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.”
0300 Local (+5 GMT) USS Arsenal 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