“I halfway expected you to be flying the first engagement,” the admiral noted. He grinned as he saw Bird Dog frown.
“I tried to,” the new executive officer admitted. “But the skipper nixed that. Said I didn’t need the practice. Of course, he’s right,” Bird Dog acknowledged, oblivious to the amusement in the admiral’s eyes. “But it seems like there ought to be some good deals in exchange for all the paperwork I wade through every day. You’ve got no idea, sir. No idea.” Bird Dog held up his ring finger for the admiral’s inspection. “Look at that. A paper cut.”
Coyote clapped him on the shoulder. “It just gets worse, my friend. Trust me on that.”
“Vampire inbound,” the officer of the deck announced. Coyote checked the time, then nodded with approval. Right on time, the first drone was making a pass at the battle group.
“If it flies, it dies, right?” Bird Dog asked.
Coyote nodded. “Let’s see how your boys and girls do.”
“Tallyho,” a voice said calmly over tactical. “I have a lock.”
“Who’s that?” Coyote asked.
Bird Dog tried to smile, but it was clear that hearing that particular voice caused an ache in his gut. “Fastball Morrow — you’ve met him, I think. A good stick, and if he ever gets his temper under control, he’s going to be pretty impressive.”
This time, Coyote grinned openly. Yes, he knew Fastball, and Coyote was willing to bet that he wasn’t the only one who felt a deep sense of vindication that Bird Dog was having to deal with him. What goes around, comes around, my young friend.
Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby had just finished briefing the Pentagon’s Joint Intelligence Center on the integration of his intelligence team from the Jefferson into the newly commissioned USS United States battle group. While the Jefferson had been completing repairs from striking a mine, Lab Rat and his crew had been temporarily signed to the Joint Intelligence Center, or JIC, in Norfolk, Virginia. During her sea trials, the United States was suddenly broken off from them and deployed to the Far East to intervene in a conflict between China and Taiwan. Since the ship was still in the process of establishing its manning, Lab Rat had offered Coyote the services of his already well-trained and coordinated department. Given the seriousness of the conflict they were facing, Coyote had taken him up on it. Now, however, the United States had her own people arriving, and Lab Rat and his people were back on the Jefferson.
The Pentagon, concerned with manpower management and maximizing efficiency from detached crews, had been keenly interested in the experience. There were murmurs of approval at Lab Rat’s initiative in suggesting the whole scheme to Admiral Grant, and even more approval of the way it had worked out. Lab Rat had been extremely proud of how his people had acquitted themselves and he was gratified to see that some very senior people in the Navy agreed with him.
On the other hand, no good deal ever went unpunished. The Jefferson had a five-day port visit scheduled in Bermuda — five days of sun, fun, and relaxation. After the whirlwind conflict between China and Taiwan, Lab Rat felt he deserved a liberty in Bermuda a hell of a lot more than the rest of Jefferson’s crew. After all, while he’d been in the thick of it, they’d been bored to death in the shipyards.
But, no, instead of enjoying a mild fall in Bermuda, Lab Rat was trudging through the acres and acres of the massive parking lot with a chill wind biting his ears, looking for the very distant parking spot where he’d left his old Renault. While a commander was a senior officer on board an aircraft carrier, at the Pentagon he was nothing. The place teemed with hot and cold running commanders, captains, and even one stars weren’t that uncommon. And while he appreciated the interest from the Secretary of the Navy, he would rather have been in Bermuda with the rest of his crew.
He was pretty sure Chief Armstrong felt the same way. Senior Chief Armstrong, he reminded himself. The chief’s promotion had come through before the conflict with Taiwan, but Lab Rat still found himself bungling it.
Not that the senior chief deserved that. Senior Chief Armstrong was the smartest intelligence chief petty officer that Lab Rat had ever met in his career. The man possessed an almost uncanny insight into enemy intentions and maneuvers, and had already twice saved Lab Rat’s bacon by noticing something askew in satellite photos or in enemy flight patterns.
No, the senior chief had not been crazy about the idea of spending the ship’s liberty in D.C., either, but that was life in a blue suit. He hadn’t even bothered grumbling. He just fixed Lab Rat with that cold, distant stare, and then shrugged impassively. Lab Rat would find a way to make it up to him.
“I thought that went well, sir,” Armstrong said. “They seemed interested.”
Where the hell is the car? Hadn’t it been in this lot? Maybe it was the next one over — yes, that was it. Lab Rat turned to his left and started hiking again, Senior Chief Armstrong falling into step beside him.
“Lose the car again, sir?” the senior chief asked, sympathy in his voice. “If you like, we can head back in, get some overhead imagery. They got real-time transmissions there. We could locate it just by the rust signature.”
“That is a classic car, senior chief, I will thank you to remember,” Lab Rat huffed. “And there’s not a speck of rust on her, as you well know.”
“Yes, sir. Though I suspect if you could build up some, she wouldn’t leak oil so bad.”
“Entirely normal for her to use a little oil,” Lab Rat said. “It shows she’s well lubricated.”
“Right.” The senior chief smirked, but fell silent.
Senior Chief Armstrong liked the diminutive commander who was in charge of the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC, liked him a lot. Commander Busby, he wasn’t much to look at. Maybe a 120 pounds soaking wet, and just a hair over five feet two inches tall. The senior chief caught himself many times almost calling the commander by his nickname. It was too appropriate not to come automatically to your lips.
Commander Busby had short, Marine-clipped, pale blond hair, and large, translucent blue eyes that seemed to wear a perpetually trusting expression. If you didn’t know him, you would make the mistake of assuming he was a wimp. But you only made that particular mistake once.