Issue In Doubt (15 page)

“Sir,” Senior Chief John C. McCloy interrupted Johnston’s thoughts, “I think we’ve hit paydirt.”

“Show me.”

McCloy toggled one of the analyst’s displays to the CAC head’s display. It showed four surface soft spots with something with variable density immediately below.

“Bingo,” Johnston murmured. “Admiral’s bridge, CAC.”

Avery was waiting for the call. “Speak to me.”

“Sir, we’ve got four probable targets. Each shows distinct features of camouflaged artillery positions.”

“Can their locations be hit by the
Scott
or the
Durango
?”

“Negative, sir.” He looked at McCloy.

“Working on it,” McCloy said softly, and turned to the analysts to get them to work on initial plots to move the two warships into position to strike the enemy sites.

“Sir, we are working on vectors for
Scott
and
Durango
to take to be able to strike at the Mini Mouse sites.”

“Keep doing it. Let me know when you have the vectors. I’ll order them to follow them, and have their CACs coordinate with you. Avery out.”

NAUS Peleliu, Flagship of Amphibious Ready Group 17, Commodore’s Bridge

Rear Admiral Daniel J. Callaghan, commanding ARG 17, and Lieutenant General Joel H. Lyman, commanding VII Corps, stood at the control bar separating the commodore’s station from the officers overseeing the fleet’s operations. The main display that hovered before them showed a ninety-light-second-diameter, three dimensional sphere to their front. Callaghan was in his crisp khaki duty uniform. Lyman, who a short time earlier had expected to be making planetfall in his corps’ second wave, was in his eye-fooling camouflage field uniform. Where their arms almost touched, Lyman’s nearly blended visually into Callaghan’s.

Callaghan’s mouth was dry. It didn’t take any understanding of orbital mechanics to see that Catfish and Lionfish squadrons— what was left of them—had virtually no chance of destroying any of the fifty-eight missiles still homing in on the nineteen transports and supply ships of ARG17, and that most if not all of the starships of ARG17 were going to be hit, possibly—probably—killed. Even a six-year-old playing “Deep Space Fleet” on a child-size HUD could see that.

His only consolation was that he probably wouldn’t survive to face a board of inquiry.

He’d long since given the order for his starships to take evasive action, maneuvering in patterns of random movement; he knew it was a feeble attempt to trick the oncoming missiles into missing them, but it was better than nothing. Starships, particularly the transports and support vessels of a gator navy, don’t maneuver very nimbly. Feeble or not, the maneuvering might save some of his ships—and the troops they carried.

His mouth was dry, but he stood erect, hands clasped in the small of his back, head held high, expression neutral. He didn’t look like a man facing imminent death. Next to him, he barely heard General Lyman murmuring; likely prayers to whatever god he might believe in.

On the main display two icons, representing Landing Platform, Shuttle, LPS8
Phillips Head
and the logistics support ship
Richmond
merged, then shattered into pieces scattering away.

There goes several hundred sailors and an army brigade
, Callaghan thought grimly.

The
Phillips Head
and the
Richmond
hadn’t been hit by enemy fire; they’d collided with each other.

Lyman emitted a groan and squeezed his eyes shut.

Seconds later, the oncoming enemy weapons began impacting the starships of his flotilla. Callaghan didn’t look away from the main display; he owed the officers and men of ARG17 and VII Corps that much respect. He saw four missiles strike the amphibious landing ferry
Yorktown
, breaking her in two. He watched two missiles hit the amphibious landing dock
Saratoga,
not death-dealing hits, but certainly crippling. The
Grandar Bay
was staggered by one hit. The escort carrier
Kidd
was pummeled by three missiles; Callaghan wondered if she would be able to retrieve her Meteor pilots—if any of them had survived. He only saw one missile strike the
Kandahar
, but she exploded—the missile must have found its way to the power plant.

There were hits on more of the starships of ARG 17, but Callaghan didn’t see them. He spent his last seconds standing at attention as he watched five missiles close on the
Peleliu
.

Rear Admiral Callaghan died with his eyes open. Lieutenant General Lyman opened his eyes in time to die the same way.

Troop Compartment A-43-P, NAUS Juno Beach, ARG17

Before the now-hear-this message even finished its first go-through, Second Lieutenant Theodore W. Greig bolted from the officers mess and raced, twisting side to side to avoid collisions with sailors and soldiers going in the opposite direction in the narrow passageways, to the compartment where his platoon was quartered on the amphibious assault ship.

“Sergeant Quinn,” he huffed into his comm unit, “where are you? I’m heading for the platoon.”

“I’m almost there, LT. I already put out a call for everyone to report in.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Hey, it’s what a platoon sergeant does.”

“The good ones, anyway.” Greig snapped his comm off and twisted past a last few sailors before he reached the door to his platoon’s compartment and headed in. A glance showed him that Quinn had just arrived, and only two or three of his soldiers weren’t present.

“‘Toon, a-ten-
hut
!” Quinn bellowed when the officer entered.

Greig gave his men a few seconds to come to their feet and begin moving into the posture of attention before shouting, “At ease!” He turned and stepped aside at the sound of thudding footsteps in the passageway behind himself, just in time to dodge two soldiers who grabbed the doorway combing and spun into the compartment.

“Is that everybody?” he asked.

Quinn had already called for a squad leaders’ report. In seconds, he had it. “Second platoon, all present and accounted for,” he barked.

Greig nodded. “Good,” he said, then took a couple of seconds to organize his thoughts. “As you just heard on the
Juno Beach’s
PA system, the fleet is under attack. That’s
this
fleet, including the ship we’re on. There are two fleets, the troop transfer fleet we’re in, and a warship fleet. The warships are fighting off the attackers. But, if history’s any indication, some of the attackers are going to be successful.” He paused to let that sink in. “What this means in practical terms, is the
Juno Beach
might get hit, maybe even destroyed.” He had to raise his hands and voice to quell the tumult that rose.

Quinn’s roars of “Knock it off and listen up!” probably had more to do with the sudden silence than the lieutenant’s shout.

“Yes,” Greig snapped. “That means we could all get killed before we even make planetfall. But—” He again had to call for quiet. “But it doesn’t mean that we
will
get killed. First, because the enemy might not hit this ship. Second, because there are stasis stations available. We are going to one. All of second platoon. If the
Juno Beach
gets hit, even destroyed, we’ll be safe until we get rescued and brought out of stasis. If we don’t get hit at all, we’re still safe and alive until someone releases us from stasis.

Sergeant Quinn and I know where the nearest stasis station is. We are going to take you there now and we are all going into stasis. We’ll be out of the way of the ship’s crew, and we’ll be safe in case the
Juno Beach
gets hit. You’ve all been through a stasis drill, so you know how it’s done. Squad leaders, get your troops together, and follow Sergeant Quinn.” He nodded at his platoon sergeant. “Lead the way.”

Second platoon of Alpha Troop, First of the Seventh Mounted Infantry, 10th Brigade, headed to the nearest stasis station, which was close enough that the lead soldier entered it before the last soldier left the platoon’s compartment.

It took less than fifteen minutes for the twenty-four troops of the platoon to get into the individual units, hooked up, and checked by their squad leaders. Greig and Quinn checked the squad leaders.

Before they got into their units, Quinn asked, “LT., did the captain tell all the platoon commanders to head for stasis?”

Greig looked his platoon sergeant in the eye and said quietly, “You can’t get in trouble for what you don’t know. Remember that, just in case I’m wrong.”

NAUS Durango, Admiral’s Bridge

“If it pleases Captain Huse, I would like to speak with him,” Rear Admiral James Avery said into his comm. Task Force 8 belonged to Avery, but the
Durango
belonged to Huse, and his position must be acknowledged.

“Huse here, Admiral,” the captain’s voice came back seconds later.

“Captain,” Avery said, calling him by his rank rather than his given name as he normally would to make totally clear that he was giving orders, “thanks for getting back to me so quickly.” As if there was any doubt that a captain wouldn’t answer an admiral’s call as fast as possible. “Those bogeys attacking the ARG came from Mini Mouse. Fleet CAC has identified their points of origin. I want you to maneuver into a position where you can continue giving cover to the planetside Marines, and simultaneously fire on the moon. Have your CAC coordinate with mine.” The
Durango’s
Combat Action Center directed the ship’s fight; the Fleet CAC coordinated the fight of two or more of the fleet’s ships. “I’m sending the
Scott
to attack the identified locations from where the enemy launched its missiles. When you are in position, I will send further orders to
Durango
and
Scott
to coordinate your attacks.

“Questions?”

“Negative, sir. I will inform the admiral the instant I am in position.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Avery broke the connection, and settled back to watch developments.

NAUS Durango, Bridge

“Comm,” Huse said to Lieutenant Commander George F. Davis, his communications officer, “get me CAC.”

“CAC, aye, sir,” Davis answered.

Seconds later; “CAC, Lieutenant Hudner, sir.”

“Mr. Hudner, has Fleet CAC given you the locations on Mini Mouse the enemy fired from?”

“Yes, sir. They are coming in now.”

“Good man. The admiral is about to order a counterattack. Make a priority list with coordinates for bombardment, and send it to me instantly. Remember, we have to maintain cover for the Marines planetside.”

“Aye aye. sir, you will have it immediately.”

NAUS Durango, Admiral’s Bridge

While Huse was giving orders to his CAC, Avery was in communication with Captain William R. Rush, skipper of the
Scott.
The
Scott
and the
Durango
were two of the most powerful warships in the NAU Navy, and the most powerful in TF8.

It took several seconds longer for Rush to answer Avery’s call than it had Huse, during which time the plot arrived from the CAC. But Huse was on the same starship as Avery, while Rush on the
Scott
was more than 100,000 kilometers distant; in space, distance equals time.

“
Scott
Actual here, Sir.” Rush’s voice when it came was clear and crisp. Identifying himself by position rather than name indicated that he anticipated that he was about to receive action orders.

“
Scott
Actual, I believe that you are in a position from which you can launch Kestrel strikes on Mini Mouse.”

Seconds later Rush replied, “That’s affirmative, sir.”

“Be advised, the
Durango
is maneuvering into position to strike targets on Mini Mouse. When she is in position, I will give orders to the two of you to coordinate your attacks. In the meantime, launch your squadrons and have them take up parking orbits on the limb of Mini Mouse, where they will wait for orders to strike at these targets which have been identified by Fleet CAC.” He pressed a “transmit” button to send the plot to the
Scott
.

“Sir,
Scott
maneuveringto launch Kestrels.

“Launch as soon as you are ready,
Scott
.”

Chapter Eleven

Combat Action Center, NAUS Durango, in orbit around Troy

Mini Mouse’s rotation had moved the likely launch sites identified by fleet CAC from opposite Troy to halfway to its limb. Troy had likewise rotated but, with a longer rotation period, not as far around its axis. The
Durango
moved far enough to fire on the moon that was still out of sight beyond the edge of Troy, while staying where she could give the Marines on the ground fire support should they need it.

Lieutenant Thomas Hudner and his crew in the
Durango
’s CAC watched over their computers while they calculated firing solutions for the ship’s weapons to hit the probable locations of the alien launch sites. It would be nearly impossible for ballistic weapons to make the strikes, but simple for the
Durango
’s—once it was in position. Right now, it was covering the Marines planetside.

“Got it!” Senior Chief Petty Officer Francis Edward Ormsbee exclaimed.

“Show me, Francis Edward,” Hudner said, stepping to the man everybody from petty officer first class on up called “Francis Edward.”

“Ya see, Mr. T—” Ormsbee called everybody except Captain Huse and the admiral whatever he wanted to. “—we got the jarheads covered right there,” he pointed at a group of lines on the schematic he’d just put together, “an’ the mizzuls came from there. We can hit ’em from where we are.” He looked at his division commander. “Don’cha think ya oughtta tell the skipper?”

“Well now, Francis Edward, I think that might be a good idea. A very good idea indeed.”