First Strike c-19

by Keith Douglass

  Lab Rat had taken advantage of a lull in Coyote’s schedule to ask to talk to him about the Omicron offer, and that had also been less than satisfying. Wasn’t there anything to career counseling other than being told to stay in the Navy? That was a lot of help — he could’ve told himself that.

  Senior Chief Armstrong was unloading the additional data-base documentation he had brought back from Norfolk. He was smiling, and humming a cheerful song as he worked. He glanced up as Lab Rat walked in, and smiled. “How’s it going, sir?”

  “I’ve been better,” Lab Rat said. The senior chief was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. Armstrong was still smiling, looked anything but sorry. “Have you thought anymore about what you’re going to do?”

  “I’ve been thinking of little else, to tell the truth,” Lab Rat said. “It’s a tough choice to make.”

  “It is, and it isn’t,” the senior chief said.

  “Believe me, sir, we’d love to have you. But, I can understand if you want to stay in the Navy, too.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m still thinking, okay?”

  Something changed the senior chief’s face. He put down the volume he was working on and turned to face the commander. “Sir — could I ask a question?”

  “That’s a question itself, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. But it’s not the one I’ve got in mind.”

  “Sure; shoot.”

  “Sir, this offer from Omicron that you’re thinking about — is there any problem with the fact that you’d be working for me?” Armstrong looked straight in Lab Rat’s eyes with a trace of dismay on his face.

  “No, of course not,” Lab Rat said. “How could that possibly make any difference?”

  The senior chief sighed. “With all due respect, sir — of course it makes a difference. And to pretend it doesn’t — well, I thought we were a little beyond that.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Lab Rat asked, now irritated.

  The senior chief shrugged. “I’m not certain, sir. It just seems to me that it does make a difference — after all, we’ve both spent almost twenty years in a system where who you are is determined by what’s on your collar. And if we’re both at Omicron, well… that would reverse everything, wouldn’t it? All I’m asking is if that makes a difference in your thinking.”

  “It doesn’t.” It does. God help me, but it does.

  The senior chief stared at him steadily now, disappointment in his face. “If you say so, sir.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Armstrong shrugged. Whatever you want it to, sir.”

  Lab Rat slammed his hand down the desk. “Enough! If you have something on your mind, go ahead and say it.”

  “Why should I?” The senior chief shot back. “You’re not.”

  Lab Rat’s jaw dropped. Sure, the senior chief had always been willing to stand up for what he believed in, but it had never been on a personal level like this. For the senior chief to question his decisions, well, that was just too much.

  But he’s right. It does make a difference, I’m just not willing to tell him that it does.

  The full implications of what had just happened sunk in. And Lab Rat felt a surge of relief. This, then, was the critical issue to deal with, whether or not he could cope with working for the senior chief. Once he decided that, everything else would fall into place.

  Am I that rigid? Do I value people more for their rank than for who they are? If you asked me, I wouldn’t have said so, but this is certainly putting a different light on it, isn’t it? And one that’s not very attractive.

  Just then, the vault door swung open and a small woman peered in. “Commander Busby?”

  “Yes,” Lab Rat said, not taking his eyes off of the senior chief. “What is it?”

  She stepped into the vault and extended her hand. “Lieutenant Johnnie Davis, sir, with VF-95. I have a few questions about what might be on the island and the skipper told me you were the person to talk to.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” Lab Rat said, finally looking away from the senior chief. “And Senior Chief,” he said, “We’ll continue this discussion later. At my convenience.” He hated himself even as he added the last phrase.

  The senior chief’s face was an impassive mask. “Of course, sir. At your convenience.”

  Lieutenant Davis spread out the proposed flight schedule on a table in front of her. “It’s the first time I’ve done this for an entire air wing. I’ve only been in strike planning for two weeks. Anyway, before I make a fool of myself in public, I wonder if you might take a look and tell me if I’ve missed anything from an intelligence perspective.”

  “Sure.” Lab Rat pulled the flight schedule over in front of him and ran his finger down the assignments. “Looks good — you’re on a one-point-five cycle, which is fine. The air wing is broken up into just two flights — why is that?”

  “That was my guidance from the strike officer,” she said. “Of course, it’s always subject to change, but he wanted to be able to take on two separate missions if necessary. So I figured that, absent any other guidance, I’d just be making them both about the same composition.”

  Lab Rat leaned back in his chair, slightly relieved to be on familiar ground. He studied the lieutenant in front of him. She was small, barely his own height, and small-boned at that. He could tell she worked hard to make up for the problems her size could pose in her aircraft. Sleek muscle rippled over her bones and she looked exceptionally fit. A healthy glow suffused her face.

  “There are some advantages, of course, to proceeding that way,” he said, continuing to study her. Attractive, exceptionally so. He wondered if she was seeing anyone.

  “What did you say you name was again?

  “Johnnie Davis. But everybody calls me Rat.”

  “Rat?” Busby’s voice was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  She shook her head, a woeful look on her face. “Nope. They tagged me with that in Basic, because I was small. The instructor said I could weasel into small places. I could hear that one coming on and couldn’t stand the thought of spending my Navy career days known as Weasel. So I popped up fast and said, ‘You mean, like a rat, sir?’ It was the best I could do on short notice, I’m afraid. But Rat is still better than Weasel.”

  “Oh, no doubt.” He hesitated for moment, unsure of whether to proceed. “But that gives us something in common, doesn’t it?”

  She looked confused. “Sir?”

  “I got my nickname the day I checked in at AOCS. I have no idea why, but my drill instructor decided to name me Lab Rat. I’m afraid it stuck.”

  At that, she laughed out loud. “A few more Rats on board, and we’ll have us a whole species, won’t we?”

  “We will,” he agreed. “Rattus carrierus, you think?”

  She nodded. “Well, sir, I have to admit, that makes me feel a bit better.”

  “So, who do you usually fly with?” Lab Rat asked, more to make conversation that anything else.

  A mournful look crossed her face. “Brad Morrow.

  “Fastball? My condolences. Especially if the Padres are losing.” Lab Rat doubted that there was anyone on board who didn’t know about Morrow’s obsession with the San Diego Padres. “He still wearing that Tony Gwinn shirt under his flight suit?”

  “Sure is. Although with the season they had last year, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

  “I understand he’s quite a handful.” Word had it that Davis had been paired with Morrow to cool his heels, and that their last cruise together had been a rugged one.

  She shrugged. “He’s young. He’ll outgrow it. If he lives that long.”

  Lab Rat leaned toward her. “Now, about this flight plan — remember, you need to worry about the terrain as well as what sort of threat you’ll encounter. We’re not certain how much they have on the island, but it’s probably old, and it’ll have to be something mobile
, something they brought with them. I’d bet on at least one antiair installation, maybe two. You’ve got to figure that you want to take those out at some point, which means you should have a different weapon load on standby. It’s a different situation when we’re operating with the Air Force. They send their own Wild Weasel — there’s that word again — antiradiation aircraft in ahead of us. But out here, we’re going to be on our own. So, if there’s an antiair radar problem, we’ll have to take care of it right up front.”

  “That makes sense.” She leaned forward, and Lab Rat got a whiff of something that might have been perfume, or could just have been soap or shampoo. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating. He founded himself distracted as he concentrated on the plan in front of them.

  For the next fifteen minutes, they discussed the possible missions to Bermuda, how the problems might shape up, and what impact the initial reconnaissance missions would have on the air wing flight plan. When he finally ran out of things to go over, Lab Rat quit talking.

  Rat stood, and held out her hand. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Commander. You just kept me from making a fool of myself in front of my boss.”

  Lab Rat waved away her thanks. “My pleasure. And, since we’re members of the same species, call me Lab Rat.”

  TEN

  USS Seawolf

  Sunday, November 11

  2330 local (GMT-4)

  As early as the end of the second day, Forsythe could already see the strain starting on the faces of the crew. It wasn’t that they complained — far from it. In fact, since the death of Lieutenant Commander Cowlings, a new, grim determination had seemed to settle over them. A fire for vengeance burned in their eyes, and no one wanted to be the first to admit the strain was getting to him.

  Forsythe and the doctor continued to take their meals in the small wardroom, although with only two of them it almost seemed pointless. In fact, the doctor had suggested that they begin messing with the crew, simplifying life for the three mess cooks on board. But Forsythe had decided not to, and not simply because the doctor suggested it — though the fact that that thought had crossed his mind made him somewhat ashamed. Later, he realized his instinct had been correct. He needed a bit of distance from the crew, and while the doctor might not be particularly his favorite company, he would have to do.

  “They’re wearing out,” the doctor said, pointing his fork at his interim commanding officer as he spoke. “You can’t keep this up for long.”

  “When there are complaints, let me know,” Forsythe said. There was a reason for the rank structure on a submarine, perhaps even more reasons for it than on a larger ship. The chiefs ate in their one small corner of the crew’s mess, behind a divider, and pretended to ignore the rest of the crew. That allowed sailors time to blow off steam. But, had their very junior captain been in the same compartment, they would have been silent.

  “I’m already seeing the signs of stress in them.”

  “Has someone complained?” Forsythe asked, keeping his eyes down on his plate.

  “No. They won’t, you know. But, it’s only a matter of time. You have to listen to me in matters like this, you have to.” The doctor’s voice was smug and demanding.

  “Listen to doesn’t mean obey.” Suddenly, Forsythe’s appetite was gone. He shoved the plate back slightly. The one concession to the reduced manpower had been that he and the doctor would obtain their food from the crew’s mess, eat it in the wardroom, then take their own dishes back to the galley. “Until then, keep me posted.”

  “The enlisted people aren’t the only people who are my responsibility,” the doctor said softly, his voice carrying a note of menace. “Last night you suggested I read Navy regulations — I suggest you review them yourself. If and when I believe that you are becoming a danger to this crew, I will relieve you. Will relieve you for medical reasons, and order you confined to your stateroom. Between the Chief and the troops, we can get the boat back to the surface and the message out.”

  Forsythe turned, icy menace clear on his face. “Then I think we both adequately understand our duties, doctor. And, yes, I am familiar with the passage to which you’re referring.” He could smell the rank stench of fear on the doctor now, and it disgusted him. “That said, I will tolerate no more insubordination from you. Just who do you think the crew will obey? Watch their eyes, doctor. You claim to know the mood of the crew — watch their eyes. Because I can guarantee you, what you’re seeing isn’t stress. It’s pure, one hundred percent pissed off American sailor. Right now, they’d follow me to hell and back if it meant avenging Commander Cowlings. And I suggest you try to stay out of their way.”

  “Captain to the Control Room!” The chief’s voice blared out of the speaker on the bulkhead. “Sir, it’s urgent.”

  Forsythe picked up his plate and tossed it on top of the doctor’s “Take that to the galley with yours. And, in case it isn’t perfectly clear to you, that’s an order.” He turned and raced out of the compartment.

  As he raced down the single central passageway of the submarine, Forsythe’s heart was hammering. For a split second, he wondered if he was experiencing some sort of medical problem like the one that had killed Cowlings. In the next instant, he dismissed the thought. He was perfectly healthy, not carrying a ticking time bomb in his head as Cowlings had been.

  “What is it?” he asked as he skidded in to Control.

  “The Kilo, sir,” the chief said. He pointed at the sonar display. “She just turned and is heading directly for us.”

  Forsythe studied the waterfall display, and at the same time said, “Set quiet ship.” He heard the word being passed softly down the passageways. “And battle stations.” The second word went out as well, but with a touch of electricity in it.

  “She must have heard a transient,” the sonarman said, his gaze glued to the screen. “And, if she did, then her hearing’s better than we thought it was.” He shook his head, not denying the fact, but musing over the possibilities. “We need to re-evaluate this whole plan, then, sir.” He looked up at the lieutenant, his face thoughtful. “Our plan is based on certain assumptions. No, not cancel the plan,” he added hastily, seeing the lieutenant start to shake his head. “Just re-evaluate how far we want to stay from her. Out of her weapons’ range, maybe, a little bit farther away. I can still do it,” he concluded.

  Back off from her? I don’t think so. But if her sonar is better than Cowlings thought, we have to take that into account. The unexpected — what you can’t plan for. I can’t be afraid to change our plans. Cowlings wouldn’t have been. For some reason, the thought of what the late operations officer would have done weighed more heavily on him than what he thought his captain would have done.

  “She’s not going to leave her box,” Forsythe said, with more certainty that he felt. “But let’s move out to seven thousand yards. Can you still hold contact at that range?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pencehaven said, although Forsythe could see doubt on Jacob’s face. “We can always move in closer if we lose her.”

  “Right. But—” Forsythe stopped as he watched the display shift ominously. “Down doppler — she’s turned away from us,” he said.

  Why is she doing that? She was heading straight for us like she knew where we were. And then she turned away — why?

  Seconds before it was confirmed, he knew the answer. The hard squeal of tiny propellers followed by a hard pinging against the hull of the submarine gave him his answer.

  “Torpedo in the water!” Jacob said, his voice carrying even though it was at a whisper. “Recommend evasive maneuvers.”

  “Down doppler on the torpedo.” Pencehaven corrected, his more sensitive ears telling him what the display had not yet picked up. “Sir, the torpedo’s not heading for us. It’s headed for the bird farm.”

  USS Jefferson

  2333 local (GMT-4)

  “Evasive maneuvering” Coyote howled, knowing it was useless, but not willing to give up without a fight. The office
r of the deck had not waited for his command. Even as he spoke, he felt the ponderous ship start to turn, the deck shifting ever so slightly. The collision alarm beat out its staccato warning over the 1MC overhead, and he heard the pounding of feet as people raced toward their battle stations. Even though general quarters had not been set, everyone knew that it would be, in a few seconds.

  The symbol for torpedo popped into being on the tactical screen, small, red, and deadly. It inched toward the aircraft carrier, bearing in unerringly. The speed leader for the Jefferson was already showing her turn, but there was little an aircraft carrier could do to avoid a torpedo. It was like an office building maneuvering to avoid a tornado.

  Still, they had to try. They had to.

  USS Lake Champlain

  2335 local (GMT-4)

  Captain Coleman stood beside his battle chair, his headphones tethered him to the elevated brown leatherette chair. Theoretically, he should be sitting there, strapped in, but he found it almost impossible to hold still when the ship was in physical danger. It was as though he could control her by pacing the deck, toughen her skin, and keep her sensors turned in the direction of the threat.

  “TAO, Sonar! Sir, it should miss us by two thousand yards — it’s headed for the carrier, sir!”

  “Time to CPA?” Coleman demanded.

  “About ten seconds or a hair less,” the sonarman replied.

  Coleman swore quietly. Ten seconds — not enough to get within range and eject noisemakers and decoys, although the carrier would certainly be doing that on her own. Still, it was worth a try. He gave the order, knowing that the entire crew had already anticipated it and was simply waiting for the command.

  God, he hated being helpless. To sit here watching as the torpedo arrowed in on the one ship that wasn’t supposed to take a hit, the centerpiece of the battle group. Without the carrier, they had no chance of regaining control of Bermuda.