The Gulf (38 page)

He heard the pulse of approaching rotor blades as he pedaled back. Slowly, because the tires kept slipping on the sand, and because now that he wasn't concentrating on the sea, he was very thirsty, hot, and tired.

It was a Navy helicopter, but not 421, as he'd half-expected. It circled them and landed forward of the superstructure. When he got there, a quarter-mile later, two men were standing beside it as the rotors ticked around, talking with Guterman. As he set the kickstand, he suddenly recognized Jack Byrne, then the short man in the flight suit. He hastily brushed off his uniform.

“Dan! Can we have a few words?”

As he saluted a grim-looking Hart, a blonde woman in slacks joined them from inside the fuselage. The admiral introduced her as Blair Titus. Dan saluted her, too, wondering who she was. Press? Some visiting celebrity? It seemed discourteous to ask. She was good-looking, with a confident air. Maybe he was supposed to recognize her.

Hart said, “She's congressional, Dan. We can talk in front of her. Now, how about telling me about the mine damage.”

“Well, Captain Guterman can give you more detail than I can, sir. Actually, we don't know for sure if it was a mine.”

“Here,” said Guterman. Dan turned to him, and before he could say anything, he found an ice-cold bottle of Heineken in his hand.

While he was wondering what to do with it, what with Commander, Middle East Force looking at him, Hart snapped, “What do you mean?”

“The damage is amidships. It seems to me a mine would explode near the bow.”

“Only if it was a moored type,” said Byrne. His eyes were unreadable behind the sunglasses. “An influence type would go off nearer the screws.”

“Yessir, but it wasn't really near the screw, either.”

Hart began questioning Guterman. Dan was wiping red grit and sweat from his forehead when the woman said, “Can I ask you a few things?”

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

“Are you in charge of this ship?”

“No, no. This is a civilian vessel. That's the master, Captain Guterman. I'm Dan Lenson, XO of
Van Zandt,
one of the frigates escorting the convoy.”

She turned to Guterman. “What do you think we ought to do about these latest incidents, Captain?”

“Make the Navy do their damn job, I think that would be good.”

Incidents. Dan was wondering dully why she was using the plural when she swung on him again. “How about you, Mr. Lenson?”

“I'd just like to get some sleep.”

The woman asked a few more questions, mainly about their convoy procedures and how effective he thought they were. He wasn't sure his answers made much sense. Finally, they drifted back toward the helicopter. He got rid of the beer over the side, not without regret; he was thirsty, and the master had meant well. “Dan,” said Hart, turning back at the hatchway, “can we give you a lift back to
Van Zandt?
”

“Commodore Nauman's assigned me here, sir.”

“He did so at my request. No reflection on you, but now that we've taken damage, I'm leaving Captain Byrne here as my representative.”

That sounded like an order. He shook Byrne's hand, muttered to him to go easy on the Heineken, and climbed in.

From the air, he could see the entire convoy, eight ships strung out in a line ten miles long. It looked strange with the merchants in front. When they touched down on
Van Zandt,
the woman wanted to look around there, too, but Hart said they had to get back. She waved to Dan as it lifted, blowing sand off the flight deck, and disappeared to the west.

Dan stopped at the first scuttlebutt and drank greedily for some time.

He met Pensker in the midships passageway as he was going forward. The weapons officer didn't look nervous anymore. He looked mad, and his hands were fists. “You just back, sir?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“You hear about our helo?”

“Yeah, I just got off it.”

“No, I mean
our
helo. With our guys.”

He remembered then his unfinished business with the two pilots. And suddenly was enraged again. “No. What did those two idiots do now?”

Pensker looked shocked. “They got shot down. We think. Anyway, they don't answer on the radio. You better get up to the bridge.”

“Oh, no,” said Dan. He began to run.

20

U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt

BUCKY Hayes came awake slowly that morning, drifting in and out of dream—a good one, for a change. Instead of a nightmare beast, his pursuer was a wanton Joyce. But gradually a recurrent grinding penetrated. It sounded like an empty cruise box being dragged over nonskid.

At last, he identified it as Schweinberg. He raised his arm and pressed the stud on his watch. When he blinked his eyes clear enough to see the little lighted window, he sat up suddenly. They'd overslept.

No, no one overslept aboard ship; if you weren't where you were supposed to be, you found out about it quick. But it was still 0654, and no one had called them, buzzed them, or shaken them awake with a flashlight in their eyes.

That meant they weren't launching at dawn. For a moment, he snuggled the skimpy GI pillow closer, then pushed it away and sat up. If they hadn't been called, that meant something was wrong. After all, they were transiting the Narrows this morning.

The most likely explanation was that Two One was down, grounded for repairs. He lay back, then realized he had only a few minutes left if he wanted breakfast. He clicked on his bunk light, clambered down, and found yesterday's khakis. He didn't bother to be quiet. There was no way Schweinberg could hear him over the snoring he was putting out.

The ship was strangely silent as he relieved himself, braced against the urinal, and went on toward the wardroom. The enlisted men in the passageways nodded to him with blank faces, the minimum of military courtesy. Gradually, he became aware of a whisper, a distant susurration, as if an audience waited on the far side of the steel walls. On impulse, he swung the dogs clear on a weather-deck door. He looked out into the breaker, and beyond it at the sea.

It wasn't there. Instead, the handle jerked out of his hands and something slashed his face. The abrading hiss came from all around him. The russet grit streamed over the painted surfaces of the ship, curled round the scuppers. It was only a little paler than dried blood. A thin scum of it tossed on the passing sea. Beyond that, he could see nothing, not only for the sand fog but because his lids kept jerking closed in protective reflex.

No wonder they weren't flying. Christ, the plane, the turbine blades! Then he relaxed. Mattocks would have her buttoned up in the hangar, with even the joints in the sliding door sealed with duct tape.

He yanked against the wind and finally got the door dogged again. So there was nothing else to do but eat. And then maybe sleep some more. He needed it. Since Hormuz, air ops had been nearly continuous, identifying contacts, herding dhows, electronic surveillance, shuttling back and forth across the route watching for mines and boats.

He wasn't happy about not flying. He knew having them aloft was important to the safety of
Van Zandt
and the merchants she was escorting.

But just between you and me, Virgil, he thought, I'm ready for a break.

In the wardroom, several of the ship's officers were eating in a sort of hasty apathy. The XO wasn't there. He didn't mind that at all. Terry Pensker gave him a quick smile. Hayes pulled out a chair beside him. They talked briefly about the storm. And then his plate came, carried by a sleepy, pimpled enlisted man, and he set to work.

*   *   *

Schweinberg slept heavily through dawn and through breakfast. He snorted and turned over when Hayes came back in and climbed over him to the upper, but he was still three-quarters asleep. And a moment later, the black depths closed again.

It was a Super Bowl. His side had gold helmets and a white and yellow uniform. He wondered what team it was. But it seemed dumb to ask in the middle of a game. In the huddle, he got a look at the QB. He was Phil Simms, but somehow, too, an older face, one you saw on television selling beer or motor oil.

But when the rush came the strangeness dropped away and he was hungry to take somebody down. He had the speed and lightness he'd had in high school, at 180, and at the same time the bulk and power of 230 and all muscle. Through a flashing gap in the line, he saw a man with a ball.

He knew suddenly this was the final quarter, final seconds, and this down would decide the game. The roar from the stands was like the roar of engines. He wanted this sack. He wove through a falling knot and was in the open, and the opposing quarterback was just ahead, falling back, cocking his arm and craning for an opening.

Suddenly there was a wall in front of him. The left guard had to be over three hundred, seven feet tall. Schweinberg had just time to notice that both he and the quarterback were not just black but in black. All black, with little silver crosses on their helmets.

They slammed into each other face on. He took the impact with his mask. It knocked him out for a moment. When he shook his head, mumbling, coming back, the guard was still there, down in a three-point, his cleats dug deep, snarling down at him, ready to do it again.

Okay, fuckhead! Claude the Bod is gonna make you eat them little red eyes! And again he surged forward, yelling “'Noles!” high and keen till the earthshaking slam and clatter of armored bodies made it an explosive grunt. But the guard didn't move. There was no give at all. He fell back, bruised and panting, and heard suddenly from behind him the coach's hoarse scream: “Get in there, Schweinberg! You pansy ass again and you're off my goddamn team, boy!”

Desperate, Chunky lunged in again. This time, he fed Death an elbow over the mouth guard. But it was his own teeth that came loose. He put his taped fingers to his jaw and took them out, one after the other, bit deep into the tough jelly plastic of the mouth guard.

*   *   *

“Buck. Hey,
Buck!
”

“What's doing?”

“Might as well get up. I'm about slept out.”

Hayes rolled over and looked down. Schweinberg was standing moodily in front of the mirror in green boxers and a Marine Corps–issue T-shirt. He turned sideways to the mirror, then back; tensed his shoulders; sneered; picked his nose. Hayes watched, entranced and entertained. Now that he'd decided to leave the Navy behind, he felt almost nostalgic for his red-neck roommate.

“What are you doing, Chunky?”

“Nothing.”

“Think they've got lunch up yet?”

“I doubt it. They're all still at GQ. They're so tight-assed about this convoy, it's pathetic.”

They found a plate of corned-beef sandwiches undefended in the wardroom. Schweinberg went into the pantry. He came out with mustard, sweet rolls, carrot sticks, radishes, sweet gherkins, and a glass of iced milk. He sat down and said, surveying it, “There's Rocky Road in the freezer. Be good with walnuts and Hershey's.”

“Chunky, you're gonna be flying alone in two or three years. SH-60's not going to have enough lift for you and crew, too.”

“I'll have you know I weigh within ten pounds of what I carried in the Seminole line.” He bit off half the sandwich. Through the beef and homemade bread came “Hey, wanna see a flick? What we got we ain't watched yet?”

“We've seen them all two or three times.”

“Well, take a look. I'm in the mood.”

Hayes rooted through the cabinet. Most of the tapes and books had been offloaded during strip ship, but the wardroom's private stock had crept out again. Schweinberg wanted to see
Librarians in Heat
and Hayes gave in.

They were sitting watching it, spooning up nuts and chocolate syrup, when Lenson came in. They looked up at him innocently. He was wearing a life jacket and carrying a radio; his uniform was rumpled and his eyes bleary. He was headed for the coffee, but when he saw them, his look went suddenly hostile. And Schweinberg muttered, “Uh oh. Here it comes.”

*   *   *

“Mr. Hayes, I'm going over to
Borinquen.
I think, when I get back, you and I need to have a talk.”

When the door closed behind a man whose face had gone white with suppressed fury, neither of the pilots said anything for a moment. Finally, Hayes said, “Jesus, he's in bad shape.”

Schweinberg found his voice. “Christ, what's with you? Fucking with the exec—that'll get us all in hot water.”

“What's he going to do to me, Chunky? Send me to sea?”

“He can submit a concurrent fitness report.”

“I don't think he's that much of a prick. But if he wants to, fine.”

“What's going on, Bucky? I don't get it. You was always a regulation type back at squadron. But out here, the last couple weeks, you're turning into a real give-a-shit.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“What?”

Hayes thought about it one last time. Then he took a breath, and told him.

*   *   *

They followed the porn film with a Rambo—just to celebrate his decision, as Schweinberg said. Midway through it, a distant vibration merged with the explosions on the screen, but neither got up to investigate.

When it was over, they drifted back to the hangar. It was dead silent and filled with snoozing crewmen. They were considering going back to sleep themselves when Hayes became conscious that something in the air had changed. He cracked a hatch and peered out. “Hey, storm's over,” he said.

At the same moment, the 1MC came on. “Flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarters stations.”

Fortunately they had spare suits in the hangar. As they pulled them on, the doors rumbled up behind them. Crewmen swarmed over Two One, removing intake plugs, spreading the blades and tail pylon.