Finally, Jampa nodded, and allowed the old shepherd to push him into the truck.
He didn’t look back as they drove away.
CHAPTER 1
A half-second after the missile strike, the overhead lighting failed, plunging Combat Information Center into darkness. Electrical relays chattered. The battle lanterns flickered on, replacing the blue-tinged battle lighting scheme with the dim red glow of battery-powered emergency lighting.
The overall noise level in CIC fell by several decibels, as nearly half of the electronic consoles in the compartment dropped off line from loss of electrical power. Cooling fans spun down to a stop, and the whine of high-voltage power supplies trailed off into silence. Even the rustle of the air conditioning faded as the compressors in the nearby fan room shuddered to a halt.
Red and amber tattletales began flashing on many of the remaining consoles, spelling out the details of electronic damage and cascading signal loss. The huge Aegis display screens strobed briefly with a chaotic snarl of tactical symbols, before the video feeds dissolved into static.
In the near darkness, two or three of the wounded Sailors groaned pitifully. Somewhere beyond the steel bulkheads of Combat Information Center, an alarm klaxon was wailing and Damage Control teams were shouting. Their words were muffled into nonsense by distance, the intervening metal barriers, and the unavoidable distortion of emergency breathing masks.
Captain Bowie’s voice cut through the blood-colored gloom. “CIC Officer, get me a damage report, now! I need to know where that missile hit us, and how hard!”
Bowie didn’t wait for the young lieutenant to acknowledge, but rolled straight into his next set of orders. “TAO, I want an immediate inventory of sensors and weapons. I need to know what we can see, and what we have left to fight with. And as soon as you can get a line on them, we need to know how many of those Bogies are still alive, and where the hell they are!”
The Tactical Action Officer’s response was almost instantaneous. “Captain, SPY radar is up on alternate power, but Aegis is off line while the computers reboot. Mount 51 is reporting manned and ready, and it looks like aft CIWS is down. Forward CIWS is operational. Recommend we turn toward the last known position of the Bogies and let the forward CIWS provide some missile cover until we get our eyes back.”
Bowie paused for only a split second. “Do it!”
His command was followed almost immediately by a report from the CIC Officer, Lieutenant Westfall. “Captain, I’ve got comms with CCS. Estimated point of impact was starboard amidships, close to the waterline. Both starboard engines are out, and the engineers are reporting Class Bravo fires in Main Engine Room #1. We’re taking on water in several compartments, and #2 Switchboard has been shorted out by flooding water.” The young officer paused. “Casualty reports coming in now… CCS is estimating forty-one dead, and about twice that many wounded, sir. The Chief Engineer is dead. The executive officer is unconscious with a head wound and possible skull fracture.”
Bowie listened to the growing litany of destruction, and nodded. “Understood.”
A voice rumbled through an overhead speaker box. “TAO — Bridge. Forward Lookout reports visual contact on three inbound aircraft off the port bow, bearing three-five-seven, position angle twenty-one. Rate of closure is high.”
Bowie looked toward Commander Silva.
The commander stood with her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her dark blue coveralls, her posture erect and alert, her eyes darting quickly from watch station to watch station. She made brief eye contact with Bowie, and then her gaze moved past him. She was taking everything in, like some sort of recording machine — sucking up information — offering nothing in return.
“The Bogies are coming in low and fast,” Bowie said. “They’re setting us up for another missile strike.”
Commander Silva acknowledged with a single nod, but she said nothing in response.
Bowie turned away. “TAO, what’s the status of Aegis?”
“Computers coming on line now, Captain,” the Tactical Action Officer said. “It’ll take SPY a few seconds to sync up and lock onto the targets.”
“We don’t have a few seconds,” Bowie said. “Tell Mount 51 to engage the Bogies using the video feed from the mast-mounted sight. And have the Small Craft Action Team engage all inbounds with the forward fifty-cals, and both of the chain-guns.”
Bowie listened as the TAO relayed his orders to the gunnery stations. It was a desperation ploy. The big 5-inch deck gun mounted on the ship’s forecastle could probably take out an inbound jet with input from the main radar. Trying to engage three hostile aircraft using only the feed from a black and white video camera? That was a hell of a lot harder. Given the damage the ship had already taken, it wouldn’t be much short of impossible.
The .50-caliber machine guns didn’t have a prayer, and neither did the 25mm chain-guns. It was probably a waste of ammunition to even try, but — damn it — they couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.
USS Towers was a state-of-the art naval destroyer. She was a cutting-edge warship, from the bottom of her computer-engineered keel, to the peak of her steeply-raked mast. She’d been designed and built for stealth, speed, and firepower. In her short few years of service, she’d already seen more real-world combat than any other two ships on the current United States Navy Registry.
Bowie smiled a grim little smile. If the Towers had to go down, she was damned well going to go down fighting.
He turned away from the static-filled tactical displays, peering around through the red-hued shadows until he spotted the hulking form of an enormous second class petty officer.
Operations Specialist Second Class Kenfield had grown up on a farm in Gordonsburg, Tennessee. The Sailor’s first name was Bruce, but the crew called him Big Country, partly in reference to his considerable size, and partly because of his molasses-thick southern accent. It was a standing joke among the Towers crew that Big Country didn’t need a tractor or a mule to plow his family’s fields. He just wrapped his oversized hands around the plow, and shoved the blade through the dirt with sheer force of muscle.
Captain Bowie nodded toward the man. “Hey, Big Country… Give us a song.”
The air in CIC was as taut as the skin of a snare drum, but the big Sailor’s grin shone out in the blood-tinged darkness. “Is that an order, sir?”
“You bet your ass it is,” Bowie said.
The Sailor’s grin grew wider. “Aye-aye, Captain!” He cleared his throat theatrically, and let out the only sort of song that anyone had ever heard the big man utter — a rebel yell of positively staggering volume.
Commander Silva, still a newcomer to the ways of this ship, nearly jumped out of her skin when the big Sailor’s unearthly bellow shattered the air. But the CIC crew had the benefit of long experience. They knew exactly what to expect from one of Big Country’s songs. Before the cry could fade into silence, they added their own yells to the mix. Women and men, young and middle-aged, seasoned and inexperienced, their collective yells rising in unison — a defiant refutation of the enemy fighter jets rushing to destroy their ship.
They were a crew. They were one. They would fight together. They would die together. And goddamn it! The Towers was their ship!