eighty degree turn that brought him to a small vessel that reports indicated was a certain pirate.
The boat was about thirty-five feet long, based on photo interpretation, and likely wooden hulled. It was most unlikely to be metal hulled, in any case. The hull, when his hands inspected it, proved to be nearly barnacle free. Again, Eeyore pulled a mine from the pod and placed it against the hull. There was no magnetic pull. Moving his fins slowly to hold himself, and thus the mine, fast, he placed the flat side against the hull. Then, while he continued to hold with his left hand, the fingers of the right sought the flange on the friendly side of the screw. No such thing as friendly, when we're dealing with explosives underwater. This he began to twist until he felt it bite into the hull. He gave it a few more twists, then adjusted his grip and took hold of the screw on the opposite side.
D Day, MV
west-southwest of Soqotra
They had the LCM re-embarked. Chin's command, The Drunken Bastard, waited close by the hull, waiting for its turn. The Bastard could have made the trip south on its own, of course, and beaten the Merciful there handily. On the other hand, war vessels-and it was one, if a small one-were inherently suspicious. There was also another reason to keep a boat in the water. Thus it would be loaded and carried aboard, in its cradle. That, however, had to wait until . . .
Dropping people off in pitch blackness using a GPS is one thing, McCaverty thought. Landing my very own mortal body on something moving, on the other hand, is a very different proposition.
Fortunately, we've got a bit of moon to work with now.
The ship was moving forward at about four knots, just about enough to maintain steerage and a bit more. It moved with the wind, to give the returning planes the maximum possible benefit and lift, since they were doing a bow-on landing. Somewhat unfortunately, the superstructure provided altogether too much shielding from the wind. The benefit would be there, early on, but could be expected to drop rapidly and substantially past a certain point.
'Which means,' McCaverty said to himself, 'that you would be well advised to actually have landed before that point . . . easier said than done, perhaps.'
It had been a long flight and a tiring one. Though physically demanding, the little planes were a dream to fly, up to a point. That point had been reached about an hour and a half ago. Right now, McCaverty and all his pilots were bone weary. Worse, he'd taken a fuel report status from each of them and they'd reported less than twenty minutes' worth of fuel left, in the worst case, and no more than thirty-five minutes in the best, which was McCaverty's own. It would have been a bit better except that the ship, for reasons McCaverty hoped to hear someday, had moved about forty miles from the originally planned rendezvous. This had burned up fuel as the flight took a slightly longer course than had been planned on.
The radio crackled to life. It wasn't Kosciusko's voice, but another's, saying, somewhat cryptically, 'Send in your first passenger now.'
It took a moment for the pilot to recognize the voice of his boss, the former Marine Aviator, Cruz.
'Roger,' McCaverty answered. 'Break, break: Number Four; you're up.'
'Ro . . . Roger,' came the answer back, with better than half a gulp in it.
'Relax, Four. You've done this before.'
'Roger that. I didn't like it then and I like it less now . . . making my approach.'
Racetracking over the ship, counterclockwise, McCaverty banked his own plane to the left to watch the approach and landing. He wasn't close enough to make out the individual wands held by the deck crewman in charge of directing the pilots. He could see the lights frantically wave and then Number Four pull right and up, aborting the landing.
'What was wrong with that one?' McCaverty asked of the bridge.
'Partly our fault,' came the answer, 'partly his. Guy's speed was a little off and the deck was coming up. He would have hit it wrong; probably crumpled the landing gear.'
'Roger . . . break: Four, get on the racetrack. You'll go in next after two. Two; you're up.'
McCaverty unkeyed his microphone, looked at his own fuel gauge and said, 'Fuck.'
Looking again out his left window, he saw Two land fairly effortlessly. Sure, it bounced for a bit and for a moment it looked like it would veer over the side. But Two's pilot regained control and righted the thing within a hundred and fifty feet of first touching down. Within a couple of minutes, the engine was dead and a portion of the deck crew was pushing the plane back, then lifting the tail to turn it forward again.
McCaverty asked, 'Four are you ready?'
'Roger. If the swabbies can get their timing right.'
'Both of you need to have your timing right.'
He held his breath, this time, as Number Four came in. He didn't begin to breathe again until he saw it safely landed and being pushed out of the way.
'Number Five, your turn,' McCaverty said.
The answer was clear and confident. 'Roger.'
'Do it. Pay attention to-'
'Six, this is One. I'm practically dry. I've got to get in fast.'
'You're after Five, One.'
Again, McCaverty held his breath as Five came in. His landing was, if anything, smoother than Two's.
'One, Six. Go; but be careful.'
Number One didn't answer. McCaverty watched the approach, watched the flight deck crewman trying to wave One off, then watched as the pilot ignored the signal and came in anyway.
Smith, flying Number One, was a hotshot. He knew it; everyone back in the Navy had known it. At least, everyone had known it until he made one little mistake. One little fucking mistake and they beached me, the bastards.
But in his own view, he was still a hotshot. Thus, it was confusing when he came in to a flight deck, and none of the signals he was used to as a carrier pilot were present in quite the same way. A landing on a real carrier had what amounted to a lot of automation to help the pilots. This kind of landing was more touchy feely, almost like the carriers of the Second World War.
And it was damned strange. And disconcerting. And Goddamit, I'm nearly out of fuel. And . . .
The rising bow caught the landing gear and snapped it off like three spindly twigs. The plane almost flipped over and did nose dive into the deck. McCaverty couldn't see it, not even with the NVGs, but his mind's eye provided the detail of the propeller blades shattering into thousands of splinters. For some distance, Number One skidded on its nose, tail in the air. Then the tail came down to the deck. This failed to stop the skid which continued all the way to where Number Five was resting. McCaverty saw people, presumably Five's pilot and the deck crew that had manhandled it as far as they had, scattering to either side, like kitchen roaches when the light came on, as One slammed into its predecessor.
While that deck crew was scattering, a different crew was racing out with large but portable fire extinguishers. If there was any fire, and McCaverty had reason to believe there was, these killed it.
I hope Smith didn't kill himself, McCaverty thought, because that privilege is owed to me.
'Up!' Coffee shouted into the female medical barracks containers. He sounded positively happy. 'Up, you refugees from . . . ' he was about to say 'bordellos' then realized that was a little too close to the unpleasant truth. 'Up, I said.'
In seconds, the area in front of the female medical barracks was a seething sea of half-covered female flesh, not all of it young. Instead of the sound of the surf, however, there was a confused and confusing medley of mixed English, Romanian, and Mandarin.
Phillie led the pack. 'How bad is it?' she asked, breathlessly. 'Have you notified Doc Joseph?'
