Choosers of the Slain

by James H. Cobb

  "So we bypass," MacIntyre responded. "The P-3s have long legs. We send 'em directly into the Falklands using aerial refueling."

  "I proposed that, sir. Things are almost as bad down at Mount Pleasant. In addition to the British military trying to bring their people in, Shell and BP are trying to get a couple of thousand of their gas-field workers and their dependents out by chartered airliner.

  "On top of that, we're starting to get weather lockouts down there. The fall storm fronts seem to be breaking early in the South Atlantic. I gather that it's developing into one hellish mess. The Admiralty says that they won't be able to slot our aircraft in for at least another seventy-two to ninety-six hours minimum, and I'm calling that an optimistic estimate."

  "Then will the Brits guarantee to provide air support for our people?"

  "They promise to do what they can, but the Cunningham is moving out of their effective range. They aren't deploying any of their heavy stuff south until later, either. Defensive systems have the priority for the moment."

  "God damn!" MacIntyre muttered. "We're sticking our people out on a limb."

  The Admiral scowled out across the low-lit length of the operations room at the Alpha Screen. Maggie Callendar leaned back against the workstation desk, her arms crossed. She sensed that her commanding officer wasn't finished with her yet.

  Finally he spoke again. "Maggie, what kind of information do we have available on the captain of the Cunningham?"

  "The standard service records, sir. Is there anything specific you wanted to know?"

  "Just who I have down there and what I can expect out of her. When I issued that kid her orders, she sounded almighty young."

  His Chief of Staff lifted an eyebrow. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that she's a woman, would it, Admiral?"

  "Hell, Maggie, at the moment it's irrelevant if she's man, woman, or Martian. She's senior officer present at a major flashpoint. Furthermore, she's being sent into that hole without a solitary rag of cover or backup. I like to know a little bit about the owner of any neck I'm ordering stuck out that far. I owe her that much."

  The corner of Callendar's mouth quirked up and she slipped a zip-disk case out of her pocket. "Here you are, sir. I was checking over her files myself earlier today and I pulled a copy on the chance you might be interested."

  "Have you always had this capacity to go around predicting my future wants and desires, Captain?"

  "Of course, sir," she deadpanned. "It's a prerequisite for the job, right along with ironclad infallibility."

  MacIntyre accepted the case and turned in to face the desk's workstation. "What did you think?"

  "Interesting. I think you'll be suitably impressed."

  "We'll see," he replied, powering up the terminal. "In the interim, go shake the Bureau of Personnel's tree. See if they have the situation paper on our NCO shortfalls ready yet."

  "Aye, aye."

  As Callendar went about her task, MacIntyre fed the zip-disk into the workstation's scanner and leaned forward, studying the screen intently.

  * GARRETT, AMANDA LEE COMMANDER USN 771-25-6657-ST-038 *

  The Admiral found himself looking at a sober-featured young woman in navy uniform. He set aside his professionalism long enough to note that, despite the ID-grad photography, she was a compelling lady. A touch of Lauren Bacall, he decided, back from the glory days of "The Look." There was something vaguely familiar about her as well.

  * AGE: 35 BIRTHDATE: 8/9/71*

  * HAIR: AUBURN EYES: HAZEL*

  * HEIGHT: 5'7" WEIGHT: 130*

  * FAMILY AND DEPENDENTS: GARRETT, WILSON M

  REAR ADM. U.S.N * RET.*

  MacIntyre suddenly made the connection. "Well, Jesus to Jesus and nine hands "round," he muttered. "So you're Wils Garrett's kid."

  He must have seen a younger variant of her picture an uncountable number of times back in the Persian Gulf, sitting on the desk of his old CruDesRon Commander.

  "I hope there's something to this genetics business, honey, because your old man was one righteous destroyer driver."

  * GRADUATE U.S. NAVAL ACADEMY! CLASS OF 1992*

  * 23RD OUT OF GRADUATING CLASS OF 997*

  A fellow ringknocker.

  * SERVICE HISTORY*

  * U.S.S. SHENANDOAH AD-44: 7/19/92-7/21/94 ORDNANCE DIVISION

  +LETTER OF COMMENDATION FILED: C.O. SHENANDOAH.

  +PROMOTED LT. J.G. 6/1/94

  * NAVAL SURFACE WEAPONS CENTER, DAHLGREN VIRGINIA: 8/1/94-6/27/95 * ADVANCED SURFACE COMBATANT PROJECT.

  * T.D.Y. NAVAL SHIP WEAPON SYSTEMS ENGINEERING STATION, POINT HUENEME, CALIFORNIA: 6/27/95-9/6/95.

  + AWARDED NAVY ACHIEVEMENT MEDAL 5/1/95

  Obviously a fast-track kid. She was one of the new breed of gundeckers too, coming up the ladder from the ordnance divisions instead of from engineering, as the bulk of his generation had done.

  * T.D.Y. U.S. COAST GUARD: 9/20/95-1/20/96, ANTI-DRUG INTERDICTION OPERATIONS.

  + LETTER OF COMMENDATION: C.O. U.S.S. SPENCER

  + LETTER OF COMMENDATION: COMMANDANT U.S. COAST GUARD

  + AWARDED BRONZE STAR FOR VALOR: 1/11/96

  + AWARDED PURPLE HEART: 1/11/96

  "Whoa!" MacIntyre stopped scrolling and called up the particulars on the file.

  * ON THE DATE SPECIFIED, LT. J.G. AMANDA GARRETT, SECONDED TO U.S.C.G. AND SERVING ABOARD THE MEDIUM-ENDURANCE CUTTER U.S.S. SPENCER AS SENIOR BOARDING OFFICER, LED THE INSPECTION PARTY DETAILED TO INVESTIGATE THE ECUADORIAN-FLAG TUNA CLIPPER BERNARDO GUZMAN OFF THE COAST OF BAJA CALIFORNIA.

  POST-OPERATIONAL ANALYSIS WOULD REVEAL THAT THE GUZMAN WAS, IN FACT, A CARTEL SMUGGLING VESSEL TRANSPORTING A CARGO OF 18 TONS OF RAW MORPHINE BASE WITH A STREET VALUE IN EXCESS OF 8 MILLION DOLLARS.

  AS THE BOARDING PARTY CAME ALONGSIDE, THE CREW OF THE GUZMAN OPENED FIRE IN AN APPARENT ATTEMPT TO SEIZE HOSTAGES. DESPITE BEING WOUNDED IN THE FIRST EXCHANGE OF GUNFIRE, LT. GARRETT RALLIED THE BOARDING PARTY, AND THEN LED THEM IN THE STORMING OF THE GUZMAN'S WHEELHOUSE. SHE AND THE OTHERS THEN HELD THEIR POSITION UNTIL THE ARRIVAL OF REINFORCEMENTS FROM THE SPENCER

  * MEDICAL LEAVE: 1/20/96-3/3/96

  * T.D.Y. NAVAL SURFACE WEAPONS CENTER, NORFOLK, VIRGINIA. 3/4/96-6/1/96

  * NAVAL SURFACE WARFARE SCHOOL, NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND. * 6/2/96-6/1/97

  +PROMOTED TO LT. 6/1/97

  * ASSIGNED: C.O. FLEET OCEAN TUG U.S.S. PIEGAN 6/20/97-7/5/99

  +PIEGAN AWARDED LANTFLEETCOM "E" FOR EXCELLENCE 1998-99

  +LETTER OF COMMENDATION, COMMANDER, ATLANTIC FLEET SUPPORT FORCES.

  +LETTER OF COMMENDATION, COMMANDANT 5TH COAST GUARD DISTRICT.

  +AWARDED NAVY AND MARINE CORPS MEDAL 12/18/98.

  MacIntyre again dialed up specifics.

  *ON 11/22/98, WHILE OPERATING UNDER FLEET SERVICE FORCES COMMAND, U.S.S. PIEGAN WAS ONE OF SEVERAL VESSELS CAUGHT OUT IN OPEN WATER BY THE UNEXPECTED DEVIATION OF HURRICANE "ARCHIE" TOWARDS THE ATLANTIC COAST OF THE UNITED STATES.

  AFTER RIDING OUT THE FIRST PHASE OF THE STORM OFF HAMPTON ROADS, LT. GARRETT ELECTED TO RUN FOR SHELTER AT NORFOLK AS THE EYE OF THE HURRICANE CAME ASHORE AT THE MOUTH OF CHESAPEAKE BAY.

  HOWEVER, OFF OF FORT MUNROE, A FREE-DRIFTING BARGE WAS OBSERVED JUST BEYOND THE SURF LINE. COAST GUARD TRAFFIC CONTROL IDENTIFIED IT AS A BULK PETROLEUM CARRIER EN ROUTE FROM LOUISIANA TO NEW JERSEY WITH A FULL CARGO OF HEAVY CRUDE OIL, THE COMMERCIAL TUG ASSIGNED TO IT HAVING ABANDONED THE TOW UPON THE ISSUANCE OF THE HURRICANE ALERT.

  LT. GARRETT IMMEDIATELY ORDERED PIEGAN TO CLOSE WITH THE BARGE AND COMMENCED PREPARATIONS TO PLACE A LINE ON IT. WITH CONSIDERABLE DIFFICULTY DUE TO THE HEAVY RESIDUAL SEAS RUNNING AND THE BARGE'S CLOSE PROXIMITY TO THE SHORE, THE TOW WAS REESTABLISHED WITH THE HEAVIEST AVAILABLE GEAR AND PIEGAN BEGAN AN ATTEMPT TO HAUL THE POL CARRIER CLEAR OF THE BEACH.

  AT THIS TIME, HOWEVER, THE EYE OF THE STORM HAD OVERRUN THE AREA AND THE FULL FORCE OF HURRICANE ARCHIE'S SECOND PHASE STRUCK THE CHESAPEAKE APPROACHES. FIGHTING WHAT WERE ESTIMATED TO BE FORCE 15 SEAS, PIEGA
N WAS UNABLE TO GAIN GROUND WITH THE POL CARRIER. WITH HER ONLY OTHER OPTION BEING TO CUT THE BARGE LOOSE AND ALLOW IT TO GO ONTO THE BEACH, LT. GARRETT ELECTED TO MAINTAIN THE TOW. FOR THE NEXT EIGHT HOURS, PIEGAN HELD STATION JUST OFF OF THE SURF LINE, UNTIL THE HURRICANE HAD PASSED AND THE POL CARRIER COULD BE TAKEN IN TO A SAFE MOORAGE.

  POST-EVENT ANALYSES BY THE ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION AGENCY CONCLUDED THAT: "A MAJOR HEAVY OIL SPILL AT THE MOUTH OF CHESAPEAKE BAY WOULD HAVE HAD CATACLYSMIC CONSEQUENCES FOR THE VIRGINIA AND MARYLAND TIDEWATERS. THE SWIFT ACTION OF LT. GARRETT AND HER CREW UNDOUBTEDLY PREVENTED A WORLD-CLASS ECOLOGICAL DISASTER."

  IN ADDITION, THE COMMANDANT OF THE 5TH COAST GUARD DISTRICT STATED: "THE ACTIONS OF THE U.S.S. PIEGAN AND HER CREW REPRESENT ONE OF THE OUTSTANDING PIECES OF FOUL-WEATHER SEAMANSHIP IN A CRISIS SITUATION EVER OBSERVED BY THIS COMMAND."

  MacIntyre nodded thoughtfully. Okay, the bloodline does breed true. You aren't just a test-bench sailor.

  * STEALTH SYSTMES DIVISION, DAVID W. TAYLOR NAVAL SHIP RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT CENTER, BETHESDA, MARYLAND: 7/15/99-6/3/00

  +PROMOTED TO LT. CMDR 6/1/00

  * ASSIGNED EXEC. OFFICER U.S.S.JOHN ALLEN PRICE DDG-68 * 6/10/00-7/15/01

  * NAVAL WAR COLLEGE, NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND:

  8/1/01-6/25/02

  * STAFF ASSIGNMENT, OPERATIONS OFFICER, FLAG GROUP, TASK FORCE

  * 7.1, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE: 7/20/02-6/5/04

  +NAVY COMMENDATION MEDAL 1/17/04

  +LETTER OF COMMENDATION, C.O. COMSURFORCEPAC

  +U.S. NAVY LEAGUE CAPT. WINIFRED QUICK COLLINS

  AWARD FOR INSPIRATIONAL LEADERSHIP 2003.

  * SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT, NAVAL WAR COLLEGE/DAVID W. TAYLOR SHIP

  * RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT CENTER, ANNAPOLIS LAB DETACHMENT, ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND: 6/20/04-5/21/05.

  +PROMOTION TO CMDR. 1/1/05

  * ASSIGNED, C.O. U.S.S. CUNNINGHAM DDG-79: 6/7/05.

  MacIntyre leaned back and stared into space thoughtfully. Eventually he became aware that his Chief of Staff had returned and was standing at his side.

  "You're right," he said. "I am impressed... to a degree."

  "I thought that might be the case. I definitely was when I had the chance to meet Commander Garrett at a Navy League symposium last year. She was speaking on naval power projection in the twenty-first century. She struck me as a woman who was going to make her mark on this man's Navy."

  "Okay, I'll grant you that on paper this kid reads out like Arleigh Burke in a skirt. And I can see how they'd consider her qualified to take out the lead ship of the Cunningham-class. But she's short into her first major command and she doesn't have anything like line combat experience."

  "That's endemic with a lot of our people, Admiral. It's been some time since the Navy has fought a real blue-water war."

  "That may be about to change."

  Captain Callendar frowned. "Has something new developed down south, sir?"

  "No, not anything concrete. It's just that if I were one with you and Captain Garrett here, I'd say that my female intuition was kicking up."

  MacIntyre let his chair swivel back around to face out across the worry hole to the network of lights on the Large Screen Display.

  "I think that we're going to have that overdue blue-water war, Maggie, and I suspect that it is going to be a pisser."

  DRAKE PASSAGE

  1400 HOURS: MARCH 23, 2006

  Almost by accident, the Cunningham 's designers had produced one of the most seaworthy vessels in maritime history. Because of her minimal upperworks, the bulk of her displacement was carried low in her fine-lined hull. Combined with her sophisticated pitch-and-roll dampers and her outriggerlike propulsor pods, this made her an exceptionally stable and easy riding platform in heavy weather.

  Her crew had reason to be grateful for this. Five hours before, under skies the color of lead, the Duke had cleared the lee of Islas de Los Estados and had entered Drake Passage.

  Now, with sleety rain lashing her bridge windscreen like buckshot, she quartered into an unending series of steep-sided rollers that came booming in from the west. Dirty white foam exploded from under the flare of her bow as she pitched into each of the oncoming swells. Intermittently, a seventh wave would break cleanly over her forecastle and the big destroyer would shudder as she shook tons of seawater off of her decks.

  Slouched comfortably in the bridge captain's chair, Amanda Garrett was content. This was her brand of seafaring.

  "Heads up, Skipper." A flight-suited arm carefully snaked a steaming mug over her shoulder.

  "Thank you, Arkady," she said, accepting it and taking a quick sip. "Mmm, you got it right."

  "Earl Grey, one creamer, two sugars," he replied, bracing himself against the roll of the ship between her chair and the outer bridge bulkhead. "I checked with the wardroom messman on the way up."

  "Thank you again. How are things back aft?"

  "Hangar bay all secure. We won't be launching again until this weather moderates." He hunkered down a little to peer out into the murky sky. "God, it's rotten trending toward shitty out there."

  "That's a matter of opinion, Arkady. If you plan to serve on stealth ships, you'd better get used to it. This is where we live."

  "More of your raider doctrine?"

  "Yes. When we go full stealth, we duck from one weather front to the next, like an infantryman zigzagging from one patch of cover to another. Nothing much can protect you from the old Mark One eyeball except Mother Nature."

  She tilted the flat screen monitor mounted on her chair arm toward him and called a repeater image up off of the navigational radar.

  "Take a look at this. We're picking up Cape Horn."

  Arkady nodded his agreement, mentally comparing the glowing repeater image with the charts he had been studying. He glanced across at Amanda, noting the intentness with which she studied the monitor.

  "This is kind of a special deal for you just now, isn't it?"

  "It is. I've only sailed these waters once before, when I brought the Duke around from the Pacific, but I've read about them since ... forever."

  Her voice softened and her eyes drifted back up toward the mist-shrouded horizon. "You know, Arkady, this is a very unique and special area. The Atlantic and Pacific meet and merge here. This is the one place where you have no land at all to east or west, just one continuous belt of water encircling the entire planet. The true world ocean."

  Arkady felt a shiver ripple down his spine. Damn, this woman could make you feel things.

  "No wonder we're bucking heavy seas," he said.

  "For Drake Passage and Cape Horn this isn't heavy. It's average. Two months from now, during the winter storm season, then you'll get the heavy stuff. You'll have twelve thousand miles' worth of water, all being driven by hurricane-velocity winds, trying to crash through these straits. Our radar sats have tracked waves two hundred feet high on occasion."

  "Holy hell! What do you do if you run into a monster like that?"

  Amanda cocked an eyebrow at her Air Division commander. "You sink."

  "Once, just once, couldn't this country fight a war off of Long Beach?"

  "You have no romance in your soul, Arkady. Some very illustrious people and ships have come through here over the years. Remember talking about Sir Francis Drake last night? These straits are his. He was the first to transit them on his round-the-world raid against the Spanish.

  "The USS Oregon came through here as well, on her race around South America to rejoin the fleet off Cuba during the Spanish-American war. The clipper ships too, racing the other way, back when it was ninety days to hell or California."

  "You sound like you wouldn't have minded commanding one of those old square riggers."

  "A clipper ship? Oh no. While their aficionados won't admit it, most of those old clippers were rickety damn affairs, oversparred and underhulled.

  "No. If I had my choice, I'd have taken one of those big old Brandenburg freighters the Germans built around the turn of the last century. Those
were the real apex of sailing technology. They were bark-rigged, four- or five- masters mostly. They had steel hulls, steel masts, and steel cable standing rigging. You could drive a ship like that, drive her till the canvas exploded right off the yards."

  Her words trailed off and just for a moment she was far away, feeling the Cape winds of another time whip her hair.

  The moment was broken by the click and rasp of the overhead squawk box. "Captain, this is Sonar. The hydrothermograph has just recorded that sudden sharp drop in water temperature that you asked us to watch for. You wanted to be notified."

  "Yes, thank you, Sonar," Amanda replied into her headset.

  "What's that about?" Arkady inquired.

  "More uniqueness. We've just crossed a thermocline called the Antarctic Convergence. It's an actual, physical demarcation in this ocean reach that marks the parameters of the South Polar seas."

  She keyed a new address code into the interphone. "Communications, this is the Captain. Please transmit the following to CINCLANT: 'The USS Cunningham has arrived on station.'"

  BUENOS AIRES

  1930 HOURS: MARCH 23, 2006

  The United States Embassy in Buenos Aires was not a particularly large facility, and out of consideration Harrison Van Lynden had endeavored to put as small a strain on their resources as possible. Accordingly, he had converted the sitting room of his second-floor suite into his ad hoc command post.

  A desktop computer terminal and its associate printer had taken over the coffee table. The telephone had been supplemented with a modem and a security-locked fax machine. Most of the room's other usable flat surfaces were gradually disappearing under a growing accumulation of books, files, and hard-copy printout.

  Earlier on, Van Lynden, Steven Rosario, and Dr. Towers had released the Embassy Staff personnel assigned to them for the day. Following a brief break for dinner, they returned to the task at hand. Slacks and sport shirts had replaced more formal businesswear.

  "Have we gotten the final word on the Bogotá meeting, Steve?" the Secretary of State inquired, settling himself onto the couch.