“I just hope I won’t let you down. Commander,” said Kromer as she gratefully sipped her coffee.
“Hey, that’s Phil to you,” shot back the personable medical officer.
“I wish there was time for you to get some shuteye, but men, women, and children are dying from this epidemic as we speak. So I’d better see about getting you immediate transport to Naha.
And we’ll have to get you fitted into a biohazard containment suit.”
Miriam Kromer nodded in consent and diverted her gaze back to the top photograph. The black lesions displayed were the sole visible clues to the mysterious, deadly disease whose diagnosis, treatment, and eventual elimination was now her number one priority.
Captain Steven Webster strode into Combat Information Center on the Enterprise like he owned the place. This large, equipment-packed compartment was the nerve center of the ship. It washere that the voluminous data gathered by the carrier task force’s various defensive sensors was integrated, the objective being to protect the Enterprise from attack.
A pair of elevated command chairs was placed in the center of the CIC. Seated in one, before an immense, digitally lit perspex screen, was Commander Samuel “Red” Rayburn, the Enterprise’s executive officer. Though he had gone prematurely bald soon after graduating from the Naval Academy, the XO had a full, rust-colored mustache that he kept impeccably groomed. Thus the source of his nickname.
Red had flown a Grumman A-6 Intruder during Viet Nam, and had over 3,000 flight hours and 600 carrier-arrested landings to his name. Always one who got right down to the guts of a matter. Red spoke up as Captain Webster climbed into the vacant seat beside him.
“It was a Seahawk off the Bunker Hill that first tagged the bogey with dipping sonar a little over ten minutes ago.”
Webster absorbed this curt report while studying the navigational chart displayed on the large, clear plastic screen that hung before them. In a matter of seconds, the captain was able to determine the exact location of the Enterprise, along with the assorted frigates, destroyers, cruisers, and support vessels comprising the carrier battle group. Webster paid particular attention to a single flashing red star located on the extreme northern sector of the chart.
This was the last known position of their socalled bogey.
“Where’s the Hawkbill?” he questioned.
“At last report, they were patrolling due west of us,” answered the
XO.
Webster diverted his eyes from the screen and directly met the serious gaze of his second in command.
“Red, if we indeed have an unfriendly submarine out there attempting to penetrate this task force, we’re going to have to rely on Slaughter and his crew to convince her that she has no business here.”
“I hear you loud and clear. Skipper,” returned the XO ashe rolled the clipped end of his mustache.
“I’ll convey the word to the Hawkbill at once.”
Commander Chris Slaughter and his XO, Lieuten ant Commander Benjamin Kram, initiated their biweekly inspection of their current command in the Hawkbill’s aft engine spaces. Though not the most modern attack sub in the fleet, the USS Hawkbill was a potent underwater platform, capable of holding its own against any adversary. Over two hundred and ninety feet long and displacing well over four thousand tons, the Hawkbill was fitted with an upgraded BQQ-5 sonar suite, anewly installed BQR-23 towed array, and a sophisticated firecontrol system.
Four torpedo tubes angled out beneath the fin, each capable of launching a variety of weapons, including the Mk48 dual-purpose torpedo and the Harpoon antiship missile. One hundred and seven officers and enlisted men made up the crew, many of them having just been born when this sub was originally launched from the San Francisco Naval Shipyard back in the early seventies.
The air washeavy with the wax-like scent of warm polyethylene as the boat’s two senior officers headed forward after completing their inspection of that portion of the sub fondly known as Hawkbill Power and Light. A single S5W pressurized water-cooled nuclear reactor was located here. This was the heart of the Sturgeon-class vessel’s propulsion system. The heat produced by this device drove a pair of geared steam turbines that powered a single propeller shaft capable of producing a forward speed of well over thirty knots.
Quite satisfied with the performance of the engine-room staff, Chris Slaughter led the way through a thick, steel hatchway. At six feet, two inches, the Hawkbill’s thirty-seven-year-old captain took extra care not to bump his head ashe stepped into the passageway that would take them directly into the galley.
Tall for a submariner. Slaughter nonetheless circumnavigated the cramped spaces of his command with a minimum of bumps and bruises.
The XO barely had to duck his head ashe climbed through the hatch and sealed it behind him. Benjamin Kram was agood four inches shorter than Slaughter. A native of Redondo Beach, California, the blond-headed XO curiously sniffed the air of the passageway and lightly commented.
“Smells like we’re finally getting some real steaks for chow. Skipper.”
“I concur,” said Slaughter ashe proceeded forward.
“I must admit it will be a welcome relief after a solid week of turkey stew, turkey chow mein, and turkey patties.”
“Chief Mallot tried to explain low cholesterol and the health benefits — of turkey”—Kram remained close on his skipper’s heels—“but unfortunately, he didn’t get through to the crew. Why for awhile there, when he served that turkey loaf last Sunday, I thought we might have a mutiny on our hands.”
“That would sure be one for the papers,” reflected the captain.
“I can see the headlines now. Chow-hound mutineers take over sub. Demand junk food.”
There were wide grins on the officers’ faces as they entered the rather spacious compartment reserved for enlisted men’s meals. A handful of sailors were present, eating at tables covered with red checkered cloths. A rerun of last season’s final Dodger-Mets game played from an elevated video monitor. Slaughter eagerly looked up to check its progress.
“Fernando better start throwing some strikes,” urged Seaman First Class Ray Morales in between bites of steak.
“Otherwise, this game’s history.”
Slaughter noted the portly pitcher’s poor mechanics ashe delivered one ball after the other, then voiced his own opinion.
“Tommy better pull him now. It looks to me like Fernando’s really struggling.”
“Struggling ain’t the word for it. He’s dying out there,” said Morales, who looked over to see where this comment originated. Genuine surprise painted the Hispanic’s face upon viewing the Hawkbill’s commanding officer. He instantly sat up straight.
“I’m sorry. Captain,” he uneasily added.
“At case, sailor,” returned Slaughter, who watched as the Dodger pitcher proceeded to walk in the tying run.
“And you’re right, Mr. Morales. He is dying out there.”
Morales responded, a bit more relaxed now.
“You should know, Captain. After all, pitching was your specialty back at the Academy. Scuttlebutt has it you turned down an offer by the Giants.”
“Actually, it was the Cardinals,” corrected Slaughter.
“And who knows if I would have made it out of spring training. The way I look at it. Uncle Sam offered me a lot better job security.”
A heavy set, crewcut man wearing a stained apron walked out of the food preparation area. One look at the newly arrived pair of officers caused this individual’s youthful face to light up, and he readjusted his wire rims and spoke out warmly.
“Good evening. Captain Slaughter, Lieutenant Commander Kram. Don’t tell me it’s inspection time already.”