The Command

“Sir, Lenson here, CO Horn. I’m still seeking guidance as to what to do about this contact we picked up last night. The one I think the Osas who fired on me were running interference for. The one that was headed for Tel Aviv, until we intercepted it.”

“Haven’t you been told to track and trail?”

“Yes, sir, but that’s not going to be viable much longer. We’re closing in on Egyptian waters. Sir—”

“What is it?”

“I’m assuming whatever this guy is, he’s what this whole operation was set up to catch. Some nasty package intended for Israel. So what is he?”

“We’re contacting the Egyptian navy. This is an Egyptian national matter.”

“Do they have units en route? We’re not seeing any on the scope.” Dan gave him a moment to reply, then when he didn’t, keyed again. “Sir, two more questions on that. One: what if those were Egyptian Osas? Two: whether they were or not, if it’s important enough for somebody to sacrifice two missile units for, do we really want the Egyptians to have it?”

Silence on the other end. Finally the admiral said, “We’re seeking direction from NCA now.”

NCA was National Command Authority, the White House and the National Security Advisor staff. Dan said, “Sir, we can’t sit on our hands much longer. Once they get in among the coastwise traffic, they’re gone. If it’s dangerous … germs, or gas … maybe the wisest thing would be to sink it. Designate it to Bulldog, like we did the Osas.”

The voice said that was out of the question. “Do not, repeat, do not launch on your contact. We’re working all the angles you’ve just touched on, Captain. Believe me. Just carry on with what you’re doing.”

“Sir, we can’t hang fire on this waiting for orders. He’s making for the coast. Do you want me to board and search? Light him up? Follow him across the line? I’ve got to have a decision soon.”

“I told you. Track and trail. Otherwise, no action.”

Dan thought about telling him he had his helo over the suspect, then decided not to. Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. He signed off and called Richardson, got a better description of the boat. It didn’t sound that large.

What could it be carrying? A fugitive? Some fleeing political figure? No, he’d have been safer without the escort. It had to be a weapon of some sort. Explosives, like on the dhow? Or something less conventional? He wondered if this was the waterborne biological attack everybody had talked about so long. A small craft motoring along the coast at night, dispensing aerosolized anthrax to blow inland. Certainly Israel would make the perfect target.

And meanwhile, with each mile, they were getting closer to escape. He started to tell Camill to get the interpreter back up, give the boat another call. But they hadn’t answered before. Only churned onward, toward the invisible line that would shelter them.

He was tempted to leave it. Be the good little commander. Do just what he was told. But Nick Niles was right. Dan Lenson had never operated that way. He had to second-guess everything. He’d never accepted an order without wondering why. And that skeptical voice didn’t just question others. It doubted him, too; questioned everything he did, and everything he thought was right.

That simply, he made up his mind. At worst, he’d annoy some fishermen, lose his command, and forget about being promoted ever again. At best, he could stop a boatload of terrorists. Maybe even bring them to trial.

He told Camill, “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. The ship stays just outside the line. But we call away Gold Team for a helo boarding.”

“A helo boarding, sir?”

“They’re used to seeing it over them by now. Chief Marchetti can do a fast-rope or rappel down. Then we’ll figure out what we’ve got and what to do about it.”

“You’re sure about that, sir? I don’t think that’s what Vigilant Dragon has in mind.”

“He can’t order me to cross into territorial waters, Herb.”

“He can’t?”

“Well, I guess he could. But he’s not going to, because that’d be illegal. See?”

“Okay… so …”

“But it has to be done. So, I’ll do it. At least, put the helo across.”

“They’re not going to like it, sir.”

“That’s why they call it command, Ops,” he said, trying to make it light, though he felt anything but. He kept remembering how they’d forbidden him to defend himself in Manama Harbor. He’d acquiesced, pulled his men and his weapons back aboard. And came damn close to losing a lot of people and maybe his ship.

This time, he’d do what he felt was right.

* * *

Marty was pulling out his chair in the chiefs’ mess when the 1MC shrilled ‘Attention.’ Then, “Now away the visit, boarding, and search team, away. Gold Team, provide. Deck division stand by to hoist out the starboard RHIB.”

The chiefs stared at him. “Your song, Machete.”

“Son of a bitch.” He grabbed a fistful of toast off Andrews’s plate and stuffed it into his maw, swung his leg over the back of the chair. Then froze as the 1MC crackled again.

“Belay my last…”

“Shit, why can’t they make up their fucking—”