Murdock called the admiral. He wasn’t in his quarters.
Murdock found him in the TFCC and asked him about transport in to the one-mile point.
“We’ll use two River Patrol Boats from the Nashville. She’s an Amphibious Transport Dock, an LPD-13. The river boats can get you in there with no trouble. Lash your IBMs on the bow and there’s room for eight men. Be a short trip. We’ll bring two over tomorrow morning from the Nashville and have them on hand.”
“Thanks, Admiral. That’s the last of it. We’re ready to move as soon as we get clearance from the politicians.”
“That’s the way it usually works these days, Commander.”
Murdock hung up, and told the SEALs about the PBRs they would ride in.
“Is that the fiberglass hull or the aluminum one?” Ken Ching asked.
“Lots more room in the aluminum one.”
Murdock shook his head. “We’ll find out about that when we load on them. What I’m more concerned with right now is how are the walking wounded? Doc, you keeping tabs on them?”
“Right, Commander. Ching is the worst one. That leg wound is healing, but I’m not sure he can do wind sprints yet. You’ll have to ask him.”
“So, Ching?” Murdock asked.
“Yeah, it still hurts, but when I don’t think about it, I do fine.
I just won’t think about it. I’m fit for fucking duty!”
Murdock grinned. “Sounds like it if all we had to do was yell at the general.” He looked at Ron Holt.
Holt jumped up and began to shadowbox. He stopped and laughed.
“Hell, Skipper. I’m five by five and ready to dive. Count me in. My arm is fine. For four or five hours over there I can walk on my shit-picking hands.”
“What about the Shrapnel Kids?” Murdock asked.
Joe Douglas stood, then dropped and did twenty fast push-ups.
“Now, Skipper, does that arm look all right to you or what?”
“Seems to be working. Adams, what about you?”
“Commander, you’ve still got more shrapnel in your ass than I have in my arm. You can do it, I can do it.”
“We’ll get a second opinion. Doc, I want you to run all four of these gung-ho sailors past the duty doc down in sick bay. Have him check them out, but don’t let him put any of them in a bed. The rest of you, get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be busy tomorrow, and maybe when it gets dark we’ll get into action. Now get out of here.”
When Murdock got back to his quarters, there was a message for him to call Don Stroh at the office.
Murdock went to communications, where they put through a voice call on the SATCOM. Stroh came on the line at once.
“Good buddy, how is the water over there?” Stroh asked.
“Hot and getting hotter. We lost a plane. When do we go in and close this one out?”
“The old men are talking. From the President right on down. I hear he’s made a call to the Japanese Prime Minister.
Should know sometime soon. You’re what, about fourteen hours ahead of us. It’s morning here. We could get the word while you’re in dreamland. The second we get a firm go-ahead, you guys will be sent the word. How’s the team holding up?”
“Perfectly. We’re SEALS, remember? The guys want you to go on the next training session with us. The hike, the swim, the explosive pit.
You’ll enjoy yourself.”
Stroh laughed. “Yeah, like I do when I do the triathlon. Closest thing I come to physical work is climbing in and out of bed.”
There was a pause.
“Anything you need, Murdock?”
“Just a go-go-go from your boss.”
“You’ll know one way or the other when you get up in the morning.
My promise.”
“Holding you to it.”
“You got it. My dime’s worth is up. Take care, Murdock.”
Murdock said he would, and hung up. So, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. What was that from? He couldn’t remember. Tomorrow it was.
Admiral Kenner had just taken off his shoes, and was relaxing in the big chair in his quarters, when the phone rang. “Yes?”
“TFCC here, Admiral. Something is developing you may want to take a look at. We’ve had a separation of about twenty klicks between our screening ships and the Russians, but now one of their outer destroyers is moving toward the edge of our far screen.”
“I’ll be right down.”
A few minutes later, the admiral looked at the display screen in the TFCC and scowled. “How far is that Russian destroyer from our ship?”
“About twelve miles, Admiral.”
“What’s our closest vessel?”
“That would be the guided-missile destroyer Callahan.”
“Tell her to set General Quarters and notify her of the Russian ship.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
“Then get me Admiral Rostow on the radio. We need to have a talk.”
“The Russian still seems to be closing, sir. She’s on a collision course at a little over seventeen thousand yards. She appears to be of the Sovremenny class, with eight Raduga SS-N-22 missiles each having a three-hundred-kilogram warhead in a sea-skimmer mode.”
“That’s point-blank range, for God’s sakes,” Admiral Kenner said.
“Where is that Russian admiral? Can you raise him? Tell the captain of the Callahan to prepare countermeasures and watch for any radar targeting.”
“Sir, the Russian vessel is closing at thirty-two knots.”
“Get that damned Russian admiral now!” Admiral Kenner bellowed.
20
Admiral Kenner listened to the radio operator calling for the Russian admiral. He felt as if he was stuck in mud up to his knees and trying to run. Everything slowed down — even the voices seemed to drag out each word to ridiculous lengths. One of the techs looked at him.
“Admiral, I have a later report. The Russian destroyer has closed to sixteen thousand, five hundred yards, and is continuing on course at thirty-two knots.”
The admiral closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I heard. There’s just not a damn thing I can do about it right now.” The radio man handed him a mike. “We have the Russian admiral, sir.”
“Admiral Rostow, why is your destroyer threatening our outer screen? Your ship is on a collision course with one of our destroyers.
Do we have to fire at it to get your attention?”
“Admiral Kenner,” the English translator said. “Our ship is in the open sea with the rights of passage. Have we in any way threatened your destroyer? We have not. Our ship is simply on a maneuver to test its crew. We have meant no threat to your fleet.”
“Admiral Rostow, you have a strange way of showing it. Have your destroyer turn away or, at fifteen thousand yards range, we will open fire on it.”
“Admiral Kenner, you are not on your most diplomatic behavior. It may take some time to contact the captain of the Bespokoiny, but we will attempt to contact her. You will hold your fire, yes?”
Admiral Kenner set his jaw and slammed his hand down on the worktable. He keyed the mike again. “Admiral Rostow. You undoubtedly are in voice contact with the Bespokoiny at this very moment. We will open fire if your destroyer comes within fifteen thousand yards of our destroyer.”
There was no return comment.
“How close is the Russian ship?” Admiral Kenner asked.
“Sixteen thousand, sir. Same speed.”
“Read off the distance every one hundred yards.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
They waited. Everyone in the TFCC watched the display screen. The line kept moving toward the destroyer Callahan. Admiral Kenner closed his eyes and took two deep breaths.
“Fifteen thousand, five hundred, Admiral. Same speed. No change in course.”