Target Lock

Indian Ocean 155 Miles Southeast of the Yemeni Headlands 0846 Hours, Zone Time: July 30, 2008

Details of the outfitting had changed, but the feel was the same. The ride of the low-set hull through the waves. The whirring whisper of the air through the ventilation ducts. The neutral warm paint and kerosene scent in the passageways….

Amanda made her way slowly forward through the Cunningham’s superstructure from the helipad, taking the time to savor it all. She had no complaints about her current command, but as any former captain can tell you, there is something very special about that one unique vessel you always remember as “your” ship. At night, her bridge is the one you always return to in your dreams.

Before heading up to officers’ country, she took a moment to stick her head into the wardroom. Here, beyond the freshened outfitting, nothing had changed at all. Her father’s commissioning portrait of the Cunningham still graced the starboard bulkhead beside the entry, while the naval aviator’s wings presented to the ship by her namesake, Admiral Randy “Duke” Cunningham, rested in their glass case to port. No, Ken wouldn’t let that change.

One level up in the superstructure, she dropped her seabag and brief case off in the ship’s minute guest cabin. The Duke’s accommodations didn’t run to flag quarters, and she’d flatly refused to have any of the cruiser’s officers shift living spaces for her.

With that done, she made the familiar climb up the ladder to the bridge level.

“Commodore on the bridge!”

“Stand easy,” she replied by rote; then for a long minute she just stood in the entryway, looking over the shoulders of the helm team seated at the central console and down the long, open stretch of foredeck to where that sharp-tipped bow cut the waves.

She’d briefly been back aboard on other occasions since the shift of command, for planning sessions and tours of inspection. But this was different: This was at sea and not bound to a dock somewhere. Here, she and the ship were both fully alive.

“Welcome aboard, ma’am.” Ken Hiro stood at her shoulder, a Cunningham baseball cap tugged low over his dark eyes. The Japanese-American’s usual reserve was totally shattered by the wide grin on his face.

Amanda quirked an eyebrow at him. “You two make a lovely couple, Ken. I knew it would be a good marriage.”

“The best, ma’am.”

“I’m pleased for you both. Ready to take departure?”

“Give the word.”

“Then make it so, Captain Hiro. Make signal to the Carlson that we are proceeding independently.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Hiro lifted his voice slightly. “Helm, engage Navicom. Select departure heading Easting one on your course presets. Lee helm, all power rooms to fast cruise. All engines ahead two-thirds. Make turns for thirty knots.”

Skilled eyes and hands played across the master console and power pedestal, calling up systems, rolling throttles and propeller controls forward, and verifying responses.

“Sir, Navicom engaged and the ship is tracking on course plot Easting one.”

“Sir, main engines and power rooms are indicating fast cruise. Ship is coming to thirty knots.”

The Duke trembled from her keel up, gaining way with each beat of her twin sets of contra-rotating propellers, and Amanda found herself reaching for a seat-back grab bar to steady herself against the surge of acceleration.

The cruiser’s bow wavered briefly as her autopilots and navigational systems hunted and found the great circle course that would take her across the Indian Ocean. Smoothly she swung to the new heading, the foam V streaming back from her cutwater deepening as she impatiently brushed the waves out of her way.

Hiro fired his net volley of orders into the command headset he wore. “Combat Information Center, this is the captain. Disengage Cooperative Engagement links and reconfigure for independent operations. Signals, you may inform the Carlson we are executing breakaway.”

Amanda drifted over to the port bridge wing door and peered aft. The Duke was pulling rapidly away from the Carlson, cutting across the LPD’s course line and leaving her to make her own more leisurely way east to the Indies. A dazzling point of light danced at the larger ship’s signal bridge, outshining even the glare of the Indian Ocean sun. No doubt the reply to Ken’s departure notice. To her surprise Amanda found she was going to miss the looming presence of the big amphib. Coming back aboard the Cunningham was like returning to visit the hometown where you grew up. The Carlson was where her tomorrows rested.

“What’s the word, ma’am?” Ken inquired, coming up behind her as she lounged in the hatchway. “I never had the eye for blinker code.”

“Let’s see: ‘Godspeed and good… hunting…. Break…. See… you… in… Singapore…. Break…. Leave… some… for… us.’ ”

Hiro chuckled. “I didn’t think Carberry would loosen up that much.”

“He’s not so bad, just different. And I seem to recall a certain exec of mine who tended to be a little bit stiff at times as well.”

“Well, that was before a tough lady captain knocked the starch out of me.”

They withdrew into the cool of the wheelhouse. “Any further orders, ma’am?” Hiro inquired.

“Not for the moment, Ken. Carry on. I’ll just lean back in a corner and watch some water for a while if I may.”

“Would you care to take the captain’s chair, ma’am?” Ken nodded toward the elevated seat on the right-hand side of the bridge, traditionally sacrosanct for the ship’s commanding officer. Amanda had lounged there for many a watch and sea mile.

She shook her head. “No, Ken, that chair belongs to the skipper of the Duke, and that’s you. I’m just a high-ranking hitchhiker at the moment.”

“Acknowledged and understood, ma’am. In that case, may the captain of the Cunningham respectfully request that the task force commander grace his personal chair with her presence for the remainder of the watch… just once, for old times’ sake?”

Amanda chuckled. “Request granted.”

She crossed to the captain’s chair and lifted herself into it. There was new padding and a revised bank of chair arm controls; yet the flick of her heel on the base ring still rotated it that forty-five degrees relative to the bow that permitted her to brace her feet comfortably on the bridge grab rail. Crossing her arms, she tilted the seat back and lounged. It still felt just right.

Maybe they were wrong. Maybe you could come home again, if only for a little while.