by Glynn James
Summers, who was blond and Californian and less colorful than his wingman, said, “Which might be good news for you. With us dinged up, and Delacey and O’Neill gone, you might actually be looking at some flying time.”
Hailey didn’t respond at first. The last thing she wanted was to benefit from the injuries these two had suffered – much less from the deaths of those two other brave pilots.
She hadn’t been with them down in the Pilots Ready Room when it happened, during the latter stages of the Battle of the JFK, but she’d heard about it later. By that point, she had been floating in the ocean, unconscious, after disobeying orders and bombing a bridge to try and save some survivors on the ground. Karma had been nearly instant on that occasion, when those same survivors fished her out from the boat they had commandeered.
But the other pilots had by then all been recalled, and were all down in the ready room sitting tight – waiting to see if, despite the carnage on the flight deck, there might still somehow be another call to go up and pick up a combat patrol or bombing sortie.
But it had been really hard for them to just sit there – not least because of one unexpectedly brutal feature of the ready room. It had two monitors on the wall, which piped in live video from the flight deck, picked up by tiny cameras buried in the deck surface itself. They were there so pilots could watch their colleagues’ take-offs and landings. Being as these were dodgy at the best of times – and got much worse in heavy weather or rough seas – it was in everyone’s interest to keep an eye on how everyone else was making out.
But, of course, by that time, no aircraft had been taking off from that flight deck. Instead, hundreds of JFK crew were fighting for their lives upon it, trying to keep a storm of ten million dead from crashing over them all. The pilots, who were very special snowflakes, and basically irreplaceable, had been under strict orders to stay below, and well away from the fighting. But, at a certain point, watching their shipmates being slaughtered was too much for some of them. They also figured there was no longer any chance they would be called on to fly – not this late in the day, with the flight deck itself a war zone.
Hailey heard later that Delacey simply looked up at O’Neill and said: “Fuck this, man. Let’s go.” And they had, disobeying orders, heading up top, finding discarded weapons – and ultimately going down fighting. They were both aviators; but they were warriors first. And both had died valiantly. Though nobody in command – not Drake, not the Air Boss, not the CAG – had been in any way impressed when they found out about it.
But they couldn’t discipline the dead.
And so those two, her close colleagues, had simply vanished into air, by the time Hailey made it back aboard, as had hundreds of others. And even despite suffering a mid-air collision, the risk of death or disabling injury by high-speed ejection, and an ocean swim she might never have come back from… she’d probably had the safest job of anyone on the carrier – simply by being off it.
“Yeah,” Bosler said, around the Oreos he was now shoving into his piehole. “You’re still last on the flight roster, Thunderchild, and probably always will be – but the roster’s getting damned short at the moment. You’re not careful, you just might find yourself in an actual cockpit.”
Summers tried to get a cookie by reaching across the taped-up torso of Bosler, who swatted him away. Summers looked up at Hailey and said, “Eh, I doubt it. As long as the CAG and Tom-o are still breathing air, they’ll always send themselves first.” LT Tomassetti was the assistant CAG. “And Thunderchild here will continue piloting a couch belowdecks.”
“I was just starting to feel sorry for you,” Hailey said, “but now I think I don’t give a shit whether you get any Oreos.”
“Heh,” Bosler said. “That’s both of you screwed then.”
“Yeah, and both of you dipshits look fantastic with no eyebrows.” Hailey suppressed a smile.
It was good to be back with her brothers.
And it was little short of a miracle they were still all alive.
Bad JuJu
JFK - 02 Deck
Homer stopped in his tracks. Of all the luck. He had just glided up to the outside of Juice and Pred’s compartment.
And Ali had just slipped out of hers, right next door.
The two ex-lovers locked eyes in the dim and deserted companionway. No words passed between them. But a thousand volts of emotion did. And it was not the same type of electricity they used to feel. Now, the connections between them, while far from broken, were bent, and crossed, and tangled up. And shorting dangerously.
And it made each of them look away.
When Homer looked up again, she was gone. Ali had a very special talent for disappearing into thin air.
And Homer had to work to catch his breath – as he considered how much had been contained in that one look between them.
What the hell happened with us?
He also knew that, however impossible it was recovering from a break-up that devastating, even under ideal conditions… the actual current conditions were that A) they were trapped together in a sealed, floating, steel canister; B) they were facing down the end of the world; and C) they were going to have to work together on the same team, extremely closely, and at a ridiculously high level of performance, to have any hope of saving humanity.
Dear God, he muttered to himself.
He blinked once, then knocked on the hatch before him. Two beats later, Juice opened up. In his rectangular reading glasses, he looked like somebody’s old hippie uncle, or maybe geography teacher. He quickly removed them, and hid them behind his back.
“Homer. What’s up, brother man?”
Homer nodded seriously. “I hear you’re commanding the shore mission tomorrow.”
“You heard right.”
“Then I need to brief you.”
“Sure. Come on in.”
“We’re going to need Handon, too.”
“Okay. Just let me get my shit.”
* * *
Noise roared with laughter, and the godlike sound of it seemed to shake and light up the dim companionway. Handon smiled, finding himself liking this man more and more.
“Let me tell you one about resolve,” Handon said, cueing up another story. “There was once a SEAL team commander, who fractured his leg so badly in a parachuting accident he was told he’d never walk normally again, never mind run. So what did he do?”
“What did he do, Handon?”
“He had the leg amputated, and got a prosthetic installed – one that allowed him to do everything his men did, including run and climb. The damned thing could even be fitted with a fin – so he could swim, dive, and lead maritime operations.”
Noise stopped in his tracks. “No shit? Truly, that is hardcore.” He looked at Handon. “Did you know this man?”
“No. But Homer worked for him.”
And with that, they both looked up to see Homer himself coming round the bend in the companionway, Juice in tow.
And he was not smiling, never mind laughing.
“I need to brief you,” he said. “Pretty much right now.”
“Okay.” Handon’s smile melted away. “Let’s do it.”
“We’re also going to need Drake.”
Handon nodded. “I think I know where we can dig him up.” Odds were, he’d be on the bridge.
Still, and always, at his station.
* * *
Handon didn’t know what Homer needed to talk to the commanders about, and he didn’t care. If the SEAL thought it was critical and urgent, and he pretty clearly did, then that was good enough for Handon.
No so much Drake.
“What about?” he asked when they found him up on the flag bridge. Still taped up and bandaged from his close encounters with bullets and grenades out on the flight deck, he was looking, if anything, worse than before. Stress and lack of sleep probably weren’t helping.
Handon just tossed his head toward the briefing room at back – meaning it was ears-only. Dr
ake nodded wearily and levered himself to his feet. He looked unsteady enough that Handon actually grasped his elbow.
Drake shrugged him off, motioned for Abrams to follow, and led the way to the rear. He entered the briefing room and took a seat, as did Abrams, Handon, Homer, and Juice – and also Noise, who Handon had decided to bring along and get briefed in. Since it looked like he was going to be on the team, and since time remained their mortal enemy, getting him in the various loops sooner was better.
“Go,” Drake said to Handon.
“Not my briefing.” Handon nodded at Homer.
“Commander,” Homer said, speaking respectfully but forcefully, “I’m told the Russian battlecruiser has retreated to stand-off distance.”
Drake nodded. “That’s right. We’re keeping them under surveillance. But we’re well out of range of their anti-ship missiles, and all their weapons for that matter.”
Homer nodded in turn. “Begging your pardon, but I’m here to tell you that we are not out of range of all their weapons. I’m sorry if I’m telling you stuff you already know. But you need to be aware that every fleet commander in the Russian Navy had a full brigade of Spetsnaz at his disposal.”
The cool air in the briefing room seemed to chill a bit further. All those present knew that Spetsnaz was the elite Russian special-operations force, who were absolutely infamous for being both complete and total hard men – and utterly without mercy or scruple.
Drake seemed to take this on board. “The Russians’ Tier-1 SOF unit.”
Homer nodded. “Affirmative. They’re a lot like the Tier-1 units in the U.S. – with most of the skills, endurance, and high-tech weapons. But without any of the mercy, compassion, codes of conduct, Geneva Conventions, or general concern for decent behavior and the welfare of the innocent.”
Handon pushed back slightly in his chair. He was thinking that if you pictured a gigantic dude with bulging muscles, tattoos, a lot of scar tissue, superhuman tolerance for pain, and the kind of cunning and ruthlessness that defeated both Napoleon and Hitler, you’d start to get the idea. This was by no means good news.
“But what you may not know,” Homer continued, “is that the Spetsnaz Naval Brigades are even better equipped than the land-based units.” He paused to look around the table. “Each of these units has a command element, an airborne battalion – specially trained for parachuting into water – as well as a signals company and support units.” Homer paused significantly. “Plus a midget submarine group, and two to three combat diver/swimmer battalions.”
He let that float out there for a moment before going on.
“And we can have no good idea how much of that force profile is on board the Admiral Nakhimov right now. But given that it was the lead ship of not just their Northern Fleet, but the entire Russian Navy… it won’t be none. And it could be a lot. Moreover, their combat posture is not likely to be relaxed.”
Drake said, “You said combat swimmers and midget subs. Do you actually think the Kennedy is at risk?”
“Absolutely.”
Drake cocked his head. “But they’re four hundred and thirty kilometers south of us right now.”
Homer held his gaze. “That’s too close. These guys are unsafe at any distance.”
“Seriously?” Drake asked.
Homer’s mouth formed a tight line. “The whole reason for their existence was, in the event of war, to pop up behind enemy lines and wreak havoc. They’d assassinate military and civilian leaders, assault and destroy military bases, communications hubs, power plants, computer networks, airfields, strategic nuclear sites. And, yes, port facilities – including docked ships and subs. Those kinds of targets were almost too easy for them, since they could strike right out of the water. I guarantee you that scuttling a ship while it’s at anchor is twice as easy as you think it is – and four times as hard to defend against. And these guys will be very good at it.”
Drake figured the former Team Six SEAL was in a decent position to know what he was talking about. But he still seemed to be having trouble imagining living people going so far out of their way to hurt or kill others – given how few of them were left.
Homer read his look. He was sorely tempted to remind Drake that he had warned him in advance about the threat of the Zealots. And that not listening had almost cost him his ship. But Homer was, basically, too polite. If Drake was going to make that connection, he’d have to do it on his own.
Instead he said, “Look. These are the same guys who left booby-trapped toys lying around Afghanistan – to maim kids who picked them up. Whatever morality they subscribe to, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t recognize it. Judeo-Christian it’s not.”
That seemed to hit Drake with a little cold water. “Okay. So what do you suggest we do about this threat?”
“We need small boats – armed patrol boats – doing circuits around the ship at the waterline. We need spotters up on deck with binoculars – lots of them. And we need to be ready to turn on the ship’s active sonar, full blast, to incapacitate enemy divers.”
Drake shook his head. This sounded like a hell of an operation for a very vague and not all that plausible threat. Plus, he had a hell of a lot of other problems right now.
“Okay,” he said. “First, we’ve only got a handful of small boats that still float, and only one of them is armed – and that, the ship’s launch, is needed for the shore mission in the morning. Second is manpower. Where do you think it’s going to come from?”
Homer wasn’t losing his cool. “Ship’s security is the job of NSF.”
Drake blinked once, slowly. “Fully tasked. Like every other department, their numbers are reduced – only more so, after that shore mission at NAS Oceana, though I’m trying to address that.” Drake didn’t add that he was addressing it in a pretty unconventional fashion, by shanghaiing random survivors as well as Stores crew into the ranks of the shore patrolmen. “In any case, right now, they’re tasked with sweeping the ship – the inside of it.”
“Sweeping for…?”
“More dead we might have missed after the battle. One of which almost killed your irreplaceable scientist, down in the hold, less than forty-eight hours ago. And, frankly, I’m a hell of a lot more worried about an outbreak taking down this ship than I am about some Russian frogmen swimming up and scuttling us.”
Homer kept at it. “Do you have any personnel trained as combat divers?”
Drake just arched his eyebrows. Homer got the message.
“What about your MARSOC force?”
Drake grunted. “They’re over-tasked. More than half – of the surviving ones – are about to go ashore again, for the scavenging mission. The others are wounded, healing up, and/or prepping for Somalia.”
Homer opened his mouth to try again, but was cut off.
“Look,” Drake said, in a tone of finality, “if you’re so worried about this threat, you’re going to have to address it with your own people. I’m sorry. We’re up against the wall.”
Homer sighed. “Okay. I got you, Commander. Let’s table the maritime threat for now. But we still need to talk about the shore mission.”
Drake looked over at Juice, who looked alert, interested, and receptive. He said, “Are you afraid these guys’ll be waiting for us on shore?”
Noise said, “That’s who I’d send.” As he hadn’t spoken before, and wouldn’t again, this seemed to carry weight.
Homer nodded and said, “There’s no question about who they’d send. The only question is whether they sent people ashore – and, if they did, whether they were able to pull them out before the battlecruiser withdrew – which they did in a very big hurry. Or whether they even wanted to pull them out.”
Drake’s expression was still measured. “We’ve been guessing that’s why they’re here in the first place.”
“Supplies,” Homer said.
“Exactly.”
“So the good news would be that this naval depot is worth scavenging.” Homer looked over at Juice.
“The bad news is – you might have to fight Spetsnaz for it.”
Juice stared off into the middle distance. Looking back up, he said, “Hey, I’m sorry if this is a stupid question, but… has it occurred to anybody to try and talk to the Russians? Explain that we’re trying to save the human race here – so maybe killing us all isn't such a brilliant plan?”
Abrams looked at Drake before answering. “Yeah. We've tried hailing them, at regular intervals. No response.”
“Jesus,” Handon said. “It’s like mutually assured destruction all over again.”
Homer’s expression was grim. “Except more assured.”
Juice dredged up a smile from somewhere. “Well, maybe any Spetsnaz forces will be long gone from the base. Maybe they fled with the battlecruiser.”
Homer gave him a look, one filled with bottomless compassion – but which also seemed to say: These aren’t the kind of men who flee.
Handon’s expression was unreadable. But what he was thinking was:
This is some very bad JuJu.
* * *
A lot of this sort of SOF lore and minutiae was new to Abrams. Having been over on the destroyer for most of the past two years, he hadn’t been party to the day-to-day operations of the Marines – never mind the newcomers in Alpha. So he pulled Homer aside in the stairwell after the meeting broke up.
Looking at him with the skeptical air of the toughest kid on the playground – who had just heard about a tougher one – he asked: “Master Chief, are you saying their SOF are better than ours?”
Homer shook his head. “Not by any means. Tactically, we’re superior.”
Abrams paused. “Who exactly do you mean by ‘we’?”
“Alpha.”
Abrams held his gaze. “And the MARSOC Marines?”
Homer just shrugged. It was probably a toss-up there – at best. Instead, he said only, “In terms of resolve and resilience, we’re all probably about equal – Alpha, MARSOC, Spetsnaz.”
Abrams figured there was a but coming, so he just waited for it.
“But – as far as being pure badasses…” Homer’s expression was inscrutable. “These guys are brutal, fearless, pitiless thugs. The kind who pretty much pay no attention to trifles like pain.”