"Wondrous hockey stick
Replaces Christ's wooden cross
Comes from white noise."
White? White? Fosa wondered. How to play on that? Ah, sheep are white.
"Climate change white sheep
Hate being out of the flock
Lest they be shorn . . . baaaa"
"Bah! Bah, indeed," Kurita exhulted.
"Great Climate Change!
For heretics, deniers,
Jail cells are waiting."
Fosa answered:
"Even Progressives
In Fed'rated States Senate
Say, 'Piss on Kosmos!'"
From Kurita:
"Climate change loonies
Shriek, 'Heresy! Blasphemy!'
Whenever questioned."
Fosa expanded:
"Gathering firewood
To burn up the deniers.
We've seen this before."
After he stopped laughing, Kurita gave:
"Virgin SUV
Cast into the volcano
As the faithful dance."
At that point, Fosa gave up. The image of ten thousand grass-skirt clad Kosmos, deep in religious ecstasy, sacrificing an innocent automobile to the dark earth gods was too much. No doubt much of his mirth was found in the sake, not the poetry. Even so, Fosa was rolling on the floor laughing when, to cap his victory, Kurita gave his last recitaclass="underline"
"High Kosmo leeches
Attend luxury conference
Always fly first class."
* * *
Fosa's reminiscences were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a Cricket on the flight deck. With a plane needing as short a landing run as the Cricket, and landing into the wind, to boot, all arrivals tended to be very sudden.
No sooner had it landed, and the pilot killed the engine, then that pilot was out the door and racing across the flight deck to the tower. He disappeared from view, only to emerge on the bridge moments later.
"My fucking radio went down, Skipper," Montoya announced, even before formally reporting. "I'd have come back right away but there was something odd, a boat, I saw hidden in the jungle."
"Odd?" Fosa asked.
"Three ways, Skipper. One was that it was pretty well hidden. Another was that it looked fast, what I could make out of it. The last was that there were armed men aboard, and they didn't shoot at me."
Kurita's finger beat Fosa's to the alarm: Battle stations, this is no drill.
* * *
Lovely word, 'karma,' the Naquib thought. Pity we don't have quite the equivalent in Islam. But it was karma, or Allah's will, that the infidel aircraft spotted us. Maybe I should have ordered that aircraft engaged. Maybe I did right in not ordering it engaged. I'll never know in this life. What I do know is we must attack now, even though the enemy is not in the optimal position for our ambush.
One hundred meters up a half choked inlet, al Naquib's boat wound its way through the maze of fallen logs and sand bars. To either side, he heard the distance-dissipated roar of large marine engines coming to life and doing likewise. He could not hear the motors of the half dozen boats on the other side of the Straits. Yet his chief assistant had told him they were likewise on the move.
Unseen and unheard by al Naquib, crews for the cruise missiles and torpedoes were frantically unmasking, activating their guidance systems, and preparing to fire. Hopefully they would launch in good time.
UEPF Spirit of Peace
"They're launching aircraft!" Robinson shouted. "Why the fuck are they launching aircraft?"
It was true. It was more than true. Robinson had watched this ship, off and on, for months and he'd never before seen such a frantic attempt to get as many aircraft into the air, as quickly, as he was witnessing now. As soon as a plane came up the elevator, a deck crew was manhandling it into position and sending it off. Pilots were lined up waiting for any bird to fly. Once, when an engine refused to start, the deck crew had unceremoniously dragged the protesting pilot out and pushed the thing over the side. Pilots, themselves, were boarding with small arms, an indicator that the planes were being thrown up either unarmed or so lightly armed that even a rifle could make a difference.
Robinson relaxed slightly when he saw the two trails of underwater torpedoes streaking from under the jungle layer which had hidden them. His spirits revived considerably with the appearance of a larger number of cruise missiles coming from the same jungle.
* * *
Abdul Aziz had, early on, thought that torpedoes and cruise missiles might be a useful adjunct to the Hoogaboom and its mission. Further reflection, however, had convinced him that the risk of detection, if placed aboard ship, was too great. This had not meant the idea was without merit, only that it needed further refinement.
Large torpedoes were out for a number of reasons, chief among these was that "large" equaled both "noticeable" and "too heavy and bulky to transport and set up in the jungle along the straits." There were, however, much smaller torpedoes available, from various Volgan crime syndicates, and for surprisingly little money. These torpedoes were not suitable for sinking a major warship, of course, but that wasn't their purpose. Rather, they were designed to home on engine noise to kill submarines. What would kill a submarine, Abdul thought, was likely to severely damage an AZIPOD.
This both torpedoes were trying to do, streaking under the water straight for the AZIPODs mounted at Dos Lindas' stern.
* * *
"Fish in the water! Fish in the water! Fuck! Fish in the water!"
Fosa heard the sonar man's announcement and dread filled his heart. Looking at the screen and seeing the torpedoes aligning themselves for a run at the propellers, he was about to give the command to kill power when radar screamed, "Moonbats! Moonbats! Moonbats! Cruise missiles incoming . . . Raid count: three . . . no, four . . . ah, shit! Six! Skipper, Moonbats six, all quarters."
"Surface Action, Port and Starboard," Fosa ordered. "Weapons free."
There was a whining overhead and a sudden CRACK as the laser mounted above the tower engaged one of the cruise missiles. Two more, much more muted, CRACKs sounded as the fore and aft lasers likewise engaged. In the distance, and it was not nearly enough distance, two explosions that had to be in the half ton of TNT range, told that the lasers had scored, if imperfectly. There were still four cruise missiles incoming and the smoke, apparently, made engagement more than a little problematic.
Again, the defensive lasers fired. Again, only two hit, creating huge angry clouds of hot gas and flying metal. But there had been six missiles. There were still two . . . and there was no more time.
UEPF Spirit of Peace
"Fuck!" Robinson cursed as first two, then two more, of the Ikhwan's cruise missiles were destroyed. And then he saw a sight to gratify his heart as a massive explosion erupted on the ship's side, and another self detonated, so he thought, just above the tower atop the carrier. Within moments the ship's rear elevator, likewise, burst forth in smoke and fire. Atop the column of flame, Robinson thought he saw a helicopter being blasted upward.