“That’s a pretty damn low P-sub-K,” Noblos put in.
Wenck flattened his cowlick in a familiar gesture, staring at the screen. Lost, obviously, in the numbers. “Ain’t gonna get much better, Doc. No matter what, it’s gonna be a crossing engagement, unless they’re shooting right at us. P-sub-K goes down, ordnance expended goes way up.”
Despite himself, Dan’s gaze went to the Ordnance status board. It would tell him, moment by moment, what and how much he had left in his shot lockers.
But defending Indian military airfields wasn’t really his mission. Unless the U.S. and India were allies, a change he didn’t think he’d have missed. The Indians hadn’t been exactly welcoming to the U.S. Navy since independence, though the chill had lessened since China’s rise. He tapped on the glass. “So what you’re saying is, we can’t count on knocking many warheads down. And, goddamn it, that limited range is really hurting us.” Depending on geometry, again, the Block 4A intercept envelope extended out to a little over 120 nautical miles. He rubbed his chin. “Okay, that’s Pakistan. How do we look against an Indian launch?”
“Still a crossing shot. Intercept about a hundred and fifty kilometers up.” Wenck circled the suspected deployment area, and drew lines from there to various ground and air bases. All five people regarded them silently. “We could knock down anything headed for Karachi,” he added, sounding as if he was trying to be helpful.
“What about own-ship defense?”
Mills said, “In BMD mode, of course, we’re peeking through a soda straw… almost blind. We’ll have to depend on Mitscher for protection. Mainly because of that, I’d like to stay at least sixty miles offshore. That keeps us out of range of both sides’ coast defenses, and gives some warning of any incoming surface or air threats.”
“Shit, that really cuts down our coverage.” Wenck blinked at the screen. “We can’t crowd the goalposts any closer? We’re gonna be way, way off base on this one. Especially if they launch against northern India.”
“Exactly so,” Noblos put in. “That will be a ninety-degree ground path crossing angle, and you’ll have to intercept at apogee. As flyout times compress, acquisition and track, initialization and launch, all get more critical… probably beyond the skill level of this team, given your manning, documentation, and training deficiencies, and your interfacing problems as documented in my previous reports to you, the ISIC, and COMNAVSURFOR.”
Crap, Dan thought. He said, half hopefully, “Did you actually recommend decertification?” If ALIS and the Block 4 were no longer mission capable, he could report that and withdraw. The capability was still experimental, after all. Probably ending his own career, such as it was, but at least pulling his sailors out of a quickly narrowing crack.
Noblos quirked his eyebrows. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Captain. I’m not at all happy, but your technicians are barely — just barely”—the rider glared at Wenck, who smiled back—“keeping it in spec. Patched and baling-wired together. So far, at least.”
Dan rubbed his face, unutterably weary. What the hell were they doing here? Putting American skin in the game, if the subcontinent erupted into war again? Giving the diplomats a tiny bit of leverage over two opponents that had never actually been very responsive to outside pressure? The two nations were fixated on each other. Like two wrestlers in a cramped ring, they had no attention to spare for spectators.
Noblos sniffed. “Well, if no one else will, I’ll sum up.”
Dan sighed. “Please do, Doctor.”
“We can intercept Pakistani launches slightly more easily than Indian, but they’ll all be crossing engagements, and our chances poor. We only have twelve rounds, so at those P-sub-Ks, we might take down two warheads. Not enough to have any conceivable impact. So my recommendation is, Mr. Mills is correct. We should stay well out to sea, out of harm’s way. If ordered, lob our rounds in there, but don’t encourage Washington to expect much in the way of results.”
Dan blew out and straightened. His knees shook. Had to get off his feet, before he fell down. “All right, I think we’ve got to the bottom line. Thanks for your inputs. I’ll take them into consideration in deciding on our patrol footprint. Remember to pass to your division officers and chief that scuttlebutts and showers are secured until further notice. The XO will pass the word on a limited freshwater issue for personal use.”
They broke, and each left in a beeline. Dan was left leaning on the DRT. Looking down into the glass, wishing it were a crystal ball. Savo was nearly helpless in TBMD mode, especially if she had to continually scan the immense arc from Karachi to the Gulf of Kutch. That meant high duty factor at peak power, a combination guaranteed to generate a high failure rate. If it wasn’t for Mitscher, he’d have serious doubts about own-ship survivability. She’d be the shield to Savo’s arrows, but how were those all-too-few arrows expected to be employed? And against whom?
Pakistan?
India?
Whoever struck first?
Or both sides, equally?
He lowered his head. Doubts and questions belonged in a message. And maybe he ought to do just that. Right after he got his head down for a few minutes…
Once again he was awakened, in the dark, this time by a tap at the door. It was the chief master-at-arms. “Captain, got a major problem.”
“What?” he grunted, rubbing grit from his eyes. Was he ever going to get an uninterrupted hour of sleep again?
“Sir, one of the storecreatures, I mean storekeepers, reports she was grabbed from behind, blindfolded, taken into a void, and assaulted.”
“Oh, Christ.” He felt sick, and not just from the aftereffects of the crud. As they’d all feared, the steel beach ejaculator had escalated. He sat up and coughed long and hard. Finally choked out, “Who? Is she hurt?”
“Celestina Colón, sir. Seaman storekeeper. She’s in sick bay, but doesn’t seem to be injured, aside from bruises. At least not that I could see before Chief Corpsman shut the door.”
Dan sagged back, panting, coughing. His scarred trachea spasmed, and closed. He gagged, rolling on his side, trying desperately to clear his airway. He reached for the emergency escape breathing device, clipped to the bulkhead. It was charged with oxygen. But pulled his hand back, got the inhaler instead, and triggered a cold burst of vapor down his windpipe. Tried to calm himself. Tried to breathe…
“You all right, Skipper?”
“Yeah… yeah.” He coughed some more, finally got a full breath, and rolled out. Planted his bare feet on the deck tile.
Then reached for his coveralls, and got dressed.
15
An unpleasant sense of déjà vu that wasn’t déjà vu at all. Once again he was interviewing a female crew member. But this time, in sick bay instead of the exec’s cabin. And this time, she hadn’t just been fondled, threatened, and ejaculated on.
The victim was a stony-visaged crewwoman sliding back and forth on the leatherette of Grissett’s examining table as Savo Island, rolling and surging in the swells thirty knots of wind from the south-southwest were pushing up, creaked and groaned deep in her steel bones. Colón didn’t look shocked, or numb. Her coveralls were pulled down to the waist. She wore a white uniform-issue T-shirt sweat-stained under the pits. Chief Toan, the master-at-arms, stood behind her; Cheryl Staurulakis leaned in the corner, arms folded; Dr. Schell, who’d apparently been called in, was snapping off green latex gloves by the sink. He started to reach for the tap, but diverted in midmotion to a plastic gallon jug, to pour the rinse water from.