Sea of Shadows

USS Towers:

Captain Bowie stood on the forecastle and watched the scattered pieces of Benfold’s debris field slide past the bow wake and drift aft. The desert wind was hot, and it carried enough sand to sting his cheeks. He felt, rather than saw, the executive officer walk up behind him. He spoke without looking over his shoulder. “Any more survivors yet?”

“No, sir,” the XO said. “Just the one man. A kid, really. I just came from Sick Bay. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Doc says he’s got burns over about 40 percent of his body.”

“He’s not going to make it, then,” the captain said.

“Probably not, sir.”

The captain nodded once, but didn’t say anything. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have happened. Despite the damage to her bridge, Benfold had been operating at near full capacity, with her speed, maneuverability, and firepower undiminished. Her captain, Rachel Vargas, had been a skilled tactician and a master of sea-maneuver warfare.

Her USW team had been well trained and well prepared. And now they were all gone.

The thoughts turned slowly over and over in Captain Bowie’s brain, but they refused to become real for him. The U.S. Navy hadn’t lost a warship in combat since World War II. And now a ship under his command was gone, and — except for one burned and dying teenager — every human being on board was dead. All three hundred thirty-seven of them.

Captain Bowie shifted his eyes to the horizon. Gremlin Zero Four — God, what an innocuous sounding designation for such a ruthlessly efficient killer—was still out there.

The captain turned toward the XO. “I’m going to head down to Sick Bay for a few minutes. Get a hold of the Navigator and have him plot a course to the coast of Siraj, using our best speed.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Captain Bowie walked down the port side, toward the door that would lead him down to Sick Bay. He knew that he should go to CIC instead.

They needed him there. His crew was looking to him for the plan, the stroke of tactical genius, the rabbit out of the hat that would let his crippled ship take on a cunning and deadly enemy and somehow emerge triumphant.

But that could wait, for a few minutes at least. He could spare two minutes for the last surviving member of a United States warship.

* * *

The Chief Hospital Corpsman met him at the door to Sick Bay. “He’s already gone, sir. We did everything we could, but he just slipped away from us. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, Doc,” the captain said. “What was his name?”

“His uniform was mostly burned off when they pulled him out of the water. We couldn’t find any ID. We … don’t know his name, sir.”

The captain nodded and walked away. “Thanks, Doc,” he said over his shoulder. Bowie headed for CIC. He shook his head as he walked. They didn’t even know the kid’s name.

CHAPTER 47

WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

WASHINGTON, DC

MONDAY; 21 MAY

03:14 AM EDT

Admiral Casey looked at the president. “It’s confirmed, sir. USS Benfold is gone. It looks like all hands were lost.”

“I thought Towers picked up a survivor,” Gregory Brenthoven said.

“They did,” the CNO said. “He died shortly after he was pulled out of the water.”

The president shook his head slowly. “Jesus … When was the last time we lost a ship with all hands?”

Admiral Casey thought for a second. “I believe that would have been 1968, sir. A nuclear fast-attack submarine, USS Scorpion, suffered some kind of accident in the mid-Atlantic and went down with all hands.

Ninety-nine dead, if my memory serves me.”

“That was an accident,” the president said. “What about in combat?”

“I’m not sure, sir. Certainly not since the Second World War.”

The president closed his eyes and ran both hands slowly through his hair, fingers combing from front to back. “So much for my total victory, huh? Germany loses everything, and we get away clean as a hound’s tooth. It sounded so goddamned brilliant. What the hell was I thinking, Bob? Did I really think those guys could just sail out there, sink a bunch of cutting-edge killer subs, and sail home in time for lunch?”

No one attempted to answer.

After a few seconds, the president opened his eyes. “All right, I guess that puts us in damage-control mode. What have we got left that can stop that submarine?”

“Towers, sir,” the CNO said.

“I can’t leave it to them anymore,” the president said. “They’re beat to shit. I need to put enough assets out there to guarantee a kill. What have we got in-theater?”

The CNO took a breath and exhaled heavily. “Nothing, sir. What’s left of Kitty Hawk’s strike group is at least twenty hours too far south and west. Even if we turn them around now, that sub will be in Zubayr before they can get through the Straits of Hormuz. My P-3s in Saudi are pinned down by a sand storm. If it clears in the next couple of hours or so, I can get them up into the northern Gulf, but even that will probably be too late.”

The national security advisor asked, “What about that nuclear submarine you wanted to send after them?”

“We had to clear the Topeka out of the Gulf. With four ships up there hurling torpedoes right and left, we couldn’t risk a blue-on-blue engagement with a friendly sub.”

“Those nuke subs are fast,” Brenthoven said. “Get it back up there!”

The CNO shook his head. “They’re not that fast. Topeka is too far out of position.”

“What you’re telling me,” the president said, “is that I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. President,” the CNO said.

“But it’s true, nevertheless …”

“I’m afraid so.”

CHAPTER 48

USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

NORTHERN ARABIAN GULF

MONDAY; 21 MAY

2318 hours (11:18 PM)

TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’

The Chief Engineer dropped heavily into one of the chairs at the wardroom table. His coveralls were streaked with grease and his face and hands were filthy. “My boys have managed to restore pitch control to the port screw, but it’s got a lot of vibration in it. Obviously, we can’t tell for sure without divers, but I think the screw itself is pretty chewed up. It must have taken some direct damage from the torpedo hit. We’re not going to be able to run it