Force Protection

The man opened his hands in helplessness, then gestured around them. The comm office was a mess; the ship had tilted, and what hadn’t been shaken by the blast was now tipped on the floor – pubs, gear, a cup of long-forgotten coffee.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Uh, Hansen – Joe.’

‘Hansen, we’ve got to get a number for the Kenyan Navy.’ He punched the numbers for NCIS Washington into the cell phone. It was ridiculous: he was halfway around the world and he was calling home. ‘If it doesn’t work, try a local operator. Try directory assistance, whatever the hell they call it here. Try our embassy; that’s in Nairobi. Try –’

A dark head popped in the broken door. ‘Fireboat is pumping water in – they think they got the fire limited now –’ It was Patel, the Indian who had come down from the riot with him.

Alan ran out to the catwalk that curved around the superstructure. Water began to fall on him like rain: the fireboat.

‘Great –!’

A bullet pinged off the steel bulkhead.

‘Oh, shit –!’ Instinctively, his wounded hand contracted into what was left of a fist.

Somebody had started shooting from one of the warehouses along the dock. Not a very accurate shooter, but real bullets. The few men available to do damage control on the Harker were belowdecks, thus safe from sniping; the wounded were up on the main deck now, protected for the moment by the ship’s list to port. But up here on the superstructure, they were exposed.

Three levels above him, Jagiello, another who had come with him from the city, was supposed to be sitting with the rifle Alan had taken from the sniper. He was a deer hunter, he had said. He’d drill anybody who tried anything.

Well, why wasn’t he shooting?

Alan crouched behind the solid starboard rail. ‘Hansen!’

‘Sir –?’

Alan looked up, waved him down. ‘Get down on the deck –!’

‘Get out here but keep down!’ When the younger man appeared, ape-like on toes and fingertips, he shouted, ‘Get down! Way down – that’s it. Try that cell phone out here.’

‘I’ve got to get a radio hookup.’

‘Try the cell phone – that’s an order.’

Neither of them was sure that Alan had official authority on the Harker, but Hansen seemed to recognize that Alan had authority of a different kind. He rolled on his elbow and began to punch the phone.

Alan drew the H&K and tapped two quick shots in the general direction of the sniper. ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do,’ he muttered. Where the hell was the guy with the sniper rifle? He peered out through the gap between the steel plates of the bulkhead. The warehouse had a long row of clerestory windows, the glass blown out of every one by the blast. The shooter could be in any of them. It hardly mattered; the range was ridiculous for a pistol, anyway. Still – He saw movement, aimed quickly, fired. Behind him, Hansen was muttering into the cell phone, his long hair plastered to his head by the falling water.

‘Got them?’

Hansen held up a hand, shook his head. Alan looked again at the warehouse, saw a silhouetted head, aimed more carefully and fired. Hadn’t there been some famous pistol shooter who enjoyed shooting at gallon jugs at a hundred yards? Oh, yeah. Do better throwing wads of Kleenex.

‘They won’t talk to me,’ Hansen said behind him. His young face was red with anger. He held out the phone. ‘They’re asking me for ID.’

Alan grabbed the phone. ‘They still there?’ He slammed the cell phone against his ear. ‘Hello! Now listen up. This is Lieutenant-Commander Alan Craik, US Navy.’ He rattled off his service number. ‘I’m under fire and I need help and who the hell are you?’

‘Uh – sir, this is Special Agent Gollub, NCIS Washington. Uh, sir –’

‘Goddamit, Gollub, don’t dick with me! I’m on a ship that’s been hit by an explosion, people are shooting at us, and I’ve got one goddam pistol! Get me some fucking help!’

‘Sir, we’re the Navy’s investigative serv –’

‘Then fucking investigate! I want the contact info for the Kenyan naval facility, Mombasa, Kenya. Right now! Do it!’

‘Uh, sir, your language is not –’

‘Do you know Mike Dukas?’

‘Uh, yessir, I know Special Agent Dukas by sight and repu –’

‘Well, if you don’t find me that information right now, I am personally going to have him tear your fucking throat out, because he is my asshole buddy! You follow?’ He put his eye to the gap in the steel plates, saw the head again, and fired. ‘Did you follow me, Mister Gollub? Hello? Gollub? Goddamit –!’

‘You want the Kenyan Naval Maritime Patrol Center, Kilindini, Kenya. The telephone is 596–987. They communicate on the following frequencies: a hundred and –’

‘Don’t tell me; tell this guy.’ Alan handed the phone to Hansen. ‘Get the phone number; screw the frequencies.’

He looked through the gap again, saw the head, fired three shots. There! Bang-bang-bang – body, body, head! Right? No, missed with every one.

Gallon jugs at a hundred yards. Jesus! ‘Where’s that guy with the sniper rifle?’ He tipped his head back, looked up the side of the superstructure. ‘Hey! Yo!’ What the hell was his name? Jagiello! ‘Jagiello, what the hell are you doing?’

He scuttled into the comm shack after Hansen. ‘You get the number?’

‘That guy said he was going to report you.’

‘Right, I’m really worried about that. Did you get the number?’

‘Yessir. What you want me to say?’

‘You say that Lieutenant-Commander Craik, US Navy, is asking – asking – for their support and cooperation. He is under fire on USNS Harker, hit by an explosion thirty minutes ago. We are in a hot zone – use those words, “hot zone”. They got a problem, give me the –’

Both men lifted their heads as the unmistakable sound of a rocket engine whooshed closer. Hansen’s eyes were wide. ‘Hit the deck!’ Alan shouted, but the missile was already by them, the sound decreasing, and then there was an explosion.

‘Sir, sir –!’ It was Patel, the lookout on the bridge. He came scrambling down the catwalk, half-fell into the room, still on all fours. ‘Sir, they are shooting missiles at the fireboat! Now it is on fire!’

Houston.

Rose Siciliano Craik was accustomed to waking with first light. Mike Dukas’s call had come a little earlier than that, but now, fifteen minutes later, she was up and moving quickly through the habitual motions of the morning. Brush teeth, shower, turn on television; dress in T-shirt and jeans and slippers, make coffee, watch the clip on CNN, check e-mails; feed the dog, check the kids (both still sleeping), drink coffee. Try not to think about where her husband was. Make lunches while standing at the kitchen counter, a book of engineering drawings of the space shuttle open in front of her, because she was beginning astronaut training. Try not to think about her husband.

Try not to think about her mother.

Her father had called her last night. Her mother, he said, had ‘gone funny.’ It had taken her a while to get him to explain what he meant. Her mother was forgetting things. Had been, he confessed, for some time. I didn’t want to worry you.

Thinking, when she wasn’t thinking about her mother, of that three-fingered hand coming up on the television screen, knowing how much the wound dismayed him. A proud man, perhaps vain, hating disfigurement; former wrestler, too aware now of holds he couldn’t make. Stupid little things really throw us, she thought. Poor guy. His first lovemaking had been awkward, hiding the hand. At dinner, he had kept it in his lap.

Her mother had got lost walking to the store, her father had said. She had been walking the route for twenty years. She worried that black people were coming into her house. He had found her nailing the windows shut.

Rose wrapped the lunches, hers and Mikey’s and the baby’s for day care. She flipped from channel to channel, looking for more news. Most of them had the story now, but CNN had the most, the best. Still, there wasn’t enough to know what was going on.