The Art of War

EIGHTEEN

In the hours immediately after the Iranian attack on their own installation, no one knew exactly what was going on. Lab Rat’s assessment, that the Iranians were readying their cover story, was the only plausible explanation advanced, although at least one staff member insisted that they were intent on eradicating biological warfare weapons stored there.

Admiral Wayne roamed the 03 level of the carrier, unable to settle down in any one spot. It was a growing conviction in his gut that things were about to break loose, and no radar evidence to the contrary could reassure him. Additionally, he was concerned about the odd call they’d received from the Seawolf. He was certain they’d followed his orders to clear the area, but he had no way of knowing if they’d found a place of safety. He could have transmitted a message to them by ELF — extremely low frequency — and asked them to come shallow and communicate, but after some debate, he decided that would be interfering with the captain’s judgment. He was the one who best knew what situation his ship was in. Batman had told him to get to safety, let things cool down, then try again. He would have to trust the judgment and experience of the captain on Seawolf.

But what could have convinced the captain that he needed to come shallow and communicate? A serious engineering casualty of some sort? Intelligence data? Batman wondered if he’d been too abrupt with the man, ordering him out of area, then decided he would have to trust the captain. If it was too urgent to delay, Bellisanus would insisted on briefing him.

That was the problem with being in command rather than on a flight fighting platform by himself. It was one thing to make your own decisions about targets, in-flight safety, that sort of thing. You trained as hard as you could, tried to think everything through, and when it came down to it, you either survived or you didn’t. But in command, he had to depend on the men and women below him, trust that they were just as thorough — if not more so — than he would have been in preparing for the same situations.

The radar and intelligence picture for the area was particularly disturbing. There was no indication of any unusual activity; the troop movements, and even the routine patrol flights of the area had stopped. Iran seemed to have suspended most of her normal activities. The smaller states in the Middle East were also quiet, and Batman pictured military staffs in each country trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. So he paced, moving restlessly between the carrier’s combat direction center, intelligence center, TFCC, SCIF, and his own stateroom. He felt the compulsion to be everywhere at once, as though something would happen that only he would have the key to. As always, the worst part of any conflict was the waiting.

Bellisanus studied the navigational chart, then double-checked their position against the bottom contour map. After twenty minutes at top speed, the Seawolf had gone to a slow patrol speed, dropping all of her machinery noises well below the detection threshold of any known sonar. Since they already had hard proof that this area of water was inadequately charted, the captain was particular concerned about another collision with a pipeline or the remnants of the drilling structure, But there was nothing he could do about that, short of turning on his active sonar, and that would be a homing signal to every enemy platform in the area. So he settled for proceeding slowly, making sure he knew exactly where he was, and retracing his path back to the broken pipeline.

According to the chart in front him, they should be within 1000 yards of where they had run into it. Data processors on the submarine all confirmed that. Engineering was reporting that the water flowing through the sea chest looked unusually nasty, contaminated with oil.

One more issue they would have to contend with — at extremely slow speeds, the Seawolf could rely on natural water circulation to provide cooling through scoop injectors, but not so in this water. He would have to use the reactor circulating pumps, and every additional bit of equipment brought online increased the chances of being detected. But the captain thought the risk might be minimal, given the extremely poor sonar conditions in this fouled water.

“We’ll give it an hour,” Bellisanus said. “Make sure there’s no one in the area, and come shallow for a comm break.” Once he relayed the details of the man’s injury to the admiral, the decision would be the admiral’s, not his. He felt a sense of relief, coupled with guilt.

And how long was an hour to a critically injured patients in pain? He turned to his XO. “How is he?”

“Holding his own. Doc says he’s still stable, but the odds are that he’ll go downhill fast today. We got a little time, but not much.”

Not much, indeed. They had to allow time to clear the area and exit the Gulf, then arrange the rendezvous with the carrier. All that assuming that the tactical situation had calmed down enough to allow a medical evacuation. And the odds of that happening, Bellisanus thought, were not too almighty good.

From his position in the control tower, Wadi stared down at the swarms of technicians around the aircraft. The work was progressing much more quickly than anticipated. There had proved to be far fewer corrosion and structural problems than he had thought, and the primary focus had been on updating avionics and replacing dried-out seals.

Even the Russians were surprised at the condition of the aircraft. Ilya Gromko, their leader, had come to him earlier that day with good news. “Three more days — yes, perhaps four. We will be completely finished.” He gestured at the aircraft. “Every one of them will be able to fly. As long as you have the pilots…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Wadi felt rage building. Who was this Slavic fool to imply such a thing? Oh, yes, their turn would come. With the aircraft repaired, and when the American presence was eliminated in the Gulf, Iran would buy her own aircraft technology. Anything was available for the right amount of money, and as long as Allah provided the oil in the ground, everything was possible.

But that day of glory had not yet arrived, and for now, he must rely on these sodden oafs to do his work. He forced a smile on his face, and clapped the man on the back in a show of good humor. “Excellent, excellent. I shall have a nice surprise prepared for you when you are finished. A bonus, sorts.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “It is not in the contract, of course. But when a group of men produces such results, it is only proper that it be recognized.” He winked, trying to indicate the conspiracy between the two of them. “And for you, perhaps something special. There will be no need to tell the others about it, yes?”

“That is very kind of you,” the Russian murmured. Wadi saw his broad, high-cheeked face split into a grin in anticipation of his wealth. “Yes, very generous of you. As much as we admire your lovely land, we will be glad to go home.”

Of course you will. To the land of unlimited vodka, to long, dark nights lived in a drunken stupor. And your women, fah — they can be no better.

Yes, I shall have a very special prize waiting for you, my friend. Very special indeed.

“I must get back,” the Russian said. “It goes well, but one can never be too careful in looking out for one’s people, can one?”

“I appreciate your taking the time to keep me informed. I will not forget it.”

Gromko reflected on the conversation as he made his way back down to the air-conditioned revetments. Had his family not been in such desperate circumstances, he never would have agreed to come to this desolate land of infidels. But the lack of hard cash, and government support for the program — which meant more amenities for his family — had proved irresistible. Now, as his heart sank, he knew that the decision had been his final and most fatal mistake.

He knew he was not alone in his concerns. The rumors had circulated among his people since the day they’d set foot on this accursed sand. He tried to reassure them, pointing out that any harm to them would be a direct affront to Mother Russia, but to no avail. And now, he unwillingly came to the conclusion that their collective wisdom had been right.

He gazed around the harsh desert, the sand that blasted them so frequently and crept into every moving part. Even the food tasted of sand. And the vodka, the little of it that there was, had a grainy, unsavory aftertaste.

He would die here.

He headed back down to join his men. The Iranians might kill them, but they would leave them a little surprise as well.