by David Poyer
He sucked smoky air. Had he been pushed into something he’d regret? A casus belli, like the Agadir incident? Why were the Chinese getting involved? At last he headed for his own station, up on the bridge.
* * *
NOTHING about the boarding went according to plan. As the RHIB neared its stern, the freighter sheered away again, as it had the night before. The helo, hovering over its foredeck, reported men on the port side aft, but saw no weapons among them. Dan sent another sharp warning over the VHF. Then, losing patience, he fired a live five-inch high-cap round into the water a quarter mile ahead of the fleeing ship.
The crack and boom of high explosive, the burst of black smoke and white spray, seemed to have an effect at last. The old freighter slowed, slewed sideways, and lost way, starting to roll. The RHIB circled, then nestled in like a hungry piglet. A rope ladder dropped down to it as the bridge receiver crackled, “U.S. Navy warship Savo Island, this is Motor Vessel Patchooli. Once again, I submit you are in violation of international law. I am heaving to under protest. I am requesting assistance. Legal action will follow.”
“Be my fucking guest,” Dan muttered to Cheryl Staurulakis. She was staring out at the other ship, arms folded. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “What?” he asked her.
“We’ve got another player on the board.” She pointed off to port.
Through his binoculars the sky glowed off paint so much lighter, paler, than the haze gray the U.S. Navy favored that it looked almost white. The destroyer was still far off but had a bone in her teeth and, to judge by her aspect, would soon be on them. The wide-set bridge extended across the whole beam. Above it a pyramidal mack climbed like a ziggurat. A massive radar antenna rotated slowly at its apex. The smooth flattened way the superstructure met the hull told him it was designed with elements of the stealth the newest U.S. ships were bringing into the fleet.
Beside him the exec, the OOD, and the quartermaster all had their binoculars up too. “Get the photographer up here,” Cheryl told Nuckols. “This is the first time they’ve deployed this class.”
Dan passed down that he wanted electromagnetic intelligence, too, though no doubt the EWs and cryppies had already been on that for hours. Then he clicked his Hydra to the boat freq and went out on the wing for a clear line of sight. The helo was circling, trailing exhaust haze against the pearlescent cloud cover. The RHIB rode off the freighter’s port side. “Matador One, this is Matador. Progress report?”
Mytsalo’s slightly amped voice. “We’re aboard. They seem to be cooperating. Over.”
“Any sign of weapons?”
“No sir, not yet. But we’ve only checked the papers, haven’t really started the search yet.”
“What’s the cargo? According to the bill of lading?”
“Uh, let’s see … dried fruit … bolted cotton fabric, cotton yarn, tanned leather, and rice. And something called ‘miscellaneous manufactures.’” A pause, then, “We’ve got a really pissed captain here too. This turkey’s hopping mad. Over.”
“Who’s the woman? The one who speaks English?”
“Uh, I guess that would be the supercargo? Or she might be married to the captain—I’m not clear yet exactly. She’s arguing with Kaghazchi in I guess Urdu.”
Dan told him to start the inspection as soon as possible. “Remember to look for the signs of hidden spaces. Fresh paint. Recently moved equipment. Watch the crew, and give them a chance to talk to you alone if you can.”
Mytsalo said “Wilco” proudly, as if for the first time. For an ensign, being a boat officer was your first taste of what command might be like. The high—and the anxiety, too.
“Breakfast, Skip?”
Longley, with a covered tray. He peeled back the napkin like a prestidigitator. Ham slices, hash browns, toast, sunny-side eggs. And coffee, of course. “Put it on the chair,” Dan told him. “I’ll have it out here.”
“Bridge, sigs.” The old signalman rate was gone, but a quartermaster still manned the signal bridge. Pardees hit the key. “Go ahead.”
“Signal in the air from destroyer type to starboard.”
“Go ahead.”
“Flag signal … X-Ray. Kilo. Numeral, two.”
The OOD peered out onto the wing. Dan looked back at him, a piece of jam-smeared toast suspended in the air. “Maritime code?” Pardees murmured, looking embarrassed.
The quartermaster leaned down from above, looking disturbed. “Flag hoist breaks via maritime code to read, ‘Cease your present activities. Communicate with me by loud hailer.’”
Dan frowned, both at the peremptory tone, which was never used between ships of different navies, and at the means of delivery. NATO ships maintained a flag bag, but they were seldom used, except for displaying call signs, and decorating during festivities or ceremonies. He didn’t understand.
Then, all at once, he did.
* * *
AFTER consulting with Chief Van Gogh, he hoisted the November flag. Negating whatever the other’s hoist had been. He held course and speed. The destroyer slowed some distance off, then edged in. Dan expected him to slide into position off Savo’s port side, on the other hand from the freighter. The first indication otherwise was when Pardees murmured, “Cap’n, this dude’s got his rudder over. He’s coming right, fast.”
From the starboard wing, he saw that it was so; the other warship was canted far over in a radical turn. Its heel increased as he watched; they were cranking even more rudder on. Extending its relative motion, it would slip in not on Savo’s port side, but to her starboard. “What the fuck is this maniac doing?” he muttered.
“Sir, looks like he’s planning to grease in between us and the freighter.”
Dan glanced at the sea between with a critical eye. This sort of thing had happened decades before, in the Black Sea. As a result, the U.S. and Russia had rules in place to prevent incidents. There were no such agreements with the Chinese, though. “He won’t have a lot of clearance in there.”
“Should we close up? Come right and get in closer to Patchooli?”
He half wanted to, but doing so would risk collision. “Not now, not while he’s in this maneuver. Whatever it is. Hold course and speed. And get on bridge to bridge, interrogative his intentions.” He bent to the pelorus, taking a bearing on the pyramidal mack. Then Mytsalo came on the line. Dan ducked inside to take his call, but kept a close eye on the rapidly closing destroyer out the window.
The boat officer reported he’d started inspecting in the forward hold, but what was the ship that was closing in astern? Dan brought him up to date, without saying what he suspected. He was sure now part of the cargo was weapons, or other contraband. There could be no other explanation for the interest the Chinese were showing. Pakistan was notorious as the take-out window for everyone who wanted to end-run the nonproliferation regime.
Wuhan didn’t answer his call. Its heel increased still more, then lessened. Its bearing ticked left. Headed between him and the freighter, all right. He had to admit, though, it was being jockeyed with a panache the U.S. surface force had long lost. When it matched his speed, and an officer came out on the bridge wing with a microphone in hand, it was only about a hundred yards away.
He ambled back out when Branscombe reported a hail. The ship opposite stretched across his field of vision, gleaming and complex, sparkling white and light gray. Crewmen gazed curiously up from its boat deck as Savo’s men and women drifted out to observe as well. A few essayed tentative waves. Nuckols held out the portable loud hailer.
Dan tried to recall what Barbara Tuchman had said about harbingers of war. Some had started with meetings on the high seas, not unlike this. HMS Leopard’s unprovoked attack on USS Chesapeake off Virginia had been one trigger of the War of 1812. FDR’s dangling of USS Lanikai as bait in front of the advancing Japanese fleet. The capture of the Pueblo.
More than one senior officer had told Dan he had no sense of diplomacy. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, hoping they
were wrong. Or at least that he’d learned something since.
Across from him an officer in spotless whites, including white gloves, raised a microphone. “This is People’s Republic of China warship Wuhan,” a stentorian voice stated. “You will cease your illegal activities and retire.”
Staurulakis, beside him, murmured, “Shouldn’t we be at general quarters?”
“No hostile displays, Cheryl. And shut down the starboard SPY-1 arrays, so they don’t get irradiated on their bridge. Check the open channel to Strike One, and get the tape rolling on the cameras, all right? Make sure Matt’s feeding them what’s going on. Minute by minute. And log everything.”
He considered once more, then raised his megaphone and clicked it on. The portable amplifier sounded puny compared to the enormous power of the other ship’s loud hailer. Well, that was fair. Savo Island was almost four thousand tons larger, and he was looking down at the opposite bridge. Speak slowly and clearly … “This is United States Navy warship Savo Island conducting boarding and search operations on the high seas. You are interfering with navigation, risking collision, and hazarding both our vessels. Request you reduce speed and increase your standoff distance immediately.”
Deliberations on the bridge opposite. The speaker seemed to be deferring to a shorter man with gray hair. He came back with “This merchant is not a U.S.-flagged vessel. The master has refused welcome. What is the rationale for your boarding?”
Dan said, “I am investigating reported drug-smuggling activities under the United Nations Convention Against Illicit Traffic and Section 7 of the UN Law of the Sea. What is your rationale for interfering with me?”
“Satcomm secure phone, Captain,” called the OOD, inside the pilothouse. “Dark Horse. From Fifth Fleet. Actual, it sounds like.”
“Oh, goddamn it,” Dan muttered. He was tempted to blow it off, but reluctantly accepted the handset extended from inside. “This is Savo Actual. Over.”
“Dan, this is Fifth Fleet Actual. What the hell is going on there? You have a Chinese destroyer intruding on your board and search?”
“That’s correct, sir. Type 052B, Wuhan. He’s close alongside, actually between us and the intercepted merchant. Which still has my boarding team aboard. We’re discussing it by loud hailer. I suspect because he doesn’t want any electronic record if things go south.”
The Chinese opposite was reeling off a long spiel Dan hadn’t followed. He caught something about the U.S. not being a party of the Law of the Sea, and something else about Article 89. But Fleet was asking, “What exactly is your reason for this search? This is a Pakistani flag merchant, right? And he’s refused permission to board?”
What in the…? It was Fifth Fleet that’d directed the search. Obviously, someone hadn’t gotten the word. Unfortunately, that someone seemed to be the vice admiral. “Sir, no one’s been able to confirm that.”
“Who have you asked? Did you bother to inquire?”
Okay, keep your cool … He set the megaphone down and waved a give me a second gesture at the ship opposite. “Sir, we’ve been in constant comms with your staff over the past twenty-four hours, seeking confirmation of registry. Both Bangladesh and Pakistan have been requested to confirm, and neither could.” He crooked a finger impatiently at Staurulakis, who frowned, then fetched the clipboard hanging by his command chair. “Sir, I have your N3’s message here stating that Karachi returns ‘no response’ to inquiry about registry. It directs me to carry out a hostile boarding if necessary. I have the date time group here if you—”
“Don’t quote me my own date time groups, Captain Lenson.”
“Ah, no sir. Over.” He cradled the handset between shoulder and neck and lifted the megaphone. “Stand by, please,” echoed back, reverberating between the hulls that rolled together, as if welded, over the sea. On the opposite bridge the gray-haired officer was on a handset as well.
Just … fucking … great. He was probably talking to his own Higher. One on one, he and the other skipper could probably have arrived at a face-saving modus vivendi. A joint inspection team, for example. But with the upper echelons giving them contradictory orders, they might very well manage to start a fucking war, or at least an international incident, over this decrepit freighter.
“All right, Lenson, I have my N3 on the line here and he confirms your previous direction to board and search.”
“Yes sir. We have Mitscher on radar. She’ll be here in half an hour. My intentions now are to continue—”
“However, in view of the lack of flag country authorization, I’m countermanding. Break off contact and depart the scene. Confirm. Over.”
Dan and Staurulakis exchanged startled stares. “Ah … say again, Dark Horse? You’re directing me to recall the boarding team? They’re already aboard and executing.“
“You already boarded? Recall your people at once.”
He coughed into his fist, not believing what he was hearing. “Sir, with all due respect … We have a Chinese warship alongside that’s just ordered me to disengage. I refused to do so. Is this a signal we want to send?”
His Hydra crackled. Dan cursed, but hit the Transmit button. “Matador. Go ahead, Matador One.”
“Sir, this is Ensign Mytsalo. Forward hold’s clean. But they’re trying to stop me going aft.”
The satcomm phone said, “This is Dark Horse. Confirm receipt of disengage orders.”
Dan cleared his throat again. Then he held the handset out from his face, over the sea, where the wind came up against the wing bulwark, so that the moving air blustered in it. He said, “Dark Horse, this is Matador. You are breaking up badly. Say again all after, ‘I have my N3 on the line.’ Over.”
Staurulakis blanched. She backed up against the door. He told her, “Let’s get Red Hawk back aboard. He’s out there burning fuel to no good purpose. And have him make a close pass over this guy to starboard on his way in.” He clicked the Transmit button on the handset in the middle of an angry-sounding tirade and said, “Dark Horse, Dark Horse, this is Matador, Matador. Say again your last transmission. You are breaking up. Suspect sync problems. I am checking settings on my cards. Over.”
“Sir, what are you doing?”
“Take it easy, Cheryl. Remember Nelson at Copenhagen? He couldn’t see the recall flag. Because he was holding his telescope to his blind eye.” He sighed, sorry he’d let her in on his deliberate mishearing of the order. Far better, for her, to not know.
“Sir, you can’t deliberately disobey.”
“I’m not disengaging on a Chinese order.” Dan nodded to the ship that rolled a hundred yards off. “That’s not the signal we want to send.”
His exec had a look in her eye he’d never seen before. The kind of look Maryk must have given Captain Queeg, just before he relieved him. And the dead silence on the bridge told him that if she tried, the others might back her up. “Sir, you’re not disengaging on his word. You’re doing it on Fifth Fleet’s orders.”
“Fifth Fleet isn’t eyeball to eyeball, Cheryl. I am. And backing down is the wrong message to transmit.”
She glanced back into the pilothouse, then leaned in. “Captain, sure you’re not getting some kind of testosterone thing going? And you’re putting Max and his men at risk over there.”
“It’s my responsibility. But can we keep it between us, until we see how it all shakes out? I don’t want you catching fire too, if I have to go down.”
The 21MC on the wing lit. “Bridge, Radio. Fifth Fleet flash message. Direct to CO. Is he up there? Shall I read it?”
Staurulakis pressed the lever. She said evenly, not meeting Dan’s eyes, “He’s here. Go ahead.”
“From: Fifth Fleet. TO: CO, USS Savo Island. Break off inspection of Pakistani-flagged vessel M/V Patchooli and resume preparations for Exercise Malabar. Confirm receipt.”
The bridge was quiet again. The helm creaked as the helmsman corrected.
At last Dan nodded, reluctantly. He turned back to the ship opposite, and raised the megap
hone again. Said across the water, “We are ceasing our inspection. Please stand clear while we recover our boarding team.”
“This is Wuhan. Thank you for your cooperation. We will remain in the vicinity.”
He coughed and lowered the loud hailer, numb, detached. The U.S. Navy had backed down, at sea, in the face of a threat. He swallowed again and again, and succeeded, just, in managing not to throw up, although he located the bridge wastebasket in the corner of his eye just in case.
He was cursing to himself when he turned, and saw the chief corpsman’s sagging face.
* * *
MITSCHER reported in by VHF, but by then Dan was off the bridge. He was in engineering female berthing, experiencing a chilling sense of déjà vu.
The petty officer lay curled like a comma, turned away in her bunk, face to the bulkhead, where an iPod played softly. A flash flickered as a corpsman bent in with a camera. “No one’s touched her?” Dan asked the master-at-arms.
“No sir. Couple of her friends came down to check on her, take her to chow. Found her like this.”
“She was on the sick list,” Grissett said from behind them. “From yesterday. She complained of malaise and muscle aches. Had a dry, unproductive cough and a slightly elevated temperature. A hundred and one, I think. Maybe a hundred and two. I issued ibuprofen and prescribed fluids and bed rest.”
The compartment was empty except for them; the petty officer’s division chief; Bart Danenhower; and McMottie, the leading chief. Dan leaned in close to examine the face he’d last seen at mast, taut with accusation and outrage. Now Petty Officer Sherri Scharner looked as if she were zonked out after an exhausting watch. Only a fleck of brownish froth on her upper lip appeared out of the ordinary. Dan reached out, then drew his hand back as Grissett cleared his throat. “You’re going to take samples?” he asked the chief corpsman.