Martin’s response was immediate. “They’re gone! They just disappeared.”
“Closest contact?”
“Bolt Four One is overhead our position.”
Her anger at the jet jockey returned, and she looked up, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to spot the single F-35C Joint Strike Fighter flying over her ship. She would take him to task for his circus stunt, but she couldn’t afford to let it blind her from her responsibilities.
You are the captain.
“Surface contacts?”
“New contact. Unknown merchant vessel bearing zero two zero for two zero miles,” Martin replied. He added, “It was in San Clemente’s shadow.”
“What about AIS?” Beth asked. The Automatic Identification System used transceivers on board ships to supplement surface search radars in identifying contacts. She had seen Iranian vessels attempt to cloak their movements by turning off their AIS transponders, but for a vessel to do so in international waters so close to America’s coast was unheard of.
“Off,” he said.
She stormed back onto the bridge and walked to the radar console, looking at the blip of the unknown surface contact just beyond the dark outline of San Clemente Island. She still thought it unlikely the objects harassing her ship had originated from a ship so far away, but she didn’t believe in coincidences.
“All ahead full,” she said. “Left full rudder, steady on course zero two zero.”
Damn the torpedoes, she thought. Let’s find out who you are.
Colt’s vision slowly returned after he relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the stick, and he exhaled into his mask with relief. He scanned his airspeed and altitude and felt his tension evaporate after assuring himself he was in a climb and had averted a disastrous collision with the warship. But his hands shook with the aftereffects of a boatload of adrenaline.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
He leveled off at five hundred feet over the water, four miles to the ship’s stern, and banked left to regain sight of the Mobile Bay. Gasping for breath, he barely noticed when one of the orbs disappeared. The digitally created square around it remained for a second and a half before it too disappeared.
What the hell?
He flew across the glowing wake as a second orb disappeared, followed quickly by a third. The targeting processor scrambled to keep up, but the artificial squares also disappeared after a short lag. Momentarily forgetting that CAG had ordered him to break contact and return to the ship, he rolled out on a heading to parallel the ship’s course and quickly designated the Mobile Bay as a target and allowed the EOTS to slave to the ship.
By the time he flew abeam the cruiser, the last remaining ball of light had vanished. Poof. Into thin air.
He raced by the ship at three hundred knots before banking the jet in a climbing left turn, thankful it seemed to be responding to his control inputs again. Crossing the bow, he craned his neck to look at the ship over his shoulder, only subconsciously aware it had come to a dead stop. Continuing to circle, he surveyed the infrared image of the ship on his display, searching for any sign of the orbs. But they were gone.
What the hell is going on?
“Bolt Four One, Banger, status?”
“Banger, the bogies appear to have… uh… vanished,” he said, still unable to believe it, and unable to put into words what he had just experienced. They were over twenty miles from the nearest piece of land without another ship in sight, but still he directed his radar into a surface search mode, looking for any plausible explanation for the orbs’ disappearance.
“Banger copies. The bar is open. Shogun directs buster.”
Shit.
The message was clear enough. An open bar meant the flight deck was clear and ready to recover him aboard the carrier. CAG directing him to buster meant he was to proceed directly to the ship. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. For once, he agreed. He needed to explain to CAG what had happened with his jet so he could ground the fleet before whatever cancer had infected the software caused any real harm.
He circled the Mobile Bay again, watching as she turned to point her bow north before once more kicking up a bioluminescent wake. He couldn’t help himself and looked along her projected course, spotting a ship floating just north of San Clemente Island. With a few quick hand gestures, he designated the ship on his surface search radar as a target and slewed the EOTS to the new target.
“How copy, Bolt Four One?”
With one more glance at the ship centered under the crosshairs on his display, he sighed and keyed the microphone. “Bolt Four One copies.”
He turned and pointed his nose at the Lincoln.
“Where’s he going?” Beth asked.
She was standing next to the chief supervising the Mk-20 EOSS operation, her eyes glued to the nineteen-inch display and the vessel centered in the crosshairs. The seaman manipulated the joystick control, firing a laser at the merchant ship to update their range to the target.
“Eighteen point five nautical miles and holding, ma’am,” he said, not answering her question but still giving her a crucial piece of information.
“Is he running?” Beth asked, turning to look at her XO, who was hovering over the radar display.
“His course would put him in the heart of commercial traffic in and out of Long Beach,” he replied.
“All ahead flank three,” she commanded.
“All ahead flank three, aye, ma’am,” the lee helmsman replied.
They lurched as the massive engines again increased to full power, pushing the mighty warship to its maximum speed. She still didn’t know if the vessel they had spotted hanging in the shadow of San Clemente Island had played a role in the orbs circling her ship, but it had disabled its transponder and was trying to get lost in the clutter of America’s second busiest port. That made him guilty in her mind.
“Range to target?” she asked.
There was a pause as the sailor fired the laser again. “Eighteen point four nautical miles and closing slowly, ma’am.”
“How far is she from the anchorage?”
Her navigator leaned over the chart and measured the distance from the commercial vessel to the southern end of the field where ships sat at anchor waiting their turn to enter the port and offload their cargo.
“Forty-eight point six nautical miles,” he replied.
She didn’t need a slide rule to know there wouldn’t be enough time to intercept the vessel before it could lose itself among the other ships. She resisted the urge to slam her fist down onto the nearest console and instead deliberately folded her arms across her chest.
“Ma’am, a word?” Ben said, standing apart from the other sailors.
She saw his contemplative expression and could tell from his posture he was preparing to give her sage counsel, whether she wanted to hear it or not. She nodded and stepped closer, allowing him to speak without fear of being overheard by the crew.
“What is it, Master Chief?”
“Once we cross north of San Clemente, we will be out of position to provide sanitization for tomorrow’s missile test. I recommend we hand off this contact to the Coast Guard and return to our assigned station.”
She had a feeling that was what he was going to say, and she admitted it was the right thing to do. But she had never backed down from a fight in her life. She was a scrapper and had fought to get where she was. It stuck in her craw not to see this through.
“But you are the captain,” Ben added as a gentle admonishment.