The Med (40 page)

“Red, on the CIC-to-CIC net, have everybody get their electronics up. I want everything radiating. Radar, radio, fire control, the whole schmeir. If they've got sensors on those bogeys I want them to know we're American.”

“It might not matter,” said Byrne. “Most of the Turkish Navy is ex-U.S. They'll have the same signatures.”

“Well, at least we'll be able to track them. Sir—permission to hoist a battle ensign? They could see that better—”

“Goddammit, yes,” said Sundstrom. “Right now.”

The roar came then directly above the ship, a rolling blast that rattled Plexiglas in its frames and made all the men duck. Lenson ran to starboard in time to catch the yellow-blue flare of the afterburner as the fighter pointed itself upward from the pass. The forward gun mount trained around after it, but far behind, too slow to keep up. This time his eye caught the familiar stub wing: an F-16, built in the U.S., but from rain and speed he couldn't see the insignia. The Air Force flew Falcons. But so did the Greeks, and the Turks too, for that matter. There was just no way to tell.

It's that way for them too, he thought with sudden horror. They can't tell who we are. They're going too fast, the visibility's bad. If they're Greek they're looking for ships, the Turkish invasion fleet. But they're land-based pilots; they probably can't tell an oiler from a surfaced submarine, much less—

The fighter shrank as it opened, turning, its momentum taking it far out from the task force. It almost disappeared, winking on and off at the limit of sight. Then it became a dot again, head on, and he saw the other two joining above and behind it.

They dropped suddenly to just above the gray-green crests, no higher than the bridge. He knew then that this was a firing run. He glanced back. Sundstrom met his eyes for a moment, then dropped his gaze and shook his head slightly. Knowing it was not enough.

They had to wait until they were fired on.

And then they were. The sound came faintly across the water, a popping rattle mixed with the rising howl of engines. He saw flashes, streamers of pale smoke from the wings, and jerked his head round; but as his mouth came open Flasher was already barking, “Batteries released! Shoot the sons of bitches!”

“Fire,” said the commodore a moment too late. Dan stared out as the fighters roared directly over them, dreadfully close. They banked left, the first run complete, and were erased instantly by a low bank of cloud. “Make sure the destroyer gets that word—”

“Bowen!”
Flasher was already shouting into the handset, forgetting, or not bothering with, the call signs. “D'you copy my weapons free? Answer up, damn it!”

“Copy,”
said a voice from the frigate. One word.

“Flag bridge, bridge,” said the squawk box. Fourchetti's voice. “We have radar lock-on with the aft three-inch mounts. They're closing again—almost in range—”

His voice was blotted out in a sudden chorus of high-pitched bangs from aft. Between the detonations the rattle of machine guns swelled to a roar and then cut off as the planes appeared overhead. The forward mount, fifty feet down, fired suddenly, creating twin balls of bright orange flame as big as the bridge. Each flash was succeeded by gray-black smoke and a bellow of sound that shook the steel fabric of the island.

The aircraft flashed by like silver sabers, a hundred yards off the bow. The guns whined around, trying to follow but far behind, twin barrels spewing alternate balls of fire thirty feet across. Empty brass arced upward from the breeches, somersaulting through smoky air with incredible slowness, and clanged into the decks. The guns fell silent as the barrels trained into the superstructure. The bow mount fired last, four spaced rounds after the rapidly dwindling planes. Lenson imagined the shells hurtling after the jets, closing at first, then slowing, dropping, ripping at last into the sea. Choking smoke blew in through the open hatchway. “… Hits?” said the commodore, turning for the bridge wing, where Hogan stood with binoculars to his eyes.

“Sir. Don't go out there. They'll be back.”

“I think we hit one, goddammit!”

“Not a chance. Those old three-inch were thirty degrees behind them when they went over,” said Flasher.

“Maybe the frigate'll do better,” said Lenson.

“
Somebody
better do something, and quick. Or we're going to have some dead sailors here.”

Dan thought for a furious moment, calculating lead angle, found he lacked data. He pulled a phone from the bulkhead and snapped its switch to
Guam
's fire-control circuit. “Guns!”

A faint, tinny voice answered. “Here.”

“Flag bridge. Were you on those babies?”

“Not a chance. Our max target speed is five hundred. Radar'll keep up, but these old three-inch can't train fast enough.”

“Commodore,” said Dan. “They're flying too fast for a director solution.”

But when he turned to Sundstrom he saw that he was staring, lips slightly parted, out over the sea. He hesitated this time only a second. There was one answer left, though it was not in the book. He picked up the Pritac handset and wet his lips.

“All ships with three-inch: Listen up! Target speed's too high for director control. Shift from radar track to visual. Lay a barrage and make them fly through it. I say again, shift to visual track, barrage fire, all guns, estimate range five thousand. November Zulu out.”

A different, deeper explosion came from outside, making his stomach jump. It was from the ship, a shock transmitted through her steel body before it reached their ears. Lenson craned out the window, and saw it, down on the flight deck. A mass of fuel-fed flame, a litter of twisted metal igniting into magnesium glare. Men ran, some away, others, dragging hoses, toward it. One of the helicopters. As he watched another began to burn. “HIT BRAVO,” said the metal voice of the announcing system. “HIT ON FLIGHT DECK—REPAIR FIVE PROVIDE—”

“Air support,” said the commodore. They turned to look at him. Helmet unbuckled, collar awry, he leaned against the coaming of the starboard hatch, the climbing smoke black behind him. “We've got to have some goddamn air support, or we're all going straight to the bottom. But they're not going to pin the rose on me for this debacle. Get me Tony, right now.”

“Sir?”

“High frequency…” He made an impatient gesture for the handset. “Goddammit … what's our call sign—”

Flasher told him.

“… This is Denver George. We're under attack. Repeat, under attack. About a dozen fighters, type unknown. Request air support instantly. Tony, do you read me? I need air support! I've got six ships out here in a storm and we're helpless … do you hear me…”

“Sir,” said Flasher, putting his hand on Sundstrom's arm. The commodore shook him off. “Goddammit, Tony, I say again—”

The ether crackled, far off.
“Denver George, this is True Dream. Say again your last transmission.”

“We're under air attack! Aren't you listening? Is Tony there? Uh, Dream Actual?”

“No, sir.”
The voice was young, but still as distant as the ionosphere that broke and reflected his words.
“I'll relay that to him. TF 61 under air attack. Requesting air support. Out.”

Sundstrom stared at the handset for a long moment. Slowly it slipped downward, out of his hands. It hung motionless for a moment at the end of its cord, then picked up the roll of the ship and began to swing.

“You all heard that,” he whispered.

“Inbound,” shouted Hogan, from the port wing, and they all ducked again, facing to port. Lenson keyed the squawk box but then saw the rudder indicator already pointing to hard left. Fourchetti's boys were awake. Bow on fewer guns would bear, but
Guam
would present a smaller target. The clamor of the guns resumed, an earsplitting barking that shook the flag bridge and filtered smoke and powder fumes through the closed windows. Lenson found himself on the deck, clinging to the base of the radar repeater, hugging its reassuring solidity.

Out of our league, he thought blindly. His breath squeezed from his lungs. Helpless. Not a goddamn thing to do but hang on and take it.

But they were fighting back. The three-inch were old guns, designed to shoot down prop-driven kamikazes, and their radar control was obsolete; but there were plenty of them aboard, and each barrel dumped forty-five shells a minute into the sky. He raised his head, inch by inch, and was rewarded with the sight of gunflashes from the
Barnstable County.
The landing ship had closed up instinctively to two thousand yards, and was matching the flagship's turn; she pouring it on, too, to the targets that to her were crossing her stern, heading for the
Guam.
He hoped they weren't too fighting crazy to let go their triggers when their checksights filled with the gray bulk of the helicopter carrier.

The aircraft popped up, suddenly, two of them—why two?—just above a green-gray sea that crashed into the bow, jolting the ship and sending the men on the bridge staggering. Blossoms of yellow fire, perfect rings of smoke, whipped past him on an icy wind … muzzle flashes from the leading edge of wings, the gaping mouths of air intakes, the cutting brilliance of aluminum. They bored inward, inexorable, invulnerable, growing like nightmares in his tranced sight. A whiplash of sound shattered a window and traversed the width of the flag bridge. He ducked, but did not drop, and thus caught for a fleeting moment the bent, anonymous helmet of a man in one of those cockpits, pitiless and merciless, or pitiful and merciful, there was no way of telling. You did not face your killer in modern war, just as he had no time to see those he destroyed. Instead you took cover, hid, if there was any hiding, and fought back with any means, any means that you had.

“
Bowen
reports a splash.”

His ears were ringing. “What did you say, Stan?”

“One bogey in the water…” Glazer held up his hand as he listened. “Fired two Sparrow missiles; second one connected. Flamer. Parachute. Pilot's in the water ten thousand yards to starboard of the force. Should we, uh … should we send out a chopper?”

“Wise up, Stan.”

“Sorry.”

“Sir? Commodore?”

Alone of them all, Sundstrom was still standing, his head bent against the arm of his chair. At Lenson's words he lifted it and stared at him. Belatedly he saw what the commodore had been looking at: a jagged hole through the brown leather, just at chest level. He could see the bulkhead through it, and the oblong hole in the starboard side the round had made going out.

“What?”

“Any orders, sir?”

“We're firing back, aren't we? Can you think of anything else to do?”

“Uh … no sir.”

“Then don't keep bothering me for orders, goddammit, just do what has to be done. Thank God we never gave these people nukes.”

“Jesus, amen to that,” said Flasher, under his breath. He winked at Glazer, and then reached into his foul-weather jacket. Lenson expected a Hershey with almonds, but instead he came out with one, two, three red rubber balls.

Kneeling there, he started juggling, hiding it with his bulk from Sundstrom, who was looking anxiously upward. Lenson stared.

“Where are they now?” the commodore muttered, and Dan jerked his eyes away from Flasher.
Bowen
came over the net just then with a report. “November Zulu, this is Juliet Romeo. Two remaining bogeys have cleared the Missile Defense Zone, heading three-one-five.”

“Sir, they're outbound.”

“Expended their ordnance … goddammit, let's get some damage reports,” said Sundstrom, rushing out to the wing. “I can't tell what to do without info. Get on that net, Dan! Right now!”

“Aye, sir.” The commodore grated his nerves like sandpaper, but Lenson was still too excited to care. Could it really be over? He jotted down reports as they came in.
Coronado
had fragment damage, two casualties, investigating.
Guam
had lost two helos from strafing, taken fragment damage, and had four men wounded.
Charleston
and
Newport
were untouched.
Spiegel Grove
had a fire in her superstructure and heavy damage from aircraft cannon, but no casualties.
Ault
had been out of the action entirely. He had worried about leaving her astern, but she'd made out like a bandit; the fighters had never seen her.

The remaining ship,
Barnstable County,
had not been so lucky. One of the Falcons had carried rockets. Most had gone high, their aim perhaps upset by the barrage, but at least two had bored into the forecastle and exploded inside the ship. The causeways were a wreck. Even worse news was that the bow ramp was damaged and jammed. Fortunately, the heavy seas were helping them fight the fire. Her commanding officer was down directing the DC team in person right now, the OOD reported. Staring out the open hatch, past Sundstrom's back, Lenson could see smoke whipping back on the wind from the LST's forward deck, could see men moving about, dragging hoses.

He rogered for the reports, signed off, and went out to the wing. Sundstrom listened gloomily, staring over the coaming as a foam truck gushed white over the blazing aircraft. “Goddamn,” he said, as Lenson finished. “They clobbered us.
Barnstable
has twenty amtracs aboard. If we can't get those ashore, a landing won't have much chance.”

“I don't think we did so badly, sir. Half a dozen wounded, and no major damage. It could have been a lot worse. All that three-inch in the air—we couldn't aim it worth a shit, but I bet it made them think twice about making another pass. And
Bowen
got one!”

“Men can be replaced. Those causeways and amtracs can't. Two helos out—that cuts our air-landing capability, too.”