The booming sea.
They echo through deserted caverns as he feels his way. Unsure of any destination. With the white thing, which he’d only glimpsed from the corner of his eye, following him. Still back there, somewhere. And only a little air left on his gauge …
Then, somehow, Wenck was down in the watery caves with him. What the hell? “What are you doing here, Donnie?” he asked the electronics technician.
“How about waking up, Dan? Uh, Skipper?”
He woke with neck cricked, curled awkwardly in his chair. The air-conditioning made a rushing clatter like a flock of blackbirds taking wing. Someone coughed, the dry hacking stirring a tickle in his own scarred trachea. He stirred, gaze pulled to the screens. “Cher … Matt,” he croaked. “Where the hell are we?”
“Five miles from the oparea boundary,” Staurulakis murmured. When he glanced over, her face was Wicked Witch green. For a moment he didn’t know if he was awake or still dreaming. Then realized she’d only changed the display; the emerald hue was from her terminal.
Wenck again, murmuring close to his ear. The bright blue, off-kilter eyes glittered as if he were on some nonregulation chemical, but that was just Donnie. “We gotta talk a minute, Skip.”
“Tell me what you’ve got, Donnie. It can’t be anything Commander Staurulakis hasn’t heard before.”
“Maybe so, maybe not. Over in the corner, okay?”
Back in the dark under the comm status displays, Wenck bent to the scuttlebutt. It was seldom used now, since most of the crew bought bottled Aquafina from the soft-drink machines. The water came up under high pressure in a thin stream, almost a spray. He straightened, drops glittering on his cheeks, and wiped his mouth on one sleeve. A heavy book was clamped under his arm. “Sir, I’m reading the backroom chat. That missile hit Tel Aviv? You know they’re gonna react to that, right?”
“That’s why we’re heading back south, Donnie. Wasn’t that message in your queue?”
“Sir, don’t take this wrong, but by the time you zeros get shit through Radio, it is long past the sell-by date. Me and the Terror, we’re following the chatter on one of the Israeli nets. Got in through a back door. She’s crooked, that girl. Don’t let that quiet act spoof you.”
“Who — Terranova? Are you serious, Donnie?”
“Serious as shit. Since they approved coordination, we said, we gotta have some way to coordinate, right? Most of it’s in some other language, Israeli I guess, but they use English for the technical discussions, and we can see the numbers, and all the code’s in Ada. Like, when they’re talking about range-gate anomalies, or whatever — I guess Hebrew doesn’t have the words, or it’s easier because that’s what their Patriot manuals are printed in. Anyway, they got the heads-up. Counterstrike. Beth and me worked the target out from the ascent trajectory.”
But before he could ask, the chief went on. “It’s Baghdad. Baghdad for Tel Aviv. Eye for an eye, I guess.”
“What kind of missile? What’s the payload?”
Wenck unelbowed the blue-backed copy of Jane’s Missile Systems Dan remembered seeing racked with the other CIC reference works. “What they call the Jericho. Like our old Pershing. One-ton warhead. Four-thousand-klick range. Nuclear or conventional warhead.”
Dan ran his eye down the page. An idea was germinating. But he needed more data. “Couldn’t you ask them a question?”
“Who?”
“The guys on this chat you and Terranova’re lurking. The Israeli techs.”
“We could ask. Whether they’d answer … What you want to know?”
“Tell them we need to deconflict, too. When do they intend to launch? And what’s the payload?”
Wenck snorted. “They’re not gonna tell us that. I’m not even gonna ask.”
“Okay, but we have to know when, at least. That’s a reasonable request.”
The chief went away behind his eyes, gaze vacant. Then bent to the bubbler again. “Okay.”
When he left, Dan paced back and forth, took a drink from the scuttlebutt himself. It sprayed his face too. He wiped it with his palms and went to the J-phone on the bulkhead and punched in his own in-port cabin.
“Ammermann here.”
“Adam? Dan Lenson. You cooled off any?”
“What choice have I got?”
“Come back up to CIC. I might have a job for you.”
“Oh, you need me now? After having your goons haul me out?”
“I’m sure Chief Tausengelt was perfectly respectful, Adam. But get in my face during combat operations, and you get the ‘goons,’ as you put it. Just stay on your side of the line and we’ll get along fine.”
A grumpy “Right,” and the staffer hung up.
Dan socketed the handset and paced the width of the space, beam to beam, looking at each screen and acknowledging each man or woman at his or her station. A nod, a shoulder pat, an encouraging word. Singhe, by the Aegis console, was doing some kind of yoga pose, one leg held up with an arm behind her back, the other arm extended toward the overhead. She dropped it as he neared, and returned his nod with a cool smile.
On the aft camera Red Hawk was coming in for a hot refuel. Snow — snowing again? — drove across the screen like confetti, and beyond it the black waves heaved. Mytsalo had altered course to improve the wind. Strafer would hover five to fifteen feet above the slanting, pitching deck, and tank up through a dangling hose. Dan watched the SH-60 grow larger. It seemed to sway from a string. He didn’t envy the pilot. The helo crew had one of the most dangerous jobs on the ship. And if a C-802 came over the horizon, their station put them between it and Savo Island. Not a healthy place for a low-flying aircraft squawking a signature mimicking a cruiser.
He ducked into Sonar, where as usual Zotcher and his boys seemed to be doing absolutely nothing, but was back in his chair when Ammermann’s wide-cheeked face loomed out of the dim. The staffer caught a stanchion as the deck slanted. Dan pointed to a chair.
The West Winger perched, scowling, dark hair lank over his forehead. “Okay, I’m here. What do you want?”
“First, some advice.” Dan described the Iranian task force closing from the southwest. “What do they intend to do up here? Especially now, when we’re breaking into the house next door — they’ve got to mean that as a provocation. If not a threat.”
“We’ll deal with them next. They’ve got a WMD program too.”
“Okay, whatever, but … Are you saying this is their way of warning us off? In case we’re thinking exactly what you’re saying?”
“I can’t speculate on what they think.”
Dan frowned. “But that’s exactly what we have to do, Adam. They can’t like having four U.S. divisions and fifteen air wings right across the Shatt al Arab. Which is where the endgame’s gonna leave us.” Ammermann didn’t answer, just scowled at the deckplates. “Okay, you haven’t thought about it, but I’m asking you to. Reach back. Find out what the national security adviser — Dr. Szerenci — what his gang thinks they’re doing. Because once that task group gets here, I’ve got to figure out if they’re enemies, or just front-row spectators.”
“Okay.” The staffer sighed. “Is that all?”
“No.” Dan coughed hard, feeling like something wanted to come up but couldn’t. Christ, he was tired. “Want some coffee?”
“No. What’s that noise?”
“That’s our helo refueling. And when he’s done, he’s going to go out again and fly back and forth between us and some Syrian missile batteries that have been shining us. In case they decide to go hot. This is the real deal, Adam. We need you on the team. We’ve all got to set ego aside.”