The Command

They sent the missions to the launch control console and loaded data to twelve missiles, four for each of the three targets; then simulated the rest of the sequence in training mode.

Back in his elevated chair, it occurred to him that, theoretically, at least, Dan Lenson now had the power to kill any human being within a twelve hundred mile circle. He had the keys and sixty-one live missiles. The guys would launch on his word. Actually, since he also knew how to program the missiles, it wasn’t just theoretical.

He tried to take his mind off it by looking at the large-screen display, the northern Red Sea and the Gulfs of Suez and Aqaba. But it only shifted his thoughts toward what exactly they were doing here.

Because he often wondered what exactly they were doing here. The forward-deployed U.S. fleet was supposed to be a stabilizing presence. The Mideast needed stability. But more and more, it seemed that the American presence was more of an irritant than anything that seemed to give the locals confidence, or fear, or anything else constructive.

But without them, who would deter Saddam and the expansionist Shi’ite fanatics of Iran? There were progressive tendencies in Islam. Regimes inching toward tolerance, circling around popular participation and limited forms of democracy. The United States had to back them up, not write all Muslims off as terrorists and dictators.

You couldn’t be neutral toward change. You either welcomed it or feared it. When you feared it, you fought to keep things the way they were. Using whatever came to hand; the Qu’ran or the Bible, or slurs about combat effectiveness that seemed to him to have less and less justification the closer he watched his own crew approach the battle zone.

But what about his own doubts? His own ever-altering, changeable, always-questioning incertitude? Where did that place him?

He rubbed his face, features lit the hue of malachite by the flicker-running, never-constant imagery of the digital displays.

* * *

Off Ras Muhammad they intercepted the largest ship to date. The database said it was a thirty-thousand-ton motor containership, Indian registry, chartered to the Chinese, with a master from Singapore and crewed by the scrapings-up of three continents they’d gotten used to seeing on these trampers. So obviously they’d been boarded before.

But this time MV Royal Karnataka did not heave to, even after repeated hails on the VHF.

On the bridge, Dan debated his courses of action, flipping through the UN and the USN ROEs, the rules of engagement. Blade Slinger was down for maintenance, so he didn’t have the intimidation value of his air assets. The rules were vague when it came to what precisely an enforcing vessel could do. Finally he picked up the mike. “Royal Karnataka, this is U.S. Navy warship off your quarter. This is your final warning. Heave to now and permit boarding.”

“This is Motor Vessel Royal Karnataka. We have nothing aboard from Iraq and do not need to be boarded.”

“There a problem?” Strong swung up into the chair that had now become the task group commander’s exclusive possession. Coming up to find Dan in it the day before, he’d asked him rather brusquely to use the exec’s, to port.

“They don’t want to stop, Commodore.”

“Then it’s all the more evident you must stop them.” Strong looked across to where the freighter was plowing stolidly along. “So do it, Captain.”

Dan bit off a response and keyed the mike again. “Royal Karnataka, this is U.S. warship off your port quarter. I repeat, heave to at once or… I will fire.” He said to the officer of the deck, whose eyes had popped wide, “Mount 51, train right, relative bearing zero-three-zero.” This was a bluff. He was pretty sure he didn’t have the right to fire. The trouble was, it was hard to tell. Lawyers wrote the things, there were so many caveats and weasel phrases. Then he noted their inter-ceptee’s bow wave was decreasing. “She’s slowing, sir,” the officer of the deck said.

“Very well. Keep your relative position.” “Engines ahead one-third, set pitch for five knots.” “Away the boarding and search team. Which team’s up?” “Boatswain: away the boarding and search team, away, Team Gold.” He threw the dogs off the door and went out on the starboard wing. Every metal surface radiated like a microwave oven. He touched the leather of his wing chair and reflex jerked his fingers off before they burned. What wind there was, was from port; the RHIBs went down in the ship’s lee; he couldn’t see it go down but he figured it would be Faith. Some minutes later it came into view, playing ducks and drakes over the ruffled blue. He made out Cassidy and Marchetti, knees bent, clinging to the center console, nodding at each wave impact.

The officer of the deck put his head out. “Sir, contact’s putting on speed again.”