"The question is, is it really worth it? Are polar bears and penguins worth the potential loss of human life?"
Dr. Towers smiled quietly and removed her glasses.
"There are no polar bears in the Antarctic, Mr. Douglas. I am a scientist, and the study of ethics and social morality isn't really my field. My stock-in-trade is the accumulation of factual information.
"I can tell you this. The Antarctic seas pour millions of tons of protein into the global biosphere yearly. Disrupt that flow, and you will disrupt oceanic ecosystems all over the globe. Antarctica is also the premier weather generator of the planet. Disrupt its climate, and you disrupt the climate of every other continent as well.
"I can tell you one other thing. The cold polar environment greatly slows the natural processes the Earth uses to repair ecological damage. Whatever mistakes we make in the Antarctic today, the human race will have to live with for the next thousand years."
DRAKE PASSAGE
0210 HOURS: MARCH 26, 2006
The hours just past midnight were a favorite time for Amanda to prowl the Duke's passageways and compartments. It wasn't an inspection in the classic sense, but more a chance to attune herself to her ship's state.
She moved quietly through the dim, red, night lighting, extending a hand out occasionally to a bulkhead to catch herself against the destroyer's pitch and roll and stopping now and again to listen to the whisper of air through a duct, or to feel the faint vibration of a pump. Once, she paused near the partially open door of a berthing bay to listen to the low murmur of conversation coming from within. It wasn't eavesdropping; she had no interest in the contents of the conversation, just in its tone. Angry? Uneasy? Confident?
A burst of bantering laughter came from the darkness. Amanda smiled and moved on.
She exchanged a few words with the duty security patrol and the junior officer of the deck as they made their rounds. She hit the CIC to check on the latest weather states and intelligence updates, then went down two decks to Main Engineering for a look at the fuel-consumption projections.
Under normal conditions, that would have been enough of an early-A.M. walk-around. She would have dropped by the galley to sample tomorrow morning's batch of cinnamon rolls, then turned in for another couple of hours' sleep before rising again to be on the bridge at first light.
Not this night, however.
"Good morning, Terrel."
The Corpsman striker who had the night watch in sick bay scrambled to his feet from behind the desk in the small office/examination room.
"As you were," Amanda said quietly. "I just came down to see how your patient was doing."
"Yes, ma'am. Pretty much no change. Chief Robinson is concerned about fluid buildup around his lungs, so we're keeping an eye on that. He threw a fever spike earlier in the evening, but it seems to be coming down now."
"Thanks, Terrel. Carry on."
Erikson's medical file was sitting out on the corner of the desk. She picked it up, flipped it open, and began to study the latest entries and evaluations.
"Begging your pardon, Captain," the striker asked hesitantly, "but are you going to be here for a couple of minutes?"
"I imagine so. Why?"
"I just finished the sick-bay supply inventory, and we're short on a couple of things. I've got orders from the Chief not to leave Erikson alone, but if you were going to be around for a while, ma'am, I could make a run down to the medical-stores room and get us restocked."
"That'll be fine. Go ahead."
The striker departed on his task. Amanda returned the file to the desk and stepped across to the entrance of the ward bay. Pushing aside the curtain, she peered in.
She didn't like hospitals, especially in the still, close hours of darkness. Such places reminded her of the night she lost a large part of her family.
It had been an automobile accident. Amanda's mother and eight-year-old younger brother had been driving in to Norfolk to pick her up after an evening dance class. A drunken driver had crossed over the road's centerline and had hit them head-on. Despite the best efforts of the trauma teams, they had died the same night, within two hours of each other.
Her father had been in the western Pacific when it had happened. It would be almost two days before he would be able to get home. Amanda had been fourteen years old and alone. The hospital staff had tried to get her to leave, but she had refused. She had been at each of their bedsides at the end, because that was where she needed to be.
"Terrel? Hey, Terrel, you there?" Erikson's voice came weakly from out of the dimness and he shifted a few painful inches in his bunk. Moving swiftly, Amanda entered the bay and dropped down at his side.
"Are you all right?"
The young seaman must have been startled at having his commanding officer suddenly materialize at his call.
"Uh ... yes, ma'am, I'm okay. I was just trying to get the Corpsman."
"He's out for the moment and I'm minding the store. What can we do for you?"
"It's nothing, ma'am. Just a little thirsty. I was wondering if I could get some more of that ice they've been letting me have."
"No problem."
Amanda got to her feet and filled a plastic cup from the ice dispenser on the forward bulkhead. Returning to the wounded man, she carefully fed him a few of the ice chips.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, easing back down onto his pillow. "I didn't mean to cause you any trouble."
"You didn't. I did come down here to see how you were doing, after all."
"That was nice of you, ma'am. I'm doing okay. They're taking pretty good care of me, I guess." The seaman shifted in his bunk in weak discomfort. "It's just that I don't much like having to be taken care of in the first place."
"I know what you mean," she replied, sitting down on the deck and tucking her feet under her. "I hate being fussed over myself."
"Yeah. I guess I won't be able to get around for a while. This just lying here is gonna drive me crazy."
"I seem to remember that you were big into sports. Football, wasn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am. Fullback. My senior year, my team was runner-up for our state triple-A championship. I tried out for a couple of athletic scholarships, but I never made the cut. That's how I came to join up. Mom and Dad are divorced, and neither one of 'em have all that much money. I figured that the Navy would be my best chance for college."
"The Matching Funds Program?"
"Yes, ma'am. I've got a couple of thousand bucks riding the books already. I'm going to be signing up for some of the college-level correspondence courses, too. I'd really like to be a building contractor someday. Run my own outfit, you know. I figure that becoming an architect is my best first step.... Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to start carrying on like that."
"It's all right," she replied, letting her gaze drift off into the middle-distant darkness. "I've been there. When it's the middle of the night and you're hurting, sometimes you want to talk."
"Yeah....Captain?"
"Yes?"
"Have my folks been notified that I've been wounded?"
"I'd guess so. We notified Second Fleet about our damage and casualties before we went EMCON. Why?"
"I was just wishing that there was some way that I could rig it so they'd know that I was okay, that everything was going to be all right, you know?"
"I wish we could, but it's just not possible."
"I understand, ma'am." The young sailor hesitated for a moment, then went on. "Captain, could you do me a favor?"
"Like what?"
"If anything happens, could you tell my folks that I was okay, that I wasn't hurting or scared or anything?"
"I've got a hunch that's not exactly the truth."
"No, ma'am," the young seaman replied tightly. "It isn't."
Amanda came up onto her knees and took Erikson's hand in both of her own. "Look, you can tell your family yourself, because we are getting you out of here. I've never lost anyone under my command yet, and I'm not starting with
you. You remember that, sailor. I'm taking us all home."
BASE AÉREA MILITAR RIO GRANDE
RIO GRANDE ISLAND
1010 HOURS: MARCH 26, 2006
A brace of Fuerza Aérea Rafales blazed down the main runway at Rio Grande as President Sparza descended the short stairway from the door of his plane, the crackling roar of their afterburners echoing across the base. An Antarctica-bound C-130 followed within moments, its four powerful turboprops moaning as it lifted into the rain-swept sky. The backlog of aircraft that had accumulated on the taxiways while the Executive jet had been on approach were moving out, expedited by wartime urgency.
At Sparza's own insistence, there was no honor guard standing to on the parking apron, just a staff car with a small MP escort. Likewise, none of the base's senior staff had been called away from their duties, just a single junior officer who tried futilely to shield the Argentine President from the chill downpour with an umbrella as they dashed to the waiting vehicles.
"General Arco sends his respects, Mr. President," the young Air Force man stammered as they entered the staff car. "He is awaiting you at the operations building."
"Very good, Lieutenant. Let's carry on. We haven't a great deal of time to spare."
The same sense of crisis that had been present on the flight line could be felt in the base command-and-control center. Not since the Falklands War, when Rio Grande had been at the forefront of the strike operations against the British fleet, had the facility been pushed to the limits like this. As the southernmost of Argentina's major air bases, it had been serving as the departure node for the Conquistador South supply airlift. Now it had also become the keystone in the search for the Cunningham.
Sparza was ushered into a briefing room immediately adjoining the operations center itself and separated from the ranked workstations and map displays by a glass wall. General Marcello Arco joined him there a few moments later.
"Good morning, Mr. President. May I order something for you after your journey? Coffee? A cup of chocolate?"
"No, thank you, General," Sparza replied, shedding his damp raincoat and draping it across the conference table. "I am required back in Buenos Aires this afternoon, so I regret our meeting must be brief. Is there anything new to report?"
"No, sir. We still have not developed a fix on the North American warship. There have been no contacts since 1700 hours yesterday evening."
"And our lost satellite?"
"Nothing new to report there either. San Martin Base verifies that the Aquila B was on schedule as it passed over the Antarctic. However, when our tracking station at Comodoro Rivadavia endeavored to acquire the satellite for a data download, it was gone. A possible sighting report from the Brazilian Space Agency indicates that it may have deorbited and burned up during reentry over the Andes."
"An inconvenient accident, General?" Sparza said, drawing one of his chairs back from the table and seating himself in it.
"Unlikely," Arco replied. "The safe assumption is that the Aquila B was shot down by the North Americans as it passed over Drake Passage."
"Indeed?"
"It is open knowledge that the United States has antisat weapons. What was not known is that they had the ability to deploy them aboard their naval surface units."
"And they elected to reveal this secret capacity to us," Sparza mused, reaching into his inner coat pocket for his cigarette case. "They must have had reason to fear the Aquila."
"Its thermographic cameras may have been the only sensors we had capable of detecting the Cunningham."
Sparza paused for a moment to light a Players. "The North Americans' stealth technology. It is truly that good ...or bad?"
"It is," Arco replied flatly, turned to face the glass wall of the briefing room, and gestured toward the CIC beyond it. "Since last night, we have conducted two full surface-search sweeps within the sectors of Drake Passage that must contain the North American vessel. We used a mixed force of our best radar aircraft, Aeronaval's Atlantiques, our 737s, and the Prefectura Naval's Dessault Falcons. Nothing.
"If the Cunningham was detectable using conventional resources, we would have found her. Of that I am certain, Mr. President."
Sparza gestured with the tip of his cigarette. "I fully accept your statement, General. Sit, and let us discuss what options we may now have."
Arco accepted Sparza's invitation, dropping into a chair across from his Commander in Chief. "Operationally," the Air Force man continued, "we have been taken back to the 1930s. Visual search during daylight hours only. And, as you experienced on your way in, we are losing the weather. "Heavy cloud cover over the Antarctic Convergence is forcing our aircraft down to almost wave-top altitude, cutting into their range and search coverage. They are also encountering rain, snow, and heavy fog. We can expect that the North Americans are taking maximum advantage of this kind of environment."
Sparza produced a brief grunt of ironic laughter. "Only the day before yesterday I said that the weather was on our side. General Winter is proving to be a fickle ally."
"I regret the situation, sir," Arco replied, failing to suppress his own sensation of irony. "My aircrews are doing their best."
"I do not doubt it, General. Nor do I need to be reminded that it was my decision that committed us to this course of action. Now, for a moment let us assume that you do locate your target. Aeronaval was hit hard when they tried to take her on yesterday. What will your plan be?"
"We have moved our entire Rafale force south. Grupo Two and Eight are here at Rio Grande. Grupo Six is up at Rio Gallegos with what's left of our tanker force. All three squadrons are holding a full eight-plane antishipping strike on cockpit alert. If we can find her, we will kill her, but we have got to find her first."
Sparza tilted his chair back and snubbed out his cigarette in the conference table's pristine ashtray. "Arco, I am fully aware of the doubts you have had about Conquistador South. However, I also believe that for the moment, you are the man in the best position to save this operation. You have told me of all of the conventional things that you are doing. Well and good. But what about the unconventional things that might be done?"
Ironies upon ironies. "There is ... something, sir," Arco began slowly. "I have been in communications with some of my technical specialists, people involved in stealth-technologies research. They say that there may be a way to penetrate the kind of antiradar defenses the North Americans are using, but it will require a great deal of manpower and equipment."
"Ah."
Sparza tilted his chair forward again. "Maybe we can have that coffee now, General. And then you can tell me what you will need, and why."
OFF THE ANTARCTIC SEA ICE PACK FORTY-FIVE MILES
NORTHWEST OF CAPE LLOYD
1545 HOURS: MARCH 26, 2006
She knelt down once more in the narrow aisle beside the sickbay bunk.
"How's it going?"
Erikson gave a weak thumbs-up. "Pretty good, Captain. I think I'm doing a little better."
Amanda glanced back to where Chief Robinson stood in the ward doorway. The Corpsman gave a minute shake of her head.
"That's good. That's why I came around. I was hoping to hear something like that."
"Yes, ma'am. I've been telling everyone who's come through that I'll be back on duty soon."
"A lot of visitors today?"
"Yeah, a couple of my buddies from Deck Division. My chief, Mr. Nichols. Even the new lieutenant that came aboard at Rio. The helo pilot."
"Lieutenant Arkady?"
"Yes, ma'am. And I don't even know him."
Amanda mentally cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I guess he was saying hello while he had the chance. The fleet will be coming up with us in a few more days and we'll be shifting you over to a carrier."
"Just getting used to this ship, ma'am."
"Well, don't worry. We're going to get you back."
"Good. Like it here."
His voice trailed off and his eyes closed. Amanda rested her hand on his shou
lder for a moment, then got to her feet. Moving forward into the sick-bay office, she met the eyes of Chief Robinson again.
"So?"
"I'd like to think that I'm holding him stable, Captain, but I'm afraid I'd be lying to myself."
"Understood, Chief. Carry on."
Amanda stepped out into the corridor and started. Arkady was there, his arms crossed and his back against one side of the passageway. He had one boot raised and braced on the farside grab rail, wedging him in place against the increasing pitch of the ship.
"Any change?" he asked.
"Not for the good. I helped to set up the projected crew roster for the Cunningham-class, and it never occurred to me or to anyone else that a doctor would be an absolute necessity for a ship intended for independent operations. Damn, damn, damn! How could I have missed that?"
"We got spoiled. The surface navy's gotten used to looking back over its shoulder and seeing that big old flattop out there, serving as the font from which all blessings flow."
It was a good analysis.
"You're right," Amanda agreed, leaning back against the bulkhead beside him. "Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it now."
"Beyond the best we can with what's available? Nope."
"More Arkady honesty?"
"Yep. There's always plenty of that to spread around."
Amanda smiled in spite of herself. There were other places she could have been just then, not the least of which was topside, looking into the way the weather was kicking up. But she elected to stay and stretch out this exchange of words for a few moments more.
"Erikson said that you'd been in to visit him," she commented. "Why? Do you know him from somewhere?"
"Can't say that I do. But he's a point of concern for the ship and the mission. I've got a hunch decisions are going to have to be made about this kid, and I figure I should at least get to know him well enough to say hello."
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