by David Poyer
Spectacular Praise for the Novels of
DAVID POYER
KOREA STRAIT
“The taut tenth entry in Poyer’s series…is rich in the naval detail fans have come to expect…a satisfying, fast-paced narrative…Dan Lenson remains a winningly weary hero.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Realistic and frightening…well up to Poyer’s excellent standards. No bluster, no dazzle, just real naval engagements that we may well see before long.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Exciting . . . fans of modern naval warfare will relish the details and sea action, as well as the insights into the Korean situation and the Korean people. Recommended for popular thriller collections.”
—Library Journal
THE THREAT
“Plenty of action, plot twists…. frenetically paced…[an] engaging potboiler.”
—Virginian-Pilot
“Poyer remains the most thoughtful of the military-thriller set and a master of authentic detail.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Poyer’s forte is storytelling, and The Threat delivers a masterful tale that leaves the reader dazzled.”
—Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of
The Third Secret, The Templar Legacy,
and The Romanov Prophecy
“[Fans] of The West Wing…and political novels will enjoy the author’s revealing portrayal of the backroom goings-on at the White House…. Recommended especially for fans of Robert Ludlum’s political thrillers (although Poyer is a superior writer).”
—Booklist
“Terrific suspense…perfect authenticity…powerful storytelling and compelling characters…David Poyer is our finest military novelist and The Threat is simply superb.”
—Ralph Peters, author of
New Glory and Never Quit the Fight
“There’s plenty of danger and gripping action to satisfy his legion of fans.”
—Military.com
THE COMMAND
“[An] explosive climax…the reader takes a well-informed cruise on a U.S. destroyer. Poyer knows the ship intimately. Vivid descriptions cover everything from knee knockers to combat information center, radar to computers, wardroom to enlisted quarters. Battle scenes in particular come alive with authenticity…and all that, and more, is in this latest chapter of Commander Daniel Lenson’s contentious career.”
—Proceedings
“Poyer packs a story with both dense technical info and welcome local color. Unique Aisha merits a spinoff series.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Plows fearlessly—though with hair-raising effect on occasion—through today’s stormy international and social seas…the salvos of nautical expertise also lend flavor and authenticity…the author provides believable insights into Muslim thinking…Poyer’s genius for description impress es on page after page. The vividness of his scene-setting grabs you.”
—Virginian-Pilot
“Lovers of procedural military fiction wait for David Poyer’s next installment of the career of Dan Lenson.”
—Roanoke Times
BLACK STORM
“No one writes gritty, realistic military fiction better than David Poyer. No one.”
—Stephen Coonts
“A gripping, gritty novel that reads like the real thing. You’re with the Marines every step of the way. Poyer knows his stuff.”
—Vince Flynn
“Exceptional…A straight-ahead adventure yarn, a frontal assault on the bestseller lists.”
—Boston Globe
“A must-read…not since James Jones’s Thin Red Line have readers experienced the gripping fear of what it’s like to fight an enemy at close quarters…Poyer’s research is impeccable, his characterization compelling, and the Iraqi Desert Storm scenario all too believable.”
—John J. Gobbell, author of When Duty Whispers Low
“I’ve been a David Poyer fan for over a decade, and his storytelling abilities—always first-rate—just get better and better. Black Storm is a timely, gripping, compelling yarn told by a master.”
—Ralph Peters
“Absolutely riveting. David Poyer has captured the essence of what it is like on long-range patrols. His book is distinguished by quick action and continuing suspense that will keep the reader on edge until the very end.”
—Maj. Gen. H. W. Jenkins,
United States Marine Corps (Ret.),
Commander of the Marine Amphibious Forces in the Gulf War
“One of the strongest books in an outstanding series…the remarkably vivid portraits he draws of the variety of men and women drawn to serve their country merit high praise.”
—Booklist
“One of the best…action fans will be rewarded.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Poyer’s close attention to military practice and jargon will…suit those looking for accurate detail.”
—Newport News Press
ALSO BY DAVID POYER
Korea Strait
The Threat
The Command
Black Storm
China Sea
Tomahawk
The Passage
The Circle
The Gulf
The Med
THE WEAPON
David Poyer
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE WEAPON
Copyright © 2008 by David Poyer.
Excerpt from The Crisis copyright © 2009 by David Poyer.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2008025779
ISBN: 978-0-312-36527-1
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / December 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / December 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ex nihilo nihil fit. For this book I owe thanks to Bob Albee, Harry Black, John Castano, Richard H. Enderly, Dave Faught, Jim Franciskovic, John T. Fusselman, Catherine “Queekie” Gladden, Carlos Godoy, Frank Green, Rick Hedman, Donna Hopkins, Bill Hunteman, Ken Johnson, David Luckett, Leslie Lykins, Warren L. Potts, David Sander, Tommy Schultz, Bill Sheridan, J. Michael Zias, and many others who preferred anonymity. Thanks also to Charle Ricci of the Eastern Shore Public Library, who was unendingly patient with my loan requests; Commander, Naval Surface Forces Atlantic; Office of the Chief of Naval Information; the USS Saratoga Museum and the staff and “crew” of Juliett 484/K-77 at the Russian Sub Museum in Providence; the Maritime Museum of San Diego; and the Nimitz Library at the U.S. Naval Academy. My most grateful thanks to George Witte, editor of long standing; to Sally Richardson and Matt Shear; and to Lenore Hart, best friend, first reader, and reality check.
The specifics of personalities, locations, and procedures in various locales, and the units and theaters of operations described are employed as the settings and materials of fiction, not as reportage. Some details have been altered to protect classified information.
As always, all errors and deficiencies are my own.
Moral judgements are singularly out of place in espionage.
—Graham Greene
I
TAG
1
Camp Bandit, Western Virginia
Tilted mountains surrounded the valley like massive firing berms. Gravel slides had wiped out whole glades of the second-growth forests that clung to their rocky slopes. Clouds drifted ghost-white against shadowed hollows. Each time Team Charlie had gone out on the range, their gunfire had echoed in those hills as if lost divisions were still locked in battle, the Blue against the Gray.
As they took a knee in front of the instructor this morning, the team’s drab digital-pattern battle dress was hard for the eye to focus on. They wore black nylon knee and elbow pads, black tactical vests, ballistic eye protection, belts of fat red twelve-gauge shells, and nine-millimeter SIGs in thigh holsters. They held pump shotguns with black nylon stocks muzzle down. Their shoulders were aching, chests heaving after two hours of running, climbing, and thinking around corners against their trainers.
One of whom barked, “Next problem. Lenson, you got six guys. Task: assault and clear that green building. What’s your plan?”
Commander Dan Lenson, USN, tried to think. But concepts only oozed through his brain, like used motor oil. They hadn’t gotten much sleep the past few nights. And it felt bizarre, blasphemous in some deep way, six men genuflecting around one who stood. He noted another instructor headed for the control booth. “Uh, my plan . . . I need to dominate the path with two shooters at, uh, that sandbag pile and behind the black tank. . . .”
“And?” The harsh voice goaded him. The GrayWolf instructor was in black BDUs and peaked cap. The name tape on his blouse read whalen. The night before, Dan’s team had discussed how much more they’d take before they shot him themselves. “Think fast, Team Leader! You’re not gonna have time to cog-itate out in booger-eating country.”
“Flash-bang through the window. Push in a four-man stack? Redeploy my fire team to the back to catch any skedaddlers?”
“Don’t ask me, tell me. If you don’t know, for Christ’s sake, don’t advertise the fact! Positions! Fifteen rounds sabot slug, fifteen rounds of buck, lock and load. Keep in mind your tactical reload drills. A dry weapon is no weapon. And remember, the problem goes from whistle to whistle; you’re not done till the signal goes.”
Lenson dragged a sleeve across his face. Tactical Analysis Group, Team Charlie had been running and shooting since before dawn. But his guys were looking at him. He cleared his throat. “I’ll go in first and take position on the sandbags. Covering fire on my signal. Donny, break right, suppression position behind the tank. Teddy, you take point on the stack, with Yeong-Min, and Monty, and Rit. Live rounds, guys! Take your time and make sure the line of fire’s clear before you shoot.”
Waiting for the whistle, he mopped his face again. He still wasn’t sure why a U.S. Navy tactics development team needed two weeks of pistol and shotgun training, house clearing, CQC and CQM—mil-speak for close-quarters combat and close-quarters marksmanship—including low-light and target identification drills. They weren’t exactly Marine Recon material. Some of his guys weren’t even on active duty anymore. But Captain Todd Mullaly had insisted. “Team Charlie’s new for us, Dan,” he’d said. “You did all right in Korea, but there at the end—it wouldn’t have hurt to have more tactical training, would it?”
And he’d had to agree. Taking out an AK-armed North Korean political officer, on the surge-swept deck of a surfaced sub, with a pistol he hadn’t even been sure how to fire—yeah. He’d been lucky to come out alive.
“You’ll have a great time,” Mullaly had said, closing the discussion. “Great country out there. Just like a paid vacation.”
Right. Two weeks of sixteen-hour days more like Marine boot camp than any Navy school he’d ever been to. Range training and quick reaction drills, dry firing, and tactics and procedures in the Glass House. Classroom hours on dominating the environment, cover, travel, clearing rooms and hallways, and his personal least favorite, stairwells. In the evenings they played a video game “Obie” Oberg had brought, pursuing faceless enemies through mazes of abandoned, smoking ruins till the world itself seemed less real than digital, and the game more real than reality.
He’d gotten stuck, forced to replay one scenario over and over. His teammate, behind him, had shouted, “On your six, on your six!” And Dan had wheeled, trying to fire past him at a figure that suddenly appeared out of a side corridor. But his buddy had moved, and Dan’s bullet had blown apart his head. The screen had frozen to the accompaniment of a scream, and mission failed pulsated in red letters. He’d failed over and over, until the blank face of his computer-generated teammate had begun to haunt his dreams—
He realized they were all looking at him, still waiting. His real team members. The whistle went, a blast that pierced ear protectors like a high-velocity bullet. He shook off the unease that lingered from the dream, twisting his voice into something approximating their instructor’s gravelly snarl. “All right, goddamn it. Taggers, move!”
Two yards ahead of Lenson, leaning against a timber barrier so chewed by bullets it sagged as he put his weight on it, Teddy “Obie” Oberg racked the big twelve-gauge slug shells one after the other through the Mossberg. You didn’t need to precycle your ammo with a pump action, but habit was hard to break. And he’d built up a lot of habits in eight years with SEAL Team Eight, on floats in the Med, antiterror missions out of Stuttgart, trying to snatch PIs—persons of interest—in the Balkans.
Obie had studied the commander—that was what they called Lenson, “the commander”—through the two weeks at Bandit. He’d met Medal of Honor winners before, SEALs from Vietnam. But this guy wasn’t like them.
For one thing, officers hardly ever got the Medal. For another, Lenson didn’t talk about it, or about where the rest of his ribbons had come from. The Silver Star. The Bronze Star. Teddy’d heard rumors about foreign decorations, too: Israeli, Saudi, Korean. The guy moved like he’d been hurt more than once. He looked like a thinker, but didn’t act like he had all the answers, like too many fucking officers.
What made him uneasy was, Lenson didn’t seem comfortable maneuvering a squad. Maybe you couldn’t expect that from a surface line type, what SEALs called “blackshoes,” usually with a sneer. It could mean trouble, if they got in a situation.
But sometimes he caught a glimpse of something else behind those flat gray seaman’s eyes, the irises like stamped lead discs in crimped copper. A detached coldness Teddy had only seen once or twice before in his life.
Who knew? Maybe the guy was a killer, after all.
The whistle. At the same moment a tracer-burst swivelled just over their heads. GrayWolf trained with live ammo. Dan thought, They must get it cheap. He racked the first round into the chamber and lurched forward. He hoped the employee on the other end of that machine gun didn’t decide to fire low.
He squinted through a sudden stinging in his eyes as his senses ratcheted into danger gear, as the world stuttered into the tunnel-visioned slow-time of combat. The Killing House lay fifty yards ahead, surrounded by wrecked cars, piles of old tires, concertina, a rusting T-76 spray-painted black. The instructors had torched the tire-pile and the black smoke blew toward them, alternately revealing and concealing what lay ahead. Just the smell of burning diesel, rubber, and old powder would have brought back memories, if he’d had time for them. Syria. Iraq. The China Sea. Places he’d had to do things he didn’t like to remember. Most of those places, though, he’d had Navy deck gray under his feet. Where was Mullaly sending Team Charlie? It wasn’t how the Tactical Analysis Group had been explained to him, when he’d been assigned. Which was another whole story, why “Nick” Niles had decided he had to hide him after the debacle in the White House.
He got to the sandbags, rolled, and came up aiming not over them, where a sniper would expect you, but at the corner. Black steel popper targets jumped up by the house. He dropped them one after the other, the heavy Federal slugs slamming out of the eighteen-inch
barrel with a blast that nailgunned his sinuses and slammed his already sore shoulder. He twisted to cover Wenck as Donnie broke into a run. A popper jumped up on the water tower, overlooking the house. He took careful aim and held over, guessing seventy yards, and blasted it down.
Wenck got to the tank and oriented to cover the stack. When Dan looked up from reloading, a small figure in too-large BDUs was shooting and advancing. A popper went down with each crack, but the little Korean wasn’t using cover and concealment. He was charging in the way they must have taught them to attack in the North Korean Army. “Im! Watch your cover, goddamn it!”
As Im got to the corner he picked up the hidden shooter, the one behind the tank, just before it sprang up. He took it out as Oberg sprinted past. Hesitated, then tore after him.
His name wasn’t really Yeong-Min Im. That had been his captain’s name, on the submarine the destroyers had cornered in the Eastern Sea. But his captain was dead now, shot by the political officer when Captain Im had decided to save his crew. And he couldn’t use his real name, ever again.
That was the price of living, when so many others, who’d started the voyage with him, were dead.
He was beginning to understand this strange game. The hidden angles. The all-too-obvious targets. The way everyone emphasized crouching, and hiding, and not leaving cover unless the rest of the team was firing. The Americans—except maybe Obie—were afraid of getting shot. The People’s Army trained to a different mind-set.
But he wasn’t part of the great collective anymore. This was an odd land, a curious culture. But for some reason, they valued him at TAG. Even asked his advice. They’d brought him to America, and put him in charge of “enemy” submarines in their war games. Maybe they even trusted him.
He was still trying to decide if they were right to do so.
Donnie Wenck got to the tank and skidded into it, slamming his head on the flaking steel so hard he almost blacked out. “Damn it,” he howled.