The Command полностью

They’d departed the island emirate two weeks ago, three days after the dhow incident. But not for the upper Gulf. Instead, with no explanation, they’d been traded to the Med. Out Hormuz and through the Red Sea again, the passage familiar now. Past the low coast where navy men had died aboard a sinking tanker. They’d never laid hands on the smugglers, never heard another word about them. Like they’d never found out who was behind the dhow attack. Boxing with shadows … Through the Canal again, the usual frenzy when they couldn’t find the certificate. Horn dogged Roosevelt tonight at the triple crossing of lines drawn south from Turkey, west from Cyprus, and north from Egypt. Where the stars arched over the sea like diamonds set in the roof of an immense cave. Waiting for whatever came next. He scratched between his stockinged toes, remembering Riyadh.

They’d crossed the causeway under heightened security in the wake of the attack on Horn. Dan had ridden with a four-striper from CO-MIDEASTFOR in the second unmarked white Suburban. A convoy of SUVs didn’t seem the least conspicuous way to travel, nor was the requirement they wear body armor exactly reassuring. It weighed on him like the lead aprons they give you before the X-ray.

They sped at seventy miles an hour toward the capital of Saudi Arabia, four hundred kilometers to the west. The highway was perfectly flat, perfectly new. Once they left Al-Khubar behind, a city that looked like it had been built the night before, the broad, exquisitely planed lanes were empty. All there was to look at was rock, sand, and, set well back from the highway, new, huge, seemingly deserted mosques. Or at least the buildings had minarets. The heat penetrated the glass and steel around them despite the roaring air conditioner, made the Americans suck on their plastic bottles of water. It made everything shimmer and run together, as if shape were only a fleeting attribute of reality. He was beginning to suspect that nothing he saw in this quarter of the world was what it seemed. A gaunt hunted-looking dog shied as they sped past.

Today’s meeting was with Admiral Curtis D. Kornack, Commander, U.S. Naval Forces, Central Command. Kornack’s flag was in Bahrain, but the admiral himself was in Riyadh. Dan’s disciplinary mast had been postponed. Or maybe OBE — overtaken by events — more accurately described what had happened to the accusation of excessive force while boarding, in the aftermath of the attempted bombing of the Horn. He’d stayed aboard, of course, through the day. No one knew if the dhow was the main event or a diversion. Hotchkiss drafted an OPREP-3, a terrorist incident report. They stood to into the night, with Fear and Faith circling, manned and armed. At any rate, no one had mentioned that investigation since. And he wasn’t about to bring it up.

They reached Riyadh as the sun hit zenith. The roundabouts and flyovers were deserted, as if scanned by some futuristic ray that destroyed everything but architecture. The Ministry of Defence was, no surprise, white, modern, and brand-new. They parked in an underground garage, left the armor in the vehicles, and checked in with a sergeant in battle dress. He led them down concrete stairs as the air grew colder and took on a subterranean smell. A large room with acoustic tile ceilings and many Americans at terminals. Past that, more corridors terminated at a windowless briefing room where carafes of coffee and bottles of mineral water and soggy date pastries on plastic plates waited. He saw a face he thought he remembered. As he focused the other, large, rumpled, stepped forward and stuck out a hand. “Been a while, Commander.”

“The NIS officer. From Gitmo.”

“That’s right. Bob Diehl. Only it’s NCIS now.” The agent winked and raised his paper cup. “Yeah, awhile since we had our last chat. And this is better coffee than you gave me then.”

“You on this, too? I thought Ms. Rahim was the agent in charge.” He smiled at her; she nodded back, but without smiling, her dark face giving him nothing but wariness and distance.

“Ar-Rahim. She works for me. But you know you’ll always get a fair hearing from me.”

“Like the one I got last time?”

Years before, a seaman from his department had gone overboard one night off Cuba. Dan had helped inventory the dead man’s personal effects. After reading Sanderling’s diary, he’d wrapped it in copper cable and deep-sixed it over the stern. Which had led to Diehl’s accusing him of being Sanderling’s lover, if not his murderer.

The agent laughed soundlessly as the admiral came in.