"Here's some good news," Toland announced. "An Air Force F-15 Eagle fighter was flying over a fast convoy north of the Azores. Two Bears came looking for the ships and the Eagle got 'em both. That makes three in the past four days. The Backfire raid appears to have aborted."
"What's their position?" the group captain asked.
Toland ran his hand along the chart, checking latitude and longitude against the numbers on the dispatch form. "Looks like right about here, and that datum is twenty minutes old."
"That puts them over Iceland in just under two hours."
"What about tankers?" the Navy fighter commander asked.
"Not on such short notice."
"We can stretch that far with two fighters, using another two for buddy stores, but it only gives them about twenty minutes on station, under five on burner, and a ten-minute reserve when they get back here." The fighter boss whistled. "Close. Too close. We have to wave off on this."
A phone rang. The British base commander grabbed.
"Group Captain Mallory. Yes... very well, scramble." He hung up. Klaxons went off at the ready shack half a mile away. Fighter pilots raced to their aircraft. "Ivan's settled the argument in any case, Commander. Your radar aircraft report heavy jamming activity inbound from the north."
The commander raced out the door and jumped into a jeep.
The drive from SACLANT headquarters took ten minutes. The Marines at the main gate were checking everyone and everything carefully, even a Chevy with a three-star flag. They drove to the waterfront amid an unending flurry of activity. Trains rolled down the tracks set in the streets, repair shops and testing facilities worked around the clock. Even the McDonald's on the road immediately outside was working a twenty-four-hour day, feeding hamburgers and fries to the men who took a few minutes for nourishment. For sailors spending a day or so on land it was an important, if seemingly trivial, touchstone. The car turned right as it reached the docks, past the submarine piers to the ones that held destroyers.
"She's brand new, only a month in commission, just about long enough to calibrate the electronics, and they must have shaved some time on that," the Admiral said. "Captain Wilkens did continuous workups on the transit from San Diego, but nothing with helicopters yet. PACFLT kept hers, and I can't give you a regular helo complement either. All we have left is one Seahawk-F variant, a prototype helo they were evaluating down at Jacksonville."
"The one with the dipping sonar?" Ed Morris asked. "I can live with that. How about a driver who knows how to use it?"
"It's covered. Lieutenant Commander O'Malley. We pulled him out of a training billet at Jax."
"I've heard the name. He was doing systems qualifications on Moosbrugger when I was tactical action officer on John Rodgers. Yeah, he knows the job."
"Have to drop you off here. I'll be back in an hour, after I have a look at what's left of the Kidd."
Reuben James. Her raked clipper bow marked with hull number 57 hung over the dock like a guillotine blade. His weariness momentarily forgotten, Morris stepped out of the Chevy to examine his new command with all the quiet enthusiasm of a man with his newborn child.
He'd seen FFG-7-class frigates, but never been aboard one. Her severe hull lines reminded him of a Cigarette racing yacht. Six five-inch mooring lines secured her to the pier, but the sleek form already seemed to be straining at them. At only 3900 tons full load, not a large ship but manifestly a fast one to go in harm's way.
Her superstructure was an aesthetic embarrassment, with all the grace of a brick garage, topped with antenna whips and radar masts that looked like they had been built by a child's erector set, but Morris saw the functional simplicity of the design. The frigate's forty missiles were tucked away in circular racks forward. Her boxy after deckhouse contained enough room for a pair of deadly ASW helicopters. Her hull was sleek because speed required it. Her superstructure was boxy because it had to be. This was a warship, and whatever beauty Reuben James might have had was accidental.
Sailors wearing blue shirts and jeans moved rapidly across three gangways, bringing supplies aboard for an immediate sailing. Morris walked briskly to the after gangway. A Marine guard saluted him at the foot of the brow and an officer on the frigate's deck frantically ordered preparations to receive his new CO. The ship's bell was struck four times, and Commander Ed Morris assumed his new identity.
"Reuben James, arriving."
Morris saluted the colors, then the officer of the deck.
"Sir, we didn't expect you for another-" the lieutenant blurted.
"How's the work going?" Morris cut him off.
"Two more hours, tops, sir."
"Fine." Morris smiled. "We can worry about the Mickey Mouse later. Get back to work, Mister-"
"Lyles, sir. Ship control officer."
And what the hell is that? Morris wondered. "Okay, Mr. Lyles. Where's the XO?"
