Choosers of the Slain

11

Vince Arkady double-timed up the 'tween-decks ladder to Air One, the Cunningham's flight-control center. A small triangular compartment located right aft in the trailing end of the superstructure, it was the only compartment on the ship other than the bridge with a direct exterior view, a vee of stealthed Plexiglas looking out over the helipad. In addition to the windscreen, it contained a pair of repeater terminals, a small communications console, and, at the moment, Chief Petty Officer Frank Muller, Retainer Zero Two's crew chief and the Air Division's senior NCO.

"What do we have, Frank?"

Muller passed his boss a headset as he replied. "Zero Two's just declared an in-flight emergency."

"Where is she?"

"About fifteen miles south-southwest and inbound."

The Aegis system's tactical display had been dialed up on one of the repeaters and Zero Two's beacon hack could be seen, warning flagged in glowing red.

"Right, what's she on?" Arkady asked, settling on the earphones.

"Tac Three."

As Arkady keyed in to the ship-to-air circuit, he shot a quick look at the sea and weather states. The Duke was running under a mixture of blue sky and broken cumulus cloud. However, she was also running through a sharp, choppy swell with plenty of whitecaps showing. The wind sock on its snub mast beside the helipad was whipping in an ominously suggestive manner. It was not a good day to try swimming away from a sinking helicopter.

"Gray Lady to Retainer Zero Two, do you copy?"

"Affirmative, Gray Lady, I read you."

Beyond the carrier hiss in his earphones, Ensign Nancy Delany's voice was tense but still level.

"Hi, Nancy. This is Vince Arkady. What's happening out there?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I'm getting a power surge and fade real bad. I can't maintain a constant engine RPM."

"What do your diagnostics say?"

"I've been getting a green board except for a fuel-flow variance. I've tried switching back and forth between the primary and backup fuel-feed pumps and between the interior and exterior tankage. I've also tried some fuel transferrals and I still can't isolate the problem, or get it to smooth out."

Vince glanced over at Muller. He'd worked with the man for less than two days, but he had already judged that the Chief knew his business. Currently, the burly, balding CPO was hunched over the other terminal, intently studying the stream of telemetry flowing in from Zero Two's systems.

"Was she running on her internal fuel or the drop tank when she started to pack up?" he inquired thoughtfully.

"I'll find out." Vince keyed his microphone again. "Ah, Retainer Zero Two, were you on internal or the drop tank when the problem started?"

"Gray Lady, I was on the drop tank. I'm sorry, sir, but she's lost power so badly a couple of times we've almost gone in the water. Nothing seems to help, so I figured I'd better bring her in."

"We concur one hundred percent. Bring her home, Retainer."

Vince turned back to Muller. "What do you think?"

"I think she's got air contamination in the fuel system, probably through a fault in the hardpoint connector. You get a slug of air in there, get some bubbles under a filter, and you can get surge and fade like this."

"That ain't supposed to happen with the Comanche anymore, Chief."

"There's a lot of stuff that ain't supposed to happen anymore, Lieutenant, but it still does. They only got a partial fix on that problem. It still crops up every once in a while. Just rare enough so that the diagnostic program for it was deleted from the onboard software. These kids aren't being taught what to look for.

"As it is, Ensign Delany went right along and followed all of the proper procedures for a standard feed-flow problem and managed to involve the whole damn fuel system instead of just the drop tank feeds."

"What can we do about it?" Arkady inquired.

"Not a whole hell of a lot beyond getting her on the deck as fast as we can. In the next thirty seconds the bubbles could work out of the system and she could be right as rain, or she could have a total blockage and fall right out of the sky. I'd give you even money on it going either way."

"Okay, let's bring her straight down."

Arkady went back on the circuit. "Retainer Zero Two, we've got your problem spotted. Just bring her on in. We'll sort it out once you're down on the deck."

As he talked, Vince called up Zero Two's stores list on his terminal. It was the package he had authorized, the suspect 110-gallon drop tank, an SQR/A1 dunking sonar pod, and a half-load of sonobuoys.

"Hey, Nancy. Do you still have your stores onboard?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, get rid of 'em. Lighten yourself up."

"That's okay, Lieutenant. I think I can bring them home."

"Jettison your stores, Ensign. That's an order. We can buy you more toys later. That's what we keep the taxpayers around for.

"Damn kid's trying to conscientious herself to death," Arkady muttered as he dialed up the bridge. "I guess we'd better let the boss know what's going on."

"Bridge, aye," Amanda Garrett answered the call herself a moment later.

"Captain, this is Arkady back in Air One. Retainer Zero Two is inbound with a fuel-feed problem. She'll be in position to recover in about five minutes. I request we go to emergency flight quarters."

"I concur," she replied coolly. "We've also been monitoring the situation up here. I'll be putting the ship across the wind at this time and we'll be bringing the stabilizers up full.

"Also be advised we've got a flight of Argentine jets moving in on us. We're not sure what they want, but they'll be overhead about the time we'll be making recovery."

"Joy for fucking ever unconfined."

"I'll worry about the Argentines. You take care of our helo. If I can assist you by maneuvering, let me know."

Amanda's voice became a little less professional and a little more concerned. "Do you think you can get them home, Arkady?"

"Talk to me again in about five minutes, Skipper, and I'll have an answer for you."

"Flight quarters! Flight quarters!" the MC-1 circuit thundered. "Aviation Fuel Repair team and Crash and Salvage teams lay to on the double! All compartments set Condition Zebra!" All to a background of honking alarm klaxons and slamming watertight doors.

Down on the helipad, landing lights began to flash rhythmically at the four corners of the main elevator. Around the outer perimeter, containment barriers rose up out of their belowdeck slots and flared open like the petals of a nylon strap and aluminum flower. Aviation and damage-control personnel, many swaddled in silvery firefighting rig,stood by, watching for the first sign of their troubled charge.

In Air One, Chief Muller pointed and said, "There she is. I got her strobe. She's swinging out wide to the west."

Arkady dumped the Alpha Screen image on his workstation and called up the MMS system. Laying one of the cameras on the approaching helo with the terminal joystick, he engaged the autotrack and zoomed in on the little aircraft.

"Damn, she's in worse shape than I figured." He could see the power fades hitting the aircraft every few seconds. The Sea Comanche would sag down out of level flight as it lost turbine RPMs and Delany would firewall her throttles to stay airborne. Then the surge would hit, gray smoke would smear out of the exhausts, and the helicopter would buck and lunge forward and upward.

Muller shook his head. "Lieutenant, if she drops off like that comin' over the rail…"

"Don't draw me pictures, Chief. The thing is, what the hell else are we going to do? Let's just apply the KISS protocols here and bring her straight on in."

Arkady keyed his mike. "Retainer Zero Two, we have you visually. The ship is thirty degrees across the wind and we are showing twenty-eight to thirty knots over the deck. You are cleared for a standard quartering approach. Recovery teams are standing by. Take your time, Nance. If you go bump, we'll have a pillow under you."

"No sweat, sir. I got a handle on it."

Could have fooled me from the sound of your voice, kid,

Arkady replied silently.

She came in high, not daring to get too close to the sea too soon, trying to find a pattern or rhythm to the power fades, seeking the few moments of full control necessary for a landing pass.

She went into a station-keeping hover fifty yards off the starboard quarter. The landing-gear bay doors flipped open in the Sea Comanche's sleek belly and its wheels lowered. Slowly she started to angle in toward the helipad.

A voice blared in Arkady's earphones. "CIC to Air One! Descending traffic turning in on us! Range closing fast! Oh, Jesus! Watch it!"

In Air One, there was a blur of motion to starboard, literally at eye level. Arkady was able to snap his head around fast enough to catch and mind-freeze a single clear image: a pair of dark blue Panavia Tornadoes, each bearing an azure and white roundel and the word ARMADA on its flank. Both strike fighters had their wings swept full back and had shock-wave-studded flame spewing from their afterburners. The point-blank thunderclap of their passage hit with the impact of a hard-swung two-by-four across the chest.

Riding the concussion of the first brace of Tornadoes, a second pair blasted past to port. Pulling up into the near vertical, all four aircraft climbed out of sight in mere seconds.

If the Argentine flat-hatting run had startled Arkady and Muller, it had nearly killed Nancy Delany and her systems operator. Not only had her concentration been shattered but Retainer Zero Two had been hammered by converging streams of jet wash.

The helo staggered and torqued almost a full 360 degrees around its rotor mast. A power fade hit and the pilot wildly tried to compensate. She overpitched and the aircraft plunged out of the sky.

At the last possible instant, the fade cleared and the turbines shrieked back up to flight power. The Sea Comanche pulled out, so low that one of the landing-gear trucks ripped through a wave top.

"Who were those guys? Just damn it! Who were those guys?"

"Take it easy, Nancy. They're just some of the local

boys assing around."

"What do they think they're doing! Damn it, Cunningham, they could have killed us!"

"Settle down, Ensign! Retainer Zero Two, climb out and set up for another approach. We'll take care of these clowns. You're gonna be okay, babe."

Arkady turned the handling of the helicopter over to Chief Muller and started scanning the UHF surface-to-air frequencies for the one being guarded by the Aeronaval fighters. Someone down in the CIC had beaten him to the punch, and he dialed into their outgoing transmission.

"… SS Cunningham. You are interfering with an emergency recovery operation. Clear our airspace! I repeat, clear our airspace!"

The voice that replied spoke a fluent, almost accent-free English. It also spoke with a lightly restrained arrogance.

"United States Ship Cunningham, this is Tigre flight leader. It is necessary to advise you that you are near the territorial waters of Argentina and the Malvinas. These are our sea and air spaces, Norteno."

"Tigre flight lead, this is the USS Cunningham. We are currently operating in international waters. We say again, we have an in-flight emergency. Please stay clear of our flight pattern while we recover our aircraft."

"Cunningham, this is Tigre flight leader. You do not understand." The Argentine pilot sounded as if he was enjoying himself. "As you are operating near our territory, it is necessary for us to investigate all such intrusions and all such unusual events, such as your emergency. We shall proceed to do so."

Muller was bending over a call-up of the Alpha display.

"They're pitching in again… descending. Aw, man! They're going right for Zero Two!"

"I don't believe this!" Vince snarled, cutting back to the Duke's operating frequency. "Retainer Zero Two, you got fast movers coming in on you again. Watch it!"

There wasn't time for more.

The Argentine Tornadoes flashed into view, converging on the crippled Sea Comanche. Viciously, they whipsawed it with a series of near-supersonic close-range flybys. It was a deliberate effort to blast the helo out of the sky with the shock waves of their passage.

Arkady forgot to breathe as the wildly bucking helicopter fought to survive again, and won.

"Retainer Zero Two, you guys okay up there?"

"Okay for now," the faint reply came back. "But one more like that, and we're in the water."

Another readily identifiable voice cut into the radio band. "Ah, Cunningham. I believe I have identified your problem. Inferior aircraft flown by inferior pilots. You should tell your young ladies to stop playing at being naval aviators, Cunningham."

Arkady nearly broke his thumb on the transmitter key. "Don't talk about inferiority, asshole. You've just earned yourself a lesson in it!"

He switched over to the ship's interphone. "Hangar bay! Get Zero One on the elevator with a full air-to-air ordnance load. Sidewinders and gun pods. Expedite!"

"Belay that order!" Amanda Garrett's voice cut in sharply. "Lieutenant Arkady, what are your intentions?"

"I'm launching, and I'm going to escort my pilot in. Right over the top of those macho bastards, if I have to!"

"Negative. Getting Delany caught in the middle of a dogfight isn't going to help matters any. Have her drop back, and go into a holding pattern off to starboard, until we get this sorted out."

"Captain…"

"I'll take care of it, Lieutenant." The tone of her voice didn't brook any protest.

"Aye, aye, ma'am." Arkady took a slow, deliberate breath and began to relay her instructions up to the helo.

The bridge had patched in to the ground-to-air frequencies and Amanda came on-line a few moments later.

"Tigre flight leader, this is Commander Amanda Lee Garrett of the United States Navy, currently commanding the USS Cunningham. To whom am I speaking, please?"

The cool dignity of her words took the Argentines by surprise. There were several seconds of dead air before the reply came in.

"This is Capitan de Frigata Alfredo Cristobal of the

Aeronaval Argentina, commander of the First Naval Fighter and Attack Escuadrilla."

"Captain Cristobal, this situation is unnecessary. It is placing the lives of two of my crew in jeopardy, and can only serve to further inflame the tensions existing between your nation and mine. As one officer to another, I respectfully request that you please withdraw and allow us to recover our aircraft."

For a second, Vince thought that she had pulled it off, that an appeal to simple, bald-faced sanity might end it. Maybe it would have, too, if Capitan Alfredo Cristobal hadn't been born with an apparent critical imbalance between brains and bullshit.

"Of course, Captain Garrett." The jocular arrogance crept back into the Argentine's voice. "But first, I must insist on one more flyby, to salute the lovely ladies of the Norteamericano Navy."

"As you wish." Amanda Garrett's voice was no longer cool, it was cold. Vince Arkady had a sudden mental image of a pair of hazel eyes narrowing ominously.

"Here they come again," Chief Muller reported. "This time it looks like they're going to scrape the paint off the top hamper."

Suddenly, the deck speakers came on-line again. "Alert on deck! Rig for live-fire ordnance testing. Clear the RBOC launchers!"

Arkady and Muller exchanged puzzled glances as the kerosene-fired thunder of the approaching aircraft began to grow.

On the foredeck and the forward facing of the superstructure, hatches swung open, revealing clusters of launcher muzzles. With a rippling roar that eclipsed the sound of the jets, the RBOC defense system salvoed a full spread of chaff rockets. The sky over the destroyer was suddenly filled with interlocking airbursts of smoke and metal foil, and the Argentine fighters found themselves driving right into the heart of it.

The Aeronaval strike fighters scattered like a covey of startled quail, pulling up and pitching out wildly to evade. Tigre lead didn't make it. Captain Cristobal's Tornado ripped through the edge of the cloud, and as it did so, a partially dispersed chaff packet was ingested by its starboard air intake. A fragment of a second later, several million dollars' worth of Turbo Union turbofan engine began to disintegrate.

Arkady caught the distinctive thud of a jet power-plant shedding a flame bucket. He was watching with considerable interest as the plane came crashing out of the chaff cloud, smoke streaming from the right engine exhaust.

Grant him his due, Cristobal was a superb airman; anyone less would have lost it totally. As it was, his Tornado did a complete slow roll at wave-top height before he could get the wings motored forward and the right side of the aircraft shut down.

Finally, he got his crippled plane leveled and coaxed into a slow climb. When he came back on-band, his arrogance was gone. He had cycled through shock and fear, and now was running on raw rage.

"Puta nortena! We will not let you get away with this! The Tierra San Martin belongs to Argentina! The Southern Ocean belongs to us! We will send you to hell!"

Amanda Garrett failed to conceal the contempt in her voice. "If the performance you put on out here today is an example of the professionalism of your services, I wish you luck. This is the Cunningham, over and out."

"Now, there goes a man," Arkady commented as the damaged aircraft limped off to the east, "who ain't going to be able to get it up for a month."

"Air One, this is the bridge." His captain's now more amiable voice filled his headset. "The Alpha Screen indicates all Argentine aircraft now departing the area. You may resume recovery operations as soon as we clear the chaff cloud."

"Aye, aye, Captain. Will do. By the way, Air One requests permission to applaud."

A soft chuckle echoed back over the comm. "Permission denied, Air One. Let's just get our sick child back aboard."