unmoving helmsman to a triage team, and got a spasm of pleasure when they gave him a thumbs-up. He watched two corpsmen hovering over the admiral, loitered for a moment, and realized that there was nothing,
nothing
he could do here. He sloshed back out into the passageway, got a look from the chief, and headed forward. He squeezed past a hose team preparing to go topside, climbed over the knee knockers at frame 133, and found himself squelching into the relatively clean flag area and its brilliantly polished blue tile floor. He looked in flag ops and flag intel and the living quarters. No flag captain.
It was quiet, and he was tired. He stood in the flag briefingroom, alone, insulated from the fires three decks above, and thought how easy it would be to sit down. Then he did. His legs hurt and his back felt as if he had twisted it, and his face felt swollen. It probably was. He lifted the respirator off his chest—and got back up.
“Fuck,” he said aloud. He put the respirator back on, felt it tug at the fatigue in his spine, and got a twinge of his own eventual middle age.
Bangalore, India
A Toyota panel truck backed up to the loading dock of Building Three of the New World Technological Center. Three figures wearing heavy coveralls, gloves, and hoods got out. While one pulled up the loading gate to the interior, the other two opened the rear doors of the truck and took out two large fans, which they carried into the building. Unreeling electrical cords while two of the building’s workers watched and did nothing—the people in the coveralls, one of them a woman, smiled at them—they plugged the fans into a wall socket. The third figure unreeled a hose from the panel truck. All three people put on goggles and respirators, and one of them went to the truck’s driver’s seat. The others turned on the fans. Sarin gas began to flow through the hose.
USS
Thomas Jefferson
Madje went back out into the passageway, headed aft. He passed another fire party checking a hose, and then he got to the big steel hatch labeled “Combat Information Center.” It was dogged shut. He rapped at it with his knuckles. “Flag lieutenant!” he shouted. Heads turned in the passageway, he was so loud.
Inside, somebody undogged the hatch. He pushed through and they dogged it behind him.
“Flag captain here?”
He could see from the kid’s patches he was from the S-3squadron and probably attached to the ASW module just forward. The kid just shook his head. He looked numb.
He passed the ASuW station and walked into the domain of the tactical action officer. There was a little smoke here, but no smell of fire. The screens were lit and functioning.
“TAO?”
“Mister Madje?”
“Sir, the admiral sent me to find out who the senior officer is and place him in command. The skipper is dead. I think the CAG is gone, too.”
The TAO nodded. “CAG died in the first hit. His Tomcat was on cat four.”
“I’m trying to find the flag captain.”
“I can’t help you, Madje. I can tell you that I’m conning the ship from here and waiting for somebody senior to take command.” The TAO was a mere lieutenant-commander.
The huge screen in front of the TAO was repeated from a JOTS terminal. It showed the
Fort Klock
alongside the wounded
Jefferson,
with other ships supporting her fire-fighting efforts.
“Tell the admiral we’re going to get through this. We have four ships alongside putting water and chemicals on the fire, and we’ve cleared the O-2 level of fires and started to take back the flight deck. How is he?”
“Badly burned, I think. But he spoke to me a couple of times.”
“That’s good. As to command, eventually some son-of-a-bitch will realize that he’s senior to me and come relieve me.”
A sailor held a radiophone out to the TAO. “Captain Lash on the
Fort Klock,
sir.”
“Give it here,” the TAO said wearily. “TAO,
Jefferson.
Go ahead.”
“Jefferson, w
hat’s the status on command? Air Ops says the
nothing
he could do here. He sloshed back out into the passageway, got a look from the chief, and headed forward. He squeezed past a hose team preparing to go topside, climbed over the knee knockers at frame 133, and found himself squelching into the relatively clean flag area and its brilliantly polished blue tile floor. He looked in flag ops and flag intel and the living quarters. No flag captain.
It was quiet, and he was tired. He stood in the flag briefingroom, alone, insulated from the fires three decks above, and thought how easy it would be to sit down. Then he did. His legs hurt and his back felt as if he had twisted it, and his face felt swollen. It probably was. He lifted the respirator off his chest—and got back up.
“Fuck,” he said aloud. He put the respirator back on, felt it tug at the fatigue in his spine, and got a twinge of his own eventual middle age.
Bangalore, India
A Toyota panel truck backed up to the loading dock of Building Three of the New World Technological Center. Three figures wearing heavy coveralls, gloves, and hoods got out. While one pulled up the loading gate to the interior, the other two opened the rear doors of the truck and took out two large fans, which they carried into the building. Unreeling electrical cords while two of the building’s workers watched and did nothing—the people in the coveralls, one of them a woman, smiled at them—they plugged the fans into a wall socket. The third figure unreeled a hose from the panel truck. All three people put on goggles and respirators, and one of them went to the truck’s driver’s seat. The others turned on the fans. Sarin gas began to flow through the hose.
USS
Thomas Jefferson
Madje went back out into the passageway, headed aft. He passed another fire party checking a hose, and then he got to the big steel hatch labeled “Combat Information Center.” It was dogged shut. He rapped at it with his knuckles. “Flag lieutenant!” he shouted. Heads turned in the passageway, he was so loud.
Inside, somebody undogged the hatch. He pushed through and they dogged it behind him.
“Flag captain here?”
He could see from the kid’s patches he was from the S-3squadron and probably attached to the ASW module just forward. The kid just shook his head. He looked numb.
He passed the ASuW station and walked into the domain of the tactical action officer. There was a little smoke here, but no smell of fire. The screens were lit and functioning.
“TAO?”
“Mister Madje?”
“Sir, the admiral sent me to find out who the senior officer is and place him in command. The skipper is dead. I think the CAG is gone, too.”
The TAO nodded. “CAG died in the first hit. His Tomcat was on cat four.”
“I’m trying to find the flag captain.”
“I can’t help you, Madje. I can tell you that I’m conning the ship from here and waiting for somebody senior to take command.” The TAO was a mere lieutenant-commander.
The huge screen in front of the TAO was repeated from a JOTS terminal. It showed the
Fort Klock
alongside the wounded
Jefferson,
with other ships supporting her fire-fighting efforts.
“Tell the admiral we’re going to get through this. We have four ships alongside putting water and chemicals on the fire, and we’ve cleared the O-2 level of fires and started to take back the flight deck. How is he?”
“Badly burned, I think. But he spoke to me a couple of times.”
“That’s good. As to command, eventually some son-of-a-bitch will realize that he’s senior to me and come relieve me.”
A sailor held a radiophone out to the TAO. “Captain Lash on the
Fort Klock,
sir.”
“Give it here,” the TAO said wearily. “TAO,
Jefferson.
Go ahead.”
“Jefferson, w
hat’s the status on command? Air Ops says the
Similar Books
