Nuke Zone

7

“Lieutenant,” the starboard lookout howled. “I got it, sir–I got it!”

The officer of the deck darted across the bridge and jumped over the combing around the edge of the hatch. His foot caught on it in mid-leap, and he stumbled out onto the bridge wing, fetching up against the alidade.

“What is it, Simpson? Dammit, you keep yelling. Didn’t anybody tell you how to make a proper contact report?”

The lieutenant’s tirade came to a dead stop in midstream.

The lookout grabbed the lieutenant by the left shoulder and turned him around so that he faced out toward the sea. The sky was partly cloudy, and the moon obscured by the overcast. Nevertheless, there was enough ambient light for the surface of the water to be clearly visible.

“Just look, Lieutenant.” The lookout pointed.

The officer stared, his eyes slowly resolving the pattern of shape and motion into the vision that had so excited the lookout. He grabbed the sound-powered phone microphone that hung around the lookout’s neck.

“Combat, OOD. Set Condition Two AS. I’ve got a visual on a snorkel mast, range four thousand yards, bearing zero-four-zero. If sonar’s not holding it, I damned well want to know why.”

The officer dropped the sound-powered phone and leaped back into the bridge, clearing the combing this time handily.

“Ensign Carter, set Flight Quarters. Roust those helo smart-asses out of their racks. I want that bird turning in fifteen minutes.”

The ensign nodded, then turned to the boatswains mate of the watch. “You heard the lieutenant. Set Flight Quarters.”

As the first announcement blared out shipwide over the 1MC, the OOD called his CO, Captain Daniel Heather.

“They had to come up sooner or later,” Gator declared. He pointed at the small symbol now blinking red on the tactical display. “A partly cloudy night, being held down by the helos–man, he’s probably running low on battery power.”

“Helicopters or S-3’s?” his assistant watch officer asked.

In answer, Gator picked up the Batphone that connected him with the TAO in CDC. After a brief discussion, more of a confirmation really, Gator turned back to the watch officer. “Both. This time, that little bastard’s not getting away.”

“I know I should have gone to the carrier,” Lieutenant Commander Rando Spratley grumbled. “You fly the F bird, you go to the carrier and get a dipper. None of this two-crews-and-one-helo bullshit you get on a cruiser.”

He sighed, looking at his copilot for sympathy. “If we were on the carrier, we’d be pulling Alert 15 every fourth day–not every fifteen minutes.”

“So you say. But you sure as hell wouldn’t be officer in charge of a helo detachment. At best, you’d be the senior lieutenant commander in charge of coffee. And pulling a whole lot more duty-standing than you do now.

“Yeah, well.”

In truth, Rando wouldn’t have traded his tour on board the cruiser for duty on the bird farm. No way. Out here, it was just the Shiloh and her two helos, an eight-person aircrew detachment with support personnel along. They went alone and unafraid, and were capable of killing damned near anything that was looking to paint the profile of an Aegis cruiser on its conning tower.

Moreover, much as he hated to admit it, Rando drew a fair amount of satisfaction from his interactions with the black-shoe crew. Surface sailors were a different breed of people, that much was true. But they had their good points as well.

“Get our head back in the game,” his copilot chided. “That submarine went sinker fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know about you, but I want him bad, real bad. He’s a damn sight too close to my stereo for my comfort.”

“And just what the hell do you think I’m doing out here, playing with myself?” Rando snapped back. “If anybody would bother to give me a decent fly-to point, we might manage to get this mission started.”

“Coming at you now.” The copilot transmitted the location for the first sonobuoy to the pilot’s console.

“You’re right–too damned close,” Rando said. His voice was markedly more serious than it had been a few minutes ago. “Think that lookout really saw something?”

“No doubt in my military mind,” the copilot answered. “Besides, it wasn’t only the lookout–the OOD saw it as well.”

“And we’ll see it last.” Rando put the helicopter into a hard turn and headed for the first drop point.

“So why don’t we have him yet?” Batman asked. “People, I need answers–not excuses.”

Gator spoke up, his voice cool and level in contrast to the admiral’s. “Sir, the water gradient is for shit. There’s a strong negative sound-velocity profile. That’ll pull all sonar signals straight down to the bottom. And with as much garbage in the water as there is out here, the bottom’s going to soak up most of the sound energy. Active sonar, sounds coming from the submarine itself.” Gator shook his head. “This is a horrible ASW environment.”

“Like I said–no excuses.” Batman’s voice was ragged from lack of sleep. “If you think the water conditions suck, try living with them in your stateroom.”

Tombstone took one step forward and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do–not here, not in front of the watch team. Yet he knew too well the edge on which Batman was operating. Events were moving fast, too fast, and there were no decent explanations coming out of anyone. The crew, both on the ship and in the air wing, was getting jumpy.

But at least the aircrews could alternate Alert 15 watches. There was no relief for the admiral in command of a battle group, not really.

Tombstone had experienced that all too often during the days when he commanded Battle Group 14. And now, even though he was on board, his presence provided no relief for Batman. It was his battle group, his ship, and his air wing. Not Tombstone’s. To have offered to take off part of the load, to alternate in some sort of watch schedule with him, would not only have been tactically unsound, but would have amounted to an expression of no confidence in Batman’s abilities.

I’m Sixth Fleet now. Sixth Fleet. This entire body of water and everything that surrounds it belongs to me–the carrier too, only because it’s within my sphere of responsibility. The carrier from the outside.

Everything inside and everything that leaves its deck is his.

Tombstone pulled his hand back, satisfied that he’d managed to restore Batman’s perspective, at least for the moment. There were no long-term answers, and it was entirely possible that his own presence on board simply ratcheted up the pressure on Batman one notch higher.

But where else was he to go?

His own flagship was an electronically gutted hulk, still underway to Gaeta for extensive repairs. A year, maybe two–his uncle had made it clear that he wouldn’t be there that long.

Nevertheless, he hoped that his relief at Sixth Fleet got a better deal than this was shaping up to be.

“All right,” Batman said finally. “Look, people–you know your jobs.”

He shook his head wearily. Then his expression softened. “A diesel submarine close to Shiloh, that’s a tough target. I know you’re doing everything you can, as are the aircrews we have out there now.”

He jerked his thumb in Tombstone’s direction. “The admiral and I are going to go grab a cup of coffee.”

He glanced over at Tombstone, and saw the confirming nod. “If you see any indication of hostile intent or hostile acts, shoot the bastard. If you have a question, shoot first and call me later. If he’s outside torpedo range when you regain contact, put everything you’ve got right on top of him. The second he ventures within torpedo range or makes any other threatening move–hell, if its captain farts too loud, you kill him. Got that?”

Gator nodded. “Aye, aye, Admiral. We’ll get him.”

Batman led the way out of TFCC with Tombstone close behind. He paused outside in the empty conference room, sagging against one chair, holding onto the back of it for support. “I almost blew it, Stoney,” he said softly. He shook his head ruefully. “As many times as I’ve been on the receiving end of it, you’d think I’d know better than to lose my temper like that. Hell, they’re doing all they can–they’ve got tricks up their sleeve that weren’t even dreamed of when you and I were in their spots. They’re running ragged, and I let off steam at’em, just because I’m short a little sleep.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Admiral.” Tombstone’s voice was cold and sharp. “You did the right thing in there–but only after you fucked things up.”

Batman recoiled as if Tombstone had taken a swing at him. “I suppose you never lost your cool when you were in command?” Batman demanded, his voice rising again. “Dammit, Stoney-“

“For the foreseeable future, I’m your reporting senior,” Tombstone continued as though Batman hadn’t spoken. “Here are your rudder orders. First, you will reexamine your priorities. You have left standing orders that you will be rousted out of your rack over matters that do not necessarily warrant your personal attention. Admiral, we don’t know what the hell is going on out here. I understand your concern, and I applaud your diligence in trying to make every effort to ensure that another tragedy such as that which struck La Salle does not occur again.”

For the first time, Tombstone’s voice softened slightly. “But there are limits to what you can do. One of the worst parts of this job is that you have to pace yourself–when the balloon goes up, you’ve got to be well rested, alert, or at least able to manage a reasonable facsimile thereof. You can’t be there for every call. There’s no way.”

“That’s what your predecessor thought too,” Batman snapped back. “And as a result, he got his ship shot out from under him. That’s not happening on my watch, Admiral. No way.” He turned and started to walk away.

“And that’s the trick,” Tombstone said. “Deciding which ones are critical–and which ones can be handled without your intervention. Take this situation tonight, for example,” he continued, nodding toward the TFCC hatch. “You just did exactly what you’re paid to do–gave your people the information they needed about your intentions and wishes, clarified the tactical choices for them, and then left them to do their jobs. Batman–you don’t need coffee, not right now.” Tombstone pointed toward the admiral’s stateroom. “You need sleep.”

A long moment of silence stretched out between the two, broken when Batman finally shook his head. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

Tombstone almost smiled. “Some. But not the same one twice in a row. I learned something while I was out here. You will too.”

Batman shot him a suspicious look. “Is that an order to hit the rack, Admiral?”

“Merely a suggestion.”

Batman straightened. “Then may I assume that the admiral will be following his own advice? Because I’ll be damned if I can recall a time when I was called to TFCC when you weren’t right on my ass.”

Tombstone shrugged. “Point well taken.”

He turned to leave the room. “If you need me, I’ll be in my cabin. Other than that, you’re on your own.”

As the two admirals headed off at right angles to each other, each to his own stateroom, Tombstone paused at the hatch leading out of the conference room just as Batman reached his own entrance.

“Stoney?”

“Yeah?”

“We were never that young. And even if we were, we were a helluva lot hotter. Weren’t we?”

Finally, Tombstone did smile. “We thought we were. And right now, that’s all that matters.”

“Night, Stoney.”

“Night, Batman.”

It was sixty-four steps back to his stateroom. Sixty-four steps and eight knee-knockers, each one threatening to gash open a giant bruise on his shinbone as he lifted his tired legs to clear the ten-inch obstacles.

He turned left, then right along the starboard passageway, heading back toward the visiting flag spaces.

Two frames from his own compartment, Tombstone paused. He heard voices, one muttering angrily. At this hour of the morning, it caught his attention in a way that it wouldn’t have during the day.

He paused outside the hatch, read the squadron insignia, and felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. VF-95–his old squadron. How many times had he been up at this hour, going over some mistake he’d made in the air, swearing at himself for some trivial error. Feeling a little guilty, he tried to decipher the voices inside. There was only one, he realized–a man, talking to himself. A pilot, based on the phrases he caught. Mounted on the door frame was a small nameplate. It was Skeeter Harmon’s room.

Tombstone stepped closer to the door, then paused. Should he?

No, he decided. He tried to remember what it was like to be a junior officer, tried to imagine the horror and chagrin he would have felt had an admiral knocked on his door at–it was almost three o’clock in the morning.

Every pilot has his or her own particular nightmares. For some it’s a soft cat, for others it’s the fear of ejecting. Each one finds his own ways to deal with it, and there is little that an admiral can do to speed the process along.

Tombstone dropped his hand down by his side and turned back toward his compartment.

Inside the radio housing, delicate circuits clicked over microseconds, recording the passage of time far more accurately than was needed for the bomb’s purposes. Twenty seconds before the scheduled detonation time, two activating relays kicked over to their ready position. Poised just a millimeter over the metallic hard points that would complete the electrical circuit, they surged invisibly with the current poised over their tips.

As the timing circuit clicked over to 0300, both contacts closed the last millimeter of distance.

Tombstone took another step over another knee-knocker. The digital watch on his wrist chimed gently on the hour.

His world exploded.

Tombstone slammed hard into the bulkhead on his right. His shoulder hit first, followed a split second later by his head. His foot, still poised over the knee-knocker, caught the metal ledge on his heel, spinning him back into the angle formed by the knee-knocker hatch and the bulkhead.

His chin slammed into the steel and he felt something crumple in his mouth.

He slid down to the deck, barely conscious. In the passageway, rolling down fore and aft on a wave of sound and smoke and flames. Tombstone felt the heat, searing and instant. Then it subsided slightly as damaged nerve endings shut down. Instinctively, he buried his head in his hands, shielding his face and eyes. It was a natural movement for a pilot–the eyes, his most critical personal asset aside from testosterone.

As his consciousness faded out, he noted how oddly quiet it was.

He slid to the deck, his cheek still scraping down the gray-painted metal bulkhead, and collapsed into an ungainly sprawl on the deck.

The explosion threw Shaughnessy down the passageway, slamming her into a fire hose coiled and mounted on the bulkhead. The impact stunned her for a few moments. She lay on the deck, heard the gonging sound of General Quarters begin, and feet pounding down the passageway, without entirely understanding what was happening.

“Shaughnessy!” A young man crouched next to her, shook her gently by the shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Full consciousness returned slowly. Shaughnessy stirred, and groaned as the numbness in her back seeped away. “I think so.”

Every second, her mind cleared more and more. “Help me get up.”

The other sailor shot an anxious glance down the corridor, then held out his hand. “Come on. General Quarters–are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, a frown on his face. “You don’t look so hot.”

Shaughnessy shook her head, took a deep breath, and shoved his helping hand away. “I’m all right. Let’s get up to the flight deck.”

The other sailor, Airman Mike Moyers, led the way. They darted down the passageway, keeping with the flow of sailors scrambling for General Quarters stations, then went up one ladder to the flight deck. Both were assigned to Repair 8 as their General Quarters station, the damage-control team that was responsible for the flight deck.

As they stepped over the knee-knocker and onto the tarmac, Mike grabbed Shaughnessy by the shoulder again. He pointed aft to a cluster of people. “There it is–thank God, no fire.”

Shaughnessy nodded. Of all the disasters they could face on board the carrier, a flight deck fire was one of the worst, second only to a fire in main Engineering. Uncontrolled, the flames could quickly engulf parked aircraft, weapons waiting to be uploaded onto wings, as well as the fuel outlets. In a matter of moments, a conflagration could destroy the entire fighting capability of an aircraft carrier. It had happened before.

“Let’s get suited up.” Shaughnessy took the lead as they darted toward their damage-control compartment. They joined a crowd of sailors thronging around it, struggling into asbestos-proofed fire-fighting ensembles, manning sound-powered phones, and generally gearing up for battle. It was the standard precaution. Even though there was no sign of fire now on the flight deck, there was no telling what damage the explosion had done below–and how it would spread.

Shaughnessy slipped the ensemble hood over her head, and the clear-tempered glass face mask immediately started fogging up. That was one of the worst parts about being suited up. While the gear provided excellent protection against most of the conditions a fire-fighting team would expect to encounter, the heat inside it quickly rose to a stifling temperature.

“Not yet,” the damage-control-party leader said, motioning to Shaughnessy. “Stand by, though–so far it looks like all we’ve got is structural damage.”

Shaughnessy gratefully took off the hood and took a deep breath of the fresh air. “What happened?”

Mike turned to her. “You were right down the passageway from it, weren’t you?”

“Are you hurt?” the damage-control-party leader asked. He assessed her carefully. “Big raw gash on your forehead–what else?”

“I’m fine.” Shaughnessy shook her head, aware of the ache that was already spreading down her back. “Knocked me around a little bit, but that’s all.”

“Well.” The damage-control-party leader dropped the matter, relying on her assessment of her own condition.

“But what happened?” Mike demanded again.

“I don’t know. I’d just passed an admiral in the passageway–Sixth Fleet, actually–and I was headed for the line shack. Then there was this big noise, and a flash. I must have hit the damage-control gear mounted on the bulkhead.”

She shook her head, remembering just how fast it had gone.

There hadn’t been time to react, not even time to be afraid. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. “The admiral–what happened to him?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else in the passageway, but it was dark too.” Mike shrugged, and touched her gently on the back of the head. “Repair 2 will be on it. If he’s there, they’ll find him.”

Shaughnessy nodded slowly. It wasn’t her problem, not right now.

Still, Admiral Magruder had been in command of her carrier battle group during her last cruise. He seemed like a good guy, as admirals went. Be a shame if something happened to him.

“What was the explosion?” she asked. “There’s nothing in that part of the ship that could detonate like that.”

Mike shrugged. “You’re right about that.”

An uneasy feeling wormed its way into Shaughnessy’s gut. Disaster was possible in any part of the carrier–she knew that. The entire structure was honeycombed with electrical lines, fuel lines, and myriad other conduits. There was nowhere that was entirely safe, not even the flag passageway.

But a fire in that area of the ship would more likely be electrical in nature, not explosive. Smoldering circuits, the stench of burning insulation–that was what she would have expected to find if she had been dispatched as primary investigator during a disaster. Not explosives. It was almost as though-

“You don’t think somebody could have planted a bomb on the ship, do you?” she said, hearing just how very terrifying the words sounded even as she said them. “Not a bomb.”

“Team Leader, Investigator.” The point man on the fire team crouched down low in the passageway over the crumpled form. “One casualty–send a corpsman up ASAP.”

“Investigator, Team Leader. Interrogative conditions in your area? The corpsman–can he make it up there?”

The investigator assessed the condition of the passageway. The bulkheads were charred and black smoke still boiled and eddied about him.

Still, there were no signs of an actual fire. Not yet. That was his role on the damage-control team, to be the first in, to report back to the team leader, who could then decide how to dispatch his fire parties and desmoking teams.

“Put him in a suit, but I don’t see any flames around. And get the desmoking teams on this–that looks to be the main problem right now.”

“Roger.”

The investigator knelt down by the body and ran his hands gently over it. There were no obvious signs of damage other than unconsciousness–it could be that the victim had simply been overcome by the smoke. But the position he was lying in indicated that he hadn’t dropped gently to the deck.

The investigator glanced down the passageway, trying to locate the original source of the explosion. It couldn’t be too far, and there was every chance that this casualty had been caught in the immediate vicinity of it. No, better not to move him–let the corpsman take a look at him first. If he had hit the wall, maybe slid down from there, he could have fractured his neck or his back. To move him now would be to risk permanent paralysis.

Leaning over him to look at the other side of the man’s uniform, the investigator checked for a name. It was one of the things he would want to report immediately to the team leader, to answer questions about why the injured sailor hadn’t shown up at his General Quarters station.

As his eyes lit on the collar, the investigator sucked in a hard breath. Stars. He brought his portable radio back up to his mouth. “Team Leader, I’ve identified the casualty. It’s Admiral Magruder.”

“The admiral? Are you certain?”

“Unless you know somebody else on board who’s got three stars on his collar, that’s who it is.”

“Roger. The corpsman is on the way.”

The investigator stayed with Admiral Magruder until two other team members showed up accompanying the corpsman. He left the admiral in their care, and proceeded on down the passageway to complete his preliminary examination.

Near the admiral’s quarters, the nonstructural bulkheads were twisted and warped. The smoke was thicker, and the scent of it seeped in under his ensemble hood. He pulled it down tighter, breathing out a heavy breath to clear it out.

Around the corner now, easy, don’t be getting in a rush. It looks like this is where–yes. The investigator picked up his radio for a third time. “Team Leader, in Compartment…”

He glanced up at the overhead and reeled off a series of figures from the barely legible brass plaque. “I have a possible Class Alpha fire.”

The investigator could hear the feet, the noises of a fire team moving as quickly as they could in their cumbersome gear. The hose slithered across the deck, clunking as the metal joints between sections scraped over the knee-knockers. A few moments later, he saw the lead hoseman materialize out of the smoke.

The investigator stepped back and let the rest of the damage-control team have complete access to the area.

Not a bad one–not as fires go. From the looks of it, most of the damage was done by the initial explosion. Just some residual fire–should be easy to extinguish.

The investigator left the scene and began circling through the adjoining compartments, checking for where the fire might have spread.

Another investigator was also checking the decks immediately above and below, although Repair 8 would have primary responsibility for any damage on the flight deck. Still, it never hurt to double-check. Fire had a way of doing that aboard a ship, creeping along through empty spaces and between decks, getting out of hand before a fire party really knew what was happening.

Twenty minutes later, the investigator was satisfied that the damage was limited to the 03 level of the carrier in a small square centered around the admiral’s stateroom.

“Admiral– do you know where you are?” The voice was kind, yet insistent. “I need for you to wake up now, Admiral. Come on, I know you can hear me.”

Tombstone felt like he was underwater. The voice was barely audible, as though someone were talking a long way away. It sounded muffled, dampened by the sea. He tried to move, and felt the same sluggish restraint he always noticed when skin diving.

“Admiral– talk to me.” The voice again, closer now, and louder.

Tombstone felt a groan shudder up from his gut. He twisted, and that small movement brought pain flooding into him from all over. The groan deepened, forcing its way out from between his lips against his wishes.

“Good–I knew you were awake. Open your eyes now, please.”

Tombstone tried to obey, and felt the light slowly creeping up under his eyelids. It was lighter now, but the shapes around him were oddly fuzzy and indistinct. “Where am I?” he managed to croak. His throat felt as though it were on fire.

“You’re in Medical, Admiral. There was an explosion and a fire in your quarters. You were injured–not seriously. You’re going to be fine.”

Tombstone squinted, trying to resolve the blurs into faces. Finally, one familiar to his eyes swam into view. “Batman.”

Batman laid a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Take it easy there, Stoney. I didn’t believe it possible, but that bulkhead was harder than your head. You just lay back for a while, let the doc finish checking you out.”

Batman shot the doctor a concerned look. “He says you’re going to be fine.”

“Help me stand up.” Tombstone’s voice was weak but insistent.

The doctor shook his head. “Not a chance, Admiral. You check out all right, you stay with us for another thirty minutes, then we’ll see about letting you move around. I’m not risking it at this point, not until I get the X-rays back and I’m sure you don’t have a concussion. Tell me, how’s your eyesight? Having any problem seeing me?”

The doctor snapped a flashlight on, flicked it across Tombstone’s pupils.

“No problems. I can see you fine,” Tombstone lied. “Just let me-“

Batman increased the pressure on his friend’s shoulder. “You lie your ass back down in that bed, Stoney, or I’m going to authorize the doc to put you in restraints. You got that?”

“Dammit, Batman, I-“

“It’s my ship, Tombstone.” Batman’s voice carried with it a quiet dignity. “Quit being an asshole and let me go take care of it. The doc only called me down here because you kept trying to roll out of the bed.”

“Okay.”

The efforts of the last few minutes had exhausted him, he was alarmed to find out. Tombstone lay back on the narrow mattress and stifled another groan. At least everything was moving, or seemed to be. He’d know for sure if they’d let him stand up. But there was no point in keeping Batman from his duties with a truculent childlike reaction from a senior officer. What he’d said was true–it was Batman’s ship. At this point in time, there was absolutely nothing Tombstone could do except stay out of the way.

“That’s better. Stoney, I’m going to leave, but I’ll be back later to check on you.”

“He’ll be fine, Admiral Wayne,” the doctor assured him. “Now that we’ve got him under control.”

The explosion. Tombstone tried to summon up the exact details from his battered brain, but remembered nothing more than hitting the wall.

He’d been headed back to his cabin, that much he remembered. There’d been a sharp flash, then–what?

Nothing.

What on the ship could possibly explode that way?

Nothing Tombstone knew about, not in that area of the ship.

A cold, clear dread settled in his stomach. It hadn’t been the ship, he knew with compelling certainty. Not the ship at all. Someone else–something else–had caused the explosion.

Sabotage.

“I demand to be briefed. Immediately.” Bradley Tiltfelt’s voice was cold, full of self-righteous rage. “It’s imperative that I be kept fully aware of what’s going on on this ship.”

“How bad is it?” Batman asked the damage-control officer. The Captain of the carrier was standing immediately behind the grimy and sweating damage-control officer.

“Bad enough, Admiral.” The engineer shook his head. “The damage below-decks is relatively minor. In relative terms, that is. A few staterooms, some personal belongings–nothing structural is damaged.”

“And the flight deck?” Batman demanded.

“You’ve lost the waist catapult. There’s no way around it, Admiral.

The flight deck is slightly warped, and I can’t be sure the shuttle run is even straight, much less that it retains sufficient structural integrity for launches. If we absolutely had to, like if we were in the middle of the war–well, you might chance it. But it would be just that–a chance. It might break loose the first launch and blast shrapnel into your flight deck crew and your aircraft, or it might actually work for a while. That’s even assuming it’s straight and it doesn’t tear itself apart under the steam pressure. Or that it holds pressure at all.”

The engineer shrugged helplessly. “Without a lot more facilities than I’ve got on the ship, I just can’t tell. For now, my recommendation is no flight operations whatsoever off the waist catapult.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Batman’s voice was cold and determined. “But at least we have the two forward catapults still working, right? No problem with them?”

The engineer nodded, the Captain of the aircraft carrier also nodding thoughtfully behind him. “As far as I can tell, there should be no problem with the forward catapults. There’s enough separation that maybe there was a little stress on the deck there, but not enough to throw it out of true. There are no signs of damage, at any rate–I’d like to have the shipyard look it over next time we’re in, but I think it’s safe.”

Think it’s safe. Batman nodded. That would have to do for now.

“Admiral?” Tiltfelt’s voice was sharp, demanding. “Did you hear me? What does all of this mean?”

Batman whirled to face the civilian. “It means that we’ve lost a part of our fighting capability. Sir.”

Batman let the last word drip venom. “Not so much that we’re sitting ducks, but we can’t launch as rapidly as we’d like to be able to. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?”

“What do you mean by speaking to me in that tone of voice?” Tiltfelt’s face was flushed.

“I mean that I have a job to do and you’re getting in my way. Sir, I’ll tell you everything you need to know–when I can. But I’m not going to let what amounts to a courtesy back-briefing to a civilian interfere with my ability to conduct operations off this carrier. Is that absolutely clear to you?”

“Why you-“

Batman cut him off. “Because if it’s not, then it would make me happier than shit to strap your soft little civilian butt into a COD, throw it off the pointy end from one of my two remaining catapults, and send your ass back to the States. At least that way I won’t have to put up with having a convention of saboteurs aboard my ship.”

Bradley Tiltfelt stood and drew himself up to his full height. At six feet, three inches, he was an imposing figure. Even rousted from his stateroom in the middle of the night by the explosion and General Quarters alarm, he managed somehow to look as though he’d spent hours getting dressed. The clean, crisp white shirt, the old school tie so carefully knotted–in spite of himself, Batman was grudgingly impressed. Almost as much as he was dismayed by the State Department representative’s inability to understand the situation in which Batman now found himself.

“If you are implying that any of our allies are responsible for this unfortunate occurrence, then I certainly hope you have the facts to back you up,” Tiltfelt said coldly. “Otherwise, I’d suggest you keep your paranoid ravings to yourself.”

“Just who on this ship do you think would want to set a bomb off, mister?” Batman exploded. “Some seaman pissed because he didn’t get a letter from home? Or because the chief yelled at him? I don’t think so. We’re the ones who live here. We depend on this ship. And don’t you think it’s just terribly odd that the explosion occurred in Admiral Magruder’s cabin?”

“The only logical cause of this explosion is one of two things,” Tiltfelt continued as though Batman hadn’t spoken. “First, one of your subordinates has failed to supervise some sort of system properly and it exploded.”

Tiltfelt waved one languid hand in the air as though filling in the details. “I’m sure if you look hard enough, you’ll find that’s certainly a possibility. The second, of course, is exactly as you’ve outlined–some disgruntled sailor under your command, no doubt alienated by your lack of concern for his physical well-being and morale, has become sufficiently disgruntled to make this sort of statement.”

“That wasn’t a statement, that was a fucking bomb. Just how many sailors do you think have access to that sort of material?”

“Probably all of them, judging from the degree of leadership and organization I see on board this vessel,” Tiltfelt shot back. “And until you have hard evidence to back it up, you’d best refrain from idle and malicious speculation. Clearly, there is no reason for our guests to wish to disrupt the very peace process that they’ve initiated.”

“The State Department-” Batman roared. He was cut off by the appearance of a tall, shaken figure in the hatch leading to the passageway.

“Gets people killed.”

Tombstone stepped over the knee-knocker and entered the conference room. He looked at Batman, quelling his friend’s rage with a supportive look, then turned his gaze to Tiltfelt. “That’s how it always is, isn’t it? State starts yelling about diplomatic solutions and the second it goes wrong, they blame the military. Well, mister, maybe Sixth Fleet draws a little more water than you think it does. You’re excused, Mr. Tiltfelt. Please remain in your cabin until I call you.”

“Just where do you people get off with this?” Tiltfelt sputtered. He turned and looked at his aides behind him as though for support. “First you provoke an attack, and then you try to blame the logical consequences for your actions on the same parties. Just who do you people think you are?”

Tombstone smiled. “I think I know exactly who I am. I’m the commander of Sixth Fleet. And you’re here solely at my sufferance, Mr. Tiltfelt. Solely at my sufferance.”

Tombstone turned to Batman and said formally, “Admiral, may I have the use of your communications officer for a few minutes?”

“Of course, sir,” Batman replied in just as formal tones. “My ship is at your disposal.”

Tombstone nodded. “Have someone call in for me, please. Tell them I need a secure circuit to the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. He should be in his office at this hour, but if not, have someone hunt him down. It’s imperative that I speak with my uncle immediately.”

Tombstone turned back to Bradley Tiltfelt. “As you reminded me right after you arrived on board, my uncle is Chief of Naval Operations.”

Tiltfelt was almost apoplectic now. His color had deepened from red into a shade of purple that looked downright dangerous. “I don’t care if the president is your mother. You’re damned well not getting away with this.”

“Oh, I think I am. You’ll think that too after I talk to him.” Tombstone’s voice was almost mild, even more dangerous by the sound of it.

“Please remain in your stateroom,” he repeated. “I’ll call you if I need you–if that ever happens.”

Five minutes later, the communicator buzzed Tombstone on the intercom.

“I have the CNO’s office, Admiral,” the communications officer announced. “His people are standing by for you.”

Again, the delicate dance of elephants. The staff at the CNO’s office was not about to leave their four-star boss waiting on the line for a three-star fleet commander. Staff and assistants took the ranks of their bosses almost as seriously as the officers themselves did. More so in some cases. Tombstone sighed and picked up the receiver. “This is Admiral Magruder,” he announced.

“Admiral, good morning. Please stand by–the CNO will be on the line shortly.”

An annoying popular tune started playing softly on the line.

His uncle’s voice interrupted it seconds later.

“Tombstone. What the hell happened?”

“An explosion on board, sir.” Tombstone quickly sketched the outline of what had happened and the damage to the carrier. He concluded with: “State seems to think they carry a pretty big stick around here, Admiral. I need to ask you now–how much leeway do I have?”

He knows what I really mean, Tombstone thought. No matter how I phrase it, he’s going to read between the lines. I don’t have to tell him how much the whole idea of this conference pissed me off, that I know he sent me out of Washington before I could learn about it simply because of that. He knows what I would have said, how much I would have objected to it–and right now, sitting back there in D.C., he knows I would have been right. There were more advantages than his uncle had suspected to having a relative on the front lines, but this time the advantage was Tombstone’s.

“Tell me what you need, Stoney.” His uncle’s voice was taut, white anger lurking underneath. It was a characteristic the Magruder males shared, the icy cold exterior that masked a hot, volatile temper few of their shipmates suspected. “Tell me what you need.”

“A free hand,” Tombstone replied promptly. “Sir, the political battles and diplomacy need to be run from D.C.–not from my carrier. I suspect we’ll have evidence in the next several hours to prove that this incident was the work of someone outside of my crew or air wing. You know it was. Admiral, I’ve got twenty-eight foreign nationals on board my ship right now, half of them from a nation that already wiped out my flagship. In spite of what State says, this is not a diplomatic problem. It’s a military one. And I’m the man on the front line. I need to know now, sir–do I have your support or not?”

“Stoney, calm down.” His uncle’s voice was quiet and reasonable now, although Tombstone could still hear the anger simmering just below the surface. “I sent you out there for a reason. And no, although you didn’t say so, I didn’t tell you everything. The final details weren’t arranged when you left, but I suspected exactly this sort of ploy by the State Department, some sort of planning conference held on board your ship. I couldn’t put someone else out there, Stoney–I just couldn’t. The only one I can trust to give me a solid reaction, to do what I would have done if I were there, is you.”

“So where does that leave us, Uncle?” Tombstone asked, his own anger deflated by the anguish he heard in his uncle’s voice. “Where does that leave us?”

“With one slightly damaged but damned dangerous aircraft carrier,” his uncle replied immediately. “And it leaves me with some ammunition. If you need any scientific or forensic assistance, just say so. Otherwise, I’ve got what I need–proof that State Department’s ploy isn’t going to work. In the end, we’re going to save lives because of this, lives that would have been wasted on some NATO peacekeeping plan or cockeyed idea of a presence mission. We tried it their way–now it’s our ball game.”

Tombstone’s load suddenly slipped off his shoulders. That he’d been in conflict with his uncle had made him acutely uncomfortable. During the years that he’d followed his uncle up the career ladder within the Navy, he’d felt a growing closeness to the man, a new appreciation of the hurdles his uncle had cleared so handily as a junior admiral himself. Now, as the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Thomas Magruder held ultimate responsibility for the performance of the Navy. Tombstone knew that, no matter how hard he tried, he could never appreciate fully the pressure his uncle operated under. Sure, now that he’d had his own tours as a flag officer, he might begin to understand it–but never really understand, not unless he ended up sitting in that seat himself someday.

“Admiral, this is what I’d like to do.”

Briefly, Tombstone outlined his plan.

“Make it happen,” his uncle said instantly. “Here are your steaming orders–the formal Rules of Engagement amendments will follow, but for now I want you to know this. First, you will take all precautions necessary to prevent another attack on the carrier. I’m not there, and you’re on scene. I’ll let you make the call as to what that exactly entails. The tactical situation changes too rapidly for us to micromanage it from here. You make the call, Stoney–I’ll back you up. Second, try to stabilize the situation there.”

Tombstone started to protest, and his uncle cut him off.

“I know that’s a broad order, but again–I’m not here to micromanage. You need to start with finding out exactly what happened in the attack on La Salle and go from there. You can’t do that if you take any more damage. Those are your priorities, Admiral. Do you have any questions?”

“No, Admiral.” Tombstone’s voice was grim. “We won’t take the first hit–not ever. You can be sure of that. And I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of the rest of this tactical situation. As soon as I know anything, you’ll hear about it.”

“I expect no less.” His uncle’s voice took on a note of vicious glee. “And now I’m going to go cram your damaged catapult up somebody’s ass.”

Yuri walked back to the stateroom that he shared with the other senior Ukrainian representative. They followed a circuitous route, following behind a young seaman designated to guide them around the areas damaged by the bomb. Down two ladders, aft forty frames, then back up to the main 03 level. The acrid smell of smoke had already infiltrated the lower decks, although it was markedly less overpowering than it was on his own level.

It seemed to Yuri that his situation on board the carrier was increasingly precarious. His enemies were closing all around, both militarily and politically. The Turks as well as the Ukrainians were housed in this section of the carrier in a row of guest suites that ran partway down the corridor. He intercepted uneasy looks from them, pointedly accusing in some cases. He shook his head, trying to push away his fears. They couldn’t know–they couldn’t. There’d been no indications on his mission that he’d been detected at all, not even by his own radar.

And now the matter of the bomb. The missile, then the bomb–if the Americans uncovered any evidence, any at all, he dreaded to think what his future would hold. In his own country, there would have been a summary execution following a trial that might have lasted fifteen minutes.

Although he’d heard protests to the contrary, and seen some evidence on his own while on board the carrier, he had no real deep conviction that in the end the Americans would deal any differently with him than his own country would have.

How had he gotten involved in this?

His mind circled around that one question, trying to find a point at which to begin to think about it. All he was was a pilot, someone who wanted to strap a MiG on his ass and take huge bites out of airspace. He was a pilot. Yes, trained in tactics, trained to kill other aircraft. But in reality he suspected he had more in common with the American aviators than he did his superiors in Ukraine.

He’d seen the looks on the Americans’ faces as they walked the corridors on the way to the flight deck, watched them as they talked about the powerful Tomcat. At one point over dinner, the unreasoning impulse to join in the conversation had shook him like a strong gale. The urge to talk about airplanes, about flying, about all of the things that made life worthwhile for an aviator. From the carefully edited remarks and unclassified stories he’d heard in the mess, he knew that he had more in common with these aviators than anyone would have expected.

And the missile–God, the missile. The briefing had simply said that it was an advanced model, intended to detonate near the flagship. He’d thought it was conventional, had no reason to expect otherwise. There’d been none of the precautions he would have expected with a nuclear warhead, not the dosimeters, not the special protective gear, not the post-mission medical checks–nothing. Had that been meant to allay his fears, to deceive him?

Or was it simply evidence of what he’d come to know as a complete lack of concern on the part of his government for the people who worked around fissionable material.

It was an old joke, one grounded in cold, hard reality: Sailing on a Russian or Ukrainian nuclear submarine was never a family tradition. Too true, since the lead shielding surrounding the reactor had been cut back to minimal levels to allow more space for weapons and higher speeds. The residual radiation leaking into the submarine living spaces was enough to induce a high rate of cancer and sterility in the men who sailed in her.

And what about him?

How much had he been exposed to, flying with that thing on his wing all those hours?

Probably not much, the technical part of his mind concluded. Not too much, at least.

And what would he have done if he had known it was a nuclear weapon?

Refused the mission?

He shook his head, seeing immediately the difficulties that would have opened up. Refuse one mission and spend the rest of his life tainted with the fatal label: politically unreliable.

“Perhaps there is something we can do to assist our American friends,” Yuri said to the other Ukrainian. He glanced up at the overhead, wondering if there were listening devices planted in this area. Or perhaps the seaman escorting them even spoke Ukrainian–yes, that would have been easier to arrange than surveillance along a corridor they normally would not have used. “These last two hours–I overheard one aviator say there may be a problem with one of the catapults.”

“How can we assist?” The broad, Slavic face of his compatriot looked puzzled. He gestured at the aircraft carrier. “This is American technology, not Ukrainian.”

“But Ukrainians build the finest ships in the world,” Yuri said forcefully. “Even the Americans would admit that was true. After all, we built the Russian carriers, did we not?”

“Yes, of course. The catapult on those is closely modeled on the American system,” his compatriot said slowly. Comprehension began to dawn on his face.

“So if the Americans have some concern about their catapult, what better way to assist them than offer an inspection at our nearby Crimean Peninsula facilities? After all, Ukraine is well noted for her open and willing assistance to any nation in need. Even in the midst of this conflict, we provide assistance to Turkey to combat the aftereffects of their own aggression, do we not?”

Yuri waited, letting the point sink in. A smile played around his lips as he watched his companion begin to nod. “It would be a generous gesture,” his compatriot concluded finally. “Moreover, it would offer the Americans an opportunity to demonstrate their trust, to cement their relationship with Ukraine. Their intelligence sources can tell them that we already have a working catapult system. Indeed, I would be very surprised if they do not have all of the details available immediately. And what we are offering is certainly nothing that would compromise their security. It is merely engineering services, the equipment and machinery and expertise that would allow them to assess the true operational status of one third of their launching facilities.”

“With the Americans the only nation to stand between Ukraine and the Turks, their presence in the Black Sea would be most welcome.”

And that, Yuri thought, would be of particular interest to the admiral. Particularly if he is eavesdropping on this conversation and believes that we do not know it. And especially if he is concerned about that catapult.

“I will make the offer,” the senior representative concluded finally. “After I check with my superiors, of course.”

He gazed approvingly at Yuri, the merest glint of acknowledgment in his eyes.

He understands, Yuri thought. Understands, and sees the advantages to it. Yuri felt chilled for a moment now that the danger had passed. He had been uncertain as to exactly how much of the entire plan the other man knew. Enough, it now appeared. Probably not all, but enough.

By the time the first call for morning chow went down, the plan was finished. Tombstone lifted his head from the chart of the Mediterranean and Black Seas spread out in front of him. He scanned the faces of the other officers seated around the conference room, noted the drained, sober look in their eyes, felt the distinct stirrings of pride as he thought about the last three hours. From disaster–to a plan. Even as the smoke was being cleared, the last traces of fire-fighting water siphoned over the side of the ship, and reflash watches set, the staff had done exactly what they were supposed to do–analyze the situation and the alternatives and come up with something that would work.

And his uncle–how could he ever have doubted him?

The same genes that had taken his father over to Vietnam, never to return, had rocketed both uncle and nephew up the ladder of responsibility within the Navy. It would have been impossible to have misjudged him so much, simply not believable. In the end, dealing with issues and pressures that Tombstone could not fully comprehend, his uncle had come through with the right answer.

“Then it’s settled.” Tombstone reached out one finger and circled a large area of the ocean. “Effective 0800, we’re declaring a no-fly zone one hundred and fifty miles around the carrier.”

“With a few exceptions, of course,” Batman chimed in. “I think we hammered that out pretty fairly. Commercial flights on a published schedule may proceed within one hundred miles of the carrier if they contact us ahead of time and arrange for a VID at the three-hundred-mile point.”

Batman shrugged, evincing little sympathy for the commercial air traffic. “It may slow them down some, screw up some connecting flights, but better them than us.”

“I think they realize that,” Tombstone said soberly. “I’d be surprised if half the flights aren’t canceled anyway.”

Tombstone leaned back in his chair and said, “There’s one other matter. We’ve talked around it all morning and haven’t really resolved it. Responsibility for this bomb attack.”

A quiet murmur started around the table as the officers discussed their theories with their neighbors.

Tombstone cut it off with a wave of his hand. “Lots of arguments on both sides. But this one is my call.”

He turned to Batman. “Arrange a COD flight. I want all foreign nationals off this boat by noon. Every last one of them.”

“Of course, you have my deepest apologies for the inconvenience,” Bradley Tiltfelt said. The two Ukrainians stared at him impassively. “I assure you we have every intention of going forward with this investigation. As soon as I am able to contact the State Department again, this will be promptly straightened out. Promptly.”

“We could continue the matter in Ukraine perhaps,” the older of the two men suggested. “We would of course be willing to host those meetings ourselves.”

Tiltfelt nodded agreeably. “I plan on urging my superiors to take advantage of that very generous offer. As for Turkey–well, she may be somewhat reluctant to join us. A shame–it is always preferable to have all concerned parties sitting around the table while these matters are resolved.”

“There is one other matter as well,” the elder Ukrainian said. “Your ship.”

“As I said, sir, that will be straightened out as soon as I can contact my superiors. Unfortunately, the one radio circuit that I’m allotted seems to be severely affected by local sunspot activity. The admiral assures me it should clear up by this evening.” Tiltfelt let his voice express his utter disbelief in this statement.

“When you speak with him, there is one other matter we wish to offer,” the Ukrainian continued. “We have heard about the damage to the catapult. It is a serious matter, as the Americans are the only force capable of standing between our country and Turkey. In return for continued protection by this aircraft carrier, we would offer the services of our excellent repair facilities in Ukraine.”

He held up one hand to forestall objections. “It is possible you do not wish the repair work to be done there. May I assure you, we will not be offended if that is the case. However, if the damage is less than you expect, we should be able to reassure you on that point. And you may consult your intelligence people as you wish. There is nothing about your catapult systems that we do not already know.”

And have improved on, Yuri thought. Still, it would be nice to see one of yours myself.

“Why… why…” For a moment Bradley Tiltfelt seemed to be at a loss for words. “A most generous offer. Really, this is so–I cannot tell you how gratified I am. I shall of course urge my superiors to accept immediately.”

The two Ukrainians stood. “You will excuse us, but we have some preparations to make. I understand our flight is to be leaving shortly.”

“Of course. And again, my sincerest apologies for this inconvenience. I hope to see you both in Ukraine in the near future.”

The Ukrainians nodded. “Bring your aircraft carrier, Mr. Secretary. We will show you how valuable a friend Ukraine can be.”

As he watched the two men leave, Bradley Tiltfelt felt an overwhelming rush of exhilaration. This was what diplomacy was all about, and he’d been absolutely right to come here in person. Because of his personal intervention in this situation, a new bond of friendship was about to be forged between Ukraine and the United States. And it was all due to him, his foresight, his intuitive understanding of the ways of nations.

Bradley Tiltfelt was so happy he could almost cry. Vindication, particularly sweet following on the heels of the abusive treatment from the United States military. When this opportunity was presented to the United States, Tiltfelt’s stock would soar to record levels. Never again would a man in uniform embarrass him as Admiral Wayne had earlier that day. And as for Admiral Magruder–both of them, now that he saw how their nepotistic relationship influenced national policy–both of them would pay.

“Absolutely not.” Tombstone felt his temper careen up toward dangerous levels. He glanced across the table at Batman, and was not surprised to see a similar expression on his old wingman’s face. “We are no more taking this carrier into port in the Crimean Peninsula than we are-“

Words finally failed him, lost in the red haze of his outrage. “You understand that one of those men could have been responsible for the bomb planted on my ship?”

“And you would have us turn over custody of our ship to them?” Batman asked, his voice a dangerous, low growl. “I ought to have you shot.”

Tiltfelt recoiled slightly. “You misunderstand, Admiral. There would be no ‘turning over,’ as you said, at all. We would simply make use of some superb shipyard facilities to determine whether or not your catapult is as damaged as you think it is. The Ukrainian workers will be accompanied by American sailors every step of the way. They will not be permitted below-decks, except under escort to inspect and test certain portions of the catapult.”

Tiltfelt frowned for a moment, marshaling the facts he’d been briefed on only fifteen minutes earlier. “As I understand, you’re concerned about two things. First, the structural integrity of the shuttle and its adjoining mechanisms. Second, whether or not the explosion warped the deck sufficiently to throw it off straight and true. This doesn’t sound like it necessitates invasive testing. Not at all. Merely a correct truing and faring gear to ascertain the true extent of the damage.”

“But in Ukraine!” Tombstone still sounded adamant. “For all we know, they were behind the bomb.”

“I doubt it. It was most probably the Turks. After all, they’re the ones who attacked La Salle in the first place.”

Batman’s face crumpled slightly. “I don’t know, Admiral.”

He shook his head, reluctantly conceding a small point. “With La Salle out of commission, we could have a hell of a lot to handle in this part of the world. If that waist cat is okay, I’d sure like to know it. It wouldn’t take long–maybe eight hours.”

He turned and studied his old lead carefully. “Maybe we should talk about this alone.”

Tiltfelt stood. “I will be glad to excuse myself,” he said stiffly. “But before you arrive at a decision, you should understand this–that I have little doubt that both of our superiors back in the United States will agree with this, at least in principle.”

He turned to Tombstone. “Your uncle because he needs every ounce of combat capability in this part of the world, or at least so he feels. And my superiors will see it for what it truly is–-an era of unprecedented cooperation between Ukraine and the United States. If we turn this generous offer down because of old, outmoded hostilities, we lose the possibility of having extensive landing rights in Ukraine.”

Tiltfelt’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the possibilities. “Suppose your fears are true and there is someday a resurgence of Russian nationalism? What if you have to fight them again? Wouldn’t Ukraine be a perfect staging area? Long airfields, the Black Sea as an entry point for an amphibious force, flat plains to accommodate tanks and other equipment in a dash north–doesn’t that sound appealing?”

Tiltfelt tried to keep the disgust out of his voice as he delicately dangled the bait. “In short, would you throw away a superb strategic staging point just south of Russia based on something you can’t even prove–that the Ukrainians were behind this bombing?”

He was quietly pleased when he saw Batman and Tombstone exchange a telling look, and felt the thrill of earlier exhilaration surge back through him. He was on a roll, riding the crest of his own superb abilities, and there was no way that the two admirals seated in front of him could withstand it. None at all.

“We’ll talk about it,” Tombstone said finally. He turned his back on the State Department representative as though dismissing him. He looked back over his shoulder at Tiltfelt. “And let you know. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

Tombstone pointed at the door.