And so far, she had. The ship—her ship—was in the highest readiness condition he’d ever seen. Every combat system, every measurement of personnel performance, was breaking records in the fleet. Hell, even the food was better.
So why was it that she was such a thorn in his side? Was he just a tad bit pissed off that her statistics in command of Jefferson were higher than his had ever been?
He’d talked it over circumspectly with an old friend, Admiral Batman Wayne, not getting right to the heart of it but edging around the issue. Batman, as usual, had nailed the heart of it. “You’re a Texan and she’s a good-looking woman.” Batman had cocked one quizzical eyebrow at him. “You see any reason for this problem you’re having?”
“I don’t,” Coyote had replied stiffly, aware that the back of his neck was itching, as it always did when he strayed from the truth.
“Ah. So it’s like that, is it?” Batman smirked.
“No, it’s not,” Coyote snapped. Then belatedly. “Like what?”
Not that he’d had to ask. As soon as he’d seen that snide expression on Batman’s face, Coyote had known the truth. Captain Bethlehem, a tall woman with striking blue eyes and blue-black hair, was indeed one of the most attractive women he’d run across in a long time. And not just physically — there was something about her presence, her command presence, that attracted him in a way he didn’t understand.
Pushy women weren’t his type.
“I’ve doubled the lookouts as well,” Captain Bethlehem continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that her admiral had yet to turn and look at her.
“Good.” Finally, his innate sense of courtesy and good manners shaming him into action, he turned to face her.
Seated, his face was level with hers, although he had a good six inches in height on her when they were both standing. Once again, he was conscious of the fact that they were built along similar lines, both lean and smoothly muscled, both taller than most people around them. On her, however, the overall impression was one of a competitive swimmer, while Coyote had always verged on an awkward lankiness.
“Any new word from United States?” she asked. For the first time, Coyote could see the strain in her face, and he felt a moment of shame for his earlier surliness.
“No. Fire’s out, reflash set. I imagine we’ll hear from them when things settle down. This is bound to change things,” he answered.
Coyote was itching to grab the mike and call his counterpart on board United States to see how it was going. But he resisted the urge, knowing that the captain and admiral on board the other ship had far more important things to do than talk to him. Eventually, when they got out the required alert messages, treated all the casualties, and made sure that the area around the ship was cleared of potential threats, they’d have time to talk. But not until then.
“We’re ready,” she said simply, knowing as well as he did what was coming. The Jefferson would be ordered into the Red Sea and would take part in any retaliatory strikes. It was only a matter of time.
“I know you are,” he said, and was only slightly surprised to realize that he meant it.
The call, when it came, was simple and straight to the point. Admiral Blair Jette, call sign Jetson, sounded tired and unusually candid. “It could’ve been a lot worse, Coyote. A lot worse. If the fire had spread to the helo, we would’ve been fighting a Class Delta fire.”
Coyote shuddered. “Not a good thing.”
“You got that right.”
“So. Any damaged operational capabilities I should know about?” Coyote asked.
“Nothing that should affect you. We’ve had to reroute a few fire lines, but that’s about it. Nothing we can’t handle with ship’s crew. But what worries me is the larger situation here. That small boat — we never held it on radar at all. It was all visual.” Jette’s voice held a note of wonder, as though he still wasn’t able to understand how a small wooden craft had posed such a danger to his carrier.
“That worries me, too,” Coyote admitted.
“Listen, the intelligence indications we’re getting down here — if I were you, I’d be standing by to inchop the Red Sea. Things look like they’re heating up again, and you may want to be in position to strike.”
“That bad?”
“Potentially. Nothing we can’t handle, of course.” The cocky note that Coyote had come to associate with Jette was back, as though he hadn’t just fought a fire on board his ship. “Take a look at your intelligence circuits — you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
Coyote glanced to his right, and Commander “Lab Rat” Busby, Jefferson’s intelligence officer, stepped forward. He was a short man, barely topping five feet six inches in height, perhaps 130 pounds soaking wet, and most of that was devoted to brainpower, Coyote believed. Lab Rat’s pale blue eyes, light hair, and light eyes had earned him his nickname in his early days of aviation training.
Without keying the mike, Coyote asked, “What’s he talking about?”
“Four more violations of the no-fly zone, this time with some fairly serious aggressiveness. There was one strafing run on a group of refugee trucks. Also, we have some human intelligence, not of high confidence, but still, that there are some new developments in Iraq’s biological-warfare program.”
“What sort of developments?” Coyote asked. The strafing runs, the no-fly zone — normal stuff, even if detestable. But anything having to do with biological weapons really got his attention.
“No one knows for sure, Admiral. The report may have been sanitized pretty heavily before it was sent to us, but if you read between the lines, you can tell what’s going on. Whatever it is, the folks back at the CIA are worried about it.”
“Ebola? Something like that?”
That diminutive intelligence officer shook his head. “I don’t think so, nothing but a few details. If I had to guess — and mind you, it’s just a guess — I’d say black plague.”
A shudder ran through Coyote. The name alone conjured up apparitions so horrible that he hated to contemplate them.
“Coyote, you still there?” Jette asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Coyote answered as he tried to sort out the implications of what Lab Rat had just told him. “Catching up on a few things with my intelligence officer. And I agree with you, it looks like the stage is set for another major play. But under the circumstances, I’m not inclined to move into the Red Sea immediately. The waters are little bit too constrained for my taste.”
“Exactly so, but there’s no reason to be too concerned about that.” The other admiral’s voice sounded, if anything, even cockier than before. “This time of year you get a good wind across the deck — no problem launching and recovering.”
“Constrained waters,” Coyote began again, but Jette cut him off.
“The only reason a carrier needs much water is to launch and recover aircraft, and the prevailing winds are right along the whole length of the Red Sea. So you’re a little closer to land — big deal. Nothing that your close-in weapons systems can’t deal with.”
Like yours just dealt with the Stringer?
Jette should know better. Sure, he was new to his battle group and had spent more time in Washington than on cruises, but that was no excuse. The constrained waters were something to worry about, and it had nothing to do with a man’s guts or courage. It had to do with good, prudent seamanship.
“Well, we’ll stand by for orders,” Coyote said finally. “I’ve been in the Red Sea and know that we can deal with shorter reaction times.” The Silkworm sites — I guess I better brush up on those. There’s no telling what else they have in the area now.