Unknown Rider

The message was clear enough. An open bar meant the flight deck was clear and ready to recover him aboard the carrier. CAG directing him to buster meant he was to proceed directly to the ship. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. For once, he agreed. He needed to explain to CAG what had happened with his jet so he could ground the fleet before whatever cancer had infected the software caused any real harm.

He circled the Mobile Bay again, watching as she turned to point her bow north before once more kicking up a bioluminescent wake. He couldn’t help himself and looked along her projected course, spotting a ship floating just north of San Clemente Island. With a few quick hand gestures, he designated the ship on his surface search radar as a target and slewed the EOTS to the new target.

“How copy, Bolt Four One?”

With one more glance at the ship centered under the crosshairs on his display, he sighed and keyed the microphone. “Bolt Four One copies.”

He turned and pointed his nose at the Lincoln.

USS Mobile Bay (CG-53)

“Where’s he going?” Beth asked.

She was standing next to the chief supervising the Mk-20 EOSS operation, her eyes glued to the nineteen-inch display and the vessel centered in the crosshairs. The seaman manipulated the joystick control, firing a laser at the merchant ship to update their range to the target.

“Eighteen point five nautical miles and holding, ma’am,” he said, not answering her question but still giving her a crucial piece of information.

“Is he running?” Beth asked, turning to look at her XO, who was hovering over the radar display.

“His course would put him in the heart of commercial traffic in and out of Long Beach,” he replied.

“All ahead flank three,” she commanded.

“All ahead flank three, aye, ma’am,” the lee helmsman replied.

They lurched as the massive engines again increased to full power, pushing the mighty warship to its maximum speed. She still didn’t know if the vessel they had spotted hanging in the shadow of San Clemente Island had played a role in the orbs circling her ship, but it had disabled its transponder and was trying to get lost in the clutter of America’s second busiest port. That made him guilty in her mind.

“Range to target?” she asked.

There was a pause as the sailor fired the laser again. “Eighteen point four nautical miles and closing slowly, ma’am.”

“How far is she from the anchorage?”

Her navigator leaned over the chart and measured the distance from the commercial vessel to the southern end of the field where ships sat at anchor waiting their turn to enter the port and offload their cargo.

“Forty-eight point six nautical miles,” he replied.

She didn’t need a slide rule to know there wouldn’t be enough time to intercept the vessel before it could lose itself among the other ships. She resisted the urge to slam her fist down onto the nearest console and instead deliberately folded her arms across her chest.

“Ma’am, a word?” Ben said, standing apart from the other sailors.

She saw his contemplative expression and could tell from his posture he was preparing to give her sage counsel, whether she wanted to hear it or not. She nodded and stepped closer, allowing him to speak without fear of being overheard by the crew.

“What is it, Master Chief?”

“Once we cross north of San Clemente, we will be out of position to provide sanitization for tomorrow’s missile test. I recommend we hand off this contact to the Coast Guard and return to our assigned station.”

She had a feeling that was what he was going to say, and she admitted it was the right thing to do. But she had never backed down from a fight in her life. She was a scrapper and had fought to get where she was. It stuck in her craw not to see this through.

“But you are the captain,” Ben added as a gentle admonishment.

“Thank you,” she whispered, then stepped around his hulking frame to address the bridge. “XO, break off the intercept and return us to our station. Radio Coast Guard Los Angeles-Long Beach and hand off the unidentified merchant vessel, then secure from general quarters.”

The commander stepped forward. “Aye, ma’am.”

She turned and placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze in quiet thanks for his reminder. The ship’s crew were in excellent hands with Ben Ivy as their Master Chief.

He nodded at her, and she slipped off the bridge for her cabin to complete her report of the evening’s events. She still wasn’t sure what to tell the admiral about the orbs, but she sure as shit knew what she was going to say to the CAG; there was a certain pilot who would soon learn what happened to those who crossed her.

4

USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN-72)

Lance Corporal Adam Garett shuffled along the passageway, blinking away his fatigue as he made his way forward to Ready Room Four. He still hadn’t found his sea legs and cursed when a gentle swell toppled him into the white bulkhead and scuffed his green coveralls.