The message was from Commander, Sixth Fleet. At long last, U.S.-Israeli missile defense coordination at the tactical level had been authorized. It outlined protocol for direct communications with the Israeli Army unit responsible for the Patriot battery at Ben Gurion, with the two Air Defense Forces Arrow batteries to north and south, and with the IADF ballistic missile command and control center, code-named Citron Tree. An addendum laid out a schedule to work out procedures for deconflicting the two nations’ missile-defense networks. Dan fanned himself with it, wondering why it always had to take a disaster to make things change. Then cleared his throat. “Get that to Lieutenant Branscombe. We need to set those voice channels up as soon as possible.”
“Think the chief’s already on it, Captain, but I’ll make sure he gets that word.”
Dan shifted in the chair. He’d gotten three hours’ sleep that morning, but felt ragged and woozy. Plus, he still had that nagging cough. CIC remained in Condition III TBMD. The bodies in the seats had changed, but Aegis was still scanning the skies.
“Captain?” Quincoches, looking haggard. Dan returned his salute. The chief’s coveralls were rumpled, as if slept in. But Quincoches didn’t look as if he’d slept. “We’re back up, aft.”
“Aft VLS is up again? That’s good news, Chief. But I gotta tell you, I’d have been a lot happier to get it last night.”
“I know, sir. We had to splice cables, not enough spares — then test — and it turned out, we had to request wiring data from the contractor—”
“I know.” Dan held up a palm. “I take it back. Your guys did everything they could. It was just shitty luck.”
Quincoches looked out to the sea that slid by, uncaring, bleak, wintry. Reddened lids squeezed slowly closed. When he rubbed them his fingertips left sooty stains. “D’you think … we could’ve saved them? In the shelter. If we’d given you two more rounds when you needed them—”
“Chief. No.” Dan gripped his elbow. “The other side killed them. Not us. And the Army and Marines are going to iron their laundry. If there’s anyone at fault here, it’s me.” He rubbed his own eye sockets. “Should I come down and talk to your guys?”
“I don’t think you’ve got to do that, sir. Not necessary. I’ll tell them what you said.”
“Okay then.” He started to squeeze the FC chief’s elbow again, then thought better of it. Nobody really liked a touchy-feely skipper. “That’s good, that we have those last two Block 4s back. We may still need them.”
Quincoches nodded. He inclined his head once more and left.
Dan pulled out his Hydra, noting Lahav on the horizon. The corvette had sidled gradually nearer after dawn, and rode now two miles off, paralleling Savo’s course, turning when she turned, but leaving the scanning and firing bearing clear to land. Should he call Marom? See if they needed to coordinate defenses? He couldn’t think of anything they could be doing better. Leave well enough alone. But it was reassuring, knowing they were on the same side.
Especially since the Alborz task group — the Iranian surface force — was nearing their position. Pittsburgh was trailing, occasionally forwarding a report. He coughed into a fist, eyeing the radar. They weren’t in range yet, but soon. Maybe that was something to discuss with Marom, since he had no idea what the Iranians intended. Their very presence had to be considered a threat. Maybe he should ask Ammermann about it. But he felt angry even thinking about talking to that guy. Fuck him. Let him stew.
He made a couple more Hydra calls. He and Danenhower discussed their fuel state. The engineer was pleased with their consumption rate at this reduced speed. He was using the down time on the other turbines to catch up on deferred maintenance.
Dan was about to sign off when the boatswain called, “XO’s on the bridge.”
Almarshadi was stone-faced. Dan returned his salute, still on the Hydra, and said to Danenhower, “Bart, XO just came on the bridge. It’s good you’re getting ahead on maintenance, but I want to keep our damage-control teams at peak performance. Can you get with him, set up a drill for this afternoon?”
“Sure, Skipper. Anything special?”
He thought about the incoming surface group; of the Syrian batteries that still, on and off, were illuminating from the coast. “Drill missile hits forward, midships, and aft. I don’t want anybody wondering what to do if we take a shot in the gut. — Fahad, I’m asking him to set up a drill—”
The XO nodded. “I heard, sir. I’ll get with him and supervise.”
“Well, I’d actually rather have you up here on the bridge. Have Mr. Jiminiz run the drills.”
“Whatever you say. I’ll pass that to the DCA.”
Dan sighed and sat back. Now what? He was about to ask when the red phone interrupted them. He snatched it out of the cradle. Waited for the sync.
It was Commodore Jen Roald. She sounded rushed. “You got the word about the bunker hit? Over.”
He swallowed. “Affirmative. Over.”
“It doesn’t make us look very effective, but on the other hand, their own defense systems missed it too. But be warned: there may be blowback.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Commodore. Over.”
“You saw the message about coordination. Some will ask, why didn’t we do that before?”
“Um, I was wondering that myself, Jen.”
Her tone sharpened. “Congress imposes restrictions on release of BMD technology. And I understand that. But then, they ding us when there are adverse consequences. Don’t get me wrong. I know what you’re laboring under. But some people want a magic shield. And some of those are the same people who defunded … well, never mind. New subject.”
“Go.”
“Just got word from Strike Center. They’re ginning up verbal authorization for you and Pittsburgh to spin Tomahawks. A source on the ground has eyes on the hide sites for the rest of the Al-Husayns. Also, the green-door folks have something solid on the comm nodes. They’re going to the Sit Room to get authorization to clean that mess up. Copy so far?”
“Copy all,” Dan said. “Where do you want me?”
“Up in the east Med four whiskey grid. Pittsburgh is getting this from SUBOPAUTH as we speak. I’ll shift tacon to you once you’re both in your shooter box.”
Dan covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Fahad, tell Bart to get all engines back on the line. We’re headed north to a Tomahawk MODLOC. Have Singhe and her strike team in Combat. I want to meet with them”—he checked his watch—“at noon.” As the exec wheeled away and began giving orders he asked Roald, “How many more have they got? Missiles, I mean?”
“Those numbers have always been squishy, Dan. There’s also the question of how many transporter-erectors they have left to fire them from. But here’s something that just came through: The one you shot down had a concrete nose cone.”
“Those are the chemical warheads.”
“Correct, with sarin and possibly VX. So if we can destroy them on the ground … you’re moving north to a launch basket in the vicinity of 35 east, 33–10 north. From what CAG and CVIC are telling me, you’ll get an MDU for the target set right about the time you hit your box. Shoot as soon as the missions are validated. My strike chief’s in with the APSDET helping them get everything expedited, so he’ll be giving you a heads-up over chat.”
So the data for their Tomahawk strike was on its way. Chief Van Gogh had come up silently to listen in. Dan showed him the launch box position, jotted on his palm with his Skilcraft. It was only about sixty miles away. Almarshadi had Main Control on the line and was passing the word to Danenhower. The OOD had them in a turn. Dan rubbed his face, heart rate accelerating again. “Roger. Coming north now. But … we could launch from here. Why are we…?”