Threading that gauntlet was going to take a lot of skill on the part of Firebolt's skipper, and a very great deal of luck.
"It looks like they might make it," Captain Grimes, one of Forsythe's aides, observed.
"Unless the bastards pop a Silkworm at them, or another flight of Exocets," Forsythe said.
"The worst is still to come, Admiral," Grimes pointed out. "We've just lost a Navy ship inside Iranian territorial waters. The media firestorm when this gets out… "
"Jesus. Is there any way to put a lid on it?" one of the other civilians asked.
"You're kidding, Dan," Myers said. "Right?"
"What we have here is a genuwine international incident," General Schaler said. He chuckled. "Let the ass-covering being!"
"It's not funny, General," Myers said. "The President is going to want to know who screwed up on this one. He's going to be the one taking flak from the press, and he's the one the Iranians are going to be burning in effigy tomorrow morning in the streets of Tehran, along with the American flag. Believe me, some heads are going to roll after this — this disaster."
"I imagine they'll round up the usual suspects," Forsythe said. His voice was grim. "Sacrificial lambs, on the altar of public opinion?"
Schaler chuckled. "Just be glad, gentlemen, that this isn't England. Over there, they hold the government accountable for its screw-ups with a vote of no-confidence. In Washington it's stonewalling as usual. Say nothing, and it'll all blow over."
"Somehow, I don't think this one will blow over," Forsythe said. "It's Operation Eagle's Claw all over again."
Eagle's Claw had been the aborted 1980 rescue mission of American hostages held by the revolutionary government of Iran. The attempt to sneak in, grab the hostages, and get out again had ended at the refueling base tagged Desert One when a Navy helicopter had collided on takeoff with a grounded C-130 transport. They never got close to Tehran, and the Iranians had made the most of the propaganda victory handed to them. The next day the entire world had seen the films of triumphant Iranian soldiers among the burned-out hulks of helicopters left behind at Desert One.
There was no burned-out wreckage to show on the evening news this time around — not with Sirocco at the bottom of the Gulf — but the Iranian mullahs could be trusted to point out America's transgression to the world in lovingly histrionic detail, especially to an Islamic world that already felt threatened by American global policy.
"Eagle's Claw had the advantage of the sympathy vote," Myers said. "We were seen as trying to rescue our own people, as having a right to at least try. We know the Iranians hate us already. This time around we're going to get crucified by American voters as well."
"Possibly," Forsythe said, "there will be some confusion as to just where our ships were when they were attacked. After all, they were less than a mile inside the three-mile limit…. "
"Iran," Myers pointed out, "claims a twelve-mile limit.
The civilian, Dan, shrugged. "That's for the lawyers to argue," he said. "We will need to consider means for media damage control."
"Who the hell is that?" Garrett asked Berkowitz, whispering.
"Daniel Hardy," was the low-voiced reply. "Assistant
SecDef, Public Affairs."
Garrett blinked, startled. The Secretary of Defense was charged with acting as the principle advisor to the President on defense policy, as the civilian leadership of the Department of Defense. Having the SecDef's head of Public Affairs present brought a surreal touch to this gathering, something akin to having a public relations front man present at a lynching.
But then, if Garrett had learned anything since taking command of his new Pentagon desk, it was that Washington ran by its own rules and its own logic.
And that at times that logic appeared to be anything but.
Forsythe was looking at Garrett. He cleared his throat. "Ah… that was sharp thinking, Captain, using the UAVs to distract the Pasdaran gunners and mortar crew."
"Thank you, Admiral."
"Bought them the time they needed to get clear and get down to the beach. I gather this op was your brainchild to begin with?"
Garrett hesitated. Within Pentagon circles, it was never a good career move to pass the blame for failure back up the chain of command, and in any case, that was not Garrett's style. Still, the talk about heads rolling and sacrificial lambs made him less than eager to admit any connection with Black Stallion whatsoever.
"I wrote the original paper, yes, sir."
"The original plan called for a submarine insertion, sir," Berkowitz added. "Not those damned PCBs. Who the hell's idea was that?"
"Gentlemen!" General Schaler put in. "Now is not the time for recriminations!"
"Submarine insertion?" Myers said, raising an eyebrow. "In those confined waters? Surely that would be suicide."
"It's been done before, sir," Garrett said with a shrug. "And the Pittsburgh's transiting the straits now. A sub's certainly not as high-profile as a coastal patrol boat."
"Captain Garrett," Myers said, sounding thoughtful. "You were in on the Ohio conversion project, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir. Still am."
"I think I understand why you suggested using submarines for this op."
"The PBCs are still expensive toys looking for a mission," Berkowitz put in. "Remember, their primary mission remains coastal patrol duty. Not sneaking into enemy harbors."
"Captain Garrett," Myers said, "would an Ohio boat have better served the infil-exfil needs for this mission?"
"Absolutely, sir. This sort of sneak-and-peek was what the Ohio conversion was all about."
The Pentagon group continued to monitor the mission as, half a world away, the Firebolt continued to race for the safety of Omani waters. The two Stealth fighters engaged the battery that had fired the Exocet missiles, while F/A-18 Hornets of VFA-17 off the Kitty Hawk wheeled and circled above the straits. An hour after Det Echo had escaped the trap ashore, the USS Pittsburgh surfaced alongside the Firebolt and began taking off some of the SEALs. Medevac Sea Stallions were on the way to pick up the most seriously wounded.
The final butcher's bill was not nearly as bad as it might have been. Two SEALs had been killed and six wounded altogether, while three sailors off the Sirocco were dead, nine wounded, with two more missing and presumed dead.
"At least casualties were light," Hardy, the Public Affairs man, said brightly.
Garrett considered strangling the man. "Casualties were light" would be of little comfort to the families and friends of those Navy men who'd died tonight.
Disgusted, Garrett glanced at his watch. "Oh, Christ."
"What's the matter?" Berkowitz asked.
"It's almost 2000 hours, is what's the matter. Brenda is going to shoot me. No. First she's going to hang, draw, and quarter me. Then she's going to shoot me."
"Damn. You had a date?"
Garrett nodded. "Just dinner at her place." He reached for the cell phone in his pocket, then remembered that the electronic shielding in the Pentagon basement wouldn't let him get a signal.
"Sorry, Captain," Berkowitz said. "But I thought it important that you be here."
"Absolutely! I wouldn't have missed it. I just should have called the lady first."
Garrett thought fast. His usual workday was over at five or five-thirty—1730 hours in Navy parlance. Beltway construction and its effect on rush hour traffic being what they were, it would have taken him an hour and a half to get out to Silver Spring, on the Beltway north of Washington. Now, though, the traffic would have cleared a bit. If he hurried, he wouldn't be more than forty minutes late.