Damage Control

by Gordon Kent

  But he went through the motions, aware that somewhere to the east of his career lay his duty.

  And then Al Craik called.

  It didn’t take long to get to business. Craik had his answers—where, when, how. While they were talking, Lurgwitz, the flag captain, placed a shiny computer image on his desk. The code at the top said “CIA WMD,” and the black object inside the analyst’s white circle was labeled “Nuclear warhead transport cradle.” Under that image was another, just as chilling; a crisp satellite shot of a surfaced submarine alongside a small pier, with the shadows of two cranes extending like the arms of a mantis over the hull. Pilchard lost Craik’s voice for a second. Then he focused.

  “—Quilon. That’s where the sub is; there’s imagery that she’s pierside right now.”

  “I’m looking at it, Commander.”

  “I want to go after the sub.” That was Craik. Focused on the job. Pilchard almost smiled.

  “I sure wish the Indians had pulled it off.” The words came out unbidden; Craik had already told him about the Indian attack and the cost.

  “Yessir.”

  “Because if they had, I wouldn’t have to be a fucking weasel. You ever known me to be a weasel, Al?”

  “Can’t say I have, sir.”

  “I have orders to take no action. You understand, no action, Commander?”

  “Sir! For God’s sake, we’re talking nukes—”

  “Stow it, mister.”

  Craik sounded puzzled. He wasn’t political, and Pilchard had seen him do this before. This focus. Only the goals mattered to Craik.

  Craik said, “All I need is your permission—”

  Pilchard cut him off, angry at himself that he had to do this, angry at the White House and the CNO. “You know the old saying, Al? Better to beg forgiveness?”

  Craik tried again. “This is about nuclear weapons, sir. I think—”

  “I think you have wax in your ears, Commander. I think you should consider how your boss has somebody leaking intelligence and how politicians often give direct orders if sailors ask them hard questions.” Pilchard softened his voice. “Al, I’m not cutting you adrift. I’ve been ordered to avoid any direct action. I’ll back anything you do to the hilt; you’re playing for all the marbles. But if you ask me right out—” He paused.

  Alan cut in, his voice hard. “I guess I’m slow on the uptake, sir. You’re saying I’m the commander on scene.”

  “I’ll back you to the hilt.” And then I’ll be a civilian. Pilchard thought he might be able to protect Craik. “I sure wish the Indians had pulled it off, Al.”

  “Yes. Sir.” Craik was angry. “I’ll get it done.”

  Pilchard nodded silently. “Out here,” he said and cut the connection.

  USS Thomas Jefferson

  “Here are Captain Lash’s orders. No change there,” the TAO said, handing Hawkins a blue plastic folder. “We’re to take no action and make no provocation, blah-de-blah. Loyalists lost another ship at first light, we think she was the Betwa. Bad guys have a picket about sixty miles north and west, and we think they’ve altered course and increased speed. Supplot’s best guess is in the JOTS; I make them heading for the coast. About two hours back, the picket ship locked up one of our CAP Hornets with a SAM radar. Hornet turned away, nobody launched, but they all lit up and so our picture’s more up-to-date than usual.” The off-going TAO got up from the raised chair and indicated it. “Lash ordered the Hornet not to respond. Of course. She’s all yours, Captain.”

  Hawkins could see at a glance that the TAO had aged during the period that the picket had locked up one of the CAP planes. The TAO’s voice was a monotone; his skin was gray and dry, as if all the sweat had already run out of it. Hawkins flipped to a new page in the pass-down log. “We still doing this medevac run Lash cooked up?”

  “Sorry—yeah. Air Ops thinks we’ll be in helo range of Trin in about fifteen hours, so all the worst cases that can be moved go first.” The TAO shrugged. “Is it just me, or does Lash want Rafehausen off the boat?”

  Hawkins grunted, already leafing through a message board. He glanced up. “How’s the deck?”

  The TAO picked up a spiral-bound notebook from the stack of TAO notes and flipped it open. “We’re open for helos. The deck is replated and sound all the way to the stern, or good enough to get by. Cat one is operational but has a steam leak they’re trying to locate; right now they can only cycle it every fifteen minutes. Cat two ought to be up tomorrow. They’ve salvaged enough from the arresting gear to re-rig a wire; Air Ops told them to rig the three wire, and they’ll get to it later tonight. No one thinks we can launch or recover with one cat and one wire, so—”

  TAO’s pass-down was interrupted by a slim petty officer third class from the comms shack. She slammed the hatch behind her and backed into Hawkins in her haste. “TAO?” she asked, unsure which of them was on duty.

  “Shoot,” Hawkins said.

  “I’ve got a secure call from a Commander Craik, says he’s in India. He asked for the commanding officer or Admiral Rafehausen.” She waved a yellow sticky.

  “Hit your rack,” Hawkins said to his predecessor, already in motion. “I relieve you.”

  “I stand relieved,” the man mumbled to an empty chair and headed for his stateroom.

  The Serene Highness Hotel

  Hawkins was on top of the situation and Alan didn’t have to waste a word in getting to the point; he exuded competence, which Alan needed to hear. Having summarized his own message traffic, Alan got to the point.

  “I think Servants of the Earth are loading those missiles into the sub. They could plan an attack on the battle group; they could have another target. I no longer think it’s feasible to go after the warheads in India. The Indians tried and failed, and I don’t have the resources. I want to go after the sub.” Alan expelled a breath, took another one, and held it.

  Hawkins’s response sounded whispered. “Captain Lash is in command of the battle group.”

  “Roger. I’ve spoken to Fifth Fleet. Admiral Pilchard is willing to see this through.” Alan chose his words carefully. “Captain Lash may be hesitant. All I need is a torpedo and a depth charge sent in to the beach at Trin.”

  Hawkins spoke louder. “We’re fifteen hours from having the range to put a helo carrying a heavy load ashore, even refueling. And the last I heard, the Sri Lankans wouldn’t let us land any weapons.”

  At the other end of the phone, Alan began to deflate. Fifteen more hours meant that the sub would have had almost a day to put the missiles aboard and sail away. He knew that once that submarine cleared the hundred-fathom line off the port, she’d be gone.

  “I’ve got a different proposition for you, Commander.” Hawkins’s voice was quiet again but confident. “What if I could get the deck of the Jefferson open for one recovery and one launch?”

  Alan rode the roller-coaster up again. “That possible?”

  “If you’ve got a pilot who’ll land an S-3 with no net and one wire, I’ve got a deck. Cat one is good for one shot every fifteen minutes. I’ll have a three wire rigged by 2300.”

  Adrenaline surged. Alan recalculated it all—an S-3 to get him from Trin, flight to the boat, get a torp loaded, get back in the air, rendezvous with CAP, press home. It was actually better for fuel and time than flying from Sri Lanka, five hundred extra miles every leg. Way better. Alan looked at his watch, tried to count hours. “If this is going to work, I’ll be coming aboard about 0100 tomorrow. I’ll take a torp and a depth charge and a harpoon and a rocket pod.”

  “And Admiral Pilchard’s buying all this?”

  Alan tried to keep the hesitation out of his voice. Hawkins was reputed to be a political animal, and he’d know what was happening at Fifth Fleet better than most. “Yes, sir.” Yes, sir, I have a blanket authorization not to inform him what I’m doing.

  “Okay.” Hawkins paused, and when he continued, his voice was soft. “Better come in EMCON. Tell your pilot there’s no needles and no no
thing else. I’ll do what I can to get an LSO and a ball and some cut lights. Have your pilot do a break and then take his time on a straight-in so we have plenty of warning, but don’t call the boat. You understand me, Commander?”

  Alan had to assume that he was now part of a conspiracy to keep his plane’s landing from Captain Lash on the Fort Klock. Alan thought of an old CIA joke—We’re in a conspiracy to do our jobs. “Roger that, Captain.”

  “The sea between us and the coast is crawling with SOE-controlled ships. They lit up one of our Hornets last night, so look sharp and stay south of us on your way in.”

  “They’re east of you?”

  “They’re headed for the coast,” Hawkins said. “At least, that’s what our intel people think. They changed course a couple of hours back.” Alan could hear the rustle of papers through the phone. He thought he had it all, now.

  “Sir, can you give me their ETA if they were headed for the port of Quilon?”

  “Wait one, Commander—0700 tomorrow if they don’t change speed. You there?”

  That’s when the sub is coming out, then. Alan thought he had the whole picture now. The SOE-controlled surface ships were moving to the coast to cover the departure of the sub. The sub would be vulnerable until it crossed the hundred-fathom line; after that, it could go anywhere. For all he knew, there was a tanker out on the ocean somewhere to refuel it.

  “Captain, can you ask your intel guys to get me the latest imagery of Quilon? I asked for some yesterday; Dick Lapierre ought to have it at Fifth Fleet.”

  “I’ve seen it; Agency sent it from the National Reconnaissance Office. Got it. Anything else, Commander?”

  “Yes, sir. How’s the admiral?”

  “Not as bad as we feared. You guys are friends?”

  “I’ve known him since my first squadron.”

  “He may be medevaced to Trin tomorrow morning.”

  “I’d like to see him while I’m aboard.”

  “I’ll do what I can. He was good today; he had some energy and he got a whole brief on the situation from me when I went off watch.”

  “Thanks, sir.” Alan looked at his watch, counted twice. “I should be there in six hours.”

  “Good luck. Out here.”

  Alan unfolded himself from Harry’s bed and closed the case carrying the encrypted phone. His head was full of plans—he needed a good chart of the western Indian Ocean; he needed stuff for his helmet bag; he needed to draw far-on circles for a lot of ships.

  Harry was standing just outside the room, his bag in his hand. He reached out a hand, but Alan swept him into an embrace. They pounded each other’s backs in silence for a few seconds.

  “Take care of yourself,” Alan said.

  “You too, my friend.”

  And then Harry was gone, and Alan focused on the next step.

  *  *  *

  “Det Trincomalee, commanding officer.”

  The warm voice on the other end washed away Alan’s fatigue. “Hey.” He didn’t get any further than that before his voice caught.

  “You!” Rose laughed and then gasped. “You!” she said again.

  A moment of static silence passed between them.

  “I should have called—”

  “No, me. Oh, shit, Alan—”

  “You okay?” Even as Alan said the words, they sounded insipid to him, useless, a replacement for an hour of questions. Instead, they spent a minute talking about the kids that neither of them was with. And then Alan got down to business; he needed a plane, an escort, weapons.

  Rose switched gears; professional, on the ball. “I have three S-3 pilots; two nuggets and Soleck. I’ll send you Soleck. He’s had his crew rest. One of the nuggets will have to learn to play with the big boys and girls. I’ll put two Hornets on alert. I’m short on weapons—you know that, right? I have one Hornet with a full missile load and everyone else has Sidewinders and guns.”

  He still had a list in his hand. “Got any Harpoons?”

  “No.”

  “HARM?”

  She laughed. “What is this, Let’s make a deal? I have one HARM. It’s on one of the birds. I’ll try and put it up for you. Anything else, Mister Craik?”

  “I love you, Rose. Stay safe.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” she said. “Wait! I’ve got something to say and it’s stuck—Jesus.” She almost sobbed. “This isn’t the time.”

  Alan caught the change in tone; not the commanding officer, but his wife, with something. “It’s never the time, Rose. Tell me.”

  “Now I feel dumb.” She was choked; maybe crying.

  “Damn it, Hon! Let’s not play ‘wait till your father gets home.’ What’s the matter?”

  Silence.

  “I’m—pregnant,” she said, her voice rising and her words tumbling out faster and faster. “I’m three months pregnant and I didn’t want to say in case I—miscarried—you know—again, fuck, okay? And I made two high-G turns and she doesn’t seem to mind so I think she’s going to stick.”

  “She?” Alan said, delight cutting through fatigue. “She?”

  “Go get it done. Love you.”

  “She?” Alan said again. Then, “Love you both, Rose.”

  “Out here,” she said finally, and the connection was cut.

  Trincomalee

  Rose put the phone down and shouted, “Donitz!”

  “Ma’am?” Donitz was outside her office, wrangling with the flight schedule.

  “Donuts, I’m taking you off this event.” She was working out which planes to send, scribbling notes in pencil on a yellow legal pad. She glanced up.

  Donuts stood there, arms crossed, deflated. “Yeah?” and, as an afterthought, “Ma’am?”

  “I’m putting three pilots and two planes on alert. It probably won’t go until 0500 tomorrow. You can take your own plane and 206 with the HARM.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked interested, maybe even excited.

  “Al’s doing something later tonight, maybe tomorrow. He wants a CAP to cover him. This is harm’s way, and you’re the best I’ve got. Okay? I’m pulling you off this event to keep you in crew rest for 0500.”

  Before she was done speaking, his arms uncrossed and went to his hips. “Oh,” he said. He fidgeted with a ring on his right hand. “Oh. Yeah, I get it. I thought you were grounding me to do—you know. Paperwork.” Donitz said “paperwork” like it was a dirty word.

  “Besides, you’ve pulled Al’s nuts out of the fire before. And you’ve shot down a MiG-29.”

  “Well—an Su-27. Maybe a couple.” His grin flashed and went away. “Where’s he going?”

  “Indian coast. He’s going after a sub that might have a nuke on it, Donuts. And the sub’s going to have support.”

  “Do I get a brief?”

  “I’ll have somebody give you one when Al’s on the boat. But the stuff about the nukes stays between you and me, okay?”

  “Roger that, Rose,” he said. “Al’s goin’ to the boat? Is the deck open?”

  “They think they’ll be ready to take him aboard by midnight local.”

  “Why can’t we get some air power?”

  “I gather that it’s all still hypothetical and cat one is only up to full steam every fifteen minutes. If they get an open deck, this could all change.” She looked over her notes, wondered what Alan would do if the deck stayed closed. “Who do you want as your wingman?”

  “Give me Snot. I’m used to him. And he’s seen a MiG before.” Snot was in fact a veteran pilot now, with two cruises under his belt. He’d been in combat as Donitz’s wingman before, when they had bagged two Su-27s in ‘99. The recollection made Donitz smile.

  He headed out the door, but a hand caught at the frame and his head reappeared. “Thanks, skipper.”

  Rose smiled broadly and went back to work.

  The Serene Highness Hotel

  The Lear jet’s windows were bright, and light flooded from the hatch over the folding stair.

  �
��You could tell me I’m doing a great job.” Mary had turned from the second step, thus to look down on Harry.

  “I could.” He made shooing gestures to get her to move inside. She sighed too loudly and went in. Harry ducked his head to look under the plane at the glow of a flashlight. “All in. Close her up and roll when you’re done.” Moad grunted and went on with his preflight.

  Djalik was forward in the copilot’s seat doing something on a kneepad. Bill was in a club seat on the right side, already asleep. Mary was halfway down on the left, cheek on hand, eyes exhausted and pissed off. “Seat belt,” Harry said.

  “You’re the flight attendant, too?”

  “I push a drinks cart up the aisle soon as we’re airborne.” He leaned on the back of the seat opposite hers. “I’m tired of this operation, Mary. It’s been screwed up from the beginning. We missed the big chance; I’ve left an agent supposed to meet me tomorrow and I’m not going to make it—it’s crap. I don’t like being a NOC and I don’t owe you compliments for passing an intelligence coup back to Washington and violating an agreement a friend of mine had made. But I think I know where SOE headquarters is now, and the sooner I get there, the better. You don’t like it, get off the plane.”

  “You’ll do your job!”

  It was Harry’s turn to sigh. “I told you—I don’t have a job. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” He walked back to the double club seat at the rear and fell backward into it and stared out at the night. Seconds later, Moad came in and raised the stair and closed the hatch.

  Harry looked at the lighted windows of the hotel, frowning at the illusion of pleasure, the reality of suffering in there. The plane started to roll, and he put his head back to sleep.

  30

  Bahrain

  Rattner and Greenbaum were sitting in Rattner’s Taurus in the Fifth Fleet HQ parking lot. It wasn’t yet dark but it soon would be, and neither was happy about having to surveil Spinner once darkness fell. Between them, the cell-phone scanner blinked its array of LCDs and picked up the odd call—but not the one they wanted.