Damage Control. Gordon Kent

it.”

      “Yeah, well just keep that in mind—sir!”

      Alan suppressed the angry things that sprang to his tongue. They stared into each other’s eyes, neither flinching. Finally, Alan said, “You’re out of line with that tone, Chief,” and turned away, exposing his back to the other man and his anger and his weapon. But Fidel was better than that.

      They picked up the two rifles, old British .303s, beautifully maintained and oiled but half a century out of date. Each of the sailors had had a full box magazine and five more rounds.

      “The poor bastards were like mall security guards,” Alan said with disgust. He turned away because flies were already gathering. Thinking, No safe haven here after we’ve killed three of their guys, no matter who they are. He looked at the next chain-link fence and then at Ong and the others. “This sucks.”

      “No shit.”

      “We’re going farther down toward the creek. It’ll be crap, but there’ll be no fences and no people.” And nobody we have to shoot, he thought, looking at Fidel. “Well?”

      Fidel looked toward the scrub jungle through which the maps said a creek flowed. “I think we’re gonna wind up humping some people on our backs, but—” He shrugged. “O-ka-a-a-y!”

      AG 703

      Soleck cycled through the screens on his computer while warming the ISAR—Inverse Synthetic Aperture Radar—which used the doppler of a target’s movement to create a two-dimensional digital image, a radar photograph. It was best against targets on the water; it could be cranky, was often attenuated by atmospherics, but when it worked, it could reach over the horizon through ducts and reflections to image a ship that lay hundreds of miles away.

      “Gup, you did leave us enough gas to make Trincomalee?”

      Guppy didn’t rise to it. “Roger that,” he said. “And a thousand pounds reserve for whoever needs it. Both planes.”

      Soleck wanted to check the figures but Guppy had a head for math and somebody in Air Ops must have done it, too. Gup was doing very well indeed. In fact, by the end of this flight, he might have shed nugget status forever.

      Soleck had the radar in surface-search mode; he could see the Indian battle group to the north, now well spread out, with elements dispersed over ninety miles of ocean. He overlaid the position of the Tomcats and the man in the water and the ESM cuts, shading his small screen with a hand and trying to work with the minimal inputs available to the front seat.

      There. Two bananas on the surface-search that corresponded to his ESM cuts. He pressed the image button on the Indian Kashin-class and had the satisfaction of seeing her come up immediately. The image wavered and rotated twice; she was almost bow on. As he watched, the shape of her superstructure developed two major radar returns that showed as bright spikes above her hull.

      Has to be damage, he said to himself. He also thought he could see her forward turret rotating and something changing amidships. More damage?

      The ESM told the story—launch parameters for a Styx IIc anti-ship missile. He watched it go to homing and then terminal and then vanish as the Indian Godavari-class’s close-in weapons took it out. He got on the comm.

      “Alpha Whiskey, this is 703. An Indian Navy Mod Kashin fired on 101. That ship is now taking fire from an Indian Navy Mod Godavari. The Kashin has suffered damage. 703 is monitoring via ISAR and ESM.”

      “Copy, 703.”

      Donuts spoke up. “Alpha Whiskey, the mission tankers don’t have enough gas to get 101 to the beach.” Soleck could see him flying a thousand feet above him and a mile away.

      “Roger, 203. Concur. What do you recommend?”

      “Strike Lead recommends Alpha Whiskey advise on sending an SAR helo into a hot zone.”

      “203, I’m hesitant to send an unescorted helo up there.”

      Soleck, his eyes on the computer screen, cut in. “Kashin’s air-search radar went off the air during the last exchange, Alpha Whiskey. Hasn’t come back up. Still taking hits from the Godavari and seems to be listing to port.”

      “Roger, 703, copy all. 203, I’ll risk the helo. What’s on your mind?”

      The nasal quality of Donuts’s voice came through clearly. “I want 102 to turn south and head for the tankers. I want 101 to hang with the man in the water until gas is an issue or better yet until the helo shows; make it look like we have teeth. Then punch out or ditch, pilot’s choice, and the helo picks them all up.”

      Wow, thought Soleck, Donuts can be a cold bastard. But the more he thought it through, the better the plan seemed—except for the two guys who would have to punch out of a perfectly good plane.

      “203, I see your plan. I was thinking of ordering them to try and bingo at Lakshadweep.”

      “Copy, Alpha Whiskey. I’m concerned with the Indian Navy.” Probably one of Donuts’s best understatements.

      “Roger, 203. Concur. Helo is on the way.”

      Soleck listened to Donuts repeat it all to 101. The pilot in 101 showed his sangfroid. “203, this is 101, concur. Always enjoy spending the taxpayer’s money.”

      On his computer screen, Soleck could see the Kashin-class listing more and more heavily. Flames and smoke didn’t register on ISAR, but damage did, and her superstructure was a spike of radar reflections twice the height of the original image. None of her radars showed on ESM.

      In the last light of the setting sun, he could just see the smudge of smoke to the north. Way out over the horizon there, the Kashin-class was burning, a plume of smoke rising thousands of feet into the air. Behind him in the quick dusk of the Arabian Sea, the black pall of the deck fires on the Jefferson rose to meet it.

      Soleck watched the computer and the gas and prayed.

      Donitz pulled on the stick and turned his nose south and east until his compass read 140 and his GPS arrow lined up with Soleck’s pointer for Trincomalee. He checked his altitude, his profile, did the math on his fuel one more time, and shifted his butt in his seat. Long ride, and the fuel was too close to call all the way there.

      “All planes, this is Strike Lead. See you in Trin.”

      Ten sets of Roger.

      And 101 came up last. “Have a beer for me, Strike Lead. We’re punching out in a minute.”

      Donitz listened to the pilot in 101 count the time down, his voice flat through the count. And then he said “Eject,” and he was gone.

      Bahrain, Fifth Fleet HQ

      The flag lieutenant, resplendent in whites and chicken guts, cut straight to the head of the morning line in the hotel lobby. “Is Admiral Pilchard in the hotel, please?” he asked. A full commander in the line glared at him, and Spinner smiled back. You may be some shit somewhere, pal, Spinner’s look said, but not with me. Not right now.

      “He’s in the pub, sir.” The woman behind the desk smiled. Spinner was used to that smile, but right now he had other fish to fry. Ignoring the outraged stares of the line, Spinner marched across the lobby of the Gulf Hotel and into the pub.

      Pilchard was planning to play a round of golf with the new ambassador and an old buddy; he was wearing an ancient navy sweatshirt and jeans and Spinner thought he looked old and undignified. He and his buddy were laughing, the only patrons in the bar; just two ill-dressed old men drinking coffee.

      Pilchard’s head came up as soon as he saw Spinner’s uniform.

      “Sorry to interrupt, sir.” Spinner paused for dramatic effect. This was what he liked best, center stage.