Van Gelder looked away from the smoldering broken skeleton near the rock outcropping. The other two large pools of blood were congealed now, sticky and brown. The stench of burning rubber and flesh made Van Gelder nauseous, and the lingering smoke from the tents and the truck made him cough. The ground was littered with brass shell casings and empty smoke grenades. Sharp bits of shrapnel poked out from the grass. The wind blew scattered bits of paper and unwound streamers of white field-dressing gauze. To Van Gelder the small abandoned battlefield was depressing. The bright sunny sky and twittering birds made it worse.
The enemy was fleeing to a low stone wall a thousand meters away. Bauer had his sniper and his machine gunner hold their fire. He told them to let the defeated men run, to save ammo for the militia’s counterattack — the Kampfschwimmer radioman had been monitoring communications on the island all along. Some of Bauer’s men spread wide to form a defensive perimeter, and blended into terrain and disappeared.
At intervals one of the enemy fired a round from a pistol or shotgun. To show his contempt, Bauer paraded around in plain sight, forcing Van Gelder to do so as well. The Kampfschwimmer chief crept off north, inland toward the Naim River, lugging two antitank rockets to ambush the armored car when it came.
The SEALs retreated over the long stone wall, then piled rocks and logs on top for better protection. Jeffrey flopped behind the wall and sat in the dirt with Clayton’s pistol warm in his hand. He leaned back against the stones and fought to catch his breath. He tried not to look at the dead SEALs laid out neatly by the wall. He felt their unseeing eyes stare at him, and he blamed himself for their deaths.
Ilse knelt behind the wall, clutching a dead man’s M-16. She glanced at Jeffrey; he thought she did it accusingly. Her face was streaked with sweat, and stained with black soot and green moss. Jeffrey knew he looked the same. He had a powerful thirst but lacked a canteen. He’d lost his sunglasses somewhere, and he squinted in the glaring sun. There was no shade here at all, but the endless wind prevented the sun from giving him any warmth.
Henga fired his revolver toward the enemy, then Harrison quickly fired another shotgun round. Each report made Jeffrey jump.
Apprehensive, he peered over the wall. The Kampfschwimmer weren’t pursuing.
Way up there, next to the rock outcropping, Jeffrey spotted the whip antenna for a German tactical radio. He knew they’d also have longer-range communications gear.
“It’s coming,” the radioman said. “There it is.”
Van Gelder heard a puttering, droning sound in the sky. He saw a black dot approaching, growing larger fast, a small airplane. The island militia had sent it up for reconnaissance and spotting.
Bauer reached for an equipment pack and pulled out an antiaircraft missile. He waved for Van Gelder to get out of the way of the back blast.
Bauer crouched and hefted the missile launcher to his shoulder. He armed it, aimed, then pressed the trigger.
With a loud bang and a gush of flame the missile left the launcher; Bauer jolted, then regained his balance and put the empty launcher down. The missile rose into the sky, homing crabwise on the aircraft as its flight was caught by the crosswind.
The plane began to bank away. The missile impacted. There was a red-orange flash, followed seconds later by the sound of a sharp detonation. Pieces of aircraft, and burning fuel, fell to the ground in the distance. The earth shook slightly when the pieces hit. A pillar of smoke rose from the impact sight.
“So much for him,” Bauer said.
The two demolition specialists left their concealment and brought up the atom bomb, a heavy box in a waterproof black outer casing. In shoulder satchels they carried their tools and supplies.
Van Gelder eyed the satellite-equipment bunker. It seemed such a flimsy thing.
“They left the door wide open,” he said to Bauer.
“So?”
“I don’t think you need to use an atom bomb.”
Bauer walked to the bunker, kicked the severed ends of wires and cables out of the way, and swung the armored door closed. He snapped the padlock onto the hasp, and jiggled it pointedly to show the door was locked now. “Satisfied?”
“No, I’m not. If this bunker is hardened at all, it’s against conventional bombs. Look at it. We do not need a fission weapon here.” Van Gelder was doing his job, to enforce the rules of engagement for using a nuclear weapon near civilians.
“We need to destroy this bunker,” Bauer said. “It’s a military target. We didn’t bring high-explosive charges. My hands are tied.”
“But this is just a backup relay site.
“We use the device.”
Van Gelder felt his blood pressure rise. There was an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by the rushing of the wind. “Can I speak to you in private?”
Bauer made a face and led Van Gelder to the side.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Van Gelder said.
“What do you think
“Following my orders.” Van Gelder held up the thick binder Bauer had made him bring, detailing the ROEs at great length in German. “The rules of engagement aren’t satisfied. You can’t set off the atom bomb.”
“You’re so naive, Van Gelder.”
“I’m doing what you told me to do. There’re a dozen ways a nuclear blast here would break international law. The principle of just cause, proportionality of collateral damage, protection of the environment… No such conditions have been met.”
“They were never meant to be, you idiot.”
Acknowledgments
The research and professional assistance which form the nonfiction technical underpinnings of
A number of other navy people gave valuable guidance: George Graveson, Jim Hay, and Ray Woolrich, all retired U.S. Navy captains, former submarine skippers, and active in the Naval Submarine League; Ralph Slane, vice president of the New York Council of the Navy League of the United States, and docent of the Intrepid Museum; Ann Hassinger, research librarian at the U.S. Naval Institute; Richard Rosenblatt, M.D., formerly a medical consultant to the U.S. Navy; and Commander Rick Dau, USN (Ret.), Operations Director of the Naval Submarine League.
