"Forget it, Chief," Amanda replied. "How's he doing?"
"He's stabilizing. I think we've got the shock under control. His blood pressure is up, and his heart action looks good. There are signs that he's starting to come around again. I think that, for the short term, he'll be okay. No immediate danger."
Amanda noted both Bonnie Robinson's words and her grim expression. "You're qualifying yourself all over the place, Chief. What's the full story?"
"Erikson has suffered a deep puncture wound to the chest cavity."
"That sounds bad."
"It is, ma'am."
Robinson turned to the printer unit of the sick bay's compact X-ray unit and punched the processing key. After a moment, a fresh negative was extruded into the Chief's hands with a soft whir. She stepped to the rear bulkhead and clipped the negative to a glow plate.
"Come here, Captain. I'll show you."
Amanda stood at the Corpsman's shoulder as she outlined the problem. "He took the hit almost dead center in the chest. There was a clean penetration into the chest cavity, but we've got that sealed off without getting a collapsed lung. There was some damage to the right pleural sac. That sort of shadowy area indicates that there was some hemorrhaging within the pleural cavity, but not too bad. The big problem is right here."
Robinson's slender fingers moved to outline a jagged black silhouette.
"A shrapnel fragment?"
"Yes, ma'am. Drilled right in among the major blood vessels above the heart. It's a certifiable miracle that nothing critical was directly involved."
"He lucked out."
"Not by all that much, ma'am."
"You're qualifying again, Chief."
"Yeah, I am. That fragment could shift, cut through an arterial wall. It could still kill him very easily."
"What can you do about it?"
"Nothing. This is a job for a full surgical team. We've got to get Erikson medevaced out to one as soon as possible."
"Chief, the closest medical facilities we have access to are over a thousand miles away in the Falkland Islands, way off station. We've got to deal with this with what we have available right here."
Robinson shook her head with great deliberation. "I don't know what I can say, Captain. I've had the basic indoctrination into emergency surgical procedures and, with a real doctor coaching me over a video link, I might be able to pull a hot appendix if I had to. This kind of operation, though, is so far over my head, I might as well be cutting his throat directly. I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's how it is."
Amanda nodded a reply. Turning, she took the two steps to the ward doorway. Pushing aside the curtain, she looked in at the still form lying in one of the lower bunks, bound down by his web of IV tubes and oxygen cannulas. Somehow she felt it was important that she be looking at him when she made this next decision.
"What about the alternative, Chief? The fleet will be up with us in about a week. Can you hold him stable until they arrive?"
"Captain, the book says that the faster this kind of wound is treated, the better. His general physical condition is bound to deteriorate. There is danger of infection, and that fragment could shift at any time."
"I'll grant you that and more, Chief. Can you keep him alive?"
"Well, maybe if I can be advised by Fleet medical--"
"No joy. We'll be going full EMCON soon. You'll be on your own. Now, what about it?"
Chief Robinson sighed. She was one of the Duke's plank owners, having been aboard since the commissioning. During that time, she had learned that her captain never demanded miracles. She just quietly required the absolute best that was humanly possible.
"We'll try, ma'am. We'll really try."
DRAKE PASSAGE
2100 HOURS: MARCH 25, 2006
Powered back to dead slow, the Duke crept through a night that was nothing but varying textures of blackness. The low-lying overcast smothered even the faintest trace of star-shine, and the only illumination in the whole world seemed to issue from the small cluster of hooded work-lights on the destroyer's bow.
The Zenith was the largest single piece of ordnance carried aboard the Cunningham. Twenty-five feet in length and triple the diameter of a LORAIN, it took up four of the cells in the forwardmost Vertical Launch System. It also required the most preparation before it could fly.
The missile and its launch rail had to be lifted hydraulically to deck level. There, its four strap-on boosters, each nearly the same length as the main vehicle, had to be struck up from belowdecks, hogged into position with the missile-loading crane, and shackled onto their respective hard-points. Heavy steel flame deflectors were positioned under the exhaust ventures and thick, insulated Fiberglas matting had to be deployed and secured to protect the RAM-tiled decks. Then the real work of systems checkout could begin.
The katabatics still raked the destroyer's decks like an icy spray of machine-gun fire. Heavy Navy-issue parkas helped to blunt the edge of the cutting wind, but many of the more delicate connections and adjustments simply couldn't be made by workers wearing gloves. The men and women of Weapons Division did the best they could. They worked until numbed fingers simply refused to respond anymore, then they swore and backed off, tucking frozen hands into pockets and armpits. When feeling returned, heralded by an agonizing tingling and burning, they swore again and got back on the job.
"How's it going up there, Dix?" Amanda inquired sympathetically into her headset.
On the low-light deck monitor that was covering the work party, she could see the Lieutenant look aft.
"We're back on the timeline, Skipper. Everything looks good. All hands-on tests read green, and there don't seem to be any parts left over."
Amanda glanced across the CIC to the Zenith operations station and its master readouts. "We concur with that. How much more time do you need?"
"Maybe five more minutes for final-phase checks and to button things up out here."
"You've got ten. Well done to all hands involved."
"Better wait till we see if this thing works first, ma'am."
The Combat Information Center had taken on the aspects of a miniature NASA mission control. The main screen had been reconfigured as an orbital positioning display, and Christine Rendino was overseeing the systems operators as they prepared to switch over to space operations mode.
"How are we looking, Chris?"
"Last update from Aerospace Command says that the Aquila B is still right in the groove. She'll be above our horizon in about twelve minutes and thirty-four seconds."
"Close, but we're in under the wire. Anything new from the Argentines?"
"Intermittent low-grade radar emissions to the north and west. Air-to-surface search stuff, but way out of range. Some operational chatter on their standard air force and navy frequencies. Nothing critical."
"Nonetheless, when we light off at maximum power to track that satellite we're really going to be calling attention to ourselves. How long will we have to radiate?"
"Maybe sixty to ninety seconds to acquire and confirm the orbit and to allow the Zenith system to set up the intercept solution. Then we can shut down. I'd suggest, though, that we go active again briefly to monitor and confirm the kill."
"Sounds reasonable. Then we go back to full stealth and do a sprint away from here. Let's do it."
As the last seconds ticked away, every spare monitor in the CIC was dialed in to the topside cameras.
"... three ... two ... one ... Target is above the horizon."
"Initiate orbital scan."
The starboard radar arrays energized and sprayed the skies to the south with a silent microwave thunderclap.
"Tallyho! Target acquisition! Right on the numbers!"
On the Large Screen Display, a target hack and designation appeared at the bottom of the screen. It began to crawl slowly upward toward the blue triangle that marked the Cunningham's position.
"Zenith operator, start your engagement sequence."
"Aye, aye, Captain. Going for fi
ring locks now. System is tracking ... System is tracking ... Zenith system has integrated. Confirm good locks and firing solution."
"Enable system to fire."
"Final-phase safety interlocks are down. System is enabled."
There was no immediate reaction. The Zenith had been designed as a seaborne system. Within its guidance package, gyros gauged the pitch and roll of its launch platform, waiting for a moment when the vehicle was aimed at the near-true vertical before issuing the ignition command.
The air crackled. Suddenly, orange flame blanketed the Duke's foredeck. Then the ASAT had cleared its launching rail and was climbing away fast, holding the ship and the sea around it under a dome of pale golden light.
In seconds, it had reached and punched into the overcast and the sudden flood of illumination was extinguished. All except for a faint flicker like a lightning bolt buried in the belly of the clouds.
At 45,000 feet and Mach 2, explosive bolts sheared the booster packs away and the main stage ignited. At Mach 7 and 165,000 feet, its job was done. The upper quarter of the vehicle, containing the payload and a low-thrust sustainer engine, separated and went on its way. Also discarded was the plastic nose shroud, no longer needed with the bulk of the atmosphere penetrated. Exposed now, the onboard sensors took up the search for the target.
Once upon a time, there had been a brave hope that space need not be militarized. Attempts had been made to ban antisatellite weapons such as the Zenith by international agreement. However, as more and more nations developed orbital launch capacity and began to put near-Earth space to a growing number of uses, not all of them benign, the brave dream was replaced by a grim reality, one that was first stated by a revered Chinese warrior long ago: "You must hold the high ground or you most certainly will perish in the valley."
The major powers began to treat ASATs much as they did combat shotguns. Everyone signed impressive documentation banning them. Everyone had them. Everyone politely ignored the fact that everyone else was lying about it.
Arcing two hundred miles above the Earth's surface, Argentina's Aquila B reconnaissance satellite trimmed its billboard-size solar panels to catch the light of the low-riding sun. Circling the world from pole to pole in a "ball of yarn" reconnaissance orbit, it had conducted a lateral transition burn some fifty minutes previously over the northern ice pack, allowing it to repeat the same trajectory it had flown earlier that day.
As per the programming it had received on its previous pass, it again brought its sensors to bear on the Antarctic Peninsula, Drake Passage, and the surrounding environs.
Now, suddenly, those sensors reacted to the appearance of a powerful radar-emissions source near the center of its search zone, followed by the heat plume of a rocket climbing toward its flight path.
Had it been one of the big American Key Hole 13 reconsats or a Russian Sentinel Cosmos, it would have had artificial-intelligence circuits capable of recognizing the potential threat, and it would have taken evasive action or activated countermeasures. As it was, the Aquila B was a simplemhided device. It merely continued to record the details of its own death for a download it would never make.
The heart of the Zenith system was a kinetic kill weapon developed from the U.S. Air Force's "Intelligent Tomato Can" ASAT of the 1980s. It consisted of little more than a wide-angle infrared sensor, a ring of maneuvering thrusters, and a small, very high speed computer, all fit into a cylindrical package roughly the size of a gallon of paint.
After staging from its sustainer motor, the ASAT had searched for, and located, the sun-warmed metal of the Aquila B against the frigid emptiness of space. Now it delicately began to steer itself directly into the path of the Argentine satellite. There was no warhead per se. Given the kinetic energy involved in a five-miles-per-second collision, explosives were redundant.
"Aaaand ... nailed it!" Christine exclaimed. "Argentina is out of the satellite business."
"Are you certain, Chris?" Amanda asked.
Rendino swiftly conferred with the Zenith operator.
"Yeah, Captain," she replied after a moment. "We have a solid kill. The target has displayed an abrupt orbital deviation, and the reflectivity variance indicates that it's tumbling. We're also tracking a dispersing debris cloud, and we lost the Zenith's transponder at the moment of intercept. There may still be a hulk up there, but it's not going to be doing anybody any good."
"Is there any chance they can put up a replacement?"
"Doubtful. None of the South American states have a domestically produced launch vehicle with enough steam to hit a polar orbit with that size of payload. The Argys contracted with Arianspace to put this one up.
"Even if they had a spare sat in storage, and if they could find a civil hauler somewhere willing to buck the sanctions on against Argentina, it would be months before they could get a slot on a launch schedule. Fa' sure, these guys are blind for the duration."
"Good enough. Helm, get us out of here. All engines ahead flank. Steer zero nine seven degrees."
"Aye, aye, ma'am. All engines ahead flank. Steering zero nine seven."
"All stations, secure radiating and set full EMCON. Establish full stealth protocols."
"Aye, aye, setting full emission control and full stealth."
"Communications, before you secure your transmitters, please dispatch the following, Milstar Flash priority: 'DDG 79 to CINCLANT. Zenith launch successfully executed as per previously transmitted plan of operation. Target destroyed. Now going full stealth. This will be our last transmission. Signature, Garrett, commanding.'"
The radio watch did a read-back and Amanda cleared it for sending. That dealt with, she slipped off her headset and settled back more deeply into the padding of the command chair. Closing her eyes, she let the ordered murmur of the CIC crew and the soft creaking of the hull flow around her.
That was a major piece of the load removed. Her enemies were still out there, hunting her, but now her options had widened. Now she could hide as well as run and fight.
NEW YORK
2330 HOURS: MARCH 25, 2006
"Coming up on the end of the break. Buenos Aires link is up and hot. Stand by to cut to the Embassy. Three ... two ... one ... and go!"
The master screens in the control room of the media center flickered and filled with multiple images. One was the urbane and well-known features of the moderator of the news feature program. The second was an intense-looking, middle-aged Latino with graying hair and a pencil-line mustache, sitting centered in one of the studio's interview sets. The third was Dr. Caroline Towers. She was seated in a straight-backed chair in the U.S. Embassy's reception lobby, a light microphone clipped to the lapel of her suit.
"Good evening, Doctor." The moderator's smooth voice overlaid the imaging. "I believe you were able to hear the comments made by the Argentine Minister of Trade here in our New York studios about his nation's program for Antarctic development. Do you have any response to them?"
"Yes I do, Mr. Douglas," she replied. "With all due respect to Mr. Anaya, Argentina's plans for Antarctic development are a prescription for almost certain ecological disaster."
The Argentine shook his head impatiently. "That is the same hackneyed phrase we have heard from environmental extremists for decades. I can assure you that Argentina intends to make the protection of the Antarctic environment one of its primary concerns. In recent years, given the proper safeguards, industrial development has taken place in numerous ecologically sensitive areas without causing undue harm. Antarctica is no different."
"No, sir! This is not the case. It's true that over the past decade global industry has made vast strides in developing ecologically protective procedures and technologies. However, much of this development is simply not applicable to the Antarctic environment. There, you are dealing literally with another world, one as alien to terrestrial norms as something orbiting in another star system.
"The Antarctic ecology is unique. It's vast in extent, sophisticated in its dynamics, and y
et basically simple in structure. This simplicity renders it perilously fragile."
"How is that so, Doctor? Could you elaborate?" the moderator inquired.
"There isn't a great degree of multiple redundancy available within the biosphere."
"Multiple redundancy?"
"Yes," Dr. Towers explained patiently. "Allow me to state an example. Around the turn of the last century, the wolf was all but wiped out within the confines of the continental United States. The elimination of such a key predator from within an ecosystem could have caused a serious dysfunction. However, the hardier, more survivable coyote moved in and took over most of the wolf's niche. The system was able to adapt and self-repair.
"This critical kind of diversity is lacking in the Antarctic. In many instances, you have only one specific species filling one specific slot in the food chain. Do something to impact that one species and the entire system could crash.
"That's why the Antarctic is such an all-or-nothing proposition. The southern continent and its surrounding waters must be kept intact and pristine. As I said before, anything less is a prescription for ecological disaster."
"Come now, Doctor. Even if other nations choose to exercise their sovereignty in the Antarctic and elect to develop its resources, how much of the continent will be involved? Five percent, ten?"
"Mr. Anaya, how big does a cancer have to be to kill its host?"
"Those are strong words, Doctor." The moderator smoothly intervened before Anaya could initiate a heated reply. "Back here at home, however, we are hearing some other strong words. People are expressing concern as Argentina and the United States appear to be edging closer to open warfare over the Antarctic question. While not yet confirmed by the Pentagon, there are reports that at least one military engagement has been fought in the South Atlantic. In all probability, there will be more.
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