Hellfire

Wasn’t that the whole point of missile defense systems, that they would eliminate the insane race for offense arms in the world?

One of the sailors turned to Lab Rat and peeled off his headset. “Sir? They’d like to speak to you.”

“Who is it?”

“JCS.”

Lab Rat slipped the headset on. He identified himself, and fell silent as he listened. He motioned to the sailor, who passed him a clipboard and pencil. Lab Rat began taking notes. Finally, after about sixty seconds, he said, “Aye-aye, Admiral. I will pass it on to Admiral Grant.”

There was another silence, then Lab Rat said, “Yes, Admiral. I understand.”

With a sigh, Lab Rat pulled off his headset and handed it back to the sailor. “They want to finish up the coordination issues with you.” He turned to Coyote and continued with “JCS says they have no information on this. However, they want complete silence maintained. Not a word anywhere. I’m to personally debrief each lookout and have him sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

“Wow. And they’re not saying anything about it?” Coyote asked.

“Zero, Admiral. That was Rear Admiral Larson I was speaking to. He’s the duty officer.”

“Better you than me,” Coyote answered. Larson was a surface sailor and had a reputation for being exceptionally acerbic with battle group commanders.

“This doesn’t change anything, does it, Admiral?” Lab Rat asked. “We still solid on our test schedule?”

“Yeah, as far as I know. They want it all kept secret, though.” Coyote sighed, contemplating the improbability and sheer lunacy of trying to keep the Russian laser test a secret. That would be only slightly more improbable than keeping their own tests secret. “Okay, make it happen. Everybody signs the damned paper, but make sure the lookouts know what they’re looking for, okay?”

USS Jefferson

Port Lookout Station

0217 local (GMT-9)

Fifteen minutes after Irving had first reported the laser, a new voice spoke up on his sound-powered phone headset. The voice was older, more authoritarian than the officer of the deck, and for a few moments Irving couldn’t exactly place it. “All stations, listen up. Some of you reported seeing a blue flash in the sky. It was simply a helicopter searchlight at an odd angle to the ship. Nothing unusual. Forget you even saw it. And all lookouts and bridge watchstanders are to report to Commander Busby in CVIC immediately after being relieved.”

A helicopter searchlight? Irving shook his head. Not likely. Besides, they had secured from flight quarters several hours ago, and there were no helicopters airborne. Perhaps off the cruiser or something — no, they would’ve known that, too, as one of the lookouts would have seen it launch and reported it.

What, did they think he was stupid? A searchlight — yeah, right. What a bunch of horseshit. Some of the officers couldn’t even use a computer, and had never been to a laser light show, and they expected him to believe that story? Well, he wasn’t blind. He knew what he had seen, and it wasn’t a searchlight.

The remaining hours of his watch passed quickly as he kept alert for anything else in the sky. He fully expected to see the laser again. Any second now, and he would miss it if he blinked at the wrong time. He kept up an excellent watch, but no matter how hard he stared, the light did not reappear.

THREE

Tuesday, July 1

SS Montego Bay

0800 local (GMT-9)

The cruise ship Montego Bay had seen better days. Once the flagship of her fleet, she was now starting to show her age. On more modern ships, gas turbines replaced the steam boilers Montego Bay used for power. Her wooden decking had been stripped, sanded, and refinished so many times that it was now perceptibly lower than the interior of the ship. The cabins were smaller than those found on modern ships, and contained fewer amenities. While the cruise ship company had done what it could to keep her updated and attractive, the Montego Bay was trapped somewhere between a claim to old world charm and sleek modern convenience.

Despite her deficiencies, Montego Bay’s revenues were always positive. She was the favorite of a large class of passengers who enjoyed cruises but found the prices of the newer liners simply beyond their means. Montego Bay provided an acceptable compromise.

Montego Bay was currently working the pineapple run, the voyage between San Pedro Island in Southern California and the Hawaiian island chain. She’d made the trip many times, always uneventfully. This time, through no fault of her own, that would not be the case.

Her captain, Eric Gaspert, had been her master for the last ten years. He knew every sound she made, had walked her through her most recent renovations, and enjoyed being her master. The passengers were far more reasonable to deal with than the very rich. Gaspert liked his job and looked forward to several more years of it.

Gaspert was also a diligent captain, entirely professional and conscientious. This morning, he was on the bridge, reviewing the weather forecasts, notices to mariners, and other operational reports. The notices to mariners, or NOTAMS, particularly caught his attention. These were promulgated by the United States Coast Guard and contained warnings about military operations or other hazards at sea.

“If we stay on our present course, we’ll be right along the edge of this warning area,” his navigator said, tapping the chart in the center of an area outlined in red pencil. “And I think we’d like to stay well clear. Last night they were doing those random zigzags they like to practice — no talking to us, even though they saw us on the radar, no warning. We were never too close, but it’d be nice to know when they’re going to do something like that. Then all at once—wham. One of them, the Russians or the Americans, starts shooting lasers up in the air.”

Gaspert chuckled. “Bet that scared the crap out of the night crew.”

“I was down in the engine room and I heard the deck officer yell. Wonder what it was.”

“The NOTAM says they’re doing some Kernel Blitz missile testing exercises today,” Gaspert said. “It’s probably related to that, and if it’s missile testing, we won’t have to worry about staying clear. They’ll be all over us to clear the area before they take a shot.”

“Yes, of course,” the navigator said. “But this time, it may be a bit more complicated. The Russians are keeping a close eye on them. And they’ve been keeping station just to the east of the operating area.”

“They know something we don’t?” Gaspert asked.

The navigator nodded. “Probably. No less than we do, anyway.”

Wonder why the Russians are so interested in this exercise? Sure, they conduct surveillance on most military operations, but normally with one of their spy trawlers masquerading as a fishing boat. Hardly ever with a complete battle group including one of their own operational carriers. “They must be making the Navy nervous,” he said out loud. Gaspert had started his own career at sea in the United States Navy, and had a good idea of what was probably going on within the American battle group with the Russians so close. “INCOS is getting a workout.”

INCOS, or the International Concord to Avoid Incidents at Sea, was an agreement signed by both Russia and the United States. It covered conduct between the navies when meeting in open ocean and was designed to prevent misunderstandings that could escalate into conflicts. Prior to INCOS, there had been many instances where posturing and seemingly innocent but fairly hostile acts had almost led to tragedy. Recognizing the need for stricter rules between enemies during the Cold War, the Concord had been developed with the help of military and civilian law-of-the-sea experts. Since nobody wanted a war, particularly not now, both sides respected its provisions.

“Well, they’re big enough that we’ll see them on radar,” Gaspert said, checking the formations one last time. “But put a note in the night orders to notify me if we come within twenty miles of either group.” INCOS might cover Russian and U.S. military forces, but it said nothing about conduct toward cruise ships.

“Aye-aye, sir.” The navigator proceeded to brief the weather, which looked exceptionally pleasant. No hurricanes, not even a low-pressure system between the ship and her final destination, nor was one expected to