The Med (44 page)

“Who is that?”

“Lieutenant-Commander Byrne, sir.”

“Goddammit, Byrne—God
damn
it.” He sat up, furious. He had to decide, right now.

But still he found himself gripped by the same indecision, stymied by the same lack of information and conflicting fears. That goddamn surf—if it was ten feet, like Fleet Weather predicted, he could lose a lot of people getting ashore. The surf could roll a small boat over and over along the beach. He had seen it happen to an Italian landing craft at one of the early exercises.

But this was not an exercise, to be delayed if conditions were not perfect. He had orders to get the MAU ashore if he could. Other problems occurred to him then. “Byrne.”

“Sir.”

“
Ault
 … what's her status? Is that shaft fixed yet?”

“They're working on it, sir.”

“What? You're guessing. You don't know. Call them up and find out.”

“Sir, they reported half an hour ago. They hope to get it on line soon, but they can't be sure.”

“How far back is she?”

“About fifty miles, I estimate, sir.”

“That goddamned Foster. He's had it in for me since she joined; he knows I'm an old destroyerman; they can't put things over on me like they could on MacInroe. How can I land without gunfire support? And what about
Barnstable?
Is her ramp still jammed?”

This time he felt the man hesitate. “Well?”

“I'll give her a call, sir, and check on that.”

“What have you been doing up here, Byrne? You should be on top of things like that. That's what you're drawing salary for.”

“Yes sir.”

But the answer from the landing ship was just as unsatisfactory. They felt they could get the bow doors open once, but they might not be able to get them closed. The rocket hits had destroyed the handling mechanism. Sundstrom had a vision of one of his ships foundering, trying to face a storm with her bow doors open. He put his hands over his face, rubbed hard. He felt himself sliding off to sleep once more, and ground his back into the patched chair. No. He had to stay awake, and he had to decide.

What a goddamn no-win situation Roberts had put him in. He understood suddenly what was going on. They were lining his coffin. How had it taken him this long to catch on? They'd gotten to him, the ones who wanted Ike Sundstrom to fail. Or Roberts was doing it himself, leaving himself an out in case they lost men going ashore, or the landing was a bloody disaster. That was it, he was covering his ass. With a message phrased that way, no matter what happened, Commander, Sixth Fleet was safe. If he made the wrong decision, the admiral could point to that message. “I told him to use his good judgment. Unfortunately, Commodore Sundstrom failed to take into consideration the following factors—”

Oh, that was it, all right. That was how the big boys worked. You didn't make admiral by taking chances. Not in the peacetime Navy.

He stared at the intelligence officer's back. “Commander Byrne.”

The man came back unwillingly, dislike in the very set of his neck. Sundstrom was suddenly angry. “So you don't know the status of the task force. Let's see what you
do
know, if anything. What's happening in Lebanon now?”

“Ceasefire's down the drain, sir. Heavy shelling in the Beirut suburbs.”

“What about the north, up near Syria? Where they recommend we go in?”

“Things seem quieter there.”

“What do you think of their recommendation?”

Byrne nodded, as if to a child who had asked an intelligent question at last. It enraged Sundstrom, but he held his peace. “The El Aabde beach, then inland along the hill road; hook left across the border, hit the terrorists in the flank—it sounds reasonable.”

“I expect a more thorough analysis than that from my intel staff, Mr. Byrne.”

“Yes sir.” The N-2 pulled a chart from his pocket and unfolded it. “I brought it up with me, in case you asked. Here's what we know about the militia formations in the area. The nearest regular forces are a regiment of Syrian armor back here, at Homs—”

He allowed Byrne to go on for some minutes, thinking darkly there was no way he could know this much on a few hours' notice. It was a put-on, like his accent. At last the intel officer wound up. “At that point, twenty miles into Lebanon, we turn north and head up the Akroum Valley. Actual penetration of Syrian territory is both sudden and minimal with that route. The strike elements of the MAU only need to go in five miles to reach the old French hotel complex where they're being held.

“All in all, sir, it's probably as good a plan as we could expect at short notice. We make the actual landing in Lebanon, instead of a frontal assault on the Syrian coast. The nice thing is that it's relatively nonprovocative. Our political people can present it as clearly aimed only at the terrorists. If we can get the marines in and out fast enough they shouldn't meet either the Syrians or the Soviets.” He hesitated. “Of course, that assumes that the Syrians are not actively supporting the group in the hotel.”

“I'm more concerned right now with making it ashore at all. There's a rough surf running.”

“That could cause us casualties too, sir, that's quite right.”

Sundstrom grunted.
That's quite right,
he mimicked in his mind. Jesus Christ! He dismissed the man and Byrne faded once more back into the now-shadowy bridge.

The commodore writhed in his chair, under cover of the dark. Distances and advance rates crawled in his head. Then he froze: A figure loomed by his side. It was the radioman. He scanned the new message, using the man's flashlight.

It was Flash priority. Commander in Chief, U.S. Naval Forces Europe, wanted a status report. Was he going in or not? Representations had to be made to allies, to certain international authorities—

Sundstrom groaned aloud.

At last he asked for Haynes. The colonel came up at once, as if he had been waiting for the summons. His white hair gleamed in the faint light from instruments, and Sundstrom caught the smell of a cigar.

“Evening, Ike.”

“Hello, Steve. You seen this?” He waved the message.

“Yes. I'm an information addressee.”

“What do you think? Should we go in?”

He saw the colonel's head steady, saw the faint glow of the cigar-end describe a little circle, as if his teeth had taken hold; but the marine did not answer for a few seconds. At last he said, “That's your decision, Ike, as commander of this task force. No one else can make it for you.”

“I know that, Steve. I assure you, no one wearing khaki understands his responsibilities better than I do. I just wanted to scrub things down with you … see if there were any rough edges you could bring to my attention.” He paused, waiting, but the red glow did not move. “You've been through a hell of a lot more of these landings than I have. You're a professional, Steve, you know the kind of position this message puts me in.”

“The MAU is ready to go ashore.”

“I know that, Steve. But this surf business worries me. We might not be able to support you, once you get inland.”

“We can use the helos for logistical support,” said the colonel's voice, in the dark. He sounded tired. “Since they've restricted us to light weapons, that will bring pounds per man per day way down. If we don't hit resistance—”

“But if you do! This could be a trap. And if we can't support you, if the surf rises and we can't get ammo ashore—”

“Three-four MAU is ready to go if ordered,” Haynes said again, an edge to his voice. “That's about all I can do for you, Ike. The decision is up to you.”

Sundstrom saw suddenly what was going on. His mouth curled on itself. Haynes, too. He wasn't going to commit himself. That way, if it ended in disaster, they could all point their fingers at him.

“That's all, Colonel,” he said, his voice distant. “I'll let you know when I decide.”

“Yes sir.”

Alone once more, he stared out at the dark sea. He had to decide, and soon. COMSIXTHFLEET, and behind him those tall men sitting grimly in the War Room, wanted to know which way he would jump. Cancel, because of the weather—postpone—

Or go in, and take the heat if any one of hundreds of things went wrong.

Out of nowhere, he thought of the air attack. Of the paralyzing fear when the planes came for them. Of flame and sound. And of the corpses, drifting past the side of the ship, bobbing in the gray cold sea. Someone had made a decision for them. The wrong decision.

If those fighters had been more heavily armed, he thought suddenly, I might have been one of them.

Sitting in the dark, gripping the leather armrests, he all but whimpered aloud. This was not the way he operated. He should have staff work. He should have clear orders. But no one would commit himself. His career—twenty-three years of hard work, sacrifice, making himself useful and agreeable—they were making him bet it all on something he couldn't control, couldn't check out, on the whims of weather and an enemy he knew next to nothing about.

On the other hand, if it worked out there could be a promotion in it. More likely than not, a decoration.

It all came down to that. It was a bet.

He could say no. What if he did? What if he sent back to Roberts, it's too big a risk, the surf estimates are uncertain, I'm postponing until the weather improves? But no, goddammit—the situation ashore demanded action. With every passing hour this hostage thing would be heating up. Politically, back in Washington. And militarily, too. This terrorist gang could have reinforcements on the way. Worse, the instant they realized what was afoot the Soviets would get their whole Med fleet underway. They couldn't let the U.S. invade one of their allies without putting up a fight. He could wait a day, maybe even two, for the weather to abate, but by then he might be sending Haynes into a war.

Or, on the other hand, it might all have been planned this way. The breakdown of the ceasefire in Lebanon. The diversion of the hostages to southern Syria, so temptingly just in range of sea power. I worry too much, he thought, sweating. But just this once, the bastards really might have set us up. The big meatgrinder might already be oiled, sharpened, just waiting for the marines to wade ashore. It could be another Tarawa. Or worse.

The ship throbbed through the night, vibrating, humming with machinery and life. His ships moved around him, a powerful engine of intervention, of force, but dependent on his will. He felt himself the center of things, the pivot, the one man whose decision would set this vast mechanism and its vast consequences into motion. He felt dimly that his whole career had pointed to this moment. Pointed to it, but it had not prepared him. He had followed orders for twenty-three years. Followed the book. The book had never disappointed him. But now it had no answers. Now, this night, he had to find the answer in himself.

This is it,
he thought. Luck, chance, had put the ball in his court at last. But now they were fencing him about, hoping to trip him up, waiting for him to slip. Then the wolves would come out of the bushes. But he wasn't going to trip. Ike Sundstrom was in charge, and there would be no mistakes.

He sat motionless, staring at the sea, and the two sheets of paper trembled lightly in his hands.

*   *   *

And some time later, eons or minutes, someone was shaking Lenson awake in the dark. “Lieutenant. You okay? Commodore wants you.”

“What now,” he muttered, turning his face to the bulkhead.

“He wants you bad,” said McQueen, and Lenson heard the shadow in his voice. He sat up, too quickly, and his head slammed into the overhead. Yet it did not hurt. He realized he had gone to sleep with his helmet on.

“More planes?”

“Almost wish it was,” said the quartermaster. He sounded grim. “No, he wants you to bring the operation order up. He says he doesn't like it, he says it's against his better judgment, but he's got to do it. So it's on.”

“It? What?” he said. Then he knew. He had known for days.

“The commodore's ordered the rendezvous,” said McQueen. “For 0200. Arrival at oparea at 0400.”

“The landing?”

“That's right,” said the petty officer. He reached up, something clicked, and dazzling light flooded the room. “We're going in tomorrow morning, sir, at dawn. I'd say you and me, we got a little work to do.”

23

U.S.S.
Spiegel Grove

And sixty miles distant over the night sea, the sea over which so many fleets and armies had sailed to battle, the two hundred men of Bravo Company crouched and lay and sat in the hull of a rolling ship.

They waited. The ceaseless murmur of their steel mother surrounded them: the rush of sea as they pounded steadily eastward, the creaking groan of the metal fabric that alone sustained them, the hum and whisper of ventilation, the distant throb of a pump, as intimate and yet mysterious as the heart of a woman who sleeps beside you, no matter what the vow never yours inalienably, but only for a moment of inestimable duration.

It's so quiet,
Will Givens thought, cradling his guitar. So filled with familiar sound, and yet, somehow, so silent.

His fingers touched the strings so lightly that through the fresh callus he could barely feel them. Still, in the odd quietness of
Spiegel Grove
's troop compartment that evening, he could hear the chord hum to him. As if all the music still to come from the old guitar was waiting, ready for him to release it, yet willing too to bide. Yielding itself to the future and to his will.

Above him Liebo shifted his weight, and Givens looked up at the underside of his mattress. It shifted again, creaking.

“What you doing up there, Dippy?” he asked the ticking.

“I ain't doing nothing, goddamn it. Let me alone.”