Red Hawk was the squadron name, 202 the airframe number. The slate-gray minke bulk of the aircraft, tilted slightly forward, swept past, vibrating the heavy shatterproof windows. A ghostly smoke-trail spinnereted behind it, pressed down by rotorwash but not dispersed. It shrank slowly, outbound, then banked left and tracked across their bow, in and out of the low scud of clouds.
“Navigator recommends continuing left to course one seven zero, and reducing speed to ten knots to commence port leg.”
“Very well,” Pardees said, turning away. “Left fifteen degrees rudder. Come to course one seven zero. Engines ahead two thirds; indicate fifty-five rpm at eighty percent pitch for ten knots.”
The orders and responses came and went, ebbing in the endless litany that had never, probably, been interrupted since the Phoenicians had begun voyaging across this very sea. Dan squinted, followed the aircraft until it became a speck, winking into and out of existence, until he couldn’t be sure he was actually seeing it any longer or only imagining it. Then it was gone.
And Goodroe with it. The iced-down remains were headed back to the task group, which would do a preliminary investigation — they had an MD and a fairly sophisticated operating room aboard the carrier — then ship it onward, via Italy and Germany, back to the States. He hadn’t heard any rumors about bad luck. Maybe the superstitions of the sea were vanishing along with so many other taboos; women aboard ship, for one thing. More and more, life at sea reflected life ashore. But sometimes he wasn’t sure that was an improvement.
His reflection stared back from the slanted bulletproof glass. He shook his head and bent to the morning traffic.
He’d signed off on the arrival message at 0600, assuring both CentCom and EuCom, and the subordinate commanders in the chain, including Jen Roald, that Savo Island had taken station at Ballistic Missile Oparea Adamantine. Now he looked at a response to that message — or no, its originating date time group meant it had been drafted before. It was from CentCom, a frag order — a modification to a previously issued op plan. Instead of operating alone, commanding officer Savo Island would command Task Group 161, made up of his own ship and a Los Angeles — class nuclear submarine, USS Pittsburgh. The sub would join tomorrow. Which meant it was speeding toward them now.
He flipped pages to the Early Bird, the daily Pentagon news summary. He’d asked Radio to print it out each day, and to forward it to Almarshadi to excerpt for the crew. Iraq had threatened again that if the U.S. attacked, the war would spread. This was getting to be old news. He’d heard it before, during the Gulf War. But as it turned out, it hadn’t been a bluff. Not then. He and a small team of Marines had only barely managed to abort mass destruction in the final minutes, deep beneath Baghdad.
He shook that memory off and read on. China was claiming several islands that up to then had been considered Philippine territory. A three-star Army general had been indicted for contract fraud. Two more Navy COs had been relieved. The reasons weren’t released, but he guessed sexual harassment or misconduct, since no collisions or groundings were mentioned. Terror attacks in northwestern India had killed seventy-five and wounded hundreds. The terrorists had been identified as Pakistani nationals, with an al-Qaeda — affiliated group in Waziristan. India had promised retaliation—
The bridge J-phone went off. Mytsalo flourished the handset. “Captain. Mr. Danenhower.”
The chief engineer wanted to know how long they’d be at this speed. “I’d like to water-wash one of the turbines, sir.”
“How long will you have it down?”
“Two hours to cool, maybe an hour to do the washdown and checks. Three hours?”
Dan searched the horizon. “We’re out here by our lonesomes, Bart. Be poking around this track for a while, I imagine. Do your maintenance. Leave one engine on each shaft.” He squinted across the pilothouse to see Pardees listening. He hoisted his eyebrows; the Californian nodded casually. “I notified the OOD. Go ahead.”
“Will do, Skipper.”
He hung up and leaned back again. Revisiting once more just why they were out here, and what he could expect.
Was it a bluff? Their presence here argued someone thought it wasn’t. The Iraqis had been under international sanction. But no one knew how far their military rebuilding had progressed. The administration thought they possessed weapons of mass destruction. That, after all, was the rationale for the attack. You could argue the ethics of preemptive war if you wanted, but he didn’t feel like it. As far as he and Savo were concerned, their mission was clear. Difficult … but clear.
He reread an article excerpted from Foreign Affairs. It pointed out that this invasion aimed to do something no government had ever tried before: destroy a regime that possessed weapons of mass destruction. In 1945, of course, only the United States had actually developed nuclear weapons. In the two cases since, where countries with WMDs had engaged in hostilities, both had been only skirmishes: China versus the Soviet Union along the Ussuri River, and India and Pakistan over Kargil. Both had been limited, and in neither case had a regime’s existence been threatened, as Saddam’s would be following a Coalition victory.
He frowned. If the administration feared whatever WMDs Iraq supposedly possessed enough to attack it, presumably its enemy would have no scruples about using these weapons when actually attacked.
Put that way, it made eminent sense to have Savo Island on guard.
He only hoped precautions were in place to protect the continental U.S., too.
“Good morning, sir.” Almarshadi, looking hangdog, as if he had to muster all his courage to speak at all. Dan returned the exec’s salute and accepted the papers he offered. He wished he could buck the XO up, give him whatever it was the guy was missing. The morning reports were summarized recaps of equipment status, what was broken and repair-time estimates. He flipped through, asked a couple of questions, then focused on the DSOT.
The Daily Systems Operability Test was a series of checks the computers ran on the missiles stowed beneath the hinged hatches of the vertical launch system. For a short period each day they were awakened and quizzed. The module they lived in was locked and sealed; no one entered alone, or without an officer present and a “screamer,” a CO2 detector, on his belt.
He’d looked into both the forward and aft modules during his initial inspection. The entryway was doored with heavy fireproof steel. The interior of the “cell” had two levels, with spidery metal catwalks between the missiles themselves. Dim and claustrophobic, it smelled of metal and rubber — unlike the gun magazines, with their heavy odors of alcohol and powder. The narrow gratings, so insubstantial one could look down past one’s boots to the bottom of the cell far below, labyrinthed banks of metal canisters packed so closely a fat man would have had to turn sideways to slide through. Harpoon, Standard, Tomahawk, Asroc, nestled in eight-celled miscegenation, their somnolent brains wired with black rubber-coated data and power cables. Those umbilicals were a primary point of failure. If their connections came loose, human beings lost comms with the missiles. And without comms, the proper firing permissions, they wouldn’t, of course, launch.
Failure to launch, when an enemy missile was coming in … he didn’t like to think about that. But the chief gunner’s mate had assured him the connections were tight. And any discontinuity or intermittent would show up on the daily tests. He hoped.
“It looks good. All rounds check out,” the XO offered.