Direct Action

24

The huddle of men packed together in the dull gray intelligence center of the George Washington was becoming both more hyper and more despondent, if such a thing was possible. The coffee they’d consumed by the gallon had done its own small part to jack up the general mood.

Don Stroh of the CIA couldn’t sit down in his institutional Navy chair for more than a minute before springing up to pace. He wouldn’t call it pacing, though, just a continuing process of checking in with the line of Navy communicators at their consoles, or talking to the ship’s bridge or Combat Operations Center on the phone.

Paul Kohler, his CIA counterpart, had gone through what seemed to be about five cartons of cigarettes, based on the contents of the ashtrays. The fastidious young sailors in the room, high-IQ types one and all, appeared to be on the verge of donning breathing apparatuses.

The Army major from the 160th was sitting with his legs crossed and reading a paperback novel, to all intents and purposes the very picture of professional calm. But that crossed leg was bouncing up and down so fast it might have been hooked to an electrical current.

Miguel Fernandez, the lone SEAL, was catching up on some sleep. His feet were up on the worktable, his head thrown back, and every minute or so he let loose with a few seconds of loud honking snores. Whenever it happened the others threw him looks that were pan disgust, pan envy.

One of the communicators suddenly shot forward in his chair. “Message just came in,” he announced excitedly.

They all practically climbed over each other to reach the terminal and read Murdock’s message off the display.

“… They did it!” Paul Kohler whooped, sounding very much like Razor Roselli.

Miguel Fernandez, whom the platoon called Rattler in honor of his favorite cuisine during desert operations, stared at the screen and wondered which one of his friends was dead.

Don Stroh had a handset up to his mouth, and was passing the news over a satellite link to the operations center at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

The major was on an internal ship’s phone giving the word to his pilots waiting in the ready room.

Stroh put down the handset and picked up another one that connected to the ship’s Combat Operations Center. “Is it still there?” he asked. “Okay, thanks.” He hung the phone up. “We’ve got a real problem.” He turned to the communicator. “I want you to send, ‘WAIT ONE STOP STAND BY FOR MESSAGE END,’” he ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor replied.

A Russian Sovremenny-class destroyer had shown up in the area about a half hour before, attracted to the Washington and trying to discover what she was doing. Intelligence photographers shooting through night-vision equipment had been lined up on her rails the whole time. The Russians had been going through one of their we’re-a-great-power hypernationalistic phases lately, and had been causing more mischief than they had in years.

The presence of the destroyer meant the Washington couldn’t launch the helicopters without permission.

“If only we’d gotten that message an hour ago,” the major lamented.

“The COC says we can lose her,” said Stroh. “But the Navy can’t do that, get back into helicopter range, and go to flight quarters all before daylight.”

“Then we have to launch anyway,” said the major. “Screw the Russians.”

Fernandez was glad the major had said that because otherwise he would have had to. And one of the facts of life was that majors got more favorable hearing than first-class petty officers.

“We can’t do that without permission from Langley,” said Kohler.

“Well, fucking get it then,” Fernandez blurted out. Heads turned and all eyes fell on him, and he added rather lamely, “Sir.”

Well used to SEALS, Don Stroh only chuckled. “I’m going to do just that, Miguel.”

The communicator handed him the handset to Langley, and he explained the situation in detail. After Stroh finished he listened for quite a while. His face darkness. “I’d like to point out, sir,” he said, “that if any SEALs are captured, the mission will be even more compromised than it would be by the sighting of a few helicopters. Any number of cover stories could explain that away.”

Fernandez’s stomach turned to ice.

Stroh listened some more. “Yes, sir, their equipment is sterile, but that won’t matter if the Syrians get a chance to go to work on them.” More listening. “Yes, sir, we will stand by, but allow me to remind you that our launch window is closing rapidly. Yes, sir.” He gave the handset back to the communicator. “They’re going to get back to us.”

“The fuck!” Fernandez said fiercely. “The dirty work is done, so now no one gives a shit anymore.”

One of the Navy intelligence officers seemed on the verge of having words with Fernandez, then perhaps thought better of it.

“I can launch at any time,” the major said. “I’m willing to launch right now,” he added pointedly.

Don Stroh just shrugged helplessly and shook his head.

The minutes ticked off. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. The tension in the room was unbearable.

“Sir,” the communicator said, giving the handset over to Stroh.

“Yes, sir,” Stroh said into the handset. There was conversation on the other end, and Stroh finally broke in to protest, “Yes, sir, but we have no idea what the situation on the ground is right now … sir, I don’t care where the order came from, this is murder. Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I understand perfectly.” Stroh gave the handset back to the communicator. “We don’t launch while the Russian ship is here,” he told them. “So that means the earliest we can launch is after dusk. Tonight.”

“They got to sit out there all day?” Fernandez shouted.

“Well, screw that,” said the major. “I’m launching right now. I’ll take the responsibility.”

Fernandez could have French-kissed him — and an officer at that.

Another phone rang, and it was handed over to Don Stroh. “Yes? Yes, Captain? You did? Very well, thank you.” He hung up. “The Captain just got a flash message from Washington. No Army helicopters will be launched until End of Evening Nautical Twilight. Tonight.”

“Those bastards don’t miss a trick, do they?” Fernandez asked bitterly. If they had turned the major down he’d been considering pulling his pistol and making some demands. Now even that wouldn’t work. “I’ll tell you something. You all better make out your wills, ‘cause you do this to Razor Roselli and I wouldn’t put odds on your life expectancy once he gets back.”

“I’d be glad to have Razor take a shot at me, as long as we get him back,” said Stroh. He sounded completely worn out. “Be that as it may, now we have to sit down and put together a message to the SEALS.”