Crouching there, gripping the cold steel, he reviewed options.
Complicating any decision were three factors. First was “rounds in the shot locker.” He had only two more Block 4As. Use them on an Israeli missile, and he’d have none left if Iraq struck again.
He turned his TAG Heuer and checked the luminescent hands. By now his salvo of Tomahawks, and Pittsburghs, would be reaching their targets. But they wouldn’t have damage reports for hours, until daylight let drones and satellites get a close look at the Western Complex.
The second factor: What if rounds three and four didn’t work? So far his batting average was only .500. And as Roald had said on the red phone, that was already above the test average.
And the third: Wenck and Terranova’s backstairs scuttlebutt from the Israeli tech side was welcome, but he couldn’t depend on it. He couldn’t tell where a ballistic missile was aimed during its boost phase. And this would be a very complicated, risky boost-phase intercept. Their SM-2 would have to perform a tail chase intercept, a mission geometry that, he knew from the test data, had never worked well.
Bottom line: If he fired, he wouldn’t have a real good probability of kill. All in all, less than .3. At a guess.
He sucked cold sea air, going downstream on that logic as he searched the darkness. They’d already failed once, on the Tel Aviv hit. What would rolling craps again mean for the Navy? It didn’t look appealing. And what if he succeeded? In blocking both sides from aggression, would he be committing the U.S. to a role it couldn’t really fulfill?
Actually, he thought wryly, starting to shiver now, Dan Lenson wouldn’t be committing anyone to anything if he screwed this up. Only himself to a court-martial, disavowal, and being cast into outer darkness forever. The Navy was merciless toward commanders who screwed up. He’d already had a full ration of second chances. As Nick Niles had made abundantly clear.
He was still staring into a darkness his gaze could not penetrate when the Hydra on his belt beeped. He fumbled for it. “CO.”
“Sir, TAO here.” Her voice was tenser than he’d ever heard it. “EW reports C-802 lockon from landward. Also, we’ve got a course alteration on the Iranian task group.”
“What kind of alteration, Cheryl?”
“Directly for us, sir. Stand by … EW reports fire-control radar scanning from the west as well. Correlates to Alborz task group.”
He lifted his head, cupping the heavy little radio, dense with its thick weight of metal and battery. The darkness was rushing toward him, blustering like the wind that whined in the antennas above. “How about the Jericho launch? Any further word on that?”
“No sir, none I’ve heard. I’ll check with Terranova. Are you coming to Combat?”
He half-smiled, a tight grin that probably would’ve looked sardonic, or maybe tortured, if anyone had been there to observe it. Something twisted in his gut, sharp-cornered as a masonry trowel. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the Transmit button, fighting it off. Fighting off all emotion. And said, forcing into his voice the firmness and confidence that were the very last things he actually felt, “Yeah, Cher. I’ll be right in.”
19
“I’m glad you’re back,” Staurulakis murmured, pushing short hair back. For the first time since he’d met her, she seemed on edge. And no wonder, he thought as she outlined the situation. A lock-on from the fire-control radars they’d identified along the coast. Increased activity from the truck-mounted jammers that would make detection of an incoming sea-skimmer much more difficult. Wenck and Slaughenhaupt hovered near the command table, looking grave.
Dan tried to make his face as much like stone as he could, although that blade still twisted in his gut. “You said the Alborz group—”
“Turned toward, yes sir.” She typed and the display changed. It showed a sharp hook east.
Three ships. Yet only two had turned. “Who’s that staying on the original course?”
She typed and the callout strobed. “Bandar Abbas.”
“The supply ship?”
“Combined tanker and storeship. Limited self-defense capability, but not a combat unit.”
“They’re dropping their logistics train.”
“Yes sir. Not good news.” She rippled the keys again, and they studied the warships headed for them. The primary threat would be from the frigate, but he couldn’t ignore the smaller craft, a cruise-missile boat, either. “It’s either some kind of overt provocation, or an actual run-in.”
“Not necessarily on us,” Slaughenhaupt put in.
“Correct, Chief. Could be Lahav; or a strike on the coast. But we’ve got to assume the worst-case scenario. And since we’re getting illuminated from the east as well, it looks like a coordinated attack developing.” Dan shoved back from the desk, skin crawling. It really would be “worst-case.” Savo was still in BMD mode, and had to stay there. Which meant they were limited to keyhole-peeping with the SPY-1, and not nearly as capable of fending off a below-the-horizon attack.
Yet, despite the pain in his gut, he was starting to feel eager. Any resolution would be better than keeping on with this uncertainty. “Designate Alborz and the missile boat to Harpoon. Tell Amy to spin up four TLAMs for those coastal sites. CIWS to automatic. Duckies and chaff to standby.”
Staurulakis looked wary. “Sir, we need an MDU for a Tomahawk strike—”
“No we don’t, Cher. We can set in the GPS coordinates ourselves. And I’ll give you ‘red and free.’ If they fire, rules of engagement give us a self-defense right to take them out. — Let Red Hawk know what’s going on. We’ll keep him out to landward, but let him know we may have goblins coming in from Alborz’s bearing, too.” He nodded. “Let’s get set, guys. This may be it.”
He hoisted himself to his feet, trying to bat away the cobwebs of too little sleep, too much stress, the sheer bone fatigue that set in fighting the slant and lean of a ship in heavy seas day after day. Not to mention trying to guess a way out of the rapidly constricting box Savo Island was being trapped in.
He wheeled abruptly down the narrow corridor between the air consoles and the EW stacks. Weariness engraved the faces of those who manned them too. The chill air stank of sweat and ozone and bodies not washed often enough. The edges of the gray steel consoles were grimed black where wrists had rested for hour after hour, watch after watch, day after day. Savo wasn’t billeted for continuous Condition Three. Her truncated crew had come through manfully up to now. No, not “manfully”—that would have excluded too many. Staurulakis. Singhe. Terranova, and so many others, from the deckplate engineers to the bridge watchstanders. Who had all, in the words of that traditional Navy accolade, sailed close to the wind.
He was suddenly filled with emotion so overwhelming his eyes stung. He had to clear his throat and scrub a mistiness from his sight. He was proud to lead them. He only hoped he could do as well, when the crunch came.
Which could not be far away now. And the very fact that they were all exhausted, running on empty, meant he had to be more careful than ever. This was when commanders made stupid mistakes, or misjudged the situation. And people died.
“Sir, illuminating from fire-control radar. Bearing one two five.”