by David Poyer
“Yes. Thank you, Corporal.”
The man walked away. As he rejoined the others, Sundstrom heard a mutter, then a bark of sardonic laughter.
He ignored it, staring up at the hotel. Smoke was still streaming out of the second-story windows. He looked around him. Helos came in, squatted briefly, then lifted in a racket of sound and exhaust. Men crouched or leaned against the hulls of the ’tracks, grasping weapons with an exhausted but still-wary air.
Standing there, watching, he reviewed the day. It had gone well. Goddamn well, better than he had dared to hope. Haynes had probably called a frontal assault—he was not a man for finesse—but in spite of that there were not too many losses. Ten marines dead for ninety-some hostages rescued would read well in the Post and Times.
Not a debacle, as he’d feared, after all! The worst part had been that morning, the naval gunfire snafu. Lenson and Flasher, his own officers. It made his face tighten just to remember it. It had been rank, blatant disobedience in action.
But goddammit, that, too, had turned out all right. Now, considering it with a cool head, he did not think explaining it would be insurmountable. The clearance to use supporting fire had come in half an hour after the ’tracks got moving again, all the way from Washington via CINCUSNAVEUR and then Roberts. Half an hour late.
A passing thought made him smile tightly. Bureaucracies. That very slowness of decision was probably the reason he’d succeeded. They had moved faster than Damascus and Moscow could make the decision to stop them. Yes, he’d definitely surprised them. Obviously no one had anticipated that the U.S. might resort to force.
But as yet—his mind returned to his central concern—no one up the line knew that Ault had fired before the authorization arrived. He had not reported his use of gunfire and air strikes until after the leading elements of the MAU were actually at the objective.
I’m sticking my neck out, he thought. But then, he would be writing the after-action report. The times could be adjusted, or better yet, just left off. Yes, and the same could be said of Ault’s grounding. Success had many fathers, and if Urgent Lightning was a success, no one up the line was going to be too interested in finding fault with it.
No, he decided, there was no use in dragging it all out into the open. There were people who would use it to make him look bad, look like he had not exercised leadership. The men concerned were, after all, his officers. He could deal with them quite adequately in his own way.
He felt abruptly weary, then, sick of the whole business. The dodging and second-guessing and ass-covering. It was not what he had thought the Navy would be like when he was Lenson’s age, or before that even, in Officer Training, so long ago. No, he thought, I lost that goddamn innocence, that naivete, a long time ago. The Navy was politics like everything else, and although he knew he was good at it he still hated it. It was not the way it should be anymore. Maybe it never had been. No, none of us in the Navy are supermen, he thought. We’re just people.
But we get the job done, he thought.
He looked around. The hotel—the plaza—he decided to check the airliner and started walking toward it. Marines stood outside, smoking, their weapons draped over their arms. Behind them, by the cargo door, he made out the bumper of a parked pickup.
He was still a hundred yards away when the group scattered. Three men came tumbling out of the doors.
“Bomb squad!”
That single hoarse shout, and then the jet erupted behind them in a crash of light and smoke that, in the instant it took for the sound to reach him, darkened the strip and mowed down the men in front of it. He hit the ground by instinct and the shock wave banged his helmet into it. Face twisted to the side, he saw the air filled with debris, heard metal hit and clang around him. He pressed himself into the ground.
Goddamn it, he thought.
When the ground stopped quivering he got up quickly and ran back toward the hotel. What remained of its glass had been wiped away by the blast, but the low wall in front still stood. Marines, shielded by it, were staggering up. The air was heavy with smoke and dust. The last man got up and brushed himself off. He reached them. “Anybody hurt?” he shouted, and was surprised to find that he could not hear himself speak.
“All right.”
“No—think I’m okay.”
“Say.” One of the men came up to him, bent to look under his helmet. Sundstrom strained to hear, caught a few of the words. “Think you caught something there, pal.”
He felt the trickle then and wiped his forehead. His hand came away bloody. He took off the helmet.
“Scalp,” said the man, and turned away.
Haynes came out of the lobby, running. He caught sight of Sundstrom and stopped. In what the commodore thought was an unwontedly cold tone he said, “Ike. Are you okay? How did that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“We checked the plane in the initial attack. There was no one in it. It must have been a timed demolition.”
The colonel paused, looked around; the others had drawn away; there was no one else in earshot. When he turned back to Sundstrom the anger in his voice was unmistakable. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What am I—?” Sundstrom frowned. “I happen to be the commander of this Amphibious Task Force, Steve. And I don’t appreciate your taking that tone with me.”
“We’re ashore now. I’m in charge here. But that’s crap, that’s games. Let’s get something out in the open right now, Sundstrom. I consider your conduct of this operation unsatisfactory. Your delay in providing gunfire support cost me seven men. Almost as many as I lost in the final assault. I intend to include that fact in my after-action report, and I will recommend a court of inquiry be convened to investigate it.”
Sundstrom felt cold. He put a hand to his scalp. “Colonel—Steve—now just hold on a minute. You don’t have the full story. My hands were tied.”
“Don’t make excuses to me,” said Haynes.
“Better not go off half-cocked on this, Steve. There’s a promotion in this, decorations. You’ll need my recommendation for that—”
“Go to hell,” said Haynes. “You’re responsible for my cover and logistics right now, and instead I find you here sightseeing. I’ll mention that too, believe me. See that chopper coming in? I want you on it. Or I’m telling my men to throw you aboard.”
“All right, all right. Wait a minute. Do you have a corpsman?” said Sundstrom. He wiped his face again. “I need a bandage or something, keep the blood out of my eyes.”
Haynes turned away, his back rigid. “Corpsman! Over here.”
Ike Sundstrom tilted his head back, letting the blood drip. He tried to concentrate but could not. He felt sad and empty.
So Haynes, too, is against me now, he thought.
The explosion, he saw, had cleared the square even more. The men were loading into the amtracs now, engines were starting up. As if on cue, thunder reverberated to the south. It was a moment before he recognized artillery.
The corpsman came over and began working on him, not saying a word. Sundstrom tilted his head back obediently and the man sponged away blood. The sky was fading red and brightness beyond the smoke.
“Pulling out?” Sundstrom asked him.
“Yes, sir. Colonel just passed the word to mount up. He wants us across the border in an hour and backloaded out of Lebanon before dawn.”
“Okay,” said Sundstrom. He settled the helmet over the dressing gingerly. He turned and found the copilot still behind him. He was still holding the camera. “Let’s get one more, here, with the medic,” he said. “Then we’ll get the hell out of here.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the pilot expressionlessly, and in his hands the raised lens glittered in the setting sun.
U.S.S. GUAM
Rolling easily, the escorts traced their curving white wakes on blue, like skaters on deep ice. Their bow waves widened, shallowing as they ran outward, till they lapped at last on the deep gray hulls that lay hove to,
waiting, several miles off the shore.
Dan leaned against a lifeline near the Guam’s bomb elevator, looking downward at the sea. Under his empty eyes the last red-gold rays of a westering sun penetrated it deeply and effortlessly. The ship seemed to float less on a fluid than on light that sank inward, downward, fading as it fell to chrysoprase, then sapphire. The silent radiance was broken only by the fluttering fins of the fish that clustered around the overboard discharge.
He was remembering the meeting in the plaza.
One of the marines, a sergeant, had led him with surprising gentleness away from the body. Lenson had raised his head when he reached the plaza, to see them, coming hesitantly out of the hotel between two shattered statues of lions. He had called; had seen her lift her eyes, then break into a run, coming straight to him. He opened his arms and she slammed into him, and he was holding her, Susan—she was thin and filthy and hot, sweating and crying into his smoke-smelling khakis, holding him with strength he never knew she had. And Nan was holding him by the legs, crying and crying as she had not cried since he could remember. And he held her tight and stared blankly over her shaking shoulders. At last her sobbing slowed, and he’d lifted her face, looking down into it, almost afraid to believe that she was here, that they were both alive.
“Susan…”
“Dan—it’s been terrible, it’s been—”
“It’s all right, babe. It’s all right, now. Nan, baby. How are you? Are you all right?” He bent to his daughter. But she had not responded. Only clung to him, silent, her eyes squeezed closed.…
From landward came the pop and clatter of helicopter blades. He stared downward still, without sight or hearing, until it grew close, harsh, chopping the ephemeral peace to bits.
The last CH-46 of hostages came in low over the water, its graceless sausage of fuselage heavily loaded. Faces crowded the ports. Dan lifted his hand, waving them a welcome, then leaned forward again, resuming his silent study of the sea.
He had left Guam’s sick bay after talking briefly with a doctor. Susan and Nan were still down there, getting a thorough checkup. He had stopped in SACC, but Flasher and Byrne were firmly in charge. Red had told him that with each passing hour the situation for a smooth extraction looked better. The Syrian Army had finally moved toward Ash Shummari, firing a few indifferently aimed shells after the marines as they withdrew. Doubtless tonight they would be claiming credit for repelling an American invasion. As for the terrorists, the results of the hotel action seemed to have shocked their organization into silence. According to Byrne there were no reports of activity, nor had their leadership as yet even issued a statement.
They would regroup, Lenson thought. And the subterranean war would resume. Terrorism was not defeated in one battle. It would be a long war, the worst kind for Americans; they bored easily; they did not care for sacrifice. But we are growing up, he thought. Perhaps this time we will find the will and courage to win. For now at least, we haven’t done so badly.
And now they were withdrawing. The wounded were back; he had seen them below in the medical spaces; and the dead. The last hostages were aboard. By dawn, they were rolling seaward as fast as they could, the entire MAU would be back aboard.
And then the ships would sail; offload the men and women they had rescued at some friendly port; and then, resume patrol. Resume the endless drill and preparation. For the deployment was still only half-over. The days would settle back into the dreaming, hard-working grooves of sea time. And it would be as if Cyprus and Lebanon and Syria and the waiting and terror had never been.…
So many goddamn contradictions, he thought, scowling at the sea.
Flasher said Sundstrom had been quiet since his return aboard. No one had any idea what he planned to do, and he had given no hints. Instead he stayed on the bridge, twisting restlessly in his patched chair, snapping orders at Hogan when he had to, but otherwise just frowning toward the darkening mountains, his eyes narrow under the gold crusting of his cap.
Maybe, Dan thought suddenly, he’ll let the incident in SACC go by. Especially since it had worked. The outcome of the raid must have Sundstrom boxed in. He couldn’t both accuse his staff of disobedience and take credit himself for their success. That would be setting himself up as a fool, and he’d spent enough time around the commodore to know he didn’t relish that role.
But that did not mean he would forget. He knew Isaac Sundstrom would never forget a slight, a defiance, whether it was real or the product of his own paranoia.
He put that worry aside, and tried again, as he had all that evening, to formulate the other thing that was worrying him.
He had killed a man. True, a man who’d tried to kill him; the most dangerous and experienced leader of a terrorist organization with a history of outrages from England to Israel—true. But he hadn’t done it rationally, or even, strictly speaking, in self-defense. He had just … lost control. So that, too, was morally equivocal. Perhaps the dark man deserved death. But he did not feel like congratulating himself. Should he feel guilt? Or conclude that, somehow, he had done his duty?
No, he could not trace his previous concepts of right and wrong through this maze. His solutions were inadequate. And so the question reformulated itself to him now as: Was there any right? And was there any wrong?
It was a frightening question. But at my age, he thought, it’s time I faced it.
He had always believed that there were two paths in a life. He had resolved early to take the one that led upward. It was clear, it was well-defined, and although he saw it as the harder, he felt deep inside that it was the only way for a man to live. His decision for the Academy, unexpected as it was for the son of a beat cop, fitted. It promised a rigorous but an honorable life; of self-abnegation, of subordination leading eventually to command.
Above all else, the Navy had offered a career of clear-cut choices that might not be easy but were at least plain. There seemed no room for waffling, for duplicity, or for the greedy scrambling after dollars that made the American military secretly yet deeply contemptuous of the civilians they defended.
And he was good at it; he fitted it. The watches of the night, the responsibility for sleeping lives, millions of dollars in ships, was the most exciting thing he had ever imagined. He knew he was a good conning officer.
And then—the collision.
And now this.
There’s so much I don’t understand, he thought, watching the graceful maneuvering of the fish for offal. He could not understand faithlessness, either studied or casual. He could not understand prejudice, lies, laziness. And so when he counseled men who drank, who fought, who borrowed more than they could repay, he was gentle in approach but ultimately inflexible because he had never understood how they could do such things. It seemed so clear that they led where no one who respected himself would want to go.
Now it seemed different, murky. A shading, a tone of gray had crept in.
He wrestled with it for a few minutes more, then put it away, feeling angry and depressed. He stretched, rubbed at his face—the weariness seemed to have infected his bones—and wondered what to do now. They didn’t need him in SACC, and he didn’t think it would be wise to rejoin the commodore on the bridge just yet. He decided to go below, back to his wife and daughter.
He was standing there, staring blankly across the deck, when he saw her walking toward him across the hot steel, through the dying sunlight. His heart lifted. Men stood above them, watching from the carrier’s island. He didn’t care. They had survived a terrible thing. He opened his arms as she reached him, and put out a hand to lift her lips to his.
She turned her head away at the last moment.
“Where’s Nan?”
“With the doctor.”
“How is she?”
“They’re giving her an antibiotic. Physically she’ll be okay. Emotionally—she’ll need a lot of love, Dan. I shouldn’t leave her now, even for a minute. But we have to talk.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He looked around. After a moment he stepped to the edge of the flight deck, and jumped down, into the catwalk. When he put up his arms she hesitated, just for a moment, and then let him catch her.
They sat side by side on a pyrotechnic locker and looked out over the sea. Toward Lebanon, now only a dark strip against the evening sky.
“How’s your throat? You sound hoarse.”
“The doc gave me a relaxant for the spasms. It’s all right,” he said. Then waited.
“Thank you for coming after us,” she said at last. “I know you weren’t supposed to.”
He lowered his head. “I had to, Susan. Once I knew. Was that what you wanted to say?”
“No. Dan—this is going to be hard. For both of us. That man you killed—”
“How did you know about that?”
“The people in sick bay were talking about it.”
“The Majd.”
“Yes. Him. Dan, I slept with him.”
He stared at the sea. Uncomprehendingly. “You what?” he said at last.
She said, “I made love to him.”
“You mean he—”
“No. At least, not entirely. I’ve tried to figure this out. I even wondered if I should tell you at all. This is the best I can do: Part of it was fear. To keep us safe. But only part of it. The other part is, for a while, for a little, I wanted him.”
He sat silent, a black silhouette against the first stars of night. Staring up at him, she wanted to take his hand. Reach out to him. But she was afraid to.
“You don’t—” he began, and then seemed to choke.
“I do love you, Dan. That’s the truth. And I’m glad he’s dead. But the other is true, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Look—is there anything you want to say? Anything you want to call me? I deserve it.”
“Damn you! What do you want me to say?”
She closed her eyes, shivering at the pain in his voice. “Whatever you want. But let’s talk it out, Dan. We’ve got to do this now. For us. But most of all, for her. Do you still love me, in spite of that? That’s what you’ve got to decide.”