Choosers of the Slain

49

"Comrades, I give you us. We have met the enemy and they are history." Christine Rendino gestured grandly as if she held a glass of champagne instead of a mug of six-hour-old, reheated coffee.

"No shit? Hey, somebody call the President and tell him that we can all go home now. Rendino says so."

Even McKelsie's sneering sounded mellow. As the tactical officers gathered around the CIC command chair, they were savoring a multitude of euphoric sensations. The residual adrenaline that was keeping exhaustion at bay, the feels-good-because-it-has-stopped sensation of released tension, the ancient warrior's joy of discovering that the battle was over and that they were still alive. They had passed through the fire and had proven themselves.

"I speak the truth, Chaff Breath," the intel responded. "The key to this entire setup has been whether or not the Argys could get a supply convoy through to their Antarctic garrisons. After tonight, the operative word is 'not.'

"Even if the Argentines had assembled another logistics block, which they haven't, and had another transport group and escort force ready to sortie, which they don't, our carriers and subs would be in position in time to cut them off. Like, rewind it and put it back in the box, guys, 'cause it's over. Am I right, Captain?"

"I think that's a fair assessment." Amanda nodded thoughtfully. "In a strategic sense, anyhow. Tactically, we're still deep in enemy territory, and we've still got a lot of people out there who now have even more reason not to like us. The ship's company is tired. If we let ourselves get complacent as well, we could still get burned. This fight is still on. Now, Dix, what's the ordnance situation?"

"Six Harpoons and two Standards expended along with all of the SCMs and torpedoes," he replied. "We've burned about forty percent of our available Oto Melara ammunition and about another four hundred rounds of twenty-five-millimeters for the Phalanx. We're fat on missiles, but the number-two Vertical Launch System is still off-line. We took some shell hits in the area and we had some water sloshing around up there. The boards read green, but I'd like to do an individual diagnostic and an eyeball inspection of each round and cell in the array before I bring it back up again."

"Very well. Make it so, but make it fast. Mr. McKelsie, what do you have to say?"

"The skin damage we took is going to increase our radar cross-section down the starboard side by at least twenty percent, maybe more. I'll need to make ranging tests with one of the helicopters to be certain just how bad it is. The big bitch is that we've expended all of our foxer decoys and we're down to one full magazine load left for the RBOCs."

"Nothing to be done about that. As soon as we get a patch job done on the hull and a low sea state, we'll see about getting a coat of retinal schiff base paint on over the damaged areas. That'll help some.

"Chief," she said, shifting her attention to her senior engineer, "thank you. The black gang came through magnificently. How are things going down there?"

Thomson nodded in quiet acknowledgment. "The plant's okay. No problem during the speed run except for a couple of minor overheat warnings. Just the same, I figure to run a Charley-grade systems-maintenance package, just in case. The only thing is, ma'am, that we burned a whole lot of fuel these last few hours. We're down to twenty-seven percent of bunkerage."

Amanda bit her lip. There was nothing to be done about that, either, except to try to tighten their maneuvering belts a little more.

"Okay, Ken, damage-control report?"

"Two seventy-six-millimeter hits forward. They were above the waterline, but, like Lieutenant Beltrain said, there was minor flooding from wave action. That's been taken care of and we should have patches in place within the hour. Four forty-millimeter hits aft, one of which penetrated the hangar bay. There was a minor fire, but that was successfully suppressed.

"Some of the aviation service gear was damaged, as well as one of the helos. Retainer Zero Two is nonoperational and is probably going to be down for the rest of the cruise."

Amanda took a mental deep breath. "Any crew loss?"

"We took some fire casualties in the Air Division."

Her guts cinched up tighter.

"Nothing serious, though," Hiro continued. "Minor burns and smoke inhalation mostly. Lieutenant Arkady is down in sick bay now with his people. He'll probably be able to give a more detailed report when he gets up here."

"Good enough. I guess we got through it, then." Amanda exhaled deeply and shot a quizzical look across at her exec. "Tell me, what was it like up on the bridge?"

Hiro let his usual reserve slip a little and his smile was tugged offside by the bandaging on his face. "Well, I'll tell you this. It'd make an interesting ride at Disneyland."

It felt good to be able to laugh. Amanda could feel herself coming back down off the edge. Along with the relaxation, however, there was a growing sense of unreality to her surroundings and an unsteadiness that had nothing to do with the sea motion of the deck. Her state of accumulated exhaustion couldn't be shrugged off for much longer. Regardless, there were still things that she had to see done.

"Ken, as soon as we've hauled off a little more from the engagement area, I want to go off EMCON and see if we can contact the Polar Circle directly. Our top priority now is to set up that rendezvous again with all possible speed—"

"Captain." They hadn't heard Arkady enter the compartment. He was standing back aft near the hatchway, his flight suit smoke- and water-stained. For the first time in the short span of days he had been aboard the Duke, he looked uncertain.

"I've just come up from sick bay," he said quietly. "Erikson's dead. It was some kind of massive internal hemorrhage. Chief Robinson said it happened while we were going in on the strike. There wasn't anything she could do."

The silence became an almost tangible thing with dimension and texture. Then, with great care, Amanda set her mug down on top of her console.

"Mr. Hiro, keep the ship moving to the northeast and set fuel-conservation protocols. Hunt for a low sea state to expedite repairs, but keep us under weather cover. Break EMCON only to issue a sitrep and a casualty report to CINCLANT."

She rose from the command chair and left the Combat Information Center, stepping past her officers without speaking. Arkady's whispered "I'm sorry" didn't register on her consciousness.

Amanda went up one level to the thwartship passageway aft of the wardroom, the one with the weather-deck hatches to port and starboard. She chose the one to port, the side of the ship away from the damage-control parties. Struggling with the dogging latches, she forced the hatch back against the pressure of the wind. Stumbling across the ice-slicked tile of the deck, she clutched at the railing with numbing fingers.

At her feet, the dim gray foam of the Cunningham's passage boiled along the destroyer's flank. Beyond that, Amanda could sense the black vastness of the world ocean. She let the sleety spray and the ice-borne wind scourge her through her clothing.

After a moment or two, the first choking sobs came. Alone with the darkness and the sea, Amanda Lee Garrett cried as a mother might weep over her lost firstborn.