Terror At Dawn

On board the Jefferson Admiral William “Coyote” Grant was listening intently to every report that the United States made over the classified circuits. Coyote commanded Carrier Battle Group 14, comprised of the aircraft carrier USS Thomas Jefferson and her air wing, two Aegis cruisers, three destroyers, and two frigates. They’d been on station in the Med for two weeks now, and had just returned to sea following a three-day port call in Italy.

Fire at sea was every mariner’s worst nightmare, and for it to happen to an aircraft carrier was simply unthinkable. That such a massive and powerful ship, the acme of sea power, could be damaged by such a small boat from man’s earliest days of going to sea — albeit now with an outboard motor instead of oars — was almost too much to contemplate.

But then again, nobody had believed that terrorists would have — or even could have — crashed commercial aircraft into the World Trade Center. Although there’d been some intelligence, some early warnings of terrorist agents and aviation warnings, nobody had really though such a thing could happen. They’d focused on the possibilities of crop dusters and biological weapons, dismissing those dangers by pointing out the difficulties of deploying the proper aerosol and deployment systems. The terrorists, when they’d struck, had relied on a far more primitive and effective method, transforming commercial airliners laden with fuel into suicide bombing runs.

Stingers, though — this scenario was one that aviators had been kicking around for decades. The ubiquitous weapons were the poor nations’ answers to almost every problem. Easily transportable, simple to operate, and relatively cheap, they could be brought to bear in almost any scenario.

Recent intelligence reports had done nothing to allay his worries. There were indications that Pakistan had developed a faster, longer-range version of the ubiquitous weapon, which was now making its way into the international arms scene. If that were true, the Middle Eastern nations, with more money to burn than any other region, would have them first. Not even being in the Med instead of the Persian Gulf or the Red Sea made him feel any easier.

If they could reach out and touch the United States, they could get us. It’s a little cooler here than in the Gulf, but even staying buttoned up the whole time in the Med ain’t gonna be pleasant. But what other choice have we got?

Just as the United States reported securing from General Quarters, Coyote’s patience with the crowded compartment reached an end. He snapped, “OK, folks. Show’s over. Everybody back to work. You know what happened — now figure out how we’re going to keep it from happening to us.” People shifted uneasily and began moving out of the compartment, heading back to whatever they’d been doing when they’d heard about the fire.

“Admiral?” a low-pitched female voice said at his side. “I’m going to set condition-two antiair in about five minutes.”

His gaze still fixed on the large-screen display in front of him, Coyote nodded. “Not antisurface?”

“No, Admiral. I don’t think it’s going to be the same thing twice in a row. Besides, after what happened, the full antisurface team is going to be in Combat whether I set the condition or not.”

Coyote gritted his teeth and groaned inside. Captain Jackie Bethlehem, Jefferson’s newly appointed commanding officer, was well within her rights to make that decision. He appreciated her informing him of the change before it occurred, and in principle he agreed — but why, oh, why, did every word she speak grate on his nerves?

Bethlehem was a tall woman with dark hair and ice-green eyes. Her hair was short and curly and most days, like today, it had a tousled, just-stepped-out-of-the-shower look. She looked as though she was in her early thirties, but for that to be true she would have had to have been commissioned almost before puberty. Not that Coyote had any indication that she’d ever actually gone through puberty. Her uniforms, while trim and neatly cut, were just generous enough in certain places to hide most of her figure. And her personality — well, Coyote was reasonably certain she probably had one, but her military bearing and command presence were pretty damned near impossible. He’d cracked a couple of jokes during their presail conferences, and even bought her a beer after one meeting, but he was no closer to knowing the woman behind the title than he had been the first day. Maybe she wasn’t even human — a robot of some sort, put on his ship—his ship — solely to annoy him.

Stop it, he told himself sternly. This is your problem, not hers.

When he’d heard Bethlehem had won the highly coveted billet as skipper of his flagship, Coyote had been taken aback. Sure, he knew who she was — everybody in the tightknit Naval Aviation community did. She’d been first in her class in Basic Flight, first in her Hornet class, first in damn near everything she’d attempted. The word on the flight line was that she wasn’t just another bow to political correctness. She was a cold, tough pilot, a superb aviator, and a natural leader. If she’d been born male instead of female, she would have ended up in a command billet eventually.

Eventually. But maybe not so fast. And maybe not as commander of the most battle-tested aircraft carrier in the fleet. My carrier, my Jefferson.

Even though she’d managed to resist his considerable personal charm, Coyote had been prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, since he’d commanded Jefferson himself, he’d be around to give her a few pointers. He’d succeeded in convincing himself that Captain Bethlehem was going to work out just fine.

And so far, she had. The ship—her ship—was in the highest readiness condition he’d ever seen. Every combat system, every measurement of personnel performance, was breaking records in the fleet. Hell, even the food was better.

So why was it that she was such a thorn in his side? Was he just a tad bit pissed off that her statistics in command of Jefferson were higher than his had ever been?

He’d talked it over circumspectly with an old friend, Admiral Batman Wayne, not getting right to the heart of it but edging around the issue. Batman, as usual, had nailed the heart of it. “You’re a Texan and she’s a good- looking woman.” Batman had cocked one quizzical eyebrow at him. “You see any reason for this problem you’re having?”

“I don’t,” Coyote had replied stiffly, aware that the back of his neck was itching, as it always did when he strayed from the truth.

“Ah. So it’s like that, is it?” Batman smirked.

“No, it’s not,” Coyote snapped. Then belatedly. “Like what?”

Not that he’d had to ask. As soon as he’d seen that snide expression on Batman’s face, Coyote had known the truth. Captain Bethlehem, a tall woman with striking blue eyes and blue-black hair, was indeed one of the most attractive women he’d run across in a long time. And not just physically — there was something about her presence, her command presence, that attracted him in a way he didn’t understand.

Pushy women weren’t his type.

“I’ve doubled the lookouts as well,” Captain Bethlehem continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that her admiral had yet to turn and look at her.

“Good.” Finally, his innate sense of courtesy and good manners shaming him into action, he turned to face her.

Seated, his face was level with hers, although he had a good six inches in height on her when they were both standing. Once again, he was conscious of the fact that they were built along similar lines, both lean and smoothly muscled, both taller than most people around them. On her, however, the overall impression was one of a competitive swimmer, while Coyote had always verged on an awkward lankiness.

“Any new word from United States?” she asked. For the first time, Coyote could see the strain in her face, and he felt a moment of shame for his earlier surliness.

“No. Fire’s out, reflash set. I imagine we’ll hear from them when things settle down. This is bound to change things,” he answered.

Coyote was itching to grab the mike and call his counterpart on board United States to see how it was going. But he resisted the urge, knowing that the captain and admiral on board the other ship had far more important things to do than talk to him. Eventually, when they got out the required alert messages, treated all the casualties, and made sure that the area around the ship was cleared of potential threats, they’d have time to talk. But not until then.