A rare smile split across Tombstone’s face. “I kind of figured you’d say that. We’ve just met, but I’ve flown with this guy before, and I know how he operates. I figure any woman who could put up with him would have to be twice as ballsy.” A slight red flush spread up Tombstone’s cheeks as he realized how politically incorrect he’d been. But damn it all to hell, did it really matter? Adele Simpson knew what he meant, knew it was a compliment of the highest order. If some politically correct hack wanted to bitch about an admiral’s choice of words under these circumstance, then to hell with him.
“When can we leave?” Adele asked.
The chief of staff spoke up. “Your boat’s tied up on the far side of the carrier. I’d like to take about half an hour, get it fully stocked up, let you and Lab Rat work out the coordination and code. That’ll give the boson’s mate time to run a couple of stripes down it, maybe disguise it just a little bit. So I’d say thirty minutes, no more than an hour.”
“We’ll be ready,” Adele said. She turned to her husband. “Won’t we?”
“You’d better believe it.”
Forty-five minutes later, the small vessel was ready to go. Under Adele’s direction, Jack piloted away from the massive carrier, careful to steer away from the sea chests, the giant suction intake inlets that sucked seawater into the ship for a variety of purposes. Jack appreciated the clean, hard thrum of the engines, the feel of the helm vibrating under his hands. Tombstone — correction, Admiral Magruder — had been right about the boat’s qualities. He’d have to keep an eye on the diesel engines, but the mechanics on board the carrier said that they thought they’d corrected the problem.
An hour later, Jefferson was merely a dark smudge on the horizon, while the first outlines of the massive Chinese ship were already visible. As he piloted, Jack kept up a steady scan for any aircraft, but the only contacts he could see were F-14s. A few jump jets made routine takeoffs and landings on the Chinese ship, but evinced no curiosity in the Simpson’s boat.
“So how do we look like a pleasure craft?” Adele asked. “It’s about time we started trying to maintain our cover, don’t you think?”
“Break out those fishing rods and the cooler,” he directed. A couple of sailors had raided the MWR compartment to provide them with evidence of their reasonable cover story.
Jack backed the boat off to a more than reasonable ten knots, and felt the motion of it change as the swells took it more heavily. He maneuvered around to get the waves on the quarter bow, then set the small boat on autopilot. In the stern, Adele cast out the first line.
“The way the set and drift is running right now, we should start easing up on her,” Adele said as she reeled in the line and rebaited her hook. “Let’s keep an eye on the rest of the boats, see what they’re doing. We’ll make like fat, dumb and happy tourists, out for a little fishing and a good look at the invaders. Just look at them — nobody looks like they’re taking this too seriously, do they?”
From what Jack could tell, there was very little evidence that most of the boaters took any notice of the invasion at all.
“Something’s happening,” he said suddenly, staring uneasily at the massive ship. “Something about the stern — hold on, where are those binoculars?”
Adele handed the binoculars with a cautionary, “Watch the angle of the sun, and get down behind the cowling — no point in their seeing us staring at them with binoculars.”
“I’ll bet most of the boaters are, though,” Jack muttered, but still ducking down behind the cowling. He tweaked the binoculars into focus, and stared at the stern of the ship. Something about the angle… “A well deck,” he said. “Get on the horn, let Lab Rat know — that damned thing is not only an aircraft carrier, it’s an amphibious assault ship as well.”
“How long have we got?” Adele asked as she punched the speed dial button for Lab Rat’s direct line.
“If it’s anything like an American ship, it will take them at least thirty minutes to get the well deck flooded and the ships deployed. Maybe less — we don’t know what technology they’re using. But I’m betting it will take them even longer, since we’re dealing with a converted merchant ship of some sort.”
He studied the ship and watched her settle in the water while he listened to Adele report their facts to Lab Rat. If the Chinese were sending troops ashore, it was going to be damned difficult to dislodge them once they were in place. With a sinking feeling, he found himself wondering just how long this siege would last.
“You’re certain of this?” Lab Rat said, his expression mirroring the doubt in his voice. “An amphibious ship?”
He listened carefully while Adele Simpson ran through the details of what Jack was observing. Finally, he said, “Stay on the line for a moment — I’m going to get the admiral on the other circuit.” Still holding the cell phone against one ear, he picked up the white phone and punched in the number for TFCC.
Batman’s reaction was even more incredulous than his own, but the wealth of detail in Adele Simpson’s report quickly convinced both of them. Batman heard Lab Rat put the call on the speakerphone, then the dark, somber tones of Tombstone Magruder joined in the conversation.
“Tell them to get the hell out of the way,” Tombstone said finally. “If we let those troops go ashore, it will be like trying to dig out gophers dislodging them from the island. Whatever else, we’ve got to stop those transports.”
Just then, the phone mounted on the table leg, out of sight just to the right of Batman’s chair, buzzed. He picked it up, said, “Admiral,” and then listened. A look of consternation crossed his face. “I see. Very well, I’ll be there immediately.”
Batman placed the phone back in its hanger, then turned back to the assembled joint staff. “We have another problem. The stern of the second ship just let down in back. There’s a well deck inside, according to the helo pilot.” He gazed around the assembled crowd, making sure they understood what he was saying. “They’re disgorging small boats. Each one looks to be carrying around a hundred and twenty men. And they’re heading for the coast.”
Batman turned to Bam-Bam. “Break off one of the S- 3’s to get as close in as she can and take a look at what’s going on. The Simpsons are riding pretty low in the water — there’s a chance they’ve misinterpreted what they’ve seen.” But as he listened to his TAO give the orders, Batman had a sinking feeling that he was not going to like the report coming from his S-3 any better.
Commander “Rabies” Grill put the S-3B Viking into a gentle turn to the right. The airspace immediately above the Chinese aircraft carrier was abuzz with MiGs, but they seemed to take no notice of his surveillance patrol at this distance. The ship was maybe eight miles away, her structure clearly visible, especially through binoculars. His copilot kept up a careful scan, noting the activity on the deck, the configuration of the ship, and the direction and size of its wake.
“What’s that mother doing?” Rabies muttered. He hummed a few bars of “Love Me Tender,” then said again, “What is that mother doing?”
Without dropping his binoculars, the copilot replied, “Not much. But if you start singing again, I swear I’ll pitch these binoculars right through the windscreen.” Rabies chuckled quietly. His love of country music was well known among all the S-3B Viking aircrews. In a moment of undeniable malice, the VS-29 operations officer had assigned only those individuals with perfect pitch to Rabies’s aircrew. A betting pool had already been started among the rest of the squadron, wagering on which of the other three occupants of the aircraft would be the first to crawl sniveling on his knees to the operations officer. Himself, Rabies had ten bucks on the copilot.