by David Poyer
He shook the tension out of his shoulders and said quietly to secure the engines, secure the underway watch. He felt confined, though, penned in by shoals and jetties. They’d have to stay alert for changes in the weather and for passing traffic. More dhows were coming in, now, a long line proceeding in from seaward. Early, before their usual evening return.
Hotchkiss, at his elbow. “What you got, Exec,” he said, looking down on the top of her head.
THE wind kept rising through the afternoon, visibility dropping as sand filled the air. It kicked up a short, sharp chop even in such confined waters. At 1300 he secured liberty. It was getting too rough to run the boats. Hotchkiss asked did that mean the security patrol as well, and he said yes.
He also grew concerned, as the bow rose and plunged, that they had so little water underfoot. He and the navigator went over charts and depths and the range of the tides. The basin was dredged to at least nine and a half meters, but Horn drew thirty-two feet forward, where the delicate bulb of the sonar dome jutted down. Basin depth was calculated on mean low water, and thus worst-case, but still there was so little beneath the keel the fathometer gave random numbers instead of a true reading.
He considered getting under way. The up side: they’d get some sea room. The down side: they’d have to pick their way out in reduced visibility, through unfamiliar shoals, channels, and strong currents, especially at the entrance to the Khawr al-Qulayah. There were abandoned oil platforms out there, too. Some brilliant scrap-metal salvor had cut them down flush with the level of the sea, and they didn’t show on radar.
If it got much worse, he’d try it. But there was one other trick first. At 1400 he set the underway watch, started one engine, and began steaming to the mooring. That seemed to help the pitching, and the motion smoothed out.
The wind whistled. The windows showed only a sand-colored darkness, with shipyard, tankers, the city, only distant outlines, without detail. The harbor creamed, lines of spume lying the length of the wind. A dhow labored, making for safety with agonizing slowness. Sand ground at the glass. Ships returning from the Gulf routinely had their bridge windshields replaced. The anemometer showed forty knots gusting to sixty, to sixty-five. He stayed there for an hour. It didn’t change. He left Hotchkiss in charge and went below.
HE was in the in-port cabin going through the traffic that had accumulated over the past couple of days when Casey Schaad knocked. Looking across from his computer station, Dan saw Marchetti behind him, shaven dome unmistakable under the lights of the passageway.
“Yeah, Casey.”
“Sir, Senior’s got a concern about our security.”
He tuned himself out of the CNO’s training goals. “All right, talk to me.”
They squatted on the settee. Marchetti said, “Sir, I don’t like where we are. I brought it up to Weps here, and he said we ought to come up and let you know.”
Dan wondered how difficult it had been to persuade Schaad to surface the issue. “In what sense, Senior?”
“Sitting here at anchor with our thumb up our ass.”
“You don’t like the location?”
Marchetti rubbed his skull, wondering how he could put it. He just had a bad feeling. “There’s too much traffic. We’re too close to the beach. All these dhows going by all the time. What if one of ’em decides to run into us and put some armed guys aboard? We don’t have our deck weapons mounted, or ready ammo. We’d kick ’em off eventually, but it’d take us a long time. We could lose a lot of people.”
Dan swiveled his chair, torn between his own doubts about their readiness and the local regulations that had been explained to him at the base commander’s office. At last he said, “Casey, what’s your take?”
“Well, sir, Machete’s spent a lot more time in the Gulf than I have. This is my first time here.”
Dan swiveled again, reminding himself when it groaned to get it greased. Nothing aboard was new. Everything needed attention. But if they’d given him a new ship, would anything be different? He didn’t think so.
“I won’t say you don’t have a point, Senior. But when I asked Captain Fetrow about it he told me Bahrain’s a safe locale. A low-threat area, and the authorities here want to keep the foreign profile low to keep from irritating the elements that don’t like outsiders.”
“Is that why they made us take the rifles out of the perimeter boat?”
“Correct. The COMIDEASTFOR ROEs prohibit loaded weapons or hostile display.”
“Sir, that’s bullshit.”
“This isn’t our country, Senior.”
“You said that was U.S. regs, not Bahraini.”
Dan had had enough. “It’s not up to me, Chief. Headquarters knows the local conditions, they talk to the local security forces, the host government. We have to go by their call.”
“Sir, I still think—”
“Thanks for coming in to see me, Senior Chief. Lieutenant.”
Schaad got up, but Marchetti wasn’t done. “Sir, that’s just stupid, not being allowed to defend ourselves. Here’s what we ought to be doing.” He went on: boat patrols, the chain guns loaded and trained out, the .50s mounted and manned, antiswimmer precautions with the sonar, pinging intense bursts to disorient anyone approaching underwater.
Dan heard him out. Finally he said, “Tell you what, I think we’re all right just now. The seas are too rough for anybody to board. But you’ve got a point about how long it’d take us to react, if something did happen. Casey.”
“Sir.”
“Look at the quick reaction team procedures again, how fast we can get weapons and ammo on deck. Meanwhile, I’m not sure we ought to be where we are, either. We could go out to the Sitra anchorage, but then it’s a long haul for the liberty parties.”
“A long haul for anybody trying to get at us, too, sir.”
“I have to think about a lot of things, Senior. Security’s just one part of it. Let me ask Port Control about an anchorage farther out.”
“That would help, sir.”
“If you actually see something suspicious, come back,” Dan told him. “If it’s a matter of security, force protection, come right to me or the exec, if I’m not aboard. Casey, same goes for you; if it’s time-sensitive, skip the chain of command and come direct to me. But let’s not get so focused on one piece of the puzzle we forget the rest, okay?”
They left. He tried to get back into the administrative minutiae, but failed. Finally he logged off and went topside.
The shamal seemed to be holding steady. He could imagine what this was doing to their paint… He picked up the phone to the local command net. The covered net got him the duty officer at CO-MIDEASTFOR. After discussing the storm—the staff officer said it would be brief, it would blow over before morning—he brought up his concerns about their location in the roadstead.
The staffie was surprised he didn’t like where he was. They put visiting units there frequently and had had no complaints before. Dan asked about moving out to the Sitra basin. The staffie said it wasn’t a good idea. There’d been a bad accident in Greece last year. A cruiser’s launch had capsized, drowning eight sailors on their way back from liberty. Since then the Naval Safety Center had reminded commanders to moor or anchor as close as possible to the fleet landings.
Dan said he remembered that message. Well then, the watch officer said. Still, it was his call. Did he want to talk to somebody higher about it, maybe the J-3?
At last he said no. There were warriors, and there were worriers; he’d worked for both, and he didn’t want to turn into another Ike Sund-strom, seeing disaster around every corner. The shrink, back in the States, had warned him inappropriate suspicions of danger were one of the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. He said thanks and to have a good day, and was signing off when the watch officer said, “Wait a minute. Captain Lenson? There’s something here on my desk about you. COMDESRON Fifty and the COMIDEASTFOR JAG want to see you at 1300 day after tomorrow. You’re on the admiral’s schedul
e at 1400. Got any idea what that’s about? Over.”
“Yeah, I know what it’s about. Thanks,” Dan said. “This is Horn actual, out.”
The commodore’s mast, of course, only now upgraded to an admiral’s mast—not a good sign at all. He stewed about this while the wind droned on. At 1700 he called the beach again, on the marine telephone frequency. A credit card got him patched to the Regency. When Blair answered, he told her he wouldn’t be able to get ashore that night, the weather was too rough.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, too,” she said.
He could guess what it was. “They want you back.”
“A plane went down with thirty-six troops from the Third Division aboard. The deputy secretary wants somebody in uniform and a civilian side appointee there. He picked the DCSPER and me. I leave at midnight on the MC-18 shuttle. That’s Sigonella, Naples, Rota, Norfolk. The army’ll have a plane there for me to go to Georgia.”
“That’s bad. About the troops … when will you get in?”
“I don’t even know how to guess at that one, but we’ll be in the air fifteen or sixteen hours just to the States. So if you can’t make it tonight …”
“I really can’t, honey. There’s a nasty chop going. It should blow over tomorrow. But I guess that won’t do much for us.”
He listened to her breathing over the air, thinking how much of his family life had taken place over the telephone. “But at least we had time together.”
“Yeah.” He put his fingers to his eyes and squeezed. Jesus, what was happening to him, he didn’t used to feel like this when somebody he loved had to go. “But now how am I going to do without you?”
“Are we getting sentimental in our old age?”
“I’m just going to miss you, that’s all.”
“You’ll do fine, like you did before I got here. And I’ll miss you, too … We’ll both be busy … Think about that house. Don’t just go from assignment to assignment like some mindless pawn. We’ll talk about it. If you don’t…”
“If I don’t what?”
“I want a life,” she told him. “Something more than work, and only being together when you’re in port, or I can fly out to see you … I’m sorry. I want more … or something else.”
He caught his breath as inside him something turned at bay. Not again. Not the same thing that had happened to his first marriage! “You didn’t seem to think it was such a bad way to live,” he said tightly. “I told you it would be this way. You said it’d work. But now, all of a sudden, it’s not enough?”
“Let’s not argue now,” she said. “Look, it was the wrong time to say that. I was going to get to it, but we didn’t have time. So we’ll leave it. Okay? Do your job. Be the captain. I’ll go do my job. And the next time we get together, we’ll talk it out. Okay?”
It was not okay. Bitter words struggled in his breast. He didn’t like postponing discussions. They only got worse if you did. But he could do nothing. He couldn’t go to her. She had to leave. So they talked a little longer, conscious every word they said might be overheard; they did not even have privacy in their farewell. And at last, they said goodbye. After which he sat listening, alone, to the hiss of space in the earpiece echoing the storm outside.
23
ALL she had left to wear was the maroon sundress. Cobie cocked her head at it like it was an animal that might be playing dead. Well, at least it was feminine. When she got off the ship she wanted to look nice, in a skirt or a pretty ruffled blouse. Wear perfume, and have somebody give her flowers and compliments. Be somebody she couldn’t be on board. Finally she shucked out of her coveralls, only realizing how bad they smelled when they were lying around her ankles and the stink came up. She padded toward the shower, turning sideways to butt-rub the other girls milling around the Mustang Ranch.
Today was the first day she’d get to go ashore, and all at once she was excited. Palma had been fun, but Bahrain was exotic. Ina, who’d gotten to go yesterday, had come back with glowing reports. She showered and got ready, pulling the dress over her head, and then padded back to the mirror in the head. She spent time on her face. Doing the things you didn’t do down in the hole. When she came out, one of the gay girls gave a whistle.
“Some dress!”
“Where you goin’ in that, homegirl? Them A-rab men going to be steppin’ on they tongues.”
She grinned and brushed out her hair. Feeling like she was in high school again and it was prom night. She was a mother, for godsake. Old enough to know better.
They’d gotten the new generator in and tested it and it didn’t work. It was putting out some kind of irregularity in the sine wave, and for a while they were afraid they’d have to pull it out and do the job all over again. Which was a downer. They’d already spent two days working practically around the clock. But then Mick and Chief Bendt had figured it out. One of the cable connections for the computer controls was partially melted and had gotten plugged in backward. As soon as they replugged it, it smoothed out, but then the ship had to get under way because of the storm. She’d gone up to the main deck and cracked one of the doors, just to see it, so she could write home about it.
To Kaitlyn … her mom said she listened to every word, and asked her questions about the places the navy had sent her mom to, to keep them all safe. So she tried to see everything with a child’s eyes, remember details she could write down later. The sand on the deck, fine, powdery tan, pale, pale, beige. Like … powdered sugar with a pinch of cinnamon. The ship was going up and down, she couldn’t see much, just the tan air and the surface of the water. The shore was a pale washed outline. She could see building shapes and a low hill like a camel’s hump and that was all.
She smoothed her dress, wishing her little girl could see her now. Would she think her mother was beautiful?
Someone punched her from behind, and she turned. Ina, in white shorts and a Hard Rock Café T-shirt. “Ready, luv?”
She bleated in horror. “Ina, not shorts. Weren’t you at the briefing?”
“They’ll have to live with me lush white thighs, love. All I have to wear. Lourdes is up on deck. Coming, then?”
When she came out who should she come face to face with but old Bendt. Who stopped dead, gaping at her. “What’s wrong, Chief?” she said, stopping, too, wondering whether she’d got her liberty section wrong.
“Kasson?”
“That’s right, Chief.”
“Jeez, I didn’t recognize—You sure as fuck don’t look like no gas turbine tech.”
It was probably his way of paying her a compliment, or as near as he could come. Going down the boat ladder, she thought of at least six things she could have said back. Smart, clever things. But a mysterious feminine smile had probably been as good a response as any.
THE sun was blazing out of a clear sky but the ride was still bouncy. The breeze felt good. By noon it would be like a blowtorch, but this early it felt intensely real after the artificial environment of the ship. Spray flew into their faces, salty and cool, and they squealed like fourteen-year-olds. She felt like a fourteen-year-old, all of a sudden. Free from the ship, from the gray walls, from all the men around her, sealing her in like an audience. It was like a day off from school.
Lourdes had on a peasant skirt with little flashing mirrors sewn into it, and a white ruffled blouse, and a red-and-white embroidered kerchief around her head. She looked very Mexican. They were quite a trio, Cobie thought. Totally mismatched, but what the hell.
Fishing boats growled past as they maneuvered for the landing. A long line, rumbling past one after the other. One went by very close, smoke drifting from a slablike stern where a wash of wake bubbled. The upswept bow was extended by carved wood. Long poles were strapped fore and aft above a little white-painted pilothouse all the way aft. It looked like something from Sinbad. Dark-faced men in dirty white robes and small turbans like yarmulkes sat cross-legged, watching. They did not change their expressions, even when Ina waved gaily.
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sp; THEY took a taxi to the gold souk, marveling at the sparkling palaces. Bahrain reminded her of Disneyland. Everything was new and white and clean, at least on the boulevards. She could see alleys where things didn’t look quite so bright, where black shapeless women, like clumsily wrapped fruit, toiled along carrying shopping bags or infants. But the taxi sped on, the driver touting this shop and that, handing back cards and brochures, telling them how cheaply they could buy. Gold, perfumes, dresses, rugs, brassware, art.
She slowly became aware thirty dollars wouldn’t go very far. She’d had the rest of it sent home in her allotment. It wasn’t a lot, but now she was in a combat zone it was tax free. The navy made a big deal out of the combat zone exclusion, it was like a fifteen percent pay raise, they told her.
The driver dropped them in a big parking lot surrounded on three sides by buildings and on the fourth by the highway, on the other side of which was the Gulf. Ina led them back between the buildings, most of which seemed to be banks, into shop-lined streets that quickly narrowed until they couldn’t walk abreast. Insurance brokers, barbers, electronics stores, grocers, food booths with meat sizzling on skewers. The ground floors had the kind of pull-down security grating you saw in the States in bad neighborhoods. The air smelled like spices and hot grease and exhaust from the mopeds that kept racketing by.
She slowly realized they were the only women back here. The other pedestrians were all men. Small, fine-boned Arabs in robes who smiled at them as they slipped by. Others, darker, rougher-looking, in work clothes, turned to call out foreign phrases, or sometimes, pieces of movie English. “Wankers,” Ina muttered. Lourdes looked scared. But Ina cruised ahead like a battleship, large and fair and with her big legs unabashedly bare in her shorts, and the men glared at her but edged aside.