me.” Lab Rat flushed as he belatedly remembered how many Washington
assignments the admiral had under his belt.
“He suggests I shift my flag to the Arsenal ship. Out of the question,
of course,” Batman continued as if the intelligence officer hadn’t
spoken. “No space, and not enough communications-band width.” An odd
smile crossed his face momentarily, replaced immediately by the anger
churning under the surface. “Sometimes I think a battle group runs
more on antennas than it does on aviation fuel.
Nevertheless, effective immediately, every aircraft in this squadron is
grounded. No logistics flights, no mail runs, nothing. And tomorrow
we start bright and fresh with a safety stand-down. I want to see
those NATOPS manuals in every aviator’s hand for at least eight hours
tomorrow. If Admiral Loggins thinks this will keep people from getting
killed, then I’ll go along with it.”
The admiral surveyed the room. Apparently satisfied with the response
he saw in every officer’s face, he turned a cold glare on Bird Dog.
“We’ve also been directed to develop a targeting list for D.C. that
will maximize the use of the USS Arsenal. There’s some thought back
there that the president may wish to exploit Arsenal’s remote control
capabilities to allow more direct control over any potential
conflict.”
Bird Dog felt a surge of vindication. Maybe his own admiral didn’t
agree with him, but evidently somebody in D.C. saw the true potential
of the Arsenal ships. Hell, with them in the battle group, a number of
logistic and resupply problems were solved. An Arsenal ship carried
more missile sand of more different kinds than any three surface ships
combined. And if the admiral didn’t see that, then thank God somebody
in D.C. did.
“Admiral, I” Bird Dog broke off suddenly, remembering the unpleasant
session he’d had with the chief of staff earlier. COS had made it
plain that what the admiral expected was results, not some esoteric
bullshit theorizing from a junior officer with too much education and
not enough experience to make use of it.
“You have something on your mind. Bird Dog?” Batman asked softly,
warning in his voice. “More wisdom from Clausewitz to share with
me?”
“No, Admiral, it’s just that sir, with the Arsenal ships,” Bird Dog
plunged on, trying to feel the raw confidence he always felt in the
air, “maybe part of our problem is simplified. This conflict with
Cuba-it’s a political issue, not a military one. If JCS-hell,, even the
president does the actual launch planning and weapons firing, doesn’t
that take us off the hook for some of this?”
Batman stood, his face livid. “Ask Major Hammersmith if this is a
political problem.” He strode out of the room and slammed the door
behind him.
COS glared at Bird Dog again. “You just don’t listen, do you?”
1620 Local (+5 GMT) Wreckage of Hornet 301
50 Miles North of Cuba Thor was riding low in the water, his body
sprawled out across the barely inflated flight suit, his face just out
of the water. After six hours of trying to catch the life raft, he’d
given up. He was floating on his back, the hard summer sun beating
down on it as it had earlier on his front. Saltwater licked at the
cuts on his face and body, the sting now fading below the level of
perception.
The sea was still boisterous, throwing him up and down in a sickening
seesaw over broad, flat roller snot the angry lashing of a storm at
sea, but more like the exuberant playfulness of a child much larger
than its peers.
He heard it before he saw it, a harsh, mechanical pounding at odds with
the natural sounds of the wind and the waves. He tried to prop himself
up, plunging his hands deep into the sinking flight suit, straining to
see over the swells. A ship, it had to be. For a moment, he felt an
irrational surge of hope that it was one of the American destroyers,
detached from the battle group. It was possible, wasn’t it? Surely
they’d been looking for him for at least twenty-four hours.
Even as he thought it, he realized it couldn’t be. A destroyer close