The Command полностью

Holding the handset, he forced himself to speak with deliberation. “Minas Salman Harbor control. This is Horn actual, over.”

“Harbor control, over.”

“I’ve received two warnings about an explosive-laden small craft bound for my location. We are at general quarters and am heaving around to short stay.”

“Roger, copy that.”

“Request permission to fire on any dhow that steers for this ship. Small arms and twenty-five-millimeter only.”

He figured it would take them a moment or two, but when there was no answer at all, he clicked transmit again. “Harbor Control, Horn; did you copy my last?”

“Horn, this is Harbor Control.” Furious voices in the background; then “Horn, this is Harbor Control. We cannot give you permission to fire within the harbor.”

“This is Horn. Intend to fire only on craft clearly making a hostile approach.”

“This is Harbor Control. Sir, understand your situation, but we cannot clear you to fire within the harbor.”

He savagely switched the selector to what he hoped was a direct circuit to the squadron. “Flash, flash. COMDESRON Fifty, COMDESRON Fifty, this is USS Horn in Minas Salman Harbor. Over.”

“First dhow is making its approach.”

“RHIB’s alongside, transferring weapons.”

“Who’s talking to it?” Dan snapped. A talker stepped up, radio in hand, looking scared. Dan told him, “I want them between us and the dhow traffic. One hundred yards off the starboard side. Weapons loaded and clearly visible. Understand? Pass that at once.”

“Sir, COMDESRON Fifty SDO on the horn.”

A young voice, and he felt his heart sink. The SDO was the staff duty officer, not the commodore. Most likely some duty jaygee. Dan said rapidly, hoping to carry the guy with him before he had time to think, “This is CO Horn. NCIS and base ops warn me a small craft loaded with explosives is en route my posit. I suspect it may be one of the dhows in the fishing fleet. They are steaming in my direction now. If one swerves out of line, I need permission to fire, and I won’t have time to ask for it when it happens.”

A hesitation. “So what are you asking for, sir?”

“As per your rules of engagement, I’m requesting clearance to fire on any threatening contact.”

“If it’s threatening, sir, you don’t need my approval.”

“Yes, I do. It won’t look any different from the other dhows. I’ll have to take it out based on my best guess.” He wished he hadn’t used that word, tried again, “I mean, on the basis of my professional estimate of its level of threat based on its maneuvers, its apparent intent.”

“Sir, I don’t think I’m the one who can give you that.”

“Is the commodore available?”

“No, sir. He’s not here.”

“Can you get him on the line? Or on a land line?”

“I’ll try, sir.” Clearly relieved at having a course of action pointed out to him, the voice signed off.

“I’m going to full self-protection,” Dan told Hotchkiss. “How’s that anchor coming?”

“It’s up and down. But if we get under way, where are we going?”

He put his binoculars on the lead dhow again while he pondered that question. She was right, there was nowhere a ship the draft of a Spruance-class could go in these restricted, shallow roads except out to sea. And the path to seaward led through the same bottleneck channel the marching ant line was now bending toward. At least where they lay, an attacker would have to swing out of queue toward them. They’d have a few minutes to decide what to do as it crossed the three hundred some-odd yards of open water to where Horn swung to her shortened anchor. Not to ask permission. He’d given up on that. The rules of engagement would serve only to make sure his ass was the one to be fried if he decided wrong and shot up a boatload of confused, rudder-jammed, curious, or even just momentarily inattentive Bahraini fishermen.

“Where’s the second boat?” he shouted. “I want Fear in the water. Right fucking now!”

In the hangar, Marchetti was suiting up as fast as he could yank gear on. The sling slipped off his shoulder, the Mossberg clattered to the deck. He grabbed it and reached for his life vest.

Ensign Cassidy came up from below, carrying the radio, and grabbed his .45 from the gunner’s mate. Gold Team was suited and armed, as fast as they’d ever mustered. The gunner’s mate handed Marty a handful of cartridges. He dumped them into a cargo pocket and swept a look down the line. Crack Man, Sasquatch, Lizard, Snack Cake, Deuce. The Old Gold. Amarillo and Turd Chaser were dead, lost on the Iraqi tanker. He had a new guy, Showboat, lanky and gangly, still learning the ropes. And … goddamn it… the supernumerary. Wilson. Spider Woman. There she fucking was.

“We set, Senior?”

“Yessir.” All right, he didn’t have the time to argue it. “Into the boat, you melonheads,” he yelled, and ran, boots pounding, out onto the deck.