First Strike

smiled. “How’s it going, sir?”

“I’ve been better,” Lab Rat said. The senior chief was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.

“Sorry to hear that, sir. Armstrong was still smiling, looked anything but sorry. “Have you thought anymore about what you’re going to do?”

“I’ve been thinking of little else, to tell the truth,” Lab Rat said. “It’s a tough choice to make.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” the senior chief said.

“Believe me, sir, we’d love to have you. But, I can understand if you want to stay in the Navy, too.”

“Yeah, well. I’m still thinking, okay?”

Something changed the senior chief’s face. He put down the volume he was working on and turned to face the commander. “Sir — could I ask a question?”

“That’s a question itself, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is. But it’s not the one I’ve got in mind.”

“Sure; shoot.”

“Sir, this offer from Omicron that you’re thinking about — is there any problem with the fact that you’d be working for me?” Armstrong looked straight in Lab Rat’s eyes with a trace of dismay on his face.

“No, of course not,” Lab Rat said. “How could that possibly make any difference?”

The senior chief sighed. “With all due respect, sir — of course it makes a difference. And to pretend it doesn’t — well, I thought we were a little beyond that.”

“What do you mean by that?” Lab Rat asked, now irritated.

The senior chief shrugged. “I’m not certain, sir. It just seems to me that it does make a difference — after all, we’ve both spent almost twenty years in a system where who you are is determined by what’s on your collar. And if we’re both at Omicron, well… that would reverse everything, wouldn’t it? All I’m asking is if that makes a difference in your thinking.”

“It doesn’t.” It does. God help me, but it does.

The senior chief stared at him steadily now, disappointment in his face. “If you say so, sir.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Armstrong shrugged. Whatever you want it to, sir.”

Lab Rat slammed his hand down the desk. “Enough! If you have something on your mind, go ahead and say it.”

“Why should I?” The senior chief shot back. “You’re not.”

Lab Rat’s jaw dropped. Sure, the senior chief had always been willing to stand up for what he believed in, but it had never been on a personal level like this. For the senior chief to question his decisions, well, that was just too much.

But he’s right. It does make a difference, I’m just not willing to tell him that it does.

The full implications of what had just happened sunk in. And Lab Rat felt a surge of relief. This, then, was the critical issue to deal with, whether or not he could cope with working for the senior chief. Once he decided that, everything else would fall into place.

Am I that rigid? Do I value people more for their rank than for who they are? If you asked me, I wouldn’t have said so, but this is certainly putting a different light on it, isn’t it? And one that’s not very attractive.

Just then, the vault door swung open and a small woman peered in. “Commander Busby?”

“Yes,” Lab Rat said, not taking his eyes off of the senior chief. “What is it?”

She stepped into the vault and extended her hand. “Lieutenant Johnnie Davis, sir, with VF-95. I have a few questions about what might be on the island and the skipper told me you were the person to talk to.”

“I’ll be right with you,” Lab Rat said, finally looking away from the senior chief. “And Senior Chief,” he said, “We’ll continue this discussion later. At my convenience.” He hated himself even as he added the last phrase.

The senior chief’s face was an impassive mask. “Of course, sir. At your convenience.”

Lieutenant Davis spread out the proposed flight schedule on a table in front of her. “It’s the first time I’ve done this for an entire air wing. I’ve only been in strike planning for two weeks. Anyway, before I make a fool of myself in public, I wonder if you might take a look and tell me if I’ve missed anything from an intelligence perspective.”

“Sure.” Lab Rat pulled the flight schedule over in front of him and ran his finger down the assignments. “Looks good — you’re on a one-point-five cycle, which is fine. The air wing is broken up into just two flights — why is that?”

“That was my guidance from the strike officer,” she said. “Of course, it’s always subject to change, but he wanted to be able to take on two separate missions if necessary. So I figured that, absent any other guidance, I’d just be making them both about the same composition.”

Lab Rat leaned back in his chair, slightly relieved to be on familiar ground. He studied the lieutenant in front of him. She was small, barely his own height, and small-boned at that. He could tell she worked hard to make up for the problems her size could pose in her aircraft. Sleek muscle rippled over her bones and she looked exceptionally fit. A healthy glow suffused her face.

“There are some advantages, of course, to proceeding that way,” he said, continuing to study her. Attractive, exceptionally so. He wondered if she was seeing anyone.

“What did you say you name was again?

“Johnnie Davis. But everybody calls me Rat.”

“Rat?” Busby’s voice was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

She shook her head, a woeful look on her face. “Nope. They tagged me with that in Basic, because I was small. The instructor said I could weasel into small places. I could hear that one coming on and couldn’t stand the thought of spending my Navy career days known as Weasel. So I popped up fast and said, ‘You mean, like a rat, sir?’ It was the best I could do on short notice, I’m afraid. But Rat is still better than Weasel.”

“Oh, no doubt.” He hesitated for moment, unsure of whether to proceed. “But that gives us something in common, doesn’t it?”

She looked confused. “Sir?”

“I got my nickname the day I checked in at AOCS. I have no idea why, but my drill instructor decided to name me Lab Rat. I’m afraid it stuck.”

At that, she laughed out loud. “A few more Rats on board, and we’ll have us a whole species, won’t we?”

“We will,” he agreed. “Rattus carrierus, you think?”

She nodded. “Well, sir, I have to admit, that makes me feel a bit better.”

“So, who do you usually fly with?” Lab Rat asked, more to make conversation that anything else.

A mournful look crossed her face. “Brad Morrow.

“Fastball? My condolences. Especially if the Padres are losing.” Lab Rat doubted that there was anyone on board who didn’t know about Morrow’s obsession with the San Diego Padres. “He still wearing that Tony Gwinn shirt under his flight suit?”

“Sure is. Although with the season they had last year, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“I understand he’s quite a handful.” Word had it that Davis had been paired with Morrow to cool his heels, and that their last cruise together had been a rugged one.

She shrugged. “He’s young. He’ll outgrow it. If he lives that long.”

Lab Rat leaned toward her. “Now, about this flight plan — remember, you need to worry about the terrain as well as what sort of threat you’ll encounter. We’re not certain how much they have on the island, but it’s probably old, and it’ll have to be something mobile, something they brought with them. I’d bet on at least one antiair installation, maybe two. You’ve got to figure that you want to take those out at some point, which means you should have a different weapon load on standby. It’s a different situation when we’re operating with the Air Force. They send their own Wild Weasel — there’s that word again — antiradiation aircraft in ahead of us. But out here, we’re going to be on our own. So, if there’s an antiair radar problem, we’ll have to take care of it right up front.”

“That makes sense.” She leaned forward, and Lab Rat got a whiff of something that might have been perfume, or could just have been soap or shampoo. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating. He founded himself