The Med (30 page)

“Tell us about Nicosia,” said Sundstrom. “Damn it, I don't give a crap about this political stuff. Let's get to the point.”

Lenson blinked, hauling himself upright in the chair again. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Yes, sir,” Byrne was saying. “Let me make one other point, though. The Turks have been reinforcing quietly up to now, but Sixth Fleet Intelligence feels that the sailing reported this morning from Izmir could constitute a major attack. There's no evidence yet that the Greeks know about it, but when they do Athens might also mobilize. That could lead to a sticky situation for us. TF 61 would be right in the middle.”

No one said anything. After a moment, Byrne went on. “All right, our reason for being here: a possible rescue attempt.”

Lenson rubbed his face, trying to concentrate. He'd planned for a relatively peaceful evacuation. Rescue? This was something new.

“When the rioting began, there were in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred American and British tourists, students, and retired personnel on the island. Most of them got out by air or headed for Akrotiri. However, because of the suddenness of the trouble, a sizable number were trapped in the diplomatic compound in Nicosia.”

His pointer rapped the capital. “Until early this morning, State hoped to barricade the embassy and wait out the rioting. At about 0200 today, however, the U.S. Embassy in Nicosia was attacked and seized. We have word that the ambassador was killed.”

“Holy smoke,” said Flasher, beside him. Lenson, startled into alertness, glanced at Sundstrom. The commodore knew. His face did not move a muscle. After that initial murmur the room was quiet, intent on Byrne and on the news.

“After that message all comms with the embassy were lost. We have a report as of 1000, though, that an undetermined number of Americans, tourists and diplomatic personnel, are being held by the group that took the embassy.”

“Wait a minute, Jack. Who are they? The attackers?” asked Hogan.

“We're not sure yet.”

“No guesses?”

“Guesses, but no facts yet.” Byrne nodded at the chart. “I don't need to tell you this changes things. The local army and police are occupied with their own problems. What this comes down to is that we may be the only force available to go in and get those people out. The administration probably feels—”

“Don't bother to speculate, Mr. Byrne.” Sundstrom's voice was sharp. “There are some real pros on the Sixth Fleet staff to take care of that. I know that for a fact. Some of them are my personal friends.”

“Yes sir.” Byrne sighed almost inaudibly and flipped a page. “I might mention one other item from this morning's traffic. That's Lebanon. The month-old cease fire between the Maronites and the Shiites was broken last night with a four-hour bombardment of the Christian sectors of Beirut. The Shiite militia used T-54 tanks and Soviet-supplied multiple-rocket launchers. The Maronites immediately returned fire. Approximately a hundred civilians have been killed so far. Prospects for the truce appear—”

“Mr. Byrne. I'm sure it's regrettable, but what bearing does Beirut have on Cyprus?”

“Well, indirect, Commodore, but one might speculate—”

“I ordered you once to can your goddamned speculations! Facts, mister, that's all I want out of you!”

Byrne sighed again, and began briefing on the Cypriote militia. Lenson felt his eyelids drift downward. It was news, it was exciting, but after three sleepless days—or was it four?—he was out of it. His mouth was dry with fatigue, and sitting here like this, listening, he seemed to tack moment by moment between waking and dream. The boundary line was so fine it was only by digging his knees into the desk that he could be sure he was really awake.

“There's just one more point to bring up,” said Byrne, turning the final page to show several ship silhouettes. “It might be important. It's this: There's not much difference between the Greek and Turkish ships and ours. We've supplied destroyers and electronic gear to both sides. If shooting starts, we're going to be right in the middle, without a clear means of identifying ourselves, and that could be hairy.” The intel officer paused. “All right, that's the briefing. Any questions?”

The commodore lowered his head and sipped coffee, ignoring him.

“Yes—Captain Fourchetti?”

“How about the Soviets, Jack? We know they're interested—Snoopy's still with us. Where are they; what are they going to be doing while we're steaming around at the ready out here; and what will they do if we go in?”

“All good questions.” Byrne addressed them at length, but Dan got just two things out of it; there were plenty of Russians around, and nobody knew what they had in mind. As the N-2 droned on, his eyelids sagged closed again.

He was thinking of her again. As she had been, not in Taormina, but the first time he'd entered her, in her father's borrowed MG. For perhaps a second, dreamlike, he relived it all. When they were done he'd looked across at her, seeing perspiration glowing like satin between her breasts, in the shadow of her thighs.

It's strange, he thought, sitting there in the midst of the other men. When I remember our making love I never think of what it feels like. I love the feel of her, but that's not what I think about when I re-create part of her with my own hands in the shower. Instead I recall the expression of her face, the words she says, the way she looks in the moonlight or the light of bedroom or hotel room, her body under dresses or sheets or in jeans.…

I need her, he thought. She's the one thing that keeps me sane in this crazy outfit. At times, looking up at her picture on this endless cruise, he caught himself almost praying to her. He wanted her so much … but at least she was safe. The airports would be closed in Greece; she would have to settle into a hotel there with the other wives, but she and Nan would be all right.

His eyes slid closed again. He remembered again the car, the way they had snuggled together; the way she had taken care of him, given him the pleasure, made him—

“Mr. Lenson,” said Byrne again.

“Yes, Jack?”

“We're waiting.”

He flinched guiltily. Byrne had finished his briefing, and it was his turn. All the men in SACC were looking at him; the commodore twisted round in his chair, looking annoyed.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. And with a red face, holding his notes in front of his belt buckle to hide the evidence of his daydreaming, he walked to the front of the compartment to begin.

*   *   *

As usual, Sundstrom had plenty of changes to make. Dan had expected him to concentrate on the changes required by a raid, instead of a peaceful evacuation. But he had few questions on the technical aspects: communications, logistics, tactics. He seemed to be leaving those to Dan. What he didn't like were cosmetic things, such as the code name for the operation, “Urgent Lesson,” even though it was the next one on the list of NATO names. “Makes us sound like slow students,” he said, frowning. “Make it ‘Urgent Lightning.'” And there were more. So many that, trudging back to his stateroom after the meeting was over, Lenson resigned himself to another night of battling sleep.

But at least this time there was a reason, a possibility they might be needed.

After a wordless lunch of cheese sandwiches, grits, and bug juice—he wasn't hungry, but food seemed to compensate a little for not sleeping—he went up to the bridge at 1230, just in time to catch the first Soviet overflight.

It was disreputable panic. He stood to the side of the pilothouse, listening to Sundstrom scream. The commodore was livid. The first notice he'd had of the swept-winged Bear, flying low to the west of the formation, had been a shout from one of the lookouts. He wanted the CIC officer on the flag bridge, and when the ensign showed up, already white-faced, and Captain Fourchetti with him, looking glum, subjected them both to a twenty-minute dressing down, complete with references to their fitness reports. The staff officers, embarrassed, looked away, out to sea. When it was over, the two officers gone below and Sundstrom slumped exhausted in his leather chair, Dan went up to Red Flasher and saluted. “Ready to relieve you, sir.”

“And goddamned ready to be relieved,” muttered Flasher. “He's been up here since the briefing; he even ate here. Like a goddamned cat in heat. Much more of this and I'm going overboard, swim ashore for a drink.”

“Just a minute, I'll get my flippers.”

When Flasher had gone below he glanced toward the chair. The commodore was motionless. He checked the chart. They had finally reached it: the ready station, where COMSIXTHFLT had directed them to stand by and await orders. The force was in a circular formation, slowly steaming on a southerly course … he turned, instantly alert, as Sundstrom muttered something.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Nothing, Dan, nothing…” The commodore stirred in his seat, glancing out to the far horizon where the aircraft, its check complete, was tail to them, headed back to Libya or Syria or Sevastopol. He was turning back to the chart when Sundstrom sat up abruptly. Uh-oh, he thought. It was going to be a long watch.

“Dan … did you see what they did to me? That ensign, and that Italian brownshoe?”

Fourchetti was an aviator, assigned to
Guam
as his obligatory deep-draft command before carrier assignment. It was a sin that Sundstrom, for some reason of his own, apparently could not forgive. Dan phrased his response carefully. “Sir, they've been having glitches in the air-search radar. There's a casualty report out on it. I think they—”

“No, no, no, no. Not you too, Dan. I've got a bellyful of excuses. Not picking up an incoming bogey—that's unforgivable. They could see him on the surface search, I know that. Christ, he was low enough. They're just goofing off down there, that's all. They're not taking this seriously. But they've got to learn.”

“Yes sir,” said Lenson.

“Hand me that microphone.”

“Aye, sir.”

He went out to the starboard wing as Sundstrom's voice boomed out over the ship.

“THIS IS THE COMMODORE SPEAKING. LET ME HAVE A FEW MINUTES OF YOUR TIME, PLEASE.

“A FEW MINUTES AGO THIS SHIP, THIS FORMATION, WAS OVERFLOWN BY A RUSSIAN BOMBER. WE HAD NO WARNING, NO ONE DETECTED IT. EVERYBODY ABOARD THIS SHIP WAS ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH!”

Lenson watched men look up at him from the flight deck. They looked at each other, and then up again. The 1MC clicked off, then on again. Everyone on the ship could hear Sundstrom's angry breathing.

“THIS IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN, NOT ON MY WATCH! I WANT EVERYONE ON THIS SHIP TO REALIZE THAT WE ARE NOW IN DANGEROUS WATERS. WE COULD BE ATTACKED AT ANY TIME. THERE'S NO EXCUSE ANYMORE FOR SLACKING OFF, FOR SITTING AROUND DRINKING COFFEE WHILE WE'RE OUT HERE. FROM HERE ON IN I WANT THIS SHIP RUN LIKE A NAVY VESSEL, LIKE A COMBAT UNIT, WHICH IT IS
SUPPOSED
TO BE.

“I WILL ACCEPT NO MORE EXCUSES AND NO MORE SUBSTANDARD, LACKLUSTER PERFORMANCE FROM ANY MEMBER OF THE CREW, FROM THE CAPTAIN ON DOWN! THIS IS MY FLAGSHIP, AND WE WILL DETECT AIRCRAFT AND SURFACE ATTACKERS FIRST AND BE READY TO TAKE THEM UNDER FIRE ON A MOMENT'S NOTICE. I WANT YOU ALL TO UNDERSTAND THIS AND ACT ACCORDINGLY.”

When the 1MC clicked off he went inside. Sundstrom was leaning back in his leather chair, smiling as if it hurt him. He handed Dan the mike. “Hang that up for me, Dan. There. That ought to wake the bastards up a little, eh?”

“Yes sir,” said Lenson, keeping his voice flat and businesslike.

“Dan, I realize you have the watch, but you're the only one I can trust not to screw this up. Write me out a message to the other units of the task force, saying the same thing. Make it strong. I want this on the record.”

“Yes sir,” said Lenson unwillingly, and looked at Glazer behind the chair. The supply officer made a cretin face. Lenson made one back, went to the chart table, and pulled out a message blank.

Sundstrom stayed on the bridge, but fortunately there were no more flaps. The message, with several more sarcasms red-penciled in, went out by flashing light to the rest of the MARG. Toward 1400 the commodore fell asleep, snoring in the big leather chair, his feet on one of the radio handsets. Lenson and everyone else on watch went around on tiptoe. At 1410, though, a voice message came in from
Coronado.
A routine report, but it awakened him. He sat there quiet for a few minutes, then: “Dan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you think of that battle problem yesterday?”

“Uh … I thought it went okay, sir. We had the aircraft-tracking exercise Commander Hogan made up, and then we had the—”

“It sure didn't do the job, did it? Goddammit, I told Hogan to get these people trained. I can't trust anybody anymore … Dan, let's wake them up a little.”

“Sir—it's the middle of the working day. Everybody will be—”

“Goddamn it, Dan. Don't let that attitude infect you, too. I expect better from an Academy man. They can work at night, like I do. Let's go. Battle stations, the whole formation. Right now!”

With a heavy heart, he picked up the handset.

*   *   *

The surprise drill went rather well at first, Dan thought. As the bell shrilled, the flight deck filled with running men. The ready helos coughed into life. The staff officers and enlisted arrived panting from the run up from staterooms and offices. Gear lockers rattled open. McQueen tossed helmets, life preservers, masks, and pistols to reaching hands. The windows slammed closed, hatches banged to, sweating men dogged them tight. Lenson buckled on the heavy steel helmet stenciled “Staff Watch Officer” as the 3″/50 mount below the bridge began to hum and clank; the gun crew was feeding rounds into the revolving magazines. Flasher and Byrne and Hogan crowded into the narrow bridge, making twelve men all told, leaving hardly enough room to reach for a pencil. He saw Red settling the lifejacket on his belly; it protruded nearly a foot. His battle station was staff watch officer, but neither of them said anything; Lenson kept the deck. Flasher looked carefully around the bridge, over the coaming at the decks below, then lifted his binoculars for a sweep of the formation.