“That was my guidance from the strike officer,” she said. “Of course, it’s always subject to change, but he wanted to be able to take on two separate missions if necessary. So I figured that, absent any other guidance, I’d just be making them both about the same composition.”
Lab Rat leaned back in his chair, slightly relieved to be on familiar ground. He studied the lieutenant in front of him. She was small, barely his own height, and small-boned at that. He could tell she worked hard to make up for the problems her size could pose in her aircraft. Sleek muscle rippled over her bones and she looked exceptionally fit. A healthy glow suffused her face.
“There are some advantages, of course, to proceeding that way,” he said, continuing to study her. Attractive, exceptionally so. He wondered if she was seeing anyone.
“What did you say you name was again?
“Johnnie Davis. But everybody calls me Rat.”
“Rat?” Busby’s voice was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
She shook her head, a woeful look on her face. “Nope. They tagged me with that in Basic, because I was small. The instructor said I could weasel into small places. I could hear that one coming on and couldn’t stand the thought of spending my Navy career days known as Weasel. So I popped up fast and said, ‘You mean, like a rat, sir?’ It was the best I could do on short notice, I’m afraid. But Rat is still better than Weasel.”
“Oh, no doubt.” He hesitated for moment, unsure of whether to proceed. “But that gives us something in common, doesn’t it?”
She looked confused. “Sir?”
“I got my nickname the day I checked in at AOCS. I have no idea why, but my drill instructor decided to name me Lab Rat. I’m afraid it stuck.”
At that, she laughed out loud. “A few more Rats on board, and we’ll have us a whole species, won’t we?”
“We will,” he agreed. “Rattus carrierus, you think?”
She nodded. “Well, sir, I have to admit, that makes me feel a bit better.”
“So, who do you usually fly with?” Lab Rat asked, more to make conversation that anything else.
A mournful look crossed her face. “Brad Morrow.
“Fastball? My condolences. Especially if the Padres are losing.” Lab Rat doubted that there was anyone on board who didn’t know about Morrow’s obsession with the San Diego Padres. “He still wearing that Tony Gwinn shirt under his flight suit?”
“Sure is. Although with the season they had last year, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“I understand he’s quite a handful.” Word had it that Davis had been paired with Morrow to cool his heels, and that their last cruise together had been a rugged one.
She shrugged. “He’s young. He’ll outgrow it. If he lives that long.”
Lab Rat leaned toward her. “Now, about this flight plan — remember, you need to worry about the terrain as well as what sort of threat you’ll encounter. We’re not certain how much they have on the island, but it’s probably old, and it’ll have to be something mobile, something they brought with them. I’d bet on at least one antiair installation, maybe two. You’ve got to figure that you want to take those out at some point, which means you should have a different weapon load on standby. It’s a different situation when we’re operating with the Air Force. They send their own Wild Weasel — there’s that word again — antiradiation aircraft in ahead of us. But out here, we’re going to be on our own. So, if there’s an antiair radar problem, we’ll have to take care of it right up front.”
“That makes sense.” She leaned forward, and Lab Rat got a whiff of something that might have been perfume, or could just have been soap or shampoo. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating. He founded himself distracted as he concentrated on the plan in front of them.
For the next fifteen minutes, they discussed the possible missions to Bermuda, how the problems might shape up, and what impact the initial reconnaissance missions would have on the air wing flight plan. When he finally ran out of things to go over, Lab Rat quit talking.
Rat stood, and held out her hand. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Commander. You just kept me from making a fool of myself in front of my boss.”
Lab Rat waved away her thanks. “My pleasure. And, since we’re members of the same species, call me Lab Rat.”
TEN
As early as the end of the second day, Forsythe could already see the strain starting on the faces of the crew. It wasn’t that they complained — far from it. In fact, since the death of Lieutenant Commander Cowlings, a new, grim determination had seemed to settle over them. A fire for vengeance burned in their eyes, and no one wanted to be the first to admit the strain was getting to him.
Forsythe and the doctor continued to take their meals in the small wardroom, although with only two of them it almost seemed pointless. In fact, the doctor had suggested that they begin messing with the crew, simplifying life for the three mess cooks on board. But Forsythe had decided not to, and not simply because the doctor suggested it — though the fact that that thought had crossed his mind made him somewhat ashamed. Later, he realized his instinct had been correct. He needed a bit of distance from the crew, and while the doctor might not be particularly his favorite company, he would have to do.
“They’re wearing out,” the doctor said, pointing his fork at his interim commanding officer as he spoke. “You can’t keep this up for long.”
“When there are complaints, let me know,” Forsythe said. There was a reason for the rank structure on a submarine, perhaps even more reasons for it than on a larger ship. The chiefs ate in their one small corner of the crew’s mess, behind a divider, and pretended to ignore the rest of the crew. That allowed sailors time to blow off steam. But, had their very junior captain been in the same compartment, they would have been silent.
“I’m already seeing the signs of stress in them.”
“Has someone complained?” Forsythe asked, keeping his eyes down on his plate.
“No. They won’t, you know. But, it’s only a matter of time. You have to listen to me in matters like this, you have to.” The doctor’s voice was smug and demanding.
“Listen to doesn’t mean obey.” Suddenly, Forsythe’s appetite was gone. He shoved the plate back slightly. The one concession to the reduced manpower had been that he and the doctor would obtain their food from the crew’s mess, eat it in the wardroom, then take their own dishes back to the galley. “Until then, keep me posted.”
“The enlisted people aren’t the only people who are my responsibility,” the doctor said softly, his voice carrying a note of menace. “Last night you suggested I read Navy regulations — I suggest you review them yourself. If and when I believe that you are becoming a danger to this crew, I will relieve you. Will relieve you for medical reasons, and order you confined to your stateroom. Between the Chief and the troops, we can get the boat back to the surface and the message out.”
Forsythe turned, icy menace clear on his face. “Then I think we both adequately understand our duties, doctor. And, yes, I am familiar with the passage to which you’re referring.” He could smell the rank stench of fear on the doctor now, and it disgusted him. “That said, I will tolerate no more insubordination from you. Just who do you think the crew will obey? Watch their eyes, doctor. You claim to know the mood of the crew — watch their eyes. Because I can guarantee you, what you’re seeing isn’t stress. It’s pure, one hundred percent pissed off American sailor. Right now, they’d follow me to hell and back if it meant avenging Commander Cowlings. And I suggest you try to stay out of their way.”