The Med

by David Poyer

  “Not a chance. Our max target speed is five hundred. Radar’ll keep up, but these old three-inch can’t train fast enough.”

  “Commodore,” said Dan. “They’re flying too fast for a director solution.”

  But when he turned to Sundstrom he saw that he was staring, lips slightly parted, out over the sea. He hesitated this time only a second. There was one answer left, though it was not in the book. He picked up the Pritac handset and wet his lips.

  “All ships with three-inch: Listen up! Target speed’s too high for director control. Shift from radar track to visual. Lay a barrage and make them fly through it. I say again, shift to visual track, barrage fire, all guns, estimate range five thousand. November Zulu out.”

  A different, deeper explosion came from outside, making his stomach jump. It was from the ship, a shock transmitted through her steel body before it reached their ears. Lenson craned out the window, and saw it, down on the flight deck. A mass of fuel-fed flame, a litter of twisted metal igniting into magnesium glare. Men ran, some away, others, dragging hoses, toward it. One of the helicopters. As he watched another began to burn. “HIT BRAVO,” said the metal voice of the announcing system. “HIT ON FLIGHT DECK—REPAIR FIVE PROVIDE—”

  “Air support,” said the commodore. They turned to look at him. Helmet unbuckled, collar awry, he leaned against the coaming of the starboard hatch, the climbing smoke black behind him. “We’ve got to have some goddamn air support, or we’re all going straight to the bottom. But they’re not going to pin the rose on me for this debacle. Get me Tony, right now.”

  “Sir?”

  “High frequency…” He made an impatient gesture for the handset. “Goddammit … what’s our call sign—”

  Flasher told him.

  “… This is Denver George. We’re under attack. Repeat, under attack. About a dozen fighters, type unknown. Request air support instantly. Tony, do you read me? I need air support! I’ve got six ships out here in a storm and we’re helpless … do you hear me…”

  “Sir,” said Flasher, putting his hand on Sundstrom’s arm. The commodore shook him off. “Goddammit, Tony, I say again—”

  The ether crackled, far off. “Denver George, this is True Dream. Say again your last transmission.”

  “We’re under air attack! Aren’t you listening? Is Tony there? Uh, Dream Actual?”

  “No, sir.” The voice was young, but still as distant as the ionosphere that broke and reflected his words. “I’ll relay that to him. TF 61 under air attack. Requesting air support. Out.”

  Sundstrom stared at the handset for a long moment. Slowly it slipped downward, out of his hands. It hung motionless for a moment at the end of its cord, then picked up the roll of the ship and began to swing.

  “You all heard that,” he whispered.

  “Inbound,” shouted Hogan, from the port wing, and they all ducked again, facing to port. Lenson keyed the squawk box but then saw the rudder indicator already pointing to hard left. Fourchetti’s boys were awake. Bow on fewer guns would bear, but Guam would present a smaller target. The clamor of the guns resumed, an earsplitting barking that shook the flag bridge and filtered smoke and powder fumes through the closed windows. Lenson found himself on the deck, clinging to the base of the radar repeater, hugging its reassuring solidity.

  Out of our league, he thought blindly. His breath squeezed from his lungs. Helpless. Not a goddamn thing to do but hang on and take it.

  But they were fighting back. The three-inch were old guns, designed to shoot down prop-driven kamikazes, and their radar control was obsolete; but there were plenty of them aboard, and each barrel dumped forty-five shells a minute into the sky. He raised his head, inch by inch, and was rewarded with the sight of gunflashes from the Barnstable County. The landing ship had closed up instinctively to two thousand yards, and was matching the flagship’s turn; she pouring it on, too, to the targets that to her were crossing her stern, heading for the Guam. He hoped they weren’t too fighting crazy to let go their triggers when their checksights filled with the gray bulk of the helicopter carrier.

  The aircraft popped up, suddenly, two of them—why two?—just above a green-gray sea that crashed into the bow, jolting the ship and sending the men on the bridge staggering. Blossoms of yellow fire, perfect rings of smoke, whipped past him on an icy wind … muzzle flashes from the leading edge of wings, the gaping mouths of air intakes, the cutting brilliance of aluminum. They bored inward, inexorable, invulnerable, growing like nightmares in his tranced sight. A whiplash of sound shattered a window and traversed the width of the flag bridge. He ducked, but did not drop, and thus caught for a fleeting moment the bent, anonymous helmet of a man in one of those cockpits, pitiless and merciless, or pitiful and merciful, there was no way of telling. You did not face your killer in modern war, just as he had no time to see those he destroyed. Instead you took cover, hid, if there was any hiding, and fought back with any means, any means that you had.

  “Bowen reports a splash.”

  His ears were ringing. “What did you say, Stan?”

  “One bogey in the water…” Glazer held up his hand as he listened. “Fired two Sparrow missiles; second one connected. Flamer. Parachute. Pilot’s in the water ten thousand yards to starboard of the force. Should we, uh … should we send out a chopper?”

  “Wise up, Stan.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sir? Commodore?”

  Alone of them all, Sundstrom was still standing, his head bent against the arm of his chair. At Lenson’s words he lifted it and stared at him. Belatedly he saw what the commodore had been looking at: a jagged hole through the brown leather, just at chest level. He could see the bulkhead through it, and the oblong hole in the starboard side the round had made going out.

  “What?”

  “Any orders, sir?”

  “We’re firing back, aren’t we? Can you think of anything else to do?”

  “Uh … no sir.”

  “Then don’t keep bothering me for orders, goddammit, just do what has to be done. Thank God we never gave these people nukes.”

  “Jesus, amen to that,” said Flasher, under his breath. He winked at Glazer, and then reached into his foul-weather jacket. Lenson expected a Hershey with almonds, but instead he came out with one, two, three red rubber balls.

  Kneeling there, he started juggling, hiding it with his bulk from Sundstrom, who was looking anxiously upward. Lenson stared.

  “Where are they now?” the commodore muttered, and Dan jerked his eyes away from Flasher. Bowen came over the net just then with a report. “November Zulu, this is Juliet Romeo. Two remaining bogeys have cleared the Missile Defense Zone, heading three-one-five.”

  “Sir, they’re outbound.”

  “Expended their ordnance … goddammit, let’s get some damage reports,” said Sundstrom, rushing out to the wing. “I can’t tell what to do without info. Get on that net, Dan! Right now!”

  “Aye, sir.” The commodore grated his nerves like sandpaper, but Lenson was still too excited to care. Could it really be over? He jotted down reports as they came in. Coronado had fragment damage, two casualties, investigating. Guam had lost two helos from strafing, taken fragment damage, and had four men wounded. Charleston and Newport were untouched. Spiegel Grove had a fire in her superstructure and heavy damage from aircraft cannon, but no casualties. Ault had been out of the action entirely. He had worried about leaving her astern, but she’d made out like a bandit; the fighters had never seen her.

  The remaining ship, Barnstable County, had not been so lucky. One of the Falcons had carried rockets. Most had gone high, their aim perhaps upset by the barrage, but at least two had bored into the forecastle and exploded inside the ship. The causeways were a wreck. Even worse news was that the bow ramp was damaged and jammed. Fortunately, the heavy seas were helping them fight the fire. Her commanding officer was down directing the DC team in person right now, the OOD reported. Staring out the open hatch, past Sundstrom’s back, Lenson co
uld see smoke whipping back on the wind from the LST’s forward deck, could see men moving about, dragging hoses.

  He rogered for the reports, signed off, and went out to the wing. Sundstrom listened gloomily, staring over the coaming as a foam truck gushed white over the blazing aircraft. “Goddamn,” he said, as Lenson finished. “They clobbered us. Barnstable has twenty amtracs aboard. If we can’t get those ashore, a landing won’t have much chance.”

  “I don’t think we did so badly, sir. Half a dozen wounded, and no major damage. It could have been a lot worse. All that three-inch in the air—we couldn’t aim it worth a shit, but I bet it made them think twice about making another pass. And Bowen got one!”

  “Men can be replaced. Those causeways and amtracs can’t. Two helos out—that cuts our air-landing capability, too.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sundstrom rubbed his face. Now that it was over, Lenson saw that the commodore was trembling. He felt pretty shaky himself, come to think of it.

  “No, Dan, this was a debacle. We should have been able to shoot down all three of those bastards. They were right down on the water. And we should have had air cover. If we’d had a couple of F-14s they’d never have attacked us. It was a debacle.” He struck his fist slowly on the steel.

  Lenson began to shake. He looked at the commodore, then out at the sea. He turned silently for the bridge.

  “Dan,” the commodore called after him, “I want our ships to stay at GQ. Those guys could be back any time.”

  “Yes sir,” said Lenson. It was all he could do to say it.

  * * *

  They found out later that afternoon what a debacle it had truly been. Not for them, but for others.

  Coronado reported the first drifter, and requested instructions. Sundstrom agonized over it for five minutes, then ordered her to maintain course and speed. He was afraid of submarines. Then there were more, the escort reported “many many,” and when the officers went out to the bridge wing they saw them. Heaving on the seas far ahead, they grew as the ship throbbed forward; became white specks, drifting bales, and then, last of all, dead men. They slipped quietly past, face down, most in muddy-colored trousers and white T-shirts, a few naked. Guam’s crew stared down at them from the flight deck, quiet as the bloated bodies, unwilling to speak. One had long hair, and the wind ruffled it as he rolled at the crest of an oil-slicked wave to face upward, one arm outflung as if imploring aid. The arm ended in no hand. There was no blood on any of them. The sea had taken it.

  The squawk box sounded, and Lenson reached down to answer it, still looking over the side.

  “Flag bridge, bridge. What do you make of them?”

  “I guess that big gaggle of bogeys to the north found their Turks, Captain.”

  “Maybe. I’d like to heave to, pick one up for identification.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Lieutenant Lenson, Captain.”

  “Oh. Is the commodore there?”

  “No sir, he’s below eating his dinner. Ah—” Dan hesitated. “Why don’t you just go ahead and do it, Captain?”

  “Good point,” Fourchetti said. “Bridge out.”

  One of the radiomen came up with a priority message. Lenson glanced at it, saw that it was about the embassy hostages. Their commandeered airliner had landed, in Syria. It interested him at the moment very little, and he sent the man down to the commodore’s sea cabin.

  Suddenly there was nothing to do. He leaned against the window and watched the damage-control teams working. A tractor was clearing the burnt-out helo over the side. It teetered on the brink, as if reluctant to leave, then gave way and toppled into space. A splash, a spreading cloud of white foam on gray sea, and it was gone. A roar from overhead made him glance up. Theirs; the two fighters from the America. When they had vectored in, half an hour before, he’d been angry at their lateness. Now, looking at the men in the water, he was glad they were there.

  The commodore’s phone buzzed. Oh, Jesus, he thought, and picked it up. “Yes sir.”

  “Who’s that? Lenson?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. Dan, did you read this message?”

  “Uh, glanced at it, sir.”

  “What do you think?”

  Think? He tried to. “Uh, Syria…”

  “The coordinates they give for the abandoned airstrip. What does that mean to you?”

  Still holding the phone, he crossed to the chart. Measured roughly, with his fingers spread. “Uh, that’ll be just north of the Lebanese border, east of—”

  “Goddammit, Dan, I know that. I can read a map! But look how far inland it is.”

  “Oh. Not that far.”

  “Not that goddamn far at all. Dan, I think it’s still possible we could be sent in.”

  “Into Syria?” He could hardly believe what he heard. It was as if Sundstrom had proposed landing in East Germany.

  They were both silent for a moment. Lenson stared at the chart. It did look tempting. Only thirty miles or so overland direct from the beach. But no, he remembered what Byrne had said—Soviet client, Soviet naval base, hell of a well-equipped army—

  “Maybe not,” the commodore muttered into his ear. “But I want to be ready, damn it. Those are our orders. What would we have to do?”

  The fatigue had fallen back a bit, and he thought more rapidly now. “Well,” he said, “that coast is only a hundred miles east of us … we could make that pretty quick. They know we’re here though, they could track us as soon as we started to move.” An idea woke and moved around back in his mind.

  “Could we be ready?”

  He had the answer to that all right. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Reaching for the idea, prodding it forward into daylight.

  “Maybe we ought to head in that direction, anyway, just in case—”

  “Not as a group,” said Dan then.

  “What’s that?”

  “Sir, if anyone expects us to get the MAU ashore there in one piece, it’s got to be done fast as hell, and it’s got to be a surprise. Otherwise there’ll be a division of tanks waiting for them on the beach. I think we ought to disperse.”

  To his surprise Sundstrom did not dismiss it immediately. Instead he said, “Disperse—you mean break up the task force?”

  “Yes sir. This overcast, plus the air attack—if we split up they’ll think we’ve lost some ships, we’re hurt bad, we’re just milling around. Even if that AGI’s still around he’ll only find one of us.”

  “I don’t know, Dan. Say we scatter and head east. Then what?”

  “Well, I guess we wait for orders.”

  “But if somebody gets lost, they’re not used to navigating on their own—”

  Sundstrom had several more nitpicking reservations. Dan answered each in turn, feeling increasingly weary. There wasn’t much chance of it anyway. At last the commodore hung up and he stood motionless for a moment, feeling weak. Then he reached for the signal book. Disperse, steer various courses east, rendezvous point to follow—he flipped pages listlessly.

  Fourchetti came up again on the squawk box a few minutes later, reporting pickup complete. He felt the ship shudder as the screws bit in. He hit the intercom.

  “Bridge aye.”

  “Flag bridge again. Captain—you get any ID off him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your drifter.”

  “Oh. No. I can’t even tell if he’s Greek or Turk. In fact … he looks just like one of our sailors.”

  That suddenly, out of nowhere, his body dropped away, like a stone through air. He leaned his weight into the radar console, his head bending into it. Not in acquiescence; he was simply unable any longer to support himself. The ship reeled under his feet. Nausea … he struggled to lift his head, feeling the blackness of the deep sea come up in waves through his legs.

  “Dan, you all right?”

  “Yeah. Just tired.”

  “Sit down for a minute. I’ll take over.�
��

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “This is Big Red, I got the deck,” said Flasher loudly. To Lenson he said, “Look, go on below. Hit the sack for half an hour. How long you been up, anyway?”

  “I forget.”

  “Lay your butt below, man. You won’t be any good if you’re falling down.”

  “I’m supposed to be on—”

  “So he makes a stink, I ordered you below. My ass, not yours. Don’t worry so much, you’re getting like him.”

  “That’s below the belt, Red. But okay.” He breathed deep a few times, felt the darkness edge back; enough at least for him to stagger to the bridge ladder. But at its head he turned back. “Red—the order to scatter—”

  “I was listening. It’s a good tactic.”

  “What?”

  “I said, it’s a good idea. Damned good. Wish I’d thought of it.”

  “You think so?” Dan grinned through the faintness.

  “Yeah. Go on down. I’ll call him again, maybe get Haynes to call him, argue him into it.”

  He got below somehow, but in his stateroom paused at the bunk frame, breathing hard. He felt weak. He rested for a moment, waited for the ship to roll, and kicked himself up. Or halfway up. He hung on the edge, steel biting his wrists, and slipped back. Still no good. He needed will, energy, something more than his drained mind could force from the exhausted knot of carbon compounds that crouched six feet below its rest.

  He visualized a face. Pudgy and worried, suspicious and self-protective. And worst of all, indecisive. The energy came then, the hate, and he launched himself upward with his last strength, into his rack.

  There was time for one look at her picture before he closed his eyes. He stared upward at it, his breath coming shallow. The nausea and fatigue, like acid etching away the unessential, made him see clearly something he had never dared to admit before.

  He did not belong here.

  It was not Sundstrom, at least not him alone. Foolishness and incompetence existed as much, he told himself, in any profession—although the power a commander wielded at sea made it harder to bear. It was simpler than that. It was wrong because he was away from them. But he was bound, both by law, obligation, and by his own choice. The sea, the clean, uncomplicated life of orders and men … he loved it. He always had and he always would.