"To deal with the air threat, the carriers Independence and America will be supporting the convoy. The new Aegis cruiser Bunker Hill, as you may have noticed, will be traveling in the convoy. Also, the Air Force will be taking out the Russian radar-ocean-reconnaissance satellite on its next pass, about twelve hundred hours zulu tomorrow."
"All right!" a destroyer captain observed.
"Gentlemen, we are delivering a total load of over two million tons of equipment, plus a complete armored division made up of reserve and National Guard formations. Not counting the materiel reinforcements, this is enough supplies to keep NATO in action for three weeks. This one goes through.
"Any questions? No? Then, good luck."
The theater emptied, the officers filing past the armed guards onto the sunny street.
"Jerry?" Morris said quietly.
"Yes, Captain?" The pilot donned his aviator's sunglasses.
"About last night-"
"Captain, last night we both had too much to drink, and to tell you the truth, I don't remember all that much. Maybe six months from now we can decide what happened. You sleep well?"
"Almost twelve hours. My alarm clock didn't go off."
"Maybe you should get a new one." They walked past the bar both had visited the night before. The captain and the pilot gave it a look, then laughed.
"Once more into the breach, dear friends!" Doug Perrin joined them.
"Just don't give us any of this laying your ship alongside the enemy crap," O'Malley suggested. "That 'away boarders' shit is dangerous."
"Your job is to keep the bastards away from us, Jerr-O. Up to it?"
"He'd better be," Morris observed lightly. "I'd hate to think he's all talk!"
"We got a real nice bunch here," the pilot observed angrily. "Jeez, I fly up all on my own, find a damned submarine, give it to Doug here, and do I get any respect?"
"That's the problem with aviators. You don't tell them how great they are every five minutes, they go and get depressed on you," Morris said with a smile. He was a different person from the one who had mumbled through dinner last night. "Anything you need that we might have, Doug?"
"Perhaps we might exchange some foodstuffs?"
"No problem. Send your supply officer over. I'm sure we can negotiate something." Morris checked his watch. "We don't sail for another three hours. Let's have a sandwich and talk over a few things. I got an idea for spoofing those Backfires that I want to try out on you..."
Three hours later, a pair of Moran harbor tugs eased the frigates away from the pier. Reuben James moved slowly, her turbine engines pushing her through the polluted water at a gentle six knots. O'Malley watched from the right seat of his helicopter, on alert for a possible Russian sub near the entrance to the harbor, though four Orion patrol aircraft were vigorously sanitizing the area. Probably the Victor they had killed two days before had been detailed to trail and report on the convoy, first to direct a Backfire raid, then to close and launch her own attack. The trailer was dead, but that did not mean that the sailing was a secret. New York was a city of eight million, and surely one of them was standing at his window with a pair of binoculars, cataloging the ship types and numbers. He or she would make an innocent telephone call, and the data would be in Moscow in a few hours. Other submarines would close on their expected track. As soon as they were outside of shore-based air cover, Soviet search aircraft would come looking, with missile-armed Backfires behind them.
So many ships, O'Malley thought. They passed a series of Ro/Ros, roll-on/roll-off container ships loaded with tanks, fighting vehicles, and the men of a whole armored division. Others were piled high with containers that could be loaded right onto trucks for dispatch to the front, their contents recorded on computer for rapid delivery to the proper destination. He thought about the news reports, the taped scenes of land combat in Germany. That was what this was all about. The Navy's mission: keep the sea-lanes open to deliver the tools those men in Germany needed. Get the ships across.
"How does she ride?" Calloway asked.
"Not too bad," Morris answered the reporter. "We have fin stabilizers. She doesn't roll very much. If you have any problem, our corpsman can probably come up with something. Don't be bashful about asking."
"I will try to keep out of your way."
Morris gave the man from Reuters a friendly nod. He'd arrived with only an hour's warning, but he seemed to be a pro, or at least experienced enough to have all his gear packed in one bag. He took the last available bunk in officers' country.
"Your admiral said that you're one of his best commanders."
"I guess we'll find that out," Morris said.
