approach. Sooner or later, a missile would reach its intended target, and the bloodshed that would follow already haunted him.
But for now, he had one task — destroy the missile in flight now, and hopefully, by doing so, dissuade China from launching more. He turned to his TAO, who had already assigned anti-air missiles to the target and was waiting for weapons release authority. A quiet, expectant air filled combat.
“Weapons free,” Norfolk said quietly. “Make every shot count, TAO.”
A low rumble swept through the ship. Norfolk watched the monitor mounted in one corner. The picture showed the foredeck, the vertical launch cell hatch popping open, and then the nose of the missile emerging. He had just a split second to marvel at its size before a boiling cloud of steam and smoke swept across the deck and obscured the picture. As visibility crashed down to zero, the ship gave one hard shake, as though it were a dog coming out of the sea, then settled back into the water.
Norfolk shifted his gaze to the computer monitor. There was nothing more to see on deck — within seconds, the missile would be out of view and the radar return would provide the only information.
“Two shots fired, no apparent casualties,” the TAO reported. “Standing by for third shot.”
“Wait on it,” Norfolk said as he studied the geometry. Something clicked inside of him, and he knew without a doubt that the first missile would find its target. He knew, even before the computer-generated solution could flash onto the screen, that the second missile would find no more than carbonized metal and hot gases in the air.
Forty seconds later, Norfolk’s intuition was confirmed. Raw video on the radar scopes flared into tight balls of static, then faded to reveal empty air. The data link screen to his right flashed up the computer’s assessment: CONFIRMED KILL.
“Good work,” Norfolk said. “We could have made do with just one, you think?”
A flurry of cheerful comments, the aftermath of the tension, flooded the compartment. They were proud, more confident than ever, now that they had their first kill under their belts. It had gone flawlessly.
With those sobering thoughts on his mind, Captain Norfolk settled in to wait.
THREE
Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby was slowly savoring his way through a bowl of the best clam chowder he had had in at least five years. He had watched Tony prepare it, saw the sauce steaming, until the cook had gently stirred in the clams. It’d simmered just long enough to barely cook them, just to the point of tenderness, and then been dished out immediately into his eagerly held bowl.
A sprinkle of pepper, just the right amount, Lab Rat meticulously counting each grain. Then he positioned his bowl just so, and opened a packet of crackers to rest on the side of his plate. Then, reverently picking up his spoon, he dipped into the steaming bowl. He scooped out a small serving, making sure it included some clam bits — indeed, they were almost impossible to avoid, as thickly as they were cluttered in the rich white broth. He let it cool just a few moments, and then slid it into his mouth.
The sensation was completely indescribable. Lab Rat groaned a low moan of pleasure. The other diners glanced around nervously, but he ignored them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like clam chowder on the Chesapeake Bay.
“Everything all right, sir?” his waitress asked, evidently reacting to the concern of the other diners.
Lab Rat swallowed, regretfully leaving his mouth empty. “Yes, perfectly fine. Absolutely perfectly deliciously — fine.”
He glanced over at the grill, and saw Tony smiling back at him. The burly Virginia-born and — bred fisherman understood. It was the rest of these people, the tourists who didn’t have a connoisseur’s appreciation of clam chowder and the jaded locals, too accustomed to the luxury of perfect chowder, who didn’t understand.
“Gloria!” Tony shouted, loud enough to be heard over the noise in the seafood shack. “Leave the man alone — he’s from the West Coast.”
Sudden enlightenment graced every face, and they all murmured sympathetically. A few couples looked at him with pity.
Lab Rat didn’t care. He scooped up another spoonful of chowder, his mouth eager to continue the gustatory orgasm.
Suddenly, the screen door burst open. Lieutenant Commander Bill Frank strode into the room, a look of concern on his face.
Frank was Lab Rat’s second in command of the intelligence detachment from the USS
Frank plopped himself down in the chair opposite Lab Rat without speaking. The native of Alabama was never one to interrupt a man when he was eating, but Lab Rat could already see that bad news was coming. If he waited long enough, Frank would tell him, feeding him short phrases in a brief summary delivered in that slow drawl of his.
Lab Rat sighed and put down his spoon. “What now? Can’t I even enjoy my chowder in peace?”
“Back to the office, sir,” Frank said, no trace of apology in his voice. Whatever he’d been doing when his duty officer beeper had gone off, Frank evidently thought it was a good deal more interesting than immersing himself in a bowl of chowder. Given Frank’s disheveled appearance and the slight smudge of black on his collar — eye makeup, perhaps? — Lab Rat thought that he could make an educated guess as to what Frank thought was more important than a bowl of chowder.
“But what for?” Lab Rat asked, knowing even as he spoke the words that anything that warranted a recall was far too classified to be discussed here. Frank just shook his head.
Lab Rat stared down at the bowl of creamy chowder, almost ready to cry. He waved Gloria over, and said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for this to go.” It would be cold, or least chilly by the time he got to eat it. Although he could eat in his car — no, not safe, not unless he left his here and rode back to base with Frank.
The sheer unfairness of it all came crashing in on him. “And,” he said, with sudden ferocity, determined to wring some sort of concession out of life, “I want another quart. To go. In an insulated container. With extra crackers. LOTS of extra crackers.”
Gloria stepped back slightly, then smiled and nodded. “You sure are from California, aren’t you, sir?”
Admiral Everette “Batman” Wayne and retired Admiral Matthew “Tombstone” Magruder stood on the pier and surveyed the battered hull of the USS
