The Gulf

by David Poyer

  Then, to the clicking of a keyboard, time began. Blair leaned forward, tensing as the helicopter suddenly altered course. There was nothing on the screen to show why—or at least nothing large enough, or high enough above sea return, for the long-range radars to pick up. Four Two One then turned, passing directly over the surface contact. The two symbols merged for a moment, winking as they coalesced.

  Then, abruptly, both disappeared.

  There was utter silence in CDC. Finally, Byrne murmured, “Something small, intermittent, where he made that sudden turn … that could have been a sub. At periscope depth. Then he submerged, after his escort boat fired.”

  “Hasbah—that’s Iranian?” Hart snapped.

  “Yessir, Hasbah’s Iranian.”

  Abruptly he jumped down and said, not looking at them, “Captain Byrne. Charts, please. Northern Gulf.”

  “Yessir.”

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “We’re going to hit back.”

  “Hit the submarine? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “It’s long gone. We’ll never pick it up in those rigs and pipelines.” Beneath the explanation, the admiral’s voice smoked with rage.

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “A reprisal.”

  Byrne handed up the charts. Hart looked around for a work area, and at last smoothed them out on a radarscope. Then he went on. “I don’t know how they got to Borinquen. But they did. And we won’t have the full story on what happened to Van Zandt’s helo for a while, either. If it’s a sub, a successful attack on a U.S.-escorted convoy, we’re in trouble, Miss Titus. Deep trouble. We’ve got to find it and kill it. But that’s not going to be easy. We never saw it approach, and we only saw it leaving by accident.

  “But I’m not going to stand still for this. We’re here to show force when necessary. I think it’s necessary now.”

  He turned. “Captain Byrne! I want a plan for a strike on their oil rigs, today, after the convoy detaches. Announce that it’s in retaliation for a submarine attack. Get on the horn and work it out with ASU. I want it transmitted here, copies to Adams, Van Zandt, and Gallery. Notify the usual allies and diplomats. I want it here in two hours.”

  Byrne stood for a moment, tapping his glasses against his lips. Then he said, “Aye aye, sir. But do you want to revisit that one point … about announcing a possible submarine contact?”

  “Should I?”

  “If we can for a moment, sir. We still don’t have any hard evidence that the 209 is operational. Do we really want to announce that it is? As I see it, even if that pilot was right, announcing it to the world is counterproductive. They’ll go to ground and be twice as hard to detect next time. Why not exercise a little cover and deception?”

  “C & D? How?”

  “Like this: Just announce that Borinquen was hit by a mine. Let them think they’ve put one over on us. Meanwhile, alert our commanding officers, rearm and reorient to the extent we can for shallow-water ASW, and, above all, get our intelligence people on the stick. If the Iranians think they’re invisible, sooner or later they’ll get careless. And we’ll see them again. When they do, we’ll jump on them with everything we’ve got.”

  Hart stuck his lower lip out. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. At last, he nodded, short, sharp, bending to the chart. “It’s a thought, Jack. It has its appeal, doesn’t it?”

  Blair had been sucking a pencil, running over things in her mind. Now she cleared her throat. “Admiral, I don’t think that’s wise.”

  Hart straightened slowly. “I don’t recall asking for your input, Miss Titus.”

  “I’m not quarreling with the fact of a reprisal. You’re the on-scene commander. That’s your prerogative. But I don’t think it should be an oil rig. Nor do I think you should conceal the fact there’s a submarine loose in the Gulf.”

  Beyond Hart, the screens flickered, updating second by second; the smooth, steady hum of voices and radio circuits went on. So much data, so much research and engineering and expense, she thought. But it all came down to this—to the decision of the man in charge.

  He said sharply, “I’m listening.”

  “The submarine first. If there’s really one out there, or if you suspect there is, it’s only fair to release the news. Allow the shipping companies to reroute, or delay. Secrets don’t do anyone any good, Admiral. Most of them are just a form of military masturbation.”

  Hart looked away, blinking once at the last word. “And the reprisal?”

  “I say no. For two reasons. One, it’s too easy for them to counterstrike, burn another—Saudi, Kuwaiti, or another of our allies’. Second, I don’t perceive Iran as a unitary rational actor.”

  Behind her Miller snorted. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the Pasdaran, Navy, and oil ministry are not coordinated at the national level. They formulate policy independently and act independently. Ergo, attacking an oil rig won’t be perceived by the Pasdaran, or the Navy, or whoever set up this attack as a punishment, nor will it deter further aggressive moves.”

  “They’re all Iranians,” Miller said. “Their other assets are too hard to hit without a major action, major planning.”

  “Then do a major action. Against the Pasdaran.”

  The admiral said angrily, “And take how long? Jack’s idea about playing dumb as far as the 209’s concerned—that’s good. The alternative is shutting down the whole Gulf. We’ll do that. For now.

  “And Lee’s right about the reprisal. Those are valid targets. Those oil fields earn foreign exchange. For sure, hitting one’s going to hurt.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Will you please, Miss Titus, leave it to me!”

  The last words were shouted and the hum in the windowless space quieted, the enlisted men and junior officers looking up. Hart lowered his voice but steel still braced it as he said, “As you pointed out, I’m the commander on the scene. Now, you can hang me after the fact, if what I do doesn’t work, but by God you are not in my chain of command and you will not tell me what to do! Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, Admiral.”

  He swung away from her, shouting again for Byrne. Together, the three men bent over the charts.

  * * *

  She found her own way to the mess decks, and had a late lunch among the enlisted men. Or rather, by herself. She seemed surrounded by a protective magic; sailors came out of the serving line, saw her, and quickly found themselves seats elsewhere. Blair smiled grimly. She could imagine how fast the story of her confronting Miller, and then Hart himself, had gone through the ship.

  The Bitch from Washington picked at overcooked roast turkey, baked beans, and a yellow scum meant to be macaroni and cheese. They don’t eat any better here than in the House of Representatives, she thought.

  When she was done, she went back up, the master-at-arms still tagging along behind her. Hart was sitting with his feet propped on an intercom, staring at the screen. The convoy was past the Narrows, headed north. A fresh pack of cigarettes lay on the console. When he saw her, he swung his feet down. “Well,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Eating. Are your plans complete?”

  “Concept of operations, target selection, yes … the rest the staff’s working out. It won’t be too complicated. We’ve done oil-field strikes before.”

  She wanted to ask, And did they accomplish what you wanted them to, Admiral? But she didn’t. Part of her wanted to reassure this cornered, lonely man, with a weight on his shoulders that, after all, she’d never had. She had the ear of the powerful. But she had no accountability. And for that, suddenly, looking at his strain-engraved face, she was grateful.

  “I’m going out there,” Hart said. “To Linebacker Four. Byrne’s taking my gear down to the flight deck. Miller will get Bahrain to send somebody out here for you.”

  “Admiral—”

  “Yes, Miss Titus.”

  “May I come? You
promised me a look at a convoy.”

  Hart looked surprised. Then he laughed, a short ugly bark. “I did, didn’t I? Sure, let’s show you what it’s really like out here. Lee, say goodbye to your guest. Call away flight quarters, please.”

  * * *

  Mobile Bay had been steaming northwest all morning. So the flight out, in Hart’s command helicopter, took a little over an hour.

  “Adams, sir?” shouted the pilot when the lumbering forms of the merchants, the gray sheep dogs of the destroyers, came into view ahead.

  “No. Put us down on the lead tanker. I want to see the damage for myself.”

  She was surprised at the ship’s sheer size. It was huge; so long that the far end was misty in the dust. It didn’t look as if the explosion had hurt it badly. It just steamed ahead with a very slight slant to the right. But she supposed most of the damage was underwater. She walked around on the sand-gritty deck, talked briefly to the master and the engineer, and then to a commander from the destroyer, Lenson. He was attractive, tall, but he looked tired. Hart lifted again shortly after that, and after brief touchdowns on Van Zandt and then Adams, they headed back toward Bahrain. She and Hart sat silently in the passenger compartment.

  She was thinking, again, about the report she had to write, and the call she had to make. Tomorrow … no, in the excitement she’d forgotten, it was due today. She ought to call from the embassy when she got in. Or no, they’d be landing at the Admin Support Unit. Perhaps she could use a secure phone there.

  Only what would she say?

  She decided then to advise Talmadge to postpone the vote. Tell him there were operations in progress now that might enable her to make a firm recommendation.

  And basically that was the truth. She just wasn’t sure yet. She thought, for one thing, that the number of ships committed could be reduced … to, say, twenty. And they could do without the Forrestal. The Navy needed more minesweepers and light units here, perhaps the squadron of hydrofoils based at Key West. These could replace the more expensive ships without loss of effectiveness. Hart, of course, would argue that it was just that, the overwhelming force available, that limited the scope of Iranian aggression. However, she didn’t think so, looking at the broad picture. Iran was being bled white by war. The regime’s energies were concentrated on the all-important Iraqi front.

  Though as to the larger question, what role American power had to play here … to that she could not yet formulate an answer she could back up in quantitative terms.

  It was obvious that the Navy was a major player in the area. It was the keystone holding the GCC together. As the Royal Navy had been once. The Gulf states were too weak, rich, and internally unstable to last long without outside support.

  But could the United States midwife a lasting peace? Would a “barrier” policy, a Kennan-type containment, turn Iran toward better relations after the war wound down? Or would it exacerbate the regime’s demands? The Pasdaran was the sticking point. Was the U.S. presence keeping them small, limiting them to hit-and-run tactics? Was it goading them into more? Or was it totally ineffective as far as the half-terrorist, half-military revolutionary guard was concerned?

  And what about this new element in the balance? The submarine?

  It was possible that the retaliation Hart had just ordered would clarify the question. But she thought it more likely it would just muddy it further.

  Maybe the only real test was a full-scale attack, on the Pasdaran.

  She recalled now Miller’s response to this the day before. “If I get an order to go in, I’ll go in.” “Those are safe havens … and it’s Congress that’s holding us back from hitting them.”

  But what if Congress lifted the restraints?

  What if, when she talked to Talmadge, she explained the situation—and asked him to lobby the other Senate leaders for a one-time exception?

  It would be a gamble. In fact, it would risk all-out war, closure of the Gulf, and pushing Iran into the waiting bear hug of the Soviets.

  By all the tenets of her training and experience, she believed in avoiding risk. To have to gamble meant poor planning. Yet still, with the force levels they’d built up, wasn’t this the best time for a showdown?

  It might be a disaster. If it was, it would have her name on it. But if it failed, their course would at last be clear. Talmadge, with a majority on the committee, could call for a vote on War Powers and win. The administration would have to pull out, and the region would settle into a new, more stable pattern of power. Sometimes you had to be realistic. Sometimes prestige and even national interest just weren’t worth what you had to pay for them.

  And maybe it was time to put her name on something, even if to history it would be Bankey Talmadge’s. To take responsibility—as Hart did, as Miller did, as even Prince Ismail did in his way.

  The helicopter droned on, and inch by inch her head, still buzzing with the complexities of economics, trade balance, diplomacy, and possible war, sank until her golden hair fell forward, hiding her eyes.

  22

  U.S.S. Turner Van Zandt

  THE rest of the convoy was uneventful. The doubled lookouts reported fishing floats, drift nets, garbage, but no mines. The only incident worth note was off Ras al Khafji, when three ships came into view at 20,000 yards. One had the lines of a warship.

  Gallery’s helicopter identified them as two merchants escorted by a Krivak-class destroyer. Dan had already recognized the silhouette. Recognized it with a feeling of doom, remembering a hot day in the Caribbean, the silence of the hove-to Barrett.… He monitored the exchange as the commodore called them on channel twelve. The Krivak didn’t answer, but at last one of the others came up. “This is Soviet Union merchant ship,” was all he said.

  “Soviet merchant, this is the American convoy on your bow. I want to report to you that we have encountered a mined area in the Farsi Narrows.”

  “Americanyets warship, Americanyets warship, please say if that confirmed.”

  “That is confirmed. Advise you stay clear of that area until swept.”

  “Thank you, Americanyets warship,” said the Russian. “Thank you for the warning.”

  “Crazy damned war,” Shaker had muttered. “Us telling them to look out for mines.”

  They dropped the convoy off Hawalli, leaving them in custody of two gunboats. U.S. warships were not welcome in Kuwaiti waters. The sleek craft ran circles around the listing Borinquen, tossing up rooster tails higher than their masts, acting as if they were out there just for fun. The three escorts lay hove to until they were out of sight.

  And now they were steaming south, toward Manama and stand-down.

  When the intercom came on, Dan was thinking about the times he’d chewed out Schweinberg and Hayes. It was Radio. He leaned on the answer switch. “Bridge aye.”

  “Is the captain there, sir? Flash coming in.” Behind the voice, he could hear the teletype chattering, the bell signaling a special message.

  “I’m here,” said Shaker, speaking past him from his chair. “Get it up soon as you can.”

  Flash was the highest priority the Navy had, reserved for Pearl Harbor–type warnings and orders requiring instant action. The radioman arrived two minutes later, puffing from his run. The captain leaned back, squinting at the message board. Dan looked away, wanting to snatch it out of his hands; why couldn’t they bring up two copies? At last Shaker, frowning, tilted it toward him. He glanced down it, skipping the headers.

  FLASH SECRET

  1. (S) Upon detachment of LINEBACKER IV ADAMS, GALLERY, VAN ZANDT proceed at best speed to radar picket station KILO off Kuwait. UK frigate CARDIFF will join en route. Commodore B. S. Nauman will assume tactical coordination of combined surface battle group. SBG will loiter vicinity point KILO until EXECUTE order is received. At that time proceed by shortest route at flank speed across Exclusionary Zone to vicinity Ardeshir oil field.

  2. (S) At Ardeshir OTC will select one gas/oil separation platform and destroy it with gunfire.
Remain in area no longer than one hour. Avoid civilian casualties. Minimize collateral damage and adverse environmental effects. If approached or threatened by Iranian air or sea units respond in accordance with COMIDEASTFOR Rules of Engagement, ref (A). Do not proceed east of selected target. Do not engage other platforms, surface craft, or aircraft unless necessary to preempt attack. Do not approach Iranian mainland closer than 50 (fifty) nautical miles.

  3. (S) Return at highest possible speed. Upon crossing zonal boundary detach HMS CARDIFF. ADAMS, GALLERY, VAN ZANDT return to Bahrain as previously directed ref (B).

  4. (S) Commanding officers will ensure that all units and personnel are at highest degree of readiness during execution of this order. Maintain Condition II Red against surprise attack until south of 28 degrees latitude.

  BT

  DO NOT DECLASSIFY WITHOUT PERMISSION OF ORIGINATOR

  SECRET

  “Reprisal,” said Dan.

  “And about goddamn time,” said Shaker. He took the pen the radioman held out and scribbled his initials. “Officer of the deck! Get Lieutenant Pensker up here. We’re going to need to shuffle our ammo around.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “All units Sagebrush, this is Bounty Hunter. Message follows. Immediate execute. Break.” Lenson, Firzhak, and Shaker grabbed for pencils as McQueen turned up the Tactical Coordination speaker. “Bravo Tango Two tack zero-four-five. Sierra two niner. Yankee Hotel two. Alfa Charlie niner one. I say again”—the calm voice from Charles Adams reread it—“nine one. Standby, execute. Over.”

  “Roger that,” shouted Shaker. “OOD, come right to zero-four-five. All ahead flank, kick her up to twenty-seven knots.”

  Meanwhile, Dan had grabbed the code book. The intercom beat him as Van Zandt heeled to full rudder. “Bridge, Combat: Break last signal as follows: Form line of bearing in order of hull numbers. Prepare for surface and/or air action. Intended target, fixed installation.”

  “Concur with Combat’s break.” Dan snapped the pub shut and made for the chart table. Sure enough, the next question out of Shaker’s mouth was “Navigator, how far to Point Kilo?”