The Med (53 page)

The hand grabbed his pack, left it, groped, and found him; grabbed him under the armpit and lifted him bodily onto his feet and then shoved him stumbling into a run. He heard the copter thud into the dust behind him. The tip blast shoved him along behind the big shadow that still had one arm under his. The shadow turned, and Cutford grinned in the landing lights like a black jack-o'-lantern.

“Thanks,” he shouted.

“You fuckhead, Oreo. Takin' a nap on a LZ not my idea of smart soldierin'.”

“Ah, eat it,” he shouted, finding the grin sticking to his face, too. The corporal's hand gripped his shoulder, fingers digging in, held it for a moment, and then released. “Les' get the squad formed up,” Cutford shouted above the building roar of the second wave coming in behind them. “An' get that perimeter out. Dawn comin' up soon.”

He blinked, pulling his mind from what had just happened, and remembered the disposition. Marine units dug in the instant you ran far enough not to get landed on. They found Hernandez and then Harner. Then they ran into the infantry squad they had boarded with, part of the helo team, and Silkworth and Washman were with them. Silky took charge at once, starting their fire positions to the north of the LZ on a small rise. They began chunking at the dirt with their entrenching tools.

“You seen Dippy, man?”

“No.”

“No, man, I ain't seen him since the debark.”

The light came while they dug, gray and pale and cool. Levering the spade beneath a rock, he raised his head to look around. The hills came first, black cuts in the graying sky, and then the men working beside him, and finally the hole. When he saw the tool in his hands he knew that it was dawn. The sergeants had linked the squads up left and right to form the perimeter and now as he tamped the pile flat in front of his firing position and propped his rifle on it he could look to either side and see men strung out along the rise. Behind them, the sound dulled by distance and somehow too by the coming of daylight, helos churned downward out of the sky, the patch team waving them in with the wands. Some of them carried gear, slung beneath in nets, and he could see piles of supplies beginning to build.

So this, he thought, is Lebanon. Again he had the feeling that he would never forget what he was seeing, that he would always be able to stand here again, be as he was right now, forever, just by remembering. It was that strong. He stretched, holding the tool, and breathed in the dry dusty air, the cool morning smells of soil and unknown trees, of a foreign land.

“We're in clean,” said Hernandez, interrupting his thoughts. “I dint see one shot. Now why couldn't we have took the mortar?”

“I don't know.”

“It's crazy bullshit, that's what it is.”

“Yeah.”

“Shut up and dig,” said Silkworth, pausing at the top of their holes. “This is an entrenchment? You're gonna get your asses shot off. Deeper, you crud lovers, deeper. Like Lily says, I want you in all the way, you'll break your neck if you fall off once I start.”

“Aye aye, Sarnt!”

“Yowzah, yowzah, Massa Silkwort'.”

“Bad news, guys,” said the sergeant, looking at all of them and none of them. “Dippy got hurt coming off the helo.”

“Hurt,” said Givens. “How bad? What do you mean, Silky?”

“That's all I heard. Sorry. Now get that spade in the dirt.”

They dug and dug, clawing up the rocky soil, gritty dust and limestone, prying up grass cropped close by goats, and spread it out before them. Dug and spread. It grew rapidly brighter. The exec came by and passed a couple of words with them, told them hot coffee was coming up, flown in from the
Guam.

“Hot coffee?” grunted Cutford. “In whose Marine Corps?”

“Just don't get used to it,” said the officer.

“We be movin' on inland, Lieutenant?” Washman asked him.

“That's the word. Consolidate here and guard the road, be ready to continue east for the target area when transport comes up.”

“How's the landing going at the beach?”

The officer shook his head.

“Sir—you heard anything about one of our guys, got hurt debarking? Name of Liebo?”

“He walked into a rotor. They flew him back. That's all I know,” said the lieutenant, and went on.

They dug in silence for a while. “That's got to be deep enough,” said the Washout at last, and squirmed down into his hole. “Can you see me from the front, Will?”

Givens obediently crossed ahead of the line, squatted down, and surveyed the position. “Nope. Not even the top of your helmet.”

“Good. Get in yours, I'll check you.”

When they were satisfied with the position the squad squatted gratefully on the reverse slope of the hill, watching the helos offload another unit. “New boys,” said Silk-worth, glancing at them sideways.

“Not like the old Corps,” agreed Hernandez.

“Geez, it's getting hot already. Where'd all that rain go? It quit as soon as we got here.”

“This is the Med, kid.”

“Sergeant. Muster over there with the Top. Got some word to pass.”

“Yes, sir.”

They sat and watched Silkworth jog off toward the helos, his pack slapping his ass as he ran. “Gonna move out soon, I bet,” said Washman. “Just when I got my hole dug.”

“Cigarette?” said Harner.

“No, thanks, Buck. You know I don't smoke.”

“No harm offerin'.” Harner grinned slowly. “Wasn't for these magnum cowboy killers, couldn't hardly take the pressure 'round here.”

Givens nodded. They watched the knot of noncoms and officers. The sky brightened. The sun came into view for the first time, bursting in red-white flame across the low hills directly into their eyes. The light picked out the dust in the clear air, the brown haze of exhaust above them, making them blink and raise their arms and squint at it, as if it was something new, this morning sun.

The knot broke. “Gonna go for sure,” said Cutford, staring at the sergeant as he toiled up the hill, and they all rose, dusting off their utilities.

Silkworth, as he went up to them, was looking east. Following his eyes, Givens saw in the fresh daylight that the hills they had landed on were only foothills, and that beyond them mountains stood tan against the sky. Tan, and above that the white glisten of snow.

“Holy
shit,
Sergeant! We goin' over
those?”

But all he said, looking to the sunrise, was “Stand easy. They'll let us know.”

28

U.S.S.
Guam

Lenson came to suddenly, his head coming up off his stateroom desk. A litter of crumpled paper and marked-up pubs slid to the deck. His first thought was that his neck ached.

His second was that a phone was buzzing steadily. He lifted his wrist, stared at it without thought. He could not remember where he was for a moment; only that he was very tired. Then, gradually, it came back. Deployed. The commodore. The oporder. Finally he realized why he'd looked at his watch; this was D-day, and H-hour for Urgent Lightning was less than two hours away.

He jerked the phone out, cursing himself. It was the flag bridge messenger; the commodore wanted to see him. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink and ran up to the flag bridge. Sundstrom's chair was empty. He groped his way in the dark until he bumped into a body.

“Who the hell is that?”

“It's me.”

“Damn it, do I have to send you down under guard? I told you to get some sleep.”

“Can't talk now, Red. He called me. Where is he?”

Flasher used a few choice words. “He's in his cabin. I guess.”

“So this is it, huh.”

“Yeah, that's right. Tomorrow—I mean, this morning.” A red flashlight winked on and then off as Flasher checked his watch. “Oh-four-twenty. We sent your oporder mod out a little after three. We're in the approach phase now. Everything's on track.”

“Do you know what he wants me for?”

“Oh, yeah!” said the ops officer. “You'll love this one. He wants a report on
Ault
's grounding.”

“
What?
I thought—”

“Thinking again? I warned you about that.”

“But—oh, Christ. Now? When we're sending in the lead elements of a raid?”

“COMSIXTHFLEET didn't ask for one till now.”

“Oh, well, in that case.”

“Have a good time,” he heard Flasher mutter. But he was too angry to respond.

When he knocked and let himself into the flag cabin he found himself in darkness. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then heard something stir in the room beyond.

“Dan? That you?”

“Yes sir.”

A light showed him Sundstrom sitting up in bed. “Come in, come in,” he mumbled, flipping his hand at a corner of the bunk as he reached for his glasses. “Sit down here. Read this.”

Dan studied the message. It was from Admiral Roberts.

CONFIDENTIAL

Fm: COMSIXTHFLT

To: CTF 61

Subj: Grounding of Unit Under Your Command

1. (C)
Communications from US authorities Naples IT indicate that USS AULT, under your operational control, was involved in grounding incident during recent departure that port. Further understand from HF conversation with you that AULT currently lagging main body TF 61 due to propulsion casualty.

2. (C)
Forward immediate explanation of your failure to report grounding. Forward immediate details of machinery status of AULT.

He blinked. Even for a naval message, this was blunt. Roberts was pissed. He looked up at the commodore.

“Now look, Dan, apparently we owe Tony a report on this grounding business. Nobody else thought about it—as usual.”

“Sir, Mr. Flasher says we got a message from the destroyer on it.”

“I know that. I read my traffic, Dan! But that was just the letter of the law. That was just a damage report. I'm sure Tony wants more than that. This is prime court-martial material. If we don't take the initiative, seal it off right now, it'll snowball right through the cracks. I want you to write up an investigation.”

“An investigation?” Lenson said. He sounded stupid even to himself.

“An investigation. A full, factual account of what happened. You'd better—have you got something to write on?”

Mechanically, he took his notebook out and found a pen. Sundstrom leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Okay. Start with the situation—the task force having to get to sea at once. I ordered that, took the initiative, and events have proved me right. Now, Captain Foster called me back, and said he couldn't get a pilot out of Naples. Got that so far?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now, I wanted him underway, but I was afraid something like this might happen. He thinks he's a hotshot, thinks he can drive a destroyer blindfolded. I know his type from the Pacific, believe me. So I told him, it's up to you, but safety is paramount; under no circumstances are you to attempt the channel without a local pilot unless you're certain you can navigate in perfect safety. That's what I said.”

“You said that in a message, Commodore? We could reference the date time group.”

“No, no, this was in a radio conversation. There's no official record. But that's the gist of it.”

“Sir, I didn't hear that—I mean, I wasn't on the bridge during that exchange.”

“I know. There's been a lot going on lately, and you haven't had much sleep.” The commodore's voice was understanding. “I know that, and I don't hold it against you. You're doing a great job; you're the only one of the staff officers I can depend on, and I promise you I won't forget it when it comes time for your fitness report. There should be decorations too in this Syrian operation, if it's handled right. Now.
Ault
's CO was cautioned not to attempt the channel.”

Lenson watched the pen tremble in his hands. It hesitated for a long moment, then, jerkily, as if without his connivance, wrote
Captain cautioned.

“I want a message recounting that series of events for Roberts. Add that after receiving the grounding report, I radioed
Ault
and Foster told me personally that grounding damage was minimal to nonexistent; that his ship was at that time showing no effects on her propulsion or other systems; and that on that basis, I decided not to forward her report of grounding, because it would tend to damage the career of a promising and aggressive skipper who up to then had performed well. Say that the later casualty to
Ault
's engines was a surprise to me, due to Foster's soft-pedaling of the amount of damage the grounding had caused, that I was unaware of it.”

“Sir—”

“Don't interrupt me, Dan. You don't understand how these things are done. This is the way the big boys play the game. Now. Despite—”

“Sir, I can't write that. It isn't true.”

There was no sound in the cabin for a long moment. He raised his eyes to find Sundstrom looking at him coldly.

“Write what I said, Lieutenant.”

And the whole immense weight of years, years of conditioning, of indoctrination, of salutes and obedience forced his pen down to the paper once again. He struggled to lift it, to lift his eyes again as the commodore droned on. But he could not. He was so tired. Too tired, right now, to fight. And not over this. What did it matter? This was not important. Not compared to the landing. If he didn't write it someone else would. And he would be out in the cold.

But this was the last time. He could promise himself that. He would go along no more.

“Aye aye, sir,” he whispered.

*   *   *

He went straight to SACC after sending the commodore's Report of Investigation down to Radio. He drank six cups of coffee while they waited, tuning the radios, checking target lists against the maps, establishing comms.