Dan checked his watch. His own salvo would be crossing the coast just about now. No doubt the Syrian air defense network, one of the densest in the Mideast, had the hurtling airframes on their screens. Was following an international boundary violating the airspace of the countries on either side? He didn’t have a clue.
A hollow thunk as the wing door opened. A shadow in the dark, complete with helmet and life preserver. “Captain?”
“Fahad. What have you got?”
“I reported strike complete. To CTF 60.”
“Well … I was going to do that. But I guess that’s all right.” If the Syrians did lash back, the quickest way would be to unleash those C-802s. “They say anything about air cover?”
“No sir.”
“Did you ask?”
“No sir.”
“XO, what’re you doing right now?”
“Supervising the bridge team. Isn’t that where you wanted me?”
“Right, right … How about getting on the horn and making sure everybody knows to be alert for some kind of retaliation. Most likely, a sea skimmer from the Syrian side.” He considered asking him to get with Grissett, tasking him to dig into the sickness issue, but didn’t. Right now, they had to be ready to fend off a more immediate threat.
A pale red planet caught his eye, moving slowly south to north. He frowned, then identified it. Deholstered his Hydra. “TAO, CO: We need Red Hawk back between us and the coast. Tell ’em to keep their eyes peeled. Also, ask 60 about that air cover they promised would be on tap.”
“You didn’t say anything about asking for air cover.” The voice from the dark was resentful.
He felt abruptly sick of this whole situation. No matter what he said or did, Almarshadi took offense. “It wasn’t a criticism of you, Fahad. Okay? I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now. We’ll sit down and have it out when we’re not at Condition Three. Till then, can we just … stuff it?”
A stiff silence. Then, “Yes sir, we will stuff it. But I’m going to request a reassignment.”
“Great, whatever. Now can you do what I asked, and make sure we’re scanning for C-802 signatures?” He crossed to the doorway, leaned in, and asked the helo control talker for time remaining to bingo fuel. It wasn’t long. He started to hoist himself into his command chair, but failed. Shit, he was too fucking exhausted even to get up into the fucking chair.
“Captain, course from here?”
“What do you recommend, Ensign? Remember, we’re going to have to recover the bird shortly.”
“I think we ought to … head south? Back toward Point Adamantine?”
“Sounds good.” He rebraced himself and this time managed to half-jump, half-lever himself up. Coughed hard, then relaxed back into the cool padded leather, like a softball into a well-worn glove, and closed his eyes.
The beep of his Hydra, as he was slipping away. Just as the vividness of dream began to supplant a heaving sea, the whistle of the wind in the antennas, the squeak and murmur of the helm console. He grunted, then resubmerged. The radio beeped again. He fought to the surface like a drowning man, groping for it. “Unh … Captain.”
“Skipper? TAO here.”
“Hey, Cher, you back on already?”
“Afraid so, sir. I’m bringing us to flank and heading south.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Monitoring the chat. Israel’s taken enough. That two hundred dead was the last straw. They’ve decided to retaliate. Just sent us a warning message.”
He opened his eyes. For a moment what she’d said didn’t make sense. But it must have been just some open circuit in his own brain, because the next moment it did.
All too horrifyingly. The Israelis had shown over and over again they wouldn’t take aggression lying down. Entebbe. The Osirak reactor. Lebanon. You could debate whether armed reprisal was a tactic, or a mind-set, that could ever lead to permanent peace. But certainly, striking back in the name of the dead of the Tel Aviv bunker was consistent with their previous policies.
He cleared his throat, still trying to get his head around what it would mean. “Uh — retaliate. Did they say how, Cher?”
Before she could answer, the scarlet bulb strobed above the Navy Red handset. “Matador, this is Iron Sky. Stand by for flash traffic from Iron Sky actual. Over.”
Iron Sky was CTF 60, the task force to the west. He got it with his left hand while he asked Staurulakis again, on the Hydra fisted in his right, “Retaliate? How? — This is Matador actual. Over.”
“There’s speculation. A missile counterstrike seems to be the consensus. But of course they don’t say. Just warning us to stand by. So we can be ready. For the consequences, I mean.”
The Navy Red circuit said, “Matador actual, this is CTF 60 actual. Flash traffic follows.”
“What kind of missile? — This is Savo, uh, Matador, ready to copy.” He jerked his head at Van Gogh, at the nav console. “Get this down, Chief.”
“They don’t say. And no one knows. They have a nuclear capability. Whether this is a case where they’d use it…”
“This is CTF 60 actual. Dan, we have a flash notification about Israeli plan to retaliate for the Tel Aviv hit this morning. We need you back in your defender position ASAP.”
He gestured again, angrily, to Van Gogh. Snapped into the handset. “This is Savo. Copy your flash notification. Coming to flank speed at this time. Uh, just to make clear: I have only two Block 4s remaining. And limited self-defense capability.”
“Understand limited capability. Remain alert for counterstrikes. Review your op order. Let me know if you need a frag on your ROEs. Iron Sky, out.”
The light died. Decoded, the task force commander had just advised him to be perfectly clear that he understood under what circumstances he could fire first. And to let him know if the rules of engagement seemed too restrictive. Too late, Dan cursed himself; he hadn’t brought up the question of air cover, either. They’d be out here naked if the Syrians decided to vector a couple of MiGs his way.
When he went to rub his mouth his hand jerked, and a cup of cold coffee he hadn’t even realized in the dark was there tipped and spattered. Damn it! It was happening again. Strike and counterstrike. Reprisal and counterblow, and a steady descent into bloody chaos.
But what should anyone have expected? This was the Middle East. Any fuze you lit was tangled in among a dozen others. And would light them all as it crept toward its own bomb.
Why did it seem like mass killing was the default option for every international quarrel? As if human beings didn’t have enough to deal with:… No, they still had to throw themselves beneath the entrails-bedecked chariot of Mars. Or was he thinking of some other god, equally bloody-handed? And why did all the gods, it seemed, come from a three-hundred-mile radius around where he rolled through this black sea?
But what he wondered made no difference. His duty, and that of every other man and woman aboard, was plain as if engraved on bronze tablets. The ship reeled. Somewhere steel banged hollowly, and the wind sang in Savo’s thirty-eight antennas like a mourning chorus in a Greek tragedy.
18
Whirling snow, again.