They heard a series of loud, splitting noises as the hitherto slack U-belt of the sling tightened into a noose around the RS’s midships, the sea rushing by them like a torrent. “Splitting noise is fine,” said the general, as if casually assuring everyone in the craft about the reversible-submersible and not just Aussie.
“Yeah,” added Sal. “Just the dried salt on the cable. Gets between the strands and spits out when you put any weight on it.”
There was a surge of static on the flat screen, and outside another roaring of water as the Stallion’s crew chief, operating the winch, quickly dunked the RS back into the water, giving the cable slack rather than “torquing” it during a sudden “wash over” by a rogue cross-wave. No one in the RS could see any sign of the cable on the flat screen anymore because of the spray generated by the big helo’s seven titanium-sparred rotor blades. Incongruously, or so they thought at the moment, the Yorktown’s Blue Tile SES was feeding their flat screen with cable TV signals, the color washed out, giving only sepia-toned, jerky, documentary-like shots of a group of Arabs talking to some woman.
“What’s going on?” asked Choir. “I know that woman’s voice, but I can’t see her.”
“You know squat,” Sal joshed, hoping to lessen Aussie’s anxiety about the wire, whose spitting had quite frankly scared Sal too. He’d never heard it that loud before.
“Edward,” said Choir, addressing Eddie Mervyn in a good-mood imitation of a British lord, “turn up the volume, there’s a good chap.” This little bit of theater, he thought, might draw Aussie’s attention away from the possibility of an errant strand giving way.
“It’s Marte Price,” said Aussie.
“I’ll be damned. What’s the leader strip say?” he pressed, his attention and that of the other seven, especially the general, shifting to the flat screen where Yorktown’s own Signals Exploitation Space was linking the wallowing RS to an Al Jazeera/CNN broadcast.
“Oh shit, shit, shit!” It was Gomez, looking away from the screen at his six comrades, as if pleading with them to tell him it wasn’t true.
“Be quiet!” said Freeman. “Listen!” He had no sooner given the command than they all felt the sudden jerk of the wire and heard the sound of the Super Stallion’s three engines howling to full power and the noise of the huge canvas sling gripping the RS around its belly. This created a teeth-grating sound, as of hundreds of broken chalk pieces on a blackboard, making it impossible for them to clearly hear the SES feed on the flat screen, the sound of their weapon rack creaking as the Super Stallion took the full strain doing nothing to improve matters. All that Gomez and Eddie Mervyn, closest to the screen, could hear through the continuous groaning of the RS, its composite carbon skin protesting against the tight canvas, was “American attack…White Hou…” Aussie heard it too, the picture on the screen now scrambled.
“The White House has been attacked?” he asked.
“No, no, no!” It was Gomez, almost beside himself with anguish. “Dios mio! Didn’t you see? My God!”
“No, I didn’t!” Aussie yelled sharply to be heard above the racket of wind, stormy seas, and the giant helo’s constant roar.
Mervyn, preoccupied with the controls so that nothing would be inadvertently switched on during the crucial lift, had had his eyes off the screen, leaving Gomez to deal with what he had seen, which had all but struck the SEAL technician-specialist dumb. The usually sallow complexion of the Spanish-American had turned to what in the light of the flat screen’s bluish hue seemed a grayish, seasick pallor.
“It’s Bone,” he said. “The—”
“C’mon, man,” said Freeman, who so far had heard only a word or two from whom he, like Choir, was sure was Marte Price of CNN. “Spit it out, Gomez. What the—”
“They — they know all about the attack,” said a shaken Gomez.
All eight felt a sudden bowel-chilling drop, profanities breaking out in and outside the craft, including one from Johnny Lee, his fear of the wire snapping momentarily shoving his pain aside. There was another shout — this time muted — from outside the craft, or rather on top of it.
“Must be a diver riding atop us!” said Lee, his voice cracked and dry.
“Fuck the diver!” said Aussie. “What about Bone, Gomez?”
Gomez was bent over, both hands white on the roll bar. “They’ve got Bone. Saying he confessed the attack was planned by the White House. White House is denying — it’s an Al Jazeera feed to CNN.”
What had been Aussie’s expression of tight-faced shock now relaxed, his incredulity overriding his fear of loss of control that had manifested itself on the wire, over which he had no control. But with the assertion that not only was Bone alive but confessing as well, he had regained control. Aussie had been there, had seen Freeman shoot Brady to put the poor bastard out of his misery.
“Yeah, right!” said Aussie, his tone so pregnant with contempt for what he’d heard, it cut through the maelstrom of noise, penetrating even the noise of the Super Stallion’s engines, which were now in feral roar mode as it strained and picked up the RS. As the craft rose above the chaotic, wind-whipped seas, the RS’s bulbous bow nosed forward toward Yorktown. In the RS, a loose combat pack, Lee’s, which should have been stowed, tumbled forward, thumping hard against the composite bulkhead, dangerously close to the flat screen.
“Stow that fucking pack!” shouted Freeman, the fury in his tone reminiscent of his outburst when in ’93 he’d heard about the slaughter of the Rangers and Delta Force men in Mogadishu when two Blackhawks went down. Eddie Mervyn grabbed Lee’s pack. “Whose is it?” he shouted angrily.
Choir jerked his head around, checking that his own pack was in the rack, as if the accusation was leveled at him. Everyone aboard, including the legendary boss, seemed to be losing it.
“Approaching Yorktown!” It sounded like the voice of God, a booming authority from on high from the sky outside and beyond the RS. Probably coming, Choir thought, from the Yorktown’s flight-deck horn. “I say again, approaching Yorktown.”
“Yeah, yeah,” snapped Aussie. “I heard you the first fucking time. Hooray for the Yorktown. Fucking idiot — where the fuck’s he think we’re heading to, fucking North Korea? Gomez, stop worrying. All that shit about Bone, it’s Al Jazeera — fucking A-rab station. They made it up.”
“But it was a CNN feed,” protested Gomez, while at the same time wanting desperately to believe Aussie.
Aussie’s contempt wasn’t abating, and he was resorting to his childhood epithets. “Ah, stone the bloody crows, mate. Just because it’s C an’ fucking N doesn’t make it holy. One of those bastards did a deal with Saddam’s son, remember? Prick told the CNN guy he was going to have one of his own relatives whacked when he came back to Iraq. Did the CNN guy tell what he knew? No, sir. He had too cozy a deal for CNN exclusives from fucking Baghdad with Saddam’s boy. They’re all in bed together, Gomez. Wake up, they don’t want the truth. All they want is more viewers like you. That Marte Price bitch, she’s no diff—”
“Aussie!” thundered the general. “You get a grip! That’s an ORDER!”
No one in the team remembered that tone. The general’s face was boozy red. “You!” hollered the general above what was now a din of cables slacking — they were on Yorktown’s flight deck, “keep your damned opinions to yourself. I don’t know what Gomez heard, but whatever—” He stopped mid-sentence.