Damage Control Page 7

  They picked up the two rifles, old British .303s, beautifully maintained and oiled but half a century out of date. Each of the sailors had had a full box magazine and five more rounds.

  “The poor bastards were like mall security guards,” Alan said with disgust. He turned away because flies were already gathering. Thinking, No safe haven here after we’ve killed three of their guys, no matter who they are. He looked at the next chain-link fence and then at Ong and the others. “This sucks.”

  “No shit.”

  “We’re going farther down toward the creek. It’ll be crap, but there’ll be no fences and no people.” And nobody we have to shoot, he thought, looking at Fidel. “Well?”

  Fidel looked toward the scrub jungle through which the maps said a creek flowed. “I think we’re gonna wind up humping some people on our backs, but—” He shrugged. “O-ka-a-a-y!”

  AG 703

  Soleck cycled through the screens on his computer while warming the ISAR—Inverse Synthetic Aperture Radar—which used the doppler of a target’s movement to create a two-dimensional digital image, a radar photograph. It was best against targets on the water; it could be cranky, was often attenuated by atmospherics, but when it worked, it could reach over the horizon through ducts and reflections to image a ship that lay hundreds of miles away.

  “Gup, you did leave us enough gas to make Trincomalee?”

  Guppy didn’t rise to it. “Roger that,” he said. “And a thousand pounds reserve for whoever needs it. Both planes.”

  Soleck wanted to check the figures but Guppy had a head for math and somebody in Air Ops must have done it, too. Gup was doing very well indeed. In fact, by the end of this flight, he might have shed nugget status forever.

  Soleck had the radar in surface-search mode; he could see the Indian battle group to the north, now well spread out, with elements dispersed over ninety miles of ocean. He overlaid the position of the Tomcats and the man in the water and the ESM cuts, shading his small screen with a hand and trying to work with the minimal inputs available to the front seat.

  There. Two bananas on the surface-search that corresponded to his ESM cuts. He pressed the image button on the Indian Kashin-class and had the satisfaction of seeing her come up immediately. The image wavered and rotated twice; she was almost bow on. As he watched, the shape of her superstructure developed two major radar returns that showed as bright spikes above her hull.

  Has to be damage, he said to himself. He also thought he could see her forward turret rotating and something changing amidships. More damage?

  The ESM told the story—launch parameters for a Styx IIc anti-ship missile. He watched it go to homing and then terminal and then vanish as the Indian Godavari-class’s close-in weapons took it out. He got on the comm.

  “Alpha Whiskey, this is 703. An Indian Navy Mod Kashin fired on 101. That ship is now taking fire from an Indian Navy Mod Godavari. The Kashin has suffered damage. 703 is monitoring via ISAR and ESM.”

  “Copy, 703.”

  Donuts spoke up. “Alpha Whiskey, the mission tankers don’t have enough gas to get 101 to the beach.” Soleck could see him flying a thousand feet above him and a mile away.

  “Roger, 203. Concur. What do you recommend?”

  “Strike Lead recommends Alpha Whiskey advise on sending an SAR helo into a hot zone.”

  “203, I’m hesitant to send an unescorted helo up there.”

  Soleck, his eyes on the computer screen, cut in. “Kashin’s air-search radar went off the air during the last exchange, Alpha Whiskey. Hasn’t come back up. Still taking hits from the Godavari and seems to be listing to port.”

  “Roger, 703, copy all. 203, I’ll risk the helo. What’s on your mind?”

  The nasal quality of Donuts’s voice came through clearly. “I want 102 to turn south and head for the tankers. I want 101 to hang with the man in the water until gas is an issue or better yet until the helo shows; make it look like we have teeth. Then punch out or ditch, pilot’s choice, and the helo picks them all up.”

  Wow, thought Soleck, Donuts can be a cold bastard. But the more he thought it through, the better the plan seemed—except for the two guys who would have to punch out of a perfectly good plane.

  “203, I see your plan. I was thinking of ordering them to try and bingo at Lakshadweep.”

  “Copy, Alpha Whiskey. I’m concerned with the Indian Navy.” Probably one of Donuts’s best understatements.

  “Roger, 203. Concur. Helo is on the way.”

  Soleck listened to Donuts repeat it all to 101. The pilot in 101 showed his sangfroid. “203, this is 101, concur. Always enjoy spending the taxpayer’s money.”

  On his computer screen, Soleck could see the Kashin-class listing more and more heavily. Flames and smoke didn’t register on ISAR, but damage did, and her superstructure was a spike of radar reflections twice the height of the original image. None of her radars showed on ESM.

  In the last light of the setting sun, he could just see the smudge of smoke to the north. Way out over the horizon there, the Kashin-class was burning, a plume of smoke rising thousands of feet into the air. Behind him in the quick dusk of the Arabian Sea, the black pall of the deck fires on the Jefferson rose to meet it.

  Soleck watched the computer and the gas and prayed.

  Donitz pulled on the stick and turned his nose south and east until his compass read 140 and his GPS arrow lined up with Soleck’s pointer for Trincomalee. He checked his altitude, his profile, did the math on his fuel one more time, and shifted his butt in his seat. Long ride, and the fuel was too close to call all the way there.

  “All planes, this is Strike Lead. See you in Trin.”

  Ten sets of Roger.

  And 101 came up last. “Have a beer for me, Strike Lead. We’re punching out in a minute.”

  Donitz listened to the pilot in 101 count the time down, his voice flat through the count. And then he said “Eject,” and he was gone.

  Bahrain, Fifth Fleet HQ

  The flag lieutenant, resplendent in whites and chicken guts, cut straight to the head of the morning line in the hotel lobby. “Is Admiral Pilchard in the hotel, please?” he asked. A full commander in the line glared at him, and Spinner smiled back. You may be some shit somewhere, pal, Spinner’s look said, but not with me. Not right now.

  “He’s in the pub, sir.” The woman behind the desk smiled. Spinner was used to that smile, but right now he had other fish to fry. Ignoring the outraged stares of the line, Spinner marched across the lobby of the Gulf Hotel and into the pub.

  Pilchard was planning to play a round of golf with the new ambassador and an old buddy; he was wearing an ancient navy sweatshirt and jeans and Spinner thought he looked old and undignified. He and his buddy were laughing, the only patrons in the bar; just two ill-dressed old men drinking coffee.

  Pilchard’s head came up as soon as he saw Spinner’s uniform.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir.” Spinner paused for dramatic effect. This was what he liked best, center stage. “There’s been a serious accident on board the Jefferson.”

  “How serious?”

  Spinner felt as if he were watching Pilchard age, as if it was some cheap horror movie. The laugh was gone; the face looked gray. Time to retire, old-timer. “We don’t know for sure, sir, but the first look is that a plane, possibly Indian, hit the deck of the Jefferson. Her flight deck is on fire and she has fires on the O-2 level and above. Captain Rogers is dead and Admiral Rafehausen is badly injured. Captain Lash of the Fort Klock has taken command. He’s ordered the fleet exercise canceled.” Spinner was keeping his voice very low.

  “Jesus,” Pilchard’s guest murmured.

  “I have to go,” Pilchard said, pulling a windbreaker from the back of his chair. “You drive?” he asked. Spinner winced.

  “Yes, sir.” Kiss the afternoon goodbye.

  “Get me out to HQ.” Pilchard waved to his friend and started out to the lobby, Spinner hurrying to keep pace.

  Pilchard had
his phone open and was dialing. He glanced up at Spinner, who pointed at the waiting car. “Shelley?” Spinner wished he could hear Captain Lurgwitz on the other end. She was Pilchard’s flag captain and she didn’t like Spinner, thus kept him out of a lot of good information. “Yeah, Spinner’s here. I got it. Was it Indian? What do they say?” There was a pause. By now, Spinner was at the wheel and Pilchard was folding his height into the cockpit of Spinner’s BMW. He nodded at something.

  “How long have they been off the air?” A low buzz as Lurgwitz spoke. “You tried calling Al Craik at Mahe?”

  Spinner’s stomach growled at the mere mention of Craik, who had reprimanded him for some trivial message attachment once and didn’t seem to play the game the way the other staff officers did. Blow-hard glory hound.

  Pilchard glanced over at him, and Spinner wondered what showed on his face. The admiral was still gabbing on the phone. “I’ll look at the rest when I’m in. No press till we know, right. Yeah, Shelley, I remember the Forrestal. If you can’t get Mahe, get me HQ Delhi or even their attaché here, okay? And get me Al Craik.”

  Near Jodhpur, India

  A cell-phone tower rose from a dusty plain like a damaged tree. A poorly paved road ran by it. A motorbike came down the road, two people on it, a man and a woman, the woman riding behind.

  The motorbike stopped by the cell-phone tower, and the driver dropped it in the dry grass. He looked up and down the road—people walking, four cyclists, a distant truck—and removed two blocks of C-4 from the bike’s saddle bags. The woman was already wrapping wire around two of the tower’s supports.

  They attached the C-4 and connected wires buried in it to a cellular phone by alligator clips. Then they got back on the bike and putt-putted along the road for half a mile, where they stopped and made a cell-phone call, and the tower collapsed. Joke: the tower handled the call that triggered the explosives.

  Bahrain

  Admiral Pilchard came up a corridor in Fifth Fleet headquarters with his flag captain beside him and his flag lieutenant running interference. All three looked grim: they had just come from a meeting about the Jefferson.

  “Spinner!”

  “Sir!”

  “Get me the Public Information Officer—my office. Now!”

  “Sir!”

  That’s what Spinner seemed to do best—do things to please people. He was almost running in his eagerness to get the PIO.

  Pilchard turned into the flag deck, waved a hand at people who were perfunctorily rising, and banged right through into his private office, a whirlwind pulling Lurgwitz in his wake. She was a stocky, intense woman who would one day have stars on her collar like Pilchard’s.

  “What d’you think?” he demanded, throwing himself down in his chair.

  “I don’t see the pony yet.”

  Pilchard put his forehead on the heel of one hand. “What a mess! Jesus, Shelley—” He looked at her. “Sit down, for Christ’s sake!” He blew out breath. “Okay. I want CAP for the carrier, even if we have to go to the goddam US Air Force for it. Two, I want liaison with the embassy about the Indians and whatever the hell is going on over there. A, there’s the question of relations with their navy—get their attaché, what’s his name? Roopack, Jesus, what a birdbrain, but he’s what they sent—calm him down if need be, make sure he gets the message and relays it home that we deeply regret, etcetera, not our doing. A full investigation—make that a full joint investigation—will follow. Don’t mention the Jefferson unless he does; if he does, not word one that we think it’s one of their birds that went into our deck or whose fault it was. Okay? B, put intel on finding out what the hell is going down in India itself. Find out why we haven’t heard from Craik and get on his ass if you can find him. Then—”

  He looked up at a knock, bellowed to come in. Spinner put his pleasant face around the door, waited to be signaled in, and then let the Public Information Officer go first. Then, even as the admiral started speaking, Spinner was arranging chairs, making sure there were notepads, and fetching coffee from the admiral’s pot.

  “We have a situation,” Pilchard said to the PIO. “Your job is to put a wall around it.”

  The PIO, a commander with degrees in journalism and mass communications, nodded.

  “The Jefferson, that’s the BG flagship, has had an accident. It’s bad. We don’t know how bad, but the boat’s crippled and people are dead. Right now, the deck’s closed and she’s got no air cover.” Pilchard picked up a pen and tossed it back on the desk. “We can’t let word about it get out until we know just what we’ve got and how we can cover. If the media pick up on it, we’re going to have every hardhead in the Middle East trying to pick off the BG. Understand?”

  “You want a soothing-syrup story or no story at all?”

  “No story today. Maybe syrup tomorrow. No press briefing.” He picked up the pen again. “Can we keep five thousand sailors on the Jeff from phoning home about it? So far, maybe—acting BG CO is ‘taking steps.’ If that holds, we’ll be okay for a day.” He cleared his throat. “If the story gets out—if you’re asked, volunteer nothing—then you say that the ship is underway and doing its job. Got it? That’s the bottom line—the ship is still the biggest piece of force projection in the world, on station and on duty.”

  “Uhh—” The PIO cleared his throat. “What’s Washington’s spin on it?” By Washington, he meant not the Navy, but the politicians in the executive branch.

  “Washington doesn’t know yet. I’m reporting to the CNO as soon as this meeting ends. From there, he can do what he wants with the civilian spin-doctors.” He didn’t add, And if I had my way, they’d never find out.

  Radio Pakistan

  “Alert Bulletin—Alert Bulletin—Alert Bulletin!

  “Forward elements of the Pakistani Army have been put on alert along the border in India. Unconfirmed reports present a wave of violence sweeping across India. Gunfire, including heavy weapons, has been heard in many places. Monitors of Radio India report accounts of murder, arson, and vandalism. Attempts by this reporter to contact India have failed, suggesting massive damage to the telephone system. Our army and air force reserves have been alerted to stand ready. Bulletins will be issued as more is known. Fahd Firadawsi, Lahore.”

  7

  Mahe Naval Base, India

  They had mud-clotted shoes and calves by the time they had reached a clump of trees that promised shade, if not protection. Pant legs were black from mid-calf down, and the heat had ruined khakis put on for the air-conditioned spit and polish of the West Fleet Command building. Underarms were dark, hair lank. “This sucks,” Benvenuto growled.

  “No pain, no gain,” Clavers said.

  Ong moaned.

  Benvenuto, perhaps out of sympathy for somebody even nerdier than he, reached back and grabbed her right hand and pulled her across a stretch of black mud.

  They stopped under the trees, pushing wet hair off their foreheads and leaving mud stains. Fidel looked toward where the creek was supposed to be and shook his head. “Too easy,” he said. “We won’t be the only ones thought of coming this way.” He looked at Alan.

  Alan grinned. “If I’d had time, I’d have ordered in a chopper.”

  “We need flankers. Okay?”

  “Okay by me.”

  “Gotta be you guys with the rifles. Still okay by you?”

  Alan grinned again, nodded. He had one of the old .303s, Benvenuto the other; Clavers had the CZ, because she said she had done a private combat handgun course—she said.

  Fidel sent Alan thirty feet to the left and twenty feet ahead and put Benvenuto on the other side, almost on the fence. Fidel took point. When they moved out, Alan lost Benvenuto at once, and then he could see Fidel only between clumps of grass.

  And then he was in the mud.

  He plodded forward, seeming to drag the creek bed with him. The heat was oppressive, even after Bahrain, worse because the air was saturated. The effort made him hyperventilate, and he drew up on a tussoc
k of grass, gasping, knelt to catch a moment’s rest. When he looked up, movement registered in the yellow-brown wasteland ahead of him.

  He stared. Nothing. Then he saw it again—tan moving past darker brown, then into sun-blasted near-white. Tan pant legs, brown hands. Brown gunstock.

  And other movement closer to the creek.

  He looked for Fidel but didn’t see him. Farther back, he saw a flicker of something dark. Benvenuto’s hair or Ong’s.

  Then a sound to his left like a woman’s wail, quickly muffled.

  Oh, shit, shit, no—

  A voice called, birdlike, nervous, from in front of him, was answered from ahead on his left, and he heard Fidel shout, “Hit the dirt—down, down!” and an automatic rifle opened up. Alan, still kneeling, put the .303 to his cheek and fired where he had seen the gun, then swiveled and started to fire toward the movement closer to the creek and thought better of it, remembering that female wail. Fidel shouted again and began to fire three-shot bursts. Alan dove into the mud, propped his elbows on the next grass clump and fired again where he thought the shooter was.

  That was two of his ten cartridges.

  Where ignorant armies clash by night. From a poem. High school. It had struck him even then, what clashing by night would be like. This was not so different, clashing in the tall grass with an enemy who may have been a friend.

  “Americans!” he shouted. “We’re Americans! American Navy!”

  He heard single reports from his right: Benvenuto with the .303. Fidel must have shot a full clip, because there was a pause. How many clips had he found on that kid? Not many—

  Somebody female was screaming ahead and to his left. He swept the sights that way, then back, hunting for the shooter on that side. The screamer was a woman. Was she hit? Would mutineers include women?