Текст книги "Ghost Fleet: A Novel of the Next World War"

Автор книги: P. Singer

Соавторы: August Cole
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

USS Zumwalt, Rail-Gun Turret

Two hundred years ago, a wind like this would have played on a sailing ship’s rigging with a wonderful harmony, thought Mike. On the Zumwalt, the twenty-five-knot wind merely sounded like someone had turned up the air conditioning. Just another reason to hate this ship.

He snatched another glance at Vern, worming her way inside the rail-gun turret to double-check the wiring harnesses that kept shaking loose. She had not spoken once during the past hour. Somewhere above them, Secretary of Defense Claiburne was glad-handing the crew, speaking in the easy, confident drawl that to Mike always sounded like she had just finished a modest glass of neat bourbon.

The tension Vern carried in her shoulders made her look like she was bracing for a crash.

Mike shook his head and eased his way into the turret. Wordlessly he opened the turret hatch and let the rush of salt air fill the small area. For a moment, the space smelled of somewhere far away in his imagination he rarely visited, the scent of a woman and the sea. Then the acrid smell of hot plastic and ozone returned.

“Three minutes, Dr. Li. You best wrap things up.”

Ship Mission Center, USS Zumwalt, eBay Park, San Francisco

The bridge had been the command center of ships going back to the time of Noah, but like so much else in the Zumwalt class, the Navy designers had decided to make something new, different, and big. The ship mission center stood two stories high, the bottom level filled with four rows of sailors seated at computer workstations, and a second level with a balcony for the officers to watch down, almost like an interior bridge of the ship. On the walls were massive liquid-crystal screens that displayed the ship’s location and systems’ status and, at the moment, the third inning of the Giants game. It was that particular screen that held Secretary Claiburne’s attention, a pitcher’s-cap-cam focusing in on the squinting eyes behind the catcher’s faceplate. The pitcher then pivoted and threw out the runner on first, ending the inning.

“All right, let’s light it up,” she said.

The secretary of defense, who’d been an aerospace executive before she was brought into the administration, casually held a cigar in her right hand. It was part of her shtick, that she was more of an old boy than anyone in the old boys’ network she’d knocked down on her way to the top of the business. Simmons noticed the cigar was the real thing, not the e-cigar his former mentor smoked indoors. Admiral Murray seemed unfazed by the purple smoke starting to cloud up the room, but this was the first time anybody had smoked inside the Z during his command. He had no idea where she would put it out. There was no ashtray aboard the ship.

The test was designed to see how quickly the Zumwalt could deliver a peak power load and how long it could sustain it. This had been a problem during the refurbishment, because they couldn’t utilize such power over an extended time without the Directorate noticing the surge, which would potentially give away the ship’s new capabilities.

Simmons nodded at Cortez, who began barking out orders to shift power from the ship systems to the cables linking to shore.

“You know, Captain Simmons,” said Secretary Claiburne, “President Conley is watching tonight back in the situation room. Not just for you, of course; he’s a big Nationals fan. He had their closer, T. D. Singh, over at the White House a month ago.” One of her military aides, an Army major who scowled at Simmons from behind a pair of thick black assaulter viz glasses, appeared at her side with an empty coffee cup. Claiburne dropped an inch of ash into it.

“Thank you, Secretary Claiburne. We’re the lucky ones tonight, getting paid to watch the game,” said Simmons, smiling at her through the smoke.

“Something like that, Captain,” said Secretary Claiburne. “Take this.” She handed him a San Francisco Giants jersey signed by the team. She shot a look over at her aide and motioned for a pen. He was there in an instant, hovering over her as she took back the jersey, added her own signature to it, and then returned it to Simmons.

“Wear it in good health,” she said.

Simmons thanked her with a bemused smile, handed the shirt over to Cortez when she turned away, and then turned to watch the screens showing the ship’s power production. On deck, crew stood near the cables that snaked off the ship and ran under the Bay’s waters to the pier near the park.

“At ninety-nine percent power capacity,” said Cortez. “ATHENA is online, it’s green for go.” After the failures they’d had with the ODIS-E software, the decision had been made to keep using the old ATHENA management system. It would have to be isolated, not networked with any other ships for security reasons, but at least they knew it worked.

“Execute the transfer,” Simmons ordered.

The lights flickered out on the bridge, causing Admiral Murray to wince. Onshore, a microsecond later, the stadium lights flickered and then returned to normal, the ship’s systems now feeding their demand as well as the surrounding neighborhoods’. The Z’s crew could hear cheering from the park. They knew it wasn’t for them; the forty-four thousand people inside were celebrating a leaping catch that had robbed the Nationals of a home run. But the crew felt like it was for them all the same.

A tense silence took over the room. Claiburne mostly tracked the game – the Giants were now at bat and ready to add to their 5–3 lead. Simmons and his officers monitored the screens playing beneath them on the lower deck, windows onto the ship’s systems status. None of the crew frantically chasing software glitches or figuring out ways to dump heat buildup were visible, yet their grueling work was revealed by the soothing reds, blues, and greens of the monitors. The Z was feeding the shifting demands of the park, but at a cost. Self-defense systems went on– and offline; secondary systems collapsed; and ATHENA itself started to act up.

Cortez caught Simmons’s attention and tapped his own ear.

Mike’s voice boomed into his headset.

“Captain, we can’t keep this going more than a minute more,” said Mike. “We’ve got thermal-management problems with the battery. Fans are running full speed, but they’re just heating it up more.”

“Anything Dr. Li can do with the software? Any tweaks?” said Simmons.

“Nothing yet,” said Mike.

“Let me talk to her,” said Simmons.

“She’s fighting with one of the machines right now,” said Mike. “Don’t think she can stop.”

“Stand by,” said Simmons into his headset.

He put his trigger finger over the microphone near his mouth and, using his command voice, addressed the room.

“Nice work, everybody. Nobody has ruined the president’s game so far. We’ve got one more play to make. Admiral Murray and I spoke beforehand and it’s time we threw a curve ball.” They wouldn’t get more tests like this, so it was important to understand the ship’s limits.

“XO, take ATHENA offline,” said Simmons. “Then bring power output up to a hundred and ten percent.”

Mike started to shout, but Simmons just dropped the channel, and the profanity-laced protest disappeared from his ear.

A faint smell of burning plastic began to seep into the room, competing with Secretary Claiburne’s fragrant cigar.

“Max the fans,” said Cortez.

His father’s voice boomed again in Simmons’s ear. He winced out of instinct, an all-too-familiar feeling.

“Captain, we’re losing it. Ambient temp in the control room is at a hundred and fifteen degrees. Two of the boxes are cooked. You could put a burger on them. Dr. Li here says that —” said Mike.

“I understand, Chief. Task a team to replace them,” Simmons said, trying to keep his side of the conversation calm in front of the SecDef.

“I’d do it if I had anyone to send. This goddamn ship doesn’t have enough crew on it.”

“Understood, Chief. Keep the power coming,” said Simmons, again for the crowd.

A flicker on the monitor that was showing the game caught his attention. The stadium lights had gone out for a second and then returned.

“Give me Dr. Li,” Simmons ordered. “Now.”

“Yes, Captain?” said Vern in his earpiece. He could hear her inhale and exhale loudly, as if she were coming off a run. “We need to tail off the power now. We weren’t expecting to go above the test thresholds. Otherwise I’m not sure what we can do to keep the ship from burning itself out.”

The game’s lights flickered again.

“Dr. Li, you have one chance to understand me,” said Simmons, his voice rising in volume now, a bit of anger for the audience in the bridge. “I don’t care about the equipment. The Z is the means, not the end. Now, get me results or get off my ship!”

He looked over at Admiral Murray. Her face was a mask, leaving him uncertain if he’d just blown it in front of her. Secretary Claiburne looked impressed by his performance; that is, until her aide handed her a phone and whispered, “President Conley.”

Moyock, North Carolina

“Not our usual sort of acquisition, is it?”

Sir Aeric Cavendish wore a baggy white dress shirt over a brand-new pair of formfitting technical pants. He looked out the window of the Cadillac Cascade SUV and took in the sprawling camp. As they drove, he felt the vibration of an explosion in the distance resonate through the vehicle’s polished aluminum body.

“Well, sir, there’s nothing about this location that’s usual,” said Ali Hernandez, a retired command master chief from DevGru, the U.S. Navy’s Naval Special Warfare Development Group, more famously known by its original name, SEAL Team 6. “Not for a long time.”

As the lead of Cavendish’s personal security team, Hernandez spent a lot of time answering questions. The Sir didn’t see the world the same way others did, which was why he was so damn rich. But his curiosity could be overwhelming. A day with the Sir meant more questions than Ali had been asked in his thirty years in special operations. At times it was like traveling with a toddler.

“Why does everyone still insist on calling it Blackwater?” said Cavendish, starting up again.

Make that a toddler who could buy anything he wanted, be it the company of a supermodel or a company of private military troops.

“Sir, the waters surrounding the site are murky, and that’s what the first business here was named. So even with all the changes, it’s the name the locals still use,” said Hernandez. “But the way I look at it is, while the lawyers get paid to come up with new names, it’s like a call sign: the good ones stick.”

“I should have a call sign,” said Cavendish. “What was yours?”

“Mine, sir? It’s Brick,” said Hernandez.

“I suspect that has a story behind it that I will need to ask you about later. But first, let’s focus on the important thing. What might mine be?” said Cavendish. “I assume I cannot pick it for myself.”

“Correct, sir. Let me do some thinking, as it’s a serious matter,” said Hernandez.

“Very well. I read the due-diligence report on this transaction, did you?” said Cavendish.

“Yes, sir. Eight different owners for the facility,” said Hernandez. “You would be the ninth.”

“That’s a lot of lawyers,” said Cavendish.

“It is, sir,” said Hernandez.

“And how do you rate our new name for it?” said Cavendish.

The SUV bucked as Hernandez drove straight over a speed bump at forty miles an hour.

“Exquisite Entertainment?” said Hernandez.

“I told people I bought it to turn it into a viz studio. All in the name of cloak-and-dagger. But what if we renamed it Blackwater?” asked Cavendish. “I mean, is it a good name?”

They drove by a roofless three-story apartment building with blackened window frames and a half dozen black-clad men rappelling down its face.

“How do you mean, sir?” said Hernandez. “It’s a name my community knows well. Still pisses a lot of civs off. So it’s good by me.”

“Very well,” said Cavendish. “We have to keep cover, you know. How about Blackwater Entertainment?”

Hernandez laughed and punched the Cascade’s accelerator as soon as it was on the compound’s airfield. The electric SUV’s speed silently rose to 130 miles an hour. “Perfectly quiet and exceedingly fast,” said Cavendish, his eyes closed in thought. “Just like space.”

Ali braked the Cascade hard and then turned inside an airplane hangar. The doors shut behind it. It was almost pitch-black inside; only a soft blue glow lit the corners of the hangar.

“Here we are, sir,” said Hernandez.

They stepped out and Cavendish ordered into the air, “Lights!” confident that someone somewhere would follow his command. The lights came on, and thousands of beams of bright rays reflected back at them. A mischievous smile lit up Cavendish’s face, while Hernandez just stared with a squint.

“Well, what do you think of it?” said Cavendish. It was a question that Hernandez couldn’t even begin to answer.

USS Zumwalt, Mare Island Naval Shipyard

He was too damned old, and now he knew it.

Mike could feel the fatigue in his chest. For the first few days it had felt like a bug, and he’d just worked through it, finding that shouting orders had eased the fatigue’s grip. But this morning, it had been like waking up bound to the bed. He would never say it aloud, but Mike was sure he had never been this tired before. It was pure old-man exhaustion crossed with the profound fatigue that only those in the military and a few other professions know, the type of weariness you feel when your responsibility for other people’s lives far exceeds your physical and mental reserves. This was the kind of tired that no amount of stims or coffee would help.

He swayed and steadied himself near the entrance to the bridge.

“Chief, you okay?” said Horatio Cortez, the XO. “You look like shit. You take the younger generation out barhopping last night? Teach ’em how you did it back in the day?”

“Wishful thinking, sir,” said Mike. “They couldn’t even begin to keep up with us.”

Cortez wasn’t fooled by Mike’s banter. He could see the fatigue in the old chief’s Tabasco-red eyes and he quickly excused himself and went back to the bridge.

Mike knew he could find one of the better nooks to sleep in aboard the ship down near the magazine for the rail gun. A sailor taking a power nap in a cool, dark spot was an honored Navy tradition, but it could also be a warning that something was not right with that sailor. As Mike lay back against the cool bulkhead, he wondered which it was in his case, wondered if he had what it took anymore. Then he drifted off.

It was the smell that woke him.

Fresh soap and violets.

Dr. Li.

He opened his eyes and saw her curled up on the other side of the bulkhead. Their legs crossed each other’s in the middle; her feet looked so tiny compared to his. Jesus, if anybody saw this, Mike thought. He expected to wake up with the ship under attack more than he expected to wake up and see her next to him. How she’d found him, he did not know.

She stirred and arched her back like a cat, then sat up. She spoke as if she knew what he’d been thinking.

“I finally had time to grab a shower and then I saw you head down here to your hiding spot” – she smiled – “and I thought, He knows what he’s doing, he’s just taking care of the equipment, as he so kindly calls the crew. So I decided to follow the old man’s lead.”

“Who are you calling an old man? You look just as tired as me, Dr. Li.”

“You got me there. I’ve got nothing left,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “And it’s Vern. If we’re going to sleep together, you can start using my first name.”

Mike felt the Zumwalt lurch and lifted his head slightly, like a hunting dog. They must be drilling the engine restart again, he thought.

“Listen, I’m sorry about the captain last night. He knows this ship is no damned good,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Vern responded. “He was right, and he had the right to let go like that. Captain’s prerogative that they keep talking about.”

“No, he doesn’t have the right take his anger out on someone else. It took me too long to learn that lesson, so I couldn’t pass it on to him,” said Mike.

He avoided her eyes and stared at the bulkhead.

“You know, nobody ever told me what I’m supposed to do if things start burning again,” she said, consciously changing the subject to one that might put him back in his comfort zone.

“The damage-control drills? You don’t remember any of that?” he asked.

“If the ship’s fate hangs on my ability to play firefighter,” she said, “then we’re all doomed.”

Mike noticed that although she’d sat up, she’d done it in a way that kept her legs intertwined with his.

“You’ll figure it out. Just follow an old man’s lead, as you say.”

She smiled again.

“Well, we’d better get back to work,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the Z will be leaving port soon, most likely for Australia.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

“I’m guessing from what Brooks, that tech with the stupid Mohawk, told me about some of the software mods to ATHENA. Weapons load-out is full, which we wouldn’t be doing for another test.”

“Australia’s dangerous?” said Vern.

“It’s the Navy – what isn’t?” said Mike. “But it means we’ll be escorting reinforcement ships. You’re less likely to be shot at when you’re looking for the easiest way to get to friendly territory than when you’re out looking for trouble. There are no guarantees, though.”

The Zumwalt shuddered again and Mike sat up. Then he reached out his hand to help Vern to her feet. She noticed the rough feel of the skin.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be at your side when it counts.”

USS Zumwalt, Mare Island Naval Shipyard

“Status report!” said Captain Jamie Simmons into the intercom. “What’s going on up there?”

The system was dead; there was not even static in reply. From his stateroom, he peered out into the dark beyond the hatch. Nothing. No klaxon. No shouting.

It was almost pitch-black dark, the only light the yellow emergency reflective tape along the corridor floor. Shaking the sleep from his head, he started to make his way along the passageway toward the bridge. He knew the route well enough.

A sharp jab at his forehead made him curse in pain. He ducked, too late, and dropped to one knee until the specks of pain-driven light faded. He reached for the bulkhead to carefully stand back up and felt something warm. Soft. Hair.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“Seaman Oster Couch… sir,” said a timid voice. The fear evident in the hesitant pronunciation of the word sir made Simmons’s head ache anew. He felt his cheeks get hot and his stomach knot in rage.

“This is Captain Simmons, what are you doing here?” he said, fighting to hold back his anger.

“I was coming back from the head and heard a big bang, and then the lights went out,” said Couch. “So I waited. But they didn’t come back on.”

“You belong at your station, Seaman Couch. Up!”

“I don’t know where it is, sir,” said Couch. “In the dark, sir.”

“Find it if you have to crawl on your hands and knees,” said Jamie. “I’m heading to the bridge and if I find you here again in the dark, you’ll learn there are far scarier places the Navy can send you.”

“On my way, sir,” said Couch.

Simmons had almost gotten to the bridge when the Zumwalt shuddered and all the lights came back on.

“Cortez! What is going on with this ship?” said Simmons.

“Power surge, sir,” said Cortez. “It’s rail-gun related, and we’re trying to figure out why it took the entire ship offline.”

“Everything? ATHENA too?” said Simmons.

“Yes, sir, everything,” said Cortez. “But there’re no fires, and Dr. Li is down working on it now. We’ll be okay.”

“XO, when you have the bridge, this ship is yours,” said Simmons. The anger at Seaman Couch welled over, and he spat his words out at Cortez. “Treat it that way. There is nothing okay about this. You know what’s going to happen when we get a surge like this out there?” He pointed west, toward the ocean. “Do you? We’re nothing more than a target for the Directorate. First we blow the last part of the test with the Admiral and SecDef onboard, and now we can’t even get the goddamn gun turned on without it killing us? What kind of a ship do we have here? This is on you, Cortez. Get Dr. Li and fix it!”

The captain spun around to see his father entering the bridge. The old chief had that look of only slightly veiled disappointment he knew too well. He brushed past his father without acknowledging him.

“I’m going to be in my stateroom,” said Jamie. He started to leave, then stopped. “Belay that. I’m going down to speak to Dr. Li about her fix. Cortez, you have the bridge.”

He heard footsteps behind him as he stormed down the ladder wells.

“Captain, I’ll accompany you,” said Mike.

Jamie kept walking, mindful of any new overhanging fixtures and cabling that might strike his already aching head. He put two fingers to the spot he’d hit, certain it was bleeding. It was. What a sight that must have been on the bridge.

“A word, if I may, Captain,” said Mike.

“As we walk,” said Jamie.

“Sir, you need to get some rest,” said Mike. “I’ll say it because nobody else will.”

“How can I? I’d say this port time is making us dull, but we’re so far from sharp that it’s not even worth bringing up,” said Jamie.

“Still have to rest, Captain,” said Mike. “The job demands it even if you don’t think so.”

“This job?” said Jamie, stopping abruptly and standing close to his father. “You don’t understand this job. I’m the senior officer and it’s my ship. You can’t understand that.”

“I can’t?” said Mike. His face began to redden and that all too familiar angry blood vessel that snaked down his forehead began to pulse. “I can’t?”

“No. I’m an officer,” said Jamie, no longer afraid of that pulsing. “I have actual responsibility.”

Mike leaned forward with the intent look that signaled to anyone, even an officer, that he or she was a single step away from receiving a heavy blow from one of his massive hands.

“The hell with you, Jamie,” said Mike. “I don’t care if you embarrass yourself in front of me, but you ought to think twice before you embarrass yourself in front of the crew again.”

Mike turned around and stomped off, each angry footfall muffled by the non-skid rubber in the passageway.