The Command by David Poyer

Author:David Poyer [Poyer, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller
ISBN: 9780312318369
Google: QFbTQfIS8d4C
Amazon: 0312991819
Barnesnoble: 0312991819
Goodreads: 572236
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2004-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

WHEN he got the word about the Red Ball from the boarding team Dan was still in Combat, explaining to the strike team what he’d just done, how if everything went right and you got lucky, you could shock a recalcitrant bird into realigning itself. He stopped in midsentence and snapped the channel selector on his Saber to the boat frequency. He got Cassidy in midtransmission, saying they were in the lee of the bridge and Marchetti had gone below to get the sweep teams out on deck. “Do you copy that?”

“Runner Gold, copy that.”

“Blade Runner, do you copy?”

“Gold, I copy, d’you copy my copy?”

Dan cut in. “Skipper here, Sean. What’s the situation?”

“Sir, we took fire. This feels like a setup. They were ready for us. My feel is they’ve scuttled. This thing’s starting to go. We need help here.”

“We’ll be right with you.” Dan said to Camill, “Herb, get us back to Gold Team’s position ASAP. Flank three. Secure from strike stations. Set surface action stations. Blue and Green boarding teams muster on the fantail.”

Strong interrupted, wanting to know what was going on. Dan explained rapidly. He asked him to get whichever task group unit was nearest their position to start on its way, they might need help finding men in the water. For once the commodore didn’t have questions, just wheeled away, shouting for his watch officer.

On the bridge the windows were scrubbed with dim ochre, a howling hiss filled his ears. The officer of the deck had pulled the lookouts and gunners inside the skin of the ship. Looking down, Dan couldn’t see the bow. Just brown water scummy with floating sand. The missile hatches were still open. Drill was to leave them cracked for thirty minutes after launch, let the corrosive fumes of the boosters disperse. But sand would be even worse. He snapped at someone to close them, then went to the Furuno.

Sand return made a fuzzy blob at the center of the sweep. The intercepted vessel was ten miles off. The helmsman had the rudder over and the turbines were whining up. He leaned to the windows and saw sandblast already frosting the thick shatterproof glass. It was like peering into boiling tomato soup. He did sums in his head and came up with twenty minutes to intercept. He made sure Faith would be ready to go in the water and the boarders were ready. Unfortunately, he couldn’t launch Blade Slinger in a sandstorm. The danger of pilot disorientation and engine damage was too great.

His mind went to the missiles, probably making landfall by now. They’d wing their way for an hour across the empty northwestern quarter of Saudi Arabia. Then dipping, seeking the shelter of dry wadis to cross the Iraqi border near a place he knew well. A place he’d once taken off from on his own penetration of the dark republic where, like some unkillable mustached specter dogging them through the end of the twentieth century, the tyrant still reigned. From

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