by M. L. Maki
AFT SWITCH GEAR ROOM, USS HORNE, 2157 DECEMBER, 1941
EM2 Hanks comes to, slumped over his panel, with lights flashing everywhere. Looking up, his face whitens, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. What did you do, Davy?” He picks up the phone and growls central control. Getting no response, he trips 2 breaker, saying, “There, at least now the diesel will start.” He can hear the rhythmic thumping start back aft. He tries central control again. Finally, someone comes on the sound powered phone, “Shit, what happened? Is this aft switch gear?”
Hanks replies, “Aft switch gear, we lost the aft half of the loop. Both of the turbine generators in number 2 engine room tripped out. I’ve started the aft diesel.
Lt. JG Indio says, “Understood EM2. We all passed out. Stand by.”
Captain Rodgers comes up on the 1MC, “Horne, this is the Captain. We’ve lost steering control. Get off your asses and restore steering. Let’s get hopping, folks.”
As the diesel comes up to speed, the voltage automatically picks up the vital loads, including aft steering. Hanks picks up his coffee cup, finding only grounds, “Damn.” He raises it in a salute, “Here’s to you, Captain Jackass. Always on the problem five minutes too late.”
NUMBER 2 ENGINE ROOM, USS FIFE, 2157, 19 DECEMBER, 1941
As the lightning fades away, a young sailor lies crumpled at the base of the ladder out of the engine room. Watchers sway to their feet, their brains slowly clearing. GSM2 Lance Smith sees the collapsed man and recognizes his friend, GSM3 Jamie Hernandez, “Hey, Jamie. JAMIE!” Smith runs over, grabs Jamie’s shoulder and starts to turn him over. He then sees Jamie’s head tilt at an impossible angle and stops, “Call medical! Somebody! Call medical, Jamie’s hurt!”
His division officer, Lt. JG Laura Wakefield, grabs the phone and reports what turns out to be one of the only two fatalities from the storm. “Smith, you stay with Hernandez, ok?” She touches the young man on the shoulder, “Don’t move him. Don’t move him at all. But, you can touch him and let him know it’s alright, ok? Help is coming. I have the engine room.” GSM2 Lance Smith can only nod his head, tears streaming down his face.
CHAPTER 5
BLACK KNIGHT SQUADRON READY ROOM, USS CARL VINSON
2250, 19 DECEMBER, 1941
Lt. Samantha Hunt heads for the Black Knights ready room a few frames aft of radio. When she walks in, the room is filled to capacity with all the pilots, RIO’s, and some enlisted. Standing at the podium are CDR Holtz, LCDR Carleton, and the squadron ops officer, Lt. Stephan “Swede” Swedenborg. Holtz sees her and motions her over. “You were talking to the Captain when all this shit happened. Any idea what’s going on?”
“Well, sir,” then lowering her voice, Spike says, “Can we talk about this in private, sir?”
“Right now, doesn’t seem a really good time for niceties.”
“Right,” she takes a deep breath, “Yes, sir. I was on the bridge when it happened. Sir, I don’t know how much I should tell you right now.”
“I don’t understand. How about all of it, and let me make my own judgments.” Holtz motions her to follow him and leads her into his office.
“Thank you, sir.”
Once inside, he turns, “I just want to get to the bottom of this.”
Sam sighs, “I don’t know if the Captain is ready to tell everybody about this, and I don’t want to break his confidence by saying anything without his permission.”
“Okay, okay, I see. But we need to know at least if we’re under attack.”
“Okay, sir. The Captain thinks it may have been an EMP. It was a huge lightning storm. There was St. Elmo’s fire on the bridge. It knocked everybody to the deck, and the helmsman was still unconscious when I left. I had to take the helm, sir. It was bad.”
“Okay, continue.”
When I left the bridge, we had control of the ship, and the Captain sent me to radio with a message. The problem is…we lost contact with the satellites.”
Holtz stares at her, “Lost contact with the satellites? The Captain may be right about that EMP. Fucking Russians. If it is that, we need to figure how many planes can still fly. Fuck, we could already be at war. See, that’s why I needed to know.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Holtz brushes it off, “You were worried about pissing off the Captain. I understand. We need everybody, and I mean everybody, pilots and enlisted both, checking out our birds. If we were attacked, we need to be ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Walking back into the ready room, Holtz says, “All right everybody, listen up. We road through a hell of a lightning storm, so, I want a full court press inspecting the birds. This means all hands, officers and office pukes, everyone down to the hangar bay and up on the flight deck. I want the status on every bird and immediate notification when a bird is ready to fly. Let’s get busy, folks.”
MAIN CONTROL, ENGINEERING DEPT., USS CARL VINSON
“All right people, what’s going on with the power plant?” asks the Reactor Officer (RO), Captain Klindt. He cocks his head, looking expectantly at Load Dispatcher, EM1 Zimmerman.
All four turbine generators are up and running in a Gold Eagle four TG line up.”
Damage Control Watch, HT1 Sandusky reports, “Damage control parties out and no damage reported at this time. Material condition Yoke set.”
The EOOW Lt. Naihi reports, “Split and crit, sir. There is a medical emergency in 2 RAR. All four main engines making turns for 10 knots, one through four DU’s up and making good water. Catapults secure at this time.”
“Very well, report same to the bridge. Who is the personnel casualty?”
“Senior Chief Harvey, sir.”
“Oh, damn,” Klindt passes a hand over his face, “Load dispatcher, we just went through a huge electrical event and you’re telling me we have no grounds?” He shakes his head, “Okay, EOOW, you have the watch. I’m going up to brief the Captain. If there is any change or an update on Harvey’s condition, let me know.”
FLIGHT DECK, USS CARL VINSON, 2340, 19 DECEMBER, 1941
On the flight deck, most of the access ports on Spike’s F-14 are open. Electrical and mechanical personnel are checking the multitude of components it takes to make an F-14 fly. Spike is head down in the aft cockpit, her feet on a ladder. Puck has the radome on the nose open. He says, “Okay, Spike, I got the line connected. Do you have a signal yet?”
“Yeah, Puck, it’s starting it’s wake up cycle.”
“Good, just let it warm up and see if it starts right.”
A cool tropical breeze blows across the flight deck, making it both pleasant and difficult to work. AD3 Cervella, his head and shoulders inside a rear landing gear bay, drops his wrench, and it clangs across the deck. Grumbling as he retrieves it, “Sir, can’t this wait ‘till daylight? There’s this big ball of light that comes up in the morning making flashlights irrelevant?” Puck disengages from what he is doing and just looks at the petty officer. Dejected, Cervella says, “Yes, sir. I understand.”
A soft chuckle comes from the cockpit and Spike says, “Okay, it’s warmed up. Stand clear and see if it tracks.”
Puck says, “Full right. Up. Down. Full left. Looks good, Spike, on to the IFF.”
CDR Holtz walks up, “How’s it going guys?”
Spike lifts her head, “Just finished the radar, sir. Now working on the IFF. What’s up?”
“Think she’ll be ready to fly by morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can the ground crew finish it?”
Spike raises an eyebrow, “Yes, sir, they can.”
“Good, you two have the Ready Five in the morning. Get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir. Okay, Petty Officer Cervella you got it. Sorry.”
As Spike and Puck walk into the island, Sam asks, “Are you alright, Puck? You’ve been quiet, even for you.”
Puck stops and faces her, “Lieutenant, am I a member of your flight team, or just a passenger on YOUR plane? We are SUPPOSED to work together. You d
on’t listen to me in a dogfight. You go haring off to rescue a fellow airman, which was a good call, but you didn’t even talk to me about your plan. You either just assume I got it figured out, or you don’t give a damn what I do back there. I can help, Spike, but you gotta let me.”
She goes cold inside, standing rigid for the ass chewing. When he finishes, he looks at her for ten brutal seconds. When she says nothing, he turns and walks away.
ADMIRAL’S CONFERENCE ROOM, USS CARL VINSON
Captain Johnson sits at a conference table with Admiral Ren and his chief of staff, Captain Van Zandt. They listen as the Admiral’s intel officer attempts to explain what just happened. LCDR Giles says, “Sirs, we have lost all communications with Hawaii and Washington. The satellite antennas are not even picking up a carrier wave. The sideband isn’t picking up any threat orders or warnings. Radio has completed a system diagnostic and the problem is not on board. A number of crew members have suffered minor injuries due to the lightning storm. We have two fatalities, one on Vinson, and one of Fife. Both reactors are up and functioning normally. Squadrons and AIMD are inspecting aircraft as fast as they can. By morning, approximately 20% of the air wing will be available for flight. By tomorrow afternoon, the remainder should also be available. So far there are no reports of damage to the aircraft, at least none that can be directly attributable to the storm.
“Also, our ordinance department is also inspecting missiles and control systems. Overall, we’re in pretty good shape, except for the lack of communication. The battle group, except for the Hewitt, of course, rode out the storm pretty well. The two fatalities were, an older chief of an apparent heart attack on the Vinson, and a petty officer from a bad fall on the Fife. The crews are recovering and I expect they will take the loss hard. We should have a memorial service.
“None of the ships have any communication outside our group. We cannot raise the Hewitt. We will be in the area she was last reported to be in 45 minutes. Also, the LORAN radio navigation system and GPS satellite system are both non-functional. Tests of the equipment on Long Beach and Horne have the same result. All the equipment seems to be functioning, but it’s like none of the satellites are transmitting anymore.”
“Very well, Commander. That pretty much sums up our status, but what caused it? I saw that storm and it was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” says Admiral Ren.
CMDR Giles replies, “Sir, I have no idea. I’ve not been briefed in on any weapon system used by any nation that would have the footprint we saw. My only thought is that it must be an EMP to be able to take out the satellites. No storm anywhere could’ve done that.”
Captain Johnson nods his head, “Admiral, Commander, it seemed to me as well than an EMP is likely, but we must not rule out a large solar flare, either. The flare would need to be huge, but I believe it would be possible.”
Ren says, “That’s a point, Captain. But all the satellites? It seems unlikely.”
Giles says, “Captain, with all due respect, I should point out that the storm occurred at night. We were facing away from the sun. How could a flare on the other side of the world affect satellites in this hemisphere?”
Ren says, “The truth is, gentlemen, we don’t know. Within the realm of what we know, we must assume our nation was attacked. That being the case, I want the ship and its battle group ready to fight as soon as possible. Another thing, no solar flare, or EMP, or anything like it, could sink the Hewitt.”
Johnson nods again, “Yes, Admiral, it’s damn strange. I will have my ship ready as fast as possible.”
“Well then, if you will excuse me, I have a few more messages I can’t send to write. I believe we both have letters to write to the families. But, how in the hell can we notify them?” Ren shakes his head, “Good day, gentlemen.”
LT. SAMANTHA “SPIKE” HUNT’S STATEROOM, 03 LEVEL FORWARD
0055, 20 DECEMBER, 1941
Sam, showered and dressed in P.J.’s, robe, and slippers, enters the stateroom she shares with Lt. JG Gloria “Hot Pants” Hoolihan. The curvaceous red-head studies her friend as Sam hangs her shower stuff, slips out of her robe and slippers and climbs into the top rack. “Sam, are you alright? You can’t still be upset about Book jumping on you. He’s a jack ass.”
“That’s not it,” Sam’s voice flat and tight.
Gloria puts down the novel she’s reading, “Well then, what is it?”
Sam, a tremble in her voice, says, “I think I fucked up. It’s Puck. He let me have it big time.”
“Oookay, about what?”
“He thinks I don’t trust him. That I’m not being a team player. He said something very interesting. He feels I might be thinking he’s got it together so well in the backseat that I don’t have to talk to him. He’s feeling frustrated because I’m not communicating.”
“He said all that? I haven’t heard him put that many sentences together since we came aboard.”
“Yes, it was shocking. I, ah, I couldn’t even speak. I just stood there frozen, making it worse.”
“Sam, is he right?”
“Yeah,…yeah, he’s right. I just didn’t realize….”
“You know, Sam, you really gotta lighten up some. You drive yourself so hard that you don’t lift your head, look around, and see the people you’re working with. I don’t know Puck as well as you do, but he seems like a good guy.”
“He’s a great guy.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know…”
“You know, Sam, I met Admiral Haggarty once when I was at UCLA. She gave a speech for us ROTC pukes. You recall who she is?”
“Yes, the first woman to make Admiral, something to do with electronics.”
“Yeah, well, she said something really good, you know, really good advice. She said there can be only two kinds of women in the Navy, either you’re a bitch, or you’re a slut. The guys in the Navy won’t let you be anything else. She told us that it’s good to be a bitch, because a bitch gets things done. But you have to be a little bit of a slut, now and then, because that keeps the guys motivated.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how. I just…I give everything. I just can’t do it.”
“Come on, Sam, it’s me. I’m not saying go spread your legs on the mess decks and take all comers. I’m just saying flirt a little bit. You need to be a little less bitch, and a little more slut.”
“That’s for girly girls. I’m not one of them.”
Gloria thumps the bottom of Sam’s mattress and leans out to see her, “Hey, are you saying I’m a girly girl? Well, what of it. It ain’t such a bad thing. You know there’s more than one way to get things done around here, girl. It seems to me; your way isn’t working. Hell, I know I got half the ship slavering over me every time I walk out of this door. Am I fucking any of them? No, I’m not. But it’s useful, a smile here, a wiggle there, and the guys are working damn hard to keep me happy.”
Sam cracks up, “Gloria, you always seem to do it like a lady. How do manage that?”
In fake southern accent, Gloria responds, “Oh, I do declare. Is the southern belle asking me how to act like a lady?”
“Nooo,” laughing.
“The real point is you and Puck. Do you like him?”
“Yeah, I do. I’d like to be friends. He feels like someone you can trust. I’ll apologize tomorrow.”
“Honey, you best to a little more that apologize. I’d listen to what he has to say.”
“I thought I was, but apparently not. It’s been an eye-opener.”
“You know, Sam, you dodged the question back there. Do you like him?”
“I said yes. What are you talking about?”
“No, you said you wanted to be friends. That wasn’t the question at all, and you know it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Come on, Sam, we’re all grown up big girls here, haven’t you ever had a boyfriend?”
“Yes, I’ve had a few boyfriends. It never went well.”
>
“Well, duh. It’s almost impossible to find a decent guy who’ll put up with a woman loving jets.”
Sam laughs, “No kidding.”
“I’m lucky. I’ve got my Jerry. He has his own life and he puts up with mine. When we’re together it’s awesome. It’s just so great to cuddle up with my head on his shoulder and trace lines on his six-pack with my finger. He’s a hunk.”
“I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“So, your mind is capable of going into the gutter. I didn’t mean it that way. I was talking about cuddling. All the other stuff is none of your business. So, you’ve never had a boyfriend like that?”
“No, they were all control freaks. I know how to pick them.”
“That brings us back to the question of Puck. You have notices he’s a hunk, right?”
“Yes, Gloria, I’ve noticed. He’s good looking and really well-built, and all that stuff,” Sam replies flatly.
“Ah, so it’s okay that Sam notices that Puck’s a hunk, but it’s not so great when Gloria does.”
“What!”
“You sound a little testy.”
“No, it’s…it’s okay. If you want to make a move on him, it’s fine with me.”
“Well then, I have a question. Is he called Puck because it’s one inch long and three inches wide?”
Sam cracks up again, “No, he got it in primary flight school roll call: Hawke, E., so, Puck.”
“Well, I guess that’s not as lame as being miss-named after a tv seductress.”
“At least my call sign now isn’t as bad as my last one.”
“Okay then, you going to leave me hanging?”
“It was C.I.B., for cold intellectual bitch.”
“That’s awful, kind of accurate, but awful.”
