As he scanned the images of warships smoking and sinking, Wang thought the wait was almost worth it. The only ships unscathed were the slow, toothless American transport vessels now waiting to be scooped up.
“Show me this one,” said Wang, tapping the image of the largest warship in the task force. It was immediately recognizable as their novel Zumwalt class. So the Americans had indeed brought back their strange experiment, just as the intelligence reports had claimed. It confirmed all his assumptions that this was the last victory the Directorate would need, just as he had argued to the Presidium. Using a ship like that was simultaneously an act of innovation and of desperation. Indeed, the same was true of the Americans’ entire operation today.
The image zoomed in on the massive ship, tied up next to one of their stricken small helicopter carriers. The warship was indeed sleek and lethal-looking, but it was now dead in the water, smoking from what looked to be at least three missile strikes. Smoldering steel debris littered its deck, blocking its main gun turret.
He walked toward the bridge using the exterior gangway. Taking the longer route gave him the chance to breathe in the fresh air, to savor the salinity and the moment itself. He fished in his pants pocket for a stim tab and unwrapped it, then tossed the foil bubble into the wind. He had resisted taking one at the beginning of the battle, the need to exude calm being paramount. Now was the time for energetic aggression.
“ ‘Prize the quick victory, not the protracted engagement,’ ” he quoted to the aide. “Signal to the task force for all ships to advance at flank speed. It is time to close in for the kill and end this war.”
USS Zumwalt, Below Decks
Mike peered into the dark hallway, inhaling deeply from the firefighting breathing unit. Until they could vent the unit, the air was too toxic for anyone to spend time here, but the louvered covers on the vent openings had melted shut and it was going to take some doing, or at least a few minutes with a crowbar, to get those back open.
“Bridge, this is damage-control team. Bridge, this is damage-control team,” said Mike. His voice echoed inside the firefighting mask.
“Glad you’re okay, Chief,” said a familiar voice. “What do you have for me?”
“Good to hear you too, son… sir. The news isn’t good. Multiple casualties, more than I can keep track of. Starboard-side superstructure is melting; the composite just can’t handle the hits and the heat. It’s still a mess at the laser turret, and debris is blocking the rail gun’s movement. That’s not the real problem for the gun, though. Those shots took down the whole auxiliary power network. We’ve got break points across the ship,” said Mike. “The VLS, well, we’re not going to get our deposit back. Most of the cell hatches look like they got peeled back with a rusty can opener. But there’s something worse away from the impact points. We’ve got reports of leaks below decks, and the superstructure and hull seam look iffy on the starboard, right below the helo deck.”
“What’s the good news?” said Simmons.
“Ship’s afloat, and we’re still breathing, you and I,” his father responded.
“We need the ship in the fight. How long before I can get the laser and rail gun back online?” said the captain.
“Martin will be graduating college before that laser’s back in business. Ninety minutes at least on the rail gun to clear it, and even then, who knows. But I’m not sure you heard me… sir. We’re taking on water below. Even if it works, we can’t shoot the rail gun and keep the ship afloat with no auxiliary power. We gotta have power for the pumps.”
“Chief, just get the rail gun back online,” said Simmons.
“Aye, Captain,” said Mike. He paused and then added, “Or should I say Admiral? Heard you got a promotion.”
“Not really,” said Simmons.
“Well, congratulations either way,” said Mike. “Wear it proud. I am.”
“Just get the rail gun ready, Chief,” said Simmons. “We’re counting on you all down there.”
Mike turned to address the crew, most of whom were working slowly, unable to shake their dazed looks.
“You heard the captain. Take stim tabs if ya got ’em, and then let’s get to work,” said Mike. “Brooks, have your team concentrate on getting this debris cut away topside. Dr. Li, you’re with me, we’re going to unfuck this wiring. Captain wants us back in the fight, and we’re not going to let him down.”
The crew scattered, foraging in their pockets for whatever stims they had left, not thinking about the last time they had had something to eat or a stretch of calm to sleep.
Vern, her hair matted with sweat, began to head down the passageway toward the rail-gun turret, but then she stopped and turned, her face angry.
“I thought I found you — your body,” said Vern.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” said Big Mike.
“It was Davidson,” said Vern. “He’s gone.”
“You confused me with that reeking tub of guts?” said Mike, knowing his old friend wouldn’t want him to answer any other way.
She reached into a pocket on her vest just below her heart and pulled out two square foil packets. “This thing’s stocked like a pharmacy,” she said, handing one of the stim tabs to Mike.
He shook his head. “Not sure my heart can take it. I think, though, when we get back to shore I’ll have a stiff drink. I think we’ve earned it.”
“It’s a date, then.” She smiled.
USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center
If it was possible to be calm aboard a sinking ship, the Z’s crew was managing it. There was a studiousness in the mission center, as if the hull breaches below decks were the least of their problems. And to the captain of the Zumwalt, they were.
Cortez was below decks, checking on the largest breach. One of the monitors near the captain’s chair, which Simmons still hated using, showed the view from Cortez’s glasses. It was just aft and below where the superstructure joined the hull, a foot-long opening two inches wide. The worry was that it had ripped open on its own, almost like bark peeling from a tree. There were sure to be more such breaches soon.
“Sir, we’ve got a homing-pigeon drone coming in. It’s from the Orzel,” said the communications officer.
“Let’s have it,” said Simmons, feeling his stomach knot. If the Poles, safely hidden away beneath the ocean’s surface, had broken cover to pass along a message, it had to be bad news.
“ ‘Three enemy carriers detected,’ ” the officer read. “ ‘Quadrant seventy-four X, fifty-six G. The Shanghai and two Admiral Kuznetsov — class carriers, one believed to be the Russian original and the other the Liaoning, accompanied by five escort ships. Will engage after communications drone launches.’ ” The communications officer stumbled through the next sentence. “ ‘Za wolność Naszą i Waszą. For our freedom and yours.’ ”
“Anything more?” said Simmons.
“That’s all we have, sir,” said the officer. “Database has the closing lines as something from their history, a saying by doomed Polish resistance fighters.”
Simmons was silent, thinking not of the Polish sailors, he shamefully realized, but of the need to decide the next course of action.
“Order the combat air patrol to that quadrant,” said Simmons.
The tactical action officer cleared his throat before speaking in a parched voice: “Sir, they’re armed only for air-to-air. They’ll be able to engage the remaining enemy planes, but that’s it. They’re not carrying any bombs or anti-ship ordnance.”