“The official position: We don’t recognize any claim to limit innocent passage beyond twelve miles. Including unilaterally declared exclusion zones, like Libya and China keep trying to impose.”
“So the question is, are we on innocent passage?”
“No sir. The question actually is whether you’re going to let him bluff us out of where our orders clearly place us.”
Well, that was pretty clear-cut. He double-clicked her off and told the Israeli, “Lahav, this is Savo Island. I say again, we are in international waters and exercising right of innocent passage. Please respect our safety zone while conducting military operations. Out.”
“This is Lahav. Interrogative: What type of military operations are you conducting? And what is their termination date? Over.”
Dan frowned. He couldn’t blame them for being hinky about foreign ships off their coast. But had no one told the Israelis he was shielding them from hostile missiles? Or was that information stovepiped somewhere in the political-military bureaucracy, and just hadn’t trickled down to their navy yet? He started to answer, then socketed the phone. Let the other guy buck his beef up his own chain of command, until it hit the bona fide skinny coming down.
At the same time, he couldn’t just pretend a missile-armed warship with an inquisitive — no, actually somewhat hostile-sounding — commanding officer wasn’t within striking range. Off the Sinai, inside a declared security zone during the Six-Day War, USS Liberty had been attacked and badly damaged by Israeli jets and torpedo boats. If the State of Israel felt threatened, Savo had better look to her defenses. He lifted the portable radio again, then changed his mind and used the 21MC. He wasn’t sure how far outside the skin of the ship someone could eavesdrop on Hydra transmissions. “TAO, CO: Fifteen seconds’ illumination of INS Lahav with SPQ-9.”
“Shine her with the gun radar?”
“Affirmative.”
A minute later she was back on the intercom. “Bridge, TAO: Incoming threat emitter, I-band radar, bearing one one five.”
He squinted along the gyrocompass repeater, just to confirm it was Lahav, beaming back the same challenge he’d just aimed at her. The corvette lay under a gray storm-cloud, menacing, holding her distance, neither closing nor opening. “Threat emitter ceased, time five one,” Staurulakis added.
He checked his watch. “Very well. I’m going to need a message—”
“Already up on high-side chat with CTF 61 TAO. Keeping them informed in real time, sir.”
“Good. Real good, Cheryl. Let’s double up on our EW watch, one on three sixty, one on this guy—”
“Manning up Console Two now.”
“Okay, Cher. Good work.” He signed off, almost resenting the calm rational voice that was always a step ahead. Looked out to the distant speck once more. Beyond it lay a land embattled, and beyond that, one about to be invaded. Somehow he had to share intel with the Israelis. Or at least get their watchdog off his back. But how? If only he had a genie aboard. He’d wish Savo Island and her crew far from here. No, he’d wish war itself and the eternal suspicion between nations, classes, and those of different hues of skin, over and done, existing only in a past of myth and legend. Something you read about in the history books, like the centuries-long duel between the Romans and the Parthians …
“Captain?” Almarshadi’s thin, nervous features were shadowed like a foretaste of dusk. “Boat crew’s wondering, it’s really looking like it’s going to kick up, they’re not sure they can stay out much longer. Got a call from the XO on Pittsburgh, too. What’s the plan? When’s Captain Youngblood heading back?”
“Call the whaleboat in, Fahad. We’ll call him away before it blows any harder. I’ll come down to see him off.” He turned away, gripping the overhead cable as Savo leaned into a roll that seemed to have no end.
But war wasn’t going to end. Not as long as men were men, and contended each against the other on a steadily eroding sphere compounded of the dust of the dead. Wish all he liked. There’d still be violence. Still be war. Most relentless of the Four Horsemen. And doubly bitter because Man, along with the ants, was a species that inflicted its greatest plague on itself.
11
The rest of the day passed swiftly. He checked in again with Staurulakis, asking how she’d set up the watch rotation. The forty-eight-hour deadline would expire tomorrow; he wanted them ready for whatever happened. The senior watch officer said she was running an overlapping rotation. It was tight; the admiral’s mast, on top of Savo’s already reduced manning, had cut deep into their bench. She and Mills would be standing five hours on, five hours off. Either Dan or Almarshadi would be on call, again five and five, though they wouldn’t actually have to be in their seat in CIC. They had a bit more slack on the bridge, with three qualified officers of the deck: Pardee, Garfinkle-Henriques, and the comm officer, Dave Branscombe. She said Gene Mytsalo was doing well as JOOD and might be able to step up to OOD soon. “But I think we can keep them going up there for quite a while, four on and eight off.”
Next he went down to the engine spaces, undogging and then redogging each door and hatch as he passed through, observing the damage-control drills.
Almarshadi secured everyone from general quarters at 1400. The wind had increased to twenty knots, twenty-five in gusts. It stayed dark as hell all afternoon. Savo rolled, top-heavy like her sisters, but she could take six- to seven-foot waves forever. He ate evening meal in the wardroom, not contributing much to the conversation. He could feel himself starting to sag. Better sleep while he could.
Instead, he went back up to the bridge and stared at the running lights of the Israeli corvette, still soldered to the northeastern horizon. He contemplated the radio handset. Perhaps he should call Marom, ask him to increase the standoff distance, at least during the hours of darkness. Finally he decided, to hell with him. As night fell he went back down to his at-sea cabin. He stripped off sweat-smelling coveralls and stuffed them into his laundry bag. He picked up Freya Stark; read a page or two about Diocletian’s increasing recruitment of mercenaries for the defensive armies, rather than Roman citizens; and turned off the light. Sleep? Yeah, maybe …
The fucking buzzer. No, the call note on his Hydra. He fumbled getting it out of the recharging base and it hit the deck. The leather case must have damped the impact, because it was still working when he hit the Reply button. “C’m,” he grunted. Then cleared his throat and said again, louder, “Captain!”
“Sir, maybe you better get up here.” Mytsalo, voice high and young, frightened as a child’s.
Dan dropped the radio, found his shoes, and sprinted out the door. But the left turn, or rather, the roll Savo had just plunged into, betrayed him, and he caromed full tilt off the opposite bulkhead. He groped for the ladder up in the dim red light, shoulder aching, cursing.
Utter darkness, pierced by the whine of the wind. He blundered into a soft short shape and heard a sharp intake of breath, a gasped-out, “Captain’s on the bridge.”
“Where’s the OOD? What’s the problem?”
Another shadow, and Garfinkle-Henriques’s voice. “Off to starboard, Captain. Constant bearing, decreasing range. I reported it to Combat—”