Charles Taylor - Show of Force

"Futility, Admiral." He spread his hands, his bushy eyebrows rising. "We are ordered out here to be an extension of national policy, but we have no idea whether we are doing right or wrong." He shook his head. "We have lost many ships, planes… many men. For that matter, the Americans have, too. And this is all over a little island in the middle of the ocean. What is so important about that island that so many people must die?"

"Svedrov, I know you well. And I know you will do your job as long as you are still able to draw breath. That doesn't concern me. What you must understand," and he pointed his ringer at the other man, "is that Admiral Gorenko knows what is on that island and that what we are doing is important. You are a much younger man than I am. You remember nothing of the Germans sweeping across the Motherland… to Leningrad… to Moscow… to Volgograd. I don't remember a great deal, but I grew up in Gorenko's house, and he taught me from the day I arrived there that no one must ever be able to bring Russia to that point again. So many wars have been fought on Russian soil, and so many innocent Russians have died, peasants, not soldiers," he emphasized, "that he will never allow it again while he is alive."

The other said nothing, and Alex continued. "If he is asking us to die out here, near an island we shall both probably never see, then we are in some way protecting the Motherland." He paused, drawing a deep breath. "If you had been there when the Germans came, then you would see there is a meaning."

"Will you attempt to contact Admiral Gorenko?"

"No. If he feels it is important to chance the Americans intercepting our messages, then he will contact us. I have no doubt they have all the photographs necessary of our engagements from the spy planes."

Svedrov forced a weak smile. "I am sure I have understood all along. Sometimes it is necessary to hear it spoken." He had grown to love his Admiral. He stood again. "Let me go to the bridge to determine our latest position. There is a great deal to do in the next few hours, and we have so little time to plan it all."

"Yes, and we must plan how we will deliver Nimitz to Admiral Gorenko."

Admiral David Charles was on the wing of the open bridge, his binoculars to his eyes. "Can we save her, Bill?"

"I doubt it, Admiral." Bill Dailey was also peering through his binoculars at the smoke from Turner Joy. He noted the Admiral was especially disturbed. Oldendorf and Cochrane were standing off, upwind of the stricken ship, their hoses playing on her twisted decks as volunteers gingerly searched the smoldering wreckage for other wounded. Dailey finally had to report to the Admiral there was no sign of his friend, Lieutenant Bivins. There as little that could be done for the old ship.

"Have them get everyone off. Sink her." The Admiral had touted it out at the open ocean to no one in particular.

In less than ten minutes, the boats had returned the searchers to the protecting ships. Cochrane left to resume her station. Oldendorf turned her stern to the battered destroyer and stood off a thousand yards. They didn't have to wait long for the first torpedo from Oldendorf to leap from its tube, entering the water with a splash. They followed the shallow path, then saw, before they heard, the explosion that cast a great wave of water above the midships section of Turner Joy. A second torpedo followed closely behind the first, going off in what was left of the bow. She listed more heavily to port. A third torpedo was fired, hitting just to the rear of where the first had hit her.

"She doesn't want to go down," David murmured.

"Pardon me, Admiral?" answered a lookout nearby, thinking the man had spoken to him.

"She doesn't want to go down, son. She's an old bucket, but she had a grand story to tell." He dropped his glasses to his chest and turned fully to the sailor. "I was her gunnery officer at one time. She was a Hell of a ship." His eyes misted over from old Memories. "I left her before that night off Vietnam."

"What night was that, sir?" the boy queried.

"I guess it doesn't matter now, but that was a night that got us to a war we sure shouldn't have got ourselves into." He smiled at the lookout, nodding toward Turner Joy. "Every ship has a story to tell, son. Perhaps her passing will end that Vietnam night for good."

They all watched as the fourth torpedo finally did the job, opening up the bow. She began a long, graceful dive toward the bottom, her screws arched toward the sun for a brief moment. David moved back to his bridge chair, avoiding the eyes of the young sailor.

So much death, he thought. I hope the spy planes have been taking lots of pictures to show the politicians back in Washing-Ion. I just hope to hell this means a lot to them.

"Admiral… Admiral?" He had heard Frank Welles's voice, but he hadn't responded. Without answering, he turned in his chair toward the captain of the Nimitz. The chaplain was with Frank. "Admiral, Captain Loomis has requested permission to take a helicopter to some of the other ships. He'd like to assist with the burials at sea."

The chaplain, unlike so many of his peers, had become an accepted member of the wardroom and a friend to many of them. He was reasonably tall, dark, and had black hair that was rapidly graying at an early age. It was always a bit too long, and the jokes in the wardroom were based on the chaplain's habits when ashore, which were also much unlike his peers. He could often be found drinking with the other officers, and his Monday morning hangdog appearance made him the brunt of many of the wardroom jokes. Of even more amusement to the others was his fondness for the women in whatever port they happened to be anchored in. Since he never set himself above the crew, David noticed that they paid more attention to what he had to say. Chaplain Loomis was one of a kind. When he had somehow managed to graduate from divinity school, they had definitely destroyed the mold.

Goddamn, David thought, at a time like this he's worried about saving souls. No, that wasn't it. He was just trying to do his job. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Tom," he said to the chaplain. "It wouldn't be very safe for you. It seems that the Russians aren't going to take no for an answer. They'll be here in less than two hours, and I'd have my tail in a sling if your boss ever knew I had you dangling from a helicopter in the middle of a battle."

"I realize that, Admiral. I just feel I should be doing something for the other ships. Nimitz hasn't been touched, and so many of the others have been in the middle of it all."

"You're right, Tom, of course. But I still can't let you bob around on the end of a helicopter. I'll tell you what I will do if you're willing to compromise. We'll put you out over one of our radio circuits." He nodded at the chaplain. "If you'll offer a few words of inspiration beyond just a service for the dead you might make a lot of friends, too. Times like this a lot of the men suddenly find they're not so suspicious of people like you."

The chaplain grinned. After so long at sea, his eyes were totally clear. He'd heard it all before. He'd offered religious services for every denomination in so many ways that it would have left his teachers at divinity school shaken. He knew he'd never make it as a civilian again. "I'd be happy to, sir, but do you mind if I ask why the hurry?" He'd served with David before, and knew this admiral well. They had even had some lost nights together in the past.

David pointed straight ahead, off the carrier's bow. "Russians," he answered. "Every size and shape you want. And they're coming in carriers and cruisers and destroyers and submarines and God knows what else unless you've gotten the word. And in about two hours we're going to be right in the middle of them."