Acts of Vengeance

by Robert Gandt

“She gave her coordinates, which are X-Y coded off the grid map,” said Boyce. He leaned over the table and slid his finger in a circle over the illuminated map. “She’s right in here. High, rugged terrain. We gave instructions for her to find a decent landing zone for the pick up. When we contact her again at 0600 tomorrow, she’s supposed to pass the exact LZ location. If we can’t communicate, we go to the original grid coordinates and look for her.”

  “What kind of team are we sending in?” asked Maxwell.

  Gritti answered. “It’s what the Marines call a TRAP team—Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel. After you guys have your air defense suppression package on station, my team launches from the Saipan in a pair of CH-53 Super Stallions.”

  “How many marines are we talking about?”

  “I’m planning a Delta size TRAP package. Fifty, plus four corpsmen.”

  “The helos need escort,” said Boyce. “What about the Harriers deployed on the Saipan?”

  Gritti shook his head. “The kinder and gentler rules of engagement—” he paused and glared at Vitale—“prohibit using the Harriers. For the same reason we don’t get low air support from the air wing. Too provocative, they think. The Sea Stallions will be escorted by four Whisky Cobra gunships.”

  Vitale sat alone, looking like a kid ostracized from his playmates. The Group Operations Officer wasn’t a bad guy, Maxwell reflected, just a guy in a bad job. Vitale had once been a patrol plane pilot, and as the only aviator on Fletcher’s staff he was caught in the eternal friction between the battle group and the Reagan’s air wing. He received equal abuse from both sides. Even Spook Morse, who served under Vitale on the admiral’s staff, was openly disrespectful of him.

  Boyce broke the silence. “That’s it, gentlemen. We play the hand we’ve been dealt. If anybody needs a refresher in the new rules of engagement, I have a copy you can read. Colonel Gritti and Colonel Hewlitt are heading back to the Saipan to do their own briefs. Commander Maxwell and I will stay in here and write the air plan. In three hours we do a full brief with the pilots. The SEAD package will launch thirty minutes ahead of the TRAP team.” SEAD was the acronym for Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses—the mix of jammers, HARM-shooters, and Super Hornet fighter-bombers.

  At this, Vitale spoke up. “I need some information for the Battle Group tasking order. Who will be assigned as the flight leader in the SEAD package?”

  “The best strike leader I’ve got,” said Boyce.

  Vitale looked at him expectantly. “And who would that be?”

  “The guy sitting next to you. Commander Maxwell.”

  Vitale jotted the information on his pad. “And the TRAP team, Colonel Gritti? Who have you assigned to command the recovery package?”

  “The toughest, meanest sonofabitch in the Marine Corps.”

  Vitale lowered his notebook and peered at Gritti. “I give up. Would you mind telling us who would that be?”

  Gritti gave him a half smile. “You’re looking at him.”

  <>

  “Vincent Maloney,” said the bored voice on the phone.

  “It’s Claire Phillips. You’re in luck, Vince. I’m in Sana’a.”

  Maloney’s voice came to life. “Claire! The girl who spurned me in Bahrain. The one who broke my heart.”

  “I didn’t spurn you. I just declined to go to bed with you.”

  “Same thing. Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?”

  “No, it means I’m giving you another chance at being a gentleman.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Take me to dinner.”

  “I know you. You want to interrogate me.”

  She laughed. “A little, maybe. That’s my job. Where are we having dinner?”

  Maloney declared that her hotel, the Al-Qasmy, had a restaurant as decent as any other in Sana’a, which didn’t mean much. They were all godawful, but what the hell, it beat walking the streets. Sana’a was a rough place these days.

  Claire’s flight from Aden, a 727 with a cabin that smelled of stale cigaret smoke, had taken forty-five minutes. Sana’a turned out to be even more polluted than Aden, located in a mountain bowl and lacking an ocean breeze to sweep away the smog.

  She liked Vince Maloney, even if he was a dissolute character. He was a deputy political affairs officer who migrated from outpost to outpost in the state department, apparently never destined to rise above his present grade. She had met him at a consular party when she first arrived in the Middle East, and they went out on a few occasions.

  Maloney was smitten by Claire. At regular intervals, she had to re-explain that their relationship was one of friendship, nothing more. Forget romance. Maloney accepted the situation with grudging good humor, but he never gave up.

  They got together whenever they found themselves in the same port. He was good company, at least until he became too drunk to make sense. Sometimes he even told her things that were useful.

  As she hoped he would this time.

  Maloney appeared precisely at six o’clock in the lobby of the Al-Qasmy. He gave Claire a big sloppy kiss, and they took a table near the bar to catch up on the past months.

  The place was busy, filled mostly with Arab businessmen and a few Europeans clustered by themselves at tables. Maloney ordered a double Scotch for himself and a vodka tonic for Claire.

  He clinked his glass against hers. “You’re more gorgeous than ever, Claire. Still married to that Australian journalist—what was his name—something Twit?”

  “Tyrwhitt,” she said. “That’s history.”

  “About time. The silly ass never appreciated you. I, on the other hand, have always held you in the highest—”

  “Too late, Vince. I’m spoken for.”

  “Aaagghh.” He clutched his chest. “My heart. You’re breaking it all over again.”

  “Have a drink. You’ll get over it.”

  “Good idea.” He chugged down his Scotch and signaled the bartender for another. After he’d tested the fresh drink, he said, “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “I don’t know about the lucky part. His name is Sam Maxwell. He’s a Navy pilot, a commander on the Reagan.”

  “Navy pilot, huh?” Maloney thought for a minute while he peered over the rim of his glass. “It’s beginning to come to me. See if I’m getting this right. You’re here because you want me to blab some information about the little military exercise this morning in Yemen. Am I close?”

  “Try this one. I’m here because I’m a journalist.”

  Maloney didn’t reply. He sipped at his drink while his eyes scanned the room. In a lowered voice he said, “This is a lousy place to be a journalist.”

  Claire waited a moment. “Listen, Vince, I know the terrorist is a character named Al-Fasr, and I know the Navy lost airplanes this morning trying to bomb him.”

  Maloney took another sip. “That’s old news.”

  “And I know there’s an operation underway to recover the pilot.”

  “So?”

  “So what am I missing here? Why doesn’t the United States just move in with massive force and squash this Al-Fasr character like a bug? If we can do it in Iraq, it shouldn’t be a problem in Yemen.”

  Maloney shrugged. “Decisions like that don’t get made at my level.”

  “But you have an idea, don’t you? You always have an idea, Vince.”

  He glanced around the dining room. Several other diners, mostly businessmen in western clothing, were engaged in their own conversations. “You want the Maloney take on it? Off the record?”

  “You know you don’t have to ask that.”

  “The United States doesn’t want to wipe out Al-Fasr because that would cost us our one great chance to control Yemen. Al-Fasr is the key. A quid pro quo. First we engage him, allow him to gain credibility in the Arab world by backing down the mighty United States. Then he seizes power in Yemen and becomes our new best friend. We protect his new government from all his resentful Arab neighbors, and Yemen becomes an Am
erican colony. Does that make sense?”

  “No. He’s a terrorist who murdered Americans. He’s as bad as Osama bin Laden. How can he be our new best friend?”

  “C’mon, Claire, grow up. ‘Terrorist’ is a removable label. It’s a function of whether you’re on the inside or outside. Our founding fathers were terrorists until they won the revolution, then they were patriots. Menachem Begin was a very nasty terrorist until he became prime minister of Israel. Then they gave him the Nobel peace prize. It’s all bullshit.”

  “Okay, it’s bullshit. So what do we care about Yemen anyway? What’s in it for us?”

  At this, Maloney peered around the room again, checking the other occupants. In a lowered voice he said, “I can’t believe you’re a reporter, being this naïve. Or maybe it’s just an act to get guys like me to run their mouth.”

  “I’m not naïve and I’m not acting. Don’t insult me, Vince.”

  “Sorry. You want to know why we care about Yemen? Guess what the most valuable commodity in the whole frigging Middle East happens to be.”

  “Yemen doesn’t have oil deposits. British Petroleum and several other companies bored all those dry holes years ago and gave up.”

  “Maybe they didn’t bore in the right place. You know that vast reservoir that lies under Saudi Arabia? Well, it extends all the way south to somewhere around the northern border of Yemen, which, for your information, has always been disputed. No one wanted to get into a scrap with the Saudis over it—until now.”

  Claire put her fingertips together and reflected for a moment. “It all seems so cynical. Here we’re losing airplanes, pilots dying in Yemen, and it’s just for. . . oil. Nothing but economics.”

  “To us, maybe. Not to Al-Fasr.”

  “What does he get out of this?”

  “Power, for one thing. Vengeance, for another. The story is that he’s still bitter about his family being wiped out in a failed coup attempt in the emirates. He blames the U. S., which might explain all this thrust-and-parry stuff with the Navy. But the outcome is already agreed upon. A done deal.”

  “Deal? Who on our side would make such a deal?”

  Maloney looked uncomfortable. He took a long pull on his drink, then looked at her. “Did you ever hear of someone named Whitney Babcock?”

  <>

  By ten o’clock, Maloney was crocked. Claire steered him through the hotel lobby, past the desk and the gawking bellboys, out to the yellow-lighted sidewalk.

  He looked at her blearily. “Whaddya say, we go back to my place?”

  She knew that was coming. Maloney never changed. “Is that another proposition?”

  “Consider it an opportunity.”

  “Opportunity for what?”

  “To make amends for breaking my heart.”

  She laughed. “We’re buddies, Vince. Don’t spoil it.”

  “Lemme give you a ride home.”

  “I’m already home. This is my hotel.”

  He looked around. “Oh, yeah, so it is.”

  “You’re in no shape to drive. I’ll get you a taxi.”

  “No way. I do this all the time. Got lots of practice at this stuff.”

  Claire knew she shouldn’t let him drive, but arguing with Maloney was a waste of energy. Anyway, this was Sana’a. Not much could happen to you in the twisting streets of the old city. You couldn’t drive fast enough to do any real damage.

  Maloney gave her a wet smooch. “Go on up to your room. Don’t talk to anyone. These people hate you. They hate all of us.”

  After he had vanished down the sidewalk, she walked back through the lobby to the elevator. Again she sensed the hostile glare from the other guests watching her. Even the desk clerk gave her a baleful look.

  When she reached her room, she locked the door, then fastened the clasp. For good measure, she slid the dresser away from the wall and braced it against the locked door. Just in case.

  Maloney was right. They hate all of us.

  <>

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  Slumped over his console, Manilov listened to the steady pinging that resonated through the Mourmetz. He forced himself to appear unruffled by the sounds. In front of the other crewmembers, he must not appear to be frightened. Or indecisive.

  His executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Ilychin, seemed on the verge of an anxiety attack. Ilychin sat huddled at his own station, his arms wrapped around him. His eyes darted around the control room with each new ping from the sonars.

  Ilychin was a liability, Manilov decided. The executive officer’s palpable fear could infect the rest of the crew. Already Manilov was hearing whispered grumbles from some of the young warrants. They had not signed up for a suicide mission. They thought this would be an easy patrol—a quick torpedo shot at an unsuspecting target, then a submerged run to safe waters. That was all. Once they’d finished the patrol, they’d be rewarded with money beyond their wildest dreams.

  Manilov would have to reassure them. They had to have confidence in him. Ilychin’s trepidation was poisoning them.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  Still searching. If they had the Mourmetz tagged, the underwater sound signals wouldn’t be detonating in those random patterns and depths. The sound signals were dropped from a helicopter, and the fact that the pings were farther away now led Manilov to think they didn’t have a positive fix on the Mourmetz.

  What if they did?

  He remembered what he had been taught as a young engineering officer on his first patrol aboard the old Admiral Koblenko: Put yourself in the mind of your enemy.

  Manilov forced himself to detach from his present role. What would he do if he were the American anti-submarine commander?

  Kill the unidentified submarine?

  No. Not without knowing whose boat you were killing and not without first seeing some indication of hostile intent. You didn’t risk starting a war because somebody’s submarine was watching you.

  What then?

  Manilov thought for a moment. You try to keep it locked up, of course. Make sure the sub commander knows he’s tagged so he doesn’t try anything adventurous. You might even drop some ordnance, not too close, just to generate some fear. To emphasize the seriousness of your intentions.

  But the American commander hadn’t done any of those things. Why? It could only mean one thing: He was still fishing. He hadn’t found the Mourmetz, or at least he didn’t know within several kilometers where it was.

  Manilov had chosen a good hiding place.

  The Mourmetz lay motionless in the shelter of a protruding littoral shelf that dropped over three hundred meters to the ocean floor. It formed a natural blind from the enemy’s underwater signals and magnetic anomaly detectors.

  Ping. Ping.

  Yes, he determined, the pinging was definitely moving farther away. All he had to do was wait. That was what submariners had always done—wait. You waited for the enemy to give up and move on. You waited for your opportunity to strike. You waited to die.

  While he waited, Manilov scribbled on his notepad a personal assessment of his enemy’s assets. By his own count the Reagan was escorted by four destroyers, and he had to assume there was one, possibly two more, screening the battle group from the south. He knew that anti-submarine helicopters were deployed not only aboard the giant carrier but also on the cruiser and maybe even on the amphibious assault ship with its complement of cargo and attack helicopters. Additionally, the Reagan carried in its air wing a detachment of S-3 Viking submarine-hunting jets.

  Another chilling possibility nagged at him: The American Navy’s anti-submarine forces were often augmented by nuclear attack submarines of their own. These were usually Los Angeles class multi-purpose boats that could haul commando teams, launch cruise missiles—and hunt enemy submarines. Killer submarines were a boat captain’s most dreaded adversary.

  American warships were not his only worry. The Mourmetz was now two days past its scheduled delivery to the Iranian naval base at Bandar Abbas, on the stra
its of Hormuz. Since that time he had ignored the flow of increasingly urgent messages from the Pacific Fleet command headquarters in Vladivostok. He had no doubt the Russian Navy was now at full alert, searching for its missing warship. He wondered if the Iranians had paid them yet for the submarine. He hoped so.

  Manilov sat back in his metal chair and looked at his assessment sheet. The odds against him were staggering. One lone submarine against the two most powerful navies in the world.

  He tossed the notebook onto the desk. Fuck the odds. When he took the Ilia Mourmetz into battle, none of that would matter. He was a Russian, and this was his destiny. Only fate mattered.

  Chapter Ten

  Lima Bravo

  Gulf of Aden

  1145, Tuesday, 18 June

  Colonel Gritti felt the dank sea air blasting through the open hatch of the CH-53E Super Stallion. Next to him, eyes sweeping the horizon, the machine gunner hunched over his .50 caliber gun.

  A hundred yards in trail was the second Stallion. Bracketing the cargo helicopters were the AH-1W Whiskey Cobra gunships, one in the lead, one in trail. The formation skimmed the surface of the Arabian Sea at two hundred feet.

  The southern shoreline of Yemen swept beneath them in a brown blur. Gritti keyed his boom mike: “War Lord, Boomer is feet dry.”

  “We see that, Boomer,” answered Guido Vitale. “The SEAD package is on board. Your signal is Lima Bravo.”

  “Boomer copies. We have Lima Bravo.”

  Lima Bravo was the go signal. The TRAP team was cleared to proceed with its mission.

  Gritti gazed aft in the crowded interior of the cargo helicopter. His marines were crammed into the rows of bench seats on either side of the cabin. Each wore full battle gear, carrying a hundred pound pack. Every young face wore a rapt, tense expression.

  Two and a half decades as a grunt, thought Gritti. That was how long it took him to rise through the commissioned ranks of the Corps to what he considered to be the best job in the world—Commander of the 43rd Marine Expeditionary Unit. It was one of only seven such elite outfits deployed around the world. For a marine, this was as good as it got.