The Gulf (51 page)

He hung it up again. It was long past midnight. Yet sleep was gone. He could feel that.

He got up and pulled on his trousers. A glass of milk might help. He slipped his feet into his boonies and decided that at this hour even the exec didn't have to be in full uniform. Halfway to the wardroom, he stopped, listening to the ship. To the steady eternal whine of blowers, the gentle creak as her hull worked.

Nothing was different. But he knew suddenly that something was wrong.

He knelt and laced his shoes, and debated for a moment going back to his room for his shirt. Then he decided not to. Not for a short look around. He climbed the ladder to the O1 deck and slipped into Combat.

Darkness, silent men, the green glow of scopes and the steady whalelike song of the sonar. The sonarmen had shortened the 56's ping length, hoping for a better shallow-water picture. Huxley had said it wouldn't help much, but it was all they could do.

Pensker was sitting at the weapons console. Dan stood behind him for a while. Lines of control code glowed green on the screen. At last, he said, “Hey, Terry.”

Pensker swiveled. “Oh, hi, XO. What you doing up?”

“Couldn't sleep. Where's the captain?”

“I don't know, sir. Probably in his cabin. Can I help you with something?”

Dan shook his head. He paced around for a few minutes. The night watch was quiet and intent. OSs and EWs and STs sat at their displays, detached from their bodies, their attention projected into the sea and sky around them. He put his hand on Shaker's chair, ready to pull himself up.

But he didn't. Instead, he crossed the room and pressed the CO's buzzer.

Shaker didn't answer.

Dan stood holding the phone, biting his lips. There was nothing on the scope. Earlier in the day, they'd seen fighters airborne inland, to the south, out of Bandar
Abb
ā
s. They seemed content to stay there, however. As far as he could tell, nothing was threatening them.

Then why did he feel as if there was?

And where was Shaker?

He pushed his way through the curtain into Sonar. Perhaps what he was feeling … but neither the SQS-56 nor the towed array, a passive listening system, had showed anything suspicious for hours. They had two hundred meters under their keel, about as deep as it got in the Gulf, and the sonar supervisor said their active range was 7,500 yards.

At last, he reached for the intercom. “Bridge, Combat. Is the captain up there?”

“He's not here, sir.”

“Where is he, Petty Officer Stanko? Any idea?”

“Don't know, XO, sorry.”

He looked again at the scope; again, saw nothing out of the ordinary; but this time caught a glance from Pensker, across the consoles and displays. The weapons officer was slumped back in his chair. He dropped his eyes as Dan looked back.

He suddenly decided this was enough. “Pass the word for him, please, Bo's'n. Have him call CIC.”

“For the captain, sir? After taps?”

“That's right, Stanko! Right now!”

A second or two later, over all circuits on the sleeping ship: “Commanding officer, call CIC.”

The bogen went off immediately. “Shaker here. What's wrong?”

Dan felt relieved just hearing his voice. “Nothing specific, sir, but we lost track of you for a while. Where are you?”

“I'm in the goat locker.”

Dan wondered what he was doing in chiefs' quarters in the middle of the night, but that wasn't the kind of question you asked a CO. It was his ship; he could go where he liked. “Will you be there for a while, sir?”

“Till I decide not to, I guess. That meet with your approval?”

“Yessir.”

“Good.” Shaker hung up.

Dan stood irresolute. For the moment Shaker had been on the line, he'd felt better. But even if you were captain only for a day, your nerves seemed to extend themselves. Your senses extended themselves, became part of the metal fabric around you. He'd picked some of that up when he'd understudied for Bell. And this sense was telling him, more distinctly by the minute, that something was wrong.

He considered calling general quarters away. But it wasn't a good idea crying wolf unless you had at least a pawprint. He thought, I'll see how the captain feels.

In the passageways, scarlet light glimmered in pools on the decks.

The only one awake in the CPO mess was the supply chief, Dorgan. He set aside a snatch magazine as Dan came in. Skipper wasn't there, he said. No, he hadn't seen him, and he'd been there since taps.

Dan rubbed his mouth, momentarily at a loss. Where the hell was he? And why had he told him he was where he wasn't?

He decided he'd better find him fast. He remembered how Shaker had stood by the rail after the burial at sea. He remembered the captain of the
Dickerson,
some years before, who'd disappeared one night under way. He, too, had been going through a divorce.

Then Dan remembered the bogen. That meant he wasn't topside.

He decided to start at the bow and search aft till he found him.

Forward, through a passageway and a berthing compartment. Muffled snores came from the dark. Past that, the passageways ran on again, a familiar labyrinth, yet unfamiliar now, haunted, ruby-lit, empty. Steel echoed under his steps.

He was standing at the dead end of the forepeak, the deserted warren of paint lockers, chain lockers, stowage, when he realized suddenly not that he'd seen something unexpected but that he hadn't seen what he ought.

There'd been no security guard at the missile magazine. No sailor named Thompson or Menendez sitting half-asleep by the scuttle leading down.

He whirled and ran back. The logbook was there, lying on the folding chair. But there was no sign of the guard. The scuttle was dogged but unlocked. He hauled it open, and looked down two decks into the ready service room.

He squinted in the sudden glare. Below him, the white lights were on.

“Hey!”

“Hey, what,” came Shaker's voice, sounding surprised, and then, in the same breath, guarded.

“It's Dan. What's going on?”

“Nothing. Is something wrong?”

“No. Just wondered where you were.” He hauled the heavy scuttle up the rest of the way and latched it. He had his boots on the ladder when Shaker's voice floated hollowly up from below.

“Stay up there, XO.”

“Captain—” He let himself another step down, cursing under his breath at a stab in his shoulder.

Shaker's voice reverberated oddly in the compartment below, distorted by the maze of piping and duct work that cooled and dehumidified the missiles. “Dan. I said, don't come down.”

He was debating whether to obey when he heard the clang of a pistol slide going forward. It froze him where he was, hanging by his right arm, crouched against the ladder. His heart began to hammer with sudden apprehension.

“Captain, what the hell is going on? Where's the guard? What are you doing down there?”

“Well…” The captain's voice was muffled, as if he was inside a closet. Though he couldn't see him, Dan figured he had his head up inside the rotary magazine. The ready service room had a scuttle leading up into it. He couldn't think why. All you could reach from there were the booster sections. It was a twenty-foot wriggle straight up after that, between the smooth white tubes of the Standards and Harpoons, to get to the blast door and the main deck. Dan had managed it once, barely, but he doubted Shaker could.

He wondered for a horrible moment whether the captain was contemplating doing something irregular, destroying them, or trying to launch one. But that didn't make any sense. He could launch missiles whenever he liked, just by giving an order. The only weapon they carried that had any restriction, any special procedure on it, was—

He suddenly felt cold.

“Ben,” he said again, and this time his voice came out strange, high and tense.

“Shove off, Dan,” came Shaker's voice again. He sounded angry, but at the same time preoccupied.

Dan moved down a step—very quietly—then another.

“Lenson!”

He looked down, to see Shaker, foreshortened, glaring up into the vertical tunnel of the magazine trunk. The painted steel deck he stood on was the inner hull. He was hatless, and there was a balding spot on the crown of his head. Strange, he hadn't noticed it before. The guard's .45 was in his right hand.

“Where's Thompson?” Dan asked him.

“He wasn't feeling too good. I took over for him. Let him go to the head. Thought I'd look around down here while I was at it. This space is scuzzy, Dan. Lot of rust down here. I'm surprised at you letting it get by you.”

He said nothing. After a moment, the captain went on. “Okay? Satisfied? Go get some sleep. You need it, you're getting antsy.”

“Not till you tell me what's going on.”

“Just did. If you can't sleep, go back up to the bridge. We could be attacked anytime. One of us ought to be up there.”

“You ought to be there, sir. Instead of here.” He paused. His arm was getting fatigued; it was a cramped position, clinging to the ladder. “What are you doing to the missiles, Captain?”

Shaker looked over his shoulder, as if he'd left a piece of work half-finished. “Won't butt out, huh? Then I imagine you've figured it out.”

“I think so. But, Ben, you can't do it. You can't touch one of those Mark IAs without permission.”

“I might have permission. Ever think of that?”

“I didn't see a message.”

“You think Stan Hart would put something like that in writing? Now get out of here and let me finish up.”

He disappeared from the square of light.

Dan almost believed it. Then he didn't. Not that it mattered whether COMIDEASTFOR had approved it or not. Special weapons required National Command Authority release. Or if there was no President anymore—if Washington was a smoking hole—then it could be ordered by one of the CINCs. In their case, CINCCENT, a four-star, General Cannon.

For anything aboveboard, there would have been a message. Because there was no way you could launch a nuke without one.

“Captain,” he said again, in a low voice.

“Jesus
Christ! What?
”

“You said, you ‘might' have permission. That's true. But
do
you have permission?”

“Why don't you let me worry about that?” Up to now, Shaker had sounded reasonable. Now he reappeared at the foot of the ladder, staring up. His face was shiny with sweat. “God damn it, I told you for the last time. You've got your own career to worry about. Get your tit out of this wringer while you still can!”

“I don't think I can do that.”

“You'll do it, God damn it! You said you'd support me. Well, support me!”

“I'm not supporting you in this, Ben.”

Quick as that, the captain half-lifted the automatic. He didn't actually aim it. But he'd started to. And Dan, just as quickly, had tripped the latch, dropping the scuttle—two inches of hardened steel—between him and the man below.

Now Shaker was trapped. Sealed below. But he couldn't keep him there forever.

Dan crouched there, trying to think. He was scared now. Christ, he thought. Christ!

The Mark IA, a 1960s-era weapon, had what was called a “Permissive Action Link” in the fire control system. Dan saw the PAL keys themselves only during the monthly inventory, when three people—CO, XO, and Weapons—had to sight and sign for them. The captain kept them in his stateroom safe. Inside the sealed pouches were perforated disks, perhaps two inches in diameter, made of a plastic that would shatter if it was drilled or punched.

Even with the PAL, though, Shaker still couldn't fire. The circuit board in Combat into which the disk had to be plugged also had a keypad lock. The combination was not aboard
Van Zandt.
It had to be received from the CINC and decoded.

Only after both elements were present—the PAL disk and the correct combination—would the Mark 92 Fire Control System initialize a Mark IA for launch.

Now, if Shaker had orders to fire, say as the result of a plot between him and someone higher in the chain of command, then he'd have the combination. And he already had the disk.

But if that was so, then he'd have no reason to be in the magazine with the missiles.

Was there any other way he could fire a nuclear weapon?

Even as he thought it, Dan realized the answer might be yes. It stemmed from the way the older warhead had been adapted to ride a new missile out of an even newer class of frigate. And that was, by applying an electrical impulse directly to the missile booster itself.

The problem there would be the booster suppression system. This was a pressurized water tank piped to a nozzle located directly beneath each missile. If one of the boosters fired by mistake, either from circuitry error or a conflagration in the magazine, a fusible plug in the nozzle melted at four hundred degrees. The water spray blew the engine apart and cooled the nearby missiles until the fire burned out.