Glory for Sea and Space (Star Watch Book 4)

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Both Jason and the admiral looked at her questionably.

  “I thought you were sleeping,” Jason said, with a bemused smile.

  “I could still hear you guys … especially the admiral, with that deep resonating baritone voice. I guess I got caught up in the story, and finally figured I may as well come back out.”

  “To answer your question,” the admiral said hesitating, “I was caught up in a situation I was unprepared for. For the first time in my career, I was filled with self-doubt. I was questioning my position in the Navy … where officers are often measured by the wars they have fought in; how they’ve been tested in battle. Hell, if the damn Secretary of the Navy saw fit to single me out as expendable … to play this puppet …” The admiral let his words hang in the air.

  “Something tells me there was more to it than that,” Jason said.

  The admiral shrugged and peered up toward the star-filled sky. He looked as though his thoughts had already returned to those long-past events that took place over twenty years ago. His voice was almost a whisper now. “I learned that as much as I loved being an officer … loved my country, my commission in the U.S. Navy would soon be over.” His eyes found Jason’s. “I missed out on so much, being more a part of yours and Brian’s life. Seeing my own father, who I was quite certain at that time was going crackers … I made a decision: To do what was asked of me there but to not commit to another go-round in the military. Even though you and your brother were gone by then … out of the house and making lives of your own in the military … I’d reconnect with you. I’d return home and make a new life for myself.”

  “So what happened next?” Dira asked.

  * * *

  Summer, 1995 …

  Ensign Powell remained behind. Commander Greco gave both Perry and the elderly officer suspicious looks as he collected his papers and binders and hurried out from the captain’s quarters.

  “Ensign?”

  “Yes, Captain, I wanted to speak with you …” He walked over to the open hatch and peered out. Seeing no one else around, he continued, “Things are not what they seem, Captain.”

  Perry studied Powell’s long, wizened face and, for the first time in several weeks, laughed out loud. “You think?”

  Powell smiled. “I’m talking beyond the obvious craziness of all this …” he motioned toward the now-empty dining table. “Captain, I’ve been away from the Navy for close to forty years. At the age of twenty-eight, I left the Navy and embarked on a new career, becoming a police officer in the NYPD. I was made detective by the time I was thirty-five, and lieutenant by thirty-nine. I retired from the Force over ten years ago … probably closer to fifteen. Anyway, when I was first contacted by some high-ranking officials from the U.S. Navy, I was both flattered and, with an abundance of free time on my hands, excited.”

  Perry listened to the older man’s long-winded story and wondered when he’d get to the point.

  “I arrived here several days before you. I met with the other officers and had several one-on-ones with the XO. Then my old cop’s mind began to question some of the things I was being told, and what I was told to do when you arrived.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Basically, treat you like a mushroom.”

  “Keep me in the dark and feed me shit?”

  Powell nodded. “I’m sorry to say this, but you are not here because of your stellar career at sea. You’re here because you don’t make waves, you do as you’re told, and, I believe, something else.”

  “What is that?”

  “I’m only hypothesizing, but I think it’s because you … that you won’t be overly missed.”

  That comment stung but Perry kept his face expressionless.

  “As I mentioned, I’ve had a few days to talk to the crew. I think they’ve all been specifically chosen to be here … just like you and me. I was trained to look for out-of-place patterns and inconsistencies, Captain. And there are too many. I don’t like it when someone tries to pull the wool over my eyes. In fact, I hate it.”

  “So what have you come up with?” Perry asked, his interest now more than a little piqued.

  “Virtually every crew member aboard this ship is unmarried. In my case, I’m a widower. I live alone and I’m retired. Here’s what I’ve found: This is a ship full of losers and loners; solitary people fitting into a particular pattern. People that won’t be overly missed. It’s a bit ominous when you think about it.”

  Realization slowly crept into Perry’s mind. If Powell was right, and he had no reason to doubt him, then what? Perry said, “The Montana won’t make it to Norfolk, will she? She’ll never live to be a floating museum.”

  Ensign Powell slowly shook his head.

  It then dawned on Perry just why something had seemed off about his deployment orders. The specifics leading up to their rendezvous with Carrier Group Five, in the Taiwan Strait, had been highly detailed. But the level of detail outlined for the voyage beyond that point was far more cursory—more like an afterthought.

  Perry felt a chill run down his back. He shook his head and smiled. He was letting his thoughts run wild. No way, in this day and age, could anything like that happen.

  “I see you’ve connected the dots,” Powell said, with a pained expression. “If you think about it … it’s ingenious. The planned reintroduction of this amazing battleship … all the buildup and fanfare … the news crews … Americans patriotism ignited as this symbol of strength and power heads toward the Taiwan Strait, to join up with the U.S. Fleet and the Taiwanese Republic of China in joint military exercises. Exercises beyond anything we’ve been involved with in years. Tensions are running high in the region … mainland China pulling the reins on a far too independent Taiwan. The whole world will be watching. And China’s exercises will be ratcheted up to coincide with ours. It’s a …”

  “Powder keg,” Perry said, completing his sentence. They, and the rest of the Navy crew aboard the Montana, if Powell was correct, were to become sacrificial lambs, unwittingly led to slaughter. The battleship would somehow be sunk—providing a definitive reason for the U.S. to go to war with China that the American people would not only stand behind—but insist upon.

  “We have seventeen days, Ensign. Between the two of us, and perhaps a few others we can trust, maybe we can find a way to avert World War III from happening.”

  Chapter 12

  Sol System

  Planet Earth, Subterranean Aquifer, San Bernardino, CA

  __________________________

  Present day …

  “Hold on, Dad … I’m being hailed,” Jason said.

  Dira, lifting her head from his chest, rolled off him and watched as he rose to his feet. With two fingers up to his ear, he said, “Go for Captain. That you, Billy?”

  “Took us a while to find it … that archway the girls described,” Billy said.

  “Didn’t Teardrop have the right coordinates?”

  “Cap, there’s crazy energy fluctuations going on around here. The abundance of Glist, not to mention the sky—it’s constantly ablaze with lightning flashes. Teardrop’s coordinates didn’t help much other than getting us closer to this general vicinity.”

  “But you found it?”

  “Yup … no doubt about that. But the girls are gone. I’m sorry … got here too late.”

  “I understand,” Jason said.

  “Hey … there’s a giant Glist archway that has an ancient-looking tunnel suspended within it. But you have to be standing directly in front of the archway to even catch it. Listen, Cap … it’s starting to fade … we have to go now. We’re not even sure we got here in time.”

  “I can’t order you to go do that, Billy. If what the girls said is true, the tunnel is a conduit into the multiverse. Who knows where you’ll end up, or if you’ll even survive.”

  “Captain, understand this … I’m not asking your permission. I simply wanted you to know we found it and we’re heading in. Hopefully, we’ll find some way to
communicate back … tell you exactly where we ended up. I’m hoping, too, that Ricket can configure the Zip Farm there on the Parcical to …” Suddenly the connection died.

  “Billy? Damn! I think I lost him.”

  Dira and the admiral stared up at him from their lounge chairs. “What’s up?” Dira asked.

  “Well, Billy’s team found the Glist archway, located on Almand-CM5, but it sounded like the tunnel within it was about to disappear.”

  “So what’s he going to do now?” the admiral asked.

  “They’re readying to enter the tunnel. Hold on, I’m being hailed again.”

  “Go for Captain. Oh hey, Ricket, I was about to contact you … just talked to Billy.”

  “Yes, Captain, Billy contacted me prior to hailing you. He wanted to know if the Parcical had the capability to travel into the multiverse, similar to what the Minian accomplished in the past, using Zip Farm functionality. I told him yes, although our era’s Zip Farm technology is quite different—more advanced—and that we had not yet tested that same capability in the Parcical.”

  “So Billy wants to know, should all else fail, if we’ll be in the position to go after them … his team and the girls?” Jason said.

  “That is correct, Captain, but the issue that is most decisive remains the same. There is no way to distinguish where that tunnel … or conduit … ends up. There are as many possible multiverses out there as there are stars in the cosmos. Countless. We first need some kind of reference to calibrate from.”

  As Jason listened to Ricket he chided himself for not sending him along. Not as part of Billy’s crew, but to study the archway—perhaps take measurements … or whatever a Craing Science Officer-genius did.

  “Listen to me, Ricket … I suspect Billy’s team has already entered the Glist tunnel. I should have sent you down there too to observe things; perhaps try to determine which multiverse they are heading to. Why don’t you ask Gunny to put together a team and shuttle you all down to Almand-CM5. Then see if anything’s there you can use.”

  “Yes, Captain, I can do that.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I’ll remain on Earth, probably a few more hours at least. I’m approaching everything now from a different angle.”

  “I understand, Captain.” Ricket signed off.

  Jason returned to his seat beside Dira. “Okay, Dad, please return to your story.”

  * * *

  Summer, 1995 …

  For the first time since Perry stepped aboard the Montana he had a sense of purpose. Too bad it wasn’t aligned with certain officers from the Pentagon—but a valid purpose, just the same. He would play his appointed role—captaining this fine old ship—while strategizing with Ensign Powell in secret.

  Over the past five hours news crews had come on board, bringing an abundance of production equipment with them—numerous hard cases, packed with lights, cameras, and audio recording devices. The five news agencies were each allowed only five people to be on board—including their on-camera news correspondent. Perry recognized them—all five were famous—clearly used to being at the center of their own universe. ABC, NBC, CBS, and CNN provided male, on-camera news correspondents. Only FOX News had sent a woman. Her name was Terry Hill and she was tall, blonde, and confident. Perhaps a better descriptive word would be driven.

  At the present moment, Perry could smell her subtle scent—something slightly sweet and floral. Her red lipstick accentuated her full lips and when she smiled, which was often, her teeth looked almost too white to be real. Standing close to him, a microphone was grasped in one hand and held up just below his chin, as her other hand rested casually on the arm of his chair.

  “So … Captain Reynolds, what does it feel like? To captain the Montana from secret obscurity out into the public eye?” She looked over from Perry to the man holding the large video camera, propped up on his shoulder, and standing two paces away. Apparently, she’d drawn the lucky straw, the first to conduct an interview with the ship’s captain on such a momentous occasion. Waiting in the wings, idling time in the mess hall below deck, were the other news teams chafing at the bit to be next.

  Perry wondered if she’d come up with the opening question herself, or if it had been scripted by someone else. Perhaps a scriptwriter, sitting behind a desk, some three thousand miles away?

  “This is a wonderful ship with a ready crew, ma’am,” he answered, keeping his attention focused on his duties. He’d just belayed the order: All lines to be hauled in and the anchor hoisted. The familiar clang of metal hitting metal was one of his favorite sounds. Fresh excitement filled the air and Perry wasn’t immune to the exhilaration everyone was feeling on the bridge.

  Perry, seated in the slightly elevated captain’s chair, glanced over at the cameraman and gestured. “Please take a step back, sir.” He was blocking Perry’s field of vision of the ship’s port side. The cameraman, looking somewhat annoyed, stepped away from the windows as directed, prompting the ever-perky Terry Hill to also reposition herself, so her face was still on camera.

  Not missing a beat, she asked, “Captain, is it true you have two sons in the military? One in the Army … one in the Navy?”

  Perry waited for a series of bells, followed by a loud announcement on the 1MC—the main public announcing circuit on the ship—to complete, before answering.

  “That is correct, Ma’am. But I’m not so sure I had anything to do with their decision to go into the military.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you did, Captain.”

  Perry saw that Commander Greco was watching them, and like himself, barking off a nearly continuous flurry of orders in preparation of getting underway.

  The helmsman, looking calm as a cucumber, was at his station and poised to steer the battle ship out into the harbor proper.

  Perry raised his chin in the direction of the now open, ten-stories high, metal hangar doors—a low mist that had been encircling Davenport Naval Base, like a ghostly presence, was now slowly creeping in toward the bow of the Montana.

  “Take us out to sea, Petty Officer Gaffney. Dead slow ahead,” Perry said, his voice loud and leaving no doubt as to who was the skipper on this vessel.

  Standing at the wheel, the Petty Officer took hold of a polished brass handle at the side of the engine order telegraph, referred to as the E.O.T.—which consisted of a round nine-inch-diameter dial with a knob at the center—and an indicator pointer on the face of the dial. Bells rang as he positioned the pointer on the dial to the corresponding engine speed. “Dead slow ahead, Captain.”

  Perry felt the deck vibrate as the four massive screws churned at the stern of the vessel.

  The cameraman repositioned himself and his camera to face out the forward windows. Perry watched as the attractive reporter exchanged a quick glance with him. The bridge was a continuously noisy place. Commands from bridge officers were constantly barked off and repeated by subordinates. Loud PA announcements and the ever present bells never seemed to stop. This was a nightmare situation for a reporter trying to conduct an interview. Three times she had raised her microphone, poised to ask Perry a question, and three times she had given up due to the shouting and noise.

  “Miss Hill … we’ll have two and a half weeks at sea before we reach the Taiwan Strait. It won’t always be this hectic and there will be many opportunities to interview myself and other crewmen.”

  That seemed to somewhat nullify her frustration. She gave him a quick smile, turned and leaned over to the cameraman, and spoke into his ear—he continued to get close-ups of various items within the bridge. What they called B-Roll, Perry remembered. Perry wasn’t the only one to take notice of her slender backside beneath a form-fitting dark red skirt.

  “Eyes on the job, Petty Officer,” Perry said, seeing the bow of the ship begin to veer off course. The helmsman readjusted the wheel as the bow of the Montana cleared the hangar doors and moved out into the damp English air. Large wipers began to swipe back and forth as the fog engulfed the big ship.
/>   * * *

  Present Day …

  Jason sat up. “I can’t believe, knowing all what you and Ensign Powell knew, you still went along with it. How do you skipper a vessel, knowing you’re facilitating her demise … not to mention the sending of her crew to the bottom of the ocean?”

  “What we thought we knew and what we knew as absolute fact, were two different things,” the admiral said. “But even at this stage, I was committed to saving both ship and crew … I just hadn’t figured out how to do that yet.”

  Jason looked at his watch. “I’ll need to be back on board the Parcical before the sun comes up, Dad. If it’s not crucial to talk about the seventeen days at sea … can you skip ahead … right to the Taiwan Strait?”

  The admiral made a wounded expression and then smiled. “You don’t want to hear about my late night forays into Miss Hill’s cabin?”

  “Maybe you can share that with your son at another time,” Dira said.

  The admiral took in a long breath and looked to be contemplating where to begin again. “By the time we reached the Indian Ocean, we’d enlisted more of the crew to help. It was about this time where I started to really appreciate the Montana … that she deserved a place in history … other than winding up at the bottom of the ocean … and I was more than a little concerned that saving her … may be impossible.”

  Chapter 13

  Entering the Taiwan Strait from the South China Sea

  USS Battleship, Montana

  __________________________

  Summer, 1995 …

  The Montana entered the Taiwan Strait before the sun crested the eastern horizon and two hours before schedule. Her four powerful aft screws churned up the seawaters in her wake, as her bow split the oncoming waves like a cleave, running close to thirty-five knots per hour—three full knots above her recommended top speed. A warship’s crew is always at the ready—but all shifts aren’t run the same. Key personnel must sleep—a captain must sleep—so great lengths were taken to keep all shifts effective, at the ready. On this particular morning Perry was up and sitting in the captain’s chair. The bridge was relatively quiet as the pre-dawn blackness outside slowly gave way to a silver band of light directly eastward. The preceding two and a half weeks at sea had, for the most part, passed by without incident. As the days progressed, Perry concentrated on getting to know his crew better and learning all there was to know about the grand old ship under his command. His earlier thoughts—that she was nothing more than a relic, an out-of-date behemoth whose time had come and gone—had been replaced with a profound respect for what the vessel had accomplished back in the 1940s—but more importantly, what she was capable of achieving today. Although nowhere near the sophistication of modern, mid-1990s warships, the Montana had been retrofitted with Phalanx CIWS mounts—a last line of defense against enemy missiles and aircraft. He personally inspected each—the two mounted just behind the bridge, and the two mounted behind the after-ship funnel. At some point, over the preceding three years, the Montana had been retrofitted with Tomahawk land attack missiles, or TLAMS, and RGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missiles—although not the latest technology, still quite good. The big ship had also been fitted with a AIM-7 Sparrow air-to-air missile system—a short-range defensive system against all incoming attacks. The ship’s electronics had been boosted with the latest navigational search radar systems. Much of her aft section had been rebuilt—accommodating the landings and takeoffs of Marine helicopters upon a specialized flight deck.