Damage Control. Gordon Kent

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, what’s the status on command? Air Ops says the CAG and Captain Rogers are out. Where’s Admiral Rafehausen?”

      “Sir, I have his flag lieutenant right here. The admiral is injured but should recover, over.”

      “Copy injured.” Pause. “Jefferson, I’m taking command of the battle group effective twelve forty-nine GMT.”

      “Roger, copy. Fort Klock has taken command.” The TAO looked around as if he was hoping someone senior would come in the scuttle.

      “I’m taking the exercise; effective immediately. I want a status on your fires when you can pass it, and I want to know the fuel status of every plane up, TAO.”

      “Air Ops is working on that, sir. We have—” the TAO looked at a sheet of paper being held in front of him—“eleven planes up. Sorry, make that thirteen.”

      “Get me their fuel status.”

      “I’m on it.”

      “You have hull-integrity issues?”

      “No, sir. We’ve cleared the fires off the O-2 level, we’re working forward from the bow of the flight deck, and the stern is on fire. I have no working elevator and cat two may be savable. That’s what I know now, sir.”

      “Keep me apprised. I’ll get a smallboy on your stern. Does she steer?”

      “She does.”

      “I have to put out a sitrep to Fifth Fleet ASAP. Any idea of your casualties?”

      “No idea, sir. No idea at all.”

      Pause. The TAO was looking at the hatch to Air Ops, where an officer was trying to get his attention.

      “Stay in touch, TAO.”

      “Aye, aye, sir.”

      Madje felt that he knew too much. He was sagging, done with his immediate duty and frightened of the prospect before them. He cleared his throat. “I’ll—I’ll go fight fires. Sir.”

      “That sounds like sense to me.” The TAO turned away from him to the officer who had just entered from Air Ops. “Those the fuel figures?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Somebody’s going for a swim.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Madje took a deep breath, tried to ignore his back, and got the scared kid at the hatch to let him out. And then he went to fight fires.

       5

      AG 703

      Soleck was keeping his eyes on the air traffic and his brain on the fuel. “Gup, as soon as you get their fuel states, start working out what they need to get to—” He looked down at his card of the day, registered the primary bingo field, the precleared field where planes could land in an emergency, as Mahe. This was certainly an emergency. “—Mahe, India. It’s on your kneeboard.” Guppy looked over at him, trying to say something about being in over his head. “Just do it, Gup. Fudge the numbers. Guess.”

      “I’ll try.”

      “Good.” Soleck fed radio one into his helmet and dialed up AG 706 on the squadron frequency.

      “AG 706, this is 703, over?”

      Pause.

      “703, go ahead.” That was Scarlatti, known to the air wing as “Mozart,” a nugget only a little more experienced than Guppy, and damn Stevens for taking Goldy. They were an inexperienced squadron and Soleck wasn’t sure he was ready to do what had to be done.

      “Mozart, this is Soleck. Listen up; we’ve got all the gas that’s in the air and close to the stack. You and me. We’re going to have to set up a fueling station headed inbound as soon as AW gives us a bingo field, and we tank the Hornets until they can go feet-dry. You copy all that, Mozart?”

      Pause. Soleck could almost hear the gears grinding in Mozart’s mind.

      “Roger, 703, I copy. What do you want me to do right now?”

      “Stay on your assigned track and altitude until I come up again. Stay on this freq and monitor guard and AW. I’ll get back to you. Soleck, out.”

      “AW on one, sir.” Soleck wondered if Guppy had ever called him “sir” before. “And nothing from Mister Stevens.”

      The AW said, “703, what is your status and give?”

      Soleck was pretty sure that was Captain Lash—Alpha Whiskey—himself, not some designated junior officer. That alone told Soleck plenty.

      “AW, this is 703. We have twenty-two thousand pounds to give on original mission parameters. AG 706 has the same. AW, I’m prepared to set a track to a designated bingo and tank en route. Request ID on senior officer in the air, and request location of bingo. My card of the day says Mahe Naval Air Station. Over?”

      “Wait one, 703.”

      Soleck breathed out, relaxed his grip on the controls a fraction. Somebody was in charge down there; the world had not ended; and AW was on the air.

      “703, this is AW. I have Air Ops on handheld; I have to transfer fuel data via another line because they have lost their antennas. Copy?”

      “Roger, AW.” Soleck tried to imagine the difficulty. Air Ops, if they were in business, would know the fuel needs of every plane—more important, unlike the bridge of a cruiser, Air Ops would be full of pilots who could work the numbers on fuel problems. And Air Ops was where bingo fields were set. But, according to AW, all that information had to flow across a handheld, probably a walkie-talkie.

      The AW came back on. “I have Lieutenant-Commander Donitz as senior officer in the air. And 703, just so you know the whole deal, our best information is that Mahe is down or not responding. We have no response from Calicut, either. We’re trying to find you a bingo field, but something is going down in India, over.”

      Soleck felt a cold ball form in his gut.

      Mahe Naval Base, India

      They had picked up the other three Americans from the HQ building’s bottom storey—an ex-SEAL named Fidelio, whom everybody called Fidel; a female petty officer, Dee Clavers, who had been an almost-Women’s NBA center; and a female jg named Ong, an anime princess so small she had barely managed to make the Navy minimum.

      There were too many of them now, Alan thought—five Americans and four Indians and the three Indian Marines. Too few with weapons and too many who’d never been in a fight. He muttered