On the forward most portion of the weather decks. Seaman Fred Dooley took his lookout station. After a quick discussion with the sailor already standing the watch, he accepted the sound-powered phones, the binoculars, and the life jacket.
At least the weather was clear, a great improvement over the previous week. He shucked his foul-weather jacket, tossing it over the anchor chain. He doubted that he’d need it tonight.
He turned forward and lifted the binoculars to his eyes.
The cruiser was headed west, directly toward the setting sun. It dazzled him, and he tried to look to either side instead of gazing directly at the sun, to use his peripheral vision to pick up shapes and objects more clearly. Dooley was learning, just as the OOD was.
Something off to the right caught his attention, and he quickly focused the binoculars in on it, tweaking the small focus knob to sharpen the image. He tensed for a moment, wondering if he would be the one to spot the only survivor of the wreck.
Being first mattered on the USS Arsenal and mattered to Dooley more than most. Joining the Navy last year had been the best decision he’d ever made in his short life. A job, training, a steady paycheck and a way out of the grinding poverty of inner-city New York.
A few seconds later, Dooley’s hopes were dashed. It was merely a dolphin frolicking with a wave, trying in some odd fashion to complete a circle both above and below it. He watched it for a few moments longer, trying to decide exactly what sort of game the dolphin was playing.
Guiltily, aware that he’d let his attention be diverted by the eternal distractions of the sea, Dooley resumed his scan, carefully examining each area of the water in front of the ship. Another movement directly ahead caught his attention.
A dolphin, he figured; nothing else-should be moving out there.
He squinted, trying to make the object pop into view without refocusing the binoculars, which were set for dolphin length. The object was still unclear. Sighing, he focused again, then stared in horror.
It couldn’t be-no, wait. He pressed the button on the sound-powered phone that hung around his neck, his eyes still glued to the object.
“Bridge, forward lookout mine, in the water; I say again, mine, dead ahead in the water. It’s directly in front of us.”
“He said what?” The OOD wheeled on the operations specialist manning the sound-powered phone. “What the helm, hard right rudder. Lee helm, starboard engine back full, port engine ahead full.”
Captain Heather shot bolt upright in his chair, hit the deck in one motion, and was at the quartermaster’s side in a matter of seconds. He slapped down the collision alarm toggle switch, and seconds later the harsh buzz echoed throughout the ship. The bosun’s mate of the watch took that as his cue, and began passing, “Stand by for collision. Mine to port” He never had time to finish the announcement. The cruiser heeled violently to starboard, throwing the entire bridge team across the pilothouse. The captain hit the bulkhead just next to the hatch leading onto the bridge wing.
The officer of the deck hurtled past him, cleared the bridge wing railing, and was in the water before the ship had even finished its downward motion.
The captain tried to scramble to his feet, only to discover that his legs wouldn’t move. One of them, at least. He looked down, touched the raw, shattered bone protruding from his pants leg in horror, then groaned as he tried to twist around and survey the rest of the damage.
Six feet away, the bosun’s mate of the watch was struggling to his feet. He looked dazed, disoriented, but at least mobile. “Boats! Get the TAO up here. Man overboard, port side.” Captain Heather struggled to get the words out, relieved to see that the sailor appeared to understand. “And tell the exec ” As darkness overwhelmed him, he let the sentence slip away from his consciousness.
ELEVEN
The conference room was oddly still and silent. In response to the blast, everyone from the Senate subcommittee to the Secretary of the Navy through the Chief of Naval Operations had ordered the battle group to a heightened state of alert and to withdraw outside the Cuban no-fly zone until the politicians could assess the fallout. On board the carrier, pilots and other flight officers flooded the passageways, restless without the constant overhead pounding of their aircraft spooling up, launching, and returning to the carrier.
Both the 03-level Dirty Shirt and the more formal Officers’ Mess on the third deck were crowded, not only with aviators but with the flight crews that supported them. Brunch had made a comeback, even on this weekday when normally the carrier wouldn’t have been operating at flex-deck operation.
“So where do we stand?” Batman glanced at Tombstone and then continued with his line of questioning. “Somebody tell me this makes sense. We just shot a bunch of precision munitions at Cuba-Cuba, for God’s sake and shot up a soccer field. And maybe, just maybe, some missiles.
Then the ship that shot them runs into a really high-tech threat a mine. Now she’s limping around like a wounded duck and we’re hiding out a hundred miles south of Cuba.” Glancing around the room, he saw agreement on every face, even as the men and women shifted uneasily in expectation of having to try to come up with an answer to the situation.
“Admiral,” Batman continued, turning to Tombstone, “anything to add?”
Tombstone shook his head. “No, that about sums it up.
Once again, politics has played a nasty role in what should have been a tactical exercise.” His voice grew hard. “And, for the record, there will be no further cooperation with any news media from this battle force. Is that absolutely clear?”
Once again, heads nodded, the gazes avoiding his.
Tombstone shifted his inscrutable gaze back to Batman. “I’d be interested in hearing some options.”
“You’ll have them.” Batman pointed at the chief of operations. “Get your brightest minds together. I want plans, options, and at least a decent idea of how you’re going to defend this battle group both from a Cuban navy threat and from mines. You’ve got two hours.” Batman stood and walked out of the room behind Tombstone.
The chief of operations stood as well. “Okay, people, let’s get out of this bird-cage and get back to our spaces. We’ve got some work to do.”
Bird Dog headed straight back for his desk, excitement pounding in his veins. This was his chance, the evolution he’d spent the last year training for at the War College.
Notional flight schedules, concepts of operational art and deception flitted through his head, each one vying for his immediate attention.
It would be, he decided, his finest moment so far in the Navy. Even better than shooting down those MiGs in China, more exciting than flying over the harsh Aleutian terrain as he had in the past-no, this would be the one evolution that broke him out from the pack.
Admirals would be fighting to get him on their staff, and early promotion to commander … well, that was another question, wasn’t it? The war-game instructors back at the Naval War College had said he was a natural, after all.
He slid into his chair, scooted it up to the desk, and fired up his laptop, eager to get started on his plan to win the war.
Just as he keyed up the word processing and planning outline, a stack of envelopes landed on his desk, knocking his mouse away from his fingers.
“Mail call. Bird dog.” Gator’s voice was sardonic, as always. “Looks like you’ve got some incoming fire from Callie. I thought I’d go ahead and read it first, but” “Asshole,” Bird Dog snapped, grabbing for the light pink envelope Gator held just out of reach. “Give it to me, now!”
