Joint Operations

Do you know what this all means for the United States? You couldn’t possibly, otherwise I would not be having to take time to deal with your disobedience of a direct order. That’s the kind of conduct that gets people killed. Now, if we’re clear on what I mean, I need to get back to the war.”

The full force of her predicament sunk in with Lobo. The color drained out of her face. “Aye-aye, sir,” she said quietly, and then executed a perfect about-face. She walked over to Hot Rock, spoke a few words, and then the two of them walked to the island and inside the skin of the ship.

Batman watched them go. How’d I do, old friend? I had to take them off the sked for a few days. Now the ball’s in their court to figure out how to convince me to let them fly again. Shouldn’t be that tough for a couple of pilots who can trick a MiG into flying out over the water, can it? Sound fair to you?

NINE

Coast Guard Station Hawaii

0930 local (GMT –10)

Petty Officer Tanner walked forward until he found Captain Henry, who was deep in discussion with the two flag officers. He waited a polite distance away until the Coast Guard officer acknowledged him.

“Yes, Petty Officer Tanner?”

“The engines, sir — they’ve been rode hard and put away wet. I need about three days to get them in proper shape, sir. Been run low on oil for way too long and they’re a filthy mess.”

Captain Henry nodded, waiting. Tanner knew the score just as well as he did.

“But I can keep ’em running for a while longer, sir. Ninety percent sure of that — they’ll get us out to the carrier, probably,” Tanner continued.

“That’ll do, then,” Henry said. “It’ll have to do.”

“Yes, sir. When would you be wanting to get under way?”

“As soon as we can.”

“Fifteen minutes, then, sir. Long enough to warm ’em up and make sure we’re not going to bust apart as soon as we clear the harbor.”

“Very well.” Henry turned his attention back to the flag officers. “Fifteen minutes, General, Admiral.”

General Haynes’s eyes were still fixed on Tanner’s back as the man walked back aft. “Good man, that.”

Henry nodded. “That’s the thing about the Coast Guard. They get responsibility early. Tanner, there — he’s already been in command of one of our smaller rescue ships. He can anticipate what’s on my mind because he’s been there himself. By the time he makes chief and senior chief, he’ll be looking at command of a larger vessel or of a shore station.”

General Haynes merely nodded, but he was clearly impressed. “Fifteen minutes, he said?”

Henry chuckled. “I’m willing to bet it’s closer to ten. Tanner always builds in some slack time.”

The throaty roar of the diesel engines thrumming under their feet increased in both volume and pitch. There was a slight unevenness to the rhythm, a protesting, grinding noise that worried Henry. He could see that both General Haynes and Admiral Magruder heard it as well.

“Things break when they sit,” Tombstone noted.

“If Tanner says he can get us there, he means it,” Henry noted.

Just then, Tanner’s head popped up from a hatch located on the forward deck. He shouted to be heard over the noise pouring out of the compartment behind him. “You hear it, right, sir? May settle down some as we run, may not. It’s not good, though. A cracked head and bad seals.”

“You still think we can get there?” Henry asked.

“Eighty percent now, sir.”

Henry nodded. “Good enough,” he said, his voice grim and decisive. “Under the circumstances, it’s a lot better odds than those ships still at the pier had.”

With the assistance of a small Coast Guard contingent, the lines holding the vessel to the pier were quickly singled up, then cast off. Henry himself took the conn, and quickly demonstrated his ship-handling skills were superb. Using a combination of rudder orders and engine orders, he twisted the stern of the ship out from the pier smoothly, then eased her into an ahead knot as soon as they were clear.

Two petty officers took bearings and plotted their position on a chart both visually and from picking off landmarks from the Furuno radar screen. A third manned the fish-finder now doubling as a sonar suite. They sang out routine reports, position recommendations and contact intercepts as though they’d played this particular pickup game every day. Lieutenant Command Hannah Green slipped behind the plot table and quietly took over navigator duties without being asked. Tombstone and the other nonsurface types did their best to stay out of the way.

“Be nice if we had a position on Jefferson,” Henry said. “But I can’t imagine she’ll be too tough to find.”

“Watch for any American aircraft — follow their direction back out to sea,” Tombstone said. “I don’t think she’s far off shore — no more than thirty miles, if that. I’d want to be just far enough off land to be safe.”

Tombstone had spent so much of his life inside the skin of Jefferson that he thought he could almost feel her out there, just out of sight, prowling the horizon like the deadly ship she was. He kept his eyes focused on one bit of the horizon, feeling an overwhelming pull, as though Jefferson were trying to reach him.

“Contact, possible U.S. aircraft carrier,” a lookout sang out. “Bearing one seven niner, range twenty thousand yards.”

Yes, she’s right where I thought. Hold on, Jeff — I’m on my way.

“At last,” Tombstone said, as he studied the smudge on the horizon. Jefferson was far enough off shore that only a portion of her island was visible above the horizon. “That’s her.”

After a brief discussion with Petty Officer Tanner, Henry eased the throttles to just below full open and made a slight course correction to put the bow of the vessel dead on to the aircraft carrier.

“Let me see if I can raise them,” Tombstone said. He picked up the microphone attached to the ship-to-shore radio set and turned up the volume.

A babble of noise, squelches, and at least five different languages filled the bridge. Tombstone depressed the transmit key and said, “USS Jefferson, USS Jefferson, this is — ” He paused for a moment, trying to decide how to identify himself. This was not a secure channel, and the location and intentions of the senior naval officer in the area were most definitely classified information. Finally, he said, “This is Tomboy’s husband. Do you copy, over?” As soon as he released the transmit key, the noise flooded the small bridge again. He tried several times but if there was a response, it was indistinguishable in the babble.

Finally, he gave up. “Be nice to let them know we’re coming,” he said. “Jefferson’s not likely to appreciate being approached by a small, unidentified boat right now.”

Henry considered the matter for a moment, then said, “You remember flashing light or semaphore?”

“Not hardly. I haven’t used it since the Academy.”

“Me neither. Let me check with the crew.”

Hannah Green spoke then. “It’s not even taught in school anymore. But I can handle it.”

“That photographic memory you mentioned?” Tombstone asked.

She nodded. “I won’t be fast, but I’ll be very accurate.”

“Fine.” Tombstone thought for a moment, then scribbled out a message on a piece of paper. “Send this.”

PASS TO ADMIRAL WAYNE: PER CNO, REQUEST PERMISSION TO APPROACH AND DEBARK PASSENGERS. TEN SOULS ON BOARD. STONY SENDS.

“Nothing fancy, but he’ll know who it is,” Tombstone said.

“This isn’t exactly set up for speed,” Green murmured as she examined the spotlight mounted on the side of the ship. “Just an on-off switch, no shutter rig. But probably fast enough for me.”

Tombstone watched her set up to send flashing light and listened to her talk herself through it. She mouthed the letters of the alphabet first, her fingers twitching on the light as she mimed the movements required to transmit each letter. Tombstone had the impression that this was how she recalled information, translating it from data into