“The name is Lenson,” he corrected mildly, standing.
“Captain Lenson, sorry. Are there remarks you would like to—?”
The scream of a landing transport drowned out his words. Dan cleared his throat and took out his PDA. “Um, thank you. First I would like to thank all present for their cooperation. We’ve already provided over three hundred tons of relief supplies, aside from transport, and communications, and water. I’d like to remind everyone, including our latest arrivals, to keep a listening watch on the coordination net. We need to deconflict our ship movements to anchorage and offload areas, and our helicopter operations as well, both for increased efficiency and to assure the safety of all concerned. In concert with the harbormaster, I will continue to coordinate naval efforts, including”—he looked down at the Chinese—“Captain Han’s ship, with his permission.”
Han said, in clear English, “We will cooperate in providing necessary relief supplies.”
Hmm. Not exactly agreeing they would do so under his direction, but not disagreeing, either. Dan said, “Captain, if it’s agreeable, I’d like to locate you outboard of USS Tippecanoe, at the freight terminal. We can use your cranes to discharge cargo from both ships.”
After a moment Han said, “That is a reasonable way to proceed. If the local authorities direct me to berth there.”
After an awkward pause, Jaleel said, “Would you mind?”
“I will do so,” Han said, to the colonel, not Dan.
O-kay… He finished up with several specifics, then turned the floor back to Jaleel.
Outside, in the cool night breeze, he told Amy to have the boat stand by, and wandered over to where a U.S. Air Force C-130 blasted exhaust fumes as it churned slowly up. The rear ramp dropped, and under the queer vibrating light the forklifts grunted into sudden bustle. One carried a gray torpedo container. Inside was not a Mark 46, despite the stencils, but the body of Petty Officer Scharner, packed in salt and ice. Consigned back to Diego Garcia, for further shipment back to the States.
Dan stood watching them unload, sagging with fatigue, but not as depressed as he had been since the incident with Wuhan. There was Indian-on-Chinese suspicion, French standoffishness, Maldivian pride, but as far as he could see, everyone was cooperating, coordinating their efforts to bring help to suffering people.
The forklifts backed away from the transport, burdened with sacks and boxes marked with the half-moon symbols of military rations. They rolled and pivoted in a mechanized quadrille. Crews seized the pallets and slid them into the truckbeds. Then they sped off toward the landing, where boats from three different nations waited to relay cargo along the islands.
Dan rubbed his bare arms against the cool breeze. Human beings weren’t just an aggressive species. They knew how to work together as well. Maybe they just needed a disaster every day, to discover how much alike they were, how much they all needed one another.
A short man in rumpled khakis… no… Army greens was fidgeting a few feet away, looking as if he wanted to intrude but didn’t dare. He wore oak leaves on the shoulders of his jacket. Two bulky satchels crouched by his boots. Dan frowned. “You aren’t waiting for me, are you, um, Major?”
The officer saluted. A hangdog look, drooping jowls. “Captain Lenson? Savo Island?”
“That’s me.” Dan returned the salute. “And you’re…?”
“Dr. Leopold Schell.”
“How can I help you, Doctor? Here to help with the relief effort?”
“I’ll be glad to lend a hand if I’m needed. But I’m from Fort Detrick, Captain. U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.”
Dan got it then, though he hadn’t expected Army. “At last. We’ve been hoping for someone like you.”
“Well, two fatalities got our attention. Especially since Bethesda wasn’t able to help, I understand.”
Dan was shaking his hand when he remembered. “Oh shit. Wait a minute. You’re gonna need the body.”
“Yes. I’ll want to take samples, conduct a thorough autopsy—”
With a roar like thunder the C-130 accelerated down the runway, lifting its nose to the night. Dan looked after it helplessly, and sighed. He was turning back to Schell when the VHF on his belt spoke. “Skipper?”
“Excuse me, um, Leo—” He fumbled for the Motorola. “Go ahead, Exec.”
“Captain? You on the RHIB headed back? Over.”
“Just about, the conference just broke. Over.”
“You might want to get back here as quickly as you can.” Staurulakis sounded unnaturally somber. “Over.”
“What is it? Over.”
“Message from PaCom. We’re directed to get under way.”
“Under way. Whither bound?”
A pause, then, “I’d rather not say on an unsecure circuit, Captain. But please, don’t linger. I’m passing that word to Mitscher as well. We’ll be hot-boxed at short stay when you get here. Over.”
Short stay was with the anchor chain straight up and down, and hot-boxed meant with the turbines warmed up and ready to go. And both ships… He signed off, then lifted his gaze to find Schell staring at him, looking apprehensive. “Bad news?”
“Follow me,” Dan said, and turned and started jogging toward the boat landing.
IV
ON STATION
14
HE coughed into one fist, grunting as the jarring reawoke his headache. A calm yet sullen sea the color of cold iron heaved slowly, barely rolling the ship. They’d cleared the northernmost islands of the Maldives, en route to what his orders called Operation Odyssey Protector, in OpArea Endive.
He slumped in Combat, weak and lethargic. “Odyssey Protector.” “Endive.” Who made up these names? He ran through his traffic at the command desk, then toggled back to the same message. The one that had pried them loose from relief operations in Male, and sent Savo charging north at near flank speed with fuel tanks lower than he liked.
Usually cruisers and destroyers were topped up every three to four days, to maintain fuel levels above 50 percent. But obviously that wasn’t going to happen. And fuel wasn’t the only thing in short supply. Hermelinda Garfinkle-Henriques had cornered him that morning at breakfast. “It could be a problem, sir,” the supply officer had said. “You directed me to contribute everything we could to the Maleans—”
“The Maldivians… never mind. Yeah, we should get reimbursed for whatever we dispensed as disaster assistance. You documented it, right?”
“Yes sir. Of course. But I wasn’t talking about reimbursement. Our dry and canned stores were only ninety to one hundred twenty days’ worth when we left on deployment, and we only got a partial replenishment in Dubai.” She’d kept her voice low, but added, “Our fresh stores are gone and the refrigerated stores are getting low. I’m going to the restricted menu tomorrow. If we’re out much longer, we’ll be scraping the bottom of the dry and canned stores.”
Just fucking great. He scrubbed his face with his hands, coughed, and started to get up. Then sagged back, and reread the message.