“You’re assuming they’ll attack, and assuming they’ll hit us, and assuming they’ll put us out of commission,” White said. “I don’t make assumptions. We’ll get off the ship only when it’s necessary—otherwise we stay.”
“But you’re ISA, you’re Madcap Magician,” Masters said. “We need you to reassemble your team. Let the ship’s crew take care of the ship. If they get captured, they’ve got an airtight cover.”
“Listen, Doc, I’ve put too much time in this tub to leave it when it’s still slimy side down and running,” Paul White said. “It may not technically be my ship, but I made it what it is right now.
I’m not leaving the Mistress until it’s not safe to stay. Now get moving, Jon.” White turned away, and a Marine was pulling at Masters’s arm, practically dragging him to the last lifeboat.
“Nice working with you, Colonel,” Masters said, but White was talking on his headset and didn’t hear him. One minute later they were speeding away from the ship, trying to catch up with the other three lifeboats. The Marines on board had one Stinger missile assembled and ready for launch, with one Stinger missile “coffin,” containing two missile tubes, a spare launcher grip assembly, and three battery units, opened up and ready to load.
As they sped away from the ship, Jon Masters remembered the first day he set foot on the Valley Mistress, about three months earlier. He had thought it was the ugliest thing afloat. It had a cleft bow for hoisting things up from the bow cranes up on deck; two huge cranes, one twenty-ton aft and one ten-ton forward; plus lots of standpipes and hoses and other weird things jutting out from the deck and superstructure that just made it look cluttered and made it hard to move around without banging knees or elbows on things. Now it seemed like the most welcome sight on earth, and he wished he was back on deck, complaining about the lack of windows, the poor TV reception, the lack of fresh water, the boring menu, and the out-of-date videotape library.
The dim green light of the electronic viewfinder illuminated the Stinger launcher crewman’s right eye as he raised the weapon and pointed it to the north. “Datalink active,” he reported. “One fighter inbound from the north, range twenty klicks. I’ve got another slow-mover, possibly another patrol helicopter, orbiting about ten klicks north of the ship.”
“Maybe the fighter and the chopper will have a meeting of their minds,” one Marine quipped.
“Button it,” Cromwell ordered. “If it flies within four klicks of our position and doesn’t squawk friendly, kill it. And I want you bozos to set a new record for readying a second missile for launch. Maxwell, keep an eye out for lifeboat number-“
Suddenly a bright orange ball of fire erupted from the starboard side of the Valley Mistress, followed by another directly alongside. The sound of the explosion followed a few seconds later, and to Jon Masters it felt like a red-hot fist punching him in the face. “Oh, shit, they’re hit!”
“Target bearing zero-niner-zero, ten klicks!” the gunner yelled.
“Heim, starboard turn heading north!” Cromwell ordered. “I want that hostile kept on the starboard beam!” The helmsman swung the tiller over and pointed the lifeboat north. Everybody ducked and scrambled out of the way as the Stinger crew reoriented themselves and reacquired the Iranian fighter.
The Valley Mistress was partially illuminated from the fires on the port-side—it was already listing heavily. “Get off that thing, dammit, it’s sinking!” Masters shouted to anybody that might still be on board the stricken ship. The lifeboat swung farther east as the fighter flew closer. Just then, they saw a Stinger missile launched from the helo deck of the ship. The missile and the gunner on the lifeboat were lined up—the Stinger missile appeared to be tracking perfectly—but then they saw several blobs of bright white floating in the sky, followed by a bright but brief explosion. “Flare decoys,” Masters said. “The fighter got away.”
“No way!” the Stinger gunner on the lifeboat shouted. “Range three miles! Weapon charged … negative IFF response! Two miles … lost contact! Lost the datalink!”
“Unengage!” Cromwell shouted. It would be almost impossible for the gunner to find the fighter in the dark, but Cromwell wasn’t about to let it get away. The missile’s seeker head was their last chance. “Find that fighter!”
The gunner squeezed the uncage button, still swinging right to follow what he thought was its flight path. He got a lock-on signal right away. “Locked on! Clear me to fire!”
Cromwell thought for a moment: if the Stinger missed, they’d have highlighted themselves to the fighter. The helicopter might come after them then … but the others might be safe, might have time to make it. “Clear to fire!” Cromwell shouted.
“Missile away!” the gunner shouted as he superelevated the launcher and squeezed the trigger. The missile popped out of the launcher, its main rocket motor ignition seemingly close enough to touch. The Stinger missile heeled sharply north, the motor burned out … and seconds later, they saw another bright glob of light and a streak of fire drawn across the night sky. “Got the motherfucker!” the gunner shouted. They saw the streak of fire continue north—it was on fire, but apparently still flying.
“A half a kill is better than nothing,” Cromwell said as the crew fitted another missile onto the firing grip assembly. In twenty seconds they were ready to fire a second round.
The helmsman turned the lifeboat back on a westerly heading, toward shore but away from the brightly burning ship. It was hard to pick out details, but the shape was different; it was listing heavily to port, almost capsized, Jon Masters guessed. He had never seen a ship sink for real before—even from this distance, it was horrifying. They could hear hisses and pops and tearing, grinding metal sounds roll across the water; then, several minutes later, nothing. The ship was out of sight a few minutes later, lost forever.
THE WHITE House, WASHINGTON, D.C.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER “Do not talk to us of treachery and sedition, Madam Vice President,” Dr. Ali Akbar Velayati, the Iranian Foreign Minister, said over the phone. His English was good, with a touch of a British accent. “First the United States assists the Gulf Cooperation Council with a wanton attack on Iranian soil—then you violate our sovereignty, our peace, and our right to free access to international waters and sovereign airspace by flying spy planes over our vessels. Not only that, madam, but our vessels and aircraft came under attack by your spy vessel! This is an act of war, and you have started it!
“The United States had no spy vessels or aircraft anywhere near your ships, Dr. Velayati,” Ellen Christine Whiting said. “The United States will not tolerate air or naval attacks on unarmed civilian vessels in international or allied waters …”
But Velayati was already speaking before the Vice President could finish: “It is vital for the peace and safety of the entire region for all to stop these threats and accusations, pledge assistance to help in rescue-and-recovery efforts, and pledge cooperation in restoring peace to the region,” Velayati said. “The Islamic Republic is conducting rescue-and-reconstruction work on our damaged property on Abu Musa Island-the death and destruction, I must remind you, which was caused by you and your Zionist stooges!”
“I can assure you, Minister, that the United States government was not involved in the attacks against Abu Musa Island,” Whiting said, “and neither were the Israelis. The Gulf Cooperation Council was responding to the threat of anti-ship, antiaircraft, and long-range missiles placed on your illegal military installations. I can assure you, Minister, that the United States will not tolerate any-“
“I have told you, madam, that Iran is not responsible! Not responsible!” Velayati exploded. “Do not provoke my government, madam! America wants war with Iran! We are not begging for war like America! We want peace! But we will act to protect our people and our homes! We want all warships to depart the Persian Gulf at once. All foreign warships must leave.”