The staffer grimaced. “Want me to call back? Then give me a phone. Or a circuit. Whatever you call it. What else?”
“We just got word Ariel Sharon’s approved a retaliatory missile strike. Apparently, on Baghdad. A population center.”
Ammermann paled. “Christ!”
“Correct. I don’t need to tell you how hard that’s going to make it with our Arab allies, do I? How that’s exactly what Saddam hopes Sharon’ll do? If you have any pull with Ed Szerenci, or any channel to the president or State, this’d be the time to use it.”
“When? When are they planning to—”
“I’m trying to find out. But we don’t have long.” The hovering helo’s engines were the thunder of drums from aft, diminished by steel and Kevlar armor, but perfectly audible. He twisted in the chair. “Matt, tell Branscombe to set Mr. Ammermann here up with hicomm voice to whoever he wants to talk to.”
“Got it, Skipper.”
Staurulakis stood next to Mills, hands on her hips. Getting ready to take over the watch, apparently. Dan glanced from her to the vertical displays. Savo was crossing the northern boundary of Adamantine. Mills was on the line to Main Control, discussing dropping their speed once more. Dan sighed. He didn’t have much fuel left, after the sprint north, then south again. They’d have to request a tanker.… Maybe Adam could actually do some good. If he had the ear of someone in the White House, they could put the screws to the Israelis, convince them it really wasn’t in their best interest to strike back.
He paced the space again, staggering as the slowing ship picked up a corkscrewing roll. Then slid back into his seat and felt for the clipboard with the op order. He read it through again, forcing his eyes through each line of print, forcing his fatigued cerebrum to visualize clearly what every sentence might mean in terms of an engagement. Then zeroed in on the opening paragraph again.
5. (TS/FW-DS) CINC AND NCA GUIDANCE FOR CTG 160: REF C IS DRAFT NCA GUIDANCE REGARDING EMPLOYMENT OF TBMD ASSETS WITHIN A COMBAT THEATER. REF C IN EFFECT AS OF THIS DTG. REVIEW AND COMPLY.
6. (TS/FW-DS) IT IS UNDERSTOOD THAT FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE USN TBMD CAPABILITIES WILL BE EXTREMELY CONSTRAINED BY LIMITED NUMBER OF SERVICE-READY BLOCK 4 SM ROUNDS. THEREFORE, IN THE ABSENCE OF MORE DETAILED GUIDANCE, ASSETS WILL BE EMPLOYED IN THE FOLLOWING ORDERS OF PRIORITY:
PRIORITY ONE: OFFENSIVE MISSILES TARGETED AGAINST US OPERATING FORCES AND LOGISTICS BASES.
PRIORITY TWO: OFFENSIVE MISSILES TARGETED AGAINST FORCES OF US ALLIES.
PRIORITY THREE: OFFENSIVE MISSILES TARGETED AGAINST CIVILIAN POPULATIONS.
PRIORITY FOUR: TBM INTERCEPTOR PLATFORM (OWN-SHIP DEFENSE).
7. (TS/FW-DS) IT IS ALSO UNDERSTOOD THAT GIVEN HIGH SPEEDS OF ENGAGEMENT AND UNCERTAINTIES IN IMPACT PREDICTION, CO/TAO MAY BE FORCED TO USE BEST JUDGMENT IN ASSIGNING PRIORITIES AND ROUNDS AGAINST INCOMING WEAPONS. REGARDLESS OF PRIORITY DERIVED FROM THE INTENDED TARGET, CO/TAO NEED NOT ENGAGE IF COMPUTED PROBABILITY OF KILL FALLS BELOW .3 FOR A SINGLE-ROUND ENGAGEMENT.
8. (TS/FW-DS) CO/TAO WILL TAKE INTO ACCOUNT REMAINING LOADOUT AND CURRENT THREATS IN ASSIGNING ASSETS.
He contemplated this, forefinger polishing the bridge of his nose. Own-ship defense was plainly not a high priority. Which was pretty much consistent with a cruiser’s traditional mission. On the other hand, priority three seemed to have been written very tightly. Once U.S. forces, logistics bases, and those of allies were covered, his mission clearly included the protection of civilian populations.
Not friendly civilian populations.
Not civilian populations of states not currently engaged in offensive operations against U.S. or Coalition forces.
Just … civilian populations.
“Sir, I’ve relieved Lieutenant Mills as tactical action officer.”
“Sir, I have been properly relieved.” Mills and Staurulakis stood over him, looking expectant. He harrumphed acquiescence and checked his watch. “Very well. Cheryl, anything I need to know?”
“Within oparea boundaries. Speed five. Course one seven zero. Two SM-2 4As active and green. Aegis at ninety-eight percent in TBM mode. INS Lahav three miles due north, following in our wake. Red Hawk 02 refueled and returning to ready station.”
“The Iranians?”
“Forty miles southwest. Looks now like they’re making for Tartus.”
“Uh-huh.” Tartus was the Syrian navy’s main supply and outfitting port. It hosted the Russians, too, when they made port visits in the Med. Made sense that the Iranians, one of Syria’s patrons and suppliers, would also refuel and resupply there. Sending an unmistakable message that they stood behind that regime, if the U.S. decided not to stop at invading Iraq.
For the first time, a glimmer of reason behind the deployment. “That track’s gonna take them real close to us here.”
“Correct,” Mills said.
“So they could still actually be headed for us? Not Tartus?”
Staurulakis’s clear gaze turned in some manner opaque, as if an invisible barrier, impervious to X-rays, perhaps, had been slipped behind them. “I know, I know,” Dan added hastily. “But I have to consider these possibilities, Cheryl.”
“I would think it’d be Tartus, sir,” she said.
“Well, I think so too. For the record … all I’m saying … ah, forget it. — Matt, lay below, get your head down. We’ve got another long night ahead.” He checked his watch again; what exactly was the time? Eight, but 0800 or 2000? Day or night? Losing track wasn’t a good sign. Then he remembered the gun cameras, the darkness outside. 2000, then. He’d missed dinner somehow.
“Longley was up about an hour ago,” Mills supplied. “You were, um — you had your eyes closed. I told him you probably needed rest more than dinner.”
“I’ll give the mess decks a call. Have them send up a sandwich,” Staurulakis said. Mills lingered for a few seconds, then pirouetted groggily in place before getting his bearings and heading for the aft exit.
Dan stretched, got up, and prowled again, not relishing being nursemaided by his midgrade officers like some dotty old uncle. He remembered how Crazy Ike Sundstrom had napped in his chair, snoring. Had querulously bitched over the most trivial things. And how his staff, including Dan, had all laughed behind their hands.
Now it didn’t seem as funny. People didn’t bounce back as fast at forty-something as they did at twenty-two. Interrupted sleep night after night, plus heavy Navy chow and no exercise, was no avenue to alertness. He could guzzle all the coffee they could brew, but his brain was working more and more reluctantly, like a garbage grinder designed to run on 220 volts but getting only 120.
He massaged his neck. God, he was getting tight. Wished he could have taken Amarpeet’s yoga class. But that wasn’t going to happen, the skipper going to the mat with four females in sweat gear. Nuh-uh.
“I’ll be out on the weather deck for a couple minutes,” he told the space at large. “TAO has my seat.” Without waiting for a response, he let himself out.
The night was heaving outside, the wind a cold bayonet in his throat. He doubled, holding his belly, coughing and coughing. Savo was in darken ship, of course; he’d had to fight his way out the weather-decks door through the black canvas screens. When he caught his breath at last he fumbled at his belt to make sure the Hydra was on. The tiny red LED that said so was the only light in the entire world.
He felt his way, one hand outstretched, through a void like that of intergalactic space until his outstretched fingers brushed the life rail. He gripped it like a man adrift grabbing a raft, and hauled himself uphill as the deck rolled, slick under his boots. He didn’t want to go over the side. Not in this blackness. He looked aft, searching for Lahav, but didn’t see her. Probably darkened too.