The Gulf

by David Poyer

  It occurred to Dan then that Hart, and Sturgis, and Cannon, and those above them might fully believe neither of them, but be unable to exonerate them, either. In a way, that would be worst of all. He and Shaker would both lose Van Zandt. Hart would have to relieve them both, just to be safe.

  Oh, it would happen quietly, their professional deaths. It would hardly help the national interest, relations with allies, to advertise that what Shaker had almost done might be possible. They’d be sent back to the States with a vaguely worded reprimand in their jackets. Shaker could retire, he had enough time in. But he would have to linger on, certain now of never gaining a command, just crossing off the days in some shore-duty backwater. This could be the last time he stood on the deck of a Navy ship.

  Charaler ordered ahead two-thirds. Dan stood rigidly at the chart table, recommending courses and speeds. The dawn showed them the pier, stark and shadowed in the flat rose-colored light. On it, as they approached, they could see the party of officers and technicians waiting.

  He could see already that one of them was Stansfield Hart.

  29

  The U.S. Embassy, Manama, Bahrain

  BLAIR stood at the conference table, watching as the men filed in. Twelve sharp, and it looked like everyone was here. Everyone—no, the two ambassadors were still absent.

  There was a stir in the corridor, a murmur.

  Shaw stalked in, impeccable, his distant smile sweeping the room like a radar. Beside him, an older man, green sport coat, glasses, slicked-back hair. Two Foreign Service types trotted behind them with briefcases and walkie-talkies.

  And that, she thought, rounds it off. She moved forward and caught the older man’s eye. “Hello, Jerry.”

  “Well, hello, Blair, nice to see you again.” They shook hands, Weber grinning as if he was here for a flossing appointment.

  Jerry Weber was a political appointee, a California banker whose years of support of the President had been rewarded in the usual way. Unfortunately, the exotic, harmless post he’d been assigned to—Bahrain—had turned unexpectedly turbulent for most of his tenure.

  She glanced around at the mix of suits and uniforms. The attachés, of course, and Hart’s staffers, Byrne, Trudell, Ritchie. One was in Army green, Colonel Saunders, General Cannon’s rep from CENTCOM. No one made jokes about his name. She nodded to Shaw and got an air-conditioned smile in reply. Had he managed to smooth things over with Prince Ismail? It didn’t seem like a good time to ask.

  Weber, to an aide: “Time yet? Uh-huh? Okay—gentlemen, ladies, please follow me.”

  The Bubble opened off the regular conference room. It was a little larger than a walk-in closet, bare-walled except for framed photos of President Reagan and Sheikh al-Khalifa. The table looked like it had needed stripping and refinishing for longer than she’d been alive. A technician was just leaving; he waved a meter, murmuring “It’s clean, sir” to Weber. There were only six chairs. He sent the attachés back for more.

  At length, everyone had coffee who wanted it, the door was closed, and the ambassador, watching his aide fiddle with a cassette recorder, said to Hart, “We don’t have very good ventilation in here, Admiral. If you don’t mind—”

  Hart grunted and looked around for an ashtray. There weren’t any. He stubbed out his cigarette in a trash can and resumed his seat.

  Weber kicked off. “Uh, gentlemen, Miss Titus, this is an ad hoc working group to coordinate a military initiative against irregular forces in the Gulf. The basis for it is a presidential order we received at four o’clock this morning. B.B., that thing on now?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “We have present the honorable Harrison Shaw, Ambassador to Saudi Arabia; attachés of the three services from this embassy; Mr. Dennis Hsiao, CIA; Ms. Blair Titus, Senate Armed Services Committee staff; and Rear Admiral Stansfield Hart, COMIDEASTFOR, who will be responsible for military planning and coordination, with his staff. Also present are myself, Gerald Weber, Ambassador to Bahrain, and my assistant, B. B. Mease. Uh, Admiral, would you like to chair?”

  “I think you had better, sir. I’m not sure how these interagency things go.”

  “All right. Has everyone read the message?”

  Everyone had. Weber’s assistant read it aloud, anyway. From the Joint Chiefs of Staff, via CENTCOM, it directed COMIDEASTFOR to plan and execute a time-urgent reprisal against a Pasdaran base. He was directed to conduct preliminary liaison with local diplomatic and intelligence authorities to ensure that the action chosen would be suitable, feasible, and acceptable; that is, damaging to the Pasdaran, reasonably sure of success, and in accord with wider policy. The strike was to take place within seventy-two hours, to link it with recent Iranian attacks.

  “Any questions on the order?” said Weber.

  “What are we going to hit?” asked Hsiao.

  “Uh, I think we’ll need both your input and the Admiral’s on that. Admiral?”

  “I am rather constrained on what to recommend.” Hart drummed his fingers on the table, examined a file Byrne handed him, and added, “By the fact that we have no hard intelligence yet on the location of our major threat.”

  “You’re talking about your … submarine, I suppose,” said Weber.

  “That’s right, sir. I’ve been running patrols, requested satellite reconaissance sweeps, and we’ve been listening around the clock for electronic emissions. Not a peep. Whoever’s running that boat, he’s good.”

  “But is there a submarine?” rumbled Saunders. “I hear there is from the Navy, but so far as I know, there’s been no evidence—”

  “There’s been a sighting and one, possibly two torpedoings.”

  “A possible sighting, a possible torpedoing—”

  “Let’s stick to the issue, gentlemen. We need to settle on a target.”

  Hart gave Saunders a final glare and turned back to Weber. “Yessir. Therefore, I suggest either Farsi Island or, better yet, Bushehr. They’re the biggest thorns in our side up here as far as fixed bases are concerned. There are six Boghammers forward-based at Farsi, supported from the mainland.”

  “Farsi Island or Bushehr. Any objections to those choices?”

  With the doors closed, the little room was becoming stuffy. Blair was beginning to sweat. She shook her blouse loose under her arms and said, “Bushehr is on the mainland. It’s an Iranian Navy base and air facility. Wouldn’t you be taking on the regular armed forces as well as the Pasdaran, if you attacked there?”

  “That’s not a drawback, that’s an advantage,” said Hart. “If the wraps are off, I want to hurt them as much as I can. Go for their fleet. Sink some frigates, not just motorboats.”

  Shaw said, “I’d like to register an objection.”

  “Go ahead, Ambassador.”

  Again, as she’d noticed in Riyadh, he paused before he spoke. She could see him, like a chess player, computing several moves ahead. “I don’t presume to speak for the Saudis, but perhaps that’s my role here. I feel sure they would object to any attack on the mainland of Iran. They prefer deescalation, not escalation, in their end of the Gulf.” He stopped, then added, “For the same reason, I would object to Farsi.”

  “Why?” said Blair.

  “It’s too close to their offshore fields. If Farsi alone is attacked, the losses can be quickly replaced, as Admiral Hart has pointed out. We’ll see lots of rigs on fire then. Saudi rigs.”

  “I support that,” said Weber.

  “Excuse me?” said Hart.

  “I mean, I support Mr. Shaw’s objection to Farsi Island.”

  Hart said angrily, “Well, gentlemen, where does that leave me? You’ve just ruled out the two best targets in the northern Gulf. It seems to me—”

  “In the northern Gulf, Admiral,” said Blair. “Aren’t there other Pasdaran bases? Not so close to the oil-producing areas?”

  “Abu Musa,” said Hsiao.

  “Yes, Abu Musa, that was also on my short list.”

  “That would be mor
e acceptable,” said Shaw. “There isn’t the high density of oil fields down there. It’s also far enough away from the Saudis and Bahrainis to decouple a strike from them. They can denounce it, if they like.”

  “But what about the UAE and Oman?” said Saunders.

  “I don’t see anybody here representing them,” said Weber. He smiled.

  “How does Abu Musa look to you operationally?” Blair asked Hart.

  “It’s a tough nut. But not as challenging as Bushehr.”

  “Fewer air defenses,” said Hsiao. “According to our sources.”

  “Fewer defenses, and it’s close enough to get planes in for a suppressive strike. I’ll have to get a message out to Forrestal, turn her around; she’s on her way to Kenya right now.”

  “Wait a minute. Are we talking—what kind of strike are we talking about, I’m confused,” said Weber. “Is it an air attack? Purely air, like Libya?”

  “Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” said Hart. “I’ve thought a lot about that, about how to hit these Boghammers.” He went over the high-attack versus low-level bombing problem. “Even an isolated base like Abu Musa is going to be equipped with antiair defenses. Mr. Hsaio, perhaps you could supply details—”

  “Mostly Chinese. Peking’s been selling them a lot of shoulder-fired weapons.”

  “Can we use B-52s?” said Weber then, smirking a little. They all looked at him.

  “What B-52s?” said Saunders.

  “The ones that are flying in. The wing that’s going to base here.”

  This occasioned some discussion. Most of those present had heard the rumor. “It’s got to be gonzo secret, if I’ve never heard of it,” said the CENTCOM rep at last. “But anyway, they aren’t here now, so let’s plan with what we’ve got.”

  “What about Iranian air, out of Bandar Abbās?” asked one of the attachés.

  “I think three or four F-18s will keep them in the icebox,” said Hart. “They’ve been pretty tame lately. Parts shortage, probably. Intel, you concur?”

  Hsiao and Byrne both nodded, caught each other doing it, and traded scowls.

  “One point I want to make,” Blair said. Their heads turned. “This action must be decisive, whatever the target. This is a one-time dispensation, if you will, in response to media pressure about the shoot-down of Four Two One. Congress is taking a risk by conceding it to the administration. If it fails, or if the IRG continues to operate out of the base afterward, the Hill will share the blame. They’ll look for a way to ensure it doesn’t happen again. And it is quite possible that the result will be a sizable reduction, if not a complete withdrawal, of U.S. forces in the Gulf.”

  They were silent for a while, each pondering this in his own way. It was very hot in the room now. At last, Ambassador Weber cleared his throat. “Uh, I take it the consensus of the principals, then—have we agreed on Abu Musa?”

  They seemed to have agreed. “Now,” he went on, “I know this is your ball park, Admiral, how the strike will be carried out, but do you have any ideas? Can you give us, uh, a rough sketch?”

  “It’ll be pretty rough,” said Hart. He stared at one of the portraits. “There’s a mine field to contend with. That will have to be swept, or at least accessed with a cleared channel, to the anchorage, where the boats moor. The shore facilities include fuel dumps, workshops, barracks, and the like. Looks like light construction; they weren’t there two years ago.

  “My initial idea is to do a high-level strike with A-6s from Forrestal, concentrating on the shore installation. Then send in two or three low-value surface units and shell the dickens out of the Boghammers and any remaining facilities at close range.”

  “What’s that, a ‘low-value unit’?” said Weber. “I’m not familiar with the usage.”

  “A destroyer-type ship.” Hart paused. “I have several currently unassigned to patrol duties. I have two specifically in mind for this tasking.”

  And Blair felt suddenly uneasy. Destroyer-type ships … didn’t that mean frigates? And currently unassigned to patrol duties … no, his ship was supposed to be getting under way.… Before she thought through what she was asking she said, “Which two ships, Admiral?”

  “Charles Adams. And Turner Van Zandt.”

  She summoned everything she had to look cool and distant. This was not what she was here for. It was a breach of professionalism even to ask.

  But she did anyway. “Why those two?”

  “Well, Adams is what we call a gunship. Older, faster, better-armed for shore bombardment. Van Zandt—she’s well trained and the captain is aggressive. Maybe too aggressive. But I think he’s a good choice for this kind of action.” His eyes left the wall, suddenly sharpening on her. “Unless you know something I don’t?”

  She heard the weakness in her voice as she said, “Don’t you have several frigates available?”

  They were all looking at her now. “Blair?” said Weber. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Nothing. The choice is up to you, of course.”

  “Admiral,” said Shaw then, “these aircraft, these A-6s. How will they be armed?”

  “I hadn’t gotten down to that level yet, sir. That will be a decision for the air arm. They’ll analyze the recon photos and calculate the optimal bomb load and type.”

  “It would be better if they didn’t use cluster bomb units. That’s my advice.”

  “No CBUs?”

  “No.”

  Hart was reddening now. “And what in God’s name, sir, is the rationale for that request?”

  “The Saudis are sensitive to CBU use because the Israelis have used them in Lebanon, and we refused to sell them to the Arabs. Now, if we employ them against—granted, Iranians, but still Moslems—I don’t think it would read well in the Arab states.”

  “Mr. Shaw, I am going to leave that to the carrier. I’m not going to make tactical decisions based on political PR.”

  Shaw said, gently, “You’re to take the recommendations of this working group into consideration, Admiral. That’s clearly indicated in your orders.”

  “Crap,” said Hart. Several of the diplomats winced.

  Shaw said, his voice just a shade grayer, “We’re talking about an operation in support of U.S. policy, Admiral, and that would be a decided positive—”

  “Crap,” said Hart again, interrupting him in mid-sentence. “We’re not talking about policy, we’re talking about men’s lives now. You’ve already moved me to Abu Musa. Now you’re telling me what ordnance to use.

  “Well, I’m not buying that. That’s not advice, that’s meddling in military operations. If CBUs are the safest way for my pilots to destroy this base, that’s what I’ll use. End of discussion.” He swiveled away from Shaw, caught Blair in his sights, and let off a salvo at her, too. “Yes, meddling. Like you’ve been doing since you got here. What about it, Miss Titus? Any more ‘recommendations,’ ‘advice,’ or ‘consultations’? Are you done screwing around with us?”

  She was instantly angry. “That’s unfair, Admiral. You complained to me about not having a free hand. I got it for you! Where do you think this order came from? From a negotiated agreement of both houses with the Executive. Stop whining and carry it out!”

  Shaw tried to interrupt, but she went on. “You wanted a chance to hit them. Hit them, goddamn it, and face the consequences!”

  Weber said, “Uh, I don’t think we need to drag personalities into this discussion—”

  “He’s the one—” she said, but then stopped herself. No one else spoke.

  “Abu Musa, then,” said Weber. He shoved his chair back and turned off the recorder, looking relieved. “Abu Musa, seventy-some hours from now. And that’s close-hold, everybody, no talking about it outside of this room or another secure space.

  “Thank you all for attending. This conference is adjourned.”

  They got up. The door opened, and the attachés filed out. Blair lingered, however. Hart was gathering up his charts and files, his cheeks still flushed. As
soon as the recorder went off, he’d lit another cigarette, and it hung now from his lips, shedding gray chips of ash on the table.

  He ignored her, talking rapidly to Byrne. Finally, she said, “Admiral.”

  “What?”

  “One last thing—the ships you’re going to send in.”

  “We discussed that already.”

  She stood by the table, her arms crossed. She wasn’t sure how she felt. Still angry—yes, at his accusations. But also—scared. And not only for Dan.

  “I know, but I was wondering”—she heard the tremor in her voice with sudden terror, but pressed on—“wouldn’t the Mobile Bay be a better ship to send in than the, the frigate? It’s so much more capable. And it’s on station there now, closer—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hart. They were alone now. He brought his eyes up slowly, then narrowed them, tilting back his head as if, she thought, he was peering at her through bifocals. “Wait a minute! I know why you’re asking me this. My chief of staff said he saw you with one of Van Zandt’s officers. Is that what this is all about? Something personal?”

  He said it the way a doctor would say malpractice lawyer. Suddenly, just like that, she hated him.

  She said in a tight, frozen voice, “All right. That’s correct. I’m asking for a favor.”

  “A favor.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That I not send the ship your … friend is on; that I send another in her place.”

  “That’s right,” she said again, and her voice trailed off to nothingness in the insulated room.

  “Forget it,” said Hart. “Van Zandt’s the best I’ve got for the mission. For the mission you want done. And her assigned crew, all her regularly assigned crew, is going in on her.”

  The smoke made a circle in the air. Then he hesitated, half-turning back to her. She stopped breathing, torn between fear and hope. When she saw his eyes, though, she knew there was no ground for hope. Not from this man.