Hell had four one-story buildings with signs outside that said, in English and Swahili, “Maternity,” “Outpatient,” “Surgery,” and “Wards.” The signs meant nothing today, because the floor of every building was covered with human bodies. The wards were full; the families who had come to feed relatives who were regular patients shrank back around the beds as if protecting the sick from the wounded. The sick who were not already in the wards sat or lay in the shade of the acacias between the buildings and waited, their cancer and tuberculosis and AIDS and childbirth pushed aside by the inhabitants of hell.
The old man plodded between the lines of the wounded. He had small feet shod in heelless slippers; he pulled up the skirts of his kanzu with his fingers to keep them out of the blood and dirt, thus revealing the feet and the slippers. His fingers wore silver rings, because he was a silversmith. He looked into faces as he stepped over ankles, shoes, bare feet.
Every young man looked like his son but was not his son. When, at last, he found his son in the Maternity building, his son was dead.
3
The Harker lay at a twelve-degree angle, canted away from the dock with her portside deck edge awash, bow-down, a third of her keel on the mud of the bottom. More than six hundred feet long, she had been breached two hundred feet back from her bow, her slightly forward superstructure taking much of the force of the explosion. The portside wing of the bridge was now tangled steel; her radars were shorn off; her forward boom had broken at the hull so that it had swung up and back and pitched down again on the dock. Steel cable writhed along the deck, its whipping path marked by smashed boats and, at one place, a pool of blood, dried now to the color of oily rust.
Alan Craik, on what had been the starboard wing of the bridge, was looking down into this metal snakes’ nest. His face was streaked with smoke and dirt now, his knit shirt black with sweat. A Navy-issue compress was taped over his right side. After four hours on board, he looked both exhausted and eager, worn out and yet still keyed up.
It was three-quarters of an hour since the first SH-60s had arrived with the Jefferson’s Marines and medics, touching down at the far seaward end of the dock under Kenyan Navy cover, the Marines boiling out to secure first the landing area, then the dock itself, in leapfrogging moves that took them to the Harker. Now four Marines in combat gear guarded the deck below Craik, while medics worked to bring up bodies and what they hoped would be living sailors from below. The smell of burned rubber and hot metal still gripped the air. In the shade of the superstructure, the fittest of Harker’s crewmen crouched like refugees, spent from fighting the fire down below and trying to save their ship. Their wounded comrades had already been lifted off in an SH-60 heading for the Jefferson’s shipboard hospital.
Halfway along the Harker’s starboard side, a companionway had been jury-rigged back into usefulness, connecting the ship again to the dock. Aft, a damage-control assessment team was working their way forward, compartment by compartment. Outboard of the drowned port rail, two SEALs were in the water where the damage was worst.
“What’s the situation down there now?” Alan said, jerking his head toward the chaos of the deck. Next to him, the engineering officer of the Harker was just back from a tour below.
“No electric, so no lights; water to level three everywhere forward of frame seventeen on the port side. Damage to the starboard side not assessed, but the senior chief from your carrier thinks there’s whole frames twisted down there. Two compartments are still too hot to get into. There’s some smoke — I was coughing like crazy down near the anchor locker. Something burning down there smells like truck tires. We got a Kenyan guy with acetylene from the dock; he’s trying to cut into the compartment where we think the, uh — where we think—” He swallowed. “Where they may be.” He meant the admiral and those with him.
Alan had ordered a search of every space on the ship they could safely go into. They—the admiral, his lieutenant, the ship’s captain, and Laura Sweigert — hadn’t been found. The other ship’s officers were thought to be ashore, but nobody was sure; of the crew of twenty, six were known dead, a half-dozen more injured badly enough to need hospitalization, five still working.
To Alan’s right sat the dock, littered with debris. On the far side, a Toyota pickup that had been chained to the deck of the Harker was upside down. Steel cable wound from the ship to the dock and back as if it was growing there, a gray vine; two corrugated-iron sheds on the dock were crushed front-to-back; a crane had been swiveled on its base and tilted at an angle away from the ship; meat and vegetables were everywhere, rotting now in the heat. Windows had been blown out all along the dock. Far up to his right, the Kenyan Navy had moved two trucks across the chain-link gate at the entrance to the docks and had taken up positions there, blocking the crowd outside from entering. Behind him, far beyond the cranes where the sniper had lurked, the remaining helo from the Jefferson was waiting, rotors turning, ready to take off at the first sign of trouble. With the other SH-60, it had come in over the water, avoiding the land areas where somebody with a shoulder-fired missile might lurk. Six body bags were lined up in its shade. In one of them, Alan knew, was all that remained of Master Chief Martin Craw.
“How soon will they know whether they’ve found them?” he said.
A head appeared over the rail one level above them. “Hey, Commander!”
It was Hansen. He was still trying to make sense of the ship’s communications. He had rigged sound-powered phones aft and down where the damage was, their lines adding to the confusion of the deck. Alan now had one headset that was more or less patched into Hansen’s radio link to the outside, another that was more or less patched into shipboard phones, although sometimes one worked and sometimes one didn’t.
“Sir, I’m catching shit from your carrier; they say Washington’s trying to reach you and we got no secure channel. I’m working on it as fast as I can! They’re gonna have to go through the carrier, is all—”
“Fine — that’s fine! Do the best you can.” He turned back to the ship’s officer. “Sorry — where were we? Oh, yeah — how soon will we know something?”
“Can’t say.” The Harker’s engineering officer was a short, middle-aged man who had been far aft when the explosion had happened. He was uninjured but in shock, Alan could see; he was trying to act normal, but he kept giving himself away with a forced casualness that was grotesque in the presence of the body bags and the wreckage.
“I want you to go see a medic, Mister Barnes.”
“Hey, no way! This is my ship. I’m fine!”
“You’ve done great, but I want you to get yourself looked at.” He deliberately kept his tone light.
“Hey, no problem. I just—” Barnes’s careful cheerfulness vanished as his head snapped around: somebody had just started up from the gaping hole in the deck. But it was only one of the medics, coming up to cool off in the Mombasa heat. “Oh. I thought — you know—”
The comm man’s head appeared above Alan, one level up on the superstructure. “Mister Craik, I got the STU patched in. Can you talk to the Jefferson’s chief of staff on six? He’s hot to trot, man.”