Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  “Futility, Admiral.” He spread his hands, his bushy eyebrows rising. “We are ordered out here to be an extension of national policy, but we have no idea whether we are doing right or wrong.” He shook his head. “We have lost many ships, planes . . . many men. For that matter, the Americans have, too. And this is all over a little island in the middle of the ocean. What is so important about that island that so many people must die?”

  “Svedrov, I know you well. And I know you will do your job as long as you are still able to draw breath. That doesn't concern me. What you must understand,” and he pointed his ringer at the other man, “is that Admiral Gorenko knows what is on that island and that what we are doing is important. You are a much younger man than I am. You remember nothing of the Germans sweeping across the Motherland ... to Leningrad ... to Moscow ... to Volgograd. I don't remember a great deal, but I grew up in Gorenko's house, and he taught me from the day I arrived there that no one must ever be able to bring Russia to that point again. So many wars have been fought on Russian soil, and so many innocent Russians have died, peasants, not soldiers,” he emphasized, “that he will never allow it again while he is alive.”

  The other said nothing, and Alex continued. “If he is asking us to die out here, near an island we shall both probably never see, then we are in some way protecting the Motherland.” He paused, drawing a deep breath. “If you had been there when the Germans came, then you would see there is a meaning.”

  “Will you attempt to contact Admiral Gorenko?”

  “No. If he feels it is important to chance the Americans intercepting our messages, then he will contact us. I have no doubt they have all the photographs necessary of our engagements from the spy planes.”

  Svedrov forced a weak smile. “I am sure I have understood all along. Sometimes it is necessary to hear it spoken.” He had grown to love his Admiral. He stood again. “Let me go to the bridge to determine our latest position. There is a great deal to do in the next few hours, and we have so little time to plan it all.”

  “Yes, and we must plan how we will deliver Nimitz to Admiral Gorenko.”

  Admiral David Charles was on the wing of the open bridge, his binoculars to his eyes. “Can we save her, Bill?”

  “I doubt it, Admiral.” Bill Dailey was also peering through his binoculars at the smoke from Turner Joy. He noted the Admiral was especially disturbed. Oldendorf and Cochrane were standing off, upwind of the stricken ship, their hoses playing on her twisted decks as volunteers gingerly searched the smoldering wreckage for other wounded. Dailey finally had to report to the Admiral there was no sign of his friend, Lieutenant Bivins. There as little that could be done for the old ship.

  “Have them get everyone off. Sink her.” The Admiral had touted it out at the open ocean to no one in particular.

  In less than ten minutes, the boats had returned the searchers to the protecting ships. Cochrane left to resume her station. Oldendorf turned her stern to the battered destroyer and stood off a thousand yards. They didn't have to wait long for the first torpedo from Oldendorf to leap from its tube, entering the water with a splash. They followed the shallow path, then saw, before they heard, the explosion that cast a great wave of water above the midships section of Turner Joy. A second torpedo followed closely behind the first, going off in what was left of the bow. She listed more heavily to port. A third torpedo was fired, hitting just to the rear of where the first had hit her.

  “She doesn't want to go down,” David murmured.

  “Pardon me, Admiral?” answered a lookout nearby, thinking the man had spoken to him.

  “She doesn't want to go down, son. She's an old bucket, but she had a grand story to tell.” He dropped his glasses to his chest and turned fully to the sailor. “I was her gunnery officer at one time. She was a Hell of a ship.” His eyes misted over from old Memories. “I left her before that night off Vietnam.”

  “What night was that, sir?” the boy queried.

  “I guess it doesn't matter now, but that was a night that got us to a war we sure shouldn't have got ourselves into.” He smiled at the lookout, nodding toward Turner Joy. “Every ship has a story to tell, son. Perhaps her passing will end that Vietnam night for good.”

  They all watched as the fourth torpedo finally did the job, opening up the bow. She began a long, graceful dive toward the bottom, her screws arched toward the sun for a brief moment. David moved back to his bridge chair, avoiding the eyes of the young sailor.

  So much death, he thought. I hope the spy planes have been taking lots of pictures to show the politicians back in Washing-Ion. I just hope to hell this means a lot to them.

  “Admiral. . . Admiral?” He had heard Frank Welles's voice, but he hadn't responded. Without answering, he turned in his chair toward the captain of the Nimitz. The chaplain was with Frank. “Admiral, Captain Loomis has requested permission to take a helicopter to some of the other ships. He'd like to assist with the burials at sea.”

  The chaplain, unlike so many of his peers, had become an accepted member of the wardroom and a friend to many of them. He was reasonably tall, dark, and had black hair that was rapidly graying at an early age. It was always a bit too long, and the jokes in the wardroom were based on the chaplain's habits when ashore, which were also much unlike his peers. He could often be found drinking with the other officers, and his Monday morning hangdog appearance made him the brunt of many of the wardroom jokes. Of even more amusement to the others was his fondness for the women in whatever port they happened to be anchored in. Since he never set himself above the crew, David noticed that they paid more attention to what he had to say. Chaplain Loomis was one of a kind. When he had somehow managed to graduate from divinity school, they had definitely destroyed the mold.

  Goddamn, David thought, at a time like this he's worried about saving souls. No, that wasn't it. He was just trying to do his job. “I'm afraid I can't allow that, Tom,” he said to the chaplain. “It wouldn't be very safe for you. It seems that the Russians aren't going to take no for an answer. They'll be here in less than two hours, and I'd have my tail in a sling if your boss ever knew I had you dangling from a helicopter in the middle of a battle.”

  “I realize that, Admiral. I just feel I should be doing something for the other ships. Nimitz hasn't been touched, and so many of the others have been in the middle of it all.”

  “You're right, Tom, of course. But I still can't let you bob around on the end of a helicopter. I'll tell you what I will do if you're willing to compromise. We'll put you out over one of our radio circuits.” He nodded at the chaplain. “If you'll offer a few words of inspiration beyond just a service for the dead you might make a lot of friends, too. Times like this a lot of the men suddenly find they're not so suspicious of people like you.”

  The chaplain grinned. After so long at sea, his eyes were totally clear. He'd heard it all before. He'd offered religious services for every denomination in so many ways that it would have left his teachers at divinity school shaken. He knew he'd never make it as a civilian again. “I'd be happy to, sir, but do you mind if I ask why the hurry?” He'd served with David before, and knew this admiral well. They had even had some lost nights together in the past.

  David pointed straight ahead, off the carrier's bow. “Russians,” he answered. “Every size and shape you want. And they're coming in carriers and cruisers and destroyers and submarines and God knows what else unless you've gotten the word. And in about two hours we're going to be right in the middle of them.”

  “Pretty stubborn, huh?”

  “Pretty stubborn,” David agreed. He pointed to the chair next to him. “Hop up for a minute, Tom. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Loomis settled into the offered chair, saying nothing, waiting for David to talk as he knew the Admiral wanted to. Finally, Charles said, “I sometimes wonder, Tom, why the hell any of us make a career in the military.” The chaplain knew he wasn't finished. “You know, we all talk about preserving the peace, which is ver
y honorable in time of peace. But I don't feel I'm preserving anything right now except some goddamn island that some goddamn politicians have decided is very important.” He looked at the other man. “Do you know how many men we've lost?”

  “Too many.”

  “Right. Too many. I guess somewhere between fifteen hundred and two thousand already. And that doesn't account for all those Alex has lost.”

  “Alex?”

  “Admiral Alexander Kupinsky, commander of the Russian force, Tom. An acquaintance of mine, you might say, a very good one, as a matter of fact. We knew each other in London not so long ago.” He went on to relate parts of the story of those happier days when they had found affection for each other in the similarities and the strangeness of their backgrounds. David kept the story short, answering a few of Loomis's questions that were intended to draw him out, talking as the other man knew he must before the next engagement.

  “Admiral.” It was Bill Dailey interrupting his monologue. “I've just about completed the orders for the task force, sir. We're ready to hold down their subs, but I have a couple of things that just can't wait.”

  “No problem, Bill. We were just trading lies here.” He looked over to the chaplain. “Got to get back to work, Tom. Duty calls,” he added with a grin.

  As he made his way to the ladder at the rear of the bridge, he turned back. “And thanks for the small talk. Stop by again when you're making the rounds.” The chaplain waved in acknowledgment and smiled. “And you'd better get off your rump there, Tom. There's a lot of souls need saving this morning. And how about playing ”The Navy Hymn' over the circuit after you give your pitch to the troops. That's always been one of my favorites."

  Alex Kupinsky was in a familiar place, leaning on the railing near the rear of the open bridge, when Svedrov came up to him. “Something very unusual, Admiral. The Americans are using one of their tactical frequencies for some type of speech. Our interpreters do not understand exactly its purpose.”

  Kupinsky moved toward the front of the bridge wing and gestured to a radio speaker near his chair. “Patch it in there.” Svedrov saluted and was gone.

  A few moments later the speaker suddenly blared through the quiet with a too-loud American voice. He turned it down in an attempt to make out the words, but they had stopped. As Svedrov returned to the bridge, the music began its slow cadence. He looked at his Admiral, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  It was “The Navy Hymn.”

  FROM THE LOG OF ADMIRAL DAVID CHARLES

  When I was in plot early this morning, there were so many notes I wanted to write down for this log. Now I know it's not necessary. The history books will take care of that. They don't need my scratchings. I wonder what they will call what's happening here. Will it be the Battle of the Indian Ocean or the Battle of Islas Piedras? We have seen the ocean, but I don't think anyone on either side has seen that goddamn pile of guano that caused all of this. Will they lump all the fleet actions together, or will they separate the individual segments? I'd call this the third battle myself, although this day's just starting. We're going to meet head on in a few hours, and then will that be the fourth battle or part of the third?

  What have I learned from this confrontation? Maybe that's what I'll want to look back on most, or tell my grandchildren sometime. What I know without having to be told is that I'm chasing around the Indian Ocean on the foremost target, the Nimitz. Gorenko wants this ship because once our air-strike capability is gone, that island will be theirs if they have to squander ships in vast numbers to get it. Never before at sea has the awesome power of the air strike been so evident to me. And never before have I realized that we have a huge problem with just one giant carrier when the stakes are so high. If I had the chance to do it all over, I'd want half a dozen little carriers all over the ocean, fast little jobs that could get their air groups close enough to the enemy to strike from one direction while another carrier did it from the opposite side. And if we lost one, or two, or even three of those bird farms to the enemy, we'd still have more to throw back at them.

  That, I think, is what we need the most. And we have to develop those VTOL planes like the Russians have. If we only have so much money to spend on ships, we need little dual-purpose carriers with planes that don't need much space for takeoff or landing. Then we wouldn't mind the expense so much if they get used for antisubmarine purposes one time and this type of battle the next. They'd never dream of using Nimitz for ASW after the bundle they dropped on this ship.

  And since these carriers can't protect themselves from missile attack very well, I'd just as soon have a bunch of those little frigates chasing around me, as long as they had plenty of antimissile gear on them. I used to think that offensive power on these little ships was so important, but now I think I want to have defense instead and project all my power with carrier aircraft.

  All the missiles are carrying a bigger bang than ever before. When a ship is hit, especially a little one, I think that may be it for them, more often than not. So maybe they don't need that expensive engineering plant after all. If they've got to be expendable like they've been in the past, then why spend too much money on engines and double screws when the first hit will probably be the last. They're not -going to steam back for repairs like they did forty years ago.

  Alex isn't going to win. I don't know if we are either, but he's not going to get that island. There are more of them than us, but he doesn't have the carrier strike that he needs. His ships are bristling with weapons, too, but that fierce look doesn't do a hell of a lot of good if they aren't as reliable as ours. I think that's another place I may have Alex beaten. Our technology is supposed to be more reliable, and if it is, we'll hold out.

  After everything that's happened this morning, I should be able to write a book, but I know Bill Dailey needs me now and I feel so tired.

  MY DEAREST DAVID,

  I know I wrote you only yesterday, and that it's very unlike me to worry about you or even to write more than once a week. But I know something is desperately wrong and you may need these letters very much. I called Ann Carter today, and she was strangely quiet. Sam had never come back after he had left from dinner here the other night, and she says he has returned only one of her calls and was very abrupt even then. I've noticed other little things, too. Last night, when I was coming home from Bobbie Collier's (and she is sure something's up), I noticed that a lot of military cars were not in the driveways where they belong at that hour. I'm sure they're all at the Pentagon working late, or not planning to come home at all.

  I might be getting too old for these Cold War crises, but I looked in the mirror the other day, and the face didn't look too ancient to me. So maybe I'm not imagining things after all. And by the way, I heard on the morning news that the White House is tighter than a drum since yesterday afternoon. I guess all of this meandering of mine keeps coming back to the same point—I worry about you these days. I'd always thought admirals kept to their desks and stayed out of trouble, but I have this horrible feeling you're steaming right into it like you used to. Please remember, admirals aren't intended to go in harm's way. I don't remember who used that phrase before, but the statement about admirals is purely mine.

  Now, the news is just beginning to talk about some speech by a leader in Russia that was very threatening and then there are reports that merchant ships in the Indian Ocean are sending signals about fighting at sea. That's why I'm worried now, just in case you're anywhere near whatever is happening. You did your share when you were younger, and now it's time to let someone else do it. And that's not selfish, David, that's just good sense!

  I just went back and read what I'd written down so far. I thought about ripping it up and starting over because I was rambling so, but then it seemed to me that maybe you'd better get to know me when I'm worried and act like this. Maybe it will bring you home sooner. It says what all the other letters I've written have ever said, though. I miss you and I love you, and I want you home with me. Take good
care of the man I love.

  All my love,

  Maria

  TASHA, MY LOVE,

  I have thought of many letters I would write you over the last few weeks at sea, and I have written only two, both too formal, neither saying what I really want to say. I didn't know how to say it, and I didn't want to be a fool by saying it wrong.

  Something has happened to me on this trip. I can't be sure what it is. But I do know that when a naval officer spends more time wishing he was in Leningrad at the Hermitage or listening to a group of women play their balalaikas and sing peasant songs, then maybe he should think about changing his job. Does that surprise you? I have felt that way often over the last year or two, and so much more now. We've been married long enough, so I'll bet you are surprised by this little revelation of mine. Please believe me, I am serious, and I want to do all of this with you.

  It may be that I am afraid time will pass me by and then we will be too old or too sick to do all these things. I want to travel with you. I want to take you back to the village where I was born, and go south into Georgia to sip the wines. I want to see Sevastopol where my father fought with his sailor army, and I want to take you to the places we've talked about on the maps, the Caspian resorts, Tashkent, Samarkand. We should take the train across the country, right through Siberia, and stop at all the little villages along the way and eat the strange foods of the natives. I don't want us to miss these things, and you are the only one I want to do this with. It sounds a lovely way to live, doesn't it?

  I have spent all my life in military schools, and ships, and universities, and I fly over these faraway places, but they offer no romance in the air. Maybe that's what we need, a little romance in this life of duty that I have led and brought you into. When I think of the years of our marriage that you have waited so patiently at home, then I know I have to make some decisions. Does the way I said it sound romantic, or did I go about it all wrong? I want so badly for you to understand what I mean, and to understand that I have thought it for a long time even if I haven't said it out loud.