Sea Strike

8

Clad in a worn set of work khakis, with a Cunningham baseball cap tugged low over her French-braided hair, Amanda Garrett lounged back in the bridge captain’s chair, one deck shoe braced comfortably against the wheelhouse grab rail.

They were exiting out into the deeper waters of Mamala Bay from the gut of Pearl Channel. Already she could note the darkening blue of the surrounding waters. Likewise, she could sense the first tug of the great open-ocean rollers coming in from the Pacific.

“All engines ahead standard. Make turns for twenty knots.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the lee helm responded from the central bridge console. Dropping a hand down to the lever studded control pedestal that separated him from the helmsman, he rocked the throttles and power levers forward.

The rushing whine of the great turbogenerator sets increased.

There was a palpable surge of acceleration as the Duke tacked on speed, the V of snowy foam streaming away from under her forefoot broadening in response.

“All engines answering ahead standard. Making turns for two-zero knots.”

Amanda smiled to herself, reveling in the sensation, as a skilled rider might enjoy lifting a thoroughbred stallion into a canter.

Off the starboard bow, one of the big Honolulu tourist schooners lazed along on a breakfast cruise, cheating on the wind with her auxiliary diesels. Her rail became a solid wall of camera and binocular lenses as the big man-of-war swept past, and humbly, the sailing ship dipped her flag in salute.

“Quartermaster, reply with two on the siren, please.”

The Duke’s air horns blared, echoes returning faintly off the receding shoreline.

The schooner drew away astern, and Amanda shifted her gaze to the row of repeater monitors mounted above the brow of the bridge windscreen. Seeking out the navigational radar, she checked her clearance with the cruise vessel.

Okay, looking good.

“Navicom status, please?”

“We are at initial point, Captain,” the duty quartermaster replied from his workstation. “SINS and GPU cross-referenced and verified. Course is on the boards and Navicom is ready-to engage.”

Another brow telescreen displayed a computer-graphics chart of the Oahu approaches, and a glowing set of departure headings now materialized on it, angling away to the west.

“Very well. Helm, engage autopilot and go to Navicom.”

The helmsman tapped a pattern into his systems keypad.

Smoothly, the Duke’s prow began to come around into the rising sun as she hunted for her new course.

“Steering two six five degrees true, Captain. Autopilot tracking on marked headings.”

“Very well. Pass the word to all compartments. Stand down from Condition Zebra. Set cruise mode in all spaces as per Plan of the Day.”

At that declaration, the bridge crew could allow themselves to relax. They were clear of the harbor, and from here, if necessary, the Cunningham could take herself to the rendezvous point ten days away off the coast of China. Amanda pushed herself out of her chair and stretched. “Okay, Mr. Freeman,” she said, addressing the Officer of the Deck “You’ve got the con and the start of a beautiful day out here. Enjoy.”

She went aft to the hot-water urn in the chart room and made herself a mug of tea from her private stash of Earl Grey. Flying in the face of the purists, she dumped a packet of creamer into the brew along with a couple of sugar cubes. Sipping appreciatively, she went forward again and out onto the starboard bridge wing.

Crossing to the rail, she assumed the traditional Navy slaunchwise lean against it, a few inches down from Ken Hiro. She’d noted that her exec had been lingering out here during most of the departure.

“Misa and the kids weren’t dockside this morning,” she commented quietly. “Is everything okay?”

Rather guiltily, Ken straightened. He was generally a little stoic, but today Amanda had taken him by surprise.

“Uh. sure, Captain, everything’s fine. They never come down to the pier anymore when we haul out this early. Instead, we have this thing that we do I say my good-byes the night before, then I sneak out of the house the next morning before anyone else is awake. Misa has an alarm set, and after I’m gone she gets the kids up and they drive out to Keahi Point.”

He nodded toward the shoulder of the passage they were sweeping past.

“They watch us clear port from there It’s just something that works for us.”

“Sounds like as good a way as any,” Amanda replied, nodding in sympathetic agreement. Looking aft along the weather decks, she noted that Ken wasn’t the only one drawing out his farewell. Little groups of Cunningham sailors were lingering along the rails, watching Oahu disappear into the haze behind them. It was an endemic situation in the New Age Navy. The somewhat older, more career oriented crews meant more hands with dependents to leave behind. It was the trade off that had to be made for their experience and professionalism. Amanda could understand their feelings, but she couldn’t say that she shared them. For her, whether she was conning an 8,000-ton man-of-war or a twenty-four-foot cruising sloop, heading out had always been a time of renewal, a chance to shake free of the dirt of the land and find new challenges. She knew that this mind-set stemmed partially from the fact that she wasn’t leaving anything of real import behind her. Early on in her career Amanda had realized that, if she was to gain a ship of her own, she would have to travel light. Accordingly, she had organized a life that could be carried in a pair of suitcases or contained in a set of cabin lockers, deliberately avoiding all long-term entanglements, either physical or emotional.

This total independence had worked well for her, and for some time now she had lived as contentedly self-contained as a turtle. Recently, though, she had begun to wonder if she hadn’t been a little too efficient with how she had engineered her world. Generally she managed to brush the thought aside as just a symptom of looming middle age, but, sometimes, looking at Ken and his family, she found herself thinking that maybe having something permanent somewhere to come home to might not be all that bad.

“Captain,” the OOD called from the wheelhouse hatchway. “Retainers Zero One and Zero Two are inbound and on rendezvous approach.”

Vince Arkady and his wingwoman, Lieutenant (j.) Nancy Delany, were coming home to roost.

“Very good, Mr. Freeman,” Amanda called back over her shoulder. “Go to flight quarters and bring the helos aboard at your convenience.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The vibrant growl of rotors filled the air and the Cunningham’s pair of SAH-66 Sea Comanches came into view astern. Fenestron-tailed and sleekly hunchbacked, the two small machines bore the slightly odd aerodynamics of stealth technology. A LAMPS variant of the U.S. Army’s latest generation of scout helicopters, their low detectability was intended to complement that of their mother ship. Tucked into a stylishly tight formation, they swept down the Duke’s starboard side a meager fifty feet above the wave crests. Maneuvering as if they were chained together, the two helos flared out and dumped speed, station keeping just off the snub wing of the bridge.

Looking across into Retainer Zero One’s forward cockpit, Amanda could see Arkady’s helmet turn toward her. Even through the tinted visor she could sense that damnable grade-school grin of his. She lifted a hand in greeting, and he gave an acknowledging nod. The noses of the two helos then dipped in unison and they gained speed, pulling ahead of the ship. As Amanda and Hiro watched, they popped up and into a flashy crossover break around the Cunningham’s bow, heading back to line up on the helipad.

Amanda took another draw at her tea and contentedly lounged back against the rail. On the other hand, there was still a lot to be said for being able to take everything that was important to you right along with you.