The prime minister paused before speaking. “I don’t think it will work, Frank.”
“Maybe it won’t,” the president said. “But it’s certainly worth trying.
Anything is better than war. You know what happened the last two times your country butted heads with Germany …”
“This situation isn’t remotely similar,” Irons said. “We’re not going to drag the entire world into this. It won’t happen that way again. The world has changed too much.”
“We’d like to believe that,” the president said. “But we can’t be sure.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “If war with Germany cannot be avoided, the United States will honor its obligations of treaty and its long-standing friendship with Great Britain. But I beg you, Emily … give me a chance to prevent this war.”
“You sink that submarine, Mr. President,” the British prime minister said, “and then we’ll talk.”
CHAPTER 44
Lieutenant Vincent Brolan yawned hard enough to make his ears ring.
“I fucking hate dawn patrol,” he said, for about the eighth time that morning. “I mean I really fucking hate it.”
“I know you do, Vince,” the copilot said. “And you really hate spending all that flight pay that you get for flying it.”
Brolan eased his aircraft, Gunslinger Four-One, a little closer to the oil platform. They were close enough to see the workers going about their morning routines, doing whatever the hell it was that oil rig workers did.
A few of the workers turned at the sound of the helo’s rotor blades, and some of them even waved. Most of them paid no attention whatsoever.
Helicopters were a dime a dozen in the gulf.
Lieutenant Brolan leaned his helmet against the port-side window and felt the vibration of the engines resonating through his skull. “Lucky Number Seven is a bust,” he said. “Let’s move on to our next contestant.”
The copilot, Lieutenant (junior grade) Enrico “Henry” Chavez, pointed down at the platform. “Don’t you think we ought to swing around and check out the back side?”
“It’s a waste of time, Henry. There’s nobody home.” Under his breath, he said, “This whole thing is a waste of time.”
“We ought to do this by the numbers, Vince. That sub has got to be hiding somewhere.”
“Yeah? Well if it ever was here, it’s long gone by now.”
“Come on, Vince. You know our orders.”
In the rear seat, the Sensor Operator, Aviation Warfare Systems Operator Second Class Linda “Mojo” Haynes, listened to the exchange and didn’t say a word. As the only enlisted member of the flight crew, she made it her business to stay out of disagreements between the officers.
The pilot let out a heavy sigh. “All right, okay, I’m turning already.”
He banked the helicopter into a broad turn that would take them around behind the oil platform.
As they rounded the corner of the platform, it slid into view: a fat black cigar shape riding low in the water, tethered to the platform by a web of lines and hoses.
“Jackpot,” the SENSO said over the intercom. “There’s our submarine.”
Lieutenant (jg) Chavez reached up to key his mike, when a pair of nickel-sized holes surrounded by spider webs blossomed on the Plexiglas windshield to the left of his head. Simultaneously the helicopter was jarred sharply several times, as though someone with a hammer was banging on the fuselage.
“Holy shit!” Chavez shouted. “They’re shooting at us!”
Lieutenant Brolan swung the helo into a tight turn away from the station and put on the speed. A stream of tracers leapt up from the oil platform and blasted through the air where the helo had been a split second before. Brolan keyed his radio. “This is Gunslinger. I’m under fire!”
Lieutenant (jg) Chavez half turned in his seat and keyed his intercom.
“Hey, Mojo. You okay back there?”
“I think I just peed my pants, sir!”
“Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, kid!”
Lieutenant Brolan jogged the helo to the right just in time to avoid another burst of machine-gun fire. He shouted into the radio, “My aircraft is hit and still receiving hostile fire!”
“Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Evade and return to home plate. Help is on the way, over.”
Lieutenant Brolan jerked the stick to the left, but a series of rapid-fire hammer blows to the airframe told him that he hadn’t been quite fast enough. A chattering vibration started to come from the tail boom, and the indicator needles on several instruments began to swing crazily.
“I’m hit again!” Lieutenant Brolan shouted into the radio. “Gunslinger is hit again! We are still taking fire!”
“Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Can you tell me what kind of fire are you taking, over?”
“How the fuck should I know? Some kind of machine gun!”
Chavez keyed the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. We have located Gremlin Zero Four, moored to oil platform Golf. Our aircraft has taken several hits from one or more automatic weapons. Damage report to follow, over.”
He switched over to his intercom. “Mojo, I need a damage report. Give me a rapid survey; we’ll check for little stuff in a minute.”
A few seconds went by, but he didn’t receive an answer. He keyed the intercom again. “How’s it looking back there?”
No answer.
Chavez turned far enough in his seat to see into the rear of the cabin.
Petty Officer Haynes was slumped over in her seat, her head hanging limply, bobbing and rolling with each movement of the aircraft. A dark stain was spreading across her chest, but against the olive drab of her flight suit, it was impossible to tell if it was blood. The helo took a particularly violent bump, and the young woman’s head lolled far enough to the side so that her face was partially visible. A dark red bubble formed over one nostril, broke, and then another one began to form. It was blood all right.
Chavez keyed his intercom. “Mojo is hit!”
Lieutenant Brolan was silently chanting, “Come on baby … come on baby … come on baby …” With a rapid interplay of hand and foot work, he managed to throw his crippled helo far enough to the side to avoid another hail of bullets. At least he thought he had avoided it; the airframe was rattling so badly that they might have taken a hit and not been able to feel it. He keyed his intercom. “How bad is she?”
“I don’t know,” Chavez said. “But it doesn’t look good.” He keyed the intercom again. “Mojo, can you hear me? Come on, Mojo, talk to me. You’re gonna be okay; you’ve just got to hang on for a few minutes.”