“Ken. Have they given us a fixed sortie time yet? How about a destination?”
He watched as she nodded slowly. “Okay Anything else? Ten hundred hours? Damn, what time is it now?”
He watched Amanda look around the room for the time. Her old Pusser’s Lady Admiral wristwatch, along with her earrings and pantyhose, had ended up on the floor beside Arkady’s side of the bed. Scooping up the watch, he took it across to her, receiving a quick smile of thanks in return. As she checked the time, he ran his hand down her bare spine in a good-morning caress, receiving a quick brush of her lips in thanks.
“Okay, Ken,” she said into the phone. “It’s eight-fifteen now. This is how we’ll work it. Schedule an Operations Group for all division heads for oh one hundred hours this afternoon. I should be done with the Admiral by then. I’ll pass the full word at that time. In the interim, you know the drill. Recall all hands and inform them we are deploying … sometime in the near future. Then initiate a full stores and spares replenishment. Get us refueled and commence taking aboard our warloads. Also, set a priority list on whatever in port maintenance we may still need.”
“I presume all officers have been notified? Lieutenant Arkady? Haven’t you been able to locate him?”
Amanda glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she deadpanned perfectly, leaning back against him. “I think I know where he can be located. Is Chris aboard yet? Okay, as soon as she’s in, get her working on one of her patented situation briefings on the current Chinese conflict. I want to know what we’re going to be facing … Very good, then. I’ll be back aboard as soon as I’m finished with Macintyre.”
Amanda flipped the phone shut, staring unseeing across the room. “Arkady,” she said, “Chris was right. It is China. How soon will Aviation Section be ready to load?”
“Whenever you want it, Captain. We’re caught up on all shoreside maintenance. I’m scheduled to run both helos through the RAM calibration range up at Schofield this afternoon. We’re set to go.”
The conversion was beginning. Naked, with the scent of last night’s passion still on their skin, they were already slipping back into their professional personas. Aboard the Cunningham there would be room enough only for the Captain and the Lieutenant. It was a reasonable requirement of the careers that they had chosen, but the man and the woman had the right to regret the necessity.
“Time to ride,” Amanda said. “I have to be back at the base in about two hours.”
“Will you be able to grab some breakfast before you get back to the ship?”
“I think so.”
They sank down on the end of the bed. Amanda nestled against him, neither of them quite willing to come back into the real world for another few moments.
“Thank you, Arkady,” she murmured.
He slipped his arm around her and gently nuzzled her hair, kissing her forehead just at the part in her soft bangs. “You. It’s just till next time, babe.”
“’ll next time.”
NAVSPECFORCE Headquarters reeked of fresh paint. Naval Special Forces Command was the new kid on the Pearl Harbor block. Accordingly, it had inherited one of the oldest base administration complexes, a sprawling set of single story cinder-block buildings that dated back to the Vietnam construction boom. A major renovation and rebuild job had been required; civilian contractors could still be found puttering in odd corners of the complex, leisurely applying the finishing touches.
NAVSPECFORCE was a new kid in more ways than one. The successor to the U.S. Navy’s old Special Warfare Command, it was an effort to bind all of the Fleet’s diverse unconventional warfare and intelligence-gathering assets under one roof: SEALs Marine Force Recon, commando carrier and raven submarines, and the Special Boat, Aviation, Submersible, and Patrol Craft Squadrons.
Thanks to the insistent and effective politicking of Vice Admiral Elliot Macintyre, the newly appointed CICNAVSPECFORCE, the new command had also acquired all of the Navy’s stealth hulls, including the USS Cunningham.
It was a controversial move, the controversy emanating from without, as the other Fleet Flags screamed over the loss of ships and assets, and from within, as Special Forces commanders brooded over their loss of independence.
As for Amanda, she was ambivalent. The Annapolis-bred conservative in her was leery of overspecialized cloak-and dagger outfits. On the other hand, there was a potential challenge about special operations, one that she found very intriguing.
“Morning, Captain,” Christine Rendino sang, falling into step beside Amanda as she walked down the entry corridor.
“Good morning, Chris. What are you doing here?”
Like Amanda, Christine was wearing a set of summer Navy whites. Unlike Amanda, however, some minute aspect of attitude and posture downscaled them from a uniform into mere clothing.
This was part of a faint and indefinable air that always seemed to hang around the Duke’s intel, one that tended to make some more conventional personnel vaguely uneasy. It was the sensation that hallowed traditions and standards were being acceded to only out of amused indulgence.
“I was called in to be briefed on some totally radical new toys we’re going to get to play with,” Christine replied.
“Such as?”
“A tactical remote sensor net for littoral operations.”
“The hydrophone buoy system?” Amanda had read some of the literature on the system.
“Exactly. A fast SOSUS barrier to go with a side of fries. This will be the first actual tactical deployment. We’re getting a whole lot of other neat stuff, too.”
“Anything special I should know about?”
“Hmm, just that it means that we’re going to be working up close, Boss Ma’am. Up close and personal.”
Precisely at ten hundred hours, Maclntyre’s aide ushered Amanda into the Admiral’s office.
She had served under Vice Admiral Elliot Edward “Eddie Mac” Maclntyre’s command a few months prior. He had been Commander in Chief Atlantic Fleet when she had taken the Cunningham into the Antarctic campaign. Since then, and since being assigned to NAVSPECFORCE, she had met with Macintyre aboard ship and on the neutral ground of official functions a number of times.
This, however, was her first meeting with the Admiral on his home turf. As Amanda crossed the dozen steps to his desk, she made a quick, discreet survey of the room, seeking to learn more about the man by his personal environment.
A bold, abstract seascape hung on the inside wall, along with a collection of pen-and-ink prints of American warships. The ones he had served aboard? Possibly.
A stereo cabinet sat in the corner, the hide of some exotic looking animal, maybe a tree kangaroo, mounted above it. Its music rack was loaded with an eclectic-looking assort merit of CDs, cassettes, and even a few frayed LP jackets.
There was also a well-filled bookcase, a wooden model of an Arab sailing dhou placed on its upper shelf. Amanda recognized it as genuine Red Sea craftwork.
Then there were the photographs displayed prominently on one corner of the desk. The two college-age boys and a younger girl, and an older picture of a lovely raven-haired woman.
As for the man himself, Elliot Macintyre was somewhat more than average height, had broad, square-set shoulders, and a craggy solidity. His brown hair was graying and his face had weathered with long years at sea. Nonetheless, Amanda noted a younger man’s vitality in the way he moved, and a youthful intensity in his dark eyes.
“Captain Garrett reporting as ordered, sir,” she said, her fingertips snapping to her brow.
“Good morning, Captain,” Macintyre replied, returning her salute. “Please, sit down. Coffee?”
His voice was good as well, steady and deep with no hint of condescension.