by Robert Gandt
Al-Fasr himself had no need for more dead Americans. What he needed now was fifty live prisoners. Holding the marines as hostages would discourage any further thoughts by the Americans about invading Yemen or assaulting his complex.
It would buy him the time to complete his mission.
Al-Fasr stopped his pacing and peered again at his watch. Perhaps he should go himself, engage in a personal discussion with the Marine officer. If the man understood how hopeless his situation was, how pointless it would be to suffer more casualties, he would acquiesce.
What if he refused?
Al-Fasr considered for a moment. Time was running out, as well as his patience. The danger was increasing with each hour that the enemy—the United States and its evil leaders—would launch an assault on his complex in Yemen.
It would be the end.
He could not allow his mission to be thwarted because of the obstinance of one blockheaded foot soldier. If the marines did not lay down their arms and surrender peacefully, he would take the perimeter by force. Quickly and without regard for life. If any survived, they would become his prisoners.
<>
“Are we going to surrender?” asked Baldwin.
Gritti looked at the young officer. He didn’t have an answer. Not yet, anyway. He had been a Marine for most of his adult life, but nothing prepared him for this. Every fiber in his being told him to continue fighting, tell Al-Fasr to go take a flying leap.
For what? So he and his young troops could prove that marines would rather die than surrender? What if they became hostages? If the military commanders running this operation were cynical enough to allow them to perish out here without throwing in massive quantities of firepower to support them, what the hell difference did it make? Better live hostages than dead marines.
The low point had come in the early morning, when the rescue helos appeared—then turned back. He wondered what happened to the two downed Hornet pilots. They weren’t coming up any more on the SAR channel. It meant they were either picked up or captured.
Conspicuously, no jets had swept in low as they did yesterday to strafe and bomb the Sherji. It occurred to Gritti that maybe Baldwin had it right. Perhaps the guys on the command ship really expected them to surrender.
The thought caused the anger to rise in Gritti again. At this very moment, he knew 1200 marines were poised on the Saipan to swarm into Yemen. Within six hours flying time, another two thousand could be on the ground here. In a day, an entire division could be airlifted from Europe.
Where the hell were they?
The fatigue was settling on him like a drug. Gritti let his mind wander for a moment. How would he be remembered after this episode? Marines had held their ground at Belleau Wood, at Iwo Jima, at Khe San. Of all the proud events marines celebrated in their long history, surrendering was not one of them.
He felt Baldwin’s eyes on him. “Are we going to surrender?” he said, repeating the captain’s question. “No, Captain, we are not.”
Baldwin gave him a curt nod. “Roger that, Colonel. What do you want me to tell Al-Fasr’s emissary?”
Gritti thought for a second. He didn’t know much Arabic, but he remembered something he’d learned in Riyadh. “Give him a little message from me. Tell him Manyouk.”
“Which means—?”
“Fuck you.”
Baldwin’s dirt-streaked face split in a grin. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him it’s from all of us.”
<>
“What the hell are we waiting for?” Boyce demanded. “Why aren’t we launching an alpha strike and a ground assault force now?”
Boyce’s strident tone alarmed Fletcher. Navy captains weren’t supposed to use that manner with admirals, particularly admirals who were their boss. The Air Wing Commander was coming close to insubordination.
“Because we follow orders in this battle group,” said Fletcher. “I take mine from OpNav and the Joint Chiefs and the Commander of the Joint Task Force. I’ll remind you that you take your orders from me. Lower your voice, Captain.”
Boyce acknowledged with a short nod. He jammed his cigar back in his mouth and resumed pacing back and forth in the flag plot compartment.
Fletcher wished Boyce would leave the meeting, go busy himself with some air wing matter. He was becoming Fletcher’s biggest headache.
Seated at the table in the flag conference compartment were Sticks Stickney, Guido Vitale, and Spook Morse. Watching from the far end of the room was Whitney Babcock, who had a telephone pressed to his ear.
Babcock hung up the phone and walked to the conference table. “That was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” he said. “The President and the national security council are fully apprised of the situation. They have authorized an amphibious assault to retrieve the marines—”
“About damn time!” Boyce interjected.
“—subject to the battle group commander’s discretion,” Babcock went on. “The on-scene commander—that’s Admiral Fletcher—has been given a window of twenty-four hours to resolve the situation.”
Boyce’s eyes bulged. “Twenty-four hours? What for? We could launch the assault now—with full air cover.”
“Absolutely not,” said Babcock. “The marines are in no immediate danger. It is still possible that the situation can be resolved diplomatically. We don’t want to start a war in Yemen.”
At this Boyce exploded. “Excuse me, but this is a fucking war. What do you call it when you lose three jets and four helicopters and a dozen fighting men? We’re supposed to negotiate with that sonofabitch?”
“That’s enough, Captain!” snapped Fletcher, giving Boyce a fierce look.
“It’s okay,” said Babcock, his voice indulgent. He smiled at Boyce. “It’s understandable that Captain Boyce would be upset. He’s a soldier, not a statesman. But the President believes, as I do, that a diplomatic solution to this matter is preferable to a military one. We don’t want to lose any more troops saving the ones who are already on the ground.”
“This reminds me of Bosnia,” said Boyce. “When the Serbs took the UN peacekeepers hostage and tied them to the targets they thought we might bomb. For a while we actually let them get away with it. Looks like we’re doing it again.”
“This isn’t Bosnia,” said Babcock. “There’s much more at stake here than in Bosnia.”
“More at stake than the lives of fifty marines?”
Fletcher was giving Boyce the look again.
“Gentlemen,” said Babcock, “I suggest we adjourn while the admiral and his staff prepare the op plan. You’ll be notified of any new development.”
That was fine with Boyce. He jammed the stub of his cigar back into his mouth and stalked out of the compartment.
<>
Farewell to Yemen, thought Claire. And good riddance.
From the window of the CH-53 Super Stallion, she watched the stuccoed buildings and the treeless landscape of Sana’a drop away. With her in the cabin of the big helo were two dozen other civilians, mostly wives and children of embassy staffers.
“Where are we going?” she asked the loadmaster back at the landing pad. He was a Marine gunnery sergeant, wearing full combat gear.
“Can’t say, ma’am. Not until we’re out of country.”
The NEO—Non-combatant Evacuation Order—had come within two hours of her arrival at the embassy. The killing of Vince Maloney provided the final stimulus to remove the American presence from the troubled country.
She still had on the linen pant suit she’d worn to the restaurant with Maloney. It was a mess—torn and soiled from falling in the street—but it was all she had. Everything she brought to Sana’a—luggage, clothing, toiletries, notebook computer—was back in the Al Qasmy hotel.
Oh, well. The computer, of course, she would miss. All her working notes, e-mail, and contacts were stored in its memory. Still, she had only to remember the dark-eyed killers in the streets of Sana’a to be glad she was leaving, with or without a computer. She was alive, thank
s to a Yemeni taxi driver whose name she never learned.
It took six CH-53s, Marine aircraft from the Saipan, to retrieve the evacuees from Sana’a. Another half dozen, she was told, were fetching Americans out of Aden.
The column of helicopters threaded its way through the mountains east of Sana’a, then turned south and followed a valley to the sea. Claire was numb from fatigue and fear. She had dozed for no more than a couple of hours at the embassy, waking in a panic. Still vivid in her memory was the orange glare, the crackling heat from the funeral pyre of Vincent Maloney.
A wave of sadness passed over her again. Poor Vince. She had accused him of doing nothing, of protecting his job, and she was wrong. For all his sloppy habits and flawed character, he was a dedicated foreign service officer. Why did they kill him?
In a flash it came to her. It wasn’t just him. She was supposed to die in the car with him. That’s why they chased her through the streets. They wanted her dead.
They hate us all.
She drew her arms around herself and shivered in the drafty cabin of the Super Stallion. It was too much to comprehend in her exhausted condition. All she knew was that she hated Yemen. She wanted out of this godawful place. She wanted Sam Maxwell. For all she knew, he was dead too.
She felt the helicopter bank, and she sensed that they were about to land. Through the open hatch the gray silhouette of a ship came into view. Behind it glistened a wide, white wake, sparkling in the morning sun.
The helicopter tilted back, slowing as it passed over the ramp of the flight deck. Claire felt the wheels clunk down on the steel deck. The whopping rotor noise hushed.
The hatch swung open, and in the backdrop Claire could see the distinctive, antenna-covered superstructure. Parked on the deck was a swarm of sleek, swept-wing jets.
A man wearing a cranial protector and a float coat over his yellow jersey appeared in the hatch. “Hope you had a nice ride, folks,” he yelled over the engine noise. “Welcome to the USS Ronald Reagan.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Mole
Gulf of Aden
0800, Wednesday, 18 June
Lieutenant Dimitri Popov, the new executive officer, entered the control room and came to where Manilov was jotting on his notepad.
Manilov put down his pen. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
Popov looked nervous. “Captain, the men have requested that I. . .” his voice faltered.
“What is it, Popov? What do the men want?” Here it comes again, Manilov thought.
The officer swallowed hard and resumed. “They do not wish to seem disloyal. But they would very much like to know what will happen to them when we complete this mission. Where will we go, and what will we do with the Mourmetz?”
Manilov nodded. These were legitimate questions, ones that had nagged at him since they left the yard in Vladivostok. Whenever the problem drifted unbidden into his thoughts, he always came up with the same answer: He had no idea.
But that would not please the crew.
The truth was, Manilov did not want to think about it. He was approaching the single culminating moment of his life. All that had happened to him in the past nineteen years was a prelude to the events of the coming hour. He had no thought of living beyond today. To make plans for tomorrow, next week, to plot an escape to some balmy paradise would only undermine his resolve. He had to remain focused.
To carry out his mission, he needed the crew of the Mourmetz. They must believe that they would live through this day, that their lives would go on.
“You may tell them that we will escape with the Mourmetz and sail to a neutral port,” Manilov said. “I have selected a place where the boat can eventually be reclaimed by its, ah, owners.”
“And the crew, sir? What will become of them?”
“We will be met by representatives of Al-Fasr, who will deliver to us our remuneration for the mission. His agents will organize travel, clothing, new passports, that sort of thing. It has all been arranged.”
Popov was nodding his head, pleased with the information. “This neutral port, Captain. May we know which neutral port? Capetown, perhaps? Mombasa?”
“It is best that we not divulge that information, since we are entering a combat situation.”
Popov seemed satisfied with the answers, unaware that Manilov was inventing them on the spot. “I will tell the men. They will be greatly relieved to hear this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Popov.” He watched the executive officer stride out of the control room.
<>
“Close the door,” said Boyce.
Maxwell shoved the door closed, then sank into a chair at Boyce’s conference table. He had been en route to the flag intel compartment for debriefing when Boyce snatched him and pulled him into the office.
They were alone in the air wing office. Boyce clamped down on his cigar and said, “I’m writing you a letter of reprimand for violating the rules of engagement.”
Maxwell looked at him, too tired to protest.
“You would have gotten a court martial, but none of the pussies on flag staff seems to comprehend what you actually did. Fletcher won’t make an issue of it because he wants another star. He knows he can kiss it goodbye if some reporter digs up another Mogadishu story about him being responsible for GIs trapped in Yemen.”
“So why am I getting a letter?”
“For the record. Off the record, I’m throwing it in the shitcan. Also off the record, what you did out there was exactly what I expected you to do. I’m pleased, and I’m sure Colonel Gritti is pleased. How’re you feeling?”
“Terrific. Haven’t felt so good since I had dysentery.”
“Too bad. After they finish debriefing you upstairs, go get yourself checked out by the flight surgeon. Then get some rest and be ready to fly again. We’re not finished with this mess in Yemen, and I’m gonna need you. By the way, how’s your wingman? I mean wingperson, or whatever the hell she is. I’ll never get used to this gender shit.”
“B.J.’s okay. Except for the gunshot wound.”
“The what wound? From—?”
Maxwell hoisted his Colt .45. “From this.”
Boyce was giving him a strange look. He shoved the cigar in his mouth and tilted back in his office chair. “Either I’m getting senile, or I’ll swear you’re gonna tell me you shot your own wingman.”
Maxwell poured himself a coffee. While Boyce gnawed the end off his cigar, Maxwell told him about the SA-16 hit, the ejection, then about the German mercenary pilot. He recalled for Boyce what Rittmann had said about the Reagan and about Al-Fasr having an informer aboard.
When he was finished, Boyce removed the cigar and said, “Un-fucking-believable. Then you had to go and shoot the sonofabitch.”
“It was him or B.J.”
“You got the daily double. Remind me to schedule you for remedial training on the shooting range.”
<>
With the other evacuees, Claire stepped onto the windswept deck, blinking in the bright daylight. It was the same surreal tableau she had left behind two days ago—howling engines, clouds of steam billowing from catapult tracks, men in colored jerseys and cranial protectors scurrying between airplanes, jets hurtling off the bow.
They were herded across the deck, through a door into the island structure. After they had removed their head gear and flotation vests, a chief petty officer led them to a briefing room. Another twenty civilians were there. Claire recognized several of the reporters from Aden, including Lester Crabtree.
They were still asking each other questions when the chief barked out: “Attention on deck!”
Into the compartment strode a tall man in khakis with an eagle on each collar. Claire recognized Sticks Stickney, captain of the Reagan. Stickney saw her and gave her a quick smile.
“Welcome to the USS Reagan,” Stickney said to the group. “Chief Harkins will give you your berthing assignments. We’re short of accommodations, I’m afraid. The women will be doubling up in staterooms, and t
he men will be billeted in temporary quarters we’ve set up on the O-3 level. For those who haven’t been aboard a Nimitz-class carrier before, notice that there is a diagram with a map on how to get around. In the event I find it necessary to call the ship to General Quarters, everyone aboard the ship—including guests—will go immediately to their battle stations. Yours happens to be right here. Please make it your business to know how to find this compartment.”
The civilians all nodded, some grinning uncertainly.
“There is a list of areas that are off limits. You will see these marked on the diagram in red. No one will be permitted to enter these areas without an escort.”
More nods, a few more uncertain grins.
“For the media personnel, individual clearances have issued for each of you. Note that there will be a mandatory press briefing at 1000 each morning in this compartment so long as you’re aboard. Any of you who misses the briefing or is discovered in a restricted area without specific consent from me will be confined to your quarters, under guard, until you can be offloaded from the ship. Any questions?”
They stared back at the captain. No one was grinning now.
A man raised his hand. “Captain, that seems rather draconian. Does that mean we’re at war?”
Stickney gave him a thin smile. “What it means, sir, is that we are on a heightened readiness status. Which is also why each of your dispatches must be cleared through our public affairs office.”
The man rose to his feet. “That’s censorship. We happen to represent the free press, and this is a breaking story. We have a right to report the news as we see it.”
This time Stickney wasn’t smiling. His eyes drilled into the reporter, trying to read his name tag. “Mr. . .?”
“Crabtree. Lester Crabtree, Reuters.”
“Mr. Crabtree, you are a guest aboard this vessel because you’ve been evacuated from a hostile country, courtesy of the U. S. Navy. If you attempt to transmit one byte of information that has not been cleared by me, I will have you locked in the brig. If this conflicts with your sense of a free press, I will make arrangements for your immediate return to Yemen. Is that your wish, sir?”