The Ghost War

Now Williams sat in his stateroom, poring over the classified report that contained the Navy’s new estimate of the capabilities of China’s subs. The Chinese had made progress, but their fish still couldn’t hope to compete with the Navy’s nuclear attack subs, it seemed.

A knock on his cabin door interrupted him. “Yes?”

“Captain. Lieutenant Frederick requests permission to enter.”

“Come in, Lieutenant.”

Frederick stepped in and saluted Williams crisply. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. It’s about the reporter.”

“What’s she gotten into now?”

As a rule, the Navy was the most publicity-friendly of the services. With the War on Terror having become the focus of U.S. foreign policy, the admirals in the Pentagon felt constant pressure to demonstrate the Navy’s relevance — and protect its $150 billion annual budget. After all, al Qaeda didn’t exactly present a major naval threat. The clash with China had given the service its chance for a close-up, and the Navy didn’t intend to miss the opportunity. Reporters and camera crews were thick as roaches aboard the Reagan, the AbrahamLincoln, and the JohnC. Stennis, the giant nuclear-powered flattops steaming toward the China coast. The Decatur had a reporter of its own, Jackie Wheeler. With her long dark hair and deep brown eyes, Wheeler could have been a TV babe, though she actually worked for the Los Angeles Times.

Williams generally disdained the media, but he didn’t mind Wheeler. Pretty women were good for the crew’s morale, and the Decatur was controlled too rigorously for her to get into much trouble. And Williams knew that being chosen to host a reporter from a national paper was something of an honor. He also knew that he hadn’t been picked to host Wheeler solely because of the Decatur‘sspotless record. He was one of only a handful of black captains in the service. But he didn’t mind being trotted out this way. Like his commanders, Henry Williams knew the value of good press.

“She’s been asking again about the CIC.” The Combat Information Center was the windowless room deep in the Decatur’s hull that functioned as the destroyer’s brain. “Says she can’t write a proper profile without spending a few hours inside.”

Williams sighed. He’d already given Wheeler a tour of the CIC a few days before, and he didn’t want her in there with the Decatur on combat footing. But he supposed he’d have to compromise to get the glowing profile he wanted.

“Okay, Lieutenant. Tell her to come over here at 2100.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

AN HOUR LATER, a knock roused him. “Captain?”

2058. Wheeler had learned something about naval etiquette during her week on board. “Ms. Wheeler? Come in.”

She stepped in tentatively. Until now Williams had been polite to Wheeler, but nothing more. He’d been busy. He’d also figured that keeping her at a distance, then slowly opening up, would make for the best profile. Up close she was younger than he had expected, barely thirty. Prettier too. “Sit.” He indicated the couch. “So you want another look at the CIC.”

“I won’t describe anything classified, Captain. I know the rules.”

“You bored with this skimmer?”

She laughed nervously. “Skimmer?”

“Some of us oldsters use that term to refer to any boat that floats.”

“Don’t they all float?”

“Not the submarines.”

“Oh, right.” She smiled, and Williams wished for a half-second that he were twenty years younger and meeting her in a bar instead of this cabin.

“Be honest. Wish you were over on the Reagan with the flyboys?”

“No, the crew’s treating me great.”

“Not the question I asked, but okay. Has Lieutenant Frederick told you about the man the Decatur is named for?” He flicked a thumb at the painting behind his desk, of a dark- haired dandy in a crimson jacket and fringed white shirt.

“No.”

Williams smiled with real pleasure. Telling this story reminded him that the Navy was different from the other services, more connected to its past. The men who had crewed the first ships in the fleet would recognize the way the Decatur was run — though they might not enjoy having a black man give them orders.

“You’re fortunate to be aboard a ship named for a famous American captain.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“I wish I could say yes, but we don’t have enough famous captains to go around. Some destroyers are christened after real second-raters. Or worse, Marines.”

“Tragic,” Wheeler said, playing along.

“Behind me is Commodore Stephen Decatur. During the War of 1812, he destroyed two British vessels. We won’t mention the third battle, the one he lost. After the war, he sailed to North Africa and shook down the Libyans. Along the way, he got famous for a line Machiavelli would have appreciated. ‘In her intercourse with foreign nations, may she always be in the right; but our country, right or wrong!’ Sort of a ‘Better dead than red’ for the nineteenth century.”

“I hope you don’t throw me overboard, but I’d say that kind of thinking has gotten us in a lot of trouble the last few years. We need more questioning of authority, not less.”

“You reporters have that luxury. Not us. Once the order comes, we follow it.”

“So what happened to Decatur?”

“He died in 1820. A duel.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Who was on the other side?”

“A retired captain named James Barron. Thing is, Barron couldn’t see all that well — the contemporary accounts say that Decatur could have killed him easily. But the good commodore wanted to be sporting. He limited the duel to eight paces and said he wouldn’t shoot to kill. So Barron blew out Decatur’s stomach, and he died a few hours later. You know the lesson I take from that story?”

“Duels are dumb. And dangerous.”

“War’s no game. Ships like this are deceiving. We’re so big that maybe we seem unsinkable. But put a deep enough hole in the hull and we’ll go down fast. I don’t intend to let that happen to my crew.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Of course. And be at the CIC at 1100 tomorrow. You can stay all day.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

Just then Williams’s phone rang. “Yes?”

“Skipper, you might want to get down here.” The Decatur‘s TAO, tactical action officer, was calling from the Combat Information Center. “We have a situation.”

“Be there in five.” Williams cradled the receiver.

“What was that?” Jackie said.

“Looks like we may get some action sooner than I thought.”

“Can I—”

Williams shook his head. “Sorry, Ms. Wheeler. No tour tonight.”

IF THE DECATUR’S FOUR GIANT TURBINE ENGINES, capable of 100,000 horsepower at full throttle, were its heart, the Combat Information Center was its brain. The CIC was a well-lit room, fifty feet long, forty wide, in the center of the ship, equally protected from missiles and torpedoes. The windowless space looked like an air traffic control center at rush hour. Dozens of pasty-faced men and women huddled over blinking consoles that pulled in