Force Protection. Gordon Kent

chaos of the deck. Next to him, the engineering officer of the Harker was just back from a tour below.

      ‘No electric, so no lights; water to level three everywhere forward of frame seventeen on the port side. Damage to the starboard side not assessed, but the senior chief from your carrier thinks there’s whole frames twisted down there. Two compartments are still too hot to get into. There’s some smoke – I was coughing like crazy down near the anchor locker. Something burning down there smells like truck tires. We got a Kenyan guy with acetylene from the dock; he’s trying to cut into the compartment where we think the, uh – where we think –’ He swallowed. ‘Where they may be.’ He meant the admiral and those with him.

      Alan had ordered a search of every space on the ship they could safely go into. They – the admiral, his lieutenant, the ship’s captain, and Laura Sweigert – hadn’t been found. The other ship’s officers were thought to be ashore, but nobody was sure; of the crew of twenty, six were known dead, a half-dozen more injured badly enough to need hospitalization, five still working.

      To Alan’s right sat the dock, littered with debris. On the far side, a Toyota pickup that had been chained to the deck of the Harker was upside down. Steel cable wound from the ship to the dock and back as if it was growing there, a gray vine; two corrugated-iron sheds on the dock were crushed front-to-back; a crane had been swiveled on its base and tilted at an angle away from the ship; meat and vegetables were everywhere, rotting now in the heat. Windows had been blown out all along the dock. Far up to his right, the Kenyan Navy had moved two trucks across the chain-link gate at the entrance to the docks and had taken up positions there, blocking the crowd outside from entering. Behind him, far beyond the cranes where the sniper had lurked, the remaining helo from the Jefferson was waiting, rotors turning, ready to take off at the first sign of trouble. With the other SH-60, it had come in over the water, avoiding the land areas where somebody with a shoulder-fired missile might lurk. Six body bags were lined up in its shade. In one of them, Alan knew, was all that remained of Master Chief Martin Craw.

      ‘How soon will they know whether they’ve found them?’ he said.

      A head appeared over the rail one level above them. ‘Hey, Commander!’

      It was Hansen. He was still trying to make sense of the ship’s communications. He had rigged sound-powered phones aft and down where the damage was, their lines adding to the confusion of the deck. Alan now had one headset that was more or less patched into Hansen’s radio link to the outside, another that was more or less patched into shipboard phones, although sometimes one worked and sometimes one didn’t.

      ‘Sir, I’m catching shit from your carrier. They say Washington’s trying to reach you and we got no secure channel. I’m working on it as fast as I can! They’re gonna have to go through the carrier, is all –’

      ‘Fine – that’s fine! Do the best you can.’ He turned back to the ship’s officer. ‘Sorry – where were we? Oh, yeah – how soon will we know something?’

      ‘Can’t say.’ The Harker’s engineering officer was a short, middle-aged man who had been far aft when the explosion had happened. He was uninjured but in shock, Alan could see; he was trying to act normal, but he kept giving himself away with a forced casualness that was grotesque in the presence of the body bags and the wreckage.

      ‘I want you to go see a medic, Mister Barnes.’

      ‘Hey, no way! This is my ship. I’m fine!’

      ‘You’ve done great, but I want you to get yourself looked at.’ He deliberately kept his tone light.

      ‘Hey, no problem. I just –’ Barnes’s careful cheerfulness vanished as his head snapped around: somebody had just started up from the gaping hole in the deck. But it was only one of the medics, coming up to cool off in the Mombasa heat. ‘Oh. I thought – you know –’

      The comm man’s head appeared above Alan, one level up on the superstructure. ‘Mister Craik, I got the STU patched in. Can you talk to the Jefferson’s chief of staff on six? He’s hot to trot, man.’

      Alan waved and pressed the earphone to his right ear.

      ‘Craik here, sir.’

      ‘Stand by for Captain Beluscio.’

      He had already had two nonsecure conversations with the chief of staff. Alan had heard the man’s tension even over the raspy radio link, remembered Beluscio’s reputation for nerves. Beluscio had been an F-18 pilot, and a good one, they said; the tenseness hadn’t showed until he had got a squadron command. Then it had got worse with each promotion. Odd.

      ‘Craik! Captain Beluscio.’

      ‘Sir.’

      ‘Are we finally secure?’

      ‘My comm man says so, sir.’

      ‘Christ, at last. Any news on the admiral?’

      ‘Negative.’

      ‘What’s the situation?’

      Alan told him pretty much what Barnes had told him and added that the Kenyans now had the gate under control and the sporadic firing out there had quieted.

      ‘That’s only local,’ Beluscio said. ‘We’ve got reports of massive rioting elsewhere in the city. Naval attaché says intel there is sure this is local Islamic fundamentalists – something called the Islamic Party of Kenya.’

      Alan wanted to laugh, didn’t, and too late realized he should keep his mouth shut, because by then he was saying, ‘Pretty unlikely, sir; IPK isn’t fundamentalist and they aren’t the kind of –’

      ‘These people are experts, Craik! Don’t argue with me.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘I want the area cleared of everybody but my Marines as soon as humanly possible. Evacuate people to your det area at the airport if you have to, otherwise, send them back in the choppers. You in touch with your det? I want them back here, too.’

      ‘Sir, they’re in a secure area at the airport –’

      ‘Goddamit, I said don’t argue with me! I’m dealing with the big picture here! You get your ass out of there and organize removal of all personnel but my Marines, period! Got it?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Then Beluscio made him repeat it all. Alan didn’t say that he had secret orders to stay in Mombasa from a level higher than Beluscio’s. Well, he’d deal with that when he’d got himself to the det spaces at Mombasa airport. One thing at a time.

      ‘Anything on the admiral?’ Beluscio said.

      ‘They’re cutting in with acetylene. They should know something soon.’ He didn’t bother to say that if the admiral was in a space so close to the blast that they had to use acetylene, he was gone. Well, maybe he wasn’t there. Maybe he was – somewhere. And Laura?

      Nobody was sure where they had been on the ship, but a wounded sailor had seen the admiral, an aide, the captain, and a woman heading down a ladder one level up and slightly aft of what was now the point of maximum damage. Where there was now a large hole in the hull; where, two levels up, the side was bent in as if a fist had punched it; where, along the deck, rivets had popped and steel plates had been lifted into the air, to land on the dock and in the water, dozens of yards away. Where they had found the mangled bodies of two crewmen.

      When he spoke now, Beluscio’s voice was bleak, the voice of a man who knew that he was in over his head. ‘Keep me informed.’

      Alan started to say something then, because he saw activity around the hatch by which the medics were getting down to the worst area. He started to tell Beluscio to hang on, that some news might be coming, and then he decided it was better to wait. No point in adding to the man’s tension. Instead, he handed the comm set to Patel, and he went to the forward rail of the bridge and looked down at the scene below. Overhead, a Kenyan Navy ‘gunship’