Judy chuckled, “You really like her, don’t you?”
“Who, your mother?”
“Amanda Garrett. You really like her.”
“Now what in the devil makes you say that?” MacIntyre demanded.
“Like the other thing, if somebody really knows you, it sticks out all over. It’s like …” Judy bit her lip, pausing to organize her thoughts. “When Mom died, something about you died too. You were still Dad and you were still the Admiral – but something else … left. I could feel it. You just weren’t all of you any more.
“But whenever I’ve seen you around Amanda Garrett, like when you brought her out here for dinner
when the Sea Fighters were working up – or sometimes, just when you’re talking about her – that part of you comes back. And that’s all right. God knows, Mom would want it to be like that.”
This transcended naval security. This was about lying to his daughter about himself and he’d had one hellishly tough standard to hold himself to. Anne had always told her children the truth, even when it was the worst truth conceivable.
“Judy, it’s conceivable there’s something to what you say.” MacIntyre slouched back on the couch. “But what your damn fool of a father may feel about Amanda Garrett is not all
right. Not in the slightest.”
“I know all about chains of command and no fraternization and all that kind of
thing, Dad,” his daughter said with some impatience. “But none of that matters now.”
“Why not, child?”
“Gee, Daddy. There’s no harm in dating a freighter captain if you want to. After all, Amanda
Garrett has absolutely no connection with the Navy or NAVSPECFORCE any more.”
MacIntyre groaned and swiped his giggling daughter’s hair over her eyes. “A third son. Would that have been too much ask for?”
The Java Sea, North of Jakarta.
2230 Hours; Zone Time, October 25, 2008
With all topside lights extinguished, the Shenandoah thundered through the night, her bow slicing cleanly through the waves, working up to speeds that no common bulk carrier had any right to reach.
In main engine control, Chief Thomson paced slowly behind the power management stations, watching the engine output bars creep steadily to the top of the CRT displays.
“Engines answering all ahead full, at standard civil power,” the senior watch motor mac reported. “Motor loads and shaft RPM’s holding steady. Transformer temperatures holding in the gates.”
“Good enough, Shimski. Stand by. Johnson, call the status on the Auxiliary Power
Rooms?”
“All APRs report up and ready to integrate, Chief.”
“Right. Recalibrate all systems to War Power. Integrate APR power flow.”
The rank of multimode flatscreens blinked out and snapped on again, displaying an entirely new set of engine performance readouts. The main engine output bars dropped to half-speed ahead.
“Let’s put her to the wall.” Thomson lifted his voice. “All engines ahead full, war power!”
The trembling of the deck plates increased and the howl of the main motors climbed to an even more piercing intensity. The integrated electric drive system was now effortlessly absorbing the combined current flow from both the main generator sets and from the Auxiliary Power Rooms in the hold section. Like so much else aboard the commando carrier, the horsepower ratings and load capacities marked on her motor casings were a flagrant falsehood.
*
Topside, on the weather decks, powerful hydraulics sighed and hissed as a sequence of remarkable transformations took place. The short jackstaff mast forward disappeared, retracting smoothly into a tunnel inset in the hull. Cargo hatches two, four and six split and slid open horizontally. The panels of number two hatch locked into the false tops of holds one and three. In turn, the panels of number four locked into three and five and number six into five and seven, a reshuffling of steel that created a flight deck.
The elevators howled up from below, filling in the last of the gaps, each lift carrying a load of aircraft and personnel. Muscles creaked and men swore under their breath as multi-ton flying machines were rolled to their launching spots by raw manpower. Moving in the fuzzy green world of their night vision visors, the plane crews of the strike squadron SPEED Cobras swarmed over their charges like ants over a grounded dragonfly. Wings were lowered, rotors unfolded, and slim, deadly shapes slid onto launching rails.
Methodically, Marine First Lieutenant Keith Pinkerton – call sign, Pink – plugged himself into his aircraft: seat harness, oxygen mask connector, microphone and helmet headset leads, power and datalink for his helmet mounted display and night vision visor.
“Pink” was not the running name Pinkerton would have chosen for himself. He would have infinitely preferred something like “Thunderbolt” or “Fireball” – but, by longstanding military tradition, one’s call sign was chosen by a peer group who almost inevitably chose something as humiliating as possible.
Unless, of course, you were someone like Pink’s squadron commander Vincent Arkady, who was “Vince” to the entire known universe. A respectful running name meant something in this profession.
Someone slapped Pinkerton on the top of his helmet, and he looked up to find Arkady peering over the cockpit rail.
“You set to do this thing, Pink?”
“I hope so,” Pinkerton replied with all honesty. “I mean, when is the last time anyone actually performed a combat launch like
this?”
“You mean going over the bow without using a catapult?”
“Among other things, yeah.”
Arkady considered. “Maybe fifty years or so, I guess.”
“Do you ever stop to consider that maybe there could be a reason for that? Like
maybe us getting run over by a big ship if something goes wrong?”
“Look at the bright side there, fellow. If you do screw things up, there won’t be anyone left around who can criticize you.”
“I hope you realize that statement could be taken in a number of different
contexts.”
“Pink, it’s totally cool. We’re gonna have fun!” Arkady dropped from the cockpit step to the anti-skid and jogged to the spotted double zero aircraft.
Pinkerton could only shake his head. “Where have I heard that before?”
