Tipping Point: The War With China - the First Salvo (Dan Lenson Novels) (3 page)

She glanced at Dan, who cleared his throat. “Um, actually, the Israelis seem to have a pretty good handle on the ABM role now. Iron Dome. Patriot, for the terminal phase. And their new Arrow system, for midcourse intercept.” He swirled his glass of alcohol-free pineapple-and-Sprite punch.

“So you might deploy elsewhere?”

The commodore sidestepped the question. Dan understood why; Blomqvist should’ve known better than to ask. Stationing of the Navy’s sole antiballistic missile asset was decided at the National Command level, Pentagon or West Wing. As his wife had pointed out that morning, it wasn’t just a military question anymore.

When he glanced around, Blair, on the settee, had crossed those long legs she was famous for. The Greek couldn’t look away. “And this lovely lady, she is spoken for?… Oh, the captain’s wife. How unfortunate. I mean, for me.” He bent to kiss her hand. Blair shot Dan a mischievous smile over Stergiou’s bent back. He took a seat next to her, but spoke to Dan. “I understand you have a Greek exec.”

“That’s her over there, speaking to Dr. Noblos. Tall guy with white hair. Actually Staurulakis is her married name. She’s not Greek by birth.”

They were starting on the salad when someone tapped at the door. A face showed at the circular view port. Longley hesitated, glancing at Dan, who nodded.

It was the duty radioman—the rate was IT now, information technician, but everybody still called them radiomen—cradling a clipboard. Routine messages came over e-mail via the ship’s network. Important or time-sensitive ones got walked directly to the CO. Dan rose. “Excuse me, please.”

“Sir? There’s also a message for the commodore.”

“Both of us?” Roald got up too, smooth forehead furrowing.

In the passageway, door closed, the radioman handed each of them a clipboard. The same message, apparently, addressed to Roald as squadron commander, Dan as commanding officer.

After a moment Roald murmured, “Dan … I’m sorry.”

He sighed, finishing the terse sentences. Captain Daniel V. Lenson, United States Navy, was to turn over command of USS
Savo Island
and report as soon as possible to the CNO’s office in Washington. A flight would be scheduled from Akrotiri in a separate message.

The door cracked, eased open, and a shining blond head emerged. “Something important?”

“Blair. I’ve been, uh, ordered back to Washington.”

“Oh, no, Dan. No.”

Roald put her hand on his forearm, but didn’t say anything. He took a deep breath, fighting for control. “Guess I thought … but it’s not something I didn’t expect. Just figured it would happen faster. And when it didn’t … well, never mind.”

“I’ll get your … placeholder aboard tomorrow morning. We can helo him in,” Roald said. “But this doesn’t sound like a relief for cause, Dan.”

“It’s hard to tell,” Blair put in. She took Dan’s clipboard and squinted at it. “It doesn’t say, temporary or permanent?”

Roald shook her head. Dan took the clipboard back and read it again. The words didn’t change. Bitterness seeped in, but he quelled it, lifting his chin. “Anyway, it’s been a good command. A good ship.”

“You’re leaving her better than you found her,” Roald murmured. “And as far as I can see, you fought her beautifully. Maybe they just want to pick your brain about tactics.”

“They’d send somebody out to interview the Aegis team, or recall Bill Noblos, for that. I’m afraid … Oh well.” He jotted jerky initials and handed the clipboard back.

“Want me to help you pack?” Blair said.

“Not that much to get ready, actually.” Her dress threw green smears of light in the darkened passageway. He drew her close, then remembered where he was and let her go.

“I’ll get back to our guests,” Roald said. She handed her clipboard to the messenger, and opened the stateroom door. Murmured over one shoulder, “Let me know if you need anything. Just for the record … whatever happens in DC, your detachment fitness report from me will be two-blocked, Dan.”

“Thanks, Commodore.”

“Jenn. Make it Jenn.”

He nodded, something in his throat hinting he’d better not trust his voice. It was the first time he’d ever heard her say anything not strictly objective. Blair was still clinging to his arm. He cleared his throat. “Well … we can fly home together, I guess.”

“Actually, I think I’ll stay with my original reservation. Keep the room tonight, and fly back commercial Tuesday. It’s always a hassle, trying to deal with the military flights as a dependent.”

No, probably not that appealing, after being the equivalent of a three-star in the Department of Defense leadership. “Yeah,” he said unwillingly. “Okay. Whatever.”

“Do you want a moment?”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

Alone in the passageway, he braced his arms against the bulkhead, feeling through his bones the faint hum of a live ship. He’d barely gotten to know her. Her foibles, her capabilities, the little things that made her different from all the rest. Now someone else would sit on her bridge. It didn’t seem fair. As far as he could see, he’d made the only decision possible.

“Good-bye,” he told her, lips barely moving. Knowing it was sentimental, silly, talking to a mindless thing of metal and fuel and electronics as if it were alive.

Ridiculous, really.

But to a Navyman, it felt right.

I

THE DOCTRINE

2

Arlington, Virginia

HE
took the Metro in. It was all right at first, but he had a bad moment coming off the subway up into the Mall. He’d expected security barriers, and there were more, but the gift shop and florist and candy store were still there, though the bookstore was gone. The bright lights were the same, and the wide, brightly lit, thronged corridors, filled with uniforms, nearly all hurrying, except for the civilian employees. Three men and a woman stood holding signs by the Taco Bell: the janitorial staff was on strike. Behind them trash was piled high, and shattered glass lay scattered across scuffed tiles.…

He started to shake, and felt like throwing up. Had to turn aside and stare into a storefront, pretending to be examining purses, while he got himself under control.

He’d left the Navy Command Center only seconds before Flight 77 had plowed into it. Had been standing in the first deck corridor, west, when a tremendous explosion had quaked the floor and blown all the overhead lights down in a spray of glass, plunging him into instantaneous darkness.

And after that fire, debris, screams, charred bodies under tottering walls. The howls and weeping of wandering, burned, blinded survivors. The stinks of jet fuel and burning insulation. And the smoke and toxics that even now threatened to close up his scarred trachea—

“Sir, you all right?”

A security guard was eyeing him. Dan coughed into his fist and swallowed. Took a long, slow breath. Another … He shook himself, nodded, and fished out his ID. Held up his arms as he was wanded. His briefcase was opened and inspected. Then he paced on in, past the nail salon, the flower shop, into the shining wide corridors once again.

*   *   *

HE
had eggs and toast and weak coffee in the noisy cafeteria, but kept checking his watch. At 0730 he got up, leaving his copy of the
Post
for the next customer. His orders were to report to the CNO, but a phone call the night before had modified that to the director, Navy staff, a couple of rungs down the chop chain. He found the office easily. A receptionist seated him, but he didn’t actually get called in until 0820.

“Captain Lenson? Admiral Rongstad’s respects, and will you come in?”

The conference room was lined with blue-bound books that didn’t look as if they got used much. Two men in dress blues waited at the far end. Dan squared off and came to attention. “Captain Lenson, reporting as ordered.”

To his surprise, they both rose too. Then he remembered: the sky-blue ribbon with white stars that topped his decorations. “Take it easy, Dan. Grab a chair. Coffee?” The senior, a very tall, balding rear admiral with gaunt cheeks and a reasonable rack of ribbons himself, motioned to a carafe, a covered tray. “Had breakfast?”

Dan noted surface line wings, an Academy ring. “Yes sir, taken care of. Could use a cup of joe, though.”

“Help yourself. Admiral Niles was called out of town. Asked me to take care of you. Thanks for returning on such short notice.”

“Um—yes sir. It wasn’t exactly voluntary.”

“I understand. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We’ll try to answer your questions, if we can. I’m Malon Rongstad. I guess you don’t remember me, but we fought together once.”

“Is that right, sir?” Dan asked, shaking hands with him.

“Abu Musa? The night attack. Operation Nimble Dancer. You were Ben Shaker’s exec on
Van Zandt,
right?”

Dan nodded. A classic night surface raid with guns and torpedoes on a Pasdaran base. The frigate had hit a mine and gone down, and her crew had spent the night and the next day and the next night sliding up and down the Gulf with the tide, as the battle that had wiped out three-quarters of the Iranian navy and air force had roared over them. Every breath had been like drawing in superheated steam. The island had floated shimmering in the western sky. The captain had died, leaving him in charge of 115 men, helpless in the water … then the sharks had arrived. He shook that memory off, drew a breath. “You were aboard
Adams
?”

“Her exec. Hey, is it really true that you gave Stansfield Hart the finger that day you mustered your crew to go back?”

“Uh … it was juvenile. Uncalled-for. But you have to remember, we were all pretty wrung out. And we thought he’d forgotten us.”

The second officer, a hatchet-faced four-striper wearing the gold oak-leaf-and-grinding-wheel judge advocate general insignia on his dress blues, said, “There are quite a few Dan Lenson stories told in the fleet. Did you actually hang a murderer, in the China Sea? And get away with it?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever ‘gotten away’ with anything, Captain,” Dan told him. “If the full story ever gets told.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the captain took his hand. “Schulman.”

“Good to meet you, Captain Schulman.”

“And I remember something about you and Ben Shaker,” Rongstad said. “An unsettling story, actually. About that nuclear Asroc we used to carry. I always wondered about that—”

“Sea stories get embroidered.” Dan drank off the coffee. “That isn’t why I was recalled from command, is it? To catch up on sea stories?”

Rongstad seemed to stall out for a moment, then grimaced. “Okay, they said you were … blunt. One further question. Your exec. On
Savo
. He shot himself, right? Are there any loose ends from that?”

“By loose ends, you mean…?”

The JAG murmured, “Pending legal action. Especially concerning you personally.”

Dan said soberly, “Fahad Almarshadi had issues. Emotional, or mental, no one’ll ever know. If one of the chiefs hadn’t tackled him from behind, he could’ve killed a lot of people. No one else in the space was armed.”

“But legal action?”

“The investigation was closed. No further action pending.”

“Good. Just wanted to clear that up before we started. I’m gonna sit here and let my legal adviser bring you up to speed. Sy, you’re on.”

Schulman sat forward, extracting a sheet of paper from a briefcase. “As the admiral said, you’ve been called back pursuant to an official request by the House Armed Services Committee. You’re scheduled to testify next Wednesday about what the media’s calling the ‘Lenson Doctrine.’ Have you heard anything about this?”

“My wife told me—I mean, I’ve heard the phrase. But I’m not sure how my name got attached to it.”

“It’s the idea, or concept, that if the U.S. is capable of stopping a mass-destruction strike on a civilian target, we have a moral obligation to do so. Relevant statutes include Article 17 of the Fourth Geneva Convention, international humanitarian law, and several UN resolutions since 1946.”

“I was just following orders,” Dan said, not without relish. He bent to his own briefcase, and dropped a folder on the polished glass surface. “CINC and NCA guidance message for my mission. Draft guidance for employment of ballistic missile defense assets within a combat theater. ComSixthFleet rules of engagement.”

“Well, there’s a good deal of uncertainty about your rather … liberal interpretation of those orders.”

“I’ll be happy to defend myself. But it’d help to know what the official position is. Before I resign.”

“There is no ‘official’ position,” Rongstand put in. “And no one’s mentioned resignation in my hearing. If you mean charges being preferred, or a letter of reprimand being considered, nothing like that’s going on. At the moment.”

“At the moment,” Dan repeated. “Am I getting my ship back?”

“As to that,” Rongstad said carefully, “it’s not in my hands. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Okay, but how about unofficially? The Navy’s got to have some opinion. We’re striking to be the major missile-defense stakeholder, after all. Is this too big a commitment for us to step up to? Or is this a mission we want? With all due respect, sir, I deserve to know if the CNO’s behind me on this. Or if I’m hanging out there all by my lonesome.”

Shulman said, “It would not be appropriate, at this stage, for us to take any position on your actions. But you might be interested to know you’ve been set up for a murder board before the hearing.”

Dan nodded slowly. “Murder boards” were combination strategy sessions and third-degree grillings designed to prepare a witness to testify. He’d sat in on a few, when he’d been with Joint Cruise Missiles. Getting Admiral Willis and Niles, a rear admiral back then, ready to testify before the Procurement and Military Nuclear Systems Subcommittee about the high failure rate of the Tomahawk program and whether it should be terminated. The procedure had spread to preparing candidates for high office; Blair had had a mini–murder board before being appointed to DoD. “That sounds like a vote of support.”

“If you want to interpret it that way. Here’s the office address. A retired Marine general who specializes in prepping people for congressional hearings. Be there at 0700 Tuesday. On Wednesday afternoon, you testify.”