Ensign Moore stood forward of the boat deck, watching the helo make its approach to the ship. The Sikorsky MH-60S was a dark insectile shape against the sky, its ovoid fuselage and tapered tail boom giving the aircraft a silhouette like a dragonfly.
Dangling on a cable beneath the dragonfly’s belly were two expanded frame steel pallets wrapped in cargo nets, with nine rectangular fiberglass shipping crates strapped to each pallet. This was the third and final delivery, and it brought the total number of crates to fifty-four.
The helo grew larger as it came nearer, until the insect illusion was dispelled by the sheer size of the hovering machine and the mechanical tumult of its rotor wash.
The ensign’s duties did not include observing vertical replenishment operations, and he didn’t feel any personal desire to watch this one. But he couldn’t make himself turn away. This was all happening because of him. The VERTREPs; the changes in mission orders; everything. He was responsible for all of this.
He thought back to the strategy session in the wardroom. His idea had seemed like an intellectual exercise at the time. An out-of-the-box solution to a difficult problem.
But the captain and the XO had taken it seriously. They’d fired off a flash message to Fourth Fleet, and then the whole thing had taken on a life of its own.
Diverting assets from NOAA. Modifying hardware and software. Changing the operational tasking of ships and submarines. Who knew how many millions of dollars had already been spent because one naive ensign didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut when smarter people were talking?
And the worst part was: his idea seemed less brilliant with every passing second. Now that the plan was being put into action, he had serious doubts about its viability.
“Is that the last of them?”
The voice startled him. He turned to see Captain Heller standing a few feet away. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you walk up.”
The captain nodded toward the pallets being lowered to the flight deck. “Is that the last of the Sea Bats?”
“Yes, sir. This is all of them. Fifty-four total, as promised.”
“I wish it was a hundred and fifty-four,” said the captain, “but we were lucky to get this many on such short notice.”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“You don’t sound very excited,” said Captain Heller. “Your idea may open up an entirely new branch of ASW tactical doctrine. I thought you’d be turning cartwheels.”
“I guess I’m just concerned, Captain.”
“Concerned? Of course you are. You’d be an idiot if you weren’t concerned.”
“But what if I’m wrong, sir? What if I’ve wasted millions of dollars on a strategy that will never work? What if my big mouth gets people killed?”
The captain smiled. “Is that all you’re worried about?”
“Isn’t that enough, sir?”
The captain scuffed at the nonskid deck with the toe of his boot. “Todd, do you know what this high-tech bucket of bolts costs?”
“About two billion dollars?”
“More like two and a half billion,” said Captain Heller. “And between officers and crew, there are one hundred and ninety-seven personnel aboard. Add in the civilian techrep we took on with the first helo, and it’s a hundred and ninety-eight.”
Ensign Moore nodded.
“So,” said the captain, “every time I issue an order under combat conditions, there are two and a half billion dollars and nearly two-hundred human lives on the line. If I make a bad call, this ship — and everyone aboard — could end up like the Mahan or the Walter W. Winterburn. If I turn to starboard when I should have turned to port, we may not survive my mistake. If I hold fire a minute too long, or launch weapons thirty-seconds too soon, it can cost us everything.”
“That’s the nature of military command. That’s what you’re training for now. And that’s also what you signed up for when you accepted your commission as an officer.”
“I understand that sir,” said Ensign Moore. “It’s just—”
“It’s just that you didn’t expect to inherit this kind of responsibility quite so soon?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Well, relax,” said Captain Heller. “You came up with the idea, but I made the recommendation to DESRON, and it went up the chain from there. Admiral Turner at Fourth Fleet approved, and so did Admiral Cook at SOUTHCOM. Along the way, a whole lot of senior staff officers and tactical brains were in on the discussion. The final decision was made well above your pay grade and mine. Keep that in mind, and don’t go weighing yourself down with all of the responsibility.”
“But none of this would have happened if I’d kept the idea to myself,” said Ensign Moore. “If things go wrong—”
“If things go wrong, they go wrong,” said the captain. “We don’t have the luxury of perfect foresight. If we did, we could tell in advance which tactics will lead to success, and which ones will lead to failure. That’s not something we’re privileged to know ahead of time. We take the best ideas we can think of, execute them to the best of our ability, and cross our fingers.”
“Meaning that my brilliant idea could get us all killed.”
“It might,” said the captain. “The good news is: if your idea turns out to be a loser, you probably won’t be around to regret it.”
Ensign Moore responded with a weak smile. “That is good news, sir.”
“Let’s get up to the wardroom,” said Captain Heller. “I want to round up our tactical thinkers and have a conversation with this civilian techrep. No more second-guessing yourself, Todd. We’re committed now, and it’s time to get back in the fight.”
The ensign nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He looked back toward the flight deck. The cargo had been delivered and the dragonfly shape of the MH-60 was disappearing into the sky.
CHAPTER 62
There was no beer this time. Maybe that was an omen. No teenage boys in homemade boats coming out to hock icy beverages to the Yumas at inflated prices. Not even fishing boats plying the bay between the coast and the outer cays.
Except for the sputtering runabout of the town’s Guarda Frontera officer — which had come and gone an hour ago — there hadn’t been another boat moving on the harbor since the Foxy Roxy dropped anchor.
All three of the visible piers had long ago collapsed into the bay, but there were a number of boats hauled up onto the beach, so some of the locals probably made their livings on the water. If that was true, what were the odds that every boat would be high and dry at the same time?
Was this an ordinary lull in the town’s activity? Or had people been warned to stay away from the sailboat with the gringos?
Jon took a swig of lukewarm bottled water — a poor substitute for cold Cuban beer — and let his eyes drift down the shoreline. The water was a brilliant azure and the sand was the color of sugar.
He remembered the grubby strip of shingle in Playa La Playita. What could the people of that happy little village have done with a magnificent beach like this? But the inhabitants of Playa De Suerte appeared to have forgotten that they were living in a paradise.
The town had an aura of melancholy and decay. Many of the concrete buildings were crumbling into the streets, and Jon could see two hotels that had gone to ruin. There was none of the lazily festive atmosphere of Playa La Playita or La Boca. The natural beauty of the sea and coast did nothing to lighten the somber mood of this place.