The Art of War

TWENTY-NINE

Tombstone planted his hands on his uncle’s desk and leaned across toward the older man. “I don’t think you understand — I have to get out there.”

His uncle watched impassively for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I meant what I said, Stony. Batman’s on his own — he can handle it.”

“It’s not that I think he can’t handle it. It’s just that — dammit, you said it yourself. This is the sort of thing I was born for. I have to get back out there, Uncle. Besides, Tomboy is out there.”

His uncle slammed his fist down the desk. “Don’t try to make me believe that’s what this is about, Stony. Because you know it’s not. You’re aching for one last shot at this, and you are not going to get it. You’re staying here — and that’s final.”

“At least let me get a message to Batman. He’s trapped in there — it’s Jefferson, Uncle. My Jefferson.”

“Batman’s Jefferson. And no — no messages. And don’t make me implement security measures to keep you from bullying your way out there, Stony. You know I will — don’t make me. Because all you’ll do is end up looking foolish. You got that?”

Tombstone drew himself up straight. His mind raced furiously, trying to find some loophole in his uncle’s reasoning, some reason and train of thought that would convince his uncle how important it was. But try as he might, he kept coming back to one conclusion.

His uncle was right.

The reality of the situation started to sink in and Tombstone slumped into the chair in front his uncle’s desk. “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?”

His uncle nodded. “Yes, Stony. It is.”

Just as Tombstone opened his mouth to apologize, to explain what he meant, there was a sharp rap on the door. The admiral’s chief of staff stepped into the room. He held a message in one hand. “Admiral — this just came in, sir. Jefferson—she’s hit, sir. Hit bad.”

“What?” Tombstone and his uncle exclaimed simultaneously. Tombstone reached for the message, but the chief of staff kept it out of his reach and handed it to the chief of naval operations, who suddenly looked ten years older than he had just moments before. He took the message and started scanning, but did not object when Tombstone walked around behind the desk to read over his shoulder.

The cold details, devoid of all emotion, made Jefferson’s circumstances iminently clear.

The minesweeper had done the best it could, but they missed one. Jefferson, with Lake Champlain following in her wake, had hit a mine. It detonated just under her forward bow. Seven percent of her forward compartments were flooded, and she had a five-degree list she couldn’t correct. Damage control teams had stopped the progression of the flooding and dewatering was in progress now. Batman concluded with, “Whether or not flight operations can be resumed will depend on shipyard-level repairs.”

Shipyard level — not something they could handle on their own. Batman was telling them that the carrier was not currently capable of flight operations — and might never be again.

“It would have happened whether you’d been there or not, Stony. Batman made the same decisions you would have.”

“No, he didn’t.” Tombstone’s voice was filled with fury. “Damaged or not, I would have had that cruiser in front of us. The submarine, too, if I had to. Without the carrier, there is no battle group. None.”

“There’s the United States,” his uncle said.

For a moment, Tombstone didn’t understand what he was saying. Then it hit him — his uncle meant to replace Jefferson with the new carrier. Just like that, without even seeing Jefferson himself, without pulling out all the stops at the shipyard.

Tombstone turned on him. “You’re going to give up on her? Just like that. After all Jefferson has been through, I think she deserves a little more consideration than that.”

“No, she doesn’t. The ship isn’t the battle group — neither are the aircraft. It’s the men and women who sail in her, the ones who make the tough decisions just like Batman made.”

“We don’t yet know how bad it is. We won’t know until we get back to the states.”

“Yes, we do. Read it again. You know what Batman’s saying.”

Tombstone scanned the message again, and saw that’s exactly what Batman was recommending. It was unthinkable — the ship he’d spent most of his career on, now mortally wounded. He longed to be at sea with her, as if somehow his very presence could hold back the future he saw rushing inexorably toward her.

How many battle groups had she carried to every part of the world, how many countless times had she gone into harm’s way to protect their national interests? It couldn’t be that serious… it couldn’t, it simply couldn’t.

“Sir.” There was another rap on the door, and a radioman chief came in, holding another message. “The casualty list, sir.”

Casualties — of course, there would be casualties. Men and women trapped in compartments below the waterline, those thrown overboard by the impact, mostly enlisted technicians serving their time in the Navy deep below the surface of the ocean. How could he have forgotten them, even with the excuse that he’d been concentrating on Jefferson’s fate?

His uncle took the message, scanned the pages, and his face turned pale. He tried to speak, but no words came out.

Tombstone felt a new surge of horror. He reached for the message, but his uncle held it away. It was someone they knew — it had to be.

“Who is it?” Tombstone demanded. “Who?”

“Sit down, Stony,” his uncle said, his voice thick.

And in that instant Tombstone knew. Knew irrevocably, knew it as certainly as though his own arm had been severed.

“It’s Tomboy… she’s dead.”