by David Poyer
The tug ranged alongside, unexpectedly small, more like a harbor tug than a salvage type, low, battered, with rusty patches like red lichen along her dented-in sides. Waves broke over her rear deck, which hardly showed, at times, above them. But the crew knew what they were doing. A gun cracked. A bright green projectile angled across, curving in the wind, and draped a line fluttering down across their bow. First Division hustled it aft and pulled across a heavier line, this one bent to the end shackle of the frigate’s hawser. The boatswains on the three ships seemed to be doing fine with hand signals, so Dan left them to it. He kept looking aft, studying the pilothouse with his binoculars, but didn’t see the Iranian captain again.
A whistle shrilled. The tug hoisted the black diamond shape that meant craft in tow. The phone talker said, “Fantail reports: Dropped the tow, sir.”
“Very well.” It looked like a damn small tug to handle something as large as that frigate, but it wasn’t his responsibility any longer. They still didn’t have any orders as to where to go from here, but this wasn’t a good place to linger. “Restow all gear and secure. OOD, let’s go to two-six-zero and fifteen, get clear of Syrian waters.”
They didn’t get a message responding to their after-action report until that afternoon. Iron Sky directed them back to a rendezvous with the main body of Task Force 60. A Naval Criminal Investigative Service team would be on its way shortly by helo. On rendezvous, Dan would crossdeck to Theodore Roosevelt, to appear before Admiral Ogawa. A senior O-6 from Ogawa’s staff would take temporary command of Savo Island.
Almost as an afterthought, it mentioned that defense counsel had been appointed for Captain Daniel V. Lenson, USN.
The Afterimage: USS Theodore Roosevelt, CVN-71
IT felt all too familiar. Being led like a sacrifice through labyrinthine corridors smelling of latex paint and lubricating oil and stale refrigerated air. Stepping over an endless recession of knee-knockers, the oval openings of frame doors stretching away as if reflected in endlessly fleeing mirrors. The snapping to attention of flawlessly turned-out Marines in dress Charlies and white cap covers, complete with aiguillettes and holstered pistols. Then being ushered into a low-overheaded flag wardroom, cleared for the occasion of dishes and cutlery and idle junior officers. But the familiarity didn’t make him feel any less nauseated.
Oh, yeah. He’d been here before.
A court of inquiry. The faces that turned toward him, then quickly away, from a knot of service dress blue at the far end of the space told him that much. As had his counsel, a young woman also in dress blues. Dan himself was still in three-days-unwashed khakis, the best uniform he could muster. Her advice had been singularly unhelpful. Be forthcoming. Lay it all out. Tell the truth. It’s not a trial, just an inquiry.
Nothing he hadn’t heard before. Not that it had helped much then.
He drifted to the sideboard and found coffee. When the cup clattered as he poured, he leaned against the bulkhead, closing his eyes. He kneaded the bone and flesh around them until phosphenes coruscated digital patterns in the twin displays of his optic nerves. When he released the pressure a deep scarlet rushed around him, like a whirlpool of blood. When he opened his eyes the whirlwind was still there, just not completely red. The murmurs from the far end of the wardroom continued. No one came his way, no one approached to welcome or condole.
His mouth twisted in a crooked, humorless smile. He remembered a corridor floored in Italian marble, and a shaken-looking man with silver at his temples like the chromium eagles on his collar. And a bleak thousand-yard stare. The previous CO of USS Savo Island.
They needed a scapegoat. Make sure you’re not the next one.
Now he stood in the shoes of the dishonored captain he’d relieved. A strange turnabout, a full-circle return.
If he went out in the passageway, started opening doors, would his own relief look up, startled and abashed at being discovered, waiting in another room?
* * *
BUT half an hour passed. The moment stretched, stretched out. He finished that cup of joe and had another. He kept wondering how Chief Zotcher was doing, down in the carrier’s operating suite. How Savo’s crew were taking the loss of their second captain in a row.
He breathed deep and slow, trying to put regret, and a sorrow almost like losing a loved one, behind him. For Dan Lenson, USS Savo Island was history. Let it fall astern in the wake, grow tiny, rising on the last swell between him and the horizon. And vanish forever … At least he’d saved some lives. He tried to comfort himself with that. Enemy lives, Iraqi civilians, but saved nonetheless. It helped about as much as a maintenance aspirin on an amputation.
He had half a doughnut, then a third cup, and finished the doughnut up. He arrested his hand in the act of reaching for another pastry. Sugar wasn’t the way to shed the shakes. Damn, if he only could have gotten some sleep. More than the half hour’s nap on the helo that had left him groggy and nasty-mouthed. If only he’d brought the Freya Stark book with him. He’d left it aboard; would never finish it now.
What the hell. He knew how it ended: Rome fell. He paced around, noting how even as he ghosted past, ten feet away, not one of the men and women around the low table set with months-old copies of AFJ and Defense News and Approach acknowledged his existence.
But these men and women were not his shipmates. To judge by those carefully averted gazes, they weren’t even in the same navy.
He sighed and checked his watch. Nearly an hour now …
“Gentlemen?” An immaculately uniformed lieutenant (junior grade), blank-faced as a robot, at the door. The aiguillette proclaimed him a flag aide. “There’s going to be a slight delay. Please stand easy. —Captain Lenson?”
“That’s me. Yeah.”
“The admiral would like to see you privately.”
Hmm. This was not routine. The lifted eyebrows around the coffee table attested to that. The convening officer was supposed to stand clear of the proceedings of a court of inquiry. No, wait; he was supposed to stand clear of the members. Did that include the defendant? Maybe … or maybe not.
“This way, Captain.” The jaygee held the door open carefully, even solicitously, as if Dan were an eighty-year-old Mafia don.
* * *
CTF 60, the battle group commander—“Iron Sky”—was a rear admiral Dan hadn’t met before. He introduced himself, but didn’t shake hands. Perhaps he feared whatever Dan had might be catching. There was no mention of admiration for his Medal of Honor, or anything else. Just a blank “Good to see you. Let’s step into my office.”
The adjoining room was set up for videoteleconferencing. Two dead screens faced a padded chair. The one-star didn’t introduce an enlisted man sitting to one side. He pulled a second seat up to his own station for Dan. The petty officer addressed himself to a keyboard, and a ruby LED blinked on over a tiny camera pointed at them. Both screens lit, one after the other. The leftmost illuminated a brilliant noon-sky blue, but without video feed. Whoever was on it didn’t care to be seen. The right one came on to reveal Admiral Ogawa, Commander, Sixth Fleet, head lowered, reading something. Dan could make out the beginning of a bald patch on the top of Ogawa’s skull.
“Good morning, Admiral,” the rear admiral said. “I have Captain Lenson here with me.”
“Thanks, Sly. You have his billet taken care of?”
“I sent one of my staff captains over. Temporary fill.” The rear admiral hesitated. Cleared his throat. “Pending the outcome of the inquiry.”
“Right. Morning, Captain Lenson.” A curt nod.
Dan said, “Good morning, Admiral Ogawa.”
Ogawa handed whatever he’d been reading to someone off-camera and turned his attention their way. Responding to some unseen signal, the enlisted man set his keyboard aside and glided out, easing the door shut on them.
Ogawa opened. “Dan, I’m sorry to see you in this position. As far as I’m concerned, Savo’s answered all bells. Nick said you could turn her around, and you did. And th
e night action—we’re going to have to look at that in detail, but it seems plain the other side fired first. And after that, you fought your ship effectively. Despite a very unfortunate … incident with your exec. Which is also going to be looked at in detail, by the NCIS.”
On the screen, Ogawa’s look turned frostier. “But your other actions, your decision to intercept a friendly TBM, then offering a tow to a defeated enemy … I admit to grave doubts. Especially as to the former. My JAG here looked over your orders. I grant you, a literal interpretation supports the action. But there have been repercussions. A formal diplomatic protest.”
Dan didn’t say anything. Maybe he could have. Ogawa had paused, after all—for an explanation, an apology? To hear any extenuating circumstances? If that was what he was waiting for, Dan didn’t have one. He’d shot down an Israeli retaliatory strike. If the repercussions and protests were from Tel Aviv, then that was far above both their pay grades. A matter for the national security adviser, the State Department, the West Wing.
… The West Wing. He cleared his throat. “Sir, you may know this, but we had an executive branch staffer on board during that action. Mr. Adam Ammermann.”
Ogawa turned his head slightly, as if to listen to someone off-screen. He nodded. “We’re aware of Mr. Ammermann’s presence aboard. Are you saying he ordered, or perhaps advised, you to intercept that launch?”
“Ah, no sir. No. In fact, he counseled against it.”
“Oh.” The admiral’s face fell. Grasping, no doubt, that Dan had just foreclosed the Navy’s chance of offloading any blame onto the administration. “You’re certain of that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then why bring his name up? I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at, Captain. Surely you can’t be proposing he shares responsibility.”
“No sir, I didn’t mean that. The decision was entirely mine. Just pointing out that he was aboard and in CIC when it was made. If what happened was wrong, I take full responsibility.” He gave it a beat, then added, “If the decision was correct … he was still in CIC.”
Ogawa nodded slowly, and Dan watched him process the point. He’d phrased it subtly, but one didn’t make admiral without being able to read between the lines. Ogawa cocked an ear again to whoever was speaking to him off-camera; shook his head, and leaned forward again. “Well, let’s not be too hasty. Either way. The fact is—do you know Bankey Talmadge?”
“Senator Talmadge? My wife does,” Dan said cautiously. “She used to work for him, for the Armed Services Committee staff, before she went to the SecDef’s office—”
“I see. Well, he’s adumbrated what he calls the ‘Lenson Doctrine.’” Ogawa made a distasteful face. “Defined roughly as follows: that if a U.S. theater commander finds himself in a position to stop the delivery of a weapon of mass destruction, even if by someone the U.S. is not at war with, even by an ally … he has not only the legal right, but a moral obligation to do so.”
“That’s … a significant departure from current doctrine,” said Iron Sky, from beside Dan.
“No shit, Sly! It also imposes a much higher threshold of requirement. Which I’m not at all sure we’re ready to step up to. Certainly not with the force level we currently have.
“But the point is, right now, the issue’s in play. This senator’s even talking about calling him—Lenson, I mean—to testify. And the CNO’s weighed in too.”
“The CNO? On which side?”
“Not on any side, but it’s been … oh, made plain to me that if they’re even thinking of adding this to our mission requirements, there’s going to have to be a concomitant increase in operating funding. We may have to bring forward the conversion of the Burke-class Aegis suite to full ballistic missile defense capability.”
The flag officers fell silent. Dan sat quietly too, trying to sort through considerable anger. That it was Senator Talmadge defending him made it perfectly clear. Blair was riding to the rescue. Pulling strings behind the scene, to bump the question up to where it couldn’t be handled just as a Navy issue. Or, put another way, to where the Navy could see pitching what he’d done as a way to increase its funding.
“So, on this end,” Iron Sky prompted.
“Right. On your end, we can’t exactly hose your captain for doing what might very soon become doctrine. Whether or not we think he exceeded his rules of engagement. And I need Savo Island in the Arabian Sea. Back at state one readiness.”
Dan lifted his head. No one had mentioned this. “The IO, sir?”
“Possibly … or even farther east.” Ogawa leaned again, listened to the murmured voice, nodded. “We have two carrier groups tied up at the north end of the Gulf. In view of … other current developments, we definitely need a TBMD-capable unit on station close to Iran and Pakistan.”
Dan put his surprise to one side. “Sir, our readiness is significantly degraded. Savo’s magazines are empty. We need stores, fuel, and repairs. We’re down one DPD, need chassis and parts. We need a software patch on ALIS. Plus, we had significant fire and water damage to the aft vertical launch system. We managed to jury-rig those last two Block 4s back in operation, but—”
“I read your opreps, Captain.” Ogawa sounded more tired than annoyed, but annoyance was there too. “Your next stop’ll be Crete. A contractor team, a new VLS cell, and a full rearm of Block 4A Standards are en route to NSA Suda Bay. What else do you need?”
He was trying to think. But the fog of fatigue, the red hissing whirlwind, made it hard to concentrate. “Uh, some outside training assistance—a casualty assistance team—a personnel augment. A new XO—no, actually I’d like permission to fleet up my ops officer to exec. A replacement sonar chief. I need a medical team, too, there’s something—”
“Put it in a message. I want you back at full mission readiness as soon as possible. Report daily. I’m not making any promises, Lenson. None. At all. But as of right now … Sly, this is your call, really. But it might be advisable to suspend his court of inquiry, pending further developments.”
“Yes sir,” Iron Sky said. “My thoughts too. Consider it done. Restore to command?”
“He never left it. But the court isn’t called off, either. Only postponed. Due to operational commitments.”
Which meant, Dan understood, that he still might face the green table one day soon, depending on which way the debate went on intercept doctrine. As well as whether someone might have to be thrown to the wolves, to placate the Israelis.
But for now, at any rate, he’d be going back to his ship.
The blue screen to the left, which had been audio-silent this whole time, flickered and went black. It must have done so at Ogawa’s location, too, because the admiral seemed to unbend. He murmured, “Good luck, Lenson.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dan said.
“Sly, let’s go to flag chat. Signing off.”
The right screen flickered and blanked too. “Any questions?” the one-star asked him.
Dan blinked at the overhead. He had dozens. They had to rearm, replace a VLS cell in a foreign yard, and get ready to redeploy south. The Arabian Sea. The Indian Ocean. What was going on, that they needed a tired ship so badly?
But it seemed he was still in command. At least for now.
* * *
WHEN the aide escorted him back the wardroom was empty, except for a kid in a white paper mess attendant’s cap, running a vacuum over the carpet where the putative board members had gathered. Dan stood watching the young man for a while, mind as blank as a deprogrammed RAM.
Things that had to be done surged up into his consciousness, then faded. He tried to be angry at Blair, then couldn’t be. He’d always told her not to meddle. To please leave the Navy alone. But he was where he still was because of her, or at least partially because of her. The blue screen—that had to have been the deputy CNO, Barry “Nick” Niles himself.
Thanks to the two of them, and the fact that the sea service might actually gain from his act, he was still in th
e CO’s seat. And, from the sound of things, in line for a follow-on mission.
Leaning against the sideboard, he pressed the heels of his palms deep into his face. Tired as if he hadn’t rested for a hundred years. The yoke of command was settling back on his shoulders. Savo Island didn’t just need voyage repairs. She needed an overhaul, new software, a better missile; his crew had kept falling ill and no one knew why. She was ready to go home, not to extend her deployment.
Instead, he had to take her back to sea.
Had he screwed up, or done the right thing? Not only did he not know, it didn’t seem anyone else did either. From his own command chair in CIC, all the way up to the Oval Office.
What hadn’t gone away, it seemed, was the threat. Defeat it here, and it reared its head elsewhere. Crush it in Iraq, and its bloody jaws snarled again from farther south and east.
But this, too, was nothing new under the sun. It had been the same for the soldiers of Caesar, of Constantine, of Julian. No matter what those at home thought, the legionaries had understood.
The border had to be held. Or all would dissolve back into chaos. All.
He straightened, forcing iron into his weary back. What mattered was not what lay within a man. What mattered was what he did.
Perhaps the cruise of USS Savo Island had only begun.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EX nihilo nihil fit. For this book I owe thanks to Antonio Cobb, John Cordle, Callie Ferrari, Francisco Galvan, Sylvia Landis, Emily Merritt, Christopher Moton, Gail Nicula, Rick Potter, Sarah Self-Kyler, Robert Titcomb, and many others who preferred anonymity. Thanks also to Charle Ricci of the Eastern Shore Public Library; the Joint Forces Staff College Library; the Office of the Chief of Naval Information; the Naval History and Heritage Command; the Library of Virginia; Commander, Naval Surface Forces Atlantic, and his staff; the Naval Criminal Investigative Service; and very much to the crew, chiefs, and officers of USS San Jacinto, CG-56, who welcomed me to sail with them. They resemble the crew of USS Savo Island only in the positive ways!