Arc Light (54 page)

“Looks like the wind is bearin' about two eight zero,” Golding said. “Whaddaya think, Fraze?”

The copilot peeked up over the dash at the white caps. “That's about right,” he said as he sank back. “Four hundred.” His voice was calm, but his face reflected dimly in the windshield showed agonizing worry. “Three hundred.” The water below slid by at remarkable speed. “Two fifty, Larr'.” Golding leveled the aircraft.

“I got . . . I got the E-2!” Frazier shouted. “Sounds like . . . they're vectorin' Tomcats!”

“Where the hell'd they come from?” Golding asked.

“It's Tango Charlie Six,” Frazier said, glancing over at his seat-mate.

“Could they have gotten a drink?” Golding asked softly, not taking his eyes from the windshield.

“No way,” Frazier said in the quietness that followed. “They had to be on burners all the way from . . . Missiles away!”

“But they were ‘Bingo Fuel,' ” Gator said, looking at the two pilots, who said nothing.

There was another silence, and Chandler asked, “What the hell
is Bingo Fuel?” in a near whisper, transfixed by the drama but not understanding it.

“It means,” Golding said slowly, “they had just enough fuel to make it back to the
Eisenhower
when they left station earlier.”

“Splash one!” Frazier shouted. “Splash two! They got 'em!” Then he grew quiet again. There was no sustained jubilation.

“I don't understand,” Chandler said. “I thought you said we didn't have escorts anymore.”

“What VHF are they monitoring?” Golding asked Frazier.

“One two two point five,” Frazier replied, and Golding turned a knob on his armrest.

“Tango Charlie Six, this is Navaho Six Five Seven Two Seven. You read me, over?”

After a pause, Golding said, “Thanks a lot, boys. You pulled our fat asses outa that fire.”

After another brief pause, Golding and Frazier both laughed. “Sorry, ma'am,” Golding said. “Thank you too.” They listened again. “Well,” Golding said, “I just wanted to say . . . thanks. Thanks and . . . and good luck.”

The Delta pilots listened again for a long time. “Roger. Copy. I'll do that. Navaho Two Seven out.”

Chandler heard Golding take a long, deep breath. After another brief radio communication he told Gator to plot a new course, and they slowly banked and rose higher and higher into the sky. The red light on the radar detector no longer blinked.

After a minute or so in silence, Frazier said softly, “They just punched.” Chandler could see in the slightly mirrored windshield Golding's one unpatched eye close for a couple of seconds.

“So the navy'll go pick 'em up, right?” Chandler said. “They'll send a search and rescue helicopter. I mean, they know where they are.”

“No,” Golding said slowly and quietly. “They won't. The Russians' land-based aircraft own the skies around Iceland right now. The navy can't get close enough to launch a helicopter.”

“So—what?” Chandler said, looking out onto the unbroken expanse of the North Atlantic. “They can't just leave 'em there.”

“Those four people are dead, Major,” Golding snapped, staring back at Chandler in the reflective windshield as if it was suddenly important that Chandler understood the point. “Oh, you can still talk to 'em if you want. We can patch you into the radio they carry in their survival pack, assumin' they didn't crack their heads open on the canopy or break their necks in the dynamic pressure of the wind, and their ‘chutes didn't fail to deploy. Yeah, if everything's okay, they can start clawin' their way out from under the nylon
through all the pesky little streamers an' straps any minute now. You ever see a big sheet of wet nylon spread out on the surface of water? May be tough with the swell and all, a little disoriented under the water, to find your way back up for that gulp of air and to—”

“That's enough, Larr',” Frazier said quietly.

The silence hung over the cockpit, and after a few moments, Chandler said, “I'll get outa your way.”

“Wait a minute,” Golding said. “The pilot of one of those 14s tol' me to tell your men somethin' ”—he reached up and punched the
SEAT BELT
button and it went dark—“but I'm gonna tell you and then I want you to go back there and tell your men what he said.”

Chandler stood at the door waiting, dreading.

“He said to ‘send those bastards to hell so's he could get his hands on 'em,' I believe were his exact words, and”—Golding's voice broke momentarily—“and tell 'em his wife's name was Sandy, Sandy from Norfolk.”

In the quiet before the engine started, the marines could still hear the sailors who lined the railing high above the well deck. Grimy and sweaty from their work, they had cheered and whistled, thumbs up and pumping fists in the air, in a display of support never before witnessed. Two men held a large American flag over the railing.

For the benefit of the fourteen men of their First Squad and the four-man company mortar team seated along the walls of the Amtrac, Mouth said loudly, “Fuckin' Squids gotta get some
female
ass for a change. They startin' to like
us!”
The men all burst out laughing, even Bone.

The Amtrac's ramp suddenly began rising, slowly snuffing out the natural light of the new dawn from the open end of the ship. The whine of the electric motor shut off, and all fell quiet. Ignition of the engine followed, its noise drowning out all but shouts, and Monk felt its tremendous vibration through his back, which rested on the welded aluminum armor.

He twisted to adjust his webbing and reposition his bayonet, accidentally bumping into Smalls, the new guy, in the cramped space.

“Sorry,” the kid said to Monk, who nodded back at him in forgiveness. Smalls's voice had quivered, and Monk was surprised to feel his own breath catch in his lungs. He forced his lungs to fill with
air, taking a deep breath to blow out the strictures.

Looking forward, Monk saw Gunny peer out of the vehicle commander's vision blocks. Wearing the oversize Vehicle Crewman's Helmet, Gunny reached up and held the boom mike that crossed in front of his mouth closer, saying something. The Amtrac lurched forward. The ride had begun, and Monk braced himself for the debarkation.

After a few small starts and stops, the Amtrac's driver put the pedal down, and the hulking Amtrac surged forward, throwing the two rows of men along the bench seats toward their neighbor to the rear. Picking up speed in its race down the deck, the huge vehicle tilted forward just as the men had straightened themselves up and they were all thrown to the front.

Monk felt the sickening fall of the huge chunk of armor into the ocean, and it chilled him as always. The oversize Amtracs were cavernous as armored vehicles went, with three times the personnel load of the army's Bradleys. The purpose of all that size was the displacement of enough water to make them buoyant, but at thirty tons their buoyancy seemed counterintuitive.

Monk could hear the rush of water all around the hull as the Amtrac began to swim. The gray early morning light that filtered through the vision blocks of the driver, commander, and gunner all confirmed once again that the Amtrac floated.

The marines in back were quiet. Something was missing. Normally, there was pushing and accusations as their bodies were slammed together in the debarkation and a cheer from one of the rednecks in their squad as they dropped into the sea. But they were all silent this time. Monk felt the adrenaline wearing off and a faint chill setting into his bones.

He lay his head back against the hull, the helmet gently passing the vibration from the engine into his scalp like a massage. He took another deep breath that ended with a yawn. He didn't feel tired despite not sleeping at all after the missile attack the night before. The vibrations felt good, all the way down his tense neck. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. The loud noise of the engine and the smooth whoosh of the water jets that propelled the Amtrac soothed Monk and allowed him to rest. It would be over an hour before they were all formed up for the run in to the beach.

Monk's mind drifted, as always returning to calm himself before sleep to the cabin that his family rented up on Mullet Lake each summer for a week. His father had loved fishing, and his enjoyment of it had infected the entire family. But the part Monk had loved most was at night when it got cold and they had to build a fire in the
rough cabin's single room and curl up in sleeping bags, telling stories and talking.

As he rested, the fond memories of wrestling with his brothers in the thick quilts and of listening to his father's stories slowly began to turn on him. Creeping around outside the cabin in the night like the wolf that he always feared from his brothers' tales, he tried at first to shut it out, to rest peacefully, to blank his mind for its calming effect. But he remembered looking at the windows long after the rest were asleep, expecting to see the wolf's glowing red eyes.

Monk looked around. Most of the men lining the hull appeared to be asleep. He lay his head back with a thonk and closed his eyes again, but still sleep would not come. What was it that crept up on his cozy place, stealing his rest like a thief? He decided to confront the thought, still lurking in the shadowy recesses of his mind.

Monk opened the door and let it in. Stepping out of the shadows, “the Beast” revealed itself to Monk. He was wide awake now. His eyes remained closed, but his mind sped up. His throat felt thick as the chill returned with a vengeance. Monk tried to force down the shakes with slow, deep breaths. But the physical reaction to confrontation of the Beast was too much, and he slammed the door of the cabin closed against it. Let it lurk out there in the dark a little longer. There was no way to win the confrontation, nothing to be gained by thinking about the beach.

Something else,
Monk thought.
Football. Offense or defense? Coach said I'd be best as a DB—I'd get more play in' time—but to carry the ball, that'd be somethin'!

“It'll be an opposed landing,” the battalion commander had said late the night before on the well deck. It was something in the lieutenant colonel's voice . . . Everyone had heard it. The men all looked at each other and had their confirmation in the eyes of their buddies. Marine infantrymen trained for opposed landings, but marine officers trained to avoid them. The battalion commander's tone had been almost apologetic, and the words—“I want to thank all you men for the honor and the privilege,” et cetera, et cetera . . . The door to the cabin burst wide open, and in rushed the Beast, all drools and snarls and menace.

Shit!
Monk thought, pissed off that his stomach began to churn, making him want to go to the bathroom. Although his eyes were closed, his blood surged through his veins and his bowels turned like after a bellyful of the chief's coffee.
What a time to have to go,
he thought.

“Goddammit!”
the voice exploded right in front of Monk.

Monk's eyes, along with all the other men's, shot wide open.

“Is that your gear, Lance Corporal?” Gunny shouted right at Monk's face.

“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

“Then
stow
it, Goddammit!”

“Aye aye, Gunnery Sergeant!” Monk replied, bending over to shove his field pack the four extra inches that it would move underneath his seat.

Gunny continued toward the rear of the Amtrac to a ripple of heels that jammed back into their gear. Next to the rear ramp, which glistened with condensation as the metal cooled in the water, he knelt down and began a quiet conversation with their squad leader, Sergeant Simmons. Simmons sat next to the ramp and would lead them out. Monk cursed his luck at having drawn Gunnery Sergeant Dirks's Amtrac.
It would've been better if it was the LT,
Monk thought. At the same time, however, he felt strangely relieved by Gunny's presence.
Ain't nobody who can kill him,
Monk thought.
Mean motherfucker.

“You think it's gonna be bad?” Mouth asked just loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.

Monk noticed Cool J, who somehow had gotten separated in the seating from his two friends by the new guy Smalls, lean out to listen to his answer. The new guy pressed his helmet back against the hull to allow Cool J to see.

Back came the Beast, and Monk couldn't answer. Instead, he just closed his eyes and allowed the tug of fatigue to pull him toward sleep, away from the reality of the moment.
“It'll be an opposed landing.”
The words echoed through his head.
An opposed landing,
he thought,
on the coast of Russia.
He was wide awake again.

“One!” President Costanzo said into the speakerphone that connected him to the Free World's leaders. “The North Atlantic Treaty states that, in the event of an attack upon one member nation, all other members shall treat that attack as an attack upon their nations. On June eleventh, the strategic nuclear forces of the Republic of Russia struck the continental United States with a massive and unprovoked nuclear attack, but the governments of the member nations Germany, France, Norway, Denmark, the Netherlands, and Belgium have chosen to reject their obligations under the treaty. Therefore, the United States of America hereby abrogates the North
Atlantic Treaty as it relates to the defense by the United States of any of those nations.”

Costanzo looked around the table at the combined meeting of the Joint Chiefs and his Cabinet—some new, others from Livingston's old Cabinet—as voices erupted from the speakerphone. “Two! The armed forces of the United States will continue to use their bases wherever located without impediment by the governments of the host countries and all transportation facilities previously dedicated for use by NATO during time of war.
If”
—he raised his voice—“if there is any interference in
any
way with the prosecution of our war effort by
any
of our
former
allies, those allies will have more to fear than just Russian weapons!”