Читаем The Command полностью

“Or just be new,” Snack Cake yelled from where he swayed, one arm hooked around a grip rail, other hand clenching the loaded M-14. The flash suppressor swayed over the sea.

The green dhow went by. Marchetti saw nothing suspicious other than the new paint job, the new-looking gear. The ragheads didn’t spend much on their clothes, that was clear. He realized he could smell each boat as it went by, a rancid odor like the cod liver oil capsules he’d had to take when he was a kid. He’d cut one open once and the same stink had welled up.

The next dhow was red again. Must have had a special on red paint. Or else they just slapped primer on and didn’t bother with the finish coat. He wondered if he should be putting guys aboard each one as it went by, check them out belowdecks, then get off when they got to Fear. No. He didn’t have enough men for that, and the following boats would just sheer out around the one he stopped and crank on by.

Red hull checked out, bearded dudes gaping at them as they purred past, passed the smell check, too.

He shook his arms out, realizing his skivvies were sopping with the heat and tension and spray from going right under the boats’ counters. Their props kicked up a shower at the stern that douched them as they went by. It felt cool, good. Not so hot getting saltwater in the small arms, but at least his shotgun was marinized. He forced his attention back on the next boat. He had to stay sharp. The guys were depending on him.

“Almost there,” Cassidy yelled.

Yeah, they were nearly to the seawall. Waves broke on the tumbled rocks. Another dhow percolated by. He returned the captain’s wave, older guy with a gray beard and a cleaner shirt than the rest, with a curt nod.

The throbbing beat of a chopper. An insectile pinpoint coming in from cityward. Not the ship’s. Probably the local cops. He twisted his head, made sure the flag was visible on their stern. He didn’t want to get taken for the bad guy.

Low decks, scraggly messes of lines, yeah, there were some nets, this boat had a lower freeboard, he just wasn’t seeing them before. These guys were scowling back but he didn’t think scowls counted. The real bad guys would probably have shit-eating grins. He waved them on, and suddenly they were shit in the middle of the channel entrance, and now he could see them all, ay, caramba, dozens of ’em backing and maneuvering, circling, coming for him. The whole fucking fleet was on its way out. Cassidy looked at him, that questioning, open-eyed “hey, what now?” look you got used to from young zeroes. Mar-chetti yelled, “Coxie, put her broadside and hold her there. Right across the exit. We’re the cork, got it?”

Only it didn’t work out quite that way.

* * *

The Chevy skidded to a halt, just missing a spike barrier the Bahrai-nis had set up, apparently to protect their own operations from truck bombs. Nice work, she thought… except they could have waited for us. The doors slammed open, and the agents were out, guns carefully not drawn. They jogged toward the harbor, holding up their shields and the local IDs General Bucheery had ordered they be issued. They came out on the waterfront, and she found herself face to face with General Gough. Who saluted with the same mix of lighthearted condescension and ironic disdain he always seemed to affect with her. “Sister Aisha. Sabaah el-khair. Thanks be to God, you are well and with us.”

“The morning is good,” she said shortly, then reverted to English for Peter and Bob. “What have you got?”

“I have ‘got’ three teams going through those dhows which have not yet cast off. And the Harbor Police pursuing those which have already left.” Gough waved at the basin. It was filled with a restless throng of small craft, like a bowl of cereal stirred and only slowly coming to rest. Some were still moored, in rafts two and three deep out from the stone and concrete wharf front; others drifted or circled as motor-boats with the Arabic lettering ش ط ة and below it the word POLICE moved among them, constabulary officers with bullhorns shepherding them back to their moorings. Others were already under way, standing toward the distant horizon of the sea. Beyond the mole she glimpsed the gray upper works of the destroyer.

Diehl shouldered forward. “General. Anything can we do?”

“Have you radio communication with your ship?”

“Not directly, but we can get word out to her.”

“I should very much like to be able to speak directly with her. If you can—” He was interrupted by an officer who came up with a handheld radio. “—Just a moment, we may have that problem solved. Yes? And her name, or call sign, or whatever they use?”

“They’ll answer to USS Horn,” Diehl told him. Gough nodded and lifted the radio.

At that moment a series of cracks came flatly over the water. Then, rising to a fusillade, the rattle of small arms firing at full automatic.

* * *