First Strike

The Pentagon

1500 local (GMT-5)

Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby had just finished briefing the Pentagon’s Joint Intelligence Center on the integration of his intelligence team from the Jefferson into the newly commissioned USS United States battle group. While the Jefferson had been completing repairs from striking a mine, Lab Rat and his crew had been temporarily signed to the Joint Intelligence Center, or JIC, in Norfolk, Virginia. During her sea trials, the United States was suddenly broken off from them and deployed to the Far East to intervene in a conflict between China and Taiwan. Since the ship was still in the process of establishing its manning, Lab Rat had offered Coyote the services of his already well-trained and coordinated department. Given the seriousness of the conflict they were facing, Coyote had taken him up on it. Now, however, the United States had her own people arriving, and Lab Rat and his people were back on the Jefferson.

The Pentagon, concerned with manpower management and maximizing efficiency from detached crews, had been keenly interested in the experience. There were murmurs of approval at Lab Rat’s initiative in suggesting the whole scheme to Admiral Grant, and even more approval of the way it had worked out. Lab Rat had been extremely proud of how his people had acquitted themselves and he was gratified to see that some very senior people in the Navy agreed with him.

On the other hand, no good deal ever went unpunished. The Jefferson had a five- day port visit scheduled in Bermuda — five days of sun, fun, and relaxation. After the whirlwind conflict between China and Taiwan, Lab Rat felt he deserved a liberty in Bermuda a hell of a lot more than the rest of Jefferson’s crew. After all, while he’d been in the thick of it, they’d been bored to death in the shipyards.

But, no, instead of enjoying a mild fall in Bermuda, Lab Rat was trudging through the acres and acres of the massive parking lot with a chill wind biting his ears, looking for the very distant parking spot where he’d left his old Renault. While a commander was a senior officer on board an aircraft carrier, at the Pentagon he was nothing. The place teemed with hot and cold running commanders, captains, and even one stars weren’t that uncommon. And while he appreciated the interest from the Secretary of the Navy, he would rather have been in Bermuda with the rest of his crew.

He was pretty sure Chief Armstrong felt the same way. Senior Chief Armstrong, he reminded himself. The chief’s promotion had come through before the conflict with Taiwan, but Lab Rat still found himself bungling it.

Not that the senior chief deserved that. Senior Chief Armstrong was the smartest intelligence chief petty officer that Lab Rat had ever met in his career. The man possessed an almost uncanny insight into enemy intentions and maneuvers, and had already twice saved Lab Rat’s bacon by noticing something askew in satellite photos or in enemy flight patterns.

No, the senior chief had not been crazy about the idea of spending the ship’s liberty in D.C., either, but that was life in a blue suit. He hadn’t even bothered grumbling. He just fixed Lab Rat with that cold, distant stare, and then shrugged impassively. Lab Rat would find a way to make it up to him.

“I thought that went well, sir,” Armstrong said. “They seemed interested.”

Where the hell is the car? Hadn’t it been in this lot? Maybe it was the next one over — yes, that was it. Lab Rat turned to his left and started hiking again, Senior Chief Armstrong falling into step beside him.

“Lose the car again, sir?” the senior chief asked, sympathy in his voice. “If you like, we can head back in, get some overhead imagery. They got real-time transmissions there. We could locate it just by the rust signature.”

“That is a classic car, senior chief, I will thank you to remember,” Lab Rat huffed. “And there’s not a speck of rust on her, as you well know.”

“Yes, sir. Though I suspect if you could build up some, she wouldn’t leak oil so bad.”

“Entirely normal for her to use a little oil,” Lab Rat said. “It shows she’s well lubricated.”

“Right.” The senior chief smirked, but fell silent.

Senior Chief Armstrong liked the diminutive commander who was in charge of the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC, liked him a lot. Commander Busby, he wasn’t much to look at. Maybe a 120 pounds soaking wet, and just a hair over five feet two inches tall. The senior chief caught himself many times almost calling the commander by his nickname. It was too appropriate not to come automatically to your lips.

Commander Busby had short, Marine-clipped, pale blond hair, and large, translucent blue eyes that seemed to wear a perpetually trusting expression. If you didn’t know him, you would make the mistake of assuming he was a wimp. But you only made that particular mistake once.

The senior chief’s regard for his commander was, if possible, even higher than the commander’s opinion of the senior chief, although he found himself constantly resisting the urge to pat his boss on the head. Lab Rat had a sharp, incisive mind, and tolerated no bullshit within his department. And he took good care of his people, with the ferocity of a Jack Russell terrier, and the senior chief had seen the commander rip a new asshole in more than one person who had failed to treat the intelligence specialist right, most notably the chief of staff on board the United States.

Yes, it was easy to underestimate Lab Rat. Once.

The senior chief himself was a tall man, well muscled, and strongly built. His features were craggy, his hair dark and slightly longer than his boss’s. As much as Lab Rat’s face was open and trusting — gullible, some would call it — the senior chief’s was distant and cool. They were an odd-looking pair, but their strengths and weaknesses complemented each other nicely, and the senior chief had to admit the commander was one of the best bosses he’d ever had. The commander’s annual evaluation had earned him his last promotion, and he figured if he could keep up with a kid, he would probably make master chief before he left the ship.

“Who knows what they’ll do, Senior Chief?” Lab Rat said as he walked briskly down a line of cars. “They’re talking about a tiger team, a special unit that they can fly out for a particular area of the world. But we know how that usually works.”

“Yep. A tiger team isn’t always the answer, although I wouldn’t mind some experts around when something goes down.”

“Agreed,” Lab Rat said slowly, momentarily forgetting his search for the missing Renault. “But, I’m not really sure that’s what this entire meeting was about.”

“Sir?” The senior chief played dumb, although he had had the suspicion that something was up. But, you had to wait for the officers to get around telling you on their own terms.

“That night you were out with the chiefs…” The senior chief winced at the memory, as the evening had dissolved into a night of mourning his lost Bermuda liberty in a series of increasingly interesting bars in the D.C. area. He counted it as one of Lab Rat’s strengths that he had not commented on his appearance the next morning. “I spent some time with the two star’s staff. There were a lot of questions about our experiences with satellites. And then there were a couple of defense contractors there as well, some guys from Omicron.” Lab Rat shook his head, not entirely certain he really understood what was going on. “You know much about lasers, Senior Chief?”

“A little, sir,” the senior chief said, his voice suddenly distant.

Lab Rat shot him a sharp glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s what mean, sir?”

“You said ‘a little.’ And then you got that look on your face.”

The senior chief pointed at the far end of the lot. “Isn’t that your car over there, sir?”

Lab Rat stopped dead. “Forget the car for a minute. That look — you had that look.”

“What look would that be, Commander?” The senior chief sounded faintly aggrieved.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Lab Rat shook his finger at him. “Don’t play dumb with me, Senior Chief.”

He gets in these moods, you’d think he was six feet tall, the senior chief thought to himself. I don’t care how big he is, he’s got the voice down cold.

The senior chief sighed, stuck his hands in his pocket and stared up at the sky. “I’ve spent a lot of my time in the Navy staring at computer screens, sir. Some of it has been more interesting than others. Like the tour I spent at Cheyenne Mountain.”