“That’s all? He’s going to call?”
Ammermann shrugged. Dan stared for a moment longer, then sighed. He’d tried. More and more, it was looking like that was all he was going to be able to do. Just try … but fall further and further behind rapidly cascading events.
“That missile boat’s a Thondar-class,” Staurulakis murmured. “Could be a Guards unit. Like he says.”
“It’s getting a little late to speculate on who exactly’s who,” Dan told her. “These guys are in an attack profile. The only question is at what point we hit them. Range?”
“Thirty-four thousand yards.”
Outside the warning range from his ROE, but hostile maneuvering trumped range. “Warn them,” Dan snapped. “Break off, or I will open fire.”
“You said you can’t shoot first,” Ammermann said.
“I sure as hell can in this situation,” Dan told him. “And I will, but I don’t really have time to explain it.”
Staurulakis called something from the desk and a man Dan didn’t recognize came toward him. Tall, mustached, swarthy, in his mid-thirties, he inclined a long, closely shaven skull with grave politeness.
“Who’s this, Commander?”
“This is SK3 Kaghazchi, Captain. A native Iranian speaker.”
The man’s large eyes were burning, unsettling. Where had this guy been until now? Dan didn’t remember seeing him about the ship. SK meant storekeeper, one of Hermelinda’s people. He probably worked in some tiny office. It did seem that whatever language you needed, someone in your crew could be found to speak it. Still, he thought he’d met everyone aboard. “Excellent. Okay, Kag … Kaghazchi, right? Where are you from, Petty Officer?”
“Sanandaj, sir. In the west.” He had an astonishingly deep voice, almost an operatic bass. Good, they’d sound authoritative as hell going out over ship-to-ship.
“And what exactly do you speak? I know several languages are current in Iran—”
“Farsi, that is my father’s language. And some Urdu as well. From my mother.”
“I see. Well, I know you’re in Supply, but consider yourself under the commander’s orders now. Convey what she tells you, but use your head. I’d rather avoid a confrontation than have to win one.”
“I understand, Captain. I will attempt to do that.”
Ammermann said, “Are you sure about this, Dan?”
“My ROEs are pretty clear in this situation,” Dan told him mildly. “So’s the LOAC.”
LOAC was the law of armed conflict. The staffer started to expostulate further, but Dan waved him to silence and leaned back, listening as their warning went out, first in English, then in the staccato notes of Farsi. It sounded familiar to him from repeated deployments in the Gulf, though he knew only “hello” and “thank you” himself. He doubted words would have much effect if whoever was commanding the task group had orders to clobber him, or somehow thought this would be a good time to try. But in this case, for once, as he’d told Ammermann, his rules were clear. He had the right to defend his ship in the face of attack, imminent attack, or demonstrated hostile intent. The maneuver he was seeing constituted that. But first he had to issue a warning. “If they don’t cease illuminating and don’t open the range, I’m taking Alborz out with Harpoon,” he told Staurulakis.
“Warning shot, sir?”
“Not at this range. If we have to hit, hit hard.”
“Copy that, sir. Three-round engagement?”
“Set it up. Make sure Pittsburgh gets that word.” He coughed and ran his gaze over the displays again. A cup clanked down next to his elbow. He sucked the black scalding liquid down almost in one breath. Hot and thick, the strong dark blood the Navy ran on. As long as they had fuel, ordnance, and coffee, they could stay on station forever. For whatever reason, adrenaline, caffeine, the confrontation with Almarshadi, the abruptly cut-off note of the GQ alarm, all the displays glared more brightly. His brain seemed to have shifted into high gear.
When Ammermann cleared his throat Dan remembered him. “Uh, Adam, find yourself a seat if you want. Chief? Chief Slaughenhaupt? Need a helmet here. And flash gear.”
“On it, sir.”
“Are you serious?” Ammermann gaped. “I thought this was armored—”
“Just wear it, Adam.”
“Uh … okay. Can I smoke now?” He had the pack out already, was tapping a cig out with trembling amber-stained fingers.
“No. So, no joy from Jerusalem?”
“Tel Aviv. I told you, Ed’s calling Sharon.”
Dan bet it wouldn’t be “Ed” if the junior staffer were face-to-face with Dr. Edward Szerenci. The guy had been nothing to trifle with even back when he’d been a professor in defense analysis at George Washington, moonlighting from the War College. Szerenci was a hard-liner, a numbers man, dealing in megadeaths as coolly as Dr. Strangelove.
Dan was opening his mouth with some sort of joke about Szerenci when a chime sounded from over by the Aegis console. The same high insistent note as once before. All speech in CIC ceased. Someone had turned on audio from the SPY-1: a familiar crackle, like popping popcorn. The beam going out, five times a second.
“Sir, we have cuing from Obsidian Glint,” Donnie Wenck called. “Suspected launch.”
Next to Dan, Staurulakis riffed the keyboard, bringing up the radar output on the large-screen display. The spokelike beam yawed, then switchbladed back toward the coast. The Terror was shifting to the location the satellite had just downloaded to them. It locked into its new position and clicked back and forth, the spectral amber fans tracing ancient mountains like a blind man fingering a face. They all stared up, skin sallow and corpselike in the nectarine light.
Dan squinted. “I don’t see anything.”
Then he did.
A white dot had blinked on in the center of the screen. The hook darted in and snagged it. A callout flickered on. Terranova said, loud enough so everyone could hear, “Profile plot, Meteor Echo: altitude, angels thirty. Climbing at angels five per second.” Already well into boost phase, then. Possibly even post — first stage separation.
“Matches alert script on the Jericho,” Wenck called. The symbology was already a red caret, but he added, “Designate hostile?”
Dan nodded. “Designate hostile.”
“That’s an Israeli missile?” Ammermann murmured.
“Correct,” Staurulakis snapped when Dan didn’t answer.
He was watching the horizontal velocity on the callout. So far, it was nearly zero. But wouldn’t this be the best time to take it? Nearly a dead-on angle? The P-sub-K numbers in the tests had dropped fast with a negative velocity vector. He eyed the screens again, and decided. It would put her stern to the Iranians, but Savo’s close-in stingers, her canister-mounted Harpoons, were canted up back aft.
He hit the worn lever on the 21MC. “Bridge, come to course zero nine zero. Speed fifteen. Set Circle William. Launch-warning bell aft.” He snapped the dial to Helo Control. “To Red Hawk: Reposition to the north. Stand by on flares and jamming. Remain alert for 802s from northwest, west, and northeast.” Two seats away, Slaughenhaupt was readying the ship for self-defense with chaff and decoys.
Dan groped into the neckline of his coveralls and came up with the firing key. “Cher? Take Meteor Echo. Two-round salvo.”
Ammermann reached for his arm. “Captain! This is crazy. You can’t do this.”
“It’s what my orders specify, Adam.”
“Not taking out a friendly missile!”
Dan turned his head. Sweat sparkled on the staffer’s bulging brow. A lock of dark hair hung over his forehead. He looked more frightened than when an Iraqi Al-Husayn had had them boresighted. “Adam,” he murmured, “there’s no such thing as a ‘friendly’ ballistic missile. Not when it’s targeted at a city.”