Choosers of the Slain

by James H. Cobb

  "Shit, Rendino," McKelsie commented dryly, "those are Italian hulls optimized for Mediterranean operations. An outfit that would buy them for use in the South Atlantic doesn't impress me a whole hell of a lot."

  A flash of annoyance crossed Christine's face and she leaned forward across the table, her eyes narrowing.

  "These are good ships and good aircraft, manned by people who, Mr. McKelsie, we must presume know how to use them. To do otherwise is to ask to be popped right into the body bag."

  "Belay that, Chris," Amanda said, frowning. She had been able to cope with McKelsie, but Christine and the stealth boss struck sparks off each other as inevitably as flint and steel. She had some growing fears about how the two would be able to work together under an operational load.

  "Lieutenant Rendino's point is well taken, though, Mr. McKelsie," she continued. "Ships, battles, and wars have been lost because an enemy no one expected to be able to fight, did. Arrogance is a weakness I will not tolerate aboard the Cunningham."

  McKelsie flared and looked as if he had something more to say. Amanda met his gaze levelly, and after a few moments he gave a curt acknowledging nod. "However you want it, Captain."

  Amanda contained a sigh. She didn't have an immediately available solution for this problem, and there wasn't time to look for one. "Go on, Chris. Is there anything else to report?"

  "They've still got a couple of old French A-69-class escort frigates in commission, and they've picked up a couple of those new Sparviero 1,200-ton hydrofoil corvettes. Those last are pretty much inshore stuff, though. I doubt you'd see them deploy blue-water."

  "What about strategic reconnaissance assets?"

  "The Argys have one dedicated military reconsat in polar orbit. A Mitsubishi vehicle frame with Thomson-CSF and SOFMA systems packages. It's an opticals platform with some secondary Sigint and Elint capability. It doesn't have realtime downlink capacity. It does have thermographic imaging."

  Amanda sat up a little straighten "Enough to give us trouble?"

  Christine gave an apologetic shrug. "I'm not sure. I've got a query in with DIA for further data on the systems package. I'd have to say that a lot would depend on our tactical situation and the transient environmental conditions."

  "What else?"

  "That's about it. The Brazilians have an Earth resources satellite with some imaging capacity, and then there's the French SPOT commercial system available for charter. They hang pretty much in the plane of the equator, though. Once we get down south a little more, they shouldn't be able to get a line of sight on us."

  Amanda nodded. "Very well, then, ladies and gentlemen. I think that should about do it for the housekeeping. We will commence cross decking as soon as we get a stores list in from the Boone. Check with Commander Hiro for your individual division assignments. Remember, I intend to be ready for sea by 2400 hours."

  She started to push her chair back from the table, then hesitated. After a moment, she spoke again: "This is something of a milestone for the Duke, our first real operational commitment. I suppose I should be making some kind of big rah-rah speech, but I can't think of anything more that really needs to be said. Over these past months, as we've worked her up, I have seen you all give one hundred and ten percent to this ship. I have a hard time imagining any of you doing anything less now. So let's get on with it."

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  2000 HOURS: MARCH 20, 2006

  Beyond the mile-long row of graving docks and piers on the Elisabeth River estuary, within the confines of the Norfolk Naval Shipyard complex, there is a very special building. A four-story structure, only two of which are above ground, it covers roughly the same area as a football field. Several acres of Second World War-vintage warehousing had been demolished to accommodate its construction. Windowless and bunkerlike and flanked on all four sides by reinforced blast-deflection walls, it was built to be able to survive anything up to a near miss with a tactical nuclear weapon.

  Its roof is studded with half a dozen different kinds of antenna, and belowground armored land lines radiate outward, direct-linking to other key federal command and communications centers. Its two entryways are protected not only by steel doors and ever-scanning television cameras but by quietly alert Marine sentry teams. This is a measure of the value placed on this particular building and its contents. The only other facilities routinely guarded by the men of the Fleet Marine Reaction Force are the Navy's nuclear weapons depots.

  For all of the security measures, for all of its imposing appearance, there is a careful anonymity about this building and its purpose. There is only a single, white-painted acronym beside the main entrance: OPCENT LANTFLEETCO (Operations Center, Atlantic Fleet Command).

  The Commander in Chief Atlantic Fleet, Vice Admiral Elliot MacIntyre, stood at the railing of the duty officer's balcony overlooking the Second Fleet's Operations Room. Below him, dimly illuminated by the cool glow issuing from the monitors of two dozen different workstations, the flag watch went about their duties in the worry hole. Across from him, at the far end of the room, the huge main display screen sketched out in luminous lines of red, blue, and gold the parameters of his zone of responsibility: an area that extended from the Panama Canal to the Strait of Gibraltar, from the North Pole to the Antarctic coastline.

  Target hacks numbering in the hundreds crawled across the vast map in a stately, glacial-velocity dance. With a single sweep of his eyes, MacIntyre could note the position of every major identified surface vessel, submarine, and air-and- spacecraft moving within Second Fleet's hunting ground.

  That was what this Center and its twin facility at Pearl Harbor were all about. They had been born out of the "Flag Crisis" of the 1980s and '90s as the complexity and sophistication of combined air-surface and sub-surface fleet operations had continued to grow.

  Growing in a geometric parallel had been the demand for improved C3I: command, control, communications, and intelligence. Soon, this demand was outstripping the ability of sea-based systems to cope with the load. Even dedicated command vessels such as the Mount Whitney class could not provide for the needs of larger flag staffs, additional communications channels, and more computer processing power.

  The land-based operations centers had been the answer. State-of-the-art facilities built around two of the most powerful computer suites in government service, they could provide a Fleet Admiral's staff with every possible fragment of data available about any potential trouble spot. They could grant a Fleet Admiral a situational awareness unimaginable ten years before.

  Be that as it may, the CINCLANT sometimes rather wistfully wished that he could at least see the ocean from this new "flagship" of his.

  "Admiral, Secretary of State Van Lynden is on-line for you, sir. In regards to the Argentine deployment."

  "Right, Maggie, I'm coming."

  Square-set and craggy, with thick brown hair just turning to gray, MacIntyre moved from the vista of the operations room and followed his Chief of Staff, Captain Margaret Callendar, the few steps back to the communications desk.

  The Secretary had elected to use an audiovisual link, and the desk screen was already glowing with the standard Milstar test pattern. MacIntyre authenticated himself to the security system, and a moment later he was looking into the briefing lounge of Harrison Van Lynden's aircraft and into the face of the man himself.

  "Hello, Elliot, how are you doing?"

  "I can't complain, Harry. How was New Zealand?"

  "The scenery was magnificent and the fishing was pathetic. I should have taken those wild stories of yours with a grain of salt."

  MacIntyre grinned back at his old Annapolis classmate. "I was always taught that when you got skunked, it was usually the angler's fault, not the fish."

  "What the hell does a Navy man know about fishing anyway?" Van Lynden leaned in a little closer to the screen. "Let's get down to it, Elliot. I need the word on our military reaction to Argentina's move into the Antarctic."

  "We're moving too. We c
aught the President's deployment order down here about noon, and we've got the basics sorted out and rolling."

  "Can you give me a rundown?"

  "No problem. Our primary response at this time is the deployment of a carrier task force into the South Atlantic. The Theodore Roosevelt group has been working up around Bermuda, and we've already got her turned around and headed south. She'll rendezvous with an ammunition ship out of Mayport and take on a full set of warloads, then proceed directly to the crisis zone. The British also have a task group deploying into the Falklands. We'll be working in coordination with them."

  "Do you have a time on station for me?"

  With her usual foresight, Maggie Callendar had had the required data dialed in on a computer pad. Unobtrusively, she slid it across the desktop to MacIntyre.

  "We're estimating ten to twelve days, depending upon the sea states en route."

  Van Lynden frowned. "I was hoping for a faster response time, Elliot."

  "Sorry, Harry, that's the best I can do. The Elsenhower is in the middle of a refueling cycle. The Constellation came in from a long Mediterranean deployment last week. She's got half her engineering plant torn down and two-thirds of her crew on leave. Washington's in the North Sea on fleet exercises with NATO, damn near as far away as you can get from Argentina without using an icebreaker."

  "Couldn't you second a carrier from Sixth Fleet?"

  "All we've got in the Med right now is the Kittyhawk group. Pulling her out won't give you an appreciably shorter response time. Besides, with those flare-ups along the Algeria-Tunisia border, I don't think this is the time to leave Sixth without a flattop."

  "True. What about that new Sea Control Ship of yours? Isn't it operating in the Caribbean?"

  "The Coral Sea? I considered her, but she's only into the third week of her shakedown cruise. In my judgment, she's just not ready for an operational deployment, especially into a hostile oceanic environment. Given our long-range weather projections, Drake Passage is going to become just about as hostile as it can get very soon.

  "That doesn't apply to her escorts, though. She's got two Burke-class destroyers operating with her, the Clancy and the Brown. I've got them detached and headed across to rendezvous with the Brits' Ark Royal group. Our English cousins are bound to yell for Aegis cover sooner or later."

  "You're a mind reader, Elliot. I've got the Admiralty's request for a couple of Aegis-equipped escorts right in front of me. Now, what else do you have available?"

  "A couple of subs. The Louisville is diverting south from the mid-Atlantic, and Sea Serpent will haul out of Savannah later this evening. They'll be arriving on station a day or so ahead of the carriers, if that'll be any help."

  Three thousand miles away, the Secretary of State frowned and shook his head slightly. "Every little bit helps, but what I really need is somebody out there showing the flag right now. The Argentines seem to be playing hardball, and I'd like to be able to show that we're willing to get out there and pitch right along with them."

  "The South Atlantic isn't one of our usual zones of operation, Harry. As a rule, we just don't keep anybody down that way. However, by a rather weird set of circumstances, I can provide you with your flag-shower. We've got a ship practically sitting in the Argentines' front yard."

  "Only one?"

  "Yeah, but if I had to choose any one vessel out of the fleet to be there, this would be it. She's the Cunningham, the lead ship of our new guided-missile destroyer class. She's been designed from the keel up for independent operations, and she carries enough firepower to be a significant presence in the area."

  "The Cunningham? She's one of the new ghost ships, isn't she?"

  "I wouldn't use that 'ghost ship' line in front of any of the stealth crews," MacIntyre replied. "They don't much care for it, but yes, that's her. She'll sortie out of Rio de Janeiro tonight, and proceed into Drake Passage. Time in transit will be about three days."

  "They'll be running right down the Argentine coast," Van Lynden mused. "That should do it. Couldn't be better, in fact. How did this miracle come to pass?"

  "As I said, a rather weird set of circumstances. I borrowed her from Seventh Fleet to work up with the Coral Sea group in a series of stealth-doctrine exercises. They routed her around the Horn instead of through the Panama Canal specifically to show the flag in South American waters."

  "Someone in the E ring has been using a Ouija board."

  "Weirder still, she's supposed to be way the hell up in the Caribbean by now, but the ship she was running with suffered an engineering casualty in the South Atlantic. They had to divert into Rio for repairs. Sheer dumb luck, Harry."

  "I'll take it whenever I can get it."

  Van Lynden looked up and spoke briefly to someone offscreen and out of the audio pickup's focus. As he did so, his image faded and pulsed for a moment before restabilizing. The transmission platform at the far end of the telecommunications link had started to maneuver.

  Returning his attention to the video monitor, Van Lynden said, "Elliot, we're starting our descent into Buenos Aires. Thanks for the sitrep, and thanks for coming through for me."

  "No problem, Mr. Secretary. I'll have a detailed hard copy of the deployment TOE on the datalink to you shortly. Now, if you can give me another second, I need a question answered."

  "Go ahead."

  "What's the hostility quotient here? Are we just making faces at each other, or could we end up going to guns with these guys?"

  Van Lynden shook his head. "I honestly don't know, Elliot. And that's just one of a hell of a lot of things I don't know about this situation. I can't see Argentina actively seeking war with the United States. On the other hand, this is no fly-by-night land grab. It's becoming obvious that they've been planning this for a long time, and that they are deadly serious about it. They're working to some game plan that, as yet, we can't recognize. I don't know how deeply the other major South American powers are involved. I don't know what the Argentines will do if we back them into a corner. I don't even know specifically what they want yet.

  "What I do know is that they have launched a major military operation against an ally of the United States, and that a civilian has been killed as a direct result of that operation. Beyond that, I think I'll leave it to your best judgement."

  "Very good, Mr. Secretary. We'll keep you advised."

  "I'll do the same, Admiral. Take care."

  The screen blanked back to a test pattern.

  MacIntyre looked up at his Chief of Staff. "Okay, Maggie. What do you think?"

  Captain Callendar crossed her arms and rested one still-shapely hip against the edge of the desk. "Well, sir, I think I know what I'd do in this situation, but then I'm a very staid and conservative person."

  "So am I. Get a signal off to all Fleet units committed south. They are to proceed under the assumption that they are deploying into a potential combat zone. All rules of engagement are to be applied accordingly. As of now, this is a fangs-out operation."

  RIO DE JANEIRO

  2035 HOURS: MARCH 20, 2006

  Night had fallen over Rio. From the observation point atop Sugar Loaf Peak, a scattering of tourists and Cariocas looked down upon the starblaze of the city and the darkness of the harbor beyond. Centered in that darkness were the two American warships, glowing blood tone like twin rubies on a black velvet sheet. In the distance could be heard the faint, persistent thudding of rotors.

  Closer in, the view was far more hard-edged and prosaic. Cross-decking operations were in full swing aboard the Duke. SAH-66 Sea Comanche helicopters came bellowing in across the water, cargo pallets slung beneath their sleek, fishlike fuselages like pendulous growths. Coming to a hover over decks illuminated by red-lensed floodlights, they eased their payloads down onto the replenishment hard-points. Cargo handlers dashed in, braving the hurricane-velocity downdraft to trip the manual shackle releases so the helicopters could lift clear and cycle back for the next run.

  From that point on, it wa
s all on the backs of the Cunningham's sailors. Munitions, spare parts, lubricants, rations, ship's stores of all descriptions had to be sorted out, hogged over to cargo elevators and shell hoists, or packed down companionway ladders. She was a big ship with a comparatively small crew, lacking the luxury of a horde of deck apes and warm bodies. All hands were turned to and would stay that way until the job was done. The destroyer was engaged in a cannibalistic fete at the expense of her smaller sister, gorging herself in preparation for what was to come.

  "Begging the Lieutenant's pardon, but what in the hell was he thinking of!"

  "I was thinking that she was a pretty sharp-looking lady."

  "But she's the fuckin' captain!"

  "She wasn't wearing her oak leaves on her swimsuit, Gus," Lieutenant Vince Arkady commented mildly to his systems operator, Petty Officer 1st Class Greg "Gus" Grestovitch. The aviator and the AC-1 had been flying together for some time now and were accustomed to speaking the truth.

  "Yes, sir. But begging your pardon again, she has to be at least a three-striper. She's gotta be ancient!"

  "Haven't you ever heard of the mystique of the older woman?"

  "Oh shit... sir."

  Their helo was down on the Cunningham's landing pad for fuel and a fast round of tactical servicing between cross-decking runs. Accordingly, the two naval aviators were taking the opportunity to report in to their new duty station. In the light of certain recent events, even Arkady was willing to concede that it might be a rather sensitive task.

  Going forward, they climbed an interior companionway ladder to the second level of the destroyer's deckhouse. Down a short stretch of passage they found the door that bore the ominous designation, "Captain's Quarters."

  "We're dead."

  "Shut up, Gus. Here ..." Arkady shoved his flight helmet into his SO's stomach. "Hang on to that while I go in to do the honors. It'll give you something to do with your hands besides chewing on your fingernails."