The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  “Supe.”

  Garuda looked over his shoulder. “You better report this to the Old Man.

  I’d call Austin, too. Jamming is news. Wish the E-two was still up. I’ll get the Cave to encode a jamming report and get it down to the carriers.”

  Brian went over to the evaluator’s desk, grabbed the bat phone, and held the buzzer down. He stared at the 40 radar presentation over Garuda’s shoulder and saw what appeared to be differences in the scope presentation as the operator back in the Cave put in one fix at a time to see which one might work. He buzzed the phone again, but there was still no reply. “Send someone down,” the captain had said.

  “Surface,” he yelled across D and D. “Surface, aye,” replied the supervisor, RD1 Rock heart.

  “Send a guy down to the captain’s cabin, wake the Old Man up, and ask him to call D and D on the bat phone. I can’t wake him up.”

  “Surface, aye.”

  Brian hung up the bat phone and called Austin’s number on the admin phone. Austin answered after three rings; Brian told him what they had.

  Austin expressed his disbelief but said he would be right up. Brian hung up and saw the 40 radar presentation go suddenly clear.

  “Whoa, Supe. That did it,” Garuda said.

  “Track Supe, affirma-hotchee. That’s the antijitter fix.

  Means some Commie is definitely fuckin’ with us.”

  “And every other forty in the Gulf should have seen it, too,” muttered Garuda. “There shoulda been some other reports of this.” He switched down to the sixty mile scale to see if it made any difference.

  “There would be if Green was up, but everyone else’s in the same boat—they have to encode the report first before going out on clear HF nets. Just like us.”

  Garuda shook his head wonderingly. “But why the forty? Bad guys gotta know we use the forty-eight as primary, not the fucking forty.”

  “You’re not looking at the forty-eight right now, are you?” observed Brian, a sudden tingling apprehension beginning to intrude at the edge of his mind.

  “Oh, fuck me,” whispered Garuda, switching back to the forty-eight just as a chorus of late-detect alerts began to sound on the consoles in the Cave. There, at the very edge of the screen, just off the coast of North Vietnam, were four bright pips of light moving in from the edge of the screen—right at them. As Brian stared in growing horror, the first unknown symbols popped up on top of the incoming video.

  Garuda didn’t hesitate. He smashed some buttons and made all four unknowns hostiles, then sent the first engagement orders over to FCSC.

  “This is a no-shitter, everybody,” he yelled his voice rising. “Bandits, inbound, taking with birds! We have a fucking raid"

  Brian leaned over the evaluator’s desk and pushed the bat phone’s buzzer down, mashing it down in groups of three, the agreed-upon panic signal.

  With the other hand, he grabbed the 1MC microphone and shouted into it.

  “Captain to D and D. I say again, Captain to D and D!

  We have an inbound air raid. All hands prepare for multiple-missile launch. Officer of the Deck, come right to three-zero-zero, speed twenty—NOW!”

  “SWIC, FCSC. System One is locked on; having a problem with System Two.

  Range to bogey one is forty seven miles and closing. Launcher is loading. Request batteries released when ready.”

  Garuda twisted around in his chair and looked at Brian, who nodded vigorously while repeating his announcement over the 1MC.

  “SWIC, Track Supe, Alfa Whiskey is asking in the clear if hostile tracks are—”

  “Tell him they better Hong Kong fucking believe it, and we are taking with birds!”

  “SWIC, FCSC, range to bogey one is forty miles.

  Launcher is loaded and assigned. I have video in the gate, taking track two-one-seven-seven with two-bird salvo.”

  “SWIC, aye, take in sequence. Where the fuck is System Two!”

  FCSC’s reply was buried in the thunder of a Terrier missile blasting off the forecastle launcher, followed seconds later by a second missile. The ship began vibrating as the engines came up to twenty knots and heeling over to port as she came about to the northwest to give the missile directors a clearer field of tracking vision.

  “System Two is back up, taking track two-one-seven nine with System Two.

  Range is thirty-five miles. Bogeys inbound and low. Solid video in the gates!”

  “SWIC, Track Supe, Alfa Whiskey says to verify that we are not engaging ghosts.”

  Garuda had to think about that for a second, but then FCSC shouted a mark intercept on track 2177, video merge in the tracking gate, evaluate hit. One down, Brian thought. FCSC then redesignated System One to bogey three and assigned the launcher to System Two. Brian continued to buzz the captain’s cabin as sounds of people running up ladders became audible. Then there was the roar of another missile leaving the launcher, followed by its brother as System Two launched against bogey two.

  Two engaged, two to go, and the flickers are already inside thirty miles, Brian thought frantically. Not enough directors! They’re too close! The ship’s hull was trembling now as the snipes, galvanized by the 1MC announcements and the roar of missile launches, poured on the fuel oil. Two of the AICs came crashing through the front door to Combat, puffing from the ladders.

  “SWIC, Track Supe, Alfa Whiskey says they hold no video in our sector, but they do report jamming on their forty radars. Alfa Whiskey wants—”

  “Fuck Alfa Whiskey!” shouted Garuda. “I’m fucking busy here!”

  “SWIC, FCSC, System Two holding good track on hostile track two-one-seven-nine. Stand by for intercept —mark intercept, track two-oneseven-nine!”

  The bitch box sounded off at that moment, reporting explosions visible off the port side on the horizon. Brian thought fast. Where the fuck was the captain? For that matter, where was the XO? Or Austin? Surely they had heard the word. At that moment, the door to Combat banged open again and Austin came through, wearing only khaki trousers, his sea boots, and a T-shirt. For once, he looked disheveled.

  “SWIC, FCSC, assigning System Two to bogey four, track number two-one-five-six. This is gonna be a close motherfucker; these bastards are into eighteen miles!

  Warren, calm down, now stay on it, just stay on it!”

  “Get on that fucker!” yelled Garuda, switching down his range scale to stay with the picture. The pile of messages slid off the evaluator’s table as the ship bounded onto the new course. The AICs stood helpless at their console, the BARCAP still mated for refueling, which everyone realized now was no accident and the air around the bogeys filled with American SAMS. The CAP were out of the game.

  “SWIC, FCSC, mark intercept, System One, evaluate bogey three hit.” A pause as the chief pressed his earphones to his head. Then he shook his head, an agonized expression on his face. “SWIC, System Two can’t get on, can’t get on. Warren’s taking it in manual. Range is ten miles!

  Fuck, he’s gonna get in; he’s gonna get in!

  Range is eight miles, System Two can’t—System Two is on!” The chief assigned the launcher, waited three seconds for the launcher-loaded light, and then mashed the firing key almost through the console and another Terrier left the rails as more people burst through the front door into Combat. The stink of booster smoke came through the air-conditioning vents as the ship turned across the wind.

  “We’re fucked!” yelled FCSC. “He’s inside minimum range. He’s—”

  Austin, who had been standing next to Brian, gave a cry of fear and bolted out of D and D toward the front door of CIC, knocking down two sailors who had just come through the door. Brian stared down at SWIC’s console and watched the final hostile symbol merge with then-own. The fourth bogey was inside the minimum range of the missile system and the ship’s radars.

  There was a single instant of total silence and then came a thundering boom very close off the port side of the ship. The port-side bulkhead of Combat ballooned inw
ard in a blast of torn aluminum plating, dust, and debris. Amid the noise of shrieking metal, a long black object crashed right through the electronic warfare NTDS console, obliterating the operator and a second man in a bloody cloud, and then smashed up against a second console before falling to the deck plates. The impact blew down ventilation ducts all over Combat, deforming the overhead of CIC enough to explode most of the fluorescent bulbs out of their holders, adding a cloud of phosphorus to the blizzard of debris flying around the space.

  Almost simultaneously, the entire ship shuddered with a cruiser-sized gut punch, the impact of something very big striking the port side, followed by the bellowing roar of an explosion back aft. The few remaining lights in Combat flickered out, on, and then back out, leaving only the battle lanterns to penetrate the clouds of dust hanging in the air. The sound of the ship’s GQ alarm sounded through the initial silence, joined by a shocked chorus of groans and cries of injured men.

  Everyone in D and D had been thrown on the deck except Garuda, who had snapped on his seat belt when the ship made its turn to unmask the missile directors.

  Brian pulled himself out from under the evaluator’s table and looked around for Austin. He finally saw him lying unconscious by the front door to Combat, his face covered in blood. The FCSC, Chief Hallowell, was standing, bent double over the back of his console chair as if he was trying to throw up. Brian tried to clear his head, but there was too much smoke and noise in Combat as men shouted for help or yelled in pain. He heard the incongruous sound of spraying water, until he remembered that the consoles were water-cooled. Some cooling lines must be severed, he thought, trying to pull himself together. He had a cut on the back of one hand, but otherwise he seemed to be uninjured. He looked over at Garuda, who was spitting shards of glass from a fluorescent bulb out of his mouth while wrestling with his radio headset. Brian heard him trying to get contact with the rest of the intercom stations in Combat.

  Several men from surface were over on the port side trying to tend to some of the injured. Chief Hallowell straightened up and discovered Austin. He went over to check out the extent of the Ops officer’s injuries.

  “Combat, Bridge!” The frightened-sounding voice of Jack Folsom came over the bitch box. Brian keyed the box. He felt the ship slowing down, her bows beginning to mush into the seas. There was an ominous roaring noise like a firebox coming from the midships area, then a blast of high pressure steam from the after stack.

  “Combat, aye, Jack. What the hell happened out there?”

  “Our last missile hit something right off the port side.

  I think it was a Mig, but we were blind from the booster flash. I think the Mig hit the water and then hit the ship.

  What happened in Combat?”

  “Something came through the bulkhead. Maybe it’s part of the Mig. I’ll have to go check. We have personnel casualties and no power and the place is full of smoke and dust. I can’t see much from D and D.”

  “Do you need a damage-control team in there?”

  Hearing the sound of CO2 extinguishers going, Brian shook his head. “No, I think we need the docs in here, unless there’s bigger problems down below. One of ‘em, anyway. I don’t see any fires, just smoke. Hey, is the captain out there?”

  “That’s a negative, and I’ll get the baby doc in there.

  The XO was out here, but he went down somewhere amidships. He thinks we got hit down there, gonna go check it out.”

  “Rug, lemme go see what we got here. Austin is knocked out, in case anyone’s wondering.”

  “Bridge, aye.”

  Brian moved over to Garuda’s console.

  “We got anything left up here?” he asked.

  “Shit no. Snipes have cut the power, or else the local panels went out.

  The radars are all down, and guys’re all over the place in the Cave. I think I’m outta business here, boss. You need a dressing on that hand.”

  “Yeah. Okay, make a quick survey of Combat. Tell me what we got in the way of people hurt and stuff broke.

  Have Radio get me a working voice circuit so we can let the staff know we’ve been hit up here.”

  “That was a hell of a bang amidships. What the fuck was it?”

  “Bridge thinks our last bird winged bogey four but that he kamikazed us.

  XO and the damage-control people are working that prob. Go see what we got here.”

  Garuda grunted, unhitched himself from his chair, fished in his foul-weather jacket for a flashlight, and headed into the gloom of the Cave, picking his way through the jumble of deck plates and sprawled men.

  Brian joined the chief in trying to revive Austin, but he was out cold.

  The chief passed Brian a small square bandage, which he taped over his hand. A white-faced young radarman appeared next to them. His uniform was clean and not covered in dust and bits of insulation like those of everyone else in Combat. His eyes were huge and he looked terrified.

  “S-sir?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sir, I was sent down to get the Old—uh, I mean, to get the captain to call you? Just before we got hit?”

  “Oh yes. Did you get him?”

  “Sir, the door was locked. I knocked and I waited around, ‘cause you sounded like it was real important, and I guess it was, seein’—”

  “Yes. Right. Okay, but you never actually talked to him? The cabin door was locked?”

  “Yes, sir, it sure was. Sir, are we—”

  “I don’t know what happens next, sailor. I suggest you get back into surface and help the guys who’ve hurt.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The radarman stepped back into the smoky shadow that was the surface module. Brian saw several people being attended to in the gloom. He felt totally isolated in the darkened Combat. The contrast was incredible—one minute the heart and nerve center of the ship and all the air operations for two hundred miles around, and now just a bunch of dazed guys staggering around and picking themselves up in the murk of smoke and dust. The debris began to shift as the ship’s rolling increased. Definitely going DIW, Brian thought. Then Garuda reappeared, his face set in a mask of shock.

  “Garuda?” Brian asked.

  “You won’t fuckin’ believe what we got back there. I gotta sit down.” He fished for a cigarette, spilling three before he got one lighted and shoved into his mouth. I guess a little more smoke won’t hurt anything, Brian thought. Garuda picked up the evaluator’s chair and turned it right side up.

  “First off, we got two, maybe three guys got fucking pulverized. I mean, they’re spread all over the fucking EW module, and nobody can even tell who they are— were. I’m talkin’ Waring blender here, okay?” Garuda swallowed hard before continuing. “Then we got about eight other guys got thrown around when the bulkhead caved in, buncha broken bones, cut heads, bleedin’ ever y-goddamn-where. They’ve got every first-aid kit in Combat opened up back there. Some a those guys need a swab, not a bandage, and we need the fuckin’ corpsman up here right fuckin’ now, so—”

  “Okay, okay, I get the picture. I’ve already told the bridge that.

  They’re working it, so first aid is the best we can—”

  “No, that ain’t it. What’s got me and everybody back there pissin’ our pants is this big black bomb that’s sittin’ on the deck plates next to the ASW module’s door.”

  Brian felt his vision veer; an icy wave of fear gripped his stomach. He felt the blood leaving his face.

  “A bomb! Is it live?”

  “I didn’t go over and ask it, okay, but one a the guys, useta be an aviation bosun, said it’s makin’ a noise inside and it doesn’t have no arming wire hanging on the tail.

  No wire usually means it’s armed. We gotta get everybody the fuck outta here right now. That thing goes off—”

  “Yeah, got it. Okay. I don’t think anyone in the front part of CIC knows this, so let’s get the wounded moved out, orderly fashion, before there’s a panic, and then—”

  Garuda got a grip on
himself. “Right. Hey, Chief Hallowell. C’mere. We got us a little leadership situation here.” The chief paled as Garuda explained what they had in the back part of Combat. Garuda instructed the chief to clear the Cave out but to send all the able-bodied men over to the port side through the surface module to help carry out the wounded from EW and ASW modules.

  “They may all wanna take a quick hike, but we can’t go leavin’ the wounded, okay? That’s what I meant by leadership. Nobody able-bodied goes outta here without helpin’ the disabled. Got it, Chief?”

  The chief could not help giving a wishful glance at the front door to Combat, but he nodded and headed into the Cave. Garuda shook his head in disgust, took a single tremendous drag on his cigarette, and heaved himself out of his chair, dropping the butt onto the deck for the first time in his career. “You better tell the bridge what we got here; this kinda changes things.”

  “Right. Then I’ll come in there to help.”

  “Bring your barf bag. You ain’t gonna believe what it looks like back there.”

  Brian called the bridge on the bitch box and told Folsom to pick up the captain’s bat phone.

  “Sir?”

  “I want privacy, goddamn it. Do it.”

  While he was waiting, both the doc and the baby doc came into Combat.

  Brian pointed to the port side of CIC and the two corpsmen rushed through without a word, bags in hand. There was another roar of high-pressure steam from back aft, a long, sustained exhalation from a 1,200-psi boiler. This time, it didn’t quit. A moment later, Brian pressed the handset key. “You there?”

  “Yes, sir?” Brian told him what they had. “Oh Jesus,” gasped Folsom.

  “Now what the hell do we do?”

  “Get word through the damage-control circuits to the XO. Let him know we got a serious problem up here and that we’re clearing people off this level.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Folsom groaned. “XO’s up to his ass, Mr. Holcomb. We got us a major fire amidships—Class Bravo jet fuel it looks like—and we got big-time flooding.

  That Mig hit us on the waterline, port side, just forward of Mount Thirty-two. XO’s directing one of the repair teams; chief engineer has the other one. Two Firehouse has been shut down; Damage Control Central thinks it’s flooded to the mark. We’ve got the forward plant intact, but power distribution is all rucked up ‘cause the guy hit us amidships.