The Cruiser (40 page)

He paced the space again, staggering as the slowing ship picked up a corkscrewing roll. Then slid back into his seat and felt for the clipboard with the op order. He read it through again, forcing his eyes through each line of print, forcing his fatigued cerebrum to visualize clearly what every sentence might mean in terms of an engagement. Then zeroed in on the opening paragraph again.

5. (TS/FW-DS) CINC AND NCA GUIDANCE FOR CTG 160: REF C IS DRAFT NCA GUIDANCE REGARDING EMPLOYMENT OF TBMD ASSETS WITHIN A COMBAT THEATER. REF C IN EFFECT AS OF THIS DTG. REVIEW AND COMPLY.

6. (TS/FW-DS) IT IS UNDERSTOOD THAT FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE USN TBMD CAPABILITIES WILL BE EXTREMELY CONSTRAINED BY LIMITED NUMBER OF SERVICE-READY BLOCK 4 SM ROUNDS. THEREFORE, IN THE ABSENCE OF MORE DETAILED GUIDANCE, ASSETS WILL BE EMPLOYED IN THE FOLLOWING ORDERS OF PRIORITY:

PRIORITY ONE: OFFENSIVE MISSILES TARGETED AGAINST US OPERATING FORCES AND LOGISTICS BASES.

PRIORITY TWO: OFFENSIVE MISSILES TARGETED AGAINST FORCES OF US ALLIES.

PRIORITY THREE: OFFENSIVE MISSILES TARGETED AGAINST CIVILIAN POPULATIONS.

PRIORITY FOUR: TBM INTERCEPTOR PLATFORM (OWN-SHIP DEFENSE).

7. (TS/FW-DS) IT IS ALSO UNDERSTOOD THAT GIVEN HIGH SPEEDS OF ENGAGEMENT AND UNCERTAINTIES IN IMPACT PREDICTION, CO/TAO MAY BE FORCED TO USE BEST JUDGMENT IN ASSIGNING PRIORITIES AND ROUNDS AGAINST INCOMING WEAPONS. REGARDLESS OF PRIORITY DERIVED FROM THE INTENDED TARGET, CO/TAO NEED NOT ENGAGE IF COMPUTED PROBABILITY OF KILL FALLS BELOW .3 FOR A SINGLE-ROUND ENGAGEMENT.

8. (TS/FW-DS) CO/TAO WILL TAKE INTO ACCOUNT REMAINING LOADOUT AND CURRENT THREATS IN ASSIGNING ASSETS.

He contemplated this, forefinger polishing the bridge of his nose. Own-ship defense was plainly not a high priority. Which was pretty much consistent with a cruiser's traditional mission. On the other hand, priority three seemed to have been written very tightly. Once U.S. forces, logistics bases, and those of allies were covered, his mission clearly included the protection of civilian populations.

Not
friendly civilian populations
.

Not
civilian populations of states not currently engaged in offensive operations against U.S. or Coalition forces.

Just …
civilian populations
.

“Sir, I've relieved Lieutenant Mills as tactical action officer.”

“Sir, I have been properly relieved.” Mills and Staurulakis stood over him, looking expectant. He harrumphed acquiescence and checked his watch. “Very well. Cheryl, anything I need to know?”

“Within oparea boundaries. Speed five. Course one seven zero. Two SM-2 4As active and green. Aegis at ninety-eight percent in TBM mode. INS
Lahav
three miles due north, following in our wake. Red Hawk 02 refueled and returning to ready station.”

“The Iranians?”

“Forty miles southwest. Looks now like they're making for Tartus.”

“Uh-huh.” Tartus was the Syrian navy's main supply and outfitting port. It hosted the Russians, too, when they made port visits in the Med. Made sense that the Iranians, one of Syria's patrons and suppliers, would also refuel and resupply there. Sending an unmistakable message that they stood behind that regime, if the U.S. decided not to stop at invading Iraq.

For the first time, a glimmer of reason behind the deployment. “That track's gonna take them real close to us here.”

“Correct,” Mills said.

“So they could still actually be headed for us? Not Tartus?”

Staurulakis's clear gaze turned in some manner opaque, as if an invisible barrier, impervious to X-rays, perhaps, had been slipped behind them. “I know, I know,” Dan added hastily. “But I have to consider these possibilities, Cheryl.”

“I would think it'd be Tartus, sir,” she said.

“Well, I think so too. For the record … all I'm saying … ah, forget it. —Matt, lay below, get your head down. We've got another long night ahead.” He checked his watch again; what exactly was the time? Eight, but 0800 or 2000? Day or night? Losing track wasn't a good sign. Then he remembered the gun cameras, the darkness outside. 2000, then. He'd missed dinner somehow.

“Longley was up about an hour ago,” Mills supplied. “You were, um—you had your eyes closed. I told him you probably needed rest more than dinner.”

“I'll give the mess decks a call. Have them send up a sandwich,” Staurulakis said. Mills lingered for a few seconds, then pirouetted groggily in place before getting his bearings and heading for the aft exit.

Dan stretched, got up, and prowled again, not relishing being nursemaided by his midgrade officers like some dotty old uncle. He remembered how Crazy Ike Sundstrom had napped in his chair, snoring. Had querulously bitched over the most trivial things. And how his staff, including Dan, had all laughed behind their hands.

Now it didn't seem as funny. People didn't bounce back as fast at forty-something as they did at twenty-two. Interrupted sleep night after night, plus heavy Navy chow and no exercise, was no avenue to alertness. He could guzzle all the coffee they could brew, but his brain was working more and more reluctantly, like a garbage grinder designed to run on 220 volts but getting only 120.

He massaged his neck. God, he was getting tight. Wished he could have taken Amarpeet's yoga class. But that wasn't going to happen, the skipper going to the mat with four females in sweat gear. Nuh-uh.

“I'll be out on the weather deck for a couple minutes,” he told the space at large. “TAO has my seat.” Without waiting for a response, he let himself out.

*   *   *

THE
night was heaving outside, the wind a cold bayonet in his throat. He doubled, holding his belly, coughing and coughing.
Savo
was in darken ship, of course; he'd had to fight his way out the weather-decks door through the black canvas screens. When he caught his breath at last he fumbled at his belt to make sure the Hydra was on. The tiny red LED that said so was the only light in the entire world.

He felt his way, one hand outstretched, through a void like that of intergalactic space until his outstretched fingers brushed the life rail. He gripped it like a man adrift grabbing a raft, and hauled himself uphill as the deck rolled, slick under his boots. He didn't want to go over the side. Not in this blackness. He looked aft, searching for
Lahav,
but didn't see her. Probably darkened too.

Crouching there, gripping the cold steel, he reviewed options.

Complicating any decision were three factors. First was “rounds in the shot locker.” He had only two more Block 4As. Use them on an Israeli missile, and he'd have none left if Iraq struck again.

He turned his TAG Heuer and checked the luminescent hands. By now his salvo of Tomahawks, and
Pittsburgh
s, would be reaching their targets. But they wouldn't have damage reports for hours, until daylight let drones and satellites get a close look at the Western Complex.

The second factor: What if rounds three and four didn't work? So far his batting average was only .500. And as Roald had said on the red phone, that was already above the test average.

And the third: Wenck and Terranova's backstairs scuttlebutt from the Israeli tech side was welcome, but he couldn't depend on it. He couldn't tell where a ballistic missile was aimed during its boost phase. And this would be a very complicated, risky boost-phase intercept. Their SM-2 would have to perform a tail chase intercept, a mission geometry that, he knew from the test data, had never worked well.

Bottom line: If he fired, he wouldn't have a real good probability of kill. All in all, less than .3. At a guess.

He sucked cold sea air, going downstream on that logic as he searched the darkness. They'd already failed once, on the Tel Aviv hit. What would rolling craps again mean for the Navy? It didn't look appealing. And what if he succeeded? In blocking
both sides
from aggression, would he be committing the U.S. to a role it couldn't really fulfill?

Actually, he thought wryly, starting to shiver now, Dan Lenson wouldn't be committing anyone to anything if he screwed this up. Only himself to a court-martial, disavowal, and being cast into outer darkness forever. The Navy was merciless toward commanders who screwed up. He'd already had a full ration of second chances. As Nick Niles had made abundantly clear.

He was still staring into a darkness his gaze could not penetrate when the Hydra on his belt beeped. He fumbled for it. “CO.”

“Sir, TAO here.”
Her voice was tenser than he'd ever heard it.
“EW reports C-802 lockon from landward. Also, we've got a course alteration on the Iranian task group.”

“What kind of alteration, Cheryl?”

“Directly for us, sir. Stand by … EW reports fire-control radar scanning from the west as well. Correlates to Alborz task group.”

He lifted his head, cupping the heavy little radio, dense with its thick weight of metal and battery. The darkness was rushing toward him, blustering like the wind that whined in the antennas above. “How about the Jericho launch? Any further word on that?”

“No sir, none I've heard. I'll check with Terranova. Are you coming to Combat?”

He half-smiled, a tight grin that probably would've looked sardonic, or maybe tortured, if anyone had been there to observe it. Something twisted in his gut, sharp-cornered as a masonry trowel. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the Transmit button, fighting it off. Fighting off all emotion. And said, forcing into his voice the firmness and confidence that were the very last things he actually felt, “Yeah, Cher. I'll be right in.”

19

 

“
I'M
glad you're back,” Staurulakis murmured, pushing short hair back. For the first time since he'd met her, she seemed on edge. And no wonder, he thought as she outlined the situation. A lock-on from the fire-control radars they'd identified along the coast. Increased activity from the truck-mounted jammers that would make detection of an incoming sea-skimmer much more difficult. Wenck and Slaughenhaupt hovered near the command table, looking grave.

Dan tried to make his face as much like stone as he could, although that blade still twisted in his gut. “You said the
Alborz
group—”

“Turned toward, yes sir.” She typed and the display changed. It showed a sharp hook east.

Three ships. Yet only two had turned. “Who's that staying on the original course?”

She typed and the callout strobed. “
Bandar Abbas
.”

“The supply ship?”

“Combined tanker and storeship. Limited self-defense capability, but not a combat unit.”

“They're dropping their logistics train.”

“Yes sir. Not good news.” She rippled the keys again, and they studied the warships headed for them. The primary threat would be from the frigate, but he couldn't ignore the smaller craft, a cruise-missile boat, either. “It's either some kind of overt provocation, or an actual run-in.”

“Not necessarily on us,” Slaughenhaupt put in.

“Correct, Chief. Could be
Lahav;
or a strike on the coast. But we've got to assume the worst-case scenario. And since we're getting illuminated from the east as well, it looks like a coordinated attack developing.” Dan shoved back from the desk, skin crawling. It really would be “worst-case.”
Savo
was still in BMD mode, and had to stay there. Which meant they were limited to keyhole-peeping with the SPY-1, and not nearly as capable of fending off a below-the-horizon attack.

Yet, despite the pain in his gut, he was starting to feel eager. Any resolution would be better than keeping on with this uncertainty. “Designate
Alborz
and the missile boat to Harpoon. Tell Amy to spin up four TLAMs for those coastal sites. CIWS to automatic. Duckies and chaff to standby.”

Staurulakis looked wary. “Sir, we need an MDU for a Tomahawk strike—”

“No we don't, Cher. We can set in the GPS coordinates ourselves. And I'll give you ‘red and free.' If they fire, rules of engagement give us a self-defense right to take them out. —Let Red Hawk know what's going on. We'll keep him out to landward, but let him know we may have goblins coming in from
Alborz
's bearing, too.” He nodded. “Let's get set, guys. This may be it.”

He hoisted himself to his feet, trying to bat away the cobwebs of too little sleep, too much stress, the sheer bone fatigue that set in fighting the slant and lean of a ship in heavy seas day after day. Not to mention trying to guess a way out of the rapidly constricting box
Savo Island
was being trapped in.

He wheeled abruptly down the narrow corridor between the air consoles and the EW stacks. Weariness engraved the faces of those who manned them too. The chill air stank of sweat and ozone and bodies not washed often enough. The edges of the gray steel consoles were grimed black where wrists had rested for hour after hour, watch after watch, day after day.
Savo
wasn't billeted for continuous Condition Three. Her truncated crew had come through manfully up to now. No, not “manfully”—that would have excluded too many. Staurulakis. Singhe. Terranova, and so many others, from the deckplate engineers to the bridge watchstanders. Who had all, in the words of that traditional Navy accolade, sailed close to the wind.

He was suddenly filled with emotion so overwhelming his eyes stung. He had to clear his throat and scrub a mistiness from his sight. He was proud to lead them. He only hoped he could do as well, when the crunch came.

Which could not be far away now. And the very fact that they were all exhausted, running on empty, meant he had to be more careful than ever. This was when commanders made stupid mistakes, or misjudged the situation. And people died.