The Gulf (3 page)

That made up his mind. He said, “Okay, we've done our best. Let's get as many off alive as we can. Tell Radio to commence crypto destruction. Abandon with life rafts and jackets, off the starboard side, and keep them clear of the oil.”

When the lieutenant and the others left, the captain remained, standing in the center of his bridge. Looking down at his burning, sinking ship, then out at the emptiness of the Gulf. He touched the flaking gray paint of the binnacle, then closed his eyes for a moment, shuddering with emotion he only now had begun to feel. From aft, now, he could hear the screams over the growing roar of flame.

They surprised me, Benjamin Shaker thought. We weren't ready for this. They told me it couldn't happen.

But next time we'll be ready.

And next time, I'll make them pay.

I

THE CALM

1

Mina' Salman, Bahrain

THE thin officer in dress whites dragged a sleeve over his forehead, then tucked his thumbs back under his sword belt. The August morning was hot and airless as the inside of an oil drum—and smelled like it. Only the shade of a canvas awning made being in the open bearable at all.

Lieutenant-Commander Daniel V. Lenson, U.S. Navy, turned from the shore. His narrowed glance found his watch, then flicked critically around at the ranked chairs, the newly painted deck, the lectern. He watched two boatswain's mates sweating the belly out of the awning. His eyes lingered on a mahogany stand holding the motionless flags of the United States, Bahrain, and the U.S. Navy, then swung outward again, searching the pier and beyond it the low line of land.

U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt,
FFG-91, lay starboard side to alongside a concrete quay half a mile long. She was the only Navy ship there, compact, gray, and deadly looking amid a hodgepodge of tankers, freighters, and one patrol boat of the Bahraini Defense Force.

Lenson squinted into sun glare dazzling as a welder's arc. The harbor had the flat, oily gleam of dead calm. Eastward, between it and the open Gulf, the shallows of the Khawr al Qualay'ah glowed like murky turquoise under a sky the color of sandpaper. At the foot of the pier, straight as a gunshot, was the shorefront town of Mina' Salman, and beyond it Manama, the capital of this island sheikhdom. From here, all he could see of it were the needles of minarets and a green water tank. The waterfront was prefabricated warehouses, concrete silos, the gallows shapes of Japanese-made container cranes. The earth was the color of sand. The air smelled of hot tar and dust. And it was unbearably humid—as usual.

It wasn't much of a place for a change of command. But then, Dan thought, it was better than Sitra anchorage, where American warships usually spent their liberty. Manama was the closest thing to a friendly port the Gulf offered these days. But that didn't mean it was fun.

“Awning's rigged, XO. If the
shamal
comes up, it'll flap, but it'll hold.”

Dan straightened from his musing. Lieutenant (junior grade) Steve Charaler,
Van Zandt
's perpetually harassed first lieutenant, looked out of place in service dress white, combination cap, white gloves. The redheaded deck officer spent most of his time in scuffed combat boots and khakis that looked as if they'd been bought secondhand from Mister Goodwrench.

“Button your collar, Steve.”

“Aw, just till—”

“Your lip, too.” Dan glanced at the canvas. “You've got Irish pennants on the quarter. And coil down the rigging lines. Get it squared away; there's a sedan on the pier.”

“Yessir.” Charaler headed off, yanking at his collar and shouting for BM2 Stanko. Dan adjusted the gold braid sword knot, Naval Academy issue that came already tied, thank God, and took a last turn round the ceremonial area. He stepped to the lecturn, tapped the mike, and said, “One, two, three.” His voice boomed out satisfactorily. On three sides, ranked along the deck edge, the crew fidgeted and sweated at ease.

The guests began arriving. Bob Ekdahl, the officer of the deck, came back from the quarterdeck with the telescope under his arm. He was leading a dark man with a mustache. Lenson greeted him warmly. Achmed Turani, the husbanding agent, decided how fast their water and garbage would be taken care of. The Arab was followed by the American consul, two liaison officers, the commanding officer of the Bahraini gunboat, and two of his men.
Van Zandt
's junior officers ushered them to seats. There were no women. It was a remarkable thing even to see a woman in the streets of Manama.

He hadn't figured on a heavy attendance. Stateside, a change of command was an occasion. The families and friends of the oncoming and offgoing captains were invited. There would be press people, maybe even a TV crew if you were in your home port.

Things were different in the Gulf. He glanced up. At the frigate's masthead, a radar antenna rotated tirelessly. There were men on watch in CIC, and directly above him, atop the helo hangar, the six barrels of the Phalanx gun poked out aggressively.

Iranian waters were fifty miles distant. Alongside a pier or not, they were in a war zone.

Van Zandt
was part of the recent beef-up of U.S. forces in the Gulf. She'd arrived two months before, and had four to go before she returned to the States. Under the operational control of Commander, Middle East Force, she was assigned at the moment to a surveillance and escort operation called “Earnest Will,” convoying American and Kuwaiti tankers between the Arabian Sea and their onload points in the north.

Dan rocked on the balls of his feet, glancing shoreward again. The front row of chairs was still empty. After coming aboard briefly yesterday, the new commanding officer had spent the night ashore. No ship was big enough for two captains. But where was he now?

Ekdahl, beside him, said, “Admiral's here.”

As they left the shade, the sun hit hard. Visible waves of heat shuddered off the steel deck. Dan got to the quarterdeck just as the boatswain's pipe began shrilling. He nudged one of the sideboys into alignment, ran an eye over the area—just swept, good—and took his place by the brow. He nodded to Ekdahl. A moment later, six slow bells trembled in the heated air.

“Commander, Middle East Force, arriving.”

The pipe shrilled again. The sideboys saluted, Dan with them, as Rear Admiral Stansfield Hart, USN, loped up the gangway, followed by two aides. He returned the salute. The sideboys held it, then the call ended; their hands snapped down.

“Good morning, Admiral.”

“Morning. Where's … Oh. You're the executive officer? Lenson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Admiral.”

Dan led the party aft and got them seated. The aides took chairs in back. He winked at one of them, Jack Byrne, Hart's intelligence officer. Byrne winked slowly behind dark glasses. The other staffie was the chaplain. He glanced at the crew; Charaler had already put them at parade rest.

“Sit down a minute, Mr. Lenson,” Hart muttered. “How's Charlie holding up?”

“I think he'll be all right for the turnover, sir. After that … I don't know.”

“I told him he shouldn't have waited. Not with cancer. He's gambling with his life. But”—the admiral squinted up at the awning—“I might have done the same … anyway. I imagine you've been carrying a lot of the load for him.”

Lenson hesitated. Hart saw it. “I know, I know, you don't want to say. I thought about you, by the way, when they told me Bell had to be replaced.”

“About me?”

“About fleeting you up instead of ordering in somebody new. Don't tell me you hadn't considered that possibility.” Hart grinned suddenly. “But you're still a little too junior, and you'd need your command quals. It wasn't anything personal.”

Dan nodded. It didn't happen often, going from XO to CO on the same ship, but then commanding officers didn't get medically relieved that often, either. And he'd finished his command qualification. But this didn't seem like the time to bring it up. The decision had been made. Meanwhile, Hart was looking around. “Hell, where
is
Shaker? You might get it yet, if he doesn't show up pretty soon.”

At that moment Dan saw a set of trop whites and commander's stripes swing out of a taxi and jog up the gangway, tossing a salute toward the ensign. “He's coming aboard now, sir.”

“Okay, good. How long are you going to be pierside? Aren't you on this next convoy?”

“Yes, sir. We'll be heading south day after tomorrow.”

“Let's get the show on the road, then.”

The trop whites slid into a seat in the back. Lenson got up. He looked searchingly around one last time. The crew waited, quieted by the gold braid in the front row. Beyond them, the harbor glittered and the shore burned silently in the sun. He could hear the whir of the motors in the gun above them, the hum of the blowers forward, the gentle slap of sea against the hull. He adjusted his sword, squared his shoulders, and walked to the podium.

“Ship's company: A-ten
hut!
”

The lines of sailors clicked into rigidity. Lenson cleared his throat. With the amplifier on, it sounded awful.

“Good morning, Admiral, Consul, honored guests, officers and men. This is the change of command ceremony for the relief of Captain Charles Bell, U.S. Navy, commanding U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt,
by Commander Benjamin Shaker, USN. Chaplain Grace will read the invocation.”

He stood to the side, head bent, for the prayer. He glanced at Turani, thinking only then of the Moslem. But Grace made it general and short, mentioning “our heavenly Father” only once and leaving Jesus out entirely. When the crew said “Amen,” Dan nodded to Ekdahl, who was watching him from the quarterdeck.

“The Star-Spangled Banner” played scratchily over the ship's announcing system, interrupted by an electronic whine each time the radar went around. Lenson watched the crew; as he'd drilled them, they waited till Hart started to salute and then tried to beat his hand up. For a working crew, tired to the bone after refresher training, a long transit, and months of escort duty, he thought they looked damn sharp.

The Bahraini anthem was next. When it hissed to a stop, Dan stepped to the lectern again. He said loudly, “Captain Charles Bell.”

The crews' eyes swung toward the helo hangar. From its shadow, a thin figure came slowly out into the light.

Captain Bell did not look far from death. The flesh of his face had baked away, and the body beneath the starched whites was angular. He moved slowly, holding himself erect with visible strain. Rick Guerra, the engineering officer, kept pace a step behind. Dan gripped the lectern, praying him on.

Would I do that? he wondered. Stay with my ship when I knew what he knows?

“Parade rest,” murmured the captain. His thin, trembling fingers went white on the wood and Dan stood aside, melting into the line of officers along the quarter.

“Good morning,” said Bell. “I believe … I believe you all know me. Hello, Stan. Hello, back there, Ben. Glad you could make it.”

The crew laughed a little. Hart smiled. It looked as if it took an effort. Bell flexed his fingers, then regripped the lectern.

“I know this is a little early to leave. But you know how it is with us old guys. We just can't take these heavy liberties all the time.” His strained, gaunt face cracked into a grin and the crew laughed again, this time with a tone of unease.

Bell's voice gathered strength. “Seriously, though. I've been aboard
Van Zandt
for a little over a year, and I feel I know you about as well as I've ever known a crew. I wanted to tell you, by the way, that I was looking at
The International Herald Tribune
international edition this morning, and we made the front page again. The people back home know what we're doing out here, and they appreciate it.

“Our job out here is very simple: to keep the sea lanes open, to our friends and to neutral nations alike, and to defend the right of free passage as laid down in the United Nations Charter and the International Law of the Sea. This has been the Navy's mission since Bainbridge and Truxtun fought pirates not far from here.”

He turned aside for a moment. The coughs tore out from deep in his chest. Dan was about to step forward, but Bell recovered. He lowered his handkerchief and glared out at the silent ranks before him.

“Your efforts over the last months have made me very proud. From the enginemen to the signalmen, the ops specialists, who've spent so much time at the scopes … the supply personnel, who keep us fed … and my wardroom, all fine officers. I believe this is the proudest ship in the Navy, and at this moment, I am the proudest man in the world.”

Lenson looked at him. Yes. There were tears in the Old Man's eyes. He made as if to help, but Bell stopped him with a short, angry chop of his hand. “That's all right, XO. I'm almost done.

“I have not been an emotional man. The service does not entrust its ships to such. But here at the end of our association, I find myself growing emotional. So be it! I'm going home now. Perhaps I stayed too long. I thought it was my duty. That is my only excuse.

“My only regret is that I couldn't finish this cruise with you, and stand on the bridge as the first lines go over, and we see our families waiting on the pier. But I have not been given that. So I will say to you now, trust Captain Shaker as you have trusted me. Take care of yourselves. And all of you—go with God.”

He stepped back shakily. Guerra, behind him, extended an arm. Bell leaned on it, closing his eyes, as the short man in solid gold shoulderboards stood. Dan recovered himself and bent to the mike. “Rear Admiral Stansfield Hart, Commander, Middle East Force.”

Hart began with a review of
Van Zandt
's record. A 3.9 out of 4.0 in the last operational propulsion plant examination. Administrative inspection, outstanding. Second highest re-enlistment rate in the squadron. Battle
E
's for excellence in weapons, operations, and engineering, and the squadron
E
the second year in a row. Dan stood impassively at parade rest, but he felt proud.