Part 60 (2/2)

”Captain, last night we both had too much to drink, and to tell you the truth, I don't remember all that much. Maybe six months from now we can decide what happened. You sleep well?”

”Almost twelve hours. My alarm clock didn't go off.”

”Maybe you should get a new one.” They walked past the bar both had visited the night before. The captain and the pilot gave it a look, then laughed.

”Once more into the breach, dear friends!” Doug Perrin joined them.

”Just don't give us any of this laying your s.h.i.+p alongside the enemy c.r.a.p,” O'Malley suggested. ”That 'away boarders' s.h.i.+t is dangerous.”

”Your job to keep the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds away from us, Jerr-O. Up to it?”

”He'd better be,” Morris observed lightly. ”I'd hate to think he's all talk!”

”We got a real nice bunch here,” the pilot observed angrily. ”Jeez, I fly up all on my own, find a d.a.m.ned submarine, give it to Doug here, and do I get any respect?”

”That's the problem with aviators. You don't tell them how great they are every five minutes, they go and get depressed on you,” Morris said with a smile. He was a different person from the one who had mumbled through dinner last night. ”Anything you need that we might have, Doug?”

”Perhaps we might exchange some foodstuffs?”

”No problem. Send your supply officer over. I'm sure we can negotiate something.” Morris checked his watch. ”We don't sail for another three hours. Let's have a sandwich and talk over a few things. I got an idea for spoofing those Backfires that I want to try out on you . . .”

Three hours later, a pair of Moran harbor tugs eased the frigates away from the pier. Reuben James moved slowly, her turbine engines pus.h.i.+ng her through the polluted water at a gentle six knots. O'Malley watched from the right seat of his helicopter, on alert for a possible Russian sub near the entrance to the harbor, though four Orion patrol aircraft were vigorously sanitizing the area. Probably the Victor they had killed two days before had been detailed to trail and report on the convoy, first to direct a Backfire raid, then to close and launch her own attack. The trailer was dead, but that did not mean that the sailing was a secret. New York was a city of eight million, and surely one of them was standing at his window with a pair of binoculars, cataloging the s.h.i.+p types and numbers. He or she would make an innocent telephone call, and the data would be in Moscow in a few hours. Other submarines would close on their expected track. As soon as they were outside of sh.o.r.e-based air cover, Soviet search aircraft would come looking, with missile-armed Backfires behind them.

So many s.h.i.+ps, O'Malley thought. They pa.s.sed a series of Ro/Ros, roll-on/roll-off container s.h.i.+ps loaded with tanks, fighting vehicles, and the men of a whole armored division. Others were piled high with containers that could be loaded right onto trucks for dispatch to the front, their contents recorded on computer for rapid delivery to the proper destination. He thought about the news reports, the taped scenes of land combat in Germany. That was what this was all about. The Navy's mission: keep the sea-lanes open to deliver the tools those men in Germany needed. Get the s.h.i.+ps across.

”How does she ride?” Calloway asked.

”Not too bad,” Morris answered the reporter. ”We have fin stabilizers. She doesn't roll very much. If you have any problem, our corpsman can probably come up with something. Don't be bashful about asking.”

”I will try to keep out of your way.”

Morris gave the man from Reuters a friendly nod. He'd arrived with only an hour's warning, but he seemed to be a pro, or at least experienced enough to have all his gear packed in one bag. He took the last available bunk in officers' country.

”Your admiral said that you're one of his best commanders.”

”I guess we'll find that out,” Morris said.

35.

Time on Target

USS REUBEN JAMES.

The first two days went well. The escort force sailed first, blasting with their sonars at the shallow coastal water for possible submarines and finding none. The merchant s.h.i.+ps followed, forming slowly into eight columns of ten each. The twenty-knot convoy was in a hurry to deliver its goods. Covered by a ma.s.sive umbrella of land-based aircraft, it pressed on through the first forty-eight hours with only minor zigzagging as it sailed past the coast of New England and Eastern Canada, Sable Island, and the Grand Banks. The easy part was behind them now. As they left coastal waters for the Atlantic Ocean proper, they entered the unknown territory.

”About filing my dispatches . . .” Calloway said to Morris.

”Twice a day you can use my satellite transmitter as long as it doesn't interfere with official traffic. You understand that your reports will be run through Norfolk for sensitive information?”

”Quite so. Captain, you may believe me when I say that as long as I'm here with you, I will reveal nothing that would endanger your s.h.i.+p! I had quite enough excitement this year in Moscow.”

”What?” Morris turned and lowered his binoculars. Calloway explained what his spring had been like.

”Patrick Flynn, my opposite number from a.s.sociated Press, is aboard Battleaxe. Doubtless drinking beer,” he concluded.

”So you were there when all this boiled up. Do you know why all this started?”

Calloway shook his head. ”If I did, Captain, I'd have filed the story long ago.”

A messenger appeared on the bridge wing with a clipboard. Morris took it, read through three messages, and signed for them.

”Something dramatic?” Calloway asked hopefully.

”Fleet weather-update and something about that Russian reconnaissance satellite. It comes overhead in another three hours. The Air Force is going to try and shoot it down before it gets to us, though. Nothing major. You're comfortable, I presume. Any problems?”

”None, Captain. Nothing like a nice sea voyage.”

”True enough.” Morris stuck his head into the pilothouse. ”General Quarters, Air Action.”

Morris led the reporter into the Combat Information Center, explaining that the drill he was about to see was to make sure his men could do everything properly even in the dark.

”One of those dispatches give you a warning?”

”No, but in six hours we'll be outside of land-based fighter cover. That means Ivan is going to come looking for us.” And it's going to get awfully lonely out here by ourselves, Morris thought. He gave his men an hour's worth of drill. The CIC crew ran a pair of computer simulations. On the second one an enemy missile got through their defenses.

LANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE, VIRGINIA.

The F-15 fighter rolled to a halt just outside the shelter building. The crew chief set the ladder next to the aircraft, and Major Nakamura climbed down, already looking aft at her scorched airplane. She walked over to examine the damage.