by Joe Buff
After what seemed endless minutes of brutal toil Van Gelder realized the teams were working at cross-purposes. "The water from the doorway crews is forcing back my foam!
"
The chief ordered the other teams to change their tactics. One nozzleman concentrated on wetting Van Gelder's line so it wouldn't burn right through. The other aimed at the overhead to cool the superheated gases. But that just meant less water on the fire, making Van Gelder's job much harder. He started feeling dizzy, and his mouth was very dry.
"Look out!" the chief shouted, pulling Van Gelder to the side. In slow motion a big fan housing toppled to the deck. Immediately more flames reared up as the housing's innards broke wide open. Unburned aluminum threatened to reignite. Van Gelder's team was losing ground.
"Now!" Van Gelder shouted, and he stood up, bending low. His partners saw his intent and joined him, and they all rushed in among the flames, pouring forth their foam.
Shimmering sheets of ignited gases danced and beckoned all around, leaping up from crinkling debris that dwindled as Van Gelder watched. Plastic melted, dripping, running, and bubbling, then disappeared. Jagged wires wilted, twisted, sagged. Compressors and air circulators slumped within their mountings, cracking and distorting from heat stress and failed supports. Corkscrewed pipes and cable fragments hung down from the overhead, swaying weirdly in the thermal drafts. Air filters quickly carbonized, and their remnants then collapsed.
More soot began to build up on Van Gelder's faceplate, now brownish black, making it almost impossible to see. Everywhere equipment was consumed and everywhere he sprayed.
Once more Van Gelder's foam stopped for a moment, turning to plain water, then resumed as someone changed the foam concentrate cans. Onward Van Gelder worked, blind to his companions, hypnotized by the inferno, battling with it endlessly, all sense of past and future gone.
Another quick pause in the foam, another can, then all at once the heart went out of the blaze. Piles of rubble still burned here and there and cremated wreckage smoked and steamed, but the contest had been won.
Van Gelder handed off the applicator, not even seeing who took it, and he staggered from the fan room. A crewman played some water on the outside of his suit.
The senior chief followed. "We did it, sir! We saved the ship!"
Van Gelder tried to smile, but his parched lips cracked. He simply nodded.
The chief leaned closer. "We'll send more men to the
bilge space now, to start hosing down the buses. We'll have to draw from the reactor's secondary coolant loop main holding tank, but distilled water's a decent insulator."
"Good," Van Gelder said. "I'll tell the captain we can do a restart soon."
"We'll lay some dams to keep this foam from spreading, sir, then leave what's there in place. It'll protect against a flare-up, and we can clean the mess in a few more hours."
Van Gelder felt a dreadful weariness set in. He trudged aft along the passageway, leaving the damage control parties to their work. At a safe distance from the remnants of the fire he pulled off his steam suit hood, just as the cooling system's battery ran down.
He borrowed the microphone from a talker in the next compartment, then lifted his breather mask long enough to report to the captain. He refastened the mask, but lingering fumes had gotten in. They made him choke and cough. He still felt awfully hot but for some reason couldn't sweat. As a medical corpsman approached, obviously concerned, Van Gelder sagged against the bulkhead and slowly slid down to the deck. He wanted nothing more than a nice cold glass of water and a breath of natural air. The corpsman bent over to say something, but Van Gelder only heard a rushing in his ears as he passed out.
ABOARD CHALLENGER
Jeffrey knocked on the CO's state-room door. The clean uniform he'd put on after a thorough decontamination washdown was already stained with sweat and grease from his walk-around inspection of the boat.
"Come in, XO," Captain Wilson called.
Jeffrey wondered how the CO always knew when it was him. "Sir," he said after entering, "I have the after-action battle damage overview report."
Wilson looked up from his little fold-down desk, covered with files and naval publications. His laptop was open too, a map of Africa on the screen. Enemy territory was in red, Allied-controlled in blue, the vast cruisemissile-dominated no-man's-land in amber.
"Let's hear it," Wilson said.
"Aside from the three fatalities, sir, personnel injuries were light and the rem exposures are pretty trivial." "Good. What about equipment casualties?"
"Sir, the foreplanes are inoperative."
"Not too serious," Wilson said. "We can manage depth-keeping with the afterplanes at anything over dead-slow speed."
Jeffrey nodded. "Sonar's finished with an autocheck. Sessions says the wide-aperture array's fine after all.
That enemy torpedo's pinging must have picked up the stators at the back end of our pump-jet."
"I'm impressed," Wilson said. "It's not easy getting echoes off the edges of those blades."
"Agreed, Captain. The other side's technology outdoes ours in some respects."
"Their signal processing algorithms are supposed to be the best. Those math guys at Frankfurt scared me even before the war."
"Our bow dome took a beating, sir," Jeffrey said. "Sessions says the cover's cracked and dimpled." "Not just at the tip?"
Jeffrey shook his head.
"So we're getting additional flow noise?" Wilson said. "Yes, sir. Any chance we can stop back at the tender? For emergency repairs?"
"Out of the question, XO. We've got an awfully tight window to bring this SEAL mission off, and we're behind schedule already. Not to mention we're trying to play dead."
"Understood, Captain. ... About the torpedo room ... we have to load the weapons manually, and we're down to just four tubes."
"The other outer doors won't open?"
"No, sir. All the port-side ones were belled in badly." "The starboard ones are working?"
"The blast was asymmetric, Captain. At fine scales of reference they always are. . . . It's a dry-dock job."
"Mmph." Wilson's tone was sour. "I'm not happy at our weapons expenditure."
"The ones we lost to damage?" Jeffrey said.
"The nuclear torpedoes. Those things are scarce. There're tons of fissile metal in the arsenals of democracy, just not enough goddamn delivery systems to go around."
"We still have four, sir."
"We've barely started our patrol. We wasted two just stopping a pair of diesel boats."
"Did we have a choice, Captain?"
"No. That's what bothers me. The Axis claims the initiative too often, in big things and in small. This is no way to fight a war."
"It's not that bad, sir, is it? Look at the latest fleet action in this theater, off Madagascar and the African coast."
"Sure, we control the Comoro Islands for now," Wilson said, "what's left of 'em, so the German and Boer armies won't be linking up by the east coast route any time soon, but at what price? Ten thousand KIAs, half of them on Ranger."
"Sir, D Day cost twenty thousand Allied casualties." "We're a hell of a long way from another D Day, XO,
in Africa let alone in Europe. The other side claims this
one as a victory themselves."
"That's ridiculous," Jeffrey said.
"Not to some nonaligned countries it's not. They're better at propaganda than us, this Berlin-Boer Axis. They know many developing nations are secretly glad to have them break the back of American unipolarism. And since they intimidated the Russians into a false neutrality, they're still getting arms shipments courtesy of Moscow across the safe land bridge of eastern Europe."
"I know," Jeffrey said. "It's like back in the 1920s, sir, the Wehrmacht in bed with the Soviet Union, even long before Hitler."
"The deutsche mark is stronger than the dollar," Wilson said, "and entire continents are waiting to choose sides. So fine, the Germans didn't get to grab any of Franc
e's H-bomb stocks. But a few Hiroshima-sized cruise missiles aimed at London and New York are proving a pretty equal deterrent against our megaton-sized MIRVs. . . . And lately there'
ve been rumors the
Germans are working up a Mach 8 liquid-H2-powered cruise missile. A Mach 8 ground hugger's basically unstoppable."
"I didn't realize things were that serious, Captain."
"And keep it to yourself. Maybe I'm just bellyaching. . . . Miss Reebeck told me you know you're going with her."
"Yes, sir," Jeffrey said. "What's going on?"
"It's a nuclear demolition raid against a Boer biological weapons lab. She'll cover that part at the briefing. Since the mission's in a populated area, with hostage camps and innocent minority civilians, as my XO you're it. The independent command authority, on site, required for lower formations to use atomic munitions on land."
"So I'm supposed to be the sober head," Jeffrey said, "along for the ride to validate the rules of engagement in real time, since SEALs do so love blowing up things. . . . How long do we have to prepare?"
"The time it takes to sneak over there and get in position. Five days, roughly."
"Jesus, sir."
"Look, I understand your feelings. But I can't send the other officers, I need them here.
You're my backup, my alter ego on policy and doctrine."
"And I'm expendable."
Wilson sighed. "Jeffrey, I was an XO too. You need to be there. These guys can't just phone home for instructions like in Desert Storm. The enemy homeland has continual surveillance for clandestine comms, extremely sophisticated defensive signal intelligence and jamming."
"I'm sorry, sir. I must sound unprofessional." "Any other questions?"
"Why is Ilse Reebeck going?"
"She knows the territory, and her expertise will be of use."
"How do we know we can trust her, sir? She's one of them."
Wilson tossed Jeffrey an unlabeled videocassette. "What's this, sir?"
"Since the war broke out six months ago, the Axis have been staging executions of their own dissenters. Her brother's part of the third batch in, next to his girlfriend. They made them take their clothes off first. Play it on your state-room VCR."
"No thanks, Captain." Jeffrey tried to hand it back.
"No, I insist. It's in color, with dramatic close-ups while they hang. Good camera work, anatomically explicit."
Jeffrey blanched.
Wilson looked right at him. "We can't have anyone going to Durban with the slightest doubts. The outcome's too important."
Jeffrey inhaled deeply, then let it out.
"Watch the tape now," Wilson said, "before the briefing." "I will, Captain."
"Just remember, you and the SEALs at least are legitimate combatants under international law."
"You mean that if we're captured we're POWs?"
"Miss Reebeck, her they'll string up by her neck from the nearest tree or lamppost . . .
after the troopies are done with her."
Jeffrey swallowed, feeling angry and protective . . . and manipulated.
"Anyway," Wilson said, "ask COB to see the crew gets fed. I know we've got repairs to do, but work with him on mandatory rest breaks for all hands."
"Aye aye, Captain."
"That applies to you as well. How long have you been u?"
p
Jeffrey eyed his wristwatch, a waterproof old Rolex that he'd blooded in Iraq. "Thirty-two hours."
"Get some sleep, after the briefing."
"Yes, sir."
"Ask the mess management chief to have lunch ready in the wardroom at thirteen hundred local. Department heads, the SEAL team leader, Sonar, and our guests. You make the invitations."
"Yes, sir."
"Have him lay on something special. We just survived Challenger's first real taste of battle."
"I forgot how hungry you get after combat, Captain. It isn't like the drills."
"We'll hold a memorial service for the three dead crewmen in the morning." Wilson paused. "Morning, mourning. Sorry for that awful pun."
"It's macabre having them in the freezer, sir."
"Life goes on, Mr. Fuller. Someday you might just have my job. Then you'll understand."
Jeffrey realized now the captain's eyes were red, and he sounded slightly nasal.
"I'll talk to COB about the arrangements," Wilson said, "so add that to your Plan of the Day."
Jeffrey nodded, then moved toward the door.
"Oh," Wilson called after him. "And, XO." Wilson gestured toward the head that connected their two state-rooms, the boat's executive john. "You're awfully odorous.
Take another shower, please."
Ilse wiped her lips with a linen napkin as the steward cleared the china. The sonar officer, young Sessions, turned off the Mozart on the stereo.
"So, Miss Reebeck," the CO said, "what's your impression of our table?"
"Very nice, Captain Wilson. I've always heard that navies serve the finest food."
"There was nothing fresh or frozen at the tender," Jeffrey said. "Frank Cable's priorities don't cover haute cuisine, Miss Reebeck."
"Everything was good, Commander, even if it came from tins and boxes. . . . And I wish you'd call me Ilse."
"Good," Wilson said before Jeffrey could respond. "Let's all be on a first-name basis.
You can call me Captain." The others laughed politely, and Ilse sensed they liked knowing their exact place in the hierarchy.
The steward came around and filled everybody's coffee cup. He brought tea for Commodore Morse, who tugged idly at his beard.
"Sorry our navy's dry," Jeffrey said.
"Let's hope for a speedy passage," Morse said.
"Hear, hear," Wilson said. The others chuckled, more heartily this time. Ilse tried to imagine what it was like to spend long weeks at sea without even a beer. I guess I'll find out soon, she told herself. She didn't smoke, but she'd seen it was permitted in certain areas. Right now the smoking lamp was out—men were servicing the weapons.
The steward brought a silver tray of fresh-baked cookies, chocolate chip. Ilse loved chocolate chip cookies. She'd expected to crash emotionally after the battle, but instead she still felt high. This dessert would be the perfect capstone to her first half-day of war.
The smell of the warm chocolate filled the air. Wilson passed the tray around, not taking one himself. He cleared his throat.
"Again, gentlemen, congratulations on a well-done job so far. Please pass that to your departments." The men all murmured thanks.
"As some of you have heard, we'll hold a memorial service tomorrow. But I see no better way to honor our deceased comrades than dedicating our efforts going forward in their honor."
There were murmurs of assent.
"I do not say that lightly," Wilson said. "Our next task, if we succeed, will strike a crucial blow for freedom, neutralize a very dangerous threat.
Ilse, maybe you should give your summary now"
Ilse sat up straighter. She'd noticed the captain and the others had grown more formal in their manner. Navy rituals, she told herself. Through all the easy lunchtime chitchat between the men, she'd felt like an invader in a very private world. Turbine-blade erosion rates, radiological spill drill reaction times, speeding up the new guys' progress on their quals.
I want to be a part of what they're doing, Ilse told herself. I want to know my efforts matter here, that they accept me. She tried to make her voice sound deep and confident.
"Our objective is to destroy a Boer bioweapons lab, at Umhlanga Rocks."
"That's in Durban?" Jeffrey said.
"Kind of, sir," said Lieutenant Shajo Clayton, the SEAL team leader. "It's ten miles north of the downtown area, but still well inside the city's main defensive zone.,
"So it's germ warfare," Jeffrey said. "Like Saddam again. What is it this time, anthrax?
Pneumonic plague? Botulinum toxin?"
"Not germs or viruses, Commander," Ilse said. "Archaea.
"
"The stuff that lives in hot vents? Those black smokers on the ocean floor?"
"Yes," Ilse said. "Primordial microbes. A new domain, technically. They're usually benign. They have industrial applications."
"Like cleaning oil spills, right?" Jeffrey said.
Ilse nodded. "But South Africa has done genetic engineering, with help from German scientists. We think they've made a killer strain, one that seeks out humans."
"How do we know this?" Jeffrey said.
"They didn't tell me everything," Ilse said. "Others like myself, who got out and know something, gave hints. Satellite imagery too, of bunkers being built in isolated areas, next to fenced-in trailer parks of captured U.S. tourists, bunkers meant for keeping something in. Suspicious movements of black children where we're going."
"Huh?"
"The Natal Sharks Board," Ilse said, "on a hilltop overlooking the shore at Umhlanga Rocks, did oceanographic research for many years before the war. They had daily shark dissections for school kids."
"Like a science museum?" Jeffrey said.
"They used sharks caught and killed in the big nets that protect the swimming beaches.
That stopped with the war, but then it started up again. Black youngsters, the same group every day, are bussed in and out, except now and then a kid goes in and we don't see him come out."
"Human experiments?"
"Your government thinks so," Ilse said. "The real clincher is the air filtration. The basement at the Sharks Board has a positive-pressure NBC system. That's strange enough, for what should be a low-priority installation. Somehow your NSA learned half the filter banks run backward. The air goes through the micron-level catchments coming out of the facility."
"So there's a negative-pressure inner sanctum," Jeffrey said. "Probably a spy bird caught the infrared gradient of the air exhaust going the wrong way, on an especially hot or cold clear night."
Ilse nodded. "The school kids might be circumstantial, but this is a clear-cut signature of a biosafety level four containment."
"Not level three?" Jeffrey said.
"No," Ilse said, "the output volume's much too great. It's a whole lab, not just suction hoods."