The Passage (65 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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HE went back down to CIC, following what was going on alongside through an occasional eavesdrop on the damage-control circuits.
Barrett
stayed with the stricken ship, gradually edging in while her damage controlmen got hoses rigged to the 03 level, midships. From there, when they were close enough, they could pour foam across and down into the cratered inferno that was
Dahlgren'
s bridge area.
At 0032, the carrier began taking the air strike back aboard. Now the atmosphere turned edgy again. The missile burst over
Dahlgren
had cut the formation's long-range antiaircraft defenses in half. And until the attack aircraft were refueled,
Lex
couldn't launch another strike. If the Soviets wanted to clobber them, this was their chance. Dan hovered behind the petty officers on the scopes, scrutinizing the blank airspace to the southwest. He wondered what Gaponenko was doing, the other officers and men on the
Razytelny.
Were they hovering over their consoles, too? Anxiously inspecting each sparkle on their screens for the first sign of an incoming bomber? Or were they even now listening to the shriek and thunder of their own missiles going out?
“Man, this sucks,” muttered Lauderdale.
Dan said, “We ought to have some other way to hit them … besides aircraft.”
“We've got Harpoon. And the Standard, in antisurface mode.”
“Harpoon's okay, but sixty miles isn't that far. And you've got to have a helo up to provide targeting. Standard's an antiair weapon; the warhead's all wrong. I mean something big and long-range,” Dan said. “Then if anything happened to the carrier, we could still carry out some kind of attack.”
“Where would you put it? How would you target it? And where would you get the money?”
Three good questions. Finally, he said, “We keep throwing money at the carriers; maybe we should use some of that for a backup. I don't know where you'd put it, though, or how you'd get
targeting data.” He stood thinking about it after Lauderdale went back to his console. It kept his mind from other things, such as wondering whether the SS-N-19s were on their way.
 
 
BUT nothing showed; the scopes and plots stayed empty.
At 0112,
Dahlgren
came up on the VHF again. She wanted to make a damage report, but the walkie-talkie was too short-range to reach
Lexington.
Dan arranged for Lauderdale to copy the reports and relay them to the task group commander on the scrambled net. Abbott reported that the fire was out. Four men were dead, seven wounded. They also had five people down with smoke inhalation and burns.
“Is your commanding officer there?”
“He's in sick bay. One of the smoke casualties. I think he'll be all right, but right now he's out of commission.”
“How's your damage look?”
“I just got back from forward. The bridge is wrecked. It looks like the warhead went off just above it. The forward director's knocked out. The ASROC launcher suffered fragment and water damage. We may be able to reactivate CIC, at least partial capability.”
“Radars?”
“Have to get back to you on that.”
“Can you take a helicopter aft?”
“Yes, sir, believe so. We have power and lighting restored aft.”
“Good. Get your wounded ready for evacuation. What else do you need?”
“Yes, sir, I'll start them moving back to the fantail. I think we can cope battle-damage-wise. We could use more canisters for the OBAs, though.”
“Stand by to receive aircraft. We will disembark your wounded. Out.”
Lauderdale passed that on the VHF. As soon as he signed off the secure net,
Voge
came up again. “Voge actual,” her commanding officer. Dan listened with fascinated horror as he tried to explain to Admiral Larson how the accidental firing had occurred. The ship had been at Condition III, with weapons-control stations manned. An internal drill had been under way, one that included simulated launching of the point defense missiles, but safety interlocks had been in place in the weapons-control program. The missile should not have fired.
“Then why
did
it fire, Captain?”
“We're working on getting you a solid answer on that, Admiral. Right now, I don't have one. Over.”
“Very well. I'm launching a helo shortly to evacuate
Dahlgren's
wounded. After they're aboard, I'm sending it out to you with a staff officer, to assist with the investigation. This is CTF One forty-two actual, out.”
Dan stood motionless. Around him, the circuits and the men were quieting again.
Barrett
had secured from general quarters. He really ought to turn in. But he knew he wouldn't sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about Prince's last riposte on the old destroyer's quarterdeck. The golden boy, deputy brigade commander. His friend.
Graciela, Miguelito, the baby, Sanderling …
How close death was out here! It flowed around them like the dark and bitter sea itself, patiently awaiting the smallest breach—a failure of man or machine, a storm, a broken cable—to stream through, wiping out all plans, all dreams. But wasn't life itself like that, its end only the hesitation of a heart away, a missed step, the turn of a steering wheel; only that separating you and all you held dear second to second from obliteration, separating love from never-ending loss? And knowing that, how mad war seemed. How insane to plan anything but fiercely clinging to those you loved before the inevitable annihilation. There was so much he didn't understand. But this, he told himself as he leaned tiredly against a console, yes, this he believed he was starting to understand at last.
T
HE rest of the night passed without further alarms.
Barrett
stayed in company with the stricken destroyer till just before dawn, when they separated again. Sunrise found them miles apart, back in their assigned stations; found the task force steaming unhurriedly across a rolling, empty blue Gulf. Still waiting.
Dan went up to the bridge a little after the sun popped up. He'd traded breakfast for another half hour in the rack, but a doughnut wrapped in a napkin was jammed under his hat. He stopped at the top of the ladder and looked searchingly around at the sea, the sky, the formation.
Lexington
was port side to them, about eight miles away. Another sunny, cloudless day roofed the Gulf of Mexico. A light easterly wind harried up three-foot seas blue as the indigoed cloth they sold in bolts at the Old Slave Market.
Downtown Charleston, Beverly, Sibylla, his motorcycle … it all seemed like something he'd read about in a book a long time ago. Hell, he thought suddenly, guiltily, I never did write back to Billy.
Jay Harper was leaning against the radar repeater, pursuing his own contemplation of the empty sea as it slipped past. At Dan's “Good morning, Chief Warrant,” he started, then returned a curt nod.
“Anything hot?”
The rangy warrant shifted his belt higher on his hips. “No, everything cool, very cool. Steaming as before. Barometer steady. Been a quiet watch.”
“How's
Dahlgren
doing?”
“Can't see any damage from here. Course, you're looking at her stern.” Harper took off his cap and rubbed his bald spot as Dan lifted the proffered binoculars. The gray dot off their bow jumped closer, details almost painfully distinct: whip antennas erect at her
stern; after launcher vertical in the air-ready position; a light haze boiling the clear air above her stacks.
“She's keeping up.”
“Well, she's still there.” Harper looked vaguely around the bridge. “Shit, I need to get my head down … . I don't know why they don't just detach ‘em and send 'em home. She ain't gonna do us any good out here now.”
“Captain up?”
“He was in his chair till oh-three hundred. I gave him a buzz a little while ago, but he hasn't come up yet.” The chief warrant polished his glasses with a bit of lens paper. “How you feeling, shipmate? Got over them margaritas yet?”
“Yeah. No more of those suckers for me.”
“You know, we hadn't of got called back, we'd've ended up down and dirty with those girls. That Lori was a piece of action. We were out on the dance floor; she was squirming around like a worm on a hot shovel. And that other bitch, I could see you getting ready to come in your pants just staring at those tuning knobs of hers.”
“Maybe.” Sober, it didn't seem as exciting, but he had to admit, Angela had been hard to look away from. Harper was probably right: They'd have ended up in bed. But then what? Just chalk up another score, the way the chief warrant did?
“Hey, reminds me, I ever tell you why the Polack divorced his wife an' married the shithouse? He said the hole was smaller and the smell was better.”
Dan grunted and steered the conversation back to the weather forecast. Finally, he disengaged himself and went down to Combat. Dark and still, a good sign. The tactical circuits were silent except for a distant hissing like an ice storm. Dan walked around, turning them up, then down again to make sure they were on. “Okay, what you got?” he asked Quintanilla.
“A new player and new op plan. Came over the wire two hours ago.”
“A new player? Somebody to replace
Dahlgren,
you mean?”
“No. Would you believe, they're back up on the link, got their air search back up, too? Just got off the horn with them. They're still conning from aft, but CIC's manned up again and weapons-wise they're just about back at C-One, except for the missing director.”
“Nice work,” said Dan. “Who's the new player, then?”
“Nukie boat.
Scamp,
SSN-five eighty-eight. A significant force addition.”
“Yeah, that'll help. When did she slide in?”
They discussed the employment of the submarine for a while. Subs didn't operate in an integrated tactical structure. They fought independently, their movements and attacks only loosely coordinated
with surface and air forces. Dan hoped their orders included a brief surface-and-radiate, or some other more or less overt reconnoiter of the
Kirov
group. Just the knowledge a U.S. nuclear attack boat was in the area would have a chilling effect on the Soviets' movements.
“More news. Lot of stuff happening.
Inchon, Spruance,
and
Valdez
were headed for Brazil. They're turned around, ETA in the Caribbean day after tomorrow. CINCLANTFLT's delaying
Eisenhower'
s and
Virginia'
s overhaul, and the Air Force is moving tactical wings down to Florida. Okay, let's talk about hydrofoils.”
“Wait a minute. What about the bad guys? Any sign of them reinforcing?”
“Nothing in the traffic. It'd take them a long time to get here if they did. This is our backyard, but to them it's halfway around the world.”
“What are they doing?”
“The One forty-two oh-seven hundred sitsum shows them still steaming in the same area.
Lexington
has an E-two up; we've got long-range surveillance now. That'll help our early warning time.”
“Yeah, good.”
“Overall, it looks to me like they missed the boat. They should have come up and kicked our ass when they had the chance. Oh, the op order.” Quintanilla rapped the red-and-white-striped Masonite cover of the Secret board. “Forwarded to us for info only. This isn't a USN ball game. Probably a good idea in terms of avoiding escalation. They call it ‘Operation Tempest.' Royal Bahamian Defence Forces, backed by British and Canadian destroyers and—get this—
Munro,
are going to cover a landing in the northern part of the Cay Sal group. That leaves the back door open for the Cubans to make a graceful exit to the south. Next step, they'll send a Bahamian police detachment into Elbow Cay, covered by one of the destroyers. They will politely tell the Cubans, ‘Thank you for maintaining order. We'll take care of the refugees. You may now get the fuck out of our territory.'”
“If they don't?”
“Then things get serious, I guess. But by then, we'll have the beef on scene to make things turn out the way we want. At least locally.”
“It still doesn't make sense, Felipe. What do they get out of it? Other than proving they can jerk us around?”
“I don't know. Who knows why that asshole does anything?”
“Which asshole?”
“I don't know which asshole.” Quintanilla sounded as if he was getting tired, too. “Let's talk about hydrofoils. I want to get relieved sometime this week, okay? Admiral Larson has them stationed here, east of us. That way, they can move west to our
support if
Kirov
shows any signs of moving north, or else head east to cut the Cubans off from reinforcement and resupply if the landing turns ugly … .”
When Quintanilla was gone, Dan sat in the big leather chair, trying to stay awake long enough to finish his doughnut. Having a submarine on their side made him feel more confident. The news about other ships on the way was good, too. Hell, he thought, we get Ike and
Virginia
here and we'll be able to take on two
Kirovs.
The Russians weren't crazy. They stepped back when they were outnumbered. This whole thing might just end up without the two sides blowing each other out of the water.
 
 
AS he rose from the console, Hank Shrobo's head felt like a heliumfilled balloon slowly rising toward the ceiling. His legs felt shaky, foreign, as if they'd just been grafted on.
“That it?” Dawson asked, still regarding the screen.
“You saw it. A complete run-through, no hang-ups.”
“Congratulations,” Matt Williams said, clapping him on the back. Then he staggered around and finally sat down on the deck. “Jeez, I don't feel so good all of a sudden.”
“It's ROE syndrome,” said Hank. “Return to Earth. Common among programmers. Okay, Chief, you understand the trouble-shooting procedure now? I might ask you and Matt to write it up, something brief we can put out interim, till we get a new section for the manual.”
“I think so.”
“I'll go over it once more. The antiviral program's loaded on computer number three. You bring up the module you want to scrub on computer two, then put it in maintenance mode from the MCC. Three will then take control of number two and start scrubbing whatever's in it line by line. Each time it hits a piece of virus or a flawed sector, it'll delete it and break to the screen. You poke in the marked lines from the listing, then hit ‘run' again. Got that? We scrubbed the op program first, then sonar. You can do the others. Except the Link Eleven module, it's always come up clean.”
“Got it. But what if it comes back?”
“That's the other program. I call it Antibody. Later, we'll integrate it into the exec, but for right now just load it before the op program goes in. Matt wrote it in Ultra-32, it doesn't take much memory. Load the O.P. right on top of it. It doesn't do anything unless it sniffs virus. Then it runs a search-and-delete, marks the line number, and logs out an error condition. Eventually, as you run all the data tapes and subprograms, it'll filter all the Crud out and you'll have a virgin system again.” He stretched again, his mind
moving on, now that the job was complete, the problem solved, to what was waiting for him back at Vartech. “Any more questions? Okay, I'm going to go find Lenson, tell him we've got it licked.”
 
 
HE found the lieutenant in the dark room they called Combat, looking bored. Shrobo stood beside him for a while, watching the displays. Finally, he said, “Lieutenant.”
“Oh.” Dan turned his head slowly. Powdered sugar sparkled on the front of his uniform, even his hair. “Hi, Doc, what you doing up here?”
“Came to report. Finished the scan program. It runs. Your ACDADS is now fully operational.”
“It works? Confirmed? Because I've heard this before—”
“This time it's a guarantee.”
“Wait a minute,” Dan said. “The CO's going to be happy to hear this.” He picked up the J-phone, but a strange voice answered from the captain's cabin. “Who's this?” he asked.
“Seaman Pedersen, sir. In here makin' the bunk up.”
“Oh. Skipper there?”
“Hold on.”
“Captain, what is it?”
“Sir, Mr. Lenson. Dr. Shrobo's just reported that he's finished the scan program. He says our problems with ACDADS are over. Did you want to have him—”
“Yes, bring him in. No, wait. You're in Combat? I'll be in in a minute.”
Five minutes later, Leighty appeared in the doorway. He looked fresh and dapper, hair combed back wet, clean khakis, gleaming shoes. He nodded to Shrobo and said in a friendly tone, “Dan tells me you've got everything running again.”
“Just about, Captain.”
“Call me Tom, all right? Hank?”
Shrobo cleared his throat, impatient, now that it was all solved, to get through the official congratulations and get to work on his paper, get a skeleton draft down while everything was still fresh in his head. And then go home. “Sure. Tom. We finished the antiviral program early this morning. The op program is sanitized. So is the sonar module. The procedure's simple enough that your men can run it on their own now to filter the others.”
“So the whole ACDADS is operational again?”
“The exec program is. The others will come on-line one by one through the day. There's also another, smaller program that will operate continuously to keep the Crud from recurring.”
“This sounds like a permanent fix.”
“On this virus, at any rate. Other viruses, we'll have to go through the same procedure of breaking it first, then writing a search program. Eventually, though, I may be able to write one that detects any foreign replicating programs and penetrates, decodes, and deletes them automatically.” He reflected. “There might not be memory space in the current generation of computers. But there will be soon, with the AN/UYK-forty-three series.”
“That's great news. Thanks for all your help. Uh, I'll be writing a message saying how much we appreciate all the time you've put in cracking this thing. If there's anything else I can do—”
“Can I get a ride back to Virginia Beach?” Shrobo asked him.
“There may be a COD flight, a carrier onboard delivery plane, between Lex and Pensacola. We'd have to get you shuttled over there.”

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