by Joe Buff
On a command from the man in the AWACS, all six aircraft pulled up hard. The g-force this time pressed Ilse firmly into her seat, more and more. She began to feel faint, and her vision narrowed and darkened, even as the G-suit bladders squeezed her lower body. The F-22s stood on their tails and took off vertically on afterburner. They thrust back through the overcast and up into the sky. They broke into the clear but still kept climbing. The acceleration wasn’t as brutal now, and Ilse’s vision returned. The stars got closer and closer; she saw a meteor streak past Orion’s sword. Ilse panted inside her oxygen mask. Her ears were popping painfully, and she kept trying to clear them, but her throat was parched by the oxygen. She could hear Barrows breathing too, much more calmly. Ilse managed to form spit in her mouth, and swallowed.
The planes closed into a tighter formation, making a hollow circle as they climbed straight up, wingtips of each jet almost touching those of its neighbors, all still standing on their tails. They began to rotate slowly to the right in unison, as if to follow a giant helix spiraling into the heavens, as if they were playing ring-around-the-rosie. They began to spiral faster and faster. Ilse didn’t believe the maneuver was possible, let alone that anyone in their right mind would try it.
“Having fun yet?” Barrows said. The planes kept climbing and climbing.
“No,” Ilse said very nervously.
Their altitude was so high, Ilse saw another meteor streak actually below her. She knew some burned out at fifty or sixty thousand feet.
At last the fighters peeled off, and each plunged toward the ground in an almost vertical dive. Suddenly Ilse’s F-22 seemed to shiver, then the ride got smoother and quieter.
“We just broke the sound barrier,” Barrows said.
“How come I didn’t hear the sonic boom?”
“You never do. It’s the people on the ground who feel our shock wave passing over them.”
“Right.”
“That bit was showing off for the opposition,” Barrows said. “Here comes my favorite part, now that we have their complete attention. It’s a maneuver we call flipping them the bird.” The planes pulled out of their dives, into level flight, and lost some speed. Ilse’s Raptor shimmied again, and she realized they were subsonic.
Five of them lined up side by side, wingtip to wingtip again. Ilse was in the second Raptor from the left. Another plane took the lead, positioned in front of the middle Raptor in the line. Slowly that lead Raptor drew ahead of the others. Then all six aircraft kicked in afterburners, and held formation going supersonic in level flight.
Barrows laughed. Ilse got it. Any satellite watching, using radar or visual or infrared, would see a giant five-fingered hand, sticking out its middle finger, in a gesture impossible to miss.
The AWACS man—Ilse realized he was calling this whole dance—said something Ilse didn’t catch. Suddenly the planes broke into a dive and went through the clouds. Lost in the mist once more, Ilse couldn’t make out the dim anticollision lights of the planes around her; she did see their brilliant afterburner glows. Under the clouds the afterburners stopped.
“Last act of the play,” Barrows said.
Ilse was glad. She was sweating inside her helmet and flight suit. It wasn’t just the fear. The ride was so very rough, the maneuvers and g-forces so aggressive, it was tremendous physical labor to just stay in the seat and breathe and not black out.
The F-22s went back up through the clouds, gaining altitude again. Suddenly Ilse heard popping sounds, and felt thumps. She grew alarmed. She saw flames spewing all over, and thought her plane had hit another and they were exploding and they would die.
“Heat flares,” Barrows said. “Infrared countermeasures.” The aircraft made tight turns. They passed back under their own burning flares. There were more pops and thumps. By the light of the flares, Ilse saw thousands of thin metal streamers floating everywhere.
“Radar chaff.”
The planes all did a tight turn once again. They flew under the flares and clouds of chaff, and started another mind-numbing three-card monte shuffle, passing over and under one another with barely inches to spare. The maneuvers were so violent, Ilse’s arms were thrown around the cockpit. She almost hit one of her ejection loops.
“Just a little more of this,” Barrows grunted, “and the bad guys will have no idea which plane you’re on.”
“Then what?” Ilse grunted back. It was hard to talk as the G suit squeezed her abdomen.
“We all break away.” Grunt. “Each Raptor refuels in midair.” Grunt. “Then heads to a different installation.” Grunt. “Somewhere in the U.S.”
“Where do we go?”
“Alaska.” Grunt. “Aleutian Islands.”
The maneuvers under the screen of infrared and radar countermeasures got even more aggressive. Now it was a totally wild melee. Another F-22 came right at Ilse. She got so scared she had to close her eyes.
NINE
Same evening, New London, Connecticut
JEFFREY’S TRAIN ARRIVED on time in New London, and he did get a seat, but that was the best he could say for the ride. His mood—his morale about life in general—was at a low. It was just one thing after another the past forty-eight hours: the New York raid; him and Ilse fighting, and then her being sent God knows where; running into his father, and arguing, and separating again; the slaughter on Diego Garcia.
The worst thing for Jeffrey personally was his mother. He’d taken it for granted that she’d be around forever. He’d always just assumed that one day he would patch things up with his folks, like maybe when he got married and had kids and gave his mom and dad some grandchildren. Now Jeffrey might be running out of time, fast, to even say good-bye to his mom.
The whole trip from Washington to New London, as the sun set outside the windows and people got on and off the train at different stops, all this had swirled in Jeffrey’s mind, eating at him. The one thing he did sort out during the time on the train was that he’d put in for compassionate leave, if only for a day, to try to visit his mother in New York. If that meant missing more of the course he was taking, so be it—he’d realized at long last that his family was more important.
When the train pulled in at New London, he dismounted in the dark and started for the pier to wait for the tug back to the sub base. Someone behind him, on the platform, shouted a name. Jeffrey felt so distracted inside, it took several shouts for him to realize it was the false name on his travel papers. He turned, and was approached by a junior enlisted man.
“Sir, I’m supposed to meet you. I have a car, sir.”
“Thanks. The tug’ll be much faster, son. Look at that traffic on the bridge.”
This is the first time in my life I called someone else in the military “son.” It made Jeffrey feel very old.
“No, sir. My orders are to take you by car.”
Jeffrey shrugged to himself, and handed the enlisted man his luggage. They walked around the side of the picturesque old red-brick station building, to the parking lot. By standard naval courtesy, the younger man held open the rear right passenger door. Jeffrey got in the unmarked late-model subcompact. They drove off.
Three minutes later he said to the kid, “You missed the turn for the bridge.”
“No, sir. I’m to take you up to the pens.”
“The pens?”
“Yes, sir.”
They took a local road straight upriver. The driver dropped Jeffrey off. After a camouflaged checkpoint with heavy security, Jeffrey used the blast-door interlock. He went underground—down toward the hardened submarine pens, hurriedly cut into the rock of the bluffs after the start of the war. Just inside, he showed his real ID.
“Come with me, sir, please,” a senior chief told him. The chief took Jeffrey’s bags.
They went deeper, down a ramp to the crowded office and administration area. The chief led Jeffrey into one cubicle.
“Sir, Commander Fuller is here.” Lieutenant commanders were called commander in public.
; The man at the desk looked up. It was Jeffrey’s old boss, Commander Wilson, a full commander, captain of USS Challenger.
“Sit down, Commander,” Wilson said rather dryly.
Jeffrey obeyed. He thought Wilson looked very tired. But Wilson’s chocolate-brown complexion wasn’t as ashen as back on New Year’s Eve. That was the last time Jeffrey had seen him, when Wilson was still getting over a serious concussion.
But there were other changes in the man. He wore reading glasses—that was new. And he hadn’t shaved in a week—which was startling. Captain Wilson always presented a crisp appearance. Even sitting down, even now, his posture was erect, his shoulders squared. If anything, despite the stubble on his chin, the man exuded more authority, more power, than ever.
The beard was coming in gray, though Wilson was barely forty.
Wilson took off the glasses. “I still get bad headaches. These help. The doctors said I ought to wear bifocals all the time, but I suppose I’m vain.”
Wilson hadn’t even said hello. This was typical of the man, getting right to the point, always. At least he was opening the meeting with some small talk.
Wilson saw Jeffrey staring at his almost-beard. “I went into the hospital a couple of weeks ago, for a brain scan. The medical corps types said the headaches should’ve stopped by now, and they wanted to check. Not a damn thing wrong with me, but I picked up some kind of skin infection while I was there. There’s a big word for that, iatrogenic.” Wilson pronounced it slowly and sarcastically. “Means something new you catch in the hospital, while they’re supposed to be curing you. Probably a fungus, from the Central African front…They gave me a cream, and said that cured it, but I’m not supposed to shave yet.”
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes. I want you to hear this from me first. I’m leaving Challenger, and you’ve been reassigned to the ship.”
Jeffrey was delighted and dismayed at the same time. He would be back in the naval front lines after all, and the thought gave him an immediate surge of adrenaline. But Wilson, as hard to please as he was, had been Jeffrey’s teacher and mentor in combat when Jeffrey was Wilson’s executive officer.
“I’ll miss working for you, sir…Where are you going?”
“They gave me DevRon Twelve.” That was Challenger’s parent squadron, Submarine Development Squadron 12.
“Sir, congratulations.” This was a huge promotion…too huge. “With respect, sir, that’s a senior four-striper’s billet.”
“I got my fourth stripe this afternoon. Been too damn busy to change my insignia.” He pointed to his collar tabs, which still showed him as a commander.
“Congratulations again, Captain…May I ask, who’s your relief?” Relief in this context meant Wilson’s replacement, the new CO of Challenger. Jeffrey could think of several good men who’d qualify.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Sir?”
“You still work for me.”
“Sir?”
“You are my relief.”
Jeffrey was stunned, then excited, then confused.
“But I’m a lieutenant commander.”
“You’ve been promoted, retroactive to the day before Christmas. Consider it a battlefield promotion.”
“Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say it. This is for you.” Wilson handed Jeffrey a small velvet case.
Jeffrey opened it. The case held a Navy Cross, the highest decoration the navy could give, second only to the Medal of Honor, which had to be approved by Congress. There was a gold star with the medal. The gold star, Jeffrey knew, was in lieu of a second award—he’d gotten two Navy Crosses.
“Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“You earned them. One for each mission in December. We’ll do the whole change-of-command thing, and the awards ceremony, in the morning. Right now there are more important matters to discuss.”
“Captain?”
“No. You’re a captain. I’m a commodore.”
Jeffrey nodded. “Right.” This was a lot to absorb, especially after everything else going on. Part of Jeffrey wanted to jump up and down and grin like a little boy—he was never one to be arrogant or smug or grandiose. His promotion, like Wilson’s, was early. It was the strongest possible sign of recognition from their superiors.
“You know Voortrekker hit Diego Garcia?”
“Yes, sir.” That put a stop to any grin. Jeffrey remembered what his father had said at the Pentagon, about personnel shakeups for better results. Jeffrey suspected there’d just been another shakeup, and Jeffrey and Wilson were caught at the epicenter now.
“Look at this map.” Wilson put on his reading glasses, and gestured for Jeffrey to come around to his side of the desk.
The map on Wilson’s laptop showed the huge expanse of the Indian Ocean. Africa bordered the left, the Middle East and southern Asia lay at the top, Australia and New Zealand were way on the right, and Antarctica edged the bottom. In the middle of the ocean itself was a tiny dot, Diego Garcia. What’s left of it.
The map also showed the sea-floor topography in detail.
Wilson looked Jeffrey squarely in the eyes. “Search forces have found no sign of Voortrekker since the attack, and believe me, they’re trying.”
“She’s hiding in the undersea ridge terrain. That’s what I’d do.”
“Concur. What’s good for the Boers is that the Mid-Indian Ocean Ridge is Y-shaped. See? It’s because of the layout of the tectonic plates.”
Jeffrey nodded.
“One branch of the Y leads back to Durban,” Wilson said, “Voortrekker’s home base. One branch leads toward the Arabian Sea, the Persian Gulf, the oil and natural gas fields. The third branch leads down past Australia and New Zealand, to the Pacific Ocean. Your orders, Captain Fuller, are to get under way at once and proceed at best possible speed to a position east of New Zealand, to guard the most vulnerable part of the Australia–New Zealand–Antarctic Gap. It is the consensus of those in a position to know best about these things that Voortrekker is heading for the Pacific.”
“The Diego Garcia strike was the preamble, wasn’t it?” Jeffrey said. “It cleared a major obstacle in Voortrekker’s path. While we’re reeling from the blow, and trying to rescue survivors, they keep heading east.”
“Yes,” Wilson said, “precisely. So you have to get under way, and cut Voortrekker off.”
“But Challenger still needs weeks of dry-dock work.”
“Forty-eight hours. I’m giving you forty-eight hours to square your ship away. Then anything that isn’t ready gets left behind. Ter Horst will be moving slowly, for stealth, and you can make the whole trip there through mostly friendly waters.”
“Sir, I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure the ship could be ready to sail in forty-eight hours.”
“Voortrekker did it somehow. The Yorktown did it before the Battle of Midway in World War II…. I’ve already talked to the contractors, the union shop stewards, and Challenger’s skeleton crew. Everyone’s working round the clock.”
Jeffrey could picture the frenzied activity. He intended to do his part. He knew people were busting a gut to make his ship ready for him. Not meaning to, Jeffrey exhaled from the depths of his being.
“What is it?” Wilson said.
“Sir, I just learned my mother has breast cancer. It may have metastasized. I was going to ask for compassionate leave.”
“That’s out of the question. All leaves are canceled. You have your hands full, getting Challenger battle-ready. As battle-ready as possible.”
“I understand, Commodore…. Is Miss Reebeck available, given the change of plans?” Her proven skills as combat oceanographer would be valuable.
“No. She’s been sent to the study group that helps make sure our boomers remain undetectable by the enemy. The Ohio-class Trident missile subs are getting old…. It’s not like we can drop hydrogen bombs on the heart of Europe or Africa, and kill millions of innocent civ
ilians and hostages, just because the Axis caught us with our pants down by using tactical atomic weapons at sea. But if the Axis can threaten our Trident boats, and we lose our strategic deterrent against Russia and China, on top of everything else…”
“I understand, sir. Of course.” Jeffrey thought the Germans and Boers had been much too clever and calculating. They exploited the wide but neglected gap in weaponry effects between NATO’s conventional arms and the Armageddon-like power of NATO’s H-bombs. The Axis used small atom bombs to drive a wedge far into that gap, to weaken Allied naval forces and sever essential supply lines—and now the Axis all but owned two continents. Fortunately, French commandos had been able to evacuate or destroy their country’s hydrogen-bomb stocks before France folded to Germany. The hostages Wilson referred to included tens of thousands of touring American families and traveling businesspeople and vacationing college kids, all trapped on Axis turf when the war broke out last summer—and now interned in camps beside major enemy industrial sites.
A messenger arrived and handed Wilson a message slip. Wilson read it. His lips tightened and his jaw set.
Wilson looked at Jeffrey. “I’m sorry.”
“Sir?” Jeffrey felt a stab to the heart. He thought his mother had died on the operating table.
“Miss Reebeck has been killed.”
“Killed?” The word came out of his mouth like someone else spoke it.
“The aircraft she was riding in had a mishap. They ejected, but her ejection seat malfunctioned. The parachute failed to open.”
“Are they sure?”
“The body was recovered quickly…. I’m sorry. I know the two of you were close.”
“I…” Jeffrey just trailed off. He reminded himself he was a warship’s captain now. He had an image to maintain as commanding officer. He fought a sense of bitterness that his big move up professionally, and the massive responsibilities it brought, were keeping him from tending to his own emotional needs.