Target Lock

USS Carlson 1905 Hours, Zone Time: August 20, 2008

Commander Lucas Carberry had not minded catching the senior-officer-afloat duty for the evening. In fact, he appreciated the opportunity. It gave him a chance to pursue one of his own private passions.

Tonight’s project was of a favorite ship of his: the old protected cruiser USS Olympia, Dewey’s flagship at Manila Bay. The assembly wasn’t excessively difficult. Deftly filing and fitting the turrets and upper works was second nature. But as with all of the Edwardian age, pre-gray-camou naval vessels, the painting was the challenge, getting the white hull, buff upper works, and black masts and funnels just right, with no bleedover, and applying those faintest of hints of silver and gilt in just the precise places.

And all on a model two inches long.

His den back home in Philadelphia was lined with the dreadnought-age navies of the world, as well as with dozens of first-place and best-of-show awards for naval miniatures. Within the enthusiast’s snug world of naval war-gaming, owning a Carberry miniature had come to mean something. They were never sold, only given away as gifts to close friends or to individuals who had defeated Carberry in a combat scenario.

There were few who could make the latter claim. Carberry, like his miniatures, was something of a legend in war-gaming circles as well. A chubby, cold-eyed legend who could win the battle of Jutland with either side with equal ease, who had sunk the Bismarck and Prinz Eugen both with the HMS Hood, and who had turned the Battle of Tsushima Strait into a Japanese rout.

Tenderly he eased his latest creation down onto the droplet of glue in the center of its black plastic mounting plate, allowing his desk phone to buzz twice before freeing a hand to answer it.

“This is the captain.”

“This is the officer of the deck, sir.” The voice on the other end of the line was tense. “We have unusual activity quayside. Possible hostiles.”

Carberry’s own voice was precise and emotionless. “Have all security stations been alerted?”

“Yes, sir, we are at flash yellow both here and aboard the Cunningham.”

“Very well. I’ll be on the bridge momentarily.”

Carberry started forward, wiping a dab of paint from his fingers with a Kleenex.

The view through the LPD’s wide bridge windscreen presented no obvious call for alarm, only the broad concrete quay apron and the wall of gray and rust warehouses beyond it illuminated by a scattering of arc lights. Nothing moved, save for the foredeck security patrol and the gangway watch. However, the OOD and the Marine lieutenant serving as security officer of the watch both looked concerned as Carberry pushed past the light curtain.

“What do we have, gentlemen?”

“Sir, the task force moorage has been placed under observation, and we have detected the movement of a large unidentified body of men into the area. Their intent is unknown, but they appear to be deliberately staying under cover.”

“When was the activity first noted?”

The security officer fielded the question. “About five minutes ago, sir. A gunner in one of the 30mm mounts spotted a man on a warehouse roof watching us through a set of night glasses. We have a deck camera locked on his position.”

The Marine crossed to the console under the windscreen and called up an image on a brow monitor. On a magnified section of roof beside a ventilator box, gray-toned in the lowlight television, a man’s head could be made out peering over ridgeline binoculars set to its eyes. A second head bobbed up intermittently in the background.

“Our lookouts and the Duke’s have picked up on three other OPs like this one, covering the whole moorage area.”

Carberry nodded. “Interesting, and she’s the USS Cunningham, Lieutenant, let’s be precise. Now, what about the large bodies of men?”

“Uh, yes, sir, the Cunningham, sir. As for the large bodies of men, we have them located inside the warehouses on the mast-mounted sighting systems, FLIR mode.”

The Marine switched imaging systems, accessing the Forward Looking Infrared scanners.

This set of cameras did not see images of light but of heat: Focusing on the thermal radiance of the environment, they could look through visual impediments like darkness, smoke, fog, and, to a degree, walls.

The front of a warehouse appeared on the screen, the outline of its facade and doors hazy and almost ectoplasmic in nature. A large number of amorphous blobs of light could be seen within the structure, some of them moving intermittently.

“We’ve spotted four groups of about fifty men each, not one of whom has let himself be seen.”

“Anything on the radio watch?”

“We aren’t sure, Captain,” the OOD replied. “Signal intelligence indicates there may be something in the citizens-band ranges. Maybe just random make-and-break static of some kind, or maybe somebody doing a carrier click code on a number of walkie-talkies.”

Another captain, such as Amanda Garrett, would have asked opinions at that stage, but not Carberry. His subordinates had given him the required data; it was up to him as senior-officer-on-station and captain under-God to make the decision — in this case an effortless one. A false alarm would merely provide for a good training exercise, of which in Carberry’s opinion there could not be too many.

“Officer of the Deck, bring the task force to general quarters. Hush mode. Prepare to repel boarders.”

No alarm Klaxons clanged. No bellowing voices thundered over the MC-1. lnterphones and command headsets buzzed all over the ship, and call to arms was passed by word of mouth, division officers swarming down from officers’ country and CPOs from out of the goat lockers, yelling to seamen as they ran.

It was somewhat slower than a standard battle-stations call, but outwardly it left no sign of the explosion of activity within the hulls of the task force. On the Carlson’s bridge, the cruising watch stormed up the access ladder and manned their workstations. Light patterns began to shift on the consoles, going from the yellow of in-port standby to the green of ready for sea. Rows of monitor screens lit off, displaying ship’s status of not only the Carlson but also the Cunningham as the Cooperative Engagement interlinks came up.

The standard deck patrols, alerted through their headsets, maintained their even pacing as per the ops plan, but other Marines appeared topside. Fully armed and armored, they snaked up through the vertical hatches and belly-crawled to their posts in the superstructure and along the deck edges, staying low and out of sight.

On the bridge, as per the call to general quarters, all hands had grabbed Kevlar helmets and combat/flotation vests en route to their battlestations. Now a female rating hurried forward from the arms locker, burdened with pistol belts and side arms. Distributing them, she went back for a second load of shell bandoliers and combat shotguns.

The task force bristled, awaiting assault. Any force launching a surprise attack on it would be met with a very nasty surprise. Which was the entire intent of the exercise.

“The task force is at general quarters, sir,” the OOD stated from behind the master helm console. “Ships are ready to repel boarders and are ready in all aspects to commence power up and to get underway.” He glanced over at a Marine demolition specialist standing by in the corner of the bridge. “Ready to execute emergency unmooring procedure.”

“Very good, Mr. Johnson.” Carberry stood stolidly, his hands clasped behind his back, helmet and flak vest stacked on the chart table beside him. “I think it’s time we advise the task force commander about the situation.”