to me how this is all a part of your plot, how every movement is accounted for and proceeding exactly as planned. I’m ready to believe, Mendiria just not yet convinced.”
The Libyan leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his elbows. His piercing eyes were half hooded with sleepy eyelids, the mouth slightly slack and barely covering the even row of white teeth.
“And this is why you keep me up so late at night?” He shook his head.
“Let me explain this to you one more time. Then either shoot me or start cooperating, I don’t care which one but quit waking me up in the middle of the night with your stupid nightmares.
“The Americans are here, occupied by what they perceive as the Cuban problem. Your soil is vulnerable, my friend, especially with reinforcements so close at hand. But now that the Americans have actually conducted a first strike, the balance of world opinion will shift in your favor. The United States will find neither support nor approval for further action against Cuba. And you you have lost nothing.
Turned up a few dirt clods, perhaps missing a few agricultural workers, but that is it. And furthermore, you have this excellent videotape of American Special Forces intruding on your soil. That is bound to weaken support for America within the Caribbean basin. This opens new opportunities for you and for us.”
“But the missiles,” Santana began.
Mendiria cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Are on their way, even as we speak. Do you think we would leave them here for the American attack to destroy? Are you so confident of your ability to hide them that you would risk all in this matter?” The Libyan shook his head disapprovingly.
“No, we will keep you from such mistakes. As soon as matters are settled in my country, we will off-load the missiles to you. They are even now a bare three hundred miles away from here, nestled in the hold of a merchant ship.”
“What exactly is happening in your country that requires the Americans to be otherwise occupied?” Santana asked bluntly. It was the question that had lingered unasked in every discussion he’d had with the Libyan, and one that the Libyan had never volunteered the answer to. Now, sensing the Libyan’s willingness to reassure him, Santana asked for the first time.
Mendiria shook his head. “You have no need to know, but I will tell you this much: There are certain border disputes that are even now being resolved in a manner favorable to us. Certain … political considerations … that are being realigned to be more in keeping with a modern, powerful Libya.”
“A coup?” Santana asked.
“A realignment,” Mendiria corrected. He smiled, teeth flashing in the dim light. “There are many of us who believe that Libya should take a more active role in world affairs.
With our natural resources, our strategic coastline well, there are many opportunities for a nation such as Libya, especially under an enlightened leadership. If the United States is preoccupied with her backyard, it gives us a free hand in ours, the Mediterranean.”
“The missiles,” Santana insisted.
“In two days,” Mendiria said finally, grudgingly giving up the delicate cat-and-mouse game. “We will unload them in two days. And then, you may make whatever use you wish of them.”
The ship steamed back and forth in her firing basket like a caged tiger. Six knots on gentle seas induced a slow, hypnotic roll. The few sailors still in their racks were lulled into even deeper sleep, while three decks below complex fire control circuitry compensated for the motion in the targeting data it fed to the launchers.
Within the bowels of the ship, technicians eased themselves into the narrow interspaces between weapons, carefully making last-minute checks and adjustments to the warheads. A few of the tubes still showed smoke smudges from the earlier fire, but the delicate wiring and structural supports were undamaged.
An undercurrent of tension and excitement throbbed throughout the ship, a reflection of the eagerness of the new and untried crew to finally, after what seemed like decades of testing, make the boat demonstrate the capabilities of their platform. No ship in history, save perhaps the old-style battleships, had ever possessed such a massive load of firepower and deadly weaponry. And this was the crew that would make it work.
In Combat, the tactical action officer paced back and forth in front of his console, chained like a dog to it by the cord running from his headset to the internal communications system. He listened to the myriad reports rapping crisply out over the circuit, glanced around to make sure every station was manned, then turned to his captain. “All stations report ready. Captain.” He hunched his shoulders a bit, distracted by a bead of sweat trickling down his back.
“Very well. Commence firing weapons package number eight-two-nine, at will.” Captain Heather made it sound like a routine order, his voice calm and deadly professional, but the pain was clawing away at the edges of his self-control.
Still, it evidently worked. His words had a steadying effect on the young TAO, who nodded.
“Firing weapons package number eight-two-nine, aye, Captain.” The TAO turned back to his console, slipped into the chair, and turned his key in the lock. The SPY-1 computer took over from there.
For the next ninety seconds, being inside Arsenal was like rolling down a hill in a steel garbage can. The hull rang and shivered with multiple explosions as Tomahawk cruise missiles were ejected from their vertical launch tubes. Each missile came out impossibly slowly, seemed to hover over the deck for a few minutes, scorching the nonskid and gray paint with hellfire from its propulsion section, then picked up speed and darted out toward the horizon. Within moments of leaving the ship, the missiles were traveling too fast and far for the naked eye to follow.
But the SPY-1 system held radar contact on each one, sorting out the tiny pulses of returned radar energy, comparing them with the launch vector and destination of every missile, and assigning a serial number to each green lozenge blip on the screen. The launching went quickly, and completely without incident. When it was finally over, the TAO turned back to the captain. “Weapons package complete, Captain. All stations report no damage.”
Captain Heather tried to grin. “Feels better when you get to do it yourself, doesn’t it? Now let’s just hope those men make it into shore.”
“Men?” The TAO looked puzzled. For just a moment, he thought the captain might have finally lost his mind. But no, glancing at the self-satisfied visage, he knew better. TAO or not, there were still things the captain knew that he didn’t.
“Jesus! Will you look at that?” Sikes pointed toward the horizon. “Looks like they started their Fourth of July celebration a little early.” He smiled, a cold, twisted line to his lips. The amusement never reached his eyes.
Behind him in the RHIB, three other SEALs shifted slightly to keep their balance as they also turned to watch.
“Makes for a nice diversion, doesn’t it?” one of them said to no one in particular. “Beats a helicopter gunship, anyway.”
“Yeah, like you’d know anything about them,” Huerta said mildly. “Boy, I was taking helicopter gunships into areas that didn’t have any names while you were still sucking on your mama’s tit. You use ‘em right, there’s nothing that beats it.” He turned back to the horizon as three new far-off explosions echoed in the air. A trace of respect crossed his face. “Have to admit, though, this is nice.”
“Let’s see if it works first.” Sikes’s voice was still grim.
“How will we know if it works?” Garcia asked, more out of curiosity than any real need to know.
Huerta and Sikes exchanged an amused look. Huerta turned back to the younger sailor. “If there are people standing on the beach waitin’ to offer us a friendly greeting when we show up, it didn’t work.”
Huerta smiled. “And it won’t be the first time nor the last that that’s happened to a SEAL.”
“Lost contact over land,” the TAO reported. He slipped one of the earphones off so that he could listen to the chatter inside the compartment. The sailors were starting to talk now, breaking into professional discussions of how the launch had been executed as well as exchanging congratulations.
“Good work.” The captain’s voice was warm. “Nice to have the first operational test out of the way, isn’t
