said, continuing the idle shop talk in spite of himself, "radon 222, the shortest half-lived stuff."
COB nodded. "The gross washdown would have been completed after putting out the fires."
"The naval architects will claim her now, I think," Jeffrey said. "To improve their damageability models."
"It isn't right," COB said. "She's a tomb, not a pile of data." Here and there patches of hull plating still clung to Ranger's side. The plates were pressed inward against the frame members, whose outlines stood out clearly. The plates seemed plastered to her flank like sheets of canvas in the wind, a devil's wind. Everything was black, deep coal-mine black, except for splotches where the fires and ocean salt had oxidized her steel a matte pastel red-brown.
"She fought hard," a junior officer said with awe.
"A Presidential Unit Citation for sure," a senior chief said.
"Awarded posthumously," COB said, an obvious tightness in his throat.
"The larger battle won," Jeffrey said, "but at such cost." It was better if they talked, he told himself. It eased the pain.
Jeffrey saw two seamen wipe their eyes—maybe they'd had friends aboard, or maybe not. He watched as
Ranger moved on through the lagoon, toward its closed end at the south point of the atoll'
s miles-long V, toward shallow water and foul ground.
"Message from Frank Cable, sir," COB said when there seemed no point in watching further, being formal for the benefit of the enlisted men, all petty officers themselves. " Captain's due back in fifteen minutes."
A group of crewmen had been standing close together at the bow, huddling like at a funeral, near the dozen hatches for the Tactical Tomahawk cruise missile vertical launch system. The men got back to work, unbidden, at the torpedo loading gear.
"Last one, correct?" Jeffrey said, eyeing the lethal cylinder.
"Confirmed, last nuclear torpedo," COB said carefully.
Jeffrey initialed the checklist, then held out his clipboard for COB to countersign. The old chief would have his thirty years in soon, Jeffrey knew, but with this war the navy wouldn't let him go. Not that he would want to, and victory was much too tenuous to plan that far ahead. COB, whose given name was never used aboard, came from a clan of Latino Jersey City truckers. Black sheep of the family, he instead had gone to sea. At least COB had a family who cared. Jeffrey sighed to himself, then stood up straighter.
"Let me give you guys a hand."
They positioned the crane's long burden carefully, then eased the two-metric-ton weapon onto the loading cradle and secured it. Jeffrey watched the cradle first elevate to line up with the channel through the hull, then trundle down toward the transit rack in the torpedo room three decks below.
A variable-yield warhead, the cryptic markings on the fish's glossy green side said 0.01
to 0.1 kilotons. Maybe that didn't sound like much, till you remembered these were meant to go off underwater. "Up to almost one percent of Hiroshima," Jeffrey said, mostly to himself. The casing at the back for the fiberoptic guidance wire was labeled NO STEP.
COB cleared his throat. "The message said we have two guests. Passengers. No honors to be rendered."
"Very well," Jeffrey said. He shrugged. "Security, I guess."
"Gripes," COB groaned. "Please, no."
"Watch that," Jeffrey said, but smiling. He'd seen why COB had cursed. Captain Wilson was coming down the gangway from the tender, accompanied by two uniformed figures. One had a beard and one was female.
Jeffrey went to meet them at the brow, the portable aluminum stepway that led onto the hull. The brow was positioned at Challenger's so-called quarterdeck, a flat space behind the sail.
The captain's male guest was a Royal Navy four-striper in summer whites, a full captain, not like Jeffrey's CO, who was actually a commander. The woman wore a khaki shortsleeved shirt and slacks, but from a distance Jeffrey couldn't make out her collar tabs. He watched the arriving threesome
COB nodded. "The gross washdown would have been completed after putting out the fires."
"The naval architects will claim her now, I think," Jeffrey said. "To improve their damageability models."
"It isn't right," COB said. "She's a tomb, not a pile of data." Here and there patches of hull plating still clung to Ranger's side. The plates were pressed inward against the frame members, whose outlines stood out clearly. The plates seemed plastered to her flank like sheets of canvas in the wind, a devil's wind. Everything was black, deep coal-mine black, except for splotches where the fires and ocean salt had oxidized her steel a matte pastel red-brown.
"She fought hard," a junior officer said with awe.
"A Presidential Unit Citation for sure," a senior chief said.
"Awarded posthumously," COB said, an obvious tightness in his throat.
"The larger battle won," Jeffrey said, "but at such cost." It was better if they talked, he told himself. It eased the pain.
Jeffrey saw two seamen wipe their eyes—maybe they'd had friends aboard, or maybe not. He watched as
Ranger moved on through the lagoon, toward its closed end at the south point of the atoll'
s miles-long V, toward shallow water and foul ground.
"Message from Frank Cable, sir," COB said when there seemed no point in watching further, being formal for the benefit of the enlisted men, all petty officers themselves. " Captain's due back in fifteen minutes."
A group of crewmen had been standing close together at the bow, huddling like at a funeral, near the dozen hatches for the Tactical Tomahawk cruise missile vertical launch system. The men got back to work, unbidden, at the torpedo loading gear.
"Last one, correct?" Jeffrey said, eyeing the lethal cylinder.
"Confirmed, last nuclear torpedo," COB said carefully.
Jeffrey initialed the checklist, then held out his clipboard for COB to countersign. The old chief would have his thirty years in soon, Jeffrey knew, but with this war the navy wouldn't let him go. Not that he would want to, and victory was much too tenuous to plan that far ahead. COB, whose given name was never used aboard, came from a clan of Latino Jersey City truckers. Black sheep of the family, he instead had gone to sea. At least COB had a family who cared. Jeffrey sighed to himself, then stood up straighter.
"Let me give you guys a hand."
They positioned the crane's long burden carefully, then eased the two-metric-ton weapon onto the loading cradle and secured it. Jeffrey watched the cradle first elevate to line up with the channel through the hull, then trundle down toward the transit rack in the torpedo room three decks below.
A variable-yield warhead, the cryptic markings on the fish's glossy green side said 0.01
to 0.1 kilotons. Maybe that didn't sound like much, till you remembered these were meant to go off underwater. "Up to almost one percent of Hiroshima," Jeffrey said, mostly to himself. The casing at the back for the fiberoptic guidance wire was labeled NO STEP.
COB cleared his throat. "The message said we have two guests. Passengers. No honors to be rendered."
"Very well," Jeffrey said. He shrugged. "Security, I guess."
"Gripes," COB groaned. "Please, no."
"Watch that," Jeffrey said, but smiling. He'd seen why COB had cursed. Captain Wilson was coming down the gangway from the tender, accompanied by two uniformed figures. One had a beard and one was female.
Jeffrey went to meet them at the brow, the portable aluminum stepway that led onto the hull. The brow was positioned at Challenger's so-called quarterdeck, a flat space behind the sail.
The captain's male guest was a Royal Navy four-striper in summer whites, a full captain, not like Jeffrey's CO, who was actually a commander. The woman wore a khaki shortsleeved shirt and slacks, but from a distance Jeffrey couldn't make out her collar tabs. He watched the arriving threesome
Similar Books
Taken to the Edge
Kara Lennox
Promised Land
Robert B. Parker
Girls Fall Down
Maggie Helwig
The Motion Demon
Stefan Grabinski, Miroslaw Lipinski
Full Circle
Pamela Freeman
Gale Force
Rachel Caine
The Sun Chemist
Lionel Davidson