. Overhead imagery had shown secondary explosions and fires resulting in an estimated 60 percent damage, setting back any production by at least three years.

According to poststrike assessment, then, the missile had been a raging success. But the only even tangential reference he'd seen in the open press was the allegation by Libyan authorities that some unknown kind of missile or guided bomb had hit a school west of Benghazi. They'd taken media representatives on a guided tour through the wreckage. But they didn't say exactly where the school was, so he couldn't tell whether it was actually a wayward BGM-109, or just a propaganda ploy. Fortunately, since it had been hit at 0155 local time, the school had been empty.

The apartment buildings in downtown Benghazi, though, would have been full of sleeping people. He straightened his back. No matter what happened today, he'd stand by that decision.

“Mr. Lenson,” said Carol. Niles's secretary was holding out a card. “Did you want to sign this? While you're waiting?”

“What is it?”

“Condolences. To Captain Westerhouse's family.”

“Oh. I didn't know. When was it?”

“Day before yesterday. They said it was peaceful.”

“Good,” he said. “Peaceful is good.”

She went back to typing as he added his name to the others. He hesitated, then added,
You can be proud of him. We all were.

Niles filled the doorway to the inner office. He said to his secretary, “Give us ten minutes.” Then he closed the door behind them. “

Not a good sign. Dan took his seat, cleared his throat, and waited for his doom to be pronounced.

The admiral settled himself, passed a hand over salt-and-pepper hair. The trop white uniform made his skin look even darker. “Atomic Fireball?” he rumbled.

“Uh … yes, sir, thanks.” He popped one into his mouth, instantly regretting it. He felt sweat pop out on his forehead, but sat back, trying to relax.

“Let's see…. We have several matters to discuss today. The first is your memo to me about your activities in respect of Arroyo Gold.”

“Yes, sir. I still think—”

“Don't interrupt me. This explanation of why you altered the targeting orders in defiance of clear guidance from both CINCEUR and Admiral Kidder. The point at issue wasn't that it was in a populated area. The essence of your objection seems to have been the technical question of how well the terminal homing would work under adverse conditions. Instead of arguing it on a personal basis, you should have referred the matter to me.”

Explanations and protests bubbled to his lips. He choked them back. Instead, he said in as dry a tone as he could muster, “Yes, sir.”

“I have considered what action to take. So far, there have been no official protests from either Stahl or Kidder, though members of their staffs called me. And it may well be they're unwilling to surface an issue that might not… look well, should it come to public attention. So we may be able to put that to bed. Other than as it reflects on your own conduct. And that reflection is not a positive one.”

He paused, but Dan couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. So he just sat, perspiring and trying to cope with the incendiary candy. Finally, he muttered around it, “We don't seem to be getting any publicity out of this thing.”