The Gulf (40 page)

“I'm sorry if it strikes them that way. It's how I have to operate sometimes. Otherwise, I'm ignored.”

“I can understand that, I guess. By the way, these came in for you last night.” He slid a SECRET-stamped manila across the table.

She set her cup down and unbent the clip on the envelope. They were press summaries, a short message from Shaw, in Riyadh, and a long one from Bankey. She laid the others aside and propped her head over the last.

Talmadge had talked to Tower, Nichols, and Kennedy. Together, they'd decided it was time to put War Powers to a vote. A committee resolution wouldn't bind the administration, but it would place the question before the committee of the whole. He was happy with her reports from Riyadh and Dhubai, but unhappy with the information on the armed-services side.

Specifically, he needed to know whether there was any expiration date on the administration's commitments. He knew this depended on the war, but still he needed some idea of whether U.S. forces were helping end it or acting to spread hostilities. He'd talked to Weinberger informally but hadn't got anything useful. (Talmadge didn't like Weinberger, but then he hadn't liked Brown, Rumsfeld, or Schlesinger, either; she suspected he wanted to be Secretary of Defense himself someday.) He needed to know quickly, in twenty-four hours. He wanted her to call him back so they could discuss it in detail.

“The following is a test of the ship's alarms. General. Chemical. Collision. Flight crash,” announced a grille above her head, piercingly loud. A succession of wheeps, whoops, and beeps followed. “Regard all further alarms.”

“Do we have a secure telephone here?” she asked Byrne.

“Eight or nine, different types. Why?”

“Could I talk to the States on one of them?”

“Satellite voice relay? No problem. We just need to get Miller's chop on it, and set up a frequency.”

“Could you do that, please? Late this afternoon will be fine, after I'm done with Hart.”

The intel officer nodded. “Now flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarters stations,” said the grille. “That'll be him,” Byrne said, getting up. “Want to get back there, grab him before Miller crawls in his ear?”

She glanced up, surprised. Byrne, she realized suddenly, was trying to help her. So there were people who didn't think she was an intruder, who didn't see her as a total imposition, or bad luck.

But it annoyed her, though, that her eyes went to his hand, to the wedding ring. “Sure,” she said, then smiled. “Sure … Jack.”

*   *   *

The admiral was businesslike and brisk. To Blair, he seemed tense. Perhaps it had something to do with the convoy. He greeted her courteously, though. She stayed beside him on the walk forward from the helicopter pad. Miller wouldn't look at her. It was plain he was still smoldering.

In CDC, Hart swung himself up into the leather chair, grunting thanks as the master chief brought over a cup of black coffee so hot it smoked. There were two other seats on the command level. “Why don't you all sit down,” he said, rubbing his short hair abstractedly. “Take a load off. We'll probably be here all day. Jack, did you bring the Linebacker op order?”

“Yessir, stateroom safe, I'll be right back.”

Miller ensconced himself next to Hart; Blair, on the far left. Ensigns and lieutenants sat below them at consoles, talking in low voices. The two men went silent, absorbed in the displays. She studied them, too.

It was the upper Gulf. The coast of Saudi Arabia hugged the left of the screen, slanting to the northwest. Several islands lay offshore. A track among them was outlined by glowing yellow lines. It was wide at the bottom of the screen but narrowed to a passage perhaps a mile wide. Northeast of it, marked by a steadily blinking symbol, was another island.

She knew this was Farsi, and that the narrows were the Channel, the choke point for supertankers in transit to and from Kuwait, Kh
ā
rk, and Āb
ā
d
ā
n.

Hart leaned forward, peering around Miller. “Blair, let me explain what's going on.

“We have our fourth reflagged convoy on that middle screen. It's being escorted by three of our small-boy assets:
Adams, Van Zandt,
and
Gallery.
They provide surface and air protection. The Narrows are also in range of the Kuwaiti Air Force if the Iraqis or Iranians get to feeling lucky. The fighters are on five-minute runway alert.

“The convoy's been escorted in from the Arabian Sea. So far, no incidents. This morning, they're going to transit the Narrows. Since we just swept it, I don't expect mines. What I expect is a sortie from Farsi Island. We have”—he glanced around, apparently looking for Byrne, but he wasn't back yet—“we have intel reports they may try something. If the bugs come out from under the stove, I'm ready to stomp on them.”

“You mean, if they initiate hostilities?” said Blair.

“Uh-huh … Captain Miller, could you give me a close-up of the channel … thank you. There, you can see the convoy approaching from the south. The tankers will stick to the deepest part. Our escorts are on the flanks, with
Gallery
and
Adams
to the east, between them and the threat bearing, and
Van Zandt
to port. Lee, how far away are they from us?”

“
Mobile Bay
's two hundred miles from the convoy centroid, Admiral.”

“Yet we can see every movement in the channel, and we can talk directly to the COs of each ship.” He picked up a red phone, glanced at a tote board, and said crisply, “Bounty Hunter, this is Trail Boss, over.”

The answer came instantly from a speaker. “Bounty Hunter, over.”

“Admiral Hart, for the Commodore.”

“This is Commodore Nauman, sir.”

“How's it going, Snatch? What's the situation?”

“Visibility's lousy, Admiral. We've got half the Sahara out here with us. I've opened the interval to reduce risk of collision. We'll go through slow, at ten knots.”

“Are all your units at general quarters?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Do you have any liaison aboard the tankers?”

“No, sir, not at present.”

“I'd like to have an officer aboard the lead merchie. For coordination, if we need it, and to reassure them.”

“Aye, sir, I'll take care of that.”

“We've got you up on the big screen. A perfect picture. As soon as we see anything cooking from Farsi, we'll give you a heads-up and pass targeting data.”

“Thanks, we're not doing too well radar-wise in this stuff.”

“Keep me informed, Barry. Good luck. Trail Boss out.”

“Bounty Hunter, out.”

Hart hung up. Blair said, “No code, or anything? What if they're listening to you?”

“It's a covered net. It's just a garble unless you've got the key list.”

She hoped he was right, though after the Walker revelations it seemed as if one shouldn't assume things like that. But she didn't say anything. Hart stretched. “Now comes the hard part.”

“What's that?”

“Waiting,” said Miller. He shifted on his chair and finally said, “More coffee, sir? Ms. Titus?”

They declined. He fidgeted some more and then burst out, “Admiral, about civilians staying aboard—”

“What about it?”

“Well, I have no facilities for women. It's awkward. And you know it's against the law.”

Hart said, “
She
stayed here last night, I take it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain Miller gave me a fine stateroom. His own, in fact. He's been very accommodating.”

Hart yawned. “Maybe I'll take a refill, at that. Black and bitter, please. My advice is, don't bust a gut over it. You're not staying aboard tonight, too, are you, Blair?”

“I hadn't planned to. But if I do, I expect shuffleboard and daiquiris.” She smiled at the captain. He looked away, chewing gum like a pile driver.

“Mark, first tanker, entering the channel now,” said a loudspeaker. They fell silent, their attention absorbed again by the glowing, omniscient displays.

When Nauman reported the damage to
Borinquen,
Hart sat up, punching his fist into the leather. They watched the column bunch up, stop, and begin to drift toward the lane boundaries. Miller ordered Farsi Island brought up on another screen, large scale. They all stared at it. There were dots offshore, but none of them were moving. The admiral said through clenched teeth, “We just
swept
that channel! Those Goddamned reservists … God
damn
it!”

“They must have snuck in and mined it last night,” Miller said.

“I sure as hell don't see how. I had two Saudi PGs and the Special Forces out there watching. Those
bastards!
”

He reached for the radio. Nauman answered, his voice irate and apologetic. “Yes sir, she's taking water … the officer aboard tells me there's no danger of sinking, though. They've sealed off the damaged compartments. I'm reorienting the screen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, this was at the suggestion of
Borinquen
's master … he thinks if there are more mines, the tankers can take hits better than we can. He recommended we reorient to Form One, line ahead, with the escorts bringing up the rear.”

Hart glanced sideways at Blair. His eyes were like little glinting steel balls. Into the phone he said, “And you concur?”

“I think it's the prudent thing to do, sir. We have no minesweeping assets with us.” The distant voice paused.

“What about helo cover?”

“I'll put one in the air as soon as this sand lets up. Get them looking out in front of the convoy.”

Hart, his lips rigid as iron, told him to do it. Blair relaxed. For a moment she'd feared he'd disapprove the suggestion, put the warships in front just to avoid embarrassing the Navy. She'd known senior officers, yes, and politicians, too, who thought just that way.

He signed off. He took out his pipe, started to pack it, then set it aside with an irritated gesture. “Has anybody got a cigarette?”

The master chief gave him half a pack of Merits. Hart lit one and sat puffing angrily as additional reports came in.

Early that afternoon a flash message came in direct from
Van Zandt.
It reported loss of contact with their helicopter. It also relayed that the pilot's last message, though garbled, had said something about sighting a submarine.

She saw them forget about her, saw them lean forward. “Call them back,” Hart snapped. “Right now, Jack. Did the pilot send back any specifics before he went down? Description? Course and speed?”

Byrne busied himself on the red phone while Miller waved the master chief over. After a short discussion, they retrieved the last recorded radar position of side number 421. It had been shot down north of the convoy, not far from the Hasbah oil field.

Now the chief recalled the tactical data picture from the computer's memory. The screen showed them the semicircular symbol of a friendly aircraft frozen near a surface contact. A scatter of small returns surrounded them: the derricks and buoys of an oil field.

Then, to the clicking of a keyboard, time began. Blair leaned forward, tensing as the helicopter suddenly altered course. There was nothing on the screen to show why—or at least nothing large enough, or high enough above sea return, for the long-range radars to pick up. Four Two One then turned, passing directly over the surface contact. The two symbols merged for a moment, winking as they coalesced.

Then, abruptly, both disappeared.

There was utter silence in CDC. Finally, Byrne murmured, “Something small, intermittent, where he made that sudden turn … that could have been a sub. At periscope depth. Then he submerged, after his escort boat fired.”

“Hasbah—that's Iranian?” Hart snapped.

“Yessir, Hasbah's Iranian.”

Abruptly he jumped down and said, not looking at them, “Captain Byrne. Charts, please. Northern Gulf.”

“Yessir.”

“What are you doing?” she said.

“We're going to hit back.”

“Hit the submarine? Is that what you're talking about?”

“It's long gone. We'll never pick it up in those rigs and pipelines.” Beneath the explanation, the admiral's voice smoked with rage.

“Then what are you talking about?”

“A reprisal.”

Byrne handed up the charts. Hart looked around for a work area, and at last smoothed them out on a radarscope. Then he went on. “I don't know how they got to
Borinquen.
But they did. And we won't have the full story on what happened to
Van Zandt
's helo for a while, either. If it's a sub, a successful attack on a U.S.-escorted convoy, we're in trouble, Miss Titus. Deep trouble. We've got to find it and kill it. But that's not going to be easy. We never saw it approach, and we only saw it leaving by accident.

“But I'm not going to stand still for this. We're here to show force when necessary. I think it's necessary now.”

He turned. “Captain Byrne! I want a plan for a strike on their oil rigs, today, after the convoy detaches. Announce that it's in retaliation for a submarine attack. Get on the horn and work it out with ASU. I want it transmitted here, copies to
Adams, Van Zandt,
and
Gallery.
Notify the usual allies and diplomats. I want it here in two hours.”

Byrne stood for a moment, tapping his glasses against his lips. Then he said, “Aye aye, sir. But do you want to revisit that one point … about announcing a possible submarine contact?”

“Should I?”

“If we can for a moment, sir. We still don't have any hard evidence that the 209 is operational. Do we really want to announce that it is? As I see it, even if that pilot was right, announcing it to the world is counterproductive. They'll go to ground and be twice as hard to detect next time. Why not exercise a little cover and deception?”