Seaghost by William H. Lovejoy

Author:William H. Lovejoy [Lovejoy, William H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-07-19T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

0241 hours, CINCLANT

The activity in the Operations Center was considerably more controlled than what was taking place in Camp Lejeune, Monahan thought.

He had made the trip from his home to the Center in record time, arriving a few minutes before Admiral Clay. Fortunately, he had had fresh khakis on hand, and he felt and looked better than either of the admirals. Matthew Andrews had had his last Chivas and water not too long before he had received his call. He appeared a bit unsteady in his chair at the table, talking earnestly to someone in North Carolina.

Bingham Clay came into the Center under full steam, tossing a briefcase toward one corner of the room. He came to a stop against the table, leaning into it, staring at the plotting board.

“Tell me, Jim.”

Monahan had come to his feet as soon as Clay appeared. “Not good, Admiral. The reports are still coming in, but it looks like they were hit with six missiles.”

“Casualties?”

Andrews, with a telephone pressed against the side of his face, responded. “I’ve got the hospital on the line, Bing. Ambulances are still coming in, but so far, we’re counting forty-two dead and one hundred and twelve wounded. Some of those are damned serious. The fatality count is going to climb. I’ve ordered aircraft to transport burn cases to San Antonio.”

“Son of a bitch!” Clay snorted.

One of the things that Monahan had always respected about Bingham Clay was the man’s concern for people. He worried about the men and women assigned to his command first and everything else second.

“Matt,” the admiral said to the intelligence deputy, “you see if they need more medical help down there. If they do, you get it to them.”

“Aye, aye,” Andrews said, and went back to the phone.

“We got Washington in on this?” Clay asked.

Monahan nodded. “Lieutenant Commander Horan is the duty officer. He called the CNO’s office right away, and they’re monitoring our board.”

Monahan had a mental picture of the staff cars converging on the Pentagon. Someone would have gotten the President out of bed by now.

“Targets, Jim?”

“From what I’ve got right now,” Monahan waved the telex he was holding, “it looks sporadic. One wing of the headquarters building; a warehouse full of soft goods — bedding, uniforms, and the like; and a motor pool — fifty-six vehicles damaged at last count. Three barracks buildings were hit, and that’s where we took most of the casualties.”

“Shit, shit, shit! Any doubt in your mind that it was the Sea Spectres?”

“No sir,” Monahan said. “I think, though, that only one of the boats was involved.”

“Why?”

“Elapsed time of the attack. With both boats, we’d have had eight missiles launched in the first wave. There were only six total, and there was almost a five-minute pause from the first salvo to the second.”

“They’re holding one of the boats in reserve, then?”

“Yes. Or they’ve sent the other boat on to the Persian Gulf.”

“Give me an impression, Jim.”

Monahan took a minute to sift through the images in his mind. “I think the primary objective was shock value, sir.

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