But she’d always been interested in the technical details of acoustics and classification, so much so that Rabies was almost embarrassed for her. Rabies had even begun to suspect that at heart she was just as much of a geek as Greenberg was.
Rabies called the carrier, filling them in on the detection although the data was already flooding onto their screens via the secure link. The TAO on the carrier already knew exactly where each one of the Viking’s sonobuoys were, and they could even get real-time transmission from each one via a link with Viking to display the contact in the ASW module.
But there was nothing like eyes on a target to get a good, accurate picture of what was going on. Even in the data link, sometimes the details were lost, some of the fine details that had alerted Greenberg to the presence of a submarine.
As he spoke to the carrier, Rabies kept an eye on his copilot and the progress they made between the fly-to points. Just as he anticipated, she handled the aircraft as though it was an extension of her body, deftly maneuvering from point to point with minimal fuel usage and popping out sonobuoys at precisely the right moment to land exactly where the TACCO wanted them.
“All buoys sweet and hot,” Greenberg sang out, no trace of smugness in his voice. Rabies understood — as did Greenberg — that there had never been actually any question about whether or not there was a submarine there. Rabies was just doing his job, and Greenberg had known indisputably that he was right. There had been no contest.
“Roger, Viking,” the carrier acknowledged. “Maintain firing solution on contact at this time. I repeat, maintain firing solution.”
“What the hell?” his copilot asked. She glanced over Rabies, the question plain on her face. Why they hell weren’t they putting a couple of fish in the water to take the bastard out? After all, they had a strike inbound on the shore installation, didn’t they? Did anyone actually believe that this little bastard was just out here for a walk in the park? Not possible, not this close to the carrier. Although the minisub was still too far to attack, it wouldn’t be long before it was within range of the carrier, and that was assuming that the information they had about weapons ranges was accurate.
“There are a couple of nations around here that have minisubs,” Rabies said, distaste in his voice. “It’s possible it could be somebody else’s. They’re going to verify that there are no neutrals or friendlies in the area through some top-level channels. If they don’t get an all-clear, we don’t get weapons-free.”
It was his copilot who summed up what they were all feeling. “If they close within weapons range of Jefferson, we don’t have a choice.
TWENTY-THREE
Hamish pulled the thin T-shirt away from his body, stretching it and then letting it snap back. The movement of the air over his skin at least gave the illusion of a cooling breeze, though nothing could be further from the truth. With the humidity hovering around ninety percent and the temperature still higher than ninety degrees, there was no way the sweat on his body was going to dry.
Given a choice, Hamish preferred the dry baking heat of the interior where he’d grown up. Although temperatures could soar dangerously high before you realized it, the fact that you were sweating reminded you to stay hydrated. Here, the climate defeated the body’s natural cooling mechanism.
But it wasn’t like he had a choice, was it? The orders from the mullah had been clear — every man over the age of fourteen was to report to the nearest military commander for mobilization. The very young and the very old were left behind to watch over the women. Hamish felt a pang of envy that he tried to shut away. Even the youngest male child had authority over any woman he might see. With the older men gone, he would have been a veritable god in his house, his every whim obeyed. His mother would not have dared to give him those long, deep stares that she sometimes gave him when he tried to exercise his God-given authority over her. She would not move so slowly, but quickly, like she did for his father. And his sisters — well, without being more specific, it would be a long time before either one of them saw the outside of the house.
And for more reasons than just petty vengeance, he assured himself. It was not right that they should be out in public, even clad in their heavy veils and burquas. There were too many bad influences about, foreigners who roamed the streets as though they had a right to be there, imported from other countries to do the hard labor and distasteful tasks. Not so many now as there had been before, before the days of war with America. But still, sufficient.
Sufficient to ruin lives.
His oldest sister’s face flashed into his mind, the way he remembered it when he was young. Dark hair, darker eyes, skin so translucent that it seemed impossible it could contain a body like his. Indeed, he was convinced that her body was nothing like his, not with the dirt and grime and sweat that clung to him and the other men every day. She was faintly scented, always cool and gentle. When his mother was not available, it was from her that he sought comfort. Nothing had been the same since she had left.
Since she had died.
She had been outside the house, coming home from the market, with his two other sisters. Their mother had not gone that day, and he blamed the old woman for what had followed. The evil crone would have known to stick to the busy streets, to have been home before evening started. As it was, as the sky grew dark, the family had started to worry.
Finally, just before full darkness set in, his two younger sisters stumbled into the door. Their burquas were torn and a shocking expanse of skin showed. They had lost their veils, and pale white ovals of faces stared out at him from the black robes. His youngest sister had a bruise showing on one cheek, and the other had a split lip, a few drops of dried blood still on her neck and hand.
The two girls were rightly terrified of being punished, and it took a while to get the story out. Finally, when his father had forced the details from them, he picked up his gun and left, taking Hamish’s two older brothers with him.
They had left him in charge, but there seemed to be precious little he could do to maintain control. He was outnumbered now with the older men gone, and the appearance of the servants on the scene served only to add to the cacophony. He tried to shout, to be heard above the screaming, but his mother had rounded on him, stared at him for a moment, then, without speaking, slapped him smartly across the face.
He had never seen a woman strike a man, nor even heard a woman raise her voice to one. The shock stopped him where he stood, and he could do nothing except stare in disbelief as his mother gathered up his sisters and the female servants and retreated to the women’s quarters. The door shut firmly behind them.
For a few moments, he felt like crying. His sisters — one missing, two clearly hurt, all the men gone — and now, to be barred from whatever else was going on. It was almost too much for a nine-year-old boy to take. His eyes filled with tears and he felt the beginnings of a sob shake his body.
But what if his father came home and saw him like that? The humiliation and pain he suffered at his mother’s hands would be nothing compared to what would happen then. So, he regained control of himself, forcing his features into the stern, angry mask he’d seen so often on his father’s face, and settled down to wait. The more he thought of it, the more he convinced himself that he had sent the women to their own quarters to deal with things. Yes, that’s what his father would have done. The memory of the stinging slap across his face retreated.