Island Warriors

FOUR

Admiral Willis E. “Coyote” Grant leaned over the railing, staring at the pier below. Even though the ship was moving away from the pier, the V-shaped configuration of the carrier resulted in the flight deck overhanging the pier for a considerable distance. The carrier would be well off the pier before he would see water between the ship and the concrete.

Not much was likely to go wrong, not now. Every senior ship-handler onboard was watching, bringing centuries of experience to bear on the evolution of moving away from the pier. Even his Chief of Staff, Navy Captain Jim Ganner, was watching, staring aft as though he could read the radio signals connecting the Officer of the Deck, the forward and aft observers and the tugs.

“Looking good, Admiral,” Ganner said finally, as though Coyote had been waiting for his opinion. Ganner had a way of sounding like he thought that any aviator around really needed the adult supervision of a surface officer. And that included his own admiral. No matter that Coyote had had command of Jefferson himself, as well as a previous command of a deep draft surface ship, both vessels far larger and more like the carrier than the destroyers and cruisers Ganner had commanded. In truth, Coyote judged himself a better ship-handler of a carrier than any surface sailor who’d commanded only smaller ships.

But it was only Ganner’s second week onboard, far too soon to be characterizing minor character flaws as mortal sins. Coyote would give him some rope, let him run with the bit for a while before he had to start jerking the man up short. He’d get him settled in before the first cruise — and if he didn’t, well, there were plenty of Navy captains around who’d jump at the billet. Plenty of ’em who’d know when to speak up and when to just stay out of the way. Like Ganner ought to be doing right now.

For the last thirty minutes, Coyote had paced the flag bridge, unable to settle down in any one spot. On the deck below him, the captain of the ship and his crew were making the final preparations for getting underway. Four tugs were already around the massive carrier, the lines firmly affixed. He heard the whistle blast from one that signified they were ready to commence operations.

Coyote knew all too well what was going on one deck below him. It was a nerve-racking game, to maneuver an aircraft carrier away from a pier, even with the assistance of tugs. Even more so when she was brand-spanking-new, not a scratch on her, with a price tag higher than that ever paid for any aircraft carrier before.

The flight deck looked strange empty, as did the hangar bay. There was not a single aircraft onboard yet. Oh, they would soon come flocking, just as soon as they cleared the harbor area and controlled sea lanes and could make their way to the flight operations area. Then the deck would be insane, as systems were tested real-time for the first time and the inevitable glitches sprang up.

In addition to flexing the flight deck and flight deck crew, the ship would also be testing every system in her engineering department. That meant full-speed runs, crash backs or emergency stops and emergency reverses, and a variety of tight turns and weaving maneuvers designed to give everything every possible chance to go wrong. There would be man-overboard drills, engineering casualty drills, firefighting drills, drills, drills, and more drills, until the entire crew and wardroom were ready to scream. And then there would be more drills.

But as grueling as the next two weeks would be, the honor of being a plank owner, or member of the first crew, made up for it. There would never be another acceptance sea trial, never another set of plank owners.

The handheld radio next to Coyote crackled to life as a stream of orders began issuing from the bridge to the tugs. Coyote listened critically, ready to step in if he thought the captain was hazarding the ship, but he could detect no flaw in the captain’s performance. Ganner kept up a running commentary, as though Coyote needed an explanation, before Coyote finally told him to keep quiet.

“Admiral?” A chief petty officer approached, a clipboard held in front of him. “Flash traffic, sir. I thought you’d want to see this.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Coyote reached past Ganner to take the clipboard, resisting the temptation to slap Ganner’s hand as he reached for it. Coyote had served a brief stint as Chief of Staff and he knew what the job entailed.

Yeah, so a chief of staff was supposed to run interference for his admiral and ensure that he only had to deal with stuff that really required his attention — so what? The chief radioman had been around the Navy just as long as Ganner and had been making the calls on radio messages for admirals for at least ten years. Sure, having Ganner screen routine stuff was a necessary part of the chain of command, but there were limits to that, too. What worked well in peacetime wasn’t always a good idea when flash traffic started flying around.

The carrier was moving so slowly than it was impossible to tell that she was leaving the pier and getting underway except for the one long blast sounded by the ship’s whistle and the order over the 1MC, “Shift colors.” Other than that, the only clue was the gradual opening of the distance between ship and the pier and the low vibration running through the deck.

Coyote scanned the message, then whistled softly. Without comment, he passed it over to Ganner, who scowled as he read it. “There goes the deployment schedule,” Ganner said when he’d finished.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Coyote said, perversely driven to disagree with Ganner although he had a feeling the man was right. “One antimissile shot’s not the end of the world. Nobody harm, no foul.” Even as he let the trite saying slip out of his mouth, Coyote knew he didn’t believe it.

Why didn’t they just let the missile go? According to the trajectory, it was headed for open ocean. Why shoot this one down when they’ve let others go before?

“Could be nothing at all,” Ganner agreed easily, although Coyote could see that he didn’t agree at all. Regardless of his faults, Ganner was no fool. “But it wouldn’t hurt to be ready for a change in the schedule. If we do get shipped out early, the time schedule’s going to be short. Not only supplies, but personnel as well. With your permission, I’ll tickle the system a bit, see if we can’t get some orders expedited.”

“Make it happen,” Coyote said. Maybe he’d been too judgmental — from the sounds of it, Ganner knew exactly what a chief of staff ought to be doing.

As the United States used her massive rudders and her propellers to twist her stern away from the pier, the tides pulled mightily on the bow, resulting in a sideways motion that brought her clear of the pier. The tugs remained tied off to the carrier until the ship had negotiated her turn toward the channel, and then, at the earliest possible moment, cast them off. The USS United States was underway, making way and ready to answer all bells.

Coyote finally saw a strip of water between the ship and the pier, a dark swath of oily, dirty ocean that he was glad to be away from. Yes, the USS United States was ready — but ready for what? They might have a chance to find out sooner than any of them had planned.

By the time they’d transited the toll road running from Virginia Beach to the naval base, there was evidence of additional activity at the gate. The guards were checking ID cards and the already long line of cars was growing. The threat condition assigned on a board located next to the guard shack had gone from condition white to condition yellow. As Lab Rat watched, two men came out from the OOD’s office and removed the sign completely.

“Dear God,” Lab Rat said. “They’ve gone to condition Red. What the hell is going on around here?”

“I don’t know what it is, sir, or I’d tell you,” Frank said. Lab Rat had elected to leave his rental car at Tony’s Chowder Shack so that Frank could drive and he could eat. “The duty officer made it sound like it was for real, though. Full recall for selected commands, the JIC among them.”

“Not good,” Lab Rat commented around a mouthful of chowder. It was starting to cool and he was eager to get it all consumed before it clotted up. “Not good at all, from the looks of this mess. Selected commands around here must mean most of the base.” The crackers were still in a paper bag in front of him. All he wanted was chowder, and more chowder.

When they finally made it inside the front gate, the traffic was relatively light, although most of the parking lots were filling up. They waited until they were inside the foyer of the Joint Intelligence Center and then through the security hatches to talk further.

With Jefferson in the shipyard for the foreseeable future, one of the first priorities had been to find temporary positions for her ship’s company complement. Those that would be in no way involved in repairs, such as the staff of the intelligence center, were quickly sent to temporary duty elsewhere. Everyone was insisting it was temporary — there was no discussion that might indicate Jefferson’s eventual fate.

They were finally admitted through the locked doors to the inner sanctum of the intelligence center. Senior Chief Armstrong Brady, one of the most perceptive intelligence experts Lab Rat had ever known, was the first person they saw.

“Okay, quick version,” Lab Rat said. He pointed at Brady.

“Chinese missile test near Taiwan, except this time we think it will be an actual attack.” Brady stopped, to give Lab Rat a chance to absorb it.

Of course, it was not completely unexpected. The Chinese had been posturing in this way for decades. Not that they’d actually had the balls to do anything about it. That part of the world was extremely conscious of the potency of a force like the U.S. military, given the evidence of Nagasaki and Hiroshima so close at hand. In the back of their minds, there always lurked the memory of how completely devastating an attack on U.S. forces could be.

The only nation in the world to use nuclear weapons, and we’re surprised that nobody else forgets it, Lab Rat thought. He shrugged off the dilemma, and nodded his appreciation for Brady’s one-liner. “So what else? What’s the story?”

“That’s a problem, sir,” Brady continued. “Most of it’s human intelligence, HUMINT. This stuff from the SEALs — I gotta say, I agree with their intelligence estimates. But as for hard evidence…” Brady shrugged. They all knew that hard evidence was something you couldn’t expect in intelligence work.

“What’s the staff doing?” Lab Rat asked, referring to the intelligence personnel permanently assigned to JIC.

“They’ve already got a standard intelligence brief prepared for the area, of course,” the senior chief said. “Given that we’ve been there, they want us to look it over — see if there’s anything we can add from our personal experience.”

Lab Rat nodded. “Any indication from force commanders on what forces will be deploying?” he asked, knowing that was indeed the five million dollar question.

“Even with everyone working at top speed, Jefferson is at least a week away from getting underway.” Frank spoke with authority, since that was his area of expertise and he spoke daily with the maintenance forces back in San Diego. “Of course, if all they need is seaworthiness and no flight deck capabilities, it could be a lot sooner.”

“They could carry Harriers, at least,” Lab Rat said. “And helos, and logistic support. Maybe some aircraft maintenance depot stuff.”

“Yes, sir. And as for United States, a lot will depend on how her sea trials go.”

Lab contemplated the ceiling, the pieces falling into place in his mind. “Don’t count Jefferson out completely,” he said softly. “No, it’s far too early to do that. Okay, everybody, listen up. Suppose — just suppose, mind you — that there was a call to immediately staff the United States’ CVIC. I’m not saying it is going to happen, but I’d like a list of people who want to go, and a list of people who don’t. Senior chief, you handle that.” He turned to Frank. “Go sneak around. Find out what the thinking is at all the Fleet headquarters.”

“Yes, sir, I certainly will. If that new carrier is going to deploy anywhere suddenly, she deserves to have the best intelligence crew around onboard her.”

“And where you going, sir?” Brady asked.

Lab Rat was heading for his office to change into his khaki uniform. He paused for a moment and grinned. “San Diego. I’m going to go see my old friend, Admiral Coyote Grant.”

“Hope you’re a strong swimmer, sir,” Brady said, deadpan.

“Why?”

Brady handed him another message. “I figure if you can do fifteen knots in an overhand crawl, you ought to be able to catch up with her. She left for sea trials this morning.”

Batman swore quietly as he thumbed through the message traffic. With his own communications and intelligence staff temporarily reassigned, he was reduced to thumbing through the station’s message file like any other officer. After a couple of years of having his very own message boards, meticulously maintained and organized for his convenience, trying to read grubby-edged, blurry copies left him singularly cold.

Halfway through the most sensitive message board, Batman stopped breathing. He read over the details again, up to and including the Lake Champlain’s after action report, his heart thudding. When he finally realized that he was getting dizzy, he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The fresh oxygen invading his temporarily starved brain cells brought a host of ideas flooding in as well.

It was bad — real bad. Even though nobody was saying it, Batman knew that it wouldn’t stop with this one missile shot destroyed or the one incursion into Taiwan. No, it was all going to start going to shit soon enough, and going to shit in a big way. China, Taiwan, and then most probably Russia. The former Soviet Union would be tempted to stand by and let China and Taiwan and perhaps the United States battle it out, hoping that they’d exhaust themselves and be easy pickings. But Batman thought that they’d probably be unable to resist the opportunity to nudge things along a bit, maybe picking off some easy targets or taking advantage of the hostilities to make a covert grab for the Kurile Islands again. Whatever they’d have in mind, the fur was going to be flying over there.

And Batman was going to miss it all. Nobody wanted an admiral without a ship around.

But I do have a ship. So maybe she’s in a couple of pieces right now, but she’s still a ship.

Batman slammed the message board shut, startling a junior lieutenant at the other end of the battered table. The lieutenant stood, not entirely sure whether or not he’d done something to annoy the admiral, but not taking any chances of compounding the error by being rude.

“As you were, Lieutenant,” Batman snapped.

“Yes, Admiral.” The lieutenant swallowed hard, but didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stayed braced at attention while Batman immediately forgot about him and stormed out of the secure area. When the last door swung shut, the lieutenant sat down and breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t work for the fellow.

Outside, Batman’s car and driver were waiting. The admiral snapped, “Back to the ship, ASAP.” He settled himself into the back seat, his mind racing, and then reconsidered his destination. Right now, what he needed wasn’t on the ship at all. He already knew what CAG and the ship’s CO would say — there was no need to even consult with them.

“Sup Ships,” he said, using the short hand term for Supervisor of Ship Repair, the maintenance facility responsible for the major repairs now in progress. “I got a few favors to call in.”

While Sup Ships was not entirely enthralled by the idea, he immediately saw Batman’s rationale. If things were going down, better to be ahead of the power curve than behind it. Barring a return of the USS United States and any priority repairs she required, Sup Ships agreed to divert every available resource — as well as a substantial part of his end-of-the-fiscal-year slush fund to pay for overtime — into getting Jefferson back into operation. Batman left the man’s office completely satisfied with the promised effort, if wondering whether he’d sold his soul to the devil.

By the time he made it back to Jefferson, the tempo of operations was already increasing. The pier was swarming with more technicians, and they crawled along the massive exposed flank of the ship in huge clusters.

Batman’s maintenance officer met him on the pier, concern in his eyes. Batman waved off his concerns. “Sure, we have a pick-up team right now, but that will change if you can get her back in commission. This is going to be a come-as-you-are deal, and we ain’t no wallflowers.” Batman fixed the maintenance officer with a fierce glare. “Now, you make up your mind. Your nation needs you — my ship needs you. Are you part of the solution, or part of the problem?”

The maintenance officer gulped, then reached his decision. “Part of the solution, Admiral. Please inform your staff that the USS Jefferson will be ready to answer all bells in two days. Now, unless you have something further for me, I’ve got work to do.” Without waiting for Batman’s answer, the maintenance officer turned and strode back down the pier.

Batman stared after him, at first mildly pissed and then truly pleased. His ship might be crammed with maintenance weenies and repair folks instead of operations specialists and pilots, but maybe, just maybe, he could turn them into what he needed.