The Med

by David Poyer

  The knot broke. “Gonna go for sure,” said Cutford, staring at the sergeant as he toiled up the hill, and they all rose, dusting off their utilities.

  Silkworth, as he went up to them, was looking east. Following his eyes, Givens saw in the fresh daylight that the hills they had landed on were only foothills, and that beyond them mountains stood tan against the sky. Tan, and above that the white glisten of snow.

  “Holy shit, Sergeant! We goin’ over those?”

  But all he said, looking to the sunrise, was “Stand easy. They’ll let us know.”

  28

  U.S.S. Guam

  Lenson came to suddenly, his head coming up off his stateroom desk. A litter of crumpled paper and marked-up pubs slid to the deck. His first thought was that his neck ached.

  His second was that a phone was buzzing steadily. He lifted his wrist, stared at it without thought. He could not remember where he was for a moment; only that he was very tired. Then, gradually, it came back. Deployed. The commodore. The oporder. Finally he realized why he’d looked at his watch; this was D-day, and H-hour for Urgent Lightning was less than two hours away.

  He jerked the phone out, cursing himself. It was the flag bridge messenger; the commodore wanted to see him. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink and ran up to the flag bridge. Sundstrom’s chair was empty. He groped his way in the dark until he bumped into a body.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Damn it, do I have to send you down under guard? I told you to get some sleep.”

  “Can’t talk now, Red. He called me. Where is he?”

  Flasher used a few choice words. “He’s in his cabin. I guess.”

  “So this is it, huh.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Tomorrow—I mean, this morning.” A red flashlight winked on and then off as Flasher checked his watch. “Oh-four-twenty. We sent your oporder mod out a little after three. We’re in the approach phase now. Everything’s on track.”

  “Do you know what he wants me for?”

  “Oh, yeah!” said the ops officer. “You’ll love this one. He wants a report on Ault’s grounding.”

  “What? I thought—”

  “Thinking again? I warned you about that.”

  “But—oh, Christ. Now? When we’re sending in the lead elements of a raid?”

  “COMSIXTHFLEET didn’t ask for one till now.”

  “Oh, well, in that case.”

  “Have a good time,” he heard Flasher mutter. But he was too angry to respond.

  When he knocked and let himself into the flag cabin he found himself in darkness. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then heard something stir in the room beyond.

  “Dan? That you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  A light showed him Sundstrom sitting up in bed. “Come in, come in,” he mumbled, flipping his hand at a corner of the bunk as he reached for his glasses. “Sit down here. Read this.”

  Dan studied the message. It was from Admiral Roberts.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Fm: COMSIXTHFLT

  To: CTF 61

  Subj: Grounding of Unit Under Your Command

  1. (C) Communications from US authorities Naples IT indicate that USS AULT, under your operational control, was involved in grounding incident during recent departure that port. Further understand from HF conversation with you that AULT currently lagging main body TF 61 due to propulsion casualty.

  2. (C) Forward immediate explanation of your failure to report grounding. Forward immediate details of machinery status of AULT.

  He blinked. Even for a naval message, this was blunt. Roberts was pissed. He looked up at the commodore.

  “Now look, Dan, apparently we owe Tony a report on this grounding business. Nobody else thought about it—as usual.”

  “Sir, Mr. Flasher says we got a message from the destroyer on it.”

  “I know that. I read my traffic, Dan! But that was just the letter of the law. That was just a damage report. I’m sure Tony wants more than that. This is prime court-martial material. If we don’t take the initiative, seal it off right now, it’ll snowball right through the cracks. I want you to write up an investigation.”

  “An investigation?” Lenson said. He sounded stupid even to himself.

  “An investigation. A full, factual account of what happened. You’d better—have you got something to write on?”

  Mechanically, he took his notebook out and found a pen. Sundstrom leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Okay. Start with the situation—the task force having to get to sea at once. I ordered that, took the initiative, and events have proved me right. Now, Captain Foster called me back, and said he couldn’t get a pilot out of Naples. Got that so far?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now, I wanted him underway, but I was afraid something like this might happen. He thinks he’s a hotshot, thinks he can drive a destroyer blindfolded. I know his type from the Pacific, believe me. So I told him, it’s up to you, but safety is paramount; under no circumstances are you to attempt the channel without a local pilot unless you’re certain you can navigate in perfect safety. That’s what I said.”

  “You said that in a message, Commodore? We could reference the date time group.”

  “No, no, this was in a radio conversation. There’s no official record. But that’s the gist of it.”

  “Sir, I didn’t hear that—I mean, I wasn’t on the bridge during that exchange.”

  “I know. There’s been a lot going on lately, and you haven’t had much sleep.” The commodore’s voice was understanding. “I know that, and I don’t hold it against you. You’re doing a great job; you’re the only one of the staff officers I can depend on, and I promise you I won’t forget it when it comes time for your fitness report. There should be decorations too in this Syrian operation, if it’s handled right. Now. Ault’s CO was cautioned not to attempt the channel.”

  Lenson watched the pen tremble in his hands. It hesitated for a long moment, then, jerkily, as if without his connivance, wrote Captain cautioned.

  “I want a message recounting that series of events for Roberts. Add that after receiving the grounding report, I radioed Ault and Foster told me personally that grounding damage was minimal to nonexistent; that his ship was at that time showing no effects on her propulsion or other systems; and that on that basis, I decided not to forward her report of grounding, because it would tend to damage the career of a promising and aggressive skipper who up to then had performed well. Say that the later casualty to Ault’s engines was a surprise to me, due to Foster’s soft-pedaling of the amount of damage the grounding had caused, that I was unaware of it.”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Dan. You don’t understand how these things are done. This is the way the big boys play the game. Now. Despite—”

  “Sir, I can’t write that. It isn’t true.”

  There was no sound in the cabin for a long moment. He raised his eyes to find Sundstrom looking at him coldly.

  “Write what I said, Lieutenant.”

  And the whole immense weight of years, years of conditioning, of indoctrination, of salutes and obedience forced his pen down to the paper once again. He struggled to lift it, to lift his eyes again as the commodore droned on. But he could not. He was so tired. Too tired, right now, to fight. And not over this. What did it matter? This was not important. Not compared to the landing. If he didn’t write it someone else would. And he would be out in the cold.

  But this was the last time. He could promise himself that. He would go along no more.

  “Aye aye, sir,” he whispered.

  * * *

  He went straight to SACC after sending the commodore’s Report of Investigation down to Radio. He drank six cups of coffee while they waited, tuning the radios, checking target lists against the maps, establishing comms.

  At 0550 the first helo lifted off with a roar that rattled through the flight deck down to them.
He and the others glanced up, paused; then returned, wordless, to their preparations.

  Now it was 0610, and the Navy was doing business at last. Deep in the flagship the hiss of air conditioners merged seamlessly with the crackle of far-off speech, the squeal of transmitters, the clatter of Teletypes. The room hummed with light. It gleamed from desktops and radio equipment, from stacks of forms, sharpened pencils. It glowed over the rows of intent men, over publications stamped with warnings and classifications. A new chart of Northern Lebanon and Western Syria, brilliantly illuminated, towered above the tiered desks. The atmosphere was tense as a broker’s office during what could be a rally—or a disastrous plunge.

  “Green Line, this is Overkill, over.”

  “Coordinates, Red Three Fow-er Seven Three, White Two Niner Zee-ro Eight.”

  “Negative, negative, flight leader. Maintain ordered altitude. I say again, do not descend below angels eight on this radial or you will infringe helo return lane.”

  “Understand range is fouled. Can you close the beach? Attempt a close and report sight checks.”

  “Roger. Shifting to secondary freq at this time. Overkill out.”

  In the center of the bright room, the intent men, Lenson wrote rapidly on green paper, glancing up frequently at the mass of land, silent, waiting, that dominated it. McQueen stood in front of it, grease-penciling rapidly on the road leading northeast between El Aabde and Qoubaiyat. The j.g.’s face was drawn. His eyes met the light with the glittering intensity of fatigue, over blue stains that made him look old. His hand shook as he tore off the carbon and tapped the back of the man in front of him.

  Despite his appearance he felt wonderful. The hour’s nap, that or the immense overdose of caffeine, had restored his flagging energy. He felt a hectic, nervous high. He wanted to laugh or sing or sprint. After so much boredom, so much Crazy Ike, he was in action at last. Grinning suddenly, he glanced around the room.

  The long tables were filled with officers and phone talkers, Marine Corps and Navy. The air crackled with radios, the terse speech of men setting into motion the plans he had written only hours before, alone in his room.

  At the thought he bent forward, flipping the pages of the operations order, and began to review his assets once more. If things started in earnest he would have no time to read. He would have to know what to do.

  First: naval guns. Another escort had joined the reconstituted Task Force 61 as it steamed for the beach during the last hours before dawn. Virginia, one of America’s escorts. A nuclear-powered missile cruiser, it had one five-inch mount operational forward, but he was leery of putting it close to the beach. He’d assigned her a patrol area to seaward, where she could monitor the air picture and provide cover against air attack. But even with her, Dan was worried. Along with Bowen’s single mount, that still made only two five-inch guns.

  I need Ault, he thought. Need those six tubes bad. The last word he’d had from her was that she was finishing repairs and would shortly attempt flank speed. If she made it that would give him a total of eight guns. With luck, he thought, I should be able to manage with that.

  And finally—he glanced at another handset, ready to his left hand, callsigns penciled above it—he had aircraft. The night before, reversing his previous statements (the air attack, he reflected, might have had something to do with that), Admiral Roberts had sent America and the rest of TF 60 hurtling toward the Levant at over thirty knots. She stood now two hundred miles to the west, far enough to lessen the provocation, but bringing her fighters within range. Roberts had promised two attack jets on station throughout the morning. Jack Byrne, seated just below Dan, was on the line to them now, controlling and vectoring them at Lenson’s direction. His use of them was limited, Dan knew, both by range and by what bombing a Soviet treaty partner would mean; but they were there.

  I’m ready, he thought. The Navy’s ready. Now it’s up to the Corps.

  “Well, we’re on our way,” he said to Flasher, who sat down at that moment in the chair to his right.

  “Aye.”

  “Think we’ll have to use any of this stuff? Do any shooting?”

  “Jesus, I hope not,” said Flasher. “Whoever we hit, there’ll be a hell of a stink. Syrians, Russians, the Girl Scouts, you name it. I just hope they back us up back in Washington.”

  When the first wave hit, seven minutes after scheduled H, a muttered cheer rose around him. The first troops took the dune line and dug in quickly, ready to repel attack, but none came. The beach seemed empty. Dan stayed alert; it could have been cleared for artillery fire. The second wave beached, disgorging men who ran full-tilt for cover. The amtracs moved inland, broadening the toehold, alert for opposition or mines.

  The marines were ashore. He sent McQueen up to plot the forward edge of the battle area. A few minutes later the first reports came in from the helo landing zone on Hill 1214, three miles inland. The advance party was in, dug in, and the road was clear as far as they could observe.

  “Fuel state twenty,” said Byrne, interrupting his thoughts.

  He glanced at one of the three clocks on the bulkhead, above the map. “The jets? They’re that low already?”

  “These birds can’t stay around long.”

  “No, they sure can’t. We’ll break them off soon, send them home. Should be two more on their way. Tell ’em to stay away from the beach—we can’t let ’em even over land unless Sundstrom sends them in.”

  “Understood. How’s the rest of it going?”

  “Good progress, Jack.”

  “They moving inland now?”

  “Let me check. Mac—get me first-wave leader.”

  “Click to seven, Lieutenant.”

  “Right. Green Bench, this is Overkill. Interrogative situation.”

  The confident words came back instantly, close and loud through the invisible link of radio. From that voice alone Lenson could see instantly and completely the beach; amtracs growling up the dunes toward the inland road, the radioman riding atop them, or perhaps huddled in a hole in the sand, cautious about exposing himself despite his confident, too-loud tone. “Overkill, Green Bench here. First wave beached on time, without casualties. Forward Edge Battle Area now inland twelve hundred meters. Point units forming up on beach road, coordinates zero-four-one-eight, six-seven-two-zero, preparing to head east. Over.”

  “Green Bench, Overkill: What’s your estimate of surf height?”

  “Green Bench; five to six feet. Rough, but manageable. Over.”

  “Overkill: That’s great. We were worried about that. Do you see any need for preparatory or harassment fire at this time? Over.”

  “Green Bench; no opposing forces noted. Natives seem to have cleared out. But sure would like to have it available. If we need it we’ll need it fast. Over.”

  “Roger. Understand,” said Lenson, wishing again he had Ault standing by. “Please report at ten-minute intervals as per oporder to ensure comms stay up. Overkill out.”

  “Roger your last. Green Bench out.”

  So they were ashore, the assault waves, at least. Not a shot at them during the beach approach, the most vulnerable time for a landing. And Flasher, bless him, had been right about the surf. Dan leaned back for a moment, looking at the chart, the phone warm in his hand. So far things looked good. His job now was to monitor the raid’s progress, and be ready for the unforeseen.

  At least, he thought with bitter gratitude, he never comes down to SACC.

  Just now, he ought to be checking his support units. He snapped the switch, snapping his mind back into place and function again in the same motion, and leaned forward again. “Thoroughbred, this is Overkill. Over,” he said crisply into the transmit light.

  No response. He stared at the map.

  “Thoroughbred, Overkill … Thoroughbred, Thoroughbred, over.” Where the hell was Bowen?

  The frigate came up at last. “Thoroughbred. Over.”

  “Request your position. Over.”

  “Uh, this is Th
oroughbred … stand by … position, two thousand yards west of Point X-ray, ready for call for fire.”

  “Two thousand! Interrogative failure to maintain assigned position.”

  “Uh … captain wanted to move closer inshore.”

  “Negative! Return to assigned position.” Lenson considered, then added the justification. “There’s no resistance on the beach itself. Any calls for fire will come from further inland. We need you backed off to be able to shoot over these hills, damn it!”

  “Thoroughbred, roger. Will pass that word.”

  “Report when back on station. Overkill out.”

  He tried calling Ault, on the off chance, but there was no response; she was still out of range. He shook his head.

  Well, air support next. Two Intruders, with four thousand pounds of rockets and bombs each, had been describing wide circles over the sea west of the task force since five-thirty. As Byrne had warned him, they’d be running low on fuel soon despite external tanks. He clicked the dial to the Tactical Air net. “Hot Dog, this is Overkill.”

  “Hot Dog,” said the bored voice of the A-6 pilot. “Go ahead.”

  “Understand your fuel state is low. Confirm? Over.”

  “Another fifteen minutes. Then we got to beat it for the barn.”

  “Relief enroute?”

  “Say again your last?”

  “Are other aircraft on their way?”

  “That’s affirm, affirm. Two more enroute. Callsign is Blazing Saddles.”

  “Copy callsign. We have no requirement for your services at present. Might as well head back.”

  “We’ll hang on for a few more minutes,” came the pilot’s voice; Lenson could hear the whine of jet engines in the background. “Just in case. Haven’t you got any place we can deliver these groceries?”

  “Negat, flight leader, negat! We have firm word no combat aircraft over land without clearance from Sixth-fleet. Take it back and save it, it costs money. Overkill, out.”