14
Tracy Island, at a cleared space near the buried pool deck-
On the surface of things, Lieutenant Emma Kraft appeared to be just a Naval officer in her dress whites, onshore, enjoying a social function. Food could have been (a lot) better, but the company was certainly interesting.
Six days previous, her ship had received an astonishing distress call from Tracy Island, of all places, indicating that two people were trapped beneath a collapsed building. The Flag-class cutter Union Jack, commanded by Lieutenant Kraft, had altered course to deliver aid and comfort, which was when they'd become over-involved with the Tracys, and International Rescue.
Having weathered a ferocious attack, the island's structures were essentially demolished. Kraft hadn't found a wall standing, or a piece of equipment undamaged. Now, what she should have done, probably, was to help rescue the trapped victims, and then return to normal operations. What she had done was anchor in the bay, then have her crew pitch in to help with clean-up and logistics.
Obviously. How often in a Navy officer's career did she get to say, "I hauled IR out of a jam"? So, here she was. Here they all were, emotionally involved and mission-compromised. Now they'd been ordered to leave; to abandon the unarmed Tracys to whatever the World Council intended for them. Only… Kraft couldn't do it.
An odd bunch, the Tracys, but friendly and good-hearted. Maybe a bit too friendly, in the case of one of their younger teammates. Much more fraternization from that quarter, and Kraft was going to have to start holding large-group disciplinary Captain's Masts (in an auditorium).
Then, there was the other one, Virgil. Kraft had worked closely with him to set up generators, Quonset huts and temporary living quarters. Through Virgil, she'd also supplied the group with small arms; promising the cover of Union Jack's laser cannon, in case of renewed attack. She'd come to like and respect him, but, more to the point…
Virgil Tracy was a big young man, about her own age, and he cleaned up nicely. He also talked a lot, in a totally disarming, "nothing to hide" sort of way. Kraft got the impression that (other than trying to poison her with this Godawful meal) the cargo pilot was good clean through; someone other people would naturally follow.
Now, as she listened through her earpiece for updates from Union Jack, Kraft found herself paying greater and greater attention to the handsome civilian beside her. On the one hand, nobody crept past her ship in a sub, meaning to foul the screws and anchors, without the lieutenant's complete, clandestine attention (especially "Randy Andy"). On the other hand, Virgil Tracy was a very hard man to ignore.
"Somebody ought to take a picture," he mused, looking around the crowded table at his family and guests. "We almost never get this dressed up. It's uniforms or scruffies, most of the time." Then, tugging slightly at the sleeves of his tan corduroy dinner jacket, "I have to get most of mine specially tailored, you know." Virgil paused, gave her a sidelong glance, and said, "Because of, um… big shoulders."
Emma just barely managed not to smile, thinking, 'Are you flirting with me, Mister?' What she actually said was,
"That must be a serious issue, this far from the mainland. You boys don't get out much, do you?"
"Well…" he leaned back in his chair and stretched, making the wood creak alarmingly. "Yes and no. Depends on what you mean by "get out". Yes: we're constantly moving around, all over the world and out to the colonies, sometimes. No: we, uh… we really don't have much time to relax. One nice thing, though; my office has a helluva view."
Emma nodded and smiled, liking him better by the moment.
"I'll bet. So does mine. Nice when you love what you do, isn't it?"
Virgil completed his stretch, then sat upright again, looking her straight in the eye.
"So, you, uh… You want to see my Bird?"
Startled, Kraft drew a sharp breath to reply. Never got the chance. It was at that precise instant that her earpiece pinged, and she got a message from the comm watch on Union Jack. She was up out of her chair at a lunge, causing it to clatter and skid behind her.
"Back to the ship!" she shouted aloud. "All hands return to the ship, double-time!"
Virgil had arisen, too. All around them, the XO and Marines were already moving.
"Can I help?" he asked.
"If you can keep up," she shot back, breaking into a run. "Stop to say "huh?", and you're talking to yourself, Tracy!"
And then she raced off, surrounded by well-fed Marines; Virgil Tracy thudding along at her side like a Clydesdale.
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A bit earlier, in Thunderbird 4-
Gordon Tracy's gut clenched and his heart began hammering. Not just one drill bomb, but five; spaced evenly along the ship's keel. If detonated, they would instantly snap Union Jack's spine, sending her straight to the bottom in chunks. The loss of life would be almost total, unless someone happened to be in a sealed compartment when the ship ripped apart.
For a second, all Gordon could think of was Cassie, the gunner's mate. She'd been headed back to her berth for a shower and rest. He could see her dark eyes and her cinnamon skin, feel the brush of her soft goodbye kiss on his cheek. She was in there, somewhere, and the ship was rigged to explode and go down with all hands. Men and women he knew, people he'd worked, kidded and eaten with, were going to die.
Thunderbird 4 had been purring softly through the water, easing closer to Union Jack. Now, though, Gordon throttled back, killing his forward impellers and cutting the lights.
"Quiet, girl," he whispered, staring out through his perma-glass view screen at death. Drill bombs could be dispatched remotely, and rigged to detonate later, when their target was in the desired position. They were also motion-, light- and proximity-sensitive, and able to pick up all subsurface comm broadcasts. Dark, ugly things; like rusted scabs with red, blinking lights in the center.
No telling how long they'd been there, or when their time would run out, but Gordon had to assume the worst; that any second now, Union Jack would become an undersea gravesite.
"Okay, right. Think, Tracy!" he told himself. "Daren't get any closer… or send a comm message… Got to warn them, though, and fast. Right, got it. Just hope someone in there is paying attention."
Pulling a socket wrench out of his bulkhead toolkit, Gordon began tapping against the perma-glass window.
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Union Jack, in the communications center-
Petty Officer Cameron Wolf sat at the comm post, idly listening to fish, distant whale song, and the sound of a small IR sub going by. Lieutenant Kraft had ordered a double watch and five-minute reporting throughout the night. Wouldn't say why, except to state that there'd be some "below surface activity" from the team on Tracy Island.
So, he waited and he listened, detecting water humming through the anchor chain, and then past a smallish, one-man submersible. On informing the Old Lady (who'd gone ashore to placate the locals) he'd been advised that IR was out on maneuvers, and told to stand down. Then, Petty Officer Wolf heard something else. Tapping, it sounded like. Not random, either, and maybe not aboard ship. Hitting a ship-circuit comm switch, the Petty Officer announced,
"All hands, protocol: silent."
At once, nearly all activity on Union Jack came to a halt, was padded, or cycled down next to nothing. Shoes came off, and no one would even have strained too hard on the latrine. The tapping persisted, with a definite pattern.
"I know this…" Wolf muttered. "It's old Morse Code!"
Along with semaphore, still required training in the GDF Navy. Mentally high-fiving himself for making the connection, Wolf motioned Able Seaman Hijaz to bring him something to write with. The sender was very good and very fast; Wolf couldn't keep the whole message in his head, at that speed.
Hijaz padded over with a notebook and stylus. Wolf thanked her with a nod, then began writing as the clicks turned to words in his mind.
…SOS… ship mined… drill bombs keel… will try to remove… SOS… ship mined…
"Oh, sh*t," Wolf gasped, turning a stricken gaze at Hijaz. He could waste time awaiting orders, or he could act. Wolf chose to act, hitting the lights-only "abandon ship" klaxon. Then, he pinged the Old Lady.
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Thunderbird 4-
Praying they'd received his message, Gordon stopped tapping. So much for getting the word out, he decided. Time to pull up his socks and get those d*mned things off the hull. People first, always, but like the rest of the Tracys, Gordon had a very soft spot for machinery, and if he could save Union Jack, he would. Not in his Bird, though. She was too big, and would certainly be detected as mechanical. But a man in rebreathing apparatus, with no bubbles or flippers, should be able to ease up without causing alarm.
Not wanting to make any noise, Gordon switched to full manual for his debark. Helmet on, seat laid back, then lowered still farther. He crossed his arms on his chest and slid down through airlock port one and into a flooded tank, head first. Once the first port irised shut, airlock port two whooshed open. He was then flushed out of the lock by a flood of pumped water, into the turbulent ocean.
Gordon knew that he was sweating, because the helmet glass fogged a bit. Only, he didn't feel hot at all. In his mind, everybody was quietly getting the h*ll off that ship, Cassie first among them. And Trisha… and Jenn…
'C'mon,' he thought pleadingly, 'you heard me and you're all sneaking out now. Only idiot getting himself blown up here, is me.' Which seemed pretty likely, on the face of things.
Making only the gentlest of kicks, Gordon drifted up to first drill bomb, which was dug into the hull right about level with the ammo room. Bastards knew what they were doing, and they hadn't planned to play games. But Gordon Tracy had two secret weapons. Maybe three, if you counted, blind, dumb persistence. First, he always carried one of Parker's special "no-fail safe cracking tools". The second was a heavily shielded disposal bag, folded down flat.
'Let's see,' he thought. 'If you wanted to bring a ship down with maximum carnage, you'd rig to blow at 0300 or 0400, when near everyone's down in their bunks. Can't count on that, though.' He had to behave as though the bombs could detonate within the next ten minutes, and get them all off.
Gordon's suit gave him direct neuro-contact with the water around him. Like an actual fish, he could detect currents and eddies, as well as electrical fields. He could even "taste", through the fingertip pads of his gloves, and in lines down both sides of his torso. What he tasted right now was the bitter tang of brine meeting unprotected metal. There, and there, where the bomb had drilled through and clamped in, ions were streaming away from the ship in long plumes, like tears.
Cutting off his comm (just in case someone took a notion to check in, and blew him clear to the next Big Rescue) Gordon drifted closer. Near enough, almost, to touch the hull and that scabrous bomb.
'Just a fish,' he thought at the dimly blinking killer. 'Just a happy-go-lucky cod, out for an evening ramble. Nothing to worry yourself over.'
And then, very gently, Gordon Tracy reached out with his "No-fail Safe Cracker (TM)", aiming to by-pass its code and shut the bomb down. Unless it sensed him, first.