The Command

Open air, blinding sun, buffeting wind, the smell of hot kerosene and a turbine-scream deafening even through the ear protection. A red-vested crewman stood under the shining roaring disk, right hand beckoning, left pointing. Marchetti diagonaled across the flight deck and took a brace by the sliding door, helping the guys in when their gear hung up or their boots slipped. Rolling in last, he crammed himself and the coil of static line into the final cubic inches of space. The crewman slid the door shut, scraping his back. Then they were all heavy, the deck pressing against their backsides, and he saw the ship falling away, a blue slanted sea rotate in to take its place.

There wasn’t a lot of room in a sixty. The guys were on each other’s laps. But climbing the sunlight, he suddenly knew this was as good as it got. A hammering roar in his ears, a gun in his hand, the smell of hot metal and oil and men. If these were the same assholes who’d tried to get them in Bahrain, he wanted another crack at them. He knew the guys did, too. The only problem was, one of them had his ass right in his face. He shoved at it.

Wilson looked around, grinned, and let one rip. He could smell it even through everything else. “You lousy bitch,” he yelled into the overwhelming sound.

He had to read her lips to hear “Fuck you.”

* * *

To give himself a few seconds grace if the officer in tactical command called back with another “permission denied,” Dan told Camill he was going topside. Swung down with relief — he’d been in Combat almost nonstop all night and all day before — and jogged up the ladder, up to the pilothouse.

Sunlight, warmth, shining space. The whistle of wind. The clack of a Browning bolt seating out on the wing. Horn was driving over three-foot seas like a big Peterbilt down a new interstate. He took a deep breath of air that wasn’t filtered and cooled and rubbed the bristly prickle on his chin. Alive, damn it. For a few seconds last night, when that second Styx had swung back toward them, he hadn’t been sure any of them were going to see the sun again. Yerega shouted, “Captain on the bridge.” Claudia Hotchkiss started to slide out of her chair on the port side. Dan pushed his hand down, telling her to stay where she was. He asked the officer of the deck, “Range to — what are you calling it? Roughly ten miles, bearing about one-five-five?”

“Calling that Alfa X-ray, sir. Range — sixteen thousand, five hundred yards. Bearing one-five-zero.”

“Distance to the boundary of international sea?”

“Five miles, sir, more or less.”

He hoped he hadn’t put this off too long. But even if he had to go in the shithouse after this guy, he was going. He’d claim hot pursuit and let the diplomats fight it out. “And what are we on?”

“One-three-five, coming up on thirty knots.”

Dan said very well. He got his binoculars out and braced his elbows, pointing the glasses slightly to starboard of where the bullnose lifted and fell as it romped along. On the bow the gray tapered tube of the five-inch aimed smoothly left, then right, testing the train commands. He remembered when gun mounts had held human beings, beefy sailors straining to lift and slam heavy shells into breeches. Now all was automatic, computerized. Sixteen thousand yards was a long way to see, but he might have something out there. Anyway he wouldn’t have long to wait. At thirty knots, every minute brought Horn a thousand yards closer. A flash from above the horizon. He squinted and made out One-Nine-One, banking, the sunlight reflecting from the shimmering halo of her rotor.

“Sir, I hold Alfa X-ray altering course to port.”

“New course?”

“Not sure yet, sir — seems to be going into a turn — no, wait. He’s coming back now.”

The talker spoke up, too, confirming that from Combat. Dan rubbed his chin, frowning.

The helo controller said, “Sir, Blade Slinger requests permission to fire a warning burst.”

Hotchkiss, looking through her own glasses. “He’s trying to shake off the helo.”

“Shit, yeah, how are they gonna drop if he starts snaking and weaving?” He was sorry now he’d lagged back. He should have gotten Horn over there first, overawed them with six hundred feet of gray steel, then put Marchetti over. He told the controller, “Permission granted. Put a burst across his bow.”

* * *

The man who called himself Mahmoud shaded his eyes, looking up at the huge clattering smoking machine that reeled and swayed in the air a hundred yards behind them.

His men were dressed as simple fishermen. He’d told them to come up on deck at dawn, all except Antar, who had to stay below with the diesel. It had overheated during the night. They’d had to carry water in buckets all night long to keep it running. But it should get them back into Egyptian waters. They could lose themselves until the sardine fishers ventured out again. Then try again, and complete the mission this time.