The Med

by David Poyer

  “And if it doesn’t?” said Cook. “If the Turks don’t do what you want—”

  “Oh, it’s easy enough. America orders the Turks to release them. Your allies are dependent on the Americans for weapons, money, ammunition. They will do as they are told. So, our friends are released and flown here. You go back on the same plane, leave Syria, leave the Middle East for home.”

  “Ah,” said the Ox. For a moment gunfire was the single sound in the room, that and the sound as Susan sipped water for herself. It was warm but clean and she drank the rest of the bowl without stopping for breath. Only then, too late, did she remember Moira and Cook, and felt guilty and selfish. Then she thought rebelliously, But I got it for us. For Nan and myself. Why shouldn’t I drink it?

  “It won’t work,” said Cook. “I hate to say this—Harisah?—but I don’t think the U.S. has that kind of leverage over the new regime there. Especially while they’re in the middle of a war.”

  “We will find that out.”

  “And if they don’t? What will you do then?” said Moira.

  Nan let out a sob, just one, and they all turned to look down at her. Susan got up from the bed, holding her close.

  “You had to threaten to do something to us,” Lieberman repeated, lowering her head. Susan recognized her stubborn look, the one she got in class when she was ready to argue. “If your demands aren’t met—if the U.S. can’t, or won’t, make them release these people—then you’ll kill us. Isn’t that right? Of course it is. Why don’t you go ahead and say it?”

  When he shrugged Moira turned away. “Maybe you’d better get out,” she said. “Israel doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. I hope no one does with you.”

  Susan froze. No, Ox, she thought desperately. Don’t taunt him. Don’t humiliate him. Don’t order him about in front of his men—

  But to her surprise, Harisah said nothing. Only straightened from the window and held out his hand. One of the others reached his rifle from the corner for him.

  He left, not looking at them again, his back straight. As soon as the corridor was empty Moira sat down heavily on the bed. “Whew,” she said. “I hate heavy scenes.”

  “You’re sure Nancy’s okay?” said Cook.

  Susan slumped to the bed, too. She could feel her kneecaps trembling. “Oh … I think so. Aren’t you, Bunny? Everybody’s gone, you’re all right, you’re here with us?”

  “I guess so,” said the child, but she did not smile. Something in her face was a little too still.

  “Okay, folks, show’s over,” said Michael to the other hostages, who had come to stand outside the door as soon as the guards had left. “Betts, you want to go back to our room?”

  “Yes. Let’s, please.”

  But Moira hung back a step, touched her arm as they filed out. “Hey, kid. A word.”

  “What?”

  She lowered her voice. “I saw him looking at you. You better watch out for that guy.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Harisah. I don’t like it. If he’s willing to kill us, what’s a little rape?”

  “He doesn’t seem like the type, Ox. He was fair about Nan—”

  “Fair?” Lieberman’s eyes sharpened on her. She leaned a little closer. “Hey. Are you getting ideas, too? Forget them. This isn’t the place for them, Betts Chan, and he sure as hell isn’t the guy.”

  The suddenness of the insight, the source, and even more unexpected, the partial truth of it—she had to admit that, if only for a second, her emotions had been caught off guard—made her angry. “Don’t be an ass, Moira. I assure you I have no—no ideas.”

  “See that you don’t. Remember, you have her to think about.”

  “I know what I have to think about, damn it, Moira! Don’t think for a minute I wouldn’t do anything for her! And what about you? Why did you push him like that, in front of his men? Is that smart? Snaggletooth has his gun back. Don’t you have any idea what he can do to us? The only one who’s keeping him from shooting us all is Harisah.”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe you’re right. Hush, Betts, I’m sorry.”

  She tried to shake off Moira’s hand, but it stayed firmly on her shoulder, guiding her out the door. Susan turned, at the last minute, hoping to see him one last time; but all that remained to sight was his broad back, far down the corridor, his hand lifted in the middle of a remark to the men who dogged his steps. And then he turned the corner, and was gone.

  22

  U.S.S. Guam

  The commodore scowled in the silver light of approaching dusk, and shifted again in the padded chair. There was no comfort in it anymore. The lumpy patch one of the bo’s’n’s mates had sewn over the hole poked right into the small of his back.

  They’d have done better than this for their precious Fourchetti, he thought darkly.

  Well, maybe it would help him stay awake. He leaned back gingerly against leather. The patch jabbed his kidney this time. He ignored it, forcing his mind back to a fact it would have preferred to forget.

  He had to make a command decision, and soon.

  The message he held now was clear, in its way. In the failing light that filtered through the bridge windows he studied it again. Pink paper. Top Secret.

  Upon receipt of this communication CTF 61 will prepare for immediate execution of an amphibious raid for the rescue of the hostages and associated embassy personnel suspected being held vicinity Ash Shummari, Syria.

  Maximum effort will be made to achieve operational and tactical surprise. However, U.S. forces will avoid all appearance of hostility to Syrian and other forces, should they be encountered. Friction with Soviet land or sea units must repeat must be avoided. Deadly force is authorized only against terrorists actually holding hostages. To emphasize the limited nature of the incursion, 32 MAU will disembark with hand weapons only. Units proceeding inland will not fire unless as a last resort, i.e. self-defense against armed attack. Supporting or suppressive naval guns or air support will not be used.

  If challenged by hostile forces of larger than battalion size they will, unless otherwise directed by this or higher authority, terminate the mission, retire, and reembark.

  The concept of operations is as follows:

  The rough plan took up only three paragraphs. Stripped to its essentials, it outlined a time-urgent landing on the coast of Lebanon, just south of the Syrian border. While part of the landing force secured and held a beachhead there, a strike element of lightly armed marines would continue inland at high speed, attempting to avoid the various warring militias. Some twenty miles inland the marines would hook left and cross the border into Syria itself. Ash Shummari, the abandoned resort where the commandeered airliner had landed, would then lie only a few miles to the north.

  So far, okay. He could get Lenson to reorient his operation order from Cyprus to Syria. Too bad, by the way, that apparently his dependents were among the hostages. But he’s better off not knowing, the commodore thought. He’d spend all his time worrying. And I need him. No, I did the right thing there.

  But his eyes narrowed, he tilted the paper to the evening light at the conclusion of the message.

  In view of adverse weather and fluid political situation in the Eastern Med, circumstances may arise which prohibit carrying out of these orders, or require delay or modification. In this case CTF 61, the On-Scene Commander, is authorized to use own judgment, informing higher authority as soon as possible. In any eventuality, excess force will not be used, nor will U.S. troops be exposed to risk incommensurate with the mission.

  Now, what the hell did that mean? It sounded like some goddamn legal beagle had written it. He shifted on the slick leather and put his feet up on the squawk box. He regarded his slippers moodily, then craned his neck around. “Dan?”

  “Mr. Lenson’s below,” said the operations officer, coming toward him from the opposite side of the bridge. “What can I do for you, boss?”

  Sundstrom glanced at him sourly. Boss. The fat lieutenant was unshaven, his ca
p shoved back on his head; his uniform shirt strained at its buttons. “Mr. Flasher … what’s that in your mouth?”

  “Gum.”

  “Remove it before you talk to me, Lieutenant.”

  “Sure, sir.” He worked free a pink wad, looked at it for a moment, whistling under his breath, and then affixed it carefully to a handy speaker. Sundstrom closed his eyes. Perhaps that, he thought, is the most irritating thing of all about him. The unfailing cheer of the idiot. Of all the unprofessional …

  “SUROBS,” said Flasher, holding out a clipboard.

  “What?”

  “I had Radio monitor the Kleiat airfield frequency. That’s only four miles from the target beach. They got a local weather report. I calculated surf height from that and the chart.”

  Sundstrom felt sick. Eavesdropping on commercial radio for their intelligence. He should have a proper preassault preparation: aerial reconnaissance, an underwater demolition detachment to check for beach obstacles, minesweepers. But there was no time for that. Instead Roberts expected him to steam a hundred miles and carry out a landing on a coast none of them had ever seen before, with twenty hours’ warning. But one thing was sure. It was his feet they would hold to the fire if he made the wrong decision.

  “Well, goddamn it, let’s have it. No, I don’t want to read it! Brief me!”

  “The numbers work out high, Commodore. Between six and ten feet, way too rough for the smaller craft. But I still think we can get them ashore.”

  “Why?”

  “The combination of lee and this sandbar.”

  “What do you estimate?” grunted Sundstrom. He hated asking this man for advice.

  “No more than five feet.”

  “Show me the chart again.”

  Flasher unfolded it for him against the window. Sundstrom leaned forward, blinking to clear his eyes; they were falling shut again. “Just a moment. Call my steward up here.”

  “Aye, sir. Messenger—ring the commodore’s pantry, please.”

  “Okay,” said Sundstrom. “Winds are still from the east. Right?”

  “Zero-nine-five last report, Commodore.”

  “Sea height open sea, ten to twelve feet forecast—and we saw worse than that today. So you think—” He examined the stretch of beach between Tartus and Tripoli, trying to envision what the hydrography meant to swell formation. God, he thought then, I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m doing.

  But sometimes you had to act as if you did. It was the only way to keep the flunkies and time-servers honest. He stabbed a finger just south of the Syria-Lebanon border, the stretch of beach the Pentagon had recommended. “What about secondary systems?”

  “Don’t have any information on those. Sorry.”

  “If there’s one from the early part of the storm, it would shoal right here at El Aabde. It could be higher than six feet.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not that gradual a gradient, according to the chart.”

  “You’re guessing, Mr. Flasher! Aren’t you?”

  “Yes sir, I sure am.”

  “Goddammit, I can’t commit a force on that kind of information! That’s not the way I operate. I need to be sure!”

  “Well, you asked me for an estimate, Commodore.”

  Sundstrom threw himself back, staring at the lieutenant. At that moment his steward, who had come up silently behind them, set a cup of coffee and a saucer on the arm of his chair. Flasher glanced at it. Sundstrom picked it up and drank a good half of it, frowning, then set it aside.

  “What about a helicopter?”

  “Sir?”

  “Could we send a helo ashore? Get a check on the surf height that way?”

  “It’s too dark now. Anyway, they’d have a hard time estimating surf height from the air.”

  “You’re too negative, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes sir.” Flasher grinned.

  Sundstrom looked at his face for a moment longer, then waved him away. He lifted the saucer, shaking his head and drank the rest of the coffee, staring out at the sea. This, he mused, is the kind of staff support I get.

  Dusk. The shrouded and dying sun, out of sight astern, penetrated the clouds for a moment as if in farewell. Its dull light threw an indistinct shadow ahead of the heaving ship. Where it fell the waves turned from storm-green to black. He could see the crests moving steadily toward them, creaming white, sliding at last under the bow, the ship rising sluggishly and then dropping. The motion was not unpleasant, in as large a ship as this. There was no roll now that the seas were on their bow. Pleasant, like he imagined horseback riding to be, moving along at a steady canter.

  He twisted in his chair. To port, to starboard, ahead steadily converging now though still scattered out of sight the ships of the MARG would be steaming each at a steady pace, each with her own rhythm of roll and pitch. Where … where was their escort? He had ordered Bowen to stay with the flagship. He craned outward to see her coming up from astern, not more than a mile away.

  She went past him at flank speed, heeling a little, slicing the waves apart with her sharp bow rather than crushing them like the bulky amphibious ships. The low hull disappeared for a moment among the seas, then heaved high on a crest. A trace of light smoke blew from her stack, and he could see spray fly along her forward decks as a larger sea threw her head up. He followed her dumbly with yearning eyes. God, what he wouldn’t give to be her captain. To have clear orders to follow. No politics, no equivocating.

  But his life wasn’t that simple. This weasel-worded piece of flypaper Roberts had sent him, now. That was what was wrong with the Navy these days. If the boys upstairs had just said, openly and honestly, “Do it,” then Ike Sundstrom would march into Hell itself with a clear conscience, eyes on the ball. He was good at following orders, none better.

  But all the weasel-wording … his head sagged back against the headrest.

  When he woke the bridge was dark. Only a faint luminescence, the faintest wash of gray, lit the sky. He sat upright in sudden panic. How long had he been asleep? There were things to be done. “Mr. Flasher!” he called. “Why did you let me go to sleep? What time is it?”

  “It’s almost nineteen hundred, sir.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Lieutenant-Commander Byrne, sir.”

  “Goddammit, Byrne—God damn it.” He sat up, furious. He had to decide, right now.

  But still he found himself gripped by the same indecision, stymied by the same lack of information and conflicting fears. That goddamn surf—if it was ten feet, like Fleet Weather predicted, he could lose a lot of people getting ashore. The surf could roll a small boat over and over along the beach. He had seen it happen to an Italian landing craft at one of the early exercises.

  But this was not an exercise, to be delayed if conditions were not perfect. He had orders to get the MAU ashore if he could. Other problems occurred to him then. “Byrne.”

  “Sir.”

  “Ault … what’s her status? Is that shaft fixed yet?”

  “They’re working on it, sir.”

  “What? You’re guessing. You don’t know. Call them up and find out.”

  “Sir, they reported half an hour ago. They hope to get it on line soon, but they can’t be sure.”

  “How far back is she?”

  “About fifty miles, I estimate, sir.”

  “That goddamned Foster. He’s had it in for me since she joined; he knows I’m an old destroyerman; they can’t put things over on me like they could on MacInroe. How can I land without gunfire support? And what about Barnstable? Is her ramp still jammed?”

  This time he felt the man hesitate. “Well?”

  “I’ll give her a call, sir, and check on that.”

  “What have you been doing up here, Byrne? You should be on top of things like that. That’s what you’re drawing salary for.”

  “Yes sir.”

  But the answer from the landing ship was just as unsatisfactory. They felt they could get the bow doors open once, bu
t they might not be able to get them closed. The rocket hits had destroyed the handling mechanism. Sundstrom had a vision of one of his ships foundering, trying to face a storm with her bow doors open. He put his hands over his face, rubbed hard. He felt himself sliding off to sleep once more, and ground his back into the patched chair. No. He had to stay awake, and he had to decide.

  What a goddamn no-win situation Roberts had put him in. He understood suddenly what was going on. They were lining his coffin. How had it taken him this long to catch on? They’d gotten to him, the ones who wanted Ike Sundstrom to fail. Or Roberts was doing it himself, leaving himself an out in case they lost men going ashore, or the landing was a bloody disaster. That was it, he was covering his ass. With a message phrased that way, no matter what happened, Commander, Sixth Fleet was safe. If he made the wrong decision, the admiral could point to that message. “I told him to use his good judgment. Unfortunately, Commodore Sundstrom failed to take into consideration the following factors—”

  Oh, that was it, all right. That was how the big boys worked. You didn’t make admiral by taking chances. Not in the peacetime Navy.

  He stared at the intelligence officer’s back. “Commander Byrne.”

  The man came back unwillingly, dislike in the very set of his neck. Sundstrom was suddenly angry. “So you don’t know the status of the task force. Let’s see what you do know, if anything. What’s happening in Lebanon now?”

  “Ceasefire’s down the drain, sir. Heavy shelling in the Beirut suburbs.”

  “What about the north, up near Syria? Where they recommend we go in?”

  “Things seem quieter there.”

  “What do you think of their recommendation?”

  Byrne nodded, as if to a child who had asked an intelligent question at last. It enraged Sundstrom, but he held his peace. “The El Aabde beach, then inland along the hill road; hook left across the border, hit the terrorists in the flank—it sounds reasonable.”

  “I expect a more thorough analysis than that from my intel staff, Mr. Byrne.”

  “Yes sir.” The N-2 pulled a chart from his pocket and unfolded it. “I brought it up with me, in case you asked. Here’s what we know about the militia formations in the area. The nearest regular forces are a regiment of Syrian armor back here, at Homs—”