"I can see that," Amanda said, nodding to herself. "The Argentines are the ones playing stealth games now. We're operating under EMCON, so their hunter-killer group does too. That way, neither of us can get a fix on the other. However, to make a run on the convoy, they know that we'll have to light off our fire-control radars. They'll wait for that moment, then they'll plaster us with Exocets set in homing antiradiation mode."
"Either that, or they'll drop back and catch us in a cross fire between the distant and the close escort groups," Christine finished.
"Just a second!" Ken Hiro made a sharp negative motion with his hand. "That compromises the principles of mass and mission intent. These guys are pros. We can't assume that they'll put the convoy at risk just to go headhunting."
"Sure we can," the Intel responded. "All the evidence points to it. Look, Mr. Hiro, we're dealing with a traditional Latino culture here. Macho to the max. For the past few days the Duke has been kicking over their toys and pissing in their sandbox. What's worse, it's been a woman who's been sticking it to them. They've probably got officers out there who would cheerfully flush their whole damn merchant marine down the toilet in exchange for one clear shot at us!"
"It still doesn't make sense."
"No, sir, it doesn't, but we're talking glands here, not brains."
"Let's leave their motivations in abeyance for the moment," Amanda cut in, "and concentrate on what we're going to do about it. Any suggestions?"
Her people didn't have a fast answer. Finally Hiro said, "I'd say our best angle of approach would be from astern. That sector is covered by their two smallest escorts and their weakest sensors. We could come in up their wake, kill their two trailers, then engage the transport line. They'll probably be focusing most of their attention ahead and not behind them. With a little luck, we should be able to work in fairly close before we get spotted."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but that's a crappy tactical setup," Dix Beltrain said emphatically. "For one, coming in from astern like that will reduce our rate of approach by forty percent. They'll have a whole lot longer to spot us. For two, attacking that ship column from astern will make for a real bad targeting template. Minimum radar cross-sections, target overlaps at varying ranges, mutual counter-measures support… I'll be trying to designate into one gigantic blob of chaff and jamming. Before I could guarantee you kills on all three of those transports, the lead escorts and the distant covering force would have more than enough time to swing wide and get a line of fire on us."
"Well, what would you suggest, Lieutenant?" Hiro countered.
"We've got a bad hand here. Let's shuffle the deck again and go for a redeal."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean, let's change some of the tactical parameters here, sir," Beltrain replied heatedly. He looked over to Christine Rendino. "Chris, do we have any more reconsat passes tonight?"
"Hmm, sure. One at about 2400 hours and another at 0430."
"Okay, now our Stealth Cruise Missiles outrange the Argentines' Exocets by a whole lot. I suggest we stand well off the Argy formation and shotgun it with all twelve of the SCMs we've got aboard." Beltrain shrugged. "Heck, we're bound to hit something. Even if we don't get the transports, we might be able to thin out their escort force and blow a hole in their formation. Then we can use the next sat pass to reassess the situation and plot a follow-up strike."
"We can't assume that we'll get the luxury of a second strike, Lieutenant!" Hiro responded. "Without specific target designation, we can't be certain we'll do enough damage to disrupt their formation. We also can't be certain we'll have enough time to develop another favorable tactical situation. We may only get one shot at this, so we've got to be sure."
"He's got a point, Dix," Christine added from the couch. "Come daylight, the Argy Air Force will be covering that convoy like a coat of paint. By the time we get the dark again, they'll have made rendezvous with their icebreakers and they'll be in the pack, beyond our reach. We gonna do it, we gotta do it now. And we better do it right first crack out of the box."
"I know that, Chris, but I still stand by firing on bearing at long range. By my assessment, it has as much chance of working as Mr. Hire's coming-in-the-back-door plan and it doesn't put the ship as much at risk."
Dix looked up at his captain, waiting for her to make the call. All three of her officers were. Amanda stepped off a pace or two, deliberately positioning herself so she would not have to meet their eyes. She didn't have a decision for them.
Belatedly, Amanda realized that she was in no kind of condition for effective mission planning. By rights, she should have been the one putting her own concepts and ideas forward for analysis here. Instead, she found that her tactical awareness was gone. She couldn't hold the full mental image of the developing situation she was confronted with. Her thoughts wouldn't track properly, angling off and chasing around in circles. She could recognize the symptoms; somewhere along the line she had passed a critical level of personal exhaustion.
Come on, Mandy! For half of your life you've worked and built and prepared for this day, and when it comes at last, you crap out because you're short a few hours' sleep.
She rubbed her dry and aching eyes, then glanced at her wristwatch. She'd learned her lesson on the night of the submarine engagement. She didn't have much time left, but she would use a little of what was available to try to get herself back into some kind of shape for decision making.
"Thank you for your input," she said noncommittally, turning back toward her officers. "I'll take it under consideration. It's now 2035 hours. At 2200, there will be a full O group and we'll make a strike commit. Ken, make sure all hands have a chance to take a break and get something to eat. Beyond that, try and get some rest yourselves. It's going to be a long night."
It wasn't what her people were hoping to hear from her, but at the moment it was all she had.
Amanda left the wardroom, heading aft for the companionway ladder that led up to officers' country. She hesitated at its foot, momentarily too tired to climb. Leaning against the side of the passage, she rested her head against the cool steel.
Through that contact, she could feel the living vibration of her ship: the tension and release of the hull working with the sea, the white-hot whisper of the turbines as they fed power into the drive system, the heartbeat-steady thudding of the propellers as they cut dark water. She could recognize each and every movement of that symphony. It was a soothing and steadying thing, something to draw strength from. Amanda did so for a few moments before straightening again and going on her way.
In quarters, she began to work through an old ritual. She ignored water-use restrictions and granted herself a ten-minute shower and shampoo. Toweling off lightly, she pulled on a fresh pair of cotton briefs and a uniform shirt, then turned her attention to her music collection. Selecting a mild instrumental version of South Pacific, she dropped it into her CD player and set the volume to low. Dousing the cabin lights, she stretched out on the top of her bunk. The clock alarm was set to grant her an hour's worth of rest, enough maybe to clear her mind and let her think again.
It was a vain hope. Her pet formula for getting to sleep failed her. Exhausted or not, her mind refused to shut down. Random fragments of thought ricocheted through her mind, prodding her back into wakefulness.
Both Ken Hiro and Dix Beltrain had come up with good concepts. The problem was that somewhere, buried under her blanket of weariness, something kept whispering that they weren't quite good enough.