Commander Silva’s eyes took in the dimly-seen shapes of the CIC crew. The expression on her face told the tale. She was a seasoned officer, with more than seventeen years in uniform. She’d spent almost her entire adult life at sea, and she’d seen most of what the oceans had to offer. But in all of her years in the Navy, she’d never witnessed anything like this. It was crazy. It was utterly futile. But by God, it was impressive.
Silva opened her mouth, perhaps to add her own yell to the still-raging caterwaul, but she was preempted by an amplified voice from the overhead speakers.
“TAO — Weapons Control. Aegis is up and tracking. We have five Vipers, short range and closing fast! I say again, we have five inbound missiles, estimated time of impact twenty seconds!”
The ongoing yell was stifled instantly as the watchstanders went frantically about their jobs. Twenty seconds was not enough time to do anything useful, but that didn’t stop Bowie’s CIC crew from trying.
The Tactical Action Officer’s voice broke over the net. “All Stations — TAO, we have in-bound Vipers! I say again, we have multiple missiles in-bound! Weapons Control, shift to Aegis ready-auto. Set CIWS to auto-engage. Break. EW, I need your best course for minimized radar cross-section, and stand by to launch chaff!”
Acknowledgements and follow-on orders began coming over the various tactical nets. Half of the consoles in CIC were still offline. The ship was crippled. A third of her crew were dead or dying, and — worst of all — the clock had run out. But they were still fighting. Still throwing punches.
The Weapons Control Officer’s voice came over the net. “All Stations — Weapons Control. Brace for shock! Estimated missile impact in six… five… four…”
Bowie crossed his arms and leaned against the bullnose of a defunct radar console. He whistled softly through his teeth as the amplified countdown continued.
“Three… two… one…” The last word was a near-shout. “Impact!”
The compartment was suddenly flooded with brilliant white illumination as electrical power surged into the lighting circuits.
A different voice came over the speakers. “All Stations, this is the Training Coordinator. FIN-EX this exercise. That is, FIN-EX this exercise. Stop the battle problem; stop the training clock. Restore all power, and return all systems to normal operating condition. This training event is complete at time thirteen twenty-five and nine seconds.”
The CIC crew blinked and shielded their eyes against the sudden illumination. Throughout the compartment, “dead” and “injured” watchstanders climbed to their feet, dusted off their uniforms, and went about the business of restoring their equipment to operational status.
A young OS3 lifted a loop of heavy cord from around her neck and examined the yellow cardboard tag clipped to the end. Large block letters on the tag proclaimed: CIC CASUALTY #6 — ELECTRICAL BURNS / BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA / DEATH.
The Sailor handed the casualty tag to a man in orange coveralls, one of the members of the Coordinated Ship’s Training Team. “Here,” the OS said. “I don’t need this. I’m not dead anymore.”
The orange-suited observer tucked the tag into the crook of one arm, where he was cradling several similar tags. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said. “But if I were you, I’d stay dead until time for chow. Then you wouldn’t get stuck doing afternoon sweepers.”
The Third Class Operations Specialist grinned. “Oh yeah, like that would work. Being dead does not get you out of pushing a broom.” She shrugged. “At least they killed me early. I managed to catch a few Z’s down there on the deck while everybody else was busy trying to save the ship.”
About ten paces away, Captain Bowie met Commander Silva by the Tactical Action Officer’s chair. Bowie raised one eyebrow. “What do you think, Commander?”
Silva nodded. “Impressive, Captain. I’ve never seen anything like it. You’ve got one hell of a crew here.”
Bowie gave her a wistful little smile. “All modesty aside, they are pretty damned impressive. I’m proud to serve with every one of them. Every man and woman on this ship gives a hundred and twenty percent.”
He shook his head. “But they won’t be my crew for much longer, will they? They’ll be yours in just a couple of weeks, Commander.”
His eyes traveled around CIC, moving slowly, trying to soak up every detail as though he might never again see such a magnificent sight. And that would be true all too soon. The change of command was only sixteen days away. And then this would not be his ship anymore.
When the final salutes were exchanged, Captain Samuel Harland Bowie would be on his way to becoming Deputy Commander of Destroyer Squadron Fifteen. At that same instant, Commander Katherine Elizabeth Silva would become Captain Silva, the new commanding officer of USS Towers.
The most dramatic and important part of Bowie’s career would wind to a close. He already knew that nothing would ever fill the hole that was going to leave in his life. And through it all, he’d have to smile and make polite speeches, pretending that he was happy to surrender command of his ship to a near-total stranger.
Damn. Damn.
He exhaled slowly. If wishes were fishes…
He turned back to Commander Silva, the prospective commanding officer of USS Towers. “Let’s head up to the wardroom. We can grab a cup of coffee while we wait for the Training Team to finish prepping their debrief.”
Silva started to follow him toward the exit.
Bowie slowed his pace a fraction to allow her to walk alongside. “Your friends call you Kate?”
Commander Silva smiled. “Only my father can get away with that. Everyone else calls me Kat.”
“With a K?”
“That’s right. With a K.” She smiled again. “It’s a long story.”
Bowie opened the watertight door and motioned for her to step through. When they were on the other side, he dogged the door behind them and they resumed walking.
“How about you?” Silva asked. “Do your friends call you Sam?”
The captain shook his head. “Nope. They call me Jim.”
Silva halted in mid-stride. “They call you Jim Bowie? Really?”
Captain Bowie grinned. “Really.” He started walking toward the wardroom again. “That’s a long story too.”
CHAPTER 2
The helicopter came in low and fast, clearing the ornate golden rooftops of the Jokhang temple by only four or five meters. Flying so close to the 1,300 year old building was a blatant violation of a dozen laws and security ordinances. Any other aircraft that dared such a maneuver would be forced to land, or shot down by ground troops or air forces. Today, the laws and regulations did not apply. Not to this helicopter.
It was an ordinary looking HC-12 °Colibri, the plump dragonfly fuselage noticeably European in design, the paint scheme and markings just as clearly Chinese. But the local police and military commanders knew who was riding in the passenger seat, and no one would be foolish enough to interfere.
The pilot had been ordered to land as quickly as possible, by the absolute shortest flight path. He was following those orders to the letter. He steepened the angle of his approach, practically skimming the top of the tall stone stele at the front gate of the temple wall.
The stele was a rounded obelisk, nearly as ancient as the Jokhang temple itself. The stone had been erected in 822 AD by King Relpachen, to commemorate the Sino-Tibetan peace treaty, which had guaranteed that China and Tibet would forever respect one another’s borders. Eroded by centuries of wind, rain, and snow, the words carved in the porous gray stone were still legible. China’s public proclamation of Tibet’s national sovereignty remained easily visible, for all the world to read. The irony was apparently lost on the occupying Chinese forces. It was not so easily overlooked by the Tibetan locals.