Terror At Dawn

that biological weapons were involved even more so. Jefferson was buttoned up tight. While Coyote felt immense sympathy for the sailors working belowdecks and in the hangar bay, there was no way he was transiting with the hangar bay doors open, no matter what the international rules of the sea said.

At the end of the transit, the Red Sea beckoned. More constrained waters, although not nearly on the order of the canal. What Coyote really wanted was one thousand miles of blue water in every direction. He thought longingly of previous cruises to the western Pacific, of the patrols off the coasts of Taiwan and Japan. At least there they’d had blue water to run to if they had to. Not that the Jefferson ran — not ever.

It was, he reflected, more a question of presence than anything else. The long-range land-attack Tomahawk weapons carried by the destroyers and cruisers could reach every target they needed to hit from the safety of the Indian Ocean. Launching air wing strikes would be no more difficult, just a matter of putting more gas in the air and asking the aircrews to suffer through a couple of more tankings. Coyote knew that they all would’ve gladly traded the extra tanking in exchange for the security of blue water.

Patrolling the Red Sea, sometimes within view of the coast, was intended to send a message to the littoral nations. A line from Hollywood echoed through his mind: “You want to send a message, use Western Union.”

No, the problem wasn’t that the aircraft carrier couldn’t fight from these waters — it was a question of defense. So close to land, their reaction time to a shore-launched missile or incoming raid was calculated in seconds rather than minutes. At sea, a broad, relatively flat ocean increased their radar-detection envelope tenfold, and they had more of that most precious commodity: time. Time to launch aircraft, time to deploy countermeasures, time to retaliate before the first shot even hit.

Had all the rules changed? The attack on the United States had proved that even a small, wooden vessel could launch a potentially serious attack on an aircraft carrier. Would it have been any easier for the United States to see it coming if they been in blue water instead of near land? Maybe. Maybe not.

The entire bridge crew was edgy over the small boats around them. Not that he could blame them. Added to the additional hazards of navigation with small boats in the area, there was the undercurrent of concern that any one of them might be preparing to launch a Stinger. If even one missile hit the flight deck, assuming they could make it given the steep angle up the side of the carrier, the results could be devastating.

Admiral,” a voice said quietly. “I think you want to see this.”

Coyote turned with a sigh. Captain Jason Coggins, commander of the air wing, stood at the entrance to the bridge, waiting for permission to approach. With him was Commander Bird Dog Robinson and a chief petty officer that Coyote recognized as chief of the avionics division.

Coyote started to ask whether it could wait so that he could devote his full attention to the transit. But he choked the question off, knowing Coggins would not have tracked him down unless it had been urgent. And besides, Captain Bethlehem was on the bridge one deck below, personally overseeing the transit. How would he have felt when he was a skipper of the Jefferson if Batman had been riding his ass at a time like this?

He did. It took a long time for him to turn you loose and trust your judgment, didn’t it? I thought I wasn’t going to repeat his mistakes.

Coyote motioned them forward. Without speaking, the chief stepped forward and held out a bundle of wires, the ends encased in electrical connections, the other ends cut jaggedly. Coyote recognized it for what it was, a wire bundle from an avionics box from a Tomcat. He took the wire bundle and examined the cut ends. They were snipped raggedly, the insulation stripped off in spots.

“They found it on the preflight of 101,” Coggins said soberly.

“In the aircraft?” Coyote asked. “Not in the work center?”

Bird Dog shook his head. “No, Admiral. One-zero-one was on the flight schedule this morning for surface surveillance after we complete the canal transit. The plane captain went out to check it early — he’s a new kid, pretty compulsive — and found it. We checked with avionics. No one was supposed to be working on this bird.”

“That’s not how they would do it, even if they were,” the maintenance chief put in. “A mess like this — no way. And even if they had cut the wires while the gear was still installed, the whole aircraft would have been tagged out. And nobody in avionics knows anything about it.”

Coyote studied the wire bundle, trying to avoid the conclusion that was staring him in the face. “Any chance somebody made a mistake and was just too stupid to admit it?”

All three of the other men shook their heads in the negative. Coyote sighed.

“Somebody cut this deliberately,” the chief said, speaking slowly, as though to give the officers time to catch up with him. “This was no maintenance action.”

Coyote turned bright, hard eyes on Bird Dog. “Sabotage. That’s what you’re telling me.”

Bird Dog’s face was cold and hard, and he looked older than Coyote had ever seen. There was no trace of the young lieutenant who had reported on board Jefferson so many years ago for his first cruise, a happy-go-lucky pilot who had since then seen more than his fair share of combat. No, there was a new expression of maturity and command in Bird Dog’s face. Coyote felt relieved to see it, and at the same time a bit sad. That’s what we do, turn youngsters into men. Takes longer with some than others.

“I’ve ordered an investigation,” Bird Dog said, his voice tight. It was clear that he took this personally. “And I want to get the master-at-arms involved in fingerprinting the bird right away, just on the off chance that something turns up.”

“There are a lot of people whose fingerprints ought to be on the bird,” CAG commented. “Be tough eliminating them.”

“I know. But it’s a step we have to take.”

“But why?” the chief said, angry. “Oh, sure, we have a few troublemakers, but those kids all know that something like this would risk the pilot’s life. None of them would go this far — or at least I would have sworn they wouldn’t. I guess I don’t know them as well as I thought.” A new note of bitterness was in his voice.

Coyote held up one hand. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Like Bird Dog said, we’ll print it. Everybody’s prints are on file. Maybe it will turn out to be a mess cook or a yeoman. But how they would know where to cut, what would do the most damage — hell, I would’ve bet a lot of them couldn’t even find the flight deck. It’s not necessarily somebody in your squadron, Chief,” he said, including Bird Dog in his comments with a glance. “But you’re right, this is surely and truly fucked. We will find whoever did it, and I’ll make the bastard wish he’d never been born.”

The deck shifted slightly under his feet. The Jefferson was incapable of making the hard, tight turns of a destroyer or frigate, but she was fairly nimble, given her size. The movement was noticeable, and Coyote darted to the bridge wing to look out.

Far below, a ragged fishing boat was chugging up the starboard side, apparently oblivious to the tons of steel blocking its way. The vessel came astern, and moved so close that it disappeared in the shadow cast by the flight deck.

“General Quarters,” a strong female voice announced on the 1MC. As she spoke, the ship’s horn blasted out five short blasts, the international signal for immediate danger. The fishing boat appeared to take no notice.

Coyote swore violently and grabbed a bullhorn mounted along the bulkhead. “Fishing vessel on my starboard quarter, this is the captain of the USS Jefferson. Be advised you are standing into danger. Come right immediately to open distance and decrease your speed to fall astern of us.”

His words seemed to have some effect where the ship’s whistle had not. Coyote saw darkly tanned faces turn up toward him, a look of surly anger on the face of what appeared to be the vessel’s master. A few of the deckhands extended a middle finger at Coyote, then turned their backs to him. One sauntered to the edge of the deck, unbuttoned his fly, and took a leak over the side, aiming in Coyote’s direction.

For moment, Coyote was seized with the overpowering desire to either grab his.45 and let them know just how serious he was on a one-to-one basis, or jump over the side, swim over to the boat, and personally throttle its master.

A large hand descended heavily on his shoulder, and he turned to face CAG, who had a grim expression on his face. No words were necessary. Coyote let out his breath, tried to drain the tension out.

“You’re not the captain of Jefferson, Admiral,” CAG said quietly, his voice reaching only Coyote. “Bethlehem’s got it under control.”