The Silkworm was a powerful, short-range antiship missile that packed a wallop. It could do far more damage than a little Stinger could, penetrating hulls and strakes to detonate deep inside the ship. It didn’t have to look for an open hangar bay to kill.
“Just keep your boys and girls on their toes and you won’t have any problems,” the other admiral advised, oblivious to the reaction he was producing in Coyote’s command center area. “And when you get ready to come in where the action is, let me know. We can update you on the situation.”
“I’m in the Mediterranean, not San Diego,” Coyote snapped. Sure, he was willing to make allowances for Jette’s arrogance, given what he’d just been through, but tolerance would go only so far.
“Right, right. Well, catch up on your liberty ports and maybe we’ll see you on the front line eventually. United States out.”
Coyote replaced the microphone in its holder, grinding his teeth in frustration. Why, oh why, did he have to be deployed with that particular admiral on this cruise?
The order came later that night. Unless otherwise directed, the USS Jefferson was to inchop the Red Sea and stand by for additional orders. She was to remain in a heightened state of security, particularly in regard to threats from shore-based installations and small boats.
Coyote scanned the orders, then passed his copy to the Chief of Staff. “I’ll be in Medical, if anyone needs me.”
“Anything wrong, Admiral?” his chief of staff asked.
Coyote shook his head. “Nope. Just antsy about the biochem thing. I’ll feel better when I know exactly what we’re doing to plan for it, that’s all.”
He trudged down the ladders and passageways toward Medical. All around him, the crisscrossing lines and pipes were evidence of Jefferson’s intricate, self-contained life-support system. Potable and firefighting lines, electrical junction boxes and compressed air lines and steam lines, all meticulously labeled, surrounded him. Not for the first time, he marveled at how self-contained the Jefferson was. The nuclear power plant provided virtually unlimited energy, sufficient for the ship to make all the fresh water she needed, run the pumps and filters that cleaned her air, provide power to everything from ovens to power tools, not to mention the lights and the air-conditioning. If threatened by nuclear fallout or biological and chemical weapons, Jefferson could button up and put a positive pressure gradient on her interior spaces, making it virtually impossible for any foreign material to enter the ship.
But every strength had its corresponding weakness. Setting Dog Zebra, the material condition that isolated Jefferson’s interior from the outside world, could make her a safe haven in a dangerous environment — or turn her into an incubator. And that little nightmare was just what he wanted to talk to Medical about.
THREE
Kyle Smart had had one particular characteristic in mind when he went hunting for a new dog. Previously he’d been primarily interested in how the dog would get along with the kids, whether it could be trusted around the chickens, and at least the possibility that it might turn into some sort of hunting dog. Black Dog — which is how the last dog had been known — had met those criteria admirably. Though he’d never been much to look at, with his slightly bulging eyes, short shiny black coat, and German Shepherd build, he’d slipped into the family as though he’d been born there.
One night, Kyle had heard the rabid baying of the coyotes. The next morning, Black Dog failed to show up for breakfast.
That was then. This was now. Kyle no longer worried about how good a dog was with kids.
The Internet was responsible for Kyle’s change of priorities. The computer hooked up to the phone line had originally been purchased with the idea that the kids needed it for school. It was an older model, running at a modem speed that would be laughable to most other people, but to Kyle it was a gateway to skills and talents he never knew he had. He understood immediately how it worked, and discovered the Internet was a vast storehouse of knowledge. And if there was anything that Kyle needed right now, it was that.
Things hadn’t been going all that well at the farm. The two hundred acres that had been in his family for generations were still struggling valiantly to produce crops, but time and overfarming had taken their toll. More and more, Kyle had to rely on man-made chemicals that he couldn’t really afford to bolster production. And without the added production, he couldn’t afford the chemicals. The vicious circle went on.
It wasn’t just the land, either. It was the way the whole world seemed to be going, as though not much made sense anymore. Sure, he knew about the ’60s and hippies and everything like that, although he been too young to participate. And there was no denying that some things had changed in some ways for the better over the last several decades. But what bothered him most was the way the government seemed to be working.
Or, more precisely, not working. Increasingly, the measures that came floating out of Washington to the remote areas of Idaho seems aimed personally at him. Farm subsidies were down. Added taxes sent the cost of fuel and fertilizer skyrocketing. The bombing in Oklahoma had even made purchasing fertilizer more difficult, and every day it seemed that taxes went up just a little bit more.
He knew he wasn’t the only one feeling the changes. Last Sunday afternoon, while the children screamed around the church playground and the women gathered in corners to talk about God knows what, Kyle and the other men had tried to figure things out. If only they could see a reason for it all. Like if all the government shit was necessary to protect them from the Soviet Union. Or nuclear war, or depression. But no matter how they turned the issue around, upside down, and inside out, it didn’t seem to make any sense.
Finally, Gus Armstrong, who owned a stretch of land two farms to the north of the Smart spread, put it this way. “It’s not our government anymore. Boys, we just have to face the facts. America’s not what she used to be. And if we don’t do something about it, it’s all going to be gone for good.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, some of the voices angrier than others. “Next election,” Kyle began, but was cut off by a snort of disgust from Gus.
“I’m not talking about elections. There’s nobody left to vote for, anyway. Ever since Nixon, it’s been downhill — except maybe for Ronald Reagan.”
“They’re making the ordinary citizen out to be a criminal, and electing the real criminals to office,” put in another. “It’s just not right.”
No, it wasn’t right. Kyle could feel it in his bones, with an even deeper conviction than any he’d ever felt inside the church behind them. Standing there, with his neighbors and his parents, their grandparents and his grandparents buried nearby, he felt a small surge of hope, or something like it. At least he wasn’t alone. They knew what he was talking about, and it affected all of them.
Gus stood a little straighter, his hands on his hips, pelvis tilted forward slightly. A bank walker, that’s what Gus was, Kyle thought. He had been ever since he was a kid. Strutting around naked on the bank of the pond after the rest of them had jumped in, trying to show off what he had. Not that it was all that much. But it didn’t matter to a real bank walker.