maintenance, and capable of wreaking immediate destruction on anything
they hit. Even the oldest Soviet models were still potent weapons.
Forty minutes later, they were done. A double line of mines ten miles
long stretched out in the path of the Arsenal.
19:00 Local (+5 GMT) USS Arsenal On the forward most portion of the
weather decks. Seaman Fred Dooley took his lookout station. After a
quick discussion with the sailor already standing the watch, he
accepted the sound-powered phones, the binoculars, and the life
jacket.
At least the weather was clear, a great improvement over the previous
week. He shucked his foul-weather jacket, tossing it over the anchor
chain. He doubted that he’d need it tonight.
He turned forward and lifted the binoculars to his eyes.
The cruiser was headed west, directly toward the setting sun. It
dazzled him, and he tried to look to either side instead of gazing
directly at the sun, to use his peripheral vision to pick up shapes and
objects more clearly. Dooley was learning, just as the OOD was.
Something off to the right caught his attention, and he quickly focused
the binoculars in on it, tweaking the small focus knob to sharpen the
image. He tensed for a moment, wondering if he would be the one to
spot the only survivor of the wreck.
Being first mattered on the USS Arsenal and mattered to Dooley more
than most. Joining the Navy last year had been the best decision he’d
ever made in his short life. A job, training, a steady paycheck and a
way out of the grinding poverty of inner-city New York.
A few seconds later, Dooley’s hopes were dashed. It was merely a
dolphin frolicking with a wave, trying in some odd fashion to complete
a circle both above and below it. He watched it for a few moments
longer, trying to decide exactly what sort of game the dolphin was
playing.
Guiltily, aware that he’d let his attention be diverted by the eternal
distractions of the sea, Dooley resumed his scan, carefully examining
each area of the water in front of the ship. Another movement directly
ahead caught his attention.
A dolphin, he figured; nothing else-should be moving out there.
He squinted, trying to make the object pop into view without refocusing
the binoculars, which were set for dolphin length. The object was
still unclear. Sighing, he focused again, then stared in horror.
It couldn’t be-no, wait. He pressed the button on the sound-powered
phone that hung around his neck, his eyes still glued to the object.
“Bridge, forward lookout mine, in the water; I say again, mine, dead
ahead in the water. It’s directly in front of us.”
“He said what?” The OOD wheeled on the operations specialist manning
the sound-powered phone. “What the helm, hard right rudder. Lee helm,
starboard engine back full, port engine ahead full.”
Captain Heather shot bolt upright in his chair, hit the deck in one
motion, and was at the quartermaster’s side in a matter of seconds. He
slapped down the collision alarm toggle switch, and seconds later the
harsh buzz echoed throughout the ship. The bosun’s mate of the watch
took that as his cue, and began passing, “Stand by for collision. Mine
to port” He never had time to finish the announcement. The cruiser
heeled violently to starboard, throwing the entire bridge team across
the pilothouse. The captain hit the bulkhead just next to the hatch
leading onto the bridge wing.
The officer of the deck hurtled past him, cleared the bridge wing
railing, and was in the water before the ship had even finished its
downward motion.
The captain tried to scramble to his feet, only to discover that his
legs wouldn’t move. One of them, at least. He looked down, touched
the raw, shattered bone protruding from his pants leg in horror, then
groaned as he tried to twist around and survey the rest of the
damage.
Six feet away, the bosun’s mate of the watch was struggling to his
feet. He looked dazed, disoriented, but at least mobile. “Boats! Get
the TAO up here. Man overboard, port side.” Captain Heather struggled
to get the words out, relieved to see that the sailor appeared to