The Command

“Now away the visit, boarding, and search team, away. Gold Team, provide. Flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarters stations. Stand by to receive Blade Slinger One-Niner-One. No hats are to be worn on the weather decks. No eating, drinking, or smoking is permitted aft of frame 292. Stow all loose gear inside the skin of the ship. All unauthorized personnel stand clear aft of frame 292. Now flight quarters.”

Still cursing, he was out the door in three strides.

* * *

“One-Niner-One on deck.”

“Very well,” Dan said. In the minutes since he’d given the order to call away the boarding team, he’d realized he hadn’t gone far enough, thought the situation through. He couldn’t send the boarding team over without Horn backing them up. They didn’t have night to cover them, or fog, or much in the way of weapons except the door gun. He wasn’t going to leave them out there alone again, like he had with the smuggler. Whoever was conning the trawler needed to see a warship on the horizon when the aircraft made its approach. So he’d just have to cross the line, violate territorial waters, and take whatever consequences followed. He reached up for the 21MC. “Bridge, CO: once we secure from flight quarters, come right and head for track 2385. He bears—”

“One-five-five, twelve miles,” Camill said from the JOTS.

“One-five-five, twelve miles. Do your mo-board for a flank-speed intercept and be ready to kick around as soon as One-Niner-One lifts.”

He got a roger back and reached for the phone. He wasn’t supposed to do this. He was going to, okay, but he wasn’t going to hide it under any bushels. If they ordered him back, it’d be time to think it over.

“Vigilant Dragon, this is Blade Runner.”

“Dragon, over.”

“One-Niner-One clear of the deck,” said the 21MC. Faintly through Horn’s metal Dan heard the zooming whine of the helo’s turbines as she tilted past, going out. The deck began to slant as the OOD put the rudder over to follow her.

“This is Blade Runner. Unless otherwise directed, I’m going in after this guy at this time. I’ll report back what I find out.”

When he didn’t hear anything back but empty air, he smiled sardonically at Camill. Clicked the transmit button twice, and socketed the handset so hard that, this time, it stayed put.

* * *

The Gold Team was mustering when Marchetti ran up the ladder. He didn’t have coveralls on, just regular khakis, but there wasn’t time to change. Goldstine slammed his Mossberg into one hand, his .45 into the other, looped the ammo pouch stenciled MACHETE over his neck. He slung the shotgun and stuck the pistol in his belt. The gunner’s mate dumped an extra handful of shells in his hand, and he moved on. In the hangar he caught the harness Cassidy threw, started strapping it on. No life vests: they caught in the rappelling gear.

“What is it this time, sir?”

“Droppin’ on a trawler. Skipper thinks, maybe some of the bastards tried to get us in Manama.”

“Droppin’ on a hot LZ!” said Lizard Man, eyebrows peaking. “Cool.”

“You guys see anybody with a weapon, take him out,” Cassidy said. He looked at Marchetti. “That’s your line, isn’t it?”

“It sounds okay from you, sir.” They looked at each other, and for a moment there Marchetti wondered what had happened to the old Cassidy, the scared young ensign. Now he had a Battle Face, too, the mask you dropped over your real self when it was time to load up. He turned back to the team. “You melonheads spring-loaded? Check your buddy. Descenders! ’Beeners! Empty chambers, mags tight! Don’t forget your gloves. That rope’s gonna hurt if you do!”

They gave him thumbs, good to go. He heard the distant clatter of helo blades, and his pulse started to pound. They’d practiced insertions, but he couldn’t say they were hot shit on them. Crack Man, Sasquatch, Lizard, Snack Cake, Deuce, Showboat, Spider Woman. He went down the line, checking boots and weapons and harnesses. When he came to Wilson he stopped.

“You ain’t gonna give me any shit this time,” she snapped, before he could say anything at all.

“Who — me?”

“Then what do you want?”

“I just was gonna say this might be a little rough today.”

“I can rappel as well as you can, asshole.”

“Cranials!” one of the squadron guys bawled, handing them out. Marchetti snatched off his cap, tucked it into a pocket. So did Wilson.

“Okay, okay, I just wanted to say if you don’t—” Looking at her slit-ted squint, he decided to save his breath. “Ah, fuck it, never mind.”

The howl of engines ate through the hangar door, devoured the hot, close air. He pulled the cranial on, and the din became a muffled Niagara. Cassidy hung up the phone and gave him the go signal. He bent for the static line and slung the coil over his shoulder. “Gold! Follow me.”