The lead symbol winked out first, followed within seconds by the other. By which time the red caret of Meteor Bravo was a hundred miles ahead of them, still on its way north. The area of uncertainty around its target had shrunk to seven miles across, centered west of Peshawar. Where, Dan assumed, the air base lay. He picked up the satcomm and just for form’s sake tried again to report in to CentCom. Again, he got the start of a sync, then a deafening squeal before the transmission cut off. “What in the hell is wrong with our fucking comms?” he muttered, half to himself, half to Mills.
Savo rolled so hard, binders and pencils began to slide, picking up speed to vault off desks and consoles. The air-conditioning came back on in a sighing rush. He plucked sweat-soaked coveralls away from his sweat-soaked skivvy shirt, extracted the Fire key from the lock, and looped the chain around his neck again.
A moment of blackness. He came to with his head on the command desk, a foul taste in his mouth, and someone shaking his shoulder. It was Dr. Schell. “Turn over your seat. Or I’ll inform my reporting senior, copy to yours, that in my judgment, the CO of USS Savo Island is unable to continue in command.”
Cheryl Staurulakis was staring at him over the doctor’s shoulder, her own face etched with fatigue and worry and something very like horror.
Weary.
So unutterably weary.
It was done. For better or worse.
The results remained to be seen.
He lay in his at-sea cabin, alternately dozing and calling the exec, the bridge, and Radio for updates. Over the next hours, news trickled in. Not via the message traffic, and not via GCCS, which had gone down again, but eavesdropped from news programs and shortwave BBC broadcasts.
The airfield and much of the city of Peshawar had been destroyed by a nuclear detonation.
Pakistan, its forces still reeling back despite the kiloton-range airbursts over the southern Indian spearhead, and now with a city burning behind them, blamed the United States for taking sides.
The Chinese ambassador to the UN had announced that units of the People’s Liberation Army were moving into Bhutan, on India’s northern border. India, in turn, had announced a blockade of all Chinese merchant traffic through the Indian Ocean.
The ship lurched and swayed, carrying him, high in the superstructure, in great swoops that pressed him against the bunkstraps. Gray light levered through the porthole. The second hand on the bulkhead-mounted captain’s chronometer jerked, paused, jerked ahead. He looked up from the clipboard, past the radioman, at the copy of Tuchman on his bookshelf. It sounded so familiar. The names had changed. That was all.
At last he couldn’t stand it any longer. He got up and pulled on the same smelly coveralls. Climbed to the pilothouse, clinging grimly to the handrail as the ship rolled around him like some funhouse ride. “Captain’s on the bridge,” the boatswain’s mate shouted.
“Belay your reports,” Dan said, cutting Mytsalo off. The ensign looked barely able to keep his feet. His face seemed longer, leaner, shadowed by stubble. He clung to the radar repeater as if without it he would fall to the deck. The quartermaster, the phone talkers, the helmsman, all looked haggard in the hoary light. And outside, the gray steep waves rolled past under a gray sky. Dan staggered to the captain’s chair, then lacked the force to haul himself up into it. He clung, blinking, brain empty yet still reverberating, like a too-often-rung bell. He coughed into a fist and sucked air.
The 21MC lit at his elbow. “Pilothouse, Radio: Cap’n up there?”
Mytsalo pressed the lever. “This is the OOD. He’s listening.”
“Captain? We got a jury-rigged hookup on satcomm. Not sure what’s wrong with the regular circuit, but we got the maintenance freq to sync. CentCom duty officer’s trying to call you.”
“Got it,” Dan told the ensign. He clicked the red phone on and waited for the beep. “Savo Island Actual. Over.”
“This is CentCom duty officer. Where are you right now, Captain?”
Dan enunciated clearly and slowly, so as not to have to repeat himself. “This is Savo Actual. I am on assigned station, Ballistic Missile OpArea Endive, off the Pak-Indian border. Over.”
“This is CentCom. What are you still doing there? GCCS has you en route to rejoin the task force.”
He blinked. Most commanders knew GCCS wasn’t exactly real world, but some — especially some with stars on their shoulders — seemed to think that if it showed up on the screen it was right there, right now. Even though with the recurrent glitches over the past twenty-four hours, they should trust it even less. But more worrisome than that was why they might think he was somewhere else. “Uh, this is Savo. No, we’re in our assigned oparea. Have you been getting our intel reports? We had to launch on two ballistic missiles. Intercepting strikes. Over.”
A squeal like grinding brakes with worn-out pads. Then “—getting them. But the intel function’s not worth the risk. Over.”
“This is Savo. You’re desyncing. Can you enlighten me as to commander’s intent? Over.”
“This is CentCom. You’re breaking up on this end, too. How copy? Over.”
“Savo, copy that, over.”
“This is CentCom. We’re backing away from the Indo-Pak confrontation. Letting it burn out. That’s a national-level decision. In light of developments elsewhere. How copy? Over.”
Dan grabbed for a handhold as Savo corkscrewed like an old, cunning bronc. Stared out at a massive sea as the bow lifted, then plowed deep, blasting loose a long veil of wavering spray that dimpled the rolling pools on the forecastle like a heavy downpour. Letting it “burn out”? With China invading Bhutan, an Indian ally? Or were those the “developments elsewhere”? “Uh… copy that. Backing away. Over.”
“You should be headed south to meet up with Strike One to fuel. Then you’ll be detached for further duty. At least, that’s the plan so far. Could change. You heard, about the Indian blockade announcement?”
“This is Savo. Affirmative.”
“The latest on that. Hasn’t hit the open media yet. But the Chinese announced they’re not recognizing it. Over.”
Dan hesitated, then clicked Transmit. “This is Savo. Not sure I got that right. Not ‘recognizing’ it? Over.”
“That a blockade is illegal under international law. So they’ll break it, quote, by any means necessary, unquote.” A pause, during which the sync hissed, then, “Zhang says he’s only supporting Pakistan, but… Any means necessary. So, you can understand — a lot of our plans are in flux right now.” A pause. “How copy? Over.”
He took a deep breath, fighting a sense of doom. Most of China’s energy, oil and liquefied natural gas, moved through the Indian Ocean. The Indians had threatened to sever that pipeline. And the Chinese had just announced they’d fight to defend it. “Savo. Copy all. Do you know where they intend to send us? Over.”
“This is CentCom. It is possible satcomm has been compromised. Minimize transmissions on this net. Over.”
Dan lowered the handset, shocked. If voice satellite communications were no longer secure, all fleet comms were endangered. He wanted to ask why they suspected compromise, but the other wouldn’t say, even if he knew. Not on a no-longer-trustworthy circuit. “This is Savo. Roger all, but we have no orders to leave oparea. Over.”