"There has been nothing overt, barring that one threat to our plane," Dr. Towers replied. "The Chileans seem to be working with them. At least they're maintaining normal station-to-station communications. They've broken off direct contact with everyone else and they are refusing to allow foreign aircraft to land at San Martin or at any other of their bases. This is another major violation of the Antarctic Treaty—" Dr. Towers brought herself up short. "Pardon me, I'm going to have to get used to the fact that the treaty doesn't mean all that much anymore."
"Oh, I don't know about that, Doctor," the Secretary of State replied, returning his attention to the folder. "We shall see, as the blind man said."
4
As with all of the world's warships, the Cunningham's wardroom served her officers as a combined dining area, lounge, and auxiliary work space. It was home, all that they had while they were at sea. Accordingly, they had contributed generously to their mess fund to ensure that home was a comfortable place.
The traditional gray linoleum decking had been covered with navy blue carpeting, and the single, long wardroom table had been supplemented by several comfortable-looking pieces of Danish modern furniture in russet leather. One bulkhead mounted an entertainment center, complete with stereo and video system and ranked CD and LD cabinets, while the others were sheathed in "redwood" paneling, handsome despite being a safety-cleared fireproof synthetic.
The bulkheads also displayed a growing collection of memorabilia. Launching and commissioning photographs, a nearly empty deployment plaque, and a meter-wide enlargement of the Cunningham's official ship's patch: a circular sigil divided across, with light blue sky above and dark blue sea below and with a phantom outline of the Duke's silhouette sailing on the horizon. Her name and Fleet Identification Number arced across the top of the patch in gold, while her motto, "Strike in Stealth," curved along the bottom in silver.
Flanking the hatchway leading aft were two special items. To port was a small glass case containing a worn pair of naval aviator's wings. They had been a commissioning gift, bestowed by the man whose name the ship now carried: Rear Admiral Randy "Duke" Cunningham, the Navy's legendary first ace of the Vietnam era.
Mounted on the bulkhead to starboard was another commissioning gift: a painting, done by a seafarer for seafarers, in blues, grays, and misty silvers.
It was a presentation of a rather unusual destroyer squadron, running in echelon formation across a foam-streaked sea. In the foreground was the Cunningham herself, leading the line. Holding position on the Duke was a big, slab-sided Spruance-class DD. Beyond her was a rakish Charles F. Adams from the 1960s, and beyond that, the five-turreted silhouette of a World War II-vintage Fletcher. In turn, almost lost in the horizon haze, were the pole mast and slender funnels of a First World War four-piper.
At the bottom of the white oak frame was a small bronze plate bearing the last verse of Rudyard Kipling's poem "The Destroyers":
Among its other uses, the wardroom was the usual setting for the ship's O groups.
The operations-group command style had been a concept developed by the armed forces of Great Britain and brought to its fullest fruition by that nation's Special Air Service during the 1970s. Consisting of the commanding and executive officers and the senior division heads, the O group was convened to confer and brainstorm over mission planning and operational and tactical developments.
Many officers of the old school disapproved of the O group. They claimed it eroded the captain's authority and pushed perilously close to command by committee. Amanda Garrett, however, preferred it, never having been the kind of officer who believed a captaincy automatically conferred omnipotence.
As she glanced around at the little cluster of men and women gathered at the wardroom table, she realized again that she had been blessed with a good team. Certain of them, like Ken Hiro and Christine Rendino, she had served with before and had been able to select. With the others, she had just been damn lucky. One would have to be a fool not to take advantage of their input, and Amanda wasn't a fool.
"…In short, that's the situation. Once we complete preparations for deployment, we are to proceed immediately to Drake Passage and establish a patrol station. Once there, we await reinforcements or new orders, whichever come first. Any comments?"
She watched intently as each division head digested the orders and considered how they would affect his or her particular area of responsibility.
Hiro was the first to speak. "Without tender support, I don't see what kind of deployment preparations we can make. We have to go with what we've got, unless the Brazilians are willing to loan us some compatible gear and stores. Either that or wait for the stuff to be airlifted in."
"There's another option, Ken. We've got the Boone sitting right next door. We can interface with their stores list and requisition anything they have that we can use. Then we sling the stuff over using the helos."
"Commander Stevens isn't going to like having his paperwork messed up like that, Skipper."
"I can't help that, Ken. I'm going to the South Pole. He's limping home with a busted prop. If he throws too much of a snit, remind him that I have four months in grade on him. If that doesn't work, refer him directly to me. CINCLANT will back us on this."
"Does that include fuel, Captain?" Chief Engineering Officer Carl Thomson inquired.
Lieutenant Commander Thomson was a big, quiet, shambling man who had likely grown a little tired over the years of being compared in appearance to John Wayne. In his early forties, he was the oldest of the Cunningham's officers, overage in grade because he had always displayed more interest in ship's systems than he had in career planning.
"How do we stand on bunkerage, Chief?" Amanda inquired.
"Sixty-seven per."
"I don't think we want to fuss around with a ship-to-ship transfer. See if the Brazilians can provide us with a fueling barge on short notice. If not, we'll pay a call on the Brits and top off down at Port Stanley. How's the plant otherwise?"
"She's holding together."
Amanda smiled a little. Translated from Thomson-ese, that meant that the drives were in as close to perfect a condition as human dedication and ingenuity could bring them.
Her attention moved on to her tactical action officer.
"Okay, Dix, can Weapons Division report the same?"
First Lieutenant Dixon Lovejoy Beltrain did not at all fit the popular image of a computer geek. In fact, the sandy-haired TACCO looked far more like the first-string quarterback he had been at the University of Alabama.
Nevertheless, he was one of that first generation to be raised interacting with computers from kindergarten on up. He plugged in to the guided-missile destroyer's fire-control matrix as effortlessly as one of his own black boxes and played the master missileer's console as if it were a cheap video game.
"The Aegis Two system and all secondary surface and air sensors are four-oh, ma'am. Same with the ASW suite. All fire-control and weapons systems are up and on line."
"Ordnance loads?"
"Full warloads in all torpedo tubes. Phalanx magazines are also full. From ordnance testing, we're down about forty rounds of seventy-six-millimeter, fore and aft, for the Oto Melaras, but I guess we can top up from the Boone on that. As for the Vertical Launch Systems…"