Choosers of the Slain

by James H. Cobb

  The younger officer took an ineffective swipe at the sweat accumulating on his forehead. "Captain, I need to tell you about something that happened during the attack...."

  "I know, Dix. You're okay. We'll talk about it later."

  The damage was less than it might have been, and far less than she had visualized. The bridge had been spattered with a bucketful of high-velocity metal fragments from the exploding Exocet. The heavy composite materials of the superstructure had absorbed most of them. A couple of the smaller chunks were still embedded in the bridge windscreen, each surrounded by a gray, bubbly patch of heat-marred acrylic. The spray door leading out to the portside bridge wing had been blown inward, spraying the interior of the wheelhouse with flying shards of thermoplastic. Half a dozen flatscreens had been smashed and the deck was crunchy with bits of safety glass. The control consoles themselves appeared to be more or less intact, barring a couple of impressive shrapnel scores. Less could be said for some of the personnel who had been manning them.

  The first thing Amanda saw when she entered the bridge was her exec holding a blood-soaked first-aid dressing to the side of his face as he leaned weakly against the chart table.

  "Ken, are you all right?"

  "Yeah, I'm just cut up a little."

  "Let me have a look."

  "Honestly, Captain. I'm all right."

  "Damn it, Ken, Misa will give me hell if I bring you back any less pretty than you were. Now, let me have a look!"

  Amanda eased back the dressing and winced inwardly at what she found. "You're going to start a fine collection of stitches there. What about the rest of the bridge crew?"

  "Minor stuff except for the helmsman. Robinson's working on him now." Hiro painfully nodded toward the farside of the bridge where a cluster of people were hunkered down around a motionless form.

  Hospital Corpsman 1st Class Bonnie Robinson was a quiet and rather plain black woman from Detroit, Michigan. Now, though, as she worked over her wounded shipmate, her intensity and concentration gave her a kind of knife-edge beauty that onlookers would recognize only after the fact.

  The subject of her attention had already been eased into a basket stretcher, his blue uniform coveralls laid open and a mass of blood-soaked gauze packing taped down across his chest. His eyes were closed and he was still except for his labored breathing. A cannula fed oxygen into his nostrils and an IV bag was tucked under his shoulder, its contents being pressured into his arm by his own weight.

  Amanda recognized him as she knelt down by his side. Petty Officer 2nd Something-or-other Erikson, twenty years old, from some little place in South Dakota. He had come aboard at Pearl just prior to this cruise. As usual, she had talked with him a bit when he had signed on, and probably hadn't exchanged a dozen words with him since. He had seemed to be a good kid with a good record.

  "What have you got?" she asked.

  "I'm not sure yet," the Corpsman replied curtly. When she had her hands on a serious patient, Robinson tended to let all thoughts about military formality slip from her mind. Her captain understood and made no comment.

  "He was unconscious when we got here and he's shocky as all hell. There's penetrating chest trauma, and I think there's some shrapnel in there. There's no sign of hemorrhaging from the lungs, but I'll bet we've got some going on in the chest cavity. As soon as he's stable enough for it, we'll hump him down to sick bay and I'll get some X-rays. We'll know more then."

  Amanda held back all of the trite little phrases like "Do the best you can" and "Keep me informed." She simply gave an acknowledging nod and got to her feet.

  She looked down into the young seaman's pale face for a moment more and a strange chill rippled through her. She stepped back abruptly and took a deep and deliberate breath. She had seen wounded before, as well as the dying and the dead. There was no sense in its getting to her now.

  She went back to the bridge captain's chair and jacked her headset directly into the MC-1 circuit.

  "All hands, this is the Captain. Here's the situation. We have been attacked without provocation by aircraft of the Argentine Air Force and Navy. We have sustained minor damage and a couple of our people have been wounded. Two of our attackers, one-third of the enemy strike force, have been destroyed. For our first action, we have acquitted ourselves well.

  "At this time, we do not know what triggered this attack or what the current political situation is between the United States and Argentina. You will be informed as soon as we learn anything further. Until then, we must assume that we are at war and we must act accordingly on that assumption. From here on out, ladies and gentlemen, it's the real thing."

  DRAKE PASSAGE

  1420 HOURS: MARCH 25, 2006

  Amanda was alone in the wardroom. All other hands were still at general quarters as the ship fled southward toward the weather fronts.

  Her instincts were to remain in the Combat Information Center, hovering over the radar repeaters. However, she had forced herself away. Her command headset would give her an instant link with events there, and she must trust in her crew and her systems.

  She heated a mug of water for tea in the countertop microwave and spread peanut butter on a piece of toast. Then, with great deliberation, she sat down and began to eat.

  She wasn't particularly hungry. In fact, there was a massive leaden knot where her stomach should have been. She couldn't afford to yield to that, though. From this point on, she would have to run maintenance on herself, just as she would on any other key ship's system. She dare not squander her reserves of energy and mental focus.

  She took another sip of the strongly brewed tea without tasting and stared down the length of the table without seeing, mentally following event probabilities into the future.

  "Begging your pardon, ma'am?"

  She glanced up to find one of the CPOs from Weapons Division and an enlisted man standing just inside the open wardroom door. She recognized the EM as the gunner's mate who had been on the forward Oto Melara mount. He was now holding a rather uneasy parade rest beside his chief.

  "This is Gunner's Mate Second Danny Lyndiman, ma'am," the CPO said, shooting an ominous You're gonna catch hell now glance across at the younger man. "Mr. Beltrain said you wanted to talk with him."

  "I do," Amanda replied, pushing her chair back to face the two men.

  "Well, Lyndiman," she said, lowering her voice just enough so he had to concentrate on her words. "You scored a very spectacular one-shot kill on that Rafale this afternoon. Would you care to tell me how you went about it?"

  The lean young gunner shifted his weight uneasily. Everywhere else he had ever served, when the CO got loud, things got bad. On the Duke, though, when "The Lady" got quiet, that's when you started to worry. Suddenly, his brilliant improvisation didn't seem quite so brilliant.

  "It was like this, ma'am. When the Argys started using laser-guided ordnance on us, I figured why not use it right back at them."

  "Go on."

  "When that first Rafale flight illuminated us like it did, it occurred to me that if we had the chance to fire one of our own laser-guided rounds back up their designation basket, our shell would ride their own beam right back into the illuminator pod. Then, when the second flight started to come in, the angle looked good, so I took my gun out of the Aegis loop, went over to manual control, and reloaded with laser-guided munitions. I got it set up in time and I took the shot. I guess it worked."

  "I guess it did," Amanda replied softly. "Did you clear the change-over with the tactical action officer?"

  "No, ma'am. There just wasn't any time. I was barely able to recycle and reload the system and get the round off."

  "I see. And what made you sure that our systems would be interactive with theirs?"

  "I've been reading up on the briefing package for the mission, ma'am. The Argentines use a Thomson CSF designation system. It's fully NATO standardized and operationally compatible with all of our stuff. It had to work."

  "No, it didn't. Not if the ai
rcraft in the second flight had been carrying an ordnance load other than laser-guided munitions."

  Amanda watched the play of expression across the seaman's face. First the moment of confusion, then the gut-lurching realization. She let him dwell for a while on the image of a gutted and blazing ship. It wouldn't be necessary to crucify Lyndiman further. He was a conscientious and intelligent young man and he was doing a fine job of it on his own.

  "I'm sorry, Captain. I thought I was doing the right thing," he said miserably.

  "You were. You thought clearly and quickly in a crisis situation and you spotted a potential vulnerability in an enemy. You knocked down an attacking aircraft and you just possibly saved this ship.

  "It's my belief that one of the strengths of our Navy has always been that our ships have been crewed by intelligent, innovative people who can think for themselves in an emergency. I do not want or need mindless robots aboard the Cunningham.

  "However, what you did down there today was a classic calculated risk. When you call something like that right, you get to be the hero. But if you call it wrong, you get to watch your shipmates die. Should you ever have to make another call like that, you make sure that you are as right then as you were today."

  "Okay, Captain," he replied, giving her a sober nod. "You got it."

  "Very well. Chief, this gentleman here seems to think he needs a little more responsibility in his life. We will oblige him. Gunner's Mate Second Lyndiman is now a gunner's mate first. He's also our new first-stringer on the forward gun. Please inform Mr. Beltrain about it and see that the paperwork gets to my desk when the opportunity presents itself."

  "Aye, aye, Captain."

  "Is that suitable for you, Mr. Lyndiman?"

  "Yes, ma'am! Thank you!"

  She cocked an eyebrow. "Thank you. Dismissed."

  After the two men had disappeared back out into the passageway, Amanda had just enough time for another gulp of cooling tea before her headset phones went active.

  "Captain, you'd better get back down here to the CIC."

  "What's happening, Chris?"

  "Offhand, I'd say we're up shit creek and the guy who's rented us the boat has just called time."

  DRAKE PASSAGE

  1445 HOURS: MARCH 25, 2006

  Lieutenants Rendino and McKelsie were hunkered down together in front of a computer terminal as Amanda reentered the dimness of the CIC, their close proximity giving them an odd air of intimacy.

  "What's the situation?" she inquired sharply as she joined them.

  "It looks like we might have to eat another air strike," Christine replied.

  "Why? We've broken contact."

  "It's that damn Argy satellite. It'll be making its next pass in about"--Christine glanced up at the digital clock on the overhead--"forty-five minutes. The spook meister here figures it's going to tag us."

  "What about it, McKelsie? Are they that good? Can't we stealth it?"

  He shook his head. "I've been running some computer models on the capabilities of the Argentine sat, specifically its thermographic scanning. It doesn't look good. We got a real contrast problem going here."

  "More than our insulation and Black Hole systems can cope with?"

  "Yeah, a lot more. We've got a still-air atmospheric temperature of nineteen degrees Fahrenheit out there and a surface-water temperature of thirty-one degrees. Even if we start an immediate emergency drawdown of our internal temperature and cut power completely while the sat is overhead, we're still going to show up like a lightbulb on black velvet on any kind of halfway decent infrared imager. The only way we can kill that kind of temperature differential is by using the misting system."

  McKelsie referred to the system of high-pressure water jets built into the Cunningham's weather decks and upper works. Primarily intended as a purging mechanism to clear the destroyer's topsides of radioactive or biochemical contamination, it could also be used to mask her thermal signature under a cooling and concealing cloud of spray.

  "I can't use the water jets now," Amanda protested. "I'd have six inches of solid ice built up on the weather decks inside of half an hour. We'd have to use the deck heaters to clear it off."

  McKelsie nodded. "Yeah, and that would magnify our heat signature so much that a nearsighted rattlesnake could track us."

  Christine rose from behind the terminal and stretched. "Here's how I figure it. We've got about three hours of daylight left and about forty minutes until the next satellite pass. The Argys probably have another strike armed and on the runway, ready to launch the second they get a fresh fix on our position. Give them twenty minutes to the strike airborne and an hour's flight time from Rio Grande Base. That will put them over our last known location with an hour of daylight left.

  "Currently, we've got two thousand feet between the bottom of the available cloud deck and the ocean's surface. Probably they'll drop down through the overcast at our last position fix and spiral outward in a visual search pattern. Figuring that they use a tanker on the way in, they'll have enough light and gas to have a pretty good chance of spotting us."

  Amanda let the breath trickle out of her lungs in a soft hissing sigh. "They've got an absolutely solid chance of spotting us. If they can work in that close, we don't dare maintain full EMCON. We'll have to bring up the air-search radars to keep from being bushwhacked entirely, and they'll home in on our emissions. Unless we can find some little localized snow squall or fog bank to hide in, you're right, we will have to eat the strike."

  "Maybe we could avoid a whole lot of unpleasantness by doing something about that reconsat before it can spot us," the intel pointed out hopefully.

  "The Zenith round? It takes a minimum of two hours to stack it and prep it for launch. We just don't have enough time now. Later tonight, though, I intend to make good use of it."

  Granting we're still afloat, Amanda added silently.

  "I think we have an alternative."

  Vince Arkady had been standing back in one of the bay's shadowy corners. Now he pushed away from the bulkhead and stepped forward. He was clad in full flight gear, including survival suit and Mae West life jacket, and his helmet was clipped to his harness by its chin strap.

  "May I talk with you for a moment, ma'am?" he asked formally.

  "Of course." Amanda nodded to her intel and her countermeasures man and moved over to the waiting pilot. "What have you got, Lieutenant?"

  "It's not a good idea to let them move in on us like that, Captain."

  "Tell me about it. More importantly, tell me what we can do about it?"

  "We go after them."

  "An ambush?" Amanda frowned thoughtfully. "We could run north and try to set up an over-the-horizon missile trap with the LORAINs."

  "That could work, but I was thinking of something more up close and personal."

  "Such as?"

  "I want to try an intercept with an air-to-air armed helo."

  Amanda's eyebrows shot up. "Arkady! Going after a fighter-bomber strike with a helicopter is turning macho into foolhardy."

  "Not the fighter-bombers, Captain. The tanker."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I take Retainer Zero One out along the incoming flight path of this next Sierra strike. Once I get out about where I figure they'll be running their refueling operation, I'll go stealth and wait for them to overfly me. Then I pop up underneath them and kill the tanker.

  "That should not only break up this strike, but given their limited air-to-air refueling assets, it should go a long way toward screwing up any future ops they might want to launch against us."

  Amanda frowned again. "How are you going to know what their line of approach is going to be?"

  "I won't for sure, but I can make a pretty good educated guess. I figure the Argys will apply the KISS principle on this next strike just like they did before. When they launch, they'll fly a straight bearing out from the Isla Grande navigational beacon to our last fixed position. I just have to fly north, back along that bearing
far enough, and I should be in pretty good shape to bushwhack 'em.

  "While I'm running the intercept, we'll have Retainer Zero Two up with an Airborne Early Warning pod. She'll transmit an open-band downlink of what her radar is imaging that both the Duke and Retainer Zero One will be able to patch into passively. I'll be able to build a tactical display out of that without having to give away my position. The Argys won't know I'm there until they run right over me."

  Amanda suddenly found herself wishing that he weren't making so much sense.

  "All right, then," she said, "how do you plan to get out afterwards?"

  "Same way I got in. Fully stealthed, and down on the deck. With a little luck, by the time they sort out what's happened, I'll be over the hill and far away."

  "If you're not lucky, you'll end up alone out there with a bunch of very angry Argentine fighter pilots."

  He gave her a half-grin. "If you don't bet, you can't win. That's how the game's played."

  "Okay," she replied, grabbing for a last argument, "answer one more thing, then. What's the advantage of risking an aircrew over doing the same job with the LORAINs?"

  "Surprise, and the probability of success. We have to assume that the Argys will be paying close attention to their threat boards as they come in. They probably won't worry too much about our air-search sweeps, but the second you bring up the fire-control radars, they'll scatter. Even a C-130 can do a whole lot of shuckin' and jivin' during the couple of minutes it would take for a SAM to get out that far. With my way, they won't realize they've got a problem until it's too late to do anything about it."

  Arkady watched as Amanda slipped into what he was coming to recognize as her "heavy studying" posture: her arms crossed over her stomach, her head tilted down with her thick fall of hair flowing along her jawline, her lower lip lightly bitten in thought.

  Finally she looked up. "Okay, Arkady, we go with it."