21

PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII
0752 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 11, 2006

Bright island sunlight flooded the combination kitchen and breakfast nook of Elliot Macintyre’s flag quarters.

“But, Dad … “

The Admiral grinned to himself as he listened to the classic agonized cry of the American teenager. It was a sound he hadn’t had a chance to hear often enough in his life.

“Look, Judy,” he said in an equitable manner. “I know that all the kids go over to that nude beach at Waimanalo. I’m also certain that you’re mature enough to cope with it. Unfortunately, I’m not. Forget it.”

His daughter, fifteen and growing swiftly into the same kind of midnight-haired beauty that her mother had possessed, sighed dramatically and turned back to the kitchen range. Macintyre grinned outright and returned his attention to the morning paper.

As with anyone doing duty in the services, his career responsibilities had kept him away from his family far more than he had liked. With Judy, his youngest child, and the only one still living at home, he was enjoying his last opportunity at fatherhood.

Breakfast had become an unspoken pact between father and daughter, an atonement for their many separations. Come hell or high water, they would try to sit down at the same table and eat together as a family at least once each day.

“Then can I at least go over to Kirn’s this afternoon?”

Judy went on, deftly popping slices of Canadian bacon into a hot pan.

“Is everybody going to have their clothes on?”

“Father!”

“Be my guest.”

The phone rang, and Macintyre pushed his chair back from the table. “I’ll get it.”

“Okay. How do you want, scrambled or fried?”

“Scrambled. Two.”

He crossed over into the living room with its split-bamboo paneling and comfortable, eclectic collection of furnishings.

The telephone deck was located on a reading table at the end of the couch.

“Macintyre,” he said crisply into the handset.

“Admiral, this is Commander Doyle over in Operations.” Macintyre recognized the voice and the name of his morning duty officer. He also recognized the formalized urgency in the man’s speaking demeanor. “This communication will require a secure line, sir.”

Macintyre reached down and keyed the tap nullifier and scrambler on the phone’s security unit, pausing a second to verify that the check lights came on.

“We’re secure, Commander. Go ahead.”

“There has been a problem with Operation Uriah, Admiral.”

The watch officer’s voice now carried the slight stammering buzz of a digitally encrypted telecommunication line.

“The Cunningham has been involved in a live-fire incident off the Chinese mainland.”

Macintyre’s jaw tightened and he felt his heart rate begin to climb. “Specifics?”

“A missile exchange with Red coastal batteries. Also with their light forces. Two, possibly three, FAC engaged and sunk.”

“How about the Duke? Has she taken damage?”

“No damage or casualties reported. Captain Garrett has apparently successfully disengaged and is clearing the area now. She is requesting to talk with you, sir.”

“Right. Inform CINCPAC and Seventh Fleet. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Macintyre hung up the phone and reached for his uniform cap sitting atop the living-room bookcase.

Out in the kitchen, Judy had overheard Macintyre’s end of the conversation. Swiftly, she stacked half of the bacon between two slices of toast and had the ad hoc sandwich wrapped in a paper towel, ready for her father as he passed through enroute to the garage. He accepted it and gave her a quick hug in return before striding on.

“Sorry, honey. I have to go.”

“I understand.”

She did. She was an admiral’s daughter.

* * *

Truth be told, Macintyre wheeled his elderly Porsche Targa into his parking slot behind the administration complex within four minutes of his hanging up. He gritted his teeth at the sentry post, begrudging his own orders that made an active security check mandatory for everyone entering NAVSPECFORCE headquarters, including himself.

A minute more, and he was in the operations center. It was a cramped facility, a double row of workstations shoe horned into a smallish room that had at one time served as an enlisted men’s cafeteria. Its walls were lined with glowing Large Screen Display telepanels, and the interior lighting was kept low.

The watch officer looked up as Macintyre entered. “Good to see you, sir. I think we may have something of a situation developing here.”

Macintyre joined Doyle in front of the graphics display of the Chinese coast. “What’s the latest?” he demanded. “NSA is recording a major spike in the Red Chinese command-and control nets. Their coastal-defense zones have gone on hot alert. Both Task Force 7.1’s duty Hawkeye and the Air Force’s AWACS patrol, out on Empire North station, are recording multiple aircraft launches from air bases in the Shanghai region. Intent unknown.”

“Has Admiral Tallman been made aware of what is happening?”

“Yes, sir. Task Force 7.1 has closed up to general quarters. As yet, there have been no further live-fire events recorded.”

“Okay … Where’s the Cunningham now?”

The watch officer indicated a point on the flatscreen.

“About twenty-five miles off the coast, proceeding east. They’re still clear. The Reds have not reacquired.”

Macintyre allowed himself to feel a degree of relief. His people were out of it for the moment. God knows what might happen next, but they had some time to sort things out.

“Give me a channel to Captain Garrett. And get me a copy of their current ops profile.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

There was a headset waiting for him in the adjacent communications room and a personal-computer pad loaded with the pertinent information.

“Milstar link established, Admiral. Cunningham acknowledging.”

“Put me through,” the Admiral replied distractedly. He speed-read the single-page summary of the tasking outline, refreshing himself on what the Duke had been attempting out there.

“You’re up, sir.”

“Thanks, son.” Macintyre keyed the lip mike. “Captain Garrett? This is Elliot Macintyre. What have you got?”

Amanda Garrett sounded weary beyond the radio channel’s encryption jitter, but she also sounded focused. “A major strategic development, sir.”

“That’s an understatement, Captain. You seem to have kicked somebody’s puppy. We’re seeing a heavy reaction from the Red coastal defenses and we’re reading you in at only twenty-five miles off the mainland. Are you sure you are secure enough to be dropping EMCON?”

“No choice, sir. I have a priority sighting report and I need instructions. My intel’s premise about Shanghai was correct.”

Macintyre glanced at the computer pad again. “You mean about the Reds having a major project there?”

“Yes, sir. We are datalinking our findings now.” Across the communications room, a printer began to spit out hard copy. Macintyre pointed and snapped his fingers, sending a radioman scrambling to retrieve the pages.

“I’m sorry about the mess, sir,” Amanda continued stiffly. “I accept full responsibility for the events in the Shanghai approaches. I’m afraid that I’ve failed your confidence.”

“As far as responsibility goes, Captain, you were operating under my orders. And as far as failing my confidence, that has yet to be seen. Stand by.”

The report was concise. Four pages of terse military phraseology, but the meat of it might have been contained in a single paragraph.

“Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Continue to open the range from the coast. As soon as you are clear, cross-deck over to the Enterprise and make a personal report on this to Admiral Tallman. I suspect that the two of you are going to have some things to talk about.”

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