"As I said, a rather weird set of circumstances. I borrowed her from Seventh Fleet to work up with the Coral Sea group in a series of stealth-doctrine exercises. They routed her around the Horn instead of through the Panama Canal specifically to show the flag in South American waters."
"Someone in the E ring has been using a Ouija board."
"Weirder still, she's supposed to be way the hell up in the Caribbean by now, but the ship she was running with suffered an engineering casualty in the South Atlantic. They had to divert into Rio for repairs. Sheer dumb luck, Harry."
"I'll take it whenever I can get it."
Van Lynden looked up and spoke briefly to someone offscreen and out of the audio pickup's focus. As he did so, his image faded and pulsed for a moment before restabilizing. The transmission platform at the far end of the telecommunications link had started to maneuver.
Returning his attention to the video monitor, Van Lynden said, "Elliot, we're starting our descent into Buenos Aires. Thanks for the sitrep, and thanks for coming through for me."
"No problem, Mr. Secretary. I'll have a detailed hard copy of the deployment TOE on the datalink to you shortly. Now, if you can give me another second, I need a question answered."
"Go ahead."
"What's the hostility quotient here? Are we just making faces at each other, or could we end up going to guns with these guys?"
Van Lynden shook his head. "I honestly don't know, Elliot. And that's just one of a hell of a lot of things I don't know about this situation. I can't see Argentina actively seeking war with the United States. On the other hand, this is no fly-by-night land grab. It's becoming obvious that they've been planning this for a long time, and that they are deadly serious about it. They're working to some game plan that, as yet, we can't recognize. I don't know how deeply the other major South American powers are involved. I don't know what the Argentines will do if we back them into a corner. I don't even know specifically what they want yet.
"What I do know is that they have launched a major military operation against an ally of the United States, and that a civilian has been killed as a direct result of that operation. Beyond that, I think I'll leave it to your best judgement."
"Very good, Mr. Secretary. We'll keep you advised."
"I'll do the same, Admiral. Take care."
The screen blanked back to a test pattern.
MacIntyre looked up at his Chief of Staff. "Okay, Maggie. What do you think?"
Captain Callendar crossed her arms and rested one still-shapely hip against the edge of the desk. "Well, sir, I think I know what I'd do in this situation, but then I'm a very staid and conservative person."
"So am I. Get a signal off to all Fleet units committed south. They are to proceed under the assumption that they are deploying into a potential combat zone. All rules of engagement are to be applied accordingly. As of now, this is a fangs-out operation."
6
Night had fallen over Rio. From the observation point atop Sugar Loaf Peak, a scattering of tourists and Cariocas looked down upon the starblaze of the city and the darkness of the harbor beyond. Centered in that darkness were the two American warships, glowing blood tone like twin rubies on a black velvet sheet. In the distance could be heard the faint, persistent thudding of rotors.
Closer in, the view was far more hard-edged and prosaic. Cross-decking operations were in full swing aboard the Duke. SAH-66 Sea Comanche helicopters came bellowing in across the water, cargo pallets slung beneath their sleek, fishlike fuselages like pendulous growths. Coming to a hover over decks illuminated by red-lensed floodlights, they eased their payloads down onto the replenishment hard-points. Cargo handlers dashed in, braving the hurricane-velocity downdraft to trip the manual shackle releases so the helicopters could lift clear and cycle back for the next run.
From that point on, it was all on the backs of the Cunningham's sailors. Munitions, spare parts, lubricants, rations, ship's stores of all descriptions had to be sorted out, hogged over to cargo elevators and shell hoists, or packed down companionway ladders. She was a big ship with a comparatively small crew, lacking the luxury of a horde of deck apes and warm bodies. All hands were turned to and would stay that way until the job was done. The destroyer was engaged in a cannibalistic fete at the expense of her smaller sister, gorging herself in preparation for what was to come.
"Begging the Lieutenant's pardon, but what in the hell was he thinking of!"
"I was thinking that she was a pretty sharp-looking lady."
"But she's the fuckin' captain!"
"She wasn't wearing her oak leaves on her swimsuit, Gus," Lieutenant Vince Arkady commented mildly to his systems operator, Petty Officer 1st Class Greg "Gus" Grestovitch. The aviator and the AC-1 had been flying together for some time now and were accustomed to speaking the truth.
"Yes, sir. But begging your pardon again, she has to be at least a three-striper. She's gotta be ancient!"
"Haven't you ever heard of the mystique of the older woman?"
"Oh shit… sir."
Their helo was down on the Cunningham's landing pad for fuel and a fast round of tactical servicing between cross-decking runs. Accordingly, the two naval aviators were taking the opportunity to report in to their new duty station. In the light of certain recent events, even Arkady was willing to concede that it might be a rather sensitive task.
Going forward, they climbed an interior companionway ladder to the second level of the destroyer's deckhouse. Down a short stretch of passage they found the door that bore the ominous designation, "Captain's Quarters."
"We're dead."
"Shut up, Gus. Here…" Arkady shoved his flight helmet into his SO's stomach. "Hang on to that while I go in to do the honors. It'll give you something to do with your hands besides chewing on your fingernails."
Vince approached the gray-panel door, lifted his hand, and hesitated. Damn! Why couldn't that fine lady have been a schoolteacher or a cocktail waitress or a nuclear physicist. Anything on God's green, but his new CO? He took a deep, deliberate breath and knocked.
"Come in," a husky alto replied.
The last hope was gone. He couldn't mistake that voice. Vince flipped the door handle and stepped through briskly. Coming to attention, he fired a precise salute to the figure seated at the desk.
"First Lieutenant Vince Arkady of Heloron sixteen, reporting aboard for duty, ma'am."
Steady, boy, keep those eyes focused on nowhere. Keep that face in neutral. One hint of a grin or a smirk and you are dog meat.
She coped well. Those incredible eyes widened and her jaw dropped slightly, but then she caught herself.
"At ease, Lieutenant," she replied, half rising and returning his salute. "Welcome aboard the Duke. My name… my full name is Commander Amanda Lee Garrett."
She said the latter with a slight, wry smile. Suddenly Vince decided that things were going to be okay.
"Pleased to be aboard, Captain," he replied, peeling open the Velcro flap on the thigh pocket of his flight suit and removing the data disk case he'd been carrying. "Here are my service records, and those of the rest of the aviation detachment. The hard copies are still being processed aboard the Boone and should be across shortly."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Have a seat. I'll be with you in a second."
She dropped back into her chair and snapped the disk case open. It was obvious that any dismay or embarrassment she may have felt over this second encounter was already well behind her. She removed a file — Arkady noted that it was his own — slipped it into the access slot of her workstation terminal, and activated the system with a precise, three-key finger dance.