by David Poyer
“So the most accurate answer may be, I don’t really feel able to answer your question. At least, as specifically as you may want.”
Dan rubbed his face, getting a bad feeling. Just as he’d feared, the system was new and buggy. Maintenance was lagging, and his lead fire controlman seemed unwilling even to defend herself, let alone the ship.
Wenck said, out of nowhere, “Is it possible there’s a virus in the system?”
Noblos frowned. “A virus? No. That’s not possible.”
“That would degrade the parameters.”
“No. It’s just poor tuning, shoddy maintenance.”
Dan looked back at the readouts, remembering a ship that’d once had a virus. USS Barrett. Everyone had said that was impossible too. “Donnie, why do you bring that up? Do you think there’s a virus?”
“Hey, I ain’t even got my seabag unpacked, sir. But I’d like to make sure.”
“Wasted effort,” Noblos said.
Terranova just stared at her screen.
“Three hours.” Wenck held up a thumb drive. “Just to start with a clean slate.”
“I’d go with it,” Dan said, his tone making it not an order but a suggestion. Noblos shrugged and turned away, and just like that, he knew he’d gotten on the rider’s bad side.
He looked around the dim, chill, nearly empty space. Its ranks of vacant seats in front of unlit consoles were like the rows of seats in a theater before a play. He tried to relax, to rub the doubt off his face.
If this ship was really going to war, they all had a lot of work to do.
4
The Tyrrhenian Sea
TWO days later, leaning back in his chair on the bridge, Dan surveyed an untenanted horizon beneath a cloudy sky. Far to the east, long out of sight, the coast of Italy. A hundred sea miles northwest, the rocky coast of Sardinia. And an equal distance south, Sicily. He’d asked the senior watch officer to prune back the warm bodies in the pilothouse. But there were still twenty people up here. What had happened to “reduced manning through automation”? Navigation was computerized now, with a console instead of paper charts. But they still had to keep a paper track, in case the computers went down. Which meant you had double the people on watch.
Don’t be cynical, he told himself. You’re where you wanted to be: back at sea.
But sometimes it was hard.
The day was white, a pale sky over a smoky sea. But not dim; on the contrary, it glowed from within, as if beyond that frosted vault some master craftsman welded with a colorless flame. The wind was piercingly cold. The seas were parkerized steel, marching in low ranks from the west, barely three feet, at most. Just enough to make Savo Island surge slowly beneath him, a deliberate, gentle heave like the slow, steady breathing of a resting horse. He was still getting used to the ship, but as far as he could tell, she liked being back in harness.
“Ideal conditions,” he told the chief engineer.
“Yessir.” Danenhower looked haggard, unshaven, mustache askew, but the chief engineer had gotten his department ready in forty-eight hours, in a ship that two days before few had thought could have gone to sea at all. “We’re ready to start the run, Captain.”
“That’s good work, CHENG. Appreciate the effort.”
“What we do, sir.”
“I also appreciated what you did back when Horn got nailed.”
“It was the repair locker team leaders, Captain. They’re the ones saved us from taking a long swim.”
“Guess you’ve got that right. Have you kept track of Lin Porter? What’s she doing now?”
“Last I heard, she had a Burke-class. The Sullivans, I think.”
“She got a command? That’s great. Well, what about this panel-grounding issue on the engines that I keep hearing about?”
“Think we’ve got a handle on that, sir.”
“Is it a design issue?”
“It is, but there’s drawbacks to an ungrounded system, too. We had an intermittent, but I think we’ve got it nailed. It takes attention. But we’re on top of it.”
Dan started to ask if he liked the Harry Potter book he’d glimpsed on his bunk when he’d passed the engineer’s open stateroom door, but did not. It might sound patronizing, or as if he were making fun of the guy’s reading matter. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Navigator, what’s our draft?”
“Forward, twenty-two feet six inches. Aft, twenty-two three.”
“Make sure that’s logged. Along with the water depth at both turn points.”
“In the log, sir. 3190 meters here.”
That was good and deep. He raised his voice. “Confirm, clear to the east?” They’d run that way for an hour at flank speed, then turn and tear back through the same water. That would zero out any effects from wind and sea, though with today’s conditions such influences should be negligible.
The officer of the deck lifted her head. The Indian-goddess profile he’d noticed the first day aboard belonged to Lieutenant Amarpeet “Amy” Singhe. Like the rest of the crew, the strike officer was in blue one-piece belted coveralls. But she made them look elegant. Deep black eyes met his. “Yes, Captain. Clear as far as the radar can see.”
He stared blankly, noting the tautness of blue cloth over her breasts, the glossy black curl of twisted-up hair.
In the eternal pot-stirring of the Navy Uniform Board, sailors no longer wore dungarees at sea. The surface fleet had taken over coveralls as a working uniform from the sub force. And since all hands wore it, officers were distinguished from enlisted by the color of the web belt—blue for enlisted, khaki for chiefs and officers—and, of course, collar insignia. It was comfortable, but he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about having everyone look so much the same.
“Sir?” Danenhower said.
“Let’s go,” Dan said. Danenhower hit the 21MC and relayed the order down to Main Control, then left the bridge.
“Right standard rudder, come to course zero nine zero,” Singhe said.
“My rudder is right standard, coming to zero nine zero true … steady on zero nine zero, checking zero-eight-eight.” The first number was the true course, by the gyrocompass; the second, by the magnetic compass. The phrases, even the cadence, were familiar, traditional, yet it sounded different. Maybe because both voices, the OOD’s and the helmsman’s, were female.
“Permission to start full-power run, Captain?”
“Soon as you’re steady on course, Amy.”
“Aye, sir. Bo’s’un, pass the word.”
BM2 Nuckols reached for his whistle and leaned to the 1MC. An earsplitting, endless call. Dan had never understood why it was a point of pride with boatswain’s mates to break every eardrum on the ship. Nuckols intoned hoarsely, “Now commence full-power run. All personnel stand clear of the fantail and aft of frame 315.”
Singhe said, “Log commencing run. All engines ahead flank three.” The helmsman answered up. In the old days there’d been a lee helmsman, too, separate controllers for course and speed, but now both steering and engine commands were executed at the same console. Yeah, they’d saved one body there.
He strolled out to the wing, into the icy wind, and leaned on the bulwark as Savo Island gathered speed. The acceleration was perceptible, but not exactly enough to knock you off your feet. After thirty or forty seconds, though, she was charging through the chop, sending a turbulent bow wave veeing out into the grayblue sea. The turbines rose to a whining roar. The wind did too, shifting to blow from ahead, buffeting him. He grabbed his cap just as it blew off, and tucked it into his belt.
Singhe stuck her head out. A loose strand of midnight hair whipped in the wind. “Flank three, sir. Hundred and seventy rpm.”
“Very well.” He stood there until he was chilled through, alone except for the starboard lookout. Just watching the rapidly passing sea.
* * *
HIS at-sea cabin, one level below the bridge, was snugger and less opulent than his inport suite two decks down, where he could host meetings, or welcome
dignitaries for an intimate dinner. This small vibrating closet held only a bunk, a steel hanging locker, a desk and computer, and his own chair and one for a visitor.
And Master Chief Tausengelt, in that extra chair.
The command master chief was the senior representative of the enlisted. This too had originated with the submarine force, where the chief of the boat stood second only to the CO as the source and fount of authority. Master Chief Electrician Tausengelt wasn’t exactly grizzled, but he was older than almost anyone else aboard. He was lean as a smoked beef stick, with deep furrows down both sides of his mouth. His thin, light hair was only fuzz in front and not much thicker behind. He wore both the enlisted surface warfare water wings and enlisted aviation wings, and below them the heavy oval brass badge of the command master chief. Tausengelt was from Roald’s staff, like Mills. He’d replaced the previous CMC, who’d gone down in the purge.
But the CMC wasn’t just a mouthpiece for the crew to the skipper. He was also an inside track for the captain to find out what the crew really thought, before an abscess got to the point of bursting. Dan wanted to make him even more than that, to actually make the senior enlisted a stakeholder in the command team. Not quite a triumvirate—CO, XO, CMC—but as close as he could get. So that now Dan had no problem asking, “Well, Master Chief, you’ve had a chance to canvass the crew. And the chiefs’ mess. What’s your call? We over this, or not?”
The chief took his time answering, but finally said, “Basically, I’m not sure.”
The steady roar of the turbines, conducted through the steel of the superstructure, made them both raise their voices. “Not a real informative answer, Master Chief.”
“All I can give you right now, sir. Tell you one thing. This is the most suspicious goat locker I’ve even seen. Real closemouthed. If there’s some under-the-table there, they’re not giving it up.”
Dan thought about this. Wenck had said the same, but he’d chalked that up to the more senior chiefs resenting a newly fleeted-up E-7, plus the natural distrust any organization had toward someone a new leader brought with him. “How do they feel about losing the old CO, the previous CMC, all those people?”
“Basically, I won’t deny there’s grumbling. Some say the good went overboard along with the bad.”
“Probably not totally untrue. Collateral damage.”
“What’s that, sir?” Tausengelt cupped his ear. “It’s goddamn noisy in here.”
“Nothing. Yeah, it’s pretty loud in here at full power. How’s that command philosophy going? XO seen it yet?”
“Got a draft, sir. Should be in your mailbox.”
Dan half turned and brought it up on his screen. He scrolled down it, gaze snagging on clichés. Mission accomplishment first. Make your own quality of life. But he couldn’t fault a Navy document for clichés. The shorthand might sound tin-eared or repetitive to outsiders, but it conveyed concepts in efficient, almost digital bursts. “I’ll look it over and get back to you. How’s the junior enlisted feel?”
“I don’t get much of a sense either way from the deckplates. Basically, they’re focused on their jobs. Your inspection—that shook them up. You got into places Imerson never went.”
“Or Almarshadi?”
Tausengelt remained diplomatically silent.
“The first-class lounge?”
“Pretty much the same.”
“The JOs?” Strictly speaking they weren’t Tausengelt’s business, but an experienced chief knew what the junior officers were thinking. Usually, before the JOs knew it themselves.
Tausengelt took his time. Dan waited, hoping he didn’t start his next sentence with “Basically.”
“Basically, sir, there might be a problem. One of the lieutenants. She was on the bridge when the ship hit.”
“Really? Who?”
“The Indian girl … woman. Lieutenant Singhe.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“She was the officer of the deck. But you notice, she didn’t get shitcanned.”
He rubbed his chin. Yeah, that was strange. Even personnel who hadn’t been on the bridge were gone. But the examining board, and the admiral, had exonerated the OOD? “What’s the story there? Do you know?”
Tausengelt shook his head as the ship leaned. Something creaked in the bulkhead. Dan tilted his watch. They were halfway through the first hour of the full-power run. “Basically, no idea, sir. But the chiefs, the other JOs—they all clam up tight when she walks in. I’ve seen it. It’s weird.”
“Okay, well, thanks.” Dan slapped a palm on his desk, realized only after he’d done so that he was unconsciously mimicking Niles. Not a pleasant thought. “Thanks for coming up. I’ll get back to you on the command philosophy.”
“I’ll look for it, sir.”
His guest was standing, about to let himself out, when a tap sounded at the door. “Come in,” Dan called.
“Lieutenant Uskavitch, Captain.”
“I remember you. Come on in, Ollie.” The weapons officer had to be the largest man aboard; he filled the doorframe and looked down even on Dan. Right now, he looked tense and reluctant. “The master chief was just leaving. Whatcha got?”
“Maybe he should hear this too. Not good news, sir. We’re missing a firearm.”
Dan sat back down. “Please tell me somebody saw it go overboard.”
“Not gonna be that easy, sir. Seaman Downie was the messenger of the watch, on the quarterdeck, while we were aground. He left his sidearm on the log table for a couple of minutes, while he got relieved. When he came back, it was gone. We tore the quarterdeck apart. Interviewed everybody we can identify who went through there. No joy.”
Dan shook his head, mood going even darker. Of all the paperwork nightmares, losing a pistol was about the worst. Not to mention the fact that an unsecured, unaccounted-for firearm could now be floating around his ship. “Goddamn it. Tell me about Downie.”
“I don’t think he’s got it, sir. Downie’s no rocket scientist, but he’s a pretty dependable dude. We tried to handle this at the division level. He gave us permission to search his locker.” Uskavitch raked his fingers back through spiky short hair. Perspiration glimmered at his hairline. “We had a lot of people going on and off during the grounding. Divers. Italians—customs, the garbage scow people, all those dudes on the barges we offloaded fuel and oil to, all the deliveries. I’m worried one of them happened through the quarterdeck just then, saw an opportunity, and dropped it into his tool bag.”
Dan shook his head. He didn’t need this. At all. “We’re going to have to hold a shipwide search. Right away, this afternoon. As soon as we secure from full-power run. Sid, can you organize that with the chief master-at-arms?”
“Will do, sir.”
“And Downie?” Uskavitch said hesitantly. “I’m not sure he’s really at fault here—”
“What? Of course he’s at fault, Lieutenant. He’s going to have to stand mast. That’s just negligence, leaving it unattended. And lack of training.” The weapons officer winced. Dan nodded curtly, trying to master his anger before he said something he didn’t want to. “If it doesn’t turn up by evening meal, start drafting the messages.”
They nodded and, after a moment, let themselves out.
* * *
HE caught up on his e-mail, though nothing was high-precedence. Anything flash, of course, would come in hard copy, hand-carried to the bridge or his cabin by a radioman with a clipboard. Routine material came into Radio, was automatically scanned for keywords, and was routed to a distribution list on the ship’s network. A secure intership high-level chat function was also accessible at his battle station in CIC. One message was from the squadron supply officer, informing him of an additional $459,000 in his quarterly operating fund account. Ogawa had come through. That lightened his mood a little. Could it be he’d actually have some cash to spend on nice-to-haves?
He logged off and the screen blanked. He made sure he had his stateroom key and locked the do
or. Turned toward the ladder up, out of habit, then thought: Better show your face in the engine spaces.
* * *
HE slid down one ladder, then another. Aft, past the smells of cooking meat and seething grease, the clatter and bustle of the mess attendants setting up. Reminder to Self: Talk to the supply officer and the chief messman about how they could bump up the quality of the meals. Better chow was the fastest way to improve morale, especially on long stretches under way. Maybe he could put some of those extra bucks into food. Desserts, especially—young sailors loved fancy desserts.
Down another ladder, and the decks turned to painted steel and the air smelled not of soup and bread but of fuel and lube oil. When he opened the door faces turned. Someone yelled, “CO’s on deck.”
Dan remembered when Main Control had been in the engine room, 120 degrees as soon as you stepped out from under the blower vents, with the paint worn off greasy bronze fittings and valves by hundreds of hands. This space was brightly lit and air-conditioned, with comfortable chairs where the electricians and enginemen watched screens. Interestingly, the screens showed digital representations of analog gauges, dials, and valve handles. There was even an icon of red fluid perking in a glass tube. “Carry on, guys. Where’s my EOOW?”
“Here, sir. ENC McMottie.”
“How’s it going, Chief?”
“Okay so far, sir. Had a frequency blip from generator number two, but she’s back in spec now. All temps and pressures in the green.”
Instead of sweaty dungarees and rags wrapped around forehead and hands, McMottie looked natty in pressed coveralls. One thing that was the same, though, was the racks of samples in glass tubes against a light panel on the bulkhead. They shone clear and yellow or reddish gold. All but one, which was cloudy, like fouled urine. Dan pointed to it. “Problem there, Chief?”
“Keeping an eye on it, sir.”
“What’s that sample from?”
McMottie pulled the tube and held it to the overhead light. “This is from the starboard CRP.”