The Command (53 page)

What could it be carrying? A fugitive? Some fleeing political figure? No, he'd have been safer without the escort. It had to be a weapon of some sort. Explosives, like on the dhow? Or something less conventional? He wondered if this was the waterborne biological attack everybody had talked about so long. A small craft motoring along the coast at night, dispensing aerosolized anthrax to blow inland. Certainly Israel would make the perfect target.

And meanwhile, with each mile, they were getting closer to escape. He started to tell Camill to get the interpreter back up, give the boat another call. But they hadn't answered before. Only churned onward, toward the invisible line that would shelter them.

He was tempted to leave it. Be the good little commander. Do just what he was told. But Nick Niles was right. Dan Lenson had never operated that way. He had to second-guess everything. He'd never accepted an order without wondering why. And that skeptical voice didn't just question others. It doubted him, too; questioned everything he did, and everything he thought was right.

That simply, he made up his mind. At worst, he'd annoy some fishermen,
lose his command, and forget about being promoted ever again. At best, he could stop a boatload of terrorists. Maybe even bring them to trial.

He told Camill, “Okay, here's what we'll do. The ship stays just outside the line. But we call away Gold Team for a helo boarding.”

“A
helo
boarding, sir?”

“They're used to seeing it over them by now. Chief Marchetti can do a fast-rope or rappel down. Then we'll figure out what we've got and what to do about it.”

“You're sure about that, sir? I don't think that's what Vigilant Dragon has in mind.”

“He can't order me to cross into territorial waters, Herb.”

“He can't?”

“Well, I guess he
could.
But he's not going to, because that'd be illegal. See?”

“Okay… so …”

“But it has to be done. So, I'll do it. At least, put the helo across.”

“They're not going to like it, sir.”

“That's why they call it command, Ops,” he said, trying to make it light, though he felt anything but. He kept remembering how they'd forbidden him to defend himself in Manama Harbor. He'd acquiesced, pulled his men and his weapons back aboard. And came damn close to losing a lot of people and maybe his ship.

This time, he'd do what
he
felt was right.

MARTY was pulling out his chair in the chiefs' mess when the 1MC shrilled ‘Attention.' Then, “Now away the visit, boarding, and search team, away. Gold Team, provide. Deck division stand by to hoist out the starboard RHIB.”

The chiefs stared at him. “Your song, Machete.”

“Son of a
bitch.
” He grabbed a fistful of toast off Andrews's plate and stuffed it into his maw, swung his leg over the back of the chair. Then froze as the 1MC crackled again.

“Belay my last…”

“Shit, why can't they make up their fucking—”

“Now away the visit, boarding, and search team, away. Gold Team, provide. Flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarters stations. Stand by to receive Blade Slinger One-Niner-One. No hats are to be worn on the weather decks. No eating, drinking, or smoking is permitted aft of frame 292. Stow all loose gear inside the skin of the
ship. All unauthorized personnel stand clear aft of frame 292. Now flight quarters.”

Still cursing, he was out the door in three strides.

“ONE-Niner-One on deck.”

“Very well,” Dan said. In the minutes since he'd given the order to call away the boarding team, he'd realized he hadn't gone far enough, thought the situation through. He couldn't send the boarding team over without
Horn
backing them up. They didn't have night to cover them, or fog, or much in the way of weapons except the door gun. He wasn't going to leave them out there alone again, like he had with the smuggler. Whoever was conning the trawler needed to see a warship on the horizon when the aircraft made its approach. So he'd just have to cross the line, violate territorial waters, and take whatever consequences followed. He reached up for the 21MC. “Bridge, CO: once we secure from flight quarters, come right and head for track 2385. He bears—”

“One-five-five, twelve miles,” Camill said from the JOTS.

“One-five-five, twelve miles. Do your mo-board for a flank-speed intercept and be ready to kick around as soon as One-Niner-One lifts.”

He got a roger back and reached for the phone. He wasn't supposed to do this. He was going to, okay, but he wasn't going to hide it under any bushels. If they ordered him back, it'd be time to think it over.

“Vigilant Dragon, this is Blade Runner.”

“Dragon, over.”

“One-Niner-One clear of the deck,” said the 21MC. Faintly through
Horn's
metal Dan heard the zooming whine of the helo's turbines as she tilted past, going out. The deck began to slant as the OOD put the rudder over to follow her.

“This is Blade Runner. Unless otherwise directed, I'm going in after this guy at this time. I'll report back what I find out.”

When he didn't hear anything back but empty air, he smiled sardonically at Camill. Clicked the transmit button twice, and socketed the handset so hard that, this time, it stayed put.

THE Gold Team was mustering when Marchetti ran up the ladder. He didn't have coveralls on, just regular khakis, but there wasn't time to change. Goldstine slammed his Mossberg into one hand, his .45 into the other, looped the ammo pouch stenciled
MACHETE
over his neck. He
slung the shotgun and stuck the pistol in his belt. The gunner's mate dumped an extra handful of shells in his hand, and he moved on. In the hangar he caught the harness Cassidy threw, started strapping it on. No life vests: they caught in the rappelling gear.

“What is it this time, sir?”

“Droppin' on a trawler. Skipper thinks, maybe some of the bastards tried to get us in Manama.”

“Droppin' on a hot LZ!” said Lizard Man, eyebrows peaking. “Cool.”

“You guys see anybody with a weapon, take him out,” Cassidy said. He looked at Marchetti. “That's your line, isn't it?”

“It sounds okay from you, sir.” They looked at each other, and for a moment there Marchetti wondered what had happened to the old Cassidy, the scared young ensign. Now he had a Battle Face, too, the mask you dropped over your real self when it was time to load up. He turned back to the team. “You melonheads spring-loaded? Check your buddy. Descenders! 'Beeners! Empty chambers, mags tight! Don't forget your gloves. That rope's gonna hurt if you do!”

They gave him thumbs, good to go. He heard the distant clatter of helo blades, and his pulse started to pound. They'd practiced insertions, but he couldn't say they were hot shit on them. Crack Man, Sasquatch, Lizard, Snack Cake, Deuce, Showboat, Spider Woman. He went down the line, checking boots and weapons and harnesses. When he came to Wilson he stopped.

“You ain't gonna give me any shit this time,” she snapped, before he could say anything at all.

“Who—me?”

“Then what do you want?”

“I just was gonna say this might be a little rough today.”

“I can rappel as well as you can, asshole.”

“Cranials!” one of the squadron guys bawled, handing them out. Marchetti snatched off his cap, tucked it into a pocket. So did Wilson.

“Okay, okay, I just wanted to say if you don't—” Looking at her slit-ted squint, he decided to save his breath. “Ah, fuck it, never mind.”

The howl of engines ate through the hangar door, devoured the hot, close air. He pulled the cranial on, and the din became a muffled Niagara. Cassidy hung up the phone and gave him the go signal. He bent for the static line and slung the coil over his shoulder. “Gold! Follow me.”

Open air, blinding sun, buffeting wind, the smell of hot kerosene and a turbine-scream deafening even through the ear protection. A red-vested crewman stood under the shining roaring disk, right hand beckoning,
left pointing. Marchetti diagonaled across the flight deck and took a brace by the sliding door, helping the guys in when their gear hung up or their boots slipped. Rolling in last, he crammed himself and the coil of static line into the final cubic inches of space. The crewman slid the door shut, scraping his back. Then they were all heavy, the deck pressing against their backsides, and he saw the ship falling away, a blue slanted sea rotate in to take its place.

There wasn't a lot of room in a sixty. The guys were on each other's laps. But climbing the sunlight, he suddenly knew this was as good as it got. A hammering roar in his ears, a gun in his hand, the smell of hot metal and oil and men. If these were the same assholes who'd tried to get them in Bahrain, he wanted another crack at them. He knew the guys did, too. The only problem was, one of them had his ass right in his face. He shoved at it.

Wilson looked around, grinned, and let one rip. He could smell it even through everything else. “You lousy bitch,” he yelled into the overwhelming sound.

He had to read her lips to hear “Fuck you.”

TO give himself a few seconds grace if the officer in tactical command called back with another “permission denied,” Dan told Camill he was going topside. Swung down with relief—he'd been in Combat almost nonstop all night and all day before—and jogged up the ladder, up to the pilothouse.

Sunlight, warmth, shining space. The whistle of wind. The clack of a Browning bolt seating out on the wing.
Horn
was driving over three-foot seas like a big Peterbilt down a new interstate. He took a deep breath of air that wasn't filtered and cooled and rubbed the bristly prickle on his chin. Alive, damn it. For a few seconds last night, when that second Styx had swung back toward them, he hadn't been sure any of them were going to see the sun again. Yerega shouted, “Captain on the bridge.” Claudia Hotchkiss started to slide out of her chair on the port side. Dan pushed his hand down, telling her to stay where she was. He asked the officer of the deck, “Range to—what are you calling it? Roughly ten miles, bearing about one-five-five?”

“Calling that Alfa X-ray, sir. Range—sixteen thousand, five hundred yards. Bearing one-five-zero.”

“Distance to the boundary of international sea?”

“Five miles, sir, more or less.”

He hoped he hadn't put this off too long. But even if he had to go in
the shithouse after this guy, he was going. He'd claim hot pursuit and let the diplomats fight it out. “And what are we on?”

“One-three-five, coming up on thirty knots.”

Dan said very well. He got his binoculars out and braced his elbows, pointing the glasses slightly to starboard of where the bullnose lifted and fell as it romped along. On the bow the gray tapered tube of the five-inch aimed smoothly left, then right, testing the train commands. He remembered when gun mounts had held human beings, beefy sailors straining to lift and slam heavy shells into breeches. Now all was automatic, computerized. Sixteen thousand yards was a long way to see, but he might have something out there. Anyway he wouldn't have long to wait. At thirty knots, every minute brought
Horn
a thousand yards closer. A flash from above the horizon. He squinted and made out One-Nine-One, banking, the sunlight reflecting from the shimmering halo of her rotor.

“Sir, I hold Alfa X-ray altering course to port.”

“New course?”

“Not sure yet, sir—seems to be going into a turn—no, wait. He's coming back now.”

The talker spoke up, too, confirming that from Combat. Dan rubbed his chin, frowning.

The helo controller said, “Sir, Blade Slinger requests permission to fire a warning burst.”

Hotchkiss, looking through her own glasses. “He's trying to shake off the helo.”

“Shit, yeah, how are they gonna drop if he starts snaking and weaving?” He was sorry now he'd lagged back. He should have gotten
Horn
over there first, overawed them with six hundred feet of gray steel,
then
put Marchetti over. He told the controller, “Permission granted. Put a burst across his bow.”

THE man who called himself Mahmoud shaded his eyes, looking up at the huge clattering smoking machine that reeled and swayed in the air a hundred yards behind them.

His men were dressed as simple fishermen. He'd told them to come up on deck at dawn, all except Antar, who had to stay below with the diesel. It had overheated during the night. They'd had to carry water in buckets all night long to keep it running. But it should get them back into Egyptian waters. They could lose themselves until the sardine
fishers ventured out again. Then try again, and complete the mission this time.

But now, this helicopter. He had no idea where it had come from. Only that with each pass it edged closer. He could see the pilots' faces now. Looking down through the windscreen.

A door on its side slid back, revealing an open blackness as the aircraft yawed. It banked away, flying out in a wide turn. Then wheeled back crossing ahead of them. A helmeted crewman aimed.

The clatter of an automatic weapon, and bursts of white foam sprang up in their path.

Rasheed leaned from behind the wheel. “They want us to stop,” he called uncertainly.

Stroking his beard, he said softly, “Stop weaving. It only wastes time. Steer south by your compass, and put your throttle full ahead.”

IN the roaring interior of the helicopter, Marty was still thinking about Cassidy How he'd grown up. How he was probably gonna be all right.

He didn't usually think about zeroes much. They only came in four sizes anyway. There were the ones he called brown-asses. They wanted to be your buddy, but never stood up for the troops when it counted. The second kind were the micromanagers. But some of them were teachable, once they figured out you were as smart and committed as they were. Then there were the ROAD scholars. Retired on active duty. A waste of a uniform and a paycheck, but with a little diplomacy you could run the division around them.