The Gulf (52 page)

However, if Shaker, down below, disabled the suppression system … cut off the water, or pinned out the trigger valve … then he might be able to fire the booster, and then the sustainer, without going through the internal logic in the Mark 92 computer—of which the PAL was a part.

So far what resulted was a complicated way of committing suicide. One booster burning in the magazine would cook off the others. They'd lose the whole forward half of the ship.

How could the missile be launched without the launcher? It sounded impossible. But as soon as Dan visualized it, he could see a way. If Shaker—or somebody in CIC, at the weapons-control console—rotated the magazine to the proper position, the missile, boosting “illegally” yet unsuppressed, would shear its umbilical and fly vertically up out of the missile-loading hatch. It would bypass the launcher rail, and it was the launcher, he realized suddenly, that fed it targeting data.

Without data, the missile—a modern Standard airframe, but an old-fashioned Terrier warhead, with semiactive backup homing in case its primary guidance circuitry failed—would beam-ride
Van Zandt
's radar wherever it pointed. And detonate on command, the moment it was switched off.

It would be complicated. It would require careful timing, to acquire the missile before it left the cone of the guidance radar and self-destructed. He didn't think Shaker knew the system well enough to do it. But theoretically, at least, there was a way he could fire a nuke on his own.

Dan looked around quickly. The only thing of use he saw was the sound-powered phone by the guard's chair. He turned the dial to the weapons liaison circuit and spun the crank.

After three cranks, Shaker came up on the line. “Yeah, that you, Terry?”

Terry.
Dan suddenly couldn't breathe.

The man whose father had died in a war that wasn't fought to the limit.

The man with a master's degree in electrical engineering.

The black man whose friend the Iranians had just shot down and killed.

Van Zandt
's weapons officer said in his ear then, “Combat, Lieutenant Pensker.”

“Terry, that you? Did you call me?”

“No. The growler just went off up here. Wasn't me, Captain.”

“It wasn't me, either. Listen. The XO ran across me in the magazine. He's got me bottled down here. Can we fire yet?”

“Pretty soon now, sir. I'm through rewriting the program. Just have to enter initial fly-out bearing.”

“Okay. Set it up.”

“Captain,” said Dan. “Listen. Don't cut me off. I'm going to tell you something very important.”

A pause on the line. Then: “I told you to get lost, XO. You can't stop this. So just stand clear. I'll say you were asleep, you didn't know what was going on.”

“Who's that?” said the black officer.

Dan ignored him, speaking directly to Shaker. “Where are you targeting this missile, Captain? They'll hang you for this.”

“It'll be worth it. You know where we're sending this little love note, Dan? To Bushehr. The biggest base in Iran. They've got frigates there, Dan. Gunboats. Fighters.” Shaker paused; his breathing was labored. “There … got it. Suppression valve's closed. By the way, that's where the missile that hit
Strong
came from. Bushehr.”

“Ben, this isn't right. You know it isn't. Knock this off and come out. I'll let you out and we'll talk about it. I give you my word, I won't report it if you come out now.”

“Forget it.”

“You about ready down there, Captain?” The weapons officer's voice came through.

“I think that's it. You can rotate the magazine now.”

A whir of electric motors came through the deck below Dan, through the steel of the locked scuttle.

He looked around again. He couldn't go into the magazine. He doubted whether Shaker would shoot to kill, but he wouldn't do much with bullets in his legs.

He couldn't go back to CIC, either, and stop Pensker there. It would take him two, three minutes getting there through all the dogged-down doors. By then, the missile would be on its way.

His eyes stopped. He stared at a red cylinder beside him. At a red, T-shaped toggle.

“Aligned,” said the lieutenant's voice.

“Launcher vertical.”

“Launcher vertical. Bringing up CWI.”

Dan reached out and pulled the toggle. A bell began to ring below him, inside the magazine.

“What's that bell?” Shaker demanded.

Dan said into the phone, “That's the CO
2
flood alarm, Captain. You've got sixty seconds to get out of there. Then the space will be flooded with carbon dioxide.”

There was a pause on the line. The bell rang steadily on. It had to be hellishly loud in the enclosed space. At last, Shaker said, “Lenson! God damn it! You mind securing that racket before I go deaf?”

He said evenly, “Ben, have you got a breathing device down there with you?”

“What? No, God damn it. Turn that thing off!”

“I'm not going to turn it off.”

“Pensker! The fire-fighting system. Can you secure it from up there?”

“No, sir. You can trip it from DC central, but the only place you can turn it off is the guard station. Where he is.”

“Christ!”
For the first time he heard fear in Shaker's voice. Then it hardened. “Dan. Listen. You're making the wrong decision here. Maybe I'm out of line. But you got to admit, it's the kind of thing somebody should have done long ago.”

Dan sat hunched on the folding chair. Thinking.

About loyalty, and about honor, and about the duty to obey.

“Why, Ben? Explain it to me.”

“Because it'll save American lives. Just like the bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki did. You know that's the only way we're going to end this war.”

He waited.

“Dan, listen. The Navy used to operate under the control of its commanders. They left it up to us, to decide what action was necessary. Now we're micromanaged from halfway around the world.

“And those people are wrong! They've got domestic politics on their minds. Whether they'll be reelected. A peacetime mind-set. They can't see, even if it's obvious to us, that there are times and places you've got to stand up to the enemy and show him what you're made of. Or there's no point in being there.”

“Ben—”

“No, listen. Nobody under fifty remembers what it's like to see America win. They need to. That's why I'm right, XO. And you know it.

“Now, close the valve to the CO
2
flood.”

For just a moment he felt like doing it. Because part of him agreed with Shaker. He'd seen the mess politicians made when they tried to direct military forces in contact with the enemy. Vietnam. Beirut. And once, personally, in Syria. And what he said about America—maybe that was true, too.

But this wasn't the way to protest. Shaker was asking him to abandon civilian leadership. Abandon the law. As well as murder who knew how many civilians. A beam-riding missile … it would be a miracle if it hit anywhere near where it was aimed.

At last, he said, “I can't go along with it, Captain.”

“Okay, Terry, you heard the man.” Shaker suddenly sounded tired. “Launch it anyway.”

“Aye, sir. Stand by for ignition.”

Dan said quickly, “Hold it, Terry! You'll kill him if you do that!”

“I know that. And I accept it. Lieutenant Pensker!”

“Listen, Ben. You've got one chance to get out of there alive. Terry, are you still there?”

“Yeah, XO, but—”

“Just listen!” Dan looked at the dial on the red bottle. He had to talk fast now. “Captain. The scuttle to the rotary magazine. Climb through it. There's not much room up there, but you can squeeze in. Get up there, right now, and dog it behind you.”

“No way.”

“Ben, listen.” He tried to sound friendly and reasonable. Actually, he was scared shitless. “Where you are, in ten more seconds, it'll be pure carbon dioxide. If you get up in the magazine, there'll be air there.”

“Sure! And then the booster will cook me alive!”

“Only if Terry fires it,” said Dan. “But he isn't going to. Are you, Terry?”

He could hear the lieutenant breathing. That was all.

“Pensker! Listen. Fire the fucking missile!”

“You're still in ready service, sir.”

“That's right! And I ordered you to fire. Fire!”

“I can't,” said Pensker, his voice suddenly hopeless. “I can't do that to you. Do what he says, sir. Get in the magazine and close the scuttle. I'll get a blower and clear the ready room. We'll talk to the XO and do it later.”

At that moment, the bell stopped ringing. The muffled thump-hiss of releasing gas was clearly audible. Dan shouted, “Captain! Get out of there!”

“Close the scuttle, sir!” screamed Pensker.

“Fire the missile!”

Dan didn't say anything. He closed his eyes. It was all up to Terry Pensker now. How much he believed in this himself, and how much Shaker had convinced or intimidated him into it.
“Fire!”
the captain said again, his voice cracking.

“I'm not going to, sir. You might as well save yourself.”

After a long moment came Shaker's voice, coughing: “Okay. God damn you both. Okay.”

Dan dropped the handset and sprinted for the passageway. He pounded through the berthing compartment and up a ladder. He went through two more watertight doors and up another deck. He bypassed Combat and stabbed at a combination lock. The door to Radio Central buzzed and swung open.

The radiomen stared at him. He picked up the bogen and dialed the bridge. Wise answered. A moment later, the general quarters alarm began to bong.

Dan hung up. He wished he could think. He wasn't at all sure this was right.

But there was no time to think. No time to ponder what he was doing to Shaker, to himself, or to both their careers. He had to go by the letter of the law.

The leading radioman came out of the transmitter room. Dan said, “Chief, get a circuit up to COMIDEASTFOR, Manama. I have an outgoing OPREP CERBERUS. Nuclear-access incident. I want it out in thirty seconds.”

The radioman flicked a switch and sat down at the teletype. “No problem. Flash precedence, XO?”

Dan said, grimly, “You bet your ass.”

The answer came back in twelve minutes flat. By then, Shaker was there, his face shining with sweat but inhumanly controlled. The chief tore it off and handed it to him.

USS
VAN ZANDT
BREAK OFF PATROL. USS
GALLERY
WILL SORTIE TO RELIEVE. RETURN BAHRAIN IMMEDIATELY FLANK SPEED. PREPARE TO RECEIVE NAVAL INVESTIGATIVE SERVICE TEAM BY HELICOPTER. HART.

28

U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt

THE NIS team arrived while they were still thirty miles out. Two men in civilian clothes and three armed Marine sergeants. The Marines double-timed directly from the flight deck to CIC and the missile magazine. They relieved the guard and snapped huge antiterrorist padlocks on the scuttle and the blast door. One of the men in civvies went to CIC, showed Proginelli his identification, and removed four printed circuit boards from the fire-control system.

Van Zandt
was defenseless, her teeth drawn.

The second civilian convened an ad hoc investigation. He saw Shaker first, brushing aside his request to delay till they reached port. They were closeted in his cabin for almost an hour.

Finally, Dan was called. He waited outside the door. When Shaker came out, the flat blue eyes contemplated him for an endless moment. Then he shook his head, turned away, and pulled himself up the ladder toward the bridge.

Dan took a deep breath, tapped, and let himself in.

“Morning, Commander. I'm Bart Sturgis.”

“Dan Lenson.”

Sturgis was standing, and they shook hands. He was a little overweight, moon-faced, with slicked-back hair; he was wearing an off-the-rack polyester suit, dark blue, and a blue tie. It was held to his shirt by a Navy tie tack, the kind anyone could buy. He looked like a small-town realtor. Sturgis, he saw, was looking him over, too.

“Sit down.” He extended a pack of Navy Exchange generics. “Smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

The agent put the pack away without taking one for himself. Dan grinned inside his head. Till he noticed the recorder. Sturgis removed a cassette from it and slipped it into his jacket. He put in a fresh one and closed it. Then he shoved a form across the table.

“This signifies consent to recording, Commander, as well as a legally binding agreement not to discuss this matter with anyone else until the investigation is complete. Please read it.”

Dan took out his issue Skilcraft and signed. He licked his lips; his mouth was going dry.

“All right,” said Sturgis. He turned the recorder on and looked at a steno pad beside it. “Now, you're the one who sent us the message, so you know why I'm here.”

“That's right, sir.”

“Don't call me sir. I don't have a rank as far as you're concerned. Just call me Mr. Sturgis.” He paused, looking up. “This is a serious accusation. As I'm sure you realize.”

“Of course it is, it's serious as hell. That's why I called for help.”

“Right.” Sturgis rubbed his face. He had a heavy shadow on his chin and neck. That and his weight gave him an air of simplicity and harmlessness. “Now, I talked to the captain first, but I want you to know that great old saying, The first liar gets believed, does not apply with me. I listen to everybody the same. My job is not to decide who's right and who's wrong, who's telling the truth and who's not. The Board of Inquiry does that. My job is to decide if there's something here ought to be investigated and, if so, what action has to be taken right now to prevent further damage.”