Inside TFCC, there was no panic. The watch officer, Lieutenant Bailey Kates, appeared calm and in control. He maintained control of the flow of information, juggling ten or fifteen actions at once, all the while keeping his gaze glued to the tactical screen. He said, “Good evening, Admiral,” almost without taking a breath as he monitored the lookout reports and checked the message that awaited the admiral’s signature.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Coyote made a mental note to keep track of the lieutenant and make sure he got the mentoring he needed to move up quickly. Hanson was a good man to start Kates under.
Lab Rat burst into TFCC, still buttoning his shirt. “Evening, Admiral. Anything else?” he asked, already edging back for the hatch, heading for the compartment next to TFCC. The SCIF, or specially compartmented information, was staffed by sailors with stratospheric security clearances. It was the equivalent of TFCC in the top secret intelligence world.
“Nothing new, sir,” Kates said. There was a lull in the action, and he swung his chair around to face Hanson. He handed him a clipboard. “Rough on the message, sir.”
Coyote resisted the impulse to read over Hanson’s shoulder, and instead followed Lab Rat to SCIF. Any explanation might never make it out of that black hole. Frustrating sometimes, but officers were used to not always getting the full story.
Inside SCIF, the air of frustration was immediately evident. Sailors spoke softly over four radio circuits, murmuring into their headsets. Another two ran queries through databases, searching for anything similar. In a few words, the watch officer briefed Lab Rat. “Nothing yet, sir, Admiral. CINCPAC is looking into it as is Seventh Fleet. It’s already gone up to JCS — the JCS watch officer just notified the JCS TAO.”
“Wonderful,” Coyote muttered yet again. There was nothing like having DC and JCS maintain an electronic presence on board the ship. They’d been pinging on Jeff and Coyote particularly hard as the date for the laser test approached.
Trust the Russians to want to beat us to it. It’s Soyuz all over again.
Well, no matter. Even if the Russian system worked, Coyote had no doubt that the American system would be far more accurate and deadly. And on balance, it wasn’t a bad idea if the Russians had one as well, was it? Wasn’t that the whole point of missile defense systems, that they would eliminate the insane race for offense arms in the world?
One of the sailors turned to Lab Rat and peeled off his headset. “Sir? They’d like to speak to you.”
“Who is it?”
“JCS.”
Lab Rat slipped the headset on. He identified himself, and fell silent as he listened. He motioned to the sailor, who passed him a clipboard and pencil. Lab Rat began taking notes. Finally, after about sixty seconds, he said, “Aye-aye, Admiral. I will pass it on to Admiral Grant.”
There was another silence, then Lab Rat said, “Yes, Admiral. I understand.”
With a sigh, Lab Rat pulled off his headset and handed it back to the sailor. “They want to finish up the coordination issues with you.” He turned to Coyote and continued with “JCS says they have no information on this. However, they want complete silence maintained. Not a word anywhere. I’m to personally debrief each lookout and have him sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
“Wow. And they’re not saying anything about it?” Coyote asked.
“Zero, Admiral. That was Rear Admiral Larson I was speaking to. He’s the duty officer.”
“Better you than me,” Coyote answered. Larson was a surface sailor and had a reputation for being exceptionally acerbic with battle group commanders.
“This doesn’t change anything, does it, Admiral?” Lab Rat asked. “We still solid on our test schedule?”
“Yeah, as far as I know. They want it all kept secret, though.” Coyote sighed, contemplating the improbability and sheer lunacy of trying to keep the Russian laser test a secret. That would be only slightly more improbable than keeping their own tests secret. “Okay, make it happen. Everybody signs the damned paper, but make sure the lookouts know what they’re looking for, okay?”
Fifteen minutes after Irving had first reported the laser, a new voice spoke up on his sound-powered phone headset. The voice was older, more authoritarian than the officer of the deck, and for a few moments Irving couldn’t exactly place it. “All stations, listen up. Some of you reported seeing a blue flash in the sky. It was simply a helicopter searchlight at an odd angle to the ship. Nothing unusual. Forget you even saw it. And all lookouts and bridge watchstanders are to report to Commander Busby in CVIC immediately after being relieved.”
A helicopter searchlight? Irving shook his head. Not likely. Besides, they had secured from flight quarters several hours ago, and there were no helicopters airborne. Perhaps off the cruiser or something — no, they would’ve known that, too, as one of the lookouts would have seen it launch and reported it.
What, did they think he was stupid? A searchlight — yeah, right. What a bunch of horseshit. Some of the officers couldn’t even use a computer, and had never been to a laser light show, and they expected him to believe that story? Well, he wasn’t blind. He knew what he had seen, and it wasn’t a searchlight.
The remaining hours of his watch passed quickly as he kept alert for anything else in the sky. He fully expected to see the laser again. Any second now, and he would miss it if he blinked at the wrong time. He kept up an excellent watch, but no matter how hard he stared, the light did not reappear.
THREE
The cruise ship Montego Bay had seen better days. Once the flagship of her fleet, she was now starting to show her age. On more modern ships, gas turbines replaced the steam boilers Montego Bay used for power. Her wooden decking had been stripped, sanded, and refinished so many times that it was now perceptibly lower than the interior of the ship. The cabins were smaller than those found on modern ships, and contained fewer amenities. While the cruise ship company had done what it could to keep her updated and attractive, the Montego Bay was trapped somewhere between a claim to old world charm and sleek modern convenience.
Despite her deficiencies, Montego Bay’s revenues were always positive. She was the favorite of a large class of passengers who enjoyed cruises but found the prices of the newer liners simply beyond their means. Montego Bay provided an acceptable compromise.
Montego Bay was currently working the pineapple run, the voyage between San Pedro Island in Southern California and the Hawaiian island chain. She’d made the trip many times, always uneventfully. This time, through no fault of her own, that would not be the case.
Her captain, Eric Gaspert, had been her master for the last ten years. He knew every sound she made, had walked her through her most recent renovations, and enjoyed being her master. The passengers were far more reasonable to deal with than the very rich. Gaspert liked his job and looked forward to several more years of it.
Gaspert was also a diligent captain, entirely professional and conscientious. This morning, he was on the bridge, reviewing the weather forecasts, notices to mariners, and other operational reports. The notices to mariners, or NOTAMS, particularly caught his attention. These were promulgated by the United States Coast Guard and contained warnings about military operations or other hazards at sea.