Chapter 6 - The Unidentified Bird
The electronic pulse of the radar console flared amber, tracing a jagged, low-altitude arc across the tactical display as the unidentified civilian helicopter punched through the airspace above San Diego Bay.
“It’s not responding to IFF interrogation, Admiral,” Marcus said, his voice sharp and lean as he stepped out of the plotting alcove into my temporary quarters. “San Diego tower didn't clear them, and harbor patrol hasn't logged a commercial charter in this sector for the last hour.”
I stood up from my desk, the encrypted dossier detailing my father’s offshore accounts still glowing on the terminal screen. The juxtaposition was too brutal to ignore: a father who had spent thirty years preaching military honor and discipline, now caught elbow-deep in illicit corporate defense conduits, and an unauthorized chopper screaming across the water toward the USS Sterett.
“Sound general quarters?” Marcus asked, his hand hovering over the alarm relay.
“Hold,” I commanded, my eyes fixed on the green blip closing distance on the tactical map at a hundred and twenty knots. “If we go to general quarters over a stray civilian bird, the port authority will have a field day with the brass. Intercept it visually first. Get the bridge spotters on the port beam.”
“On it,” Marcus muttered, grabbing his comms handset.
I grabbed my service cap from the bulkhead hook, settled it firmly on my head, and strode out of the cabin, my boots hitting the steel passageway with rapid, measured cadence. The heavy scent of diesel and sea salt grew stronger as I climbed the ladder toward the combat information center and the bridge wing above.
When I stepped out onto the open bridge wing, the biting ocean wind whipped my hair across my face. Below us, the gray waters of the bay chopped against the Sterett’s massive hull.
Four miles out, a sleek, black twin-engine Eurocopter cut low over the whitecaps, banking hard toward our port side with reckless disregard for maritime separation rules.
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“They’re vectoring directly for our quarterdeck crane,” the officer of the deck reported, his voice tight with adrenaline as he gripped the binoculars. “They’re trying to land or drop someone on deck without clearance.”
“Not on my ship,” I said.
