31

U.S.S. Guam

Lenson stretched in his seat, looking across the crowded, bright compartment with a premonition of triumph. A fierce grin crimped the fatigue lines tight around his eyes. He had forgotten his days without sleep, forgotten the months at sea, forgotten Isaac I. Sundstrom.

Urgent Lightning was rolling like a well-oiled machine.

The marines were solidly ashore, and moving rapidly inland. Not a shot had been fired, and they had taken only one casualty, a man who ran into a rotor during the helo insertion. Lenson could hardly believe, even now, that sitting deep in the steel vitals of the flagship he held a handset that linked him with live men, real ships. He was remembering all the times he, and the others with him, had practiced this. The schools, the months of drills, study, exercises.

Now it was for real—and it was working.

For the first hour after the leading elements crossed their lines of departure, he had kept the whole team on the edges of their chairs. The first wave to hit the beach had rolled out of the amtracs and dug in instantly at the first dune line, covering the troops in boats behind them. But the beach was deserted. He had followed the cautious probes inland, putting the wave commander’s frequency on a loudspeaker so that everyone in the compartment could hear. But there was no resistance. No troops or even civilians were reported on the beach.

The second and third waves hit and moved quickly up to the front line, consolidating the initial toehold and then leapfrogging forward onto the beach road.

At 0700, when the mobile column, sorted out and remounted, launched itself inland toward Qoubaiyat, the atmosphere in SACC relaxed. Men slouched back in their seats. They stayed alert, but the excitement waned. Lenson laid down his phones and stretched, glancing at the map. They were by no means home, though the landing itself, the most vulnerable moment in an amphibious raid, had gone off well. But perhaps this would go more easily than they’d feared.

He rubbed his eyes and focused them on the chart, opening the operation order to check reported positions with those he had assigned for the postassault phase.

Ships first. The amphibs, empty now, were steaming slowly in separate boxes of sea ten miles out. To seaward of them Virginia patrolled; she was now at the northern edge of her area. Good; any Syrian air strike would come from that direction.

Farther inshore, the two escorts were lying to only a few thousand yards off the beach. Ault had reported in at 0700. He had swiftly established comms and briefed her gunnery team by radio. He felt far more confident now: Her arrival had quadrupled his seaborne firepower.

He blinked, and shifted his attention landward. The militias and regular army units that Byrne had sketched in from Sixth Fleet intelligence reports worried him. Several of them lay between the MAU and its goal. He knew that some of the positions and strengths reported were guesswork. And no one could predict their responses when faced by an unexpected body of fast-moving U.S. troops. Some of the Lebanese, the Maronite militias, should be friendly, or at least neutral. Even the Syrian-backed Shi’ites might not interfere—if the diplomats had done their job.

I’ll worry about that when it happens, he thought. We’ve got our plates full here. He stretched again, feeling good, and thought for the first time that day about food.

At 0730 the column of amtracs from the beach reached the ALZ, and the two forces joined. Lenson relaxed a bit more. The heliborne troops probably hadn’t realized it, but out on their own above the road, unable to move except on foot, they’d been prime targets.

Byrne, beside him, was staring into a pub and looking worried. Dan turned down the speakers and punched him lightly. “Jack, what’s wrong? Somebody split an infinitive?”

“Real droll.”

“What’s that you’re reading?”

“Intel summary on Syria.”

“You’re worried about them?”

“Aren’t you?”

“They pay guys back in Washington to do that, I thought.”

“I hope they do,” said Byrne. “The action back at State must be fierce. Think about it. The obvious course would be to get word to Damascus that we’ll be coming ashore this morning, that our target is the terrorists and only them, and that opposition will bring retaliation in overwhelming force. But they had to time it: allow them enough hours to warn their troops and client militias, but not tip our hand so far in advance that a leak would lose us the element of surprise when we hit the camp in the final assault.”

“That’s obvious?”

“Of course. But then, if you warn the Syrians, they might just as well decide to defend their border. In the last analysis, it might depend on which way the USSR, their protector, advisor, and overall Big Brother, tells them to jump. So if some junior Middle East expert makes the wrong decision—or makes the right one and the President overrules him, if anybody screws up, anywhere along the line…” He let his voice trail off.

“I get it now,” said Dan grimly. “Instant powdered MAU.”

“Or worse,” said the intel officer. “If the Soviets back them up and we don’t, or can’t, back down. Why do you think we went to nuclear alert? I guarantee you, every missile boat we have at sea is checking its firing data right now.”

Both of them looking worried now, they looked back at the map. And above it, the clock whirred on.

*   *   *

He was gnawing at a leg of cold chicken a few hours later, part of a box lunch sent up from the mess decks, when things began to go sour. He had his first intimation of trouble when Flasher stiffened and sat up, phone pressed to his ear. He was on the circuit to Haynes, near the head of the column.

Dan stiffened too, and laid the drumstick down. “Red—what is it? Damn it, pipe down, you guys.”

Flasher waved his hand; wait. The buzz of conversation stopped, and men turned their heads to listen.

“Put circuit eight on the horn,” Lenson said to McQueen.

When the speaker cut in, the tension in SACC snapped instantly back to high pitch. Every man in the room could hear the landing-force commander’s deliberate voice firsthand. No. More than that. Lenson swept the table in front of him clear, pulled a fire form to him. They could hear the rattle of small-arms fire and the crunch of mortars, terrifyingly close. Every man in the room had reached for his handset then, by reflex, and so had Lenson; but at the last instant he snapped his selector switch to a dead portion of the spectrum.

“Goddammit,” he shouted. “Everybody back to your own net. I’ll handle this. Regular procedures!”

“Dan, I got two Intruders orbiting—”

“What’s their fuel state?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Christ. Mac! Where’s Haynes’ grid position? Leading element?” At the map, the petty officer reached far into the hills, laid his hand on a curved segment of road. Lenson half-rose, squinting to make it out. “Forget it, Jack. It’s too far inland now for them. We’ve got to use the guns.”

“Use them, then.”

“No,” said Lenson again, still holding the switch closed. “Not yet. He hasn’t requested it.”

“He will,” said Flasher.

Haynes did, then. Lenson screwed the handset into his ear; the circuit had gone faint for a moment. But the next words came through clearly.

“Overkill, this is Green Bench Leader. Call for fire. Indirect. Grid location, North, four three seven seven. East. Niner four zero zero. Fragmentation, variable time. Will control. Over.”

“Green Bench, this is Overkill. Roger your call for fire.” He scribbled. The pencil snapped and he dropped it and grabbed the next. “Indirect. Grid North, four three seven seven, East, niner four zero zero. Fragmentation, variable time, will control, over.”

“Green Bench, roger, out.”

“Mac! Check those coordinates!”

“Nothing on the map, Lieutenant.”

“Double-check. No houses? No roads?”

“Bare ground, sir. Nothing but the other side of the hill.”

“This has to be a test, Dan,” said the intel officer urgently. “To see if we’ll support them with force. Hold this for me,” he snapped to one of the other men, handing off his handset. “Be right back.” He shoved his way past chairs and ran out of the room.

“Let’s get it on the air,” said Flasher. He reached for the form.

“Hold it, goddammit, Red. We got to get Sundstrom’s permission.”

“Screw that, Dan! Those guys need cover!”

“I know. And they’ll get it just as soon as I have the commodore’s chop on it.” He bit at his lip and flipped the intercom on. “Flag bridge, SACC. Commodore, please, emergency.”

A moment’s pause, seeming like minutes, though it could not have been over four seconds; then Glazer’s voice. “He’s listening, sir. Go ahead.”

“Commodore. Lenson here. We have a call for fire from Colonel Haynes. He’s under attack.”

Silence. Then, “Mr. Lenson, Commodore wants to know what kind of attack.”

“Hostile fire, sir! We need clearance to use Ault’s guns.”

Another pause, then, finally, Sundstrom’s voice. Nice of him to push his own talk button, Lenson thought. “Dan. Let’s all keep a cool head, now. That’s what it’s all about. Is this a serious situation? I’m not going to release heavy weapons just for snipers.”

“It’s not snipers, sir. Sounds like mortar fire.”

“Sounds like? Better find out, Dan. A mistake here could get us in real hot water. I can’t give permission to fire without knowing all the facts. I’m not going to fly off the deep end like that.”

“God damn him,” muttered somebody in the silent room. They were all quiet, listening to the dialogue over the intercom.

“Lieutenant,” said McQueen, “Colonel Haynes wants an acknowledgment.”

“Acknowledge. Tell him we’re getting it cleared,” Lenson said, very fast. To the intercom he said, “Sir, Commander Byrne—I mean, I believe they’re testing us. If we don’t respond, they’ve enough forces in the area to destroy the MAU. It’s urgent that we support the troops ashore.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, “I agree, Dan, to the utmost. You’re preaching to the choir when you tell me that. But we have other requirements laid on us, too. This is a touchy situation, diplomatically. I have to bear that in mind. Call him back—call the colonel—and ask him for an estimate of the numbers and armament of the force he’s encountered.”

“Do it,” snapped Lenson to McQueen; then, letting up on the “press to talk” lever, so that his voice would not reach the bridge: “Red, get on the net to Ault. Their callsign is ‘Gunslinger.’ Give them the target coordinates. Double-check those numbers and make them read them back! Have them load with VT, fuzed for air burst, but make sure they understand not to fire till they get a ‘batteries released’ from us.”

“Roger,” said the N-3.

Byrne came back, panting, and slid into his chair. He thudded a weighted briefcase on the table and began hauling out folders. “Jack,” said Lenson, “double-check defilade fire for five-inch thirty-eight. Make sure trajectory for full-charge load will clear seventeen-hundred-meter hills at a range of twenty-nine thousand yards.”

“Right. Dan—”

“Sir,” McQueen interrupted, “Colonel Haynes says he can’t see them. He doesn’t know who they are. But they have at least four heavy mortars, and they’ve got the column pinned down. He can’t advance till the road ahead is checked for mines. They’re getting plastered there; he’s got casualties. He wants fire now.”

He could hear the mortars, booming out of the still-open circuit to the interior. He could hear the growl of amtrac engines, the rattle of rifles, sporadic, as if the marines were firing at random. Faintly, a thin tremolo over the bass of battle, a scream laced the still air of the room.

“Trajectory checks out okay,” said Byrne.

“Right.”

“Dan,” said Flasher, very softly, and Lenson turned his head. Their eyes met across the room. “Ault reports ready. We ought to fire.”

“No, Red,” said Lenson, just as quietly. “You heard him. This is the commodore’s decision, and he has to make it.”

“Lieutenant Lenson?” said the intercom.

“Here, sir. Haynes estimates four mortars, sir, and that means at least twelve men. Probably more to carry ammo.”

“Can he see them?”

“No sir, he says he can’t see them. They’re over the top of a hill from him.”

“What’s on the other side of that hill, Dan? Has anybody bothered to think about that?”

Lenson bit back anger, focused dutifully on the chart, checking once more. “Nothing, sir. We double-checked the map. No houses or anything shown.”

“But they could be there. A map doesn’t show everything. I could be authorizing fire into a village. That’s a favorite terrorist tactic, decoying our fire onto the population.”

Lenson couldn’t believe his ears. He recognized the familiar whine. Sundstrom was digging in. Next would come the bluster. He would deny everything, distrust everything they told him. He glanced at the men who watched him, and said weakly, “Sir, this is a new map. They don’t build villages that fast in the hills of Lebanon.”

Byrne was digging furiously in the briefcase.

“Let’s send the air in for a look. Don’t we have recon helos standing by? I can authorize that. Let’s use those, Dan. Use your head.”

“Sir, we don’t have time. It would take fifteen or twenty minutes for them to get to—”

Byrne emitted a cry of triumph and shoved a photograph in front of him. He had circled an area in the upper right-hand corner. Peering close, Dan could make out a winding road, a cliff, a hilltop. The hillside beyond was bare, littered with rocks. A reconnaissance photo, taken from high altitude. The coordinates, neatly typed on the edge below the Top Secret marking, matched the map.

“Sir, wait a minute. Mr. Byrne just showed me a satellite photo. It’s the hillside. There’s nothing there.”

There was a hiss from the intercom. He visualized Sundstrom’s face, close over it, holding down the button. Surely that was enough. Surely—

“No,” said the commodore. The suspicion was open in his voice now. “Byrne? He’s not on my side, Dan. He’s pulled the wrong picture. I’ll guarantee that. No way I’ll authorize fire on his say-so.”

But Dan had stopped listening to him. He was listening to the speaker from shore. It was Haynes, sounding, for the first time, frightened.

“Commodore Sundstrom. Are you there, Ike? We need fire now. For God’s sake, we need support. We need gunfire or air. These ’tracks don’t have overhead armor and I don’t have room to turn around. Ike, can you hear me?”

“Sir,” he said into the intercom, “Colonel Haynes is asking you personally to fire.”

There was no answer. The intercom clicked once, twice, and then came on again.

“Tell him I’m on the line to Admiral Roberts.”

“Christ!” said Byrne. His face had gone white. “That’s the mission. He’s giving them up.”

Flasher sat with the phone in his hand, staring at Lenson. McQueen stared. Everyone in SACC was looking at him. Slowly, he released the switch.

What should he do?

All his life he had tried to do what was right. What was right now?

“Flag bridge, SACC. Commodore, we need you down here, right now.”

“He’s on the radio, Dan. He says to wait.” Stan Glazer’s tight voice came back.

Lenson hesitated for another long moment, looking back at the eyes; and then he reached out.

He turned down the speaker. The sound of gunfire, detonations, faded into the still air, faded into the metal of the bulkheads. And one by one, he watched each pair of eyes go distant, go far away, and then drop or turn aside as each officer and enlisted man in turn shifted in his chair, looking away, looking down.

They were sitting like that, quiet, all of them staring up at the point on the map where a red arrow marked the last position of the MAU, when the hatch ground open. Lenson turned.

It was the commodore. He was in fresh khakis, open at the neck, his eagles gleaming silver. He paused in the hatchway for a moment, then came two steps into SACC, looking up at the map.

“Sir?” said Lenson.

“He can’t authorize fire without clearance from above,” said Sundstrom. He stared at the map as if drugged. And no one else said anything.

“Sixth Fleet can’t, sir?”

“He has his orders,” said Sundstrom. His voice sounded dead. “Just like I do. Just like we all do, Dan.”

“Sir, we can’t wait for them to kick it all the way up to the White House and back. Let’s put a few rounds in, at least. Whoever’s firing might pack up if they think we’re spotting, going to pour it on in a minute.”

“I can’t give permission for that.”

“Sir, you’re responsible for this landing—”

“Goddammit,” shouted Sundstrom suddenly, lowering his head from the map. “I said no! I have direct orders, no heavy fire, no tactical air on the beach!”

“Sir,” said McQueen softly, “The colonel says the mortars have the range.”

Flasher stood up then, shoving back his chair. He swung himself over the desk, heavily, landing next to Lenson. He held out his hand. “Give me the handset.”

“No, Red.”

“Mr. Flasher! Get back to your post.”

“Commodore, I’m giving that order, if you won’t.” Flasher’s voice was quiet, no trace of anger, no trace even of strain. Lenson felt admiration and terror. He looked up at the two men, face-to-face, the lieutenant and the commodore; one heavy, sloppy, his uniform pulled out at the shirttails; the other crisp and neat, tailored, self-controlled only with great effort; looked up at them both.…

“Sit down, Mr. Flasher,” said the commodore again.

“Lieutenant Lenson—the colonel is asking for you on the line,” said McQueen.

Lenson picked up the handset. He turned the selector dial, clicking it from net to net. He stopped at one, began to depress the talk button, and then let it up. He looked at Sundstrom’s face, at the sweat that had suddenly sheened his forehead.

He turned the selector one more notch.

“This is Overkill,” he said. “Batteries released.”

Flasher started. Both he and the commodore looked down together, toward him. He depressed the button again, watching the transmit light wink on, forcing himself this time to speak slowly and distinctly. “Gunslinger, this is Overkill: I authenticate, juliet romeo. I say again, batteries released. Out.”

“Dan,” said the commodore.

“It’s done, sir,” he said, and as if to underline his words a tremor came through the steel of the ship, carried through the sea and through the metal hull up to vibrate faintly under their feet.

“I told you not to fire,” said Sundstrom. “Goddammit, I told you not to fire!”

“We had to, sir.”

“I gave him the order, sir. I’ll take the responsibility,” said Flasher.

“That’s immaterial. Order them to cease fire. Right now! Do you hear me?”

“Yes sir,” said Lenson automatically, but though his fingers jerked he did not lift the handset. The guns slackened for a moment—that would be the first salvo gone—and then picked up again in a continuous fusillade, like the drumming of rain on a metal roof.

The shells were going out … he visualized their flight, fifty pounds each of steel and trinitrotoluene hammering out of the stubby barrels of the old destroyer in great pyrocellulose flashes of light and dirty smoke, traveling upward and inland at two thousand feet per second. Crossing the beach still headed up, spinning, as the next salvo came up from the magazines and slammed into the smoking breeches. Spinning, spinning … the glass-cased batteries smashed into life by acceleration, the complex and sensitive fuzes waking into their brief span of consciousness, suddenly deadly. Then the peak, high over Lebanon; the bitter brown of dry land whirling by beneath them; and then the descent. Range, twenty-nine thousand yards; time of flight, forty-three seconds. And then the fuzes, plunging downward, would sense solidity, earth. Calculating instantly the time of their remaining life, they would send a tiny current back through their metal bodies.…

A rumble came through the speakers, and he reached out to turn it up. The commodore, who had gone quiet, lifted his head to listen.

“They sound close,” said Flasher.

Sundstrom said, “You’re firing right over their heads. If Ault has a short round—”

“I told them to shoot long and walk them up, on his direction.”

It was as if Haynes could hear them; the colonel came on the circuit then, his voice exultant. “Overkill, Green Bench Leader; that sounded close! Drop two hundred, go to rapid continuous fire. I can’t spot exactly from here, but keep them coming.”

“Give him a roger, Jack,” said Lenson. He did not look up at the silent commodore, but he could feel his eyes.

“Lieutenant, we have two more aircraft reporting in on my net. Full tanks, full racks of ordnance. Should they orbit?”

“No. Send them in. Dogleg to the east, tell them we have naval gunfire going in, max ordinate five thousand feet.”

“Aye.”

“Report to Haynes for direct support, Tacair Net, when they’re in range.”

“Aye, sir.”

It was done and irrevocable. He looked up then, words struggling against each other for his lips; then, together, they died away, leaving him voiceless. He could not justify what he had done. Successful or not, that did not matter. Whether it was right or not did not matter. He had defied a senior officer. He and Sundstrom looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Neither spoke. His hand began to shake, and he set the handset down, feeling it rattle on the desk before he let it go. Haynes’ jubilant voice talked on over the net, but he did not hear it. From somewhere a fragment came into his mind; something he had memorized, long before, at the Academy.

Every law is as naught beside this one:

Thou shalt not criticize, but Obey.…

He saw the commodore’s hand on the desk before him. It, too, was trembling. Before he could speak Sundstrom said in a low voice, “I hope you don’t regret this, Mr. Lenson. All of your life.”

“I don’t think—”

“You will.”

Byrne stood up then. “Tell him, goddamn it! I’m not keeping quiet any longer.”

He stared at them. From the way they looked—

Byrne leaned forward. He spoke quickly, his eyes riveted to Lenson’s. “Dan, your wife and kid are in Ash Shummari. They were taken hostage in Cyprus with the others. He ordered us not to tell you. He thought it would affect your performance.”

For a moment he almost laughed, staring at them. Then he saw from Sundstrom’s averted eyes that it was true. The disbelief, then the numbness, lasted only a moment.

He felt himself begin to shake. He had been ready to apologize, explain; but now it dissolved in anger white-hot and uncontrollable. He stood suddenly, and the commodore started back. Speech ran now through his mind, angry, lashing words. He wanted to say you bastard, you liar, coward, liar; but the strange control and separation that had always affected him in anger, sliding down smooth and deadening as a fire-curtain, separated him then from the rage, left him cold and observing.

Aloud he only said, in a voice that sounded to the men around them toneless and inhumanly controlled, “Sir, you do not deserve your rank.”

A moment later that control broke; but by then he was at the hatchway. It slammed open against the stops. Then it was empty, the door swinging slowly back to latch with the slow roll of the hove-to ship. The men in SACC did not look at Sundstrom, who sat motionless by the desk, one hand still raised and forgotten before him.

After a soundless moment Flasher picked up the handset. “Green Bench Leader, this is Overkill,” he said slowly, staring right at Sundstrom. “Over.”

“Green Bench, over.”

“Has hostile fire ceased? Over.”

“Green Bench. That’s affirmative. Over.”

He clicked the dial. “Gunslinger, this is Overkill,” he said steadily into the bright and silent room. “Cease fire. I say again, cease fire. Your mission is complete.”