HE coughed into one fist, grunting as the jarring reawoke his headache. A calm yet sullen sea the color of cold iron heaved slowly, barely rolling the ship. They’d cleared the northernmost islands of the Maldives, en route to what his orders called Operation Odyssey Protector, in OpArea Endive.
He slumped in Combat, weak and lethargic. “Odyssey Protector.” “Endive.” Who made up these names? He ran through his traffic at the command desk, then toggled back to the same message. The one that had pried them loose from relief operations in Male, and sent Savo charging north at near flank speed with fuel tanks lower than he liked.
Usually cruisers and destroyers were topped up every three to four days, to maintain fuel levels above 50 percent. But obviously that wasn’t going to happen. And fuel wasn’t the only thing in short supply. Hermelinda Garfinkle-Henriques had cornered him that morning at breakfast. “It could be a problem, sir,” the supply officer had said. “You directed me to contribute everything we could to the Maleans—”
“The Maldivians … never mind. Yeah, we should get reimbursed for whatever we dispensed as disaster assistance. You documented it, right?”
“Yes sir. Of course. But I wasn’t talking about reimbursement. Our dry and canned stores were only ninety to one hundred twenty days’ worth when we left on deployment, and we only got a partial replenishment in Dubai.” She’d kept her voice low, but added, “Our fresh stores are gone and the refrigerated stores are getting low. I’m going to the restricted menu tomorrow. If we’re out much longer, we’ll be scraping the bottom of the dry and canned stores.”
Just fucking great. He scrubbed his face with his hands, coughed, and started to get up. Then sagged back, and reread the message.
Savo and her shotgun escort were to take station roughly on the Tropic of Cancer, a hundred nautical miles seaward from the Pakistani-Indian border. In other words, midway between Karachi and Jamnagar. With ringside seats at what was shaping up to be another undeclared war. Matt Mills, in the TAO seat, was double-checking their patrol area preparatory to putting it up on the LSDs, which glowed in front of him, the flat displays canted so reflections would not interfere with vision. And above them, the ever-present reminders of his weapons status, his engines, launchers, radars, other equipment.
Crap engines, low fuel, low food, and a sick ship. Well, Schell was at work, debriefing Grissett and going over the records of everyone who’d come down with the crud since day one, back in the Med. He rubbed his face again, hoping they found something solid.
“Did you see this press conference?”
“What’s that, Matt?”
Mills read from the Early Bird. “‘State Department spokesmen announced today that U.S. forces are on station ready to shoot down any missile exchange between the two disputants.’”
“What? You’ve got to be shitting me.”
But there it was in black and white, or rather, in text on his screen. “Oh, fuck me.”
“This isn’t so good,” Mills agreed.
“Why did they have to announce it? This makes us the first-strike target for both sides if the balloon really goes up.” He started to type a message, then restrained himself. The Navy had damn-all influence on what State put out. All he’d end up doing was coming across as a whiner. Not that he minded whining, but he’d save it for when they were running out of food and fuel. Something PaCom could do something about. Not crying over spilt milk.
He hitched himself up in the chair. A nap, he really should get his head down before they reached the patrol area. “We’ve got a lot to get done. Get a groom on our VLS and SPY-1. And set up a siting conference. This is a big area they’ve parked us in. But I’m not seeing a specific intercept station.” The geometry would be critical, if he was really expected to play a spoiler role. Savo’s location relative to the launching point, and more specifically, to the intended impact point, would constrain their ability to intercept.
“I’ll pass that to the XO. This afternoon? Thirteen hundred?” Mills lifted his Hydra.
“No. I mean, yeah.” Dan coughed, then winced, grabbing his head. The crud hung on, all right. He had barely enough energy to sit upright, no appetite, and the less said about the state of his guts the better. Worse yet, he still felt like he wasn’t thinking at top capacity. Not the way a CO should feel, going into a strategic-level commitment.
* * *
BEFORE he sat down with his Aegis team, though, he went up to his at-sea cabin. Half an hour free; he climbed into his rack, sighed, and closed his eyes.
Then opened them again. Stared at the overhead. Got up, and turned on his computer.
To research the Indian-Pakistani nuclear posture and force balance.
The two nations had gone to war three times: in 1965, in 1971, and most recently, in 1999, over Kargil, in Kashmir. The big change was that now, both had operational theater nuclear weapons. Since Kargil, the tension had seesawed between moments of lull and episodes of renewed friction. Lately, the rise of al-Qaeda–linked cross-border terror had gotten more attention, but the arms buildup had continued.
Stockpile numbers were the most highly classified secrets new nuclear states guarded, but the latest estimates credited both with between sixty and a hundred weapons. Nuclear, but not thermonuclear, straight fission devices. So far as outsiders knew, neither had tested a hydrogen weapon.
The Indian Strategic Forces Command had a long-range capability in strike aircraft, backed up by a short-range missile, the Prithvi, something like the long-retired U.S. Sergeant. Mounted on transporter-erector-launchers, it was small, difficult to spot from satellites; DIA could provide no hard data on the locations of its deployment. Most sources estimated its range as about a hundred miles.
Pakistan looked even or perhaps slightly ahead in missiles, with the recent deployment of a regiment of Shaheen-1s. Also TEL-mounted, this threw a thousand-kilo warhead to three hundred–plus miles. They were deployed in the Kirthar Mountains, south of Islamabad. During the last near war, the batteries had been redeployed near Jhelum, southeast of the capital, but then moved south, back into the mountains, where, presumably, the Indian air force would find it harder to get at them.
He checked a desk atlas left by some previous skipper. That might put Pakistani missiles, at least, within reach of Savo’s Standards during their descent phase, depending on their targets. Hitting an Indian missile, on the other hand, might be harder. They’d be flying west or northwest, away from the ship, and a tail chase had a much lower chance of intercept.
In terms of the two sides’ doctrines, not much had been published. They seemed to be where the U.S. and USSR had been in the 1950s, holding each other’s cities, command facilities, and airfields at risk. A Naval Postgraduate School thesis pointed out that Pakistan had never renounced first use of nuclear weapons. A Defense News editorial he accessed online implied that Pakistan might use nukes against even a conventional invasion. India had originally forsworn first use, but a recent statement from New Delhi had modified this to add, and he read this carefully, “In the event of a major attack against India, or Indian forces anywhere, by biological or chemical weapons, India will retain the option of retaliating with nuclear weapons.”
Which you could read as a not-so-veiled warning that “no first use” wasn’t ironclad.
He leaned back in his chair, ear tuning to the creaking of the superstructure. Bart Danenhower had identified several more cracks in the alloy, most minor, but one worrisome. The CHENG said they’d almost certainly been caused by hogging during the passage of the tsunami wave, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t expand. Like a crack in a car’s windshield, which lengthened with time. The snipes had drilled holes and welded on patches, but Chief McMottie and the hull techs had refused to guarantee they’d stop the fractures from progressing. Not that the deckhouse was going to fall off, but any flaw in a strength member compromised the hull girder.
What he liked least was that unlike earlier conflicts, when the Pakistanis and Indians had gone at it alone, now both were linked to others. The Pakistanis had bought Chinese air defense systems and granted commercial and maybe naval access at their port of Gwadar. China, Myanmar, Pakistan, and Iran were conducting military exercises together. And both China and Pakistan had been caught proliferating advanced weaponry to even less savory regimes. The Indians, in reaction to their enemies’ search for allies, had drawn closer to the United States.
He remembered the national security adviser’s words in the elevator of the Rayburn Building. “War now may be better than later.” They’d chilled him then, and sounded even more ominous now. Ed Szerenci had always affected a cold detachment from the human realities of war. Could he really, at the right hand of a president who too often acted before he thought, push for a face-off now, believing the balance was shifting against the United States?
Just as the Germans, in 1914, had believed they had to act, or lose the advantage to the Allies?
But no matter how hard he thought, he came up with no answers at all.
* * *
LONGLEY brought him a tray. Before the door closed, Dan glimpsed an unfamiliar face behind him in the passageway. Then he caught Grissett behind him, and it snapped into place. “Dr. Schell,” he murmured unwillingly. “Chief Corpsman. Did you have something for me? Want half of this sandwich?”
Schell was already in shipboard coveralls, which suggested he hadn’t brought a change of uniform. What had been in the duffels, then? He declined the sandwich and perched on the bunk Dan waved him to. Grissett remained standing, hands behind him, head lowered. “I understand you’ve been affected by this syndrome too,” the doctor opened with. “How are you feeling now?”
“Still under the weather,” Dan admitted. “Headachy, fatigued. It’s tough to concentrate.”
“Medications?”
“Ciproflaxicin,” Grissett put in. “And Motrin. Cough, elevated temperature, torpor.”
“Interesting.” Schell nodded, then said, “I, um, understand you served with a former colleague of mine. From USAMRIID.”
“Maureen Maddox,” Dan said. Her name brought Signal Mirror back, the covert Marine Recon mission into wartime Baghdad. Nearly everyone had died, either along the way or on the way out, along with Sarsten, their too-gung-ho join-up from the Special Air Service. Zeitner, who’d wanted to start a Firestone station. Gunny Gault, killed holding the rear for their retreat. Maddox, their biowarfare guru, had died in Level Four isolation. Leaving only the blue and white starred ribbon on his service dress to remember them by.
“Um, yes.”
“Right. Any progress on the crud?” His tone came out harsher than he’d meant it.
Schell pursed his lips. “We could’ve used more tissue from the last, uh, fatality. But fortunately, your chief corpsman kept blood samples. We’re running tests. Hopefully, we’ll get something interesting.
“I’ve reviewed the clinical investigation results from your first case, in the Med. Bethesda eliminated a number of possibilities, but couldn’t identify a causative agent. No antibody to LP1 or LP4. The sputum isolate was difficult to type, but possibly a Portland subgroup. In particular, I see, they ruled out legionellosis, based on a negative result from a Legionella pneumophilia serogroup one. They suspected the ventilation system.”
“Chief, you told him what we’ve done so far. Sterilizing the ductwork.”
“Yessir.”
Schell nodded. “We won’t have the results for your female noncom for a few days yet. I suspect it will show pneumonia and multiorgan system failure. But if you did a thorough sterilization, I’m willing to conclude that contrary to what everyone’s thought up to now, we’re not dealing with an airborne fomite.”
Dan blinked. “That’s—”
“A fomite’s an infectious agent, or a vector … virus, bacteria, fungus … in some cases, an insect.”
“We might have insects?”
“I thought about it, but considering how clean you keep this ship, I don’t see that as the vector.”
“Thanks—I guess. So what is, then?”
“I’m hoping our cultures will tell us that. So far we have L1 and L3 antigens identified from the blood sample. In the meantime, I have suggestions for at least localizing the infection.”
“I’m listening,” Dan said. “I’d really like to not have to report another fatality. But even the aftereffects are hurting our readiness. In some watch stations, we’re in port and starboard when we should be in four sections. Over time, that’s gonna wear everybody down.”
“Providing fertile ground for opportunistic infections, like pneumonia … which was the final cause of death in your first case, and I suspect in your second, too.” Schell deliberated, looking at Dan’s screen, which still read TOP SECRET at the top and was an appreciation of Indian nuclear doctrine.
“I should have turned that off,” Dan said. “Aim the monitor away from you, please.”
“I wasn’t reading it, Captain.”
“You said you had suggestions.”
“He wants to secure the showers,” Grissett said, and just the way his arms were folded conveyed doubt.
“Secure the showers,” Dan repeated. “You think it’s in our freshwater systems? Chief, didn’t we already hyperchlorinate? I remember, the water tasted like a Y pool.”
“Yessir, we did,” Grissett said. “Charged it all the way up to 50 ppm.”
“Hyperchlorination may not be effective in rooting out a stubborn infection, with certain organisms,” the major said. “But we don’t know the incubation period, and I understand from your chief of staff that you’re on a fairly important mission out here.”
“We call them executive officers. Yeah.”
“Ordinarily, I’d recommend putting into port, debarking your crew, and tenting for a full-scale disinfection regime.”
“We can’t leave station,” Dan said.
“How many have to die before you can?”
He sucked air. Schell didn’t mince words. “I don’t want to lose anyone, Doctor. But the decision to call off a mission isn’t mine. I’ll report anything you want me to. Endorse your recommendations. But if things go down like they might, having us out here could save a lot more lives than we have aboard.”
Schell gave that a beat, then rose. “Fair enough. I’ll have something more concrete as soon as the results are in. Meanwhile—”
“Secure the showers,” Dan told Grissett.
“Sir, I don’t think—”
”Better safe than sorry, Chief. Let’s go with Leo’s call. I’ll tell the CHENG to secure the supply. Instruct the compartment petty officers to placard them off-limits. What about cooking water, drinking water, Doctor?”
“Cooking should sterilize any organisms. But, yes, I’d avoid drinking the water for the present.”
“Secure the scuttlebutts, too,” Dan told Grissett, who looked stone-faced. “How are we set on bottled water?”
“Offloaded it all in Male, Captain.”
“Crap,” Dan muttered. “Okay, look, get your heads together and figure out how to sterilize enough so we can get everybody a gallon a day, anyway. We can use the feed water, too; it’s made from the steam evaporators and stored in separate tanks from the potable water. It’s deionized, distilled. Ought to be fine to drink.
“But we can’t run long that way, Doctor. Find out what’s making us sick, and tell me how to fix it.”
Schell just looked thoughtful. Dan glanced at his bunk. Then at the bulkhead clock, and sighed. Time to get on the 1MC and tell everybody what was going on. No showers. That certainly wasn’t going to help morale.
* * *
THE setup conference convened at 1300 in CIC, back by the digital dead-reckoning table, where they could spread out references and argue in something like a roundtable format. Though the DRT was rectangular. Present were Dr. Noblos, Chief Wenck, Lieutenant Mills, Lieutenant Singhe, and Cheryl Staurulakis. Dan opened with, “Okay, everyone’s read the messages. I want to position for the best chances of an intercept, against missiles from the deployment areas the DIA specifies. But before that, I asked Matt to speculate on how this thing’s going to unfold, if it does.” He hesitated. “Which of course we hope it doesn’t. Matt?”
Mills passed out printed slides. “I’ll start with the naval picture. The Indian navy, with overwhelming numbers and the Viraat carrier battle group, dominates the green-water zone. But their force-projection capabilities are limited. Even if they clean-sweep the Pak navy, it doesn’t win the war.
“Ground capabilities are more evenly matched. India’s armored forces are larger, but their ground options are limited by two factors: first, Pakistani bases are closer to the border, so they can deploy faster. Second, India has to guard its northern border as well, against China, which is allied with Karachi. If they coordinate their threats, India won’t have enough divisions to hold both borders. Especially in the Himalayas, which function as a force sponge.
“Bottom lines. First: whoever mobilizes faster gains an advantage. Second: if ground forces stalemate, the next step is vertical escalation. Third: if China weighs in, things get hairy fast. That’s when a conflict could spread.”
A chill harrowed Dan’s back. It sounded like the Europe of 1914. Split between hostile blocs, with interlocking alliances meant to deter, but that had actually only pulled one country after another into war, like shackled-together slaves being dragged helplessly overboard to drown.
But Mills was passing around another slide. “The air order of battle clearly favors India. The Pakistanis emerged from a sanction regime two years ago. They’ve taken delivery of new Chinese fighters, but not enough to counterbalance the Indian air force’s MiGs.
“As to how a conflict might go…” The blond lieutenant half shrugged, rolling his eyes toward the black-painted overhead.
“Go ahead and speculate, Matt,” Dan told him.
“Yessir … Well, if a flare-up lasts longer than a couple days, the Indians will achieve air superiority. But it’d be bloody. Meanwhile, both air forces would be unable to support their armor, which each side depends on to gain ground.
“Depending on how things kick off, there might be limited air strikes against command and control, training areas, or nuclear weapon storage facilities. The risk here, again, is escalation.”
“India will push back,” Singhe put in. Dan wondered how attached she was to what had been, after all, her parents’ home.
Noblos put in, “Actually, either side has the capability to escalate. You’ve left that out.”
“We’ve seen that dynamic in a number of recent conflicts,” Staurulakis said.
Mills nodded. “Correct. But the danger isn’t escalation, in and of itself.”
The civilian scientist said, “It isn’t? Yes it is.”
“No sir. Beg to differ. What’s really dangerous is when the inferior side—in this case, the Pakistanis—run out of counter-escalatory responses. If they lack air power to respond to an Indian deep penetration, the next step up’s their ballistic missile forces. There’s been some indication this is their plan, if they lose the air war. India has no defense again conventional TBMs. So their only step left on the escalatory spiral would be nuclear.”
Mills waited, but no one else commented. He nodded, then passed around the final slide. It was headed COMPARATIVE NUCLEAR FORCE POSTURES and showed that both Pakistan and India possessed airdropped bombs and theater-range missiles, though India was working on an ICBM, mainly to deter China’s growing arsenal.
“That’s about all I have,” the operations officer concluded.
“All right, thanks,” Dan said. He tried to fake a strength he didn’t feel. “Now, if you’ll all recall, we got a DIA appreciation after we exited the Gulf that spoke to this issue. They said India was abandoning its defensive orientation along the western border. Exercise Divine Weapon tested its new strategy: to rapidly destroy Pakistan’s military, without a lengthy period of mobilization or warning.
“I don’t know if anyone here is familiar with the opening moves of World War I, but the Germans had something called the Schlieffen Plan. They depended on speed and shock to occupy territory, and encircle and destroy the French.
“But the plan was brittle. When the German army didn’t hit hard enough, the French and British wrecked the whole strategy.
“The Pakistanis have held counterexercises, attempting to block any Indian blitzkreig. But they also drilled own-force protection procedures on a tactical nuclear battlefield.” He let that hang, then added, “So we anticipate a race to mobilize, then a series of escalatory–counter-escalatory moves. Karachi’s not ruling out a nuclear counterstrike if the ground battle goes against them. It’s an unstable situation. And we’re going to be within range of both sides.”
Staurulakis spread her hands on the glass surface of the tracer. “Captain, what exactly do they expect us to do there? Any insight, from your time in DC?”
He couldn’t stifle a sardonic grin. “I don’t get much insight into anything in Washington, XO. Our orders are clear as mud. Station ourselves in a position to intercept, then stand by. We have three geometries to worry about. First, that of nuclear deterrence. Second, our own geometry vis-à-vis what we’re guessing to be the most likely launch sites.”
“And third?” Mills prompted.
“That, I guess, is political … what message having us here is supposed to convey. If I had to guess, that might be something like reducing Pakistani confidence that they can carry through a nuclear first strike on Indian command and control.
“Uncertainty’s always been a big part of deterrence. And it’s in the U.S. interest to keep anyone from using nukes first … because as soon as someone does, it becomes that much easier for the next country.” He hesitated, thinking about that in the context of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. What if no one had ever used such weapons? Would the world be safer, or more dangerous? Then shook his head and went on. “Of course, that assumes we come down on India’s side, if the balloon goes up. But let’s see if there’s a geoposition where we could intercept launches by both sides.”
“That’d be a strategic node,” Mills ventured.
Dan nodded tiredly, taking his point: that such a location, if it existed, would be easy for both sides to compute. Most likely, Savo was already getting built into the target set for both countries. If taking her out meant their missiles would have a better chance, it would only be logical to make her the first target. “Yeah, we’ll talk own-ship defense, too. But first, the geometry. Bill? Why don’t you kick off. As the resident expert.”
Dr. Noblos sat back on his stool, arms crossed, tilting his nose at the overhead. He looked like a large gray heron. “It isn’t an attractive situation,” he observed.
“Tell me more,” Dan said, though he didn’t like the guy’s attitude. Never had, actually.
Noblos closed his eyes, as if bored with explaining the obvious to dunderheads. “Assume we pick up a launch as it clears our radar horizon. We’ll have less than eighteen seconds to lock, track, evaluate, and fire. We might get a few seconds more downcuing from Obsidian Glint. But the handoff procedures aren’t synchronized yet, and I don’t have much confidence in the contractor.
“The Defense Support Program satellites … all you have is text from the joint tactical ground station. You’re still not on automatic distribution from the Space and Missile Defense Command Operations Center. AWACS … we’re on the ragged edge for Rainbow, out of Saudi. They might pick up an ascending booster out of western Pakistan, but India’s out of their range.”
Dan said, trying to keep his temper, “So, all in all, our probability of a successful intercept?”
“Negligible,” Noblos said, not without relish.
Dan turned to Wenck. “Donnie, your take?”
Wenck agreed their response time would be counted in seconds, but seemed less pessimistic than the physicist. “Depends on the launch site. I’m guessing, for both sides, back a good distance, out of range of tacair. So … I calculated the baskets.”
He keyboarded on a notebook, and like magic, the center LSD at the far end of CIC changed to show two pulsating hoops hanging in space. “I ginned this up with the UYQ-89 TBMD-scenario planning module. Not accurate down to the decimal point, but it illustrates the choices … which ain’t great. I’m mainly looking at airfields here. Figure they’ll hit them first. There’s three down south, inside our footprint. This up here, Uttarlai, that’s right on the hairy lips of our effective range. You can see here, the target body launch site, our interceptor platform position on a UTC grid, and the oval overlay is where that generates reasonable engagement conditions … defined as an intercept-slash-kill probability of intercept above 20 percent.”
“That’s a pretty damn low P-sub-K,” Noblos put in.
Wenck flattened his cowlick in a familiar gesture, staring at the screen. Lost, obviously, in the numbers. “Ain’t gonna get much better, Doc. No matter what, it’s gonna be a crossing engagement, unless they’re shooting right at us. P-sub-K goes down, ordnance expended goes way up.”
Despite himself, Dan’s gaze went to the Ordnance status board. It would tell him, moment by moment, what and how much he had left in his shot lockers.
But defending Indian military airfields wasn’t really his mission. Unless the U.S. and India were allies, a change he didn’t think he’d have missed. The Indians hadn’t been exactly welcoming to the U.S. Navy since independence, though the chill had lessened since China’s rise. He tapped on the glass. “So what you’re saying is, we can’t count on knocking many warheads down. And, goddamn it, that limited range is really hurting us.” Depending on geometry, again, the Block 4A intercept envelope extended out to a little over 120 nautical miles. He rubbed his chin. “Okay, that’s Pakistan. How do we look against an Indian launch?”
“Still a crossing shot. Intercept about a hundred and fifty kilometers up.” Wenck circled the suspected deployment area, and drew lines from there to various ground and air bases. All five people regarded them silently. “We could knock down anything headed for Karachi,” he added, sounding as if he was trying to be helpful.
“What about own-ship defense?”
Mills said, “In BMD mode, of course, we’re peeking through a soda straw … almost blind. We’ll have to depend on Mitscher for protection. Mainly because of that, I’d like to stay at least sixty miles offshore. That keeps us out of range of both sides’ coast defenses, and gives some warning of any incoming surface or air threats.”
“Shit, that really cuts down our coverage.” Wenck blinked at the screen. “We can’t crowd the goalposts any closer? We’re gonna be way, way off base on this one. Especially if they launch against northern India.”
“Exactly so,” Noblos put in. “That will be a ninety-degree ground path crossing angle, and you’ll have to intercept at apogee. As flyout times compress, acquisition and track, initialization and launch, all get more critical … probably beyond the skill level of this team, given your manning, documentation, and training deficiencies, and your interfacing problems as documented in my previous reports to you, the ISIC, and COMNAVSURFOR.”
Crap, Dan thought. He said, half hopefully, “Did you actually recommend decertification?” If ALIS and the Block 4 were no longer mission capable, he could report that and withdraw. The capability was still experimental, after all. Probably ending his own career, such as it was, but at least pulling his sailors out of a quickly narrowing crack.
Noblos quirked his eyebrows. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Captain. I’m not at all happy, but your technicians are barely—just barely”—the rider glared at Wenck, who smiled back—“keeping it in spec. Patched and baling-wired together. So far, at least.”
Dan rubbed his face, unutterably weary. What the hell were they doing here? Putting American skin in the game, if the subcontinent erupted into war again? Giving the diplomats a tiny bit of leverage over two opponents that had never actually been very responsive to outside pressure? The two nations were fixated on each other. Like two wrestlers in a cramped ring, they had no attention to spare for spectators.
Noblos sniffed. “Well, if no one else will, I’ll sum up.”
Dan sighed. “Please do, Doctor.”
“We can intercept Pakistani launches slightly more easily than Indian, but they’ll all be crossing engagements, and our chances poor. We only have twelve rounds, so at those P-sub-Ks, we might take down two warheads. Not enough to have any conceivable impact. So my recommendation is, Mr. Mills is correct. We should stay well out to sea, out of harm’s way. If ordered, lob our rounds in there, but don’t encourage Washington to expect much in the way of results.”
Dan blew out and straightened. His knees shook. Had to get off his feet, before he fell down. “All right, I think we’ve got to the bottom line. Thanks for your inputs. I’ll take them into consideration in deciding on our patrol footprint. Remember to pass to your division officers and chief that scuttlebutts and showers are secured until further notice. The XO will pass the word on a limited freshwater issue for personal use.”
They broke, and each left in a beeline. Dan was left leaning on the DRT. Looking down into the glass, wishing it were a crystal ball. Savo was nearly helpless in TBMD mode, especially if she had to continually scan the immense arc from Karachi to the Gulf of Kutch. That meant high duty factor at peak power, a combination guaranteed to generate a high failure rate. If it wasn’t for Mitscher, he’d have serious doubts about own-ship survivability. She’d be the shield to Savo’s arrows, but how were those all-too-few arrows expected to be employed? And against whom?
Pakistan?
India?
Whoever struck first?
Or both sides, equally?
He lowered his head. Doubts and questions belonged in a message. And maybe he ought to do just that. Right after he got his head down for a few minutes …
* * *
ONCE again he was awakened, in the dark, this time by a tap at the door. It was the chief master-at-arms. “Captain, got a major problem.”
“What?” he grunted, rubbing grit from his eyes. Was he ever going to get an uninterrupted hour of sleep again?
“Sir, one of the storecreatures, I mean storekeepers, reports she was grabbed from behind, blindfolded, taken into a void, and assaulted.”
“Oh, Christ.” He felt sick, and not just from the aftereffects of the crud. As they’d all feared, the steel beach ejaculator had escalated. He sat up and coughed long and hard. Finally choked out, “Who? Is she hurt?”
“Celestina Colón, sir. Seaman storekeeper. She’s in sick bay, but doesn’t seem to be injured, aside from bruises. At least not that I could see before Chief Corpsman shut the door.”
Dan sagged back, panting, coughing. His scarred trachea spasmed, and closed. He gagged, rolling on his side, trying desperately to clear his airway. He reached for the emergency escape breathing device, clipped to the bulkhead. It was charged with oxygen. But pulled his hand back, got the inhaler instead, and triggered a cold burst of vapor down his windpipe. Tried to calm himself. Tried to breathe …
“You all right, Skipper?”
“Yeah … yeah.” He coughed some more, finally got a full breath, and rolled out. Planted his bare feet on the deck tile.
Then reached for his coveralls, and got dressed.