by David Poyer
Tausengelt rubbed his face in what might be unconscious mimicry of his CO. When he took his hand away his leathery features were contorted in what looked like extreme pain.
“You okay, Master Chief?”
“Touch of trigeminal. Comes back now and then. Feels like a skilletful of hot chicken grease on your face. Uh, basically, Captain, it’s your call.”
“I know that, Master Chief. My question is, what’s going to be the effect on the crew?”
Tausengelt said slowly, “Basically, Skipper, I’d say they’re scared.”
Schell plumped down on the lower bunk beside Grissett, looking interested. He locked his fingers around one knee and rocked back.
Dan nodded. “Okay, that’s something solid. Scared of what?”
“Basically, sir, of you.”
“Scared of me?” He frowned.
“Basically, sir, you gotta understand. Now obviously I wasn’t here for the previous regime, Captain Imerson and Fahad Almarshadi and so on, but it was apparently more easygoing then.”
“It was slack and slipshod.” Dan shook his head. “And the command climate survey showed it.”
“Yessir, no argument. But some folks like it easygoing, and they haven’t been happy about all the condition three and stepped-up drills. The reinspections, and so forth. There’s always that element that wants the eight-hour day, even under way.” Tausengelt waved that away, though the grooves around his mouth dug deeper. “But it ain’t even just that. Going aground in Naples, then you coming aboard, Goodroe dying—it was like the start of a downward spiral.”
“The spiral started long before that.”
“Basically, no argument, sir, I’m just passing along what I hear. Then the crud, then all the shit since—it’s like, fatigue’s setting in. They were in awe of you at first. The Medal of Honor. How you seemed to know everything. Your, um, your command presence. But since then, it’s been operate, operate, operate—only one port call, to blow off steam—and everybody getting sick—and now it’s like, they don’t have a clue what we’re doing parked off Pakistan.” The old master chief shrugged. “The deckplates know there’s a war about to start, and we’re supposed to stop it.”
“That’s not exactly—”
“Well, it’s what they think. Sir. And those stories … the scuttlebutt about Horn, and what you did in the China Sea … that you hung a guy for murder—”
Schell whistled, leaning forward. “Hung a guy? A crewman, you mean? Actually hung?”
Dan said, “This is the Navy, Dr. Schell. Sea stories get embroidered. As you know, Master Chief. Look, let’s cut to the chase. Regardless of what the crew feels, we’re here on a national-level mission. That means we have to stay on station unless we’re totally unable to continue.
“So, Doctor, I’d like you and the chief corpsman here to huddle with Bart Danenhower. See what CHENG thinks about how many man-hours it would take to heat and flush one of our shower systems. When he’s ready to discuss it, I’ll be on the bridge.”
* * *
DAN climbed slowly to the bridge, pausing at each deck level for a breather. Like an old man, hunched, trembling, and panting.
Legionnaires’ disease. Christ! If Schell was right, they should report this. Take whatever orders NavMed came back with, most likely, return to Dubai for overhaul. The crew would bunk ashore while workers swarmed over the water systems.
But to do that, Savo Island would have to abort Odyssey Protector. And not just leave her station untenanted, but the Navy out of the ballpark on the missile defense mission. Defense News had just published a piece on the recent speedup in the sea service’s TBMD program. Which, as he recalled, Admiral Niles had mentioned too. But the follow-on ships in the pipeline—Monocacy, Hampton Roads, Omaha Beach, Salerno, Java Sea, and Guadalcanal—weren’t ready yet, though the first two were almost operational.
He stood by his command chair, clinging to it as the ship rolled. Heading: one-one-zero, nearly beam to. Van Gogh had the watch. The bridge team stood wordlessly, gripping handholds. The sea was dark blue, furrowed by the endless monsoon wind. Mitscher rode between Savo and the land, far over the horizon.
He was still up there when Bart Danenhower came up. The CHENG fingered his striped locomotive-driver’s cap, staring past Dan at the sea as they went over the fuel-consumption figures. On patrol off the Levant, they’d evolved a nonstandard, unapproved low-speed mode, with one shaft powered and the other idled. They could loiter at six knots and still be quiet, if submarine detection ranges were a consideration. Which they were; if either Pakistan or India decided Savo was an impediment, a torpedo might be the most readily deniable solution. Dan made a mental note to jack up Zotcher’s sonar team. “Okay. So, how many days’ steaming left? Before we have to leave station?”
“Twelve days to 30 percent.”
At 30 percent he had to either leave, or get a firm commitment for refuel. So far, no one had responded to Cheryl’s plea for support, and he still didn’t have a commitment from the USN, either. “Jeez, I don’t know. And we still have to run everything from main control?”
“So if you suddenly need to crank on the knots, it’ll take five, ten extra minutes.”
Not all that long … unless you were trying to evade an incoming weapon. He massaged his eye sockets. Danenhower looked tired too; the black mustache drooped; he leaned against the navigation console with eyelids nearly closed. So Dan didn’t feel good about asking, “New subject. Did Doc get with you about what they think the crud is? And this hot-water flush they’re proposing. I’m really up against it, Bart. He wants to report this to NavMed. They’ll order us to leave station. Which we can’t, not now. Not with what’s going on up north.”
The Baylor grad scratched a heavy eyebrow. “Amoebas in the hot-water heaters.”
“Is what they propose doable with the equipment we have? And the available manpower?”
“Well, it would’ve been easier aboard Peary.”
“That was a Knox-class.”
“Right, did my ensign tour aboard her. Twelve-hundred-pound steam plant. In fact, I was discussing with the Doc, it’d be easier and maybe more thorough to do this with saturated steam, not boiling water. Fortunately, we still got some steam aboard.”
“From the waste-heat boilers.”
“Right. We run the laundry, galley kettles, scullery dishwashers, and the lube and fuel heaters with it. Actually, potable water heaters, too. So we’ve already got steam lines to some of the places.”
Dan asked more questions, and they discussed piping runs, cooling rates, and steam pressure and temperature curves for a few minutes before he sat back. “Okay, sounds like you’ve got a handle on it. How about man-hours?”
“That’s where it gets hard.” Danenhower glanced behind him; the damage control assistant, Jiminiz, and Chief McMottie joined them. “Hector, what’d you come up with for labor loading?”
“It’d mainly be the hull techs, repair lockers, enginemen, with maybe some assistance from the rates that’re used to handling hot water, steam … like the mess specialists. Disassemble, drain, pressure test, tighten all the joints. Replace any corroded piping or worn valves, as long as we’ve got it apart.”
“That’s good, Lieutenant,” Dan said. “Thinking ahead.”
“Apply steam and run it up to temperature. Dwell. Then release pressure, let it cool, retighten, pressure test again, and turn the water on. We got eleven separate shower sets aboard. Unit commander’s cabin, CO in-port cabin, CO at-sea cabin, officer showers, first-class showers, Goat Locker, and five enlisted washrooms: forward Weps, forward Ops, Engineering, after Weps, after Ops.”
“Female showers?” Dan asked.
“Their showers are separate, but the piping systems are common. Anyhow, we can’t do just the showers. Gotta do each hot-water system all the way from cool-water input to the nozzle heads, or it’ll just reinfect. Plus the galleys—Schell says; they’re cooking with bottled water and washing up with salt water, an
d that’s gonna give us GI problems sooner or later.” The DCA consulted his notes. “For all eleven, and the galley … eighteen hundred and eighty man-hours.”
Dan shook his head, demolished. No fucking way, out here, could they commit that level of effort. Not with a third of the crew already debilitated to the point they could barely hunch over a console. And they’d need hoses, valves, connectors, gauges, chain hoists … not just littering the decks and impeding passageways, but degrading the repair lockers on which they’d depend in case of battle damage. “That’s too much. We can’t do them all.”
“Okay,” said McMottie. “How about four? One forward, one aft, the one in Officers’ Country, and the one in your at-sea cabin?”
Dan shifted in his chair. “Yeah. Whichever has the least feet of piping. I don’t have any problem with water hours, shower hours, male/female even-odd days, whatever. And I don’t need the one in my sea cabin; I’ll use the one in Officers’ Country. Those three, and the galley, make how many man-hours?”
Jimimiz consulted his notes. “Six hundred.”
Dan ran it in his head. Working twelve-hour days, fifty days; with ten hands on it, say five days. “That’s doable. If the balloon doesn’t go up before then. Bart, temperature, pressure?”
The CHENG said, still looking out at the slowly passing sea, “Schell says saturated steam at 250 degrees, sixty pounds pressure, for thirty minutes will kill anything. Good or bad.”
“That long? Never mind, we want a thorough job. But we need at least one set of showers back ASAP. Say, Weps berthing. Where we had our first fatality. Then the galleys, the scullery, so we can start using water again there. Can do?”
Danenhower pushed off the nav console. Looking resigned and, somehow, twice as fatigued. “We’ll get on it, Cap’n.”
* * *
AT noon BM1 Nuckols tapped off eight bells, stepped aside, and handed the 1MC mike to Cheryl Staurulakis. Dan leaned back in his chair as her voice rolled out over the shipwide circuit, in every working space and berthing compartment and passageway. She started with the reminder that they were patrolling off the coast of Pakistan, awaiting developments. Then explained about the disease. “We’ve been calling it the crud. Dr. Schell tells us it’s a variant of Legionnaires’, a bacterial infection, lurking in our water systems, probably infecting us through the showers. To fix it, our snipes and metal-benders are tearing down the hot-water systems and disinfecting them with live steam.
“I know this will be inconvenient for a while. You can help by standing clear and assisting when appropriate. We hope to have one shower reopened tomorrow, probably in forward weapons berthing. The master-at-arms will promulgate a schedule by departments. Until then, there’s a special on Old Spice and deodorant, half off, in the ship’s store from thirteen to fifteen hundred.”
She said it so drily he did a double take. When she signed off he beckoned her over. “So you do have a sense of humor, XO.”
She cracked exactly one unit of microsmiles. “For official use only, Captain.”
“Okay, what’ve we got this afternoon? I don’t seem to have much to do up here until they decide war or no war.”
“I’m going down to forward berthing. Then talking to Behnam Shah.”
“The Iranian. That Colón said might be the one who assaulted her. What kind of interview?”
“Don’t worry, sir, ship’s legal will be there. He’ll get his rights.”
“What’s your feeling? Anything one way or the other?”
She said she was devoid of any conviction. “All I’m after is whoever dragged that girl into an empty fan room.”
He believed her. Hell, he had little choice. He heaved out of the chair, then doubled, hacking. He straightened and wiped his mouth, to catch her glance. Commiserating, or pitying? Who knew. “Okay, let’s see how they’re doing. But take it slow on the ladders, okay?”
* * *
THE galley was paved with hoses, tropic with humidity and the smells of steam and food. Chief McMottie handed them half-face filter masks. “In case the stuff aerosolizes as it comes out.” Dan set his cap on a steam table and fitted the mask before following him in.
He did a slow, thorough walk-through. Steam blasted out from special bleeder caps in thin whistling streamers that condensed into white plumes. The holes drilled in them were exactly the size to let steam creep along the pipes, maintaining over two hundred degrees, before exhausting at still near-boiling temperatures. “Anything in there, we’re gonna cook well done,” McMottie promised. Dan attaboy’d the mess specialists standing by to finish scrubbing down; the repair team, in full-face masks, waiting for the system to bake; the chiefs and petty officers supervising.
He even complimented one of the Iranians they’d picked up, who was shoving a swab along the deck, urging the condensate into the drains, and was rewarded with one of the sweetest smiles he’d ever received. He turned away, both warmed and sobered by the reminder of strangers aboard. Strangers who might or might not be what they seemed.
He climbed up a deck and let himself into the Supply Department Office.
* * *
BEHNAM Shah was in blue Savo coveralls without insignia, stiffly upright in a folding chair, dark eyes burning, eyebrows a straight line, fingers white-clutching thighs. He bolted to his feet as Dan entered. “Captain. I do not do. You will kill me? Shoot me? I need mercy. I need to explain.”
Dan closed his eyes and shook his head. He glanced at Hal Toan, who stood to the side, arms folded. “Relax, Mr. Shah. First, let’s clarify something. You’re not a USS Savo sailor. You’re a foreign national, soliciting refugee status. All right? So your standing around here is … someplace between refugee and guest. But no one’s getting shot. Whatever certain elements among the crew may have told you, they’re just spinning you up, okay?”
Shah frowned. “Spinning up?”
“It means … never mind. Hermelinda, how’s things working out with these guys?”
The supply officer said the three Iranians were good workers. After a couple of incidents, they’d understood certain areas of the ship were off-limits. While she was speaking, the ship’s translator let himself in the half-door. “Bozorgmehr,” Dan said.
“Captain.” The deep bass was impressive as always.
Using Kaghazchi to clarify when necessary, Dan asked about the Iranian’s berthing, his work in the mess, if he’d gotten adequate medical care. Did he have any complaints about how he’d been treated? Shah didn’t, and seemed abjectly grateful, almost fawning. But behind those hooded eyes Dan also suspected something withheld. Something more remote, more separate, and, perhaps, more hostile. Some of the chiefs thought this guy was a spy. He thought that unlikely—only in the movies did you insert spies by floating them on a log where no ship might ever pass—but then again, maybe he shouldn’t rule it out.
More to the point, though, was Colón’s specific mention of Shah’s interest in her. A stalker might cross the line to something more serious, given the opportunity. And someone who worked in the galley, breaking out stores, might know what spaces would be unlocked and untenanted at zero-dark-thirty.
“Do you own a knife, Mr. Shah?”
“No sir. Knife? Never. I have no knife.”
“Do you know Seaman Celestina Colón?”
A visible swallow. “Yes sir. I know her.”
“Attractive, right?”
A short exchange. Kaghazchi said, smiling, “He says, she is indeed.”
“I could understand a guy being attracted,” Dan said. “Hey, we’re all guys here.”
“Not all of us,” said Garfinkle-Henriques from the terminal at her desk.
“Except for the lieutenant, of course.” Dan eyed the Iranian again, trying to gauge not the man, but himself. Whether he, Lenson, was holding some sort of grudge. Certainly he’d suffered at the hands of torturers who looked like Shah. Iraqi, not Iranian, but emotions didn’t respect boundaries. The previous exec, Fahad Almarshadi, had accused him of prejud
ice. Before killing himself … which Dan still felt responsible for. Why hadn’t he seen the signs? Intervened? Instead, he’d leveled blame.
Maybe it was impossible for human beings to avoid stereotyping, or meet each new face with a complete lack of bias. All he could do was try to set in a certain tare weight against it. Try harder than usual to be objective.
At the same time, someone had stripped and grossly violated Colón. Someone was a clear and present danger to his crew. And so far, Shah was the best suspect.
“Ever been alone with her?” Dan asked.
The guy glanced left and right as if for some avenue of escape. But there was only worn gray paint, dented steel government-issue desks, finger-grimy keyboards, and plastic-housed monitors. “No sir. No.”
“Never?”
“Just to … to talk. In the passage, the passageway. I tell you, Baha’i, good people. No violence. No rape.”
Dan had made it his business to look the Baha’is up. A sort of reformed Islam that, yeah, came across as peaceful and nonviolent. Even faced with the prejudice and discrimination being reported from Iran, including exclusion from jobs and higher education, harassment of their children, and desecration of their cemeteries.
But he had no proof this guy actually was one. Escaping from prison was supposed to be a sin for Baha’is, as it meant breaking the law. And anyway, there were no doubt bad-apple Baha’i’s, too. Christianity, Buddhism, Islam, hadn’t exactly wiped out evil among their members. “She come on to you, Mr. Shah? Put the moves on you?” He told Kaghazchi, “Give him that as colloquial as you can.”
Another short exchange. The translator murmured, “He says no. Just that he thought she was ‘khoshgheli’ … very beautiful.”
Dan caught Chief Toan’s worried glance. They weren’t getting anywhere. He could ask the Iranian for fingerprints, a DNA sample, but had nothing to match them against. And he wouldn’t be getting the refugees off the ship for days yet, maybe weeks. He couldn’t even get refueled out here. “Crap,” he muttered.