Sea Strike

by James H. Cobb

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that you and your S.O. are the first ASW team to ever make a kill on a nuke. I don't know what kind of decoration authorization is going to be set up for this deal, but you're going to get some kind of a gong out of it. Count on that."

  She ran a hand through her short, helmet-matted hair and looked back down at the deck for a moment. "Thank you, sir," she replied softly. "I don't know what I should feel just now. Excited, or just sick to my stomach."

  "Either one's valid." Arkady reached over and rested his hand on the younger aviator's shoulder for a second. "Stand down and get some rest.

  We've still got another couple of bad boys waiting for us out there."

  "Aye, sir."

  A superstructure hatch swung open and Amanda Garrett, Ken Hiro, and Christine Rendino emerged, hurrying aft along the helideck. Arkady found himself straightening a little as they approached. His first instinct was to go to Amanda and fold her in his arms. Instead, he had to content himself with exchanging the briefest of acknowledging nods.

  "Lieutenant Arkady, Lieutenant Delany, very good work, both of you."

  "Our pleasure. Captain," Arkady replied. "How did the pickup go with the Red submariner?"

  "He's alive, but there are complications. We're going to check it out now. Arkady, you're with us. Let's go." Proceeding toward the stern, they descended the sloping face of the deck brake to the well deck.

  A medical isolation point had been established in the lee of the aft Oto Melara turret, a space outlined in yellow tape marked with the red radiation-warning trifoil. A single, blanket-wrapped form lay within the zone in a basket stretcher. Another figure, clad in a disposable plastic anti contamination suit, was just backing away from the stretcher.

  Recrossing the warning line, he stepped clear and allowed a waiting deckhand to sluice him off with a saltwater hose.

  A second more and Doc Golden was pulling off his perspiration-hazed hood and protective gloves.

  "Is he still alive, Doc?" Amanda asked.

  "It depends on your exact definition of alive, Captain."

  There was a tinge of bitterness in Golden's voice. "His heart's going to beat for a while. He's going to breathe. He's going to feel a lot of pain. However, for all intents and purposes, he's dead."

  "Radiation poisoning?"

  "Putting it mildly." Golden began peeling off the rest of the coverall.

  "I think this guy was an engineer, and I think they suffered a massive containment failure in their primary reactor coolant loop. He was wearing one of those old-style film safety badges. The damn thing was jet black from end to end. I have no idea about how many roentgens this man has absorbed, but it's way over any survival limit."

  Golden paused for a moment as he stuffed the contamination suit into its disposal bag. "God, Captain. He was breathing that shit!"

  Amanda took a quick step forward. ' ' about the rescue detail? Have they been exposed?"

  Golden shook his head. "Our people may have picked up a couple of rads, but nothing bad. We had antiradiation protocols in place. I had ' hosed off up here, and they're scrubbing down again belowdecks just to make sure. As for the sub guy, he was sloshing around out in the open ocean for better than half an hour. That's about as good a decontamination as you can get."

  "Can we talk to him?" Christine Rendino asked, her voice flat.

  "You can try. I've checked him out with a Geiger counter and I can't find any active gamma sources on him, only alpha and beta secondary radiation from his internal tissues. Just don't get too close and don't stay too long."

  "Were you able to do anything for him, Doc?" Amanda asked.

  "Well. I started him on plasma and whole blood. That'll slow things down a little as his red cell count falls and his circulatory system disintegrates. I also gave him a max load of morphine. That might take the edge off the pain for a while."

  "Is there anything more they can do for him on the Enterprise?"

  "Yeah. Give him a bigger dose of morphine."

  Dr. Golden went forward to work with those he might actually be able to help.

  Christine Rendino and Ken Hiro hunkered down on the deck a yard or so back from the stretcher, the Intelligence Officer readying a small tape recorder. Amanda and Arkady stepped back to the rail, instinctively drawing closer together.

  Beyond looking on, they would have no role to play in this.

  "How do you want to work this, Lieutenant?" Hiro inquired grimly.

  "Let's start with the basics," Christine replied, switching on the recorder. "Tell him that he's been rescued. Tell him where he is, and tell him that we'll do everything we can to help him. Then ask him for his name and rank."

  "Right." Hiro began to speak in Mandarin. Spacing his words and carefully minding his pronunciation, he tried to reach the consciousness of the dying man. By millimeters, the Red seaman turned his face toward his interrogators, his swollen eyes opening a fraction.

  The skin of his steam-scalded face had lifted in a pattern of bursting blisters. However, the real damage was deeper, in the spreading dark network of subcutaneous bleeding. His capillaries were collapsing from radiation damage. His cellular structure had been shattered by the high-velocity storm of heavy atomic particles that had torn through them.

  The submariner knew that his life was ending, and although he was in the presence of his enemies, the Cunning ham's officers sensed that he was glad not to be alone.

  "Ask for his name again, sir," Christine prompted with quiet urgency.

  "Tell him we want to notify his family."

  Hiro repeated his query. This time, there was an answer-- a whisper barely audible over the backdrop of ship's sounds.

  The Duke's exec frowned and rocked back on his heels.

  "What did he say, Commander?" "He says that his family already knows that he is dead."

  TASK FORCE 7.1

  41 MILES EAST OF MIYAKO SHIMA ISLAND 1404 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 19, 2006

  In the Flag Plot of the USS Enterprise, Commander Nolan Walker looked up jubilantly from the communications copy he held.

  "Definite confirmation of the kill from the Cunningham, sir. A Han-class attack boat. Wreckage and a survivor recovered.

  No doubt about it!"

  The only response was a noncommittal grunt from Admiral Tall man.

  "Is there a problem, sir?"

  "No, not a problem, Commander. But let's not get too cocky about it, either."

  "One boat down barely twenty-four hours after we start the hunt seems pretty good to me, sir."

  "Oh, it was. That bunch out on the Duke did good work.

  The thing is, though, we just hooked one of the trash fish.

  The keeper is still out there. We've got to get him in the net before we can do any bragging down at the bar."

  Tall man turned back to the strategic display on the main chart table.

  "Notify Seventh Fleet that we have a solid kill.

  Then let's figure out what we're going to do next."

  65 MILES WEST OF KUME SHIMA ISLAND 1921 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 19, 2006

  The Captain of the Nationalist frigate was the last man aboard the final medevac helo out to the Enterprise. The injuries he had suffered during the sinking had been minor.

  They would heal within a few days. However, the hole blown in his soul and spirit would linger for a far longer time. This morning, Amanda might have guessed that the Chinese officer was close to her own age.

  Tonight, he looked like an old man.

  "I thank you again, Captain Garrett," he said in carefully precise English, "for the rescue of my crew and for the kindness you have shown us. Also, for avenging the loss of my ship."

  "I'm just glad we were there. Captain Kuo," Amanda replied, shaking his hand gently. "I hope we can meet again someday, when times are better."

  "Perhaps. When times are better." He drew himself up in the borrowed khakis he wore and gave Amanda a parade ground sharp salute. Then he turned a
nd started for the waiting Oceanhawk. A few minutes later, the helo was off the deck and climbing into the evening sky.

  Amanda followed the aircraft with her eyes for a few moments, then headed inboard.

  The battle tensions had dissipated in the Combat Information Center. The watch had changed and the new duty crew had settled in at their stations. Dix Beltrain was still on hand, though, shifting his attention between the chart table, the Alpha screen, and a sandwich snatched from a sack of battle rations.

  "What's the dope, Mr. Beltrain?"

  Dix took a second to force a swallow and to stuff the sandwich back into its bag. "Currently steering two nine oh, Captain. Making turns for eight knots. Helm control is on the bridge. We are continuing to work a quartering search within the initial search zone. No contacts or possibles noted, or on the board."

  "Let's see the tactical."

  She joined him at the chart table and looked on as the younger officer's fingertips brushed over the computer graphics on the horizontal screen.

  "Seventh is working on the assumption that the sub we killed was covering the boomer, and that it and the other escort are somewhere in this immediate neighborhood. The Enterprise group has crossed over to the west of the Ryukyu island chain below us. They've established an ASW

  line and are sweeping slowly north. Range is about thirty-five miles now."

  "Who are these guys up north?"

  "A Japanese SDF force built around the helicopter cruiser Shirain.

  They've crossed over the island line as well and are working down toward us along the Ryukyu trench. We've got about a fifty-mile separation with them."

  Beltrain traced a curve across the screen. ' ' here to the east, all the deepwater channels through the Ryukyus are being covered by attack subs.

  The Takashio ... the Asheville ... and the Jefferson City. The shallow channels are being covered by Orion sweeps. The Reds are stuck in a bucket and we're right in there with '."

  "What kind of direct support do we have?"

  "The big E has two Vikings working the area and we've got two of their SH-60s using us as a control node."

  "Any nibbles anywhere?"

  "Quiet as a graveyard."

  Amanda nodded. ' ', Dix. What do you think the bad guys are up to?"

  "They're down to two options, ma'am. One, they've gone deep and are sitting powered down on a thermocline, hoping that we'll just run over the top of them and go away. Two, they're retreating toward the Chinese coast."

  Amanda was tired. The postconflict letdown was under way and she was beginning to feel it. Automatically, she took an extra couple of seconds in her decision making to compensate, carefully turning the problem over in her mind, seeking any overlooked facet.

  "If they're lying doggo," she said finally, "we'll let the guys with the towed arrays go after them. We're going to work on the assumption that they're running west."

  Amanda gauged distances on the screen hex grid. "Let's say they've been moving out at their best good quiet speed ever since the engagement. Six knots?"

  "Let's make it eight, ma'am."

  "Okay, eight. That would put them out here about sixty miles to the west of us. How are we looking on fuel?"

  Beltrain reached up to an overhead repeater and tapped in a data access.

  "Sixty-four percent remaining on bunkerage."

  "Good enough. We'll steer two seven zero at thirty knots until twenty-four hundred hours. Then we'll come about, reduce speed, and start sweeping back. With any luck, we'll sprint right past these guys and turn this bucket into a box."

  "Sounds real good to me, Captain."

  "Okay. Contact the hunt boss aboard the Enterprise. Advise him of our intentions and see if it meets his approval.

  If so, then advise the bridge and execute."

  ' ' about our helos, Captain? What do you want to do with them?"

  Amanda hesitated for another moment. "Keep them on the deck. As long as the carrier's helicopters are covering us, we'll give our people a rest.

  Hold one of the Retainers on five-minute alert and the other on fifteen.

  ' ', and one other thing, Dix. Once all of this gets set up, turn things over to the duty officer. I want you to get some sleep and a real meal.

  I can't have my best tactical officer burning out on me."

  "Okay, Mom ... I mean ma'am."

  Beltrain's grin saved him from a backlash.

  Amanda joined in the joke with a weary smile of her own.

  "Just you see to it, young man."

  She left the CIC again, heading for the '-deck ladders in the passageway aft.

  That space was deserted for the moment, filled only with the perennial rumble of air through the ductwork and a wisp of burnt kerosene leaking upward from the power rooms.

  It was safe here to briefly let herself stand down. Sinking onto one of the ladder treads, Amanda closed her eyes.

  Throughout that afternoon, she had maintained her own personal

  "Condition Zebra," keeping her emotions carefully compartmentalized and away from her decision-making processes.

  Now those compartment doors were opening, allowing a backwash of terror, despair, and panic to flow into her consciousness.

  They were all secondhand by now: ghost emotions, the lingering record of battle being replayed in her mind. It would pass eventually, leaving just another layer of scar tissue on her warrior's psyche. But for now, there was the sudden reknotting of her stomach, the sheen of cold sweat, and the sensation of treading on the edge of an abyss.

  Amanda gritted her teeth and hugged herself against her internal chill, striving to ride through it. She had not managed completely before she heard voices and the clatter of footsteps coming from below.

  Swiftly, she got to her feet and scrambled up one level to officers'

  country. A long-standing sophistry within the armed forces was that commanders were not allowed to exhibit human vulnerability in front of those they led.

  There were exceptions, though.

  Without conscious decision, Amanda found that she was moving down the passageway toward Vince Arkady's cabin, cursing herself for the weakness and the luxury of what she was about to do.

  "Come in." The response came swiftly to her knock.

  Arkady was stretched out on his bunk, and now, as she entered, he rolled to his feet in the balanced and coordinated flow of movement that she had come to recognize as part of him.

  "What's up?" he asked, alert and concerned. Her coming here was not a usual thing.

  Amanda went to him, slipping her arms around his waist.

  She rested her head on his flight-suited shoulder, listening to the strong beat of his heart as an affirmation of life.

  "I almost lost her today, Arkady," she whispered. "I almost lost her today."

  "But you didn't." His embrace closed around her, locking out the rest of the world.

  Out in the passageway, another figure silently approached the door to Arkady's cabin. As alert and as wary as a snow fox, she paused and listened for a moment, and then moved on.

  EAST CHINA SEA 0600 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 20, 2006

  "Captain, we're ready for you on the fantail."

  "Very well. I'm on my way."

  Amanda returned the interphone to its cradle. Rising from behind her desk, she donned a dark uniform Windcheater and the overseas cap that she scarcely ever wore. She glanced back one final time at the Bible that lay on her desktop, then stepped out into the passageway.

  The fiery multicolors of dawn had faded into the vibrant blue of a tropic morning sky. It was a blue that matched the sea, a sea unmarked except for the pale etching of the Cunningham's wake as it curved away toward the horizon.

  There were twelve others waiting for her aft: Arkady, Christine, Dr.

  Golden, Chief Hospital Corpsman Bonnie Robinson, and Chief Thomson.

  There were also the seven enlisted hands of the firing detail, each cradling an M-16 rifle.

  Finally, t
here was the trestle right aft at the stern rail, and the form wrapped in white canvas and the blood-red flag of Communist China. This latter wasn't standard issue in the flag locker of a U.S. Navy man-of-war, but they had improvised.

  A strip of yellow plastic radiation-warning ribbon had been looped out on stands around the body of the Chinese submariner, separating the burial party from him in death as culture and ideology had in life.

  As she approached, Chief Thomson gave the brim of his cap a short tug.

  "Good morning, ma'am."

  "Are we ready, Chief?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Carry on."

  Thomson nodded and barked out his next command. "Attention on deck!"

  There was a brief shifting and scuffling of shoes on RAM tile as all hands hit a brace. Her were facing full forward, but still, Amanda could feel their eyes on her. This was a time to think about mortality, their own and others, and a time to seek for answers. Never more than now was she "captain under God."

  "We do not know this man," she began after a moment. "We do not know his beliefs, his hopes, or even his name.

  We do know that he was a mariner, as are we all, that he did his duty to his homeland, as have we all, and that he hoped someday to return to those who loved him, as do we all.

  "Though we may stand at war with his nation, our conflicts with this man are past. We are at peace, and we wish him well on his last and greatest voyage ... Stop engines!"

  "Stop engines!" Chief Thomson echoed her words into his command phone.

  The steady pulsebeat of the Cunningham's engines stilled.

  "Salute!"

  Hands flicked up with precision, fingers locked. The firing detail turned outboard, rifles coming up to their shoulders, slender barrels angling toward the sky. A rippling crack repeated three times, expended shell casings tinkling down to the deck.

  Not requiring a command, Chief Thomson and Vince Arkady broke attention and stepped forward. Ducking under the

  ribbon line, they took up a position at the head of the trestle and up-angled the plank.

  The body slipped back over the rail and down into the sea with that sizzling zip that is so unlike any other sound in the world.

  "At ease. Carry on."

  The burial detail broke up, and Amanda was just starting to turn back for the deck house when the 1-MC speakers rang across the deck.