Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) Read Free Page B

of them. But the ship ended up costing a mint, none of the ray guns they built for it worked for shit, and so the Navy bought just three. And then when the budget cuts came after the Dhahran crisis, the admirals couldn’t wait to send the
Z
straight into the Ghost Fleet here.”

    â€œWhat happened to the other two ships?” said Torres.
    â€œThere are worse fates for a ship than being here,” said Mike, thinking about the half-built sister ships being sold off for scrap during the last budget crisis.
    â€œSo what do we gotta do after we get aboard it?” asked Torres.
    â€œAboard
her
,” said Mike. “Not
it
.”
    â€œChief, you can’t say that anymore,” said Torres.
“Her.”
    â€œJesus, Torres, you can call the ship
him
if you want,” said Mike. “But don’t ever, ever call any of these uglies
it
. No matter what the regs say.”
    â€œWell, she, he—whatever—looks like an LCS,” said Torres. Officially designated FF for frigate, everyone in the Navy still called the LCS by its original name, Littoral Combat Ship. “That’s where I wish I was.”
    â€œAn LCS, huh? Dreaming of being off the coast of Bali in a ‘little crappy ship,’ wind blowing through your hair at fifty knots, throwing firecrackers at pirates?” said Mike. “Get the line ready.”
    â€œDidn’t I hear your son was aboard an LCS?” asked Torres. “How does he like it?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Mike. “We’re not in touch.”
    â€œSorry, Chief.”
    â€œYou know, Torres, you must have really pissed somebody off to get stuck with me and the Ghost Fleet.” The old man was clearly changing the subject.
    Torres fended the launch off from a small barge at the stern. Without looking, he tied a bowline knot that made the old chief suppress a smile.
    â€œNice knot there,” said Mike. “You been practicing like I showed you?”
    â€œNo need,” said Torres, tapping his glasses. “Just have to show me once and it’s saved forever.”
    Â 
    Â 
    USS
Coronado
, Strait of Malacca
    Â 
    Each of the dark blue leather seats in the USS
Coronado
’s wardroom 14 had a movie-theater chair’s sensory suite, complete with viz-glasses chargers, lumbar support, and thermoforming heated cushions that seemed almost too comfortable for military life—until you were sitting through your second hour of briefings.

    This briefer, the officer in charge of the ship’s aviation detachment of three remote-piloted MQ-8 Fire Scout 15 helicopters, thanked her audience and returned to her seat. A few side conversations abruptly stopped when the executive officer rose to give his ops intel brief.

    When the XO, the ship’s second in command, stood at the head of the room, you felt a little bit like you were back in elementary school with the gym teacher looking down at you. The twenty-first-century Navy was supposed to be all about brains. But physical presence still mattered, and the XO, Commander James “Jamie” Simmons, had it. He stood six four and still looked like the University of Washington varsity heavyweight rower he’d once been, projecting a physicality that had become rare among the increasingly technocratic officer corps.
    â€œGood morning. We’re doing this my way today,” said Simmons. “No viz.”
    The crew groaned at the prospect of having to endure an entire brief without being able to multitask or have their viz glasses record the proceedings.
    A young lieutenant in the back coughed into her fist: “Old school.”
    Coronado
’s captain, Commander Tom Riley, stood to the side holding a gleaming black ceramic-and-titanium-mesh coffee mug emblazoned with the shipbuilder’s corporate logo. He couldn’t help himself and smiled at the impertinent comment.
    The display screen loaded the first image and projected it out