by David Poyer
“You, Captain, will take command. I expect you to bring the ship back up to full proficiency as soon as possible. This will be a wartime deployment on a national strategic mission, executing a presidential directive. We’ve committed Truman and Roosevelt battle groups in the Med. Abraham Lincoln, Constellation, and Kitty Hawk strike groups in the Gulf. Bunker Hill and Cowpens will launch from the Red Sea. You’ll be our goalie, in case Saddam decides to hit Israel. He threatened that during the Gulf War—”
“Yes sir, I know. Actually I—”
“Oh, yes, I heard about that. Captain Roald has volunteered people from her staff to help you out.”
Dan cleared his throat as the deputy thumbed away at a tablet, trying to wrap his head around the geopolitics and at the same time figure out what he needed to ask for. What had Nick Niles himself said, back when they’d handed him a cruise missile program that was about to crater? I’ve been handed a sick program. What I ask for, I’m going to get. Let’s take advantage of that. “Sir, I’d like to pluck some folks from TAG I’ve worked with before. And maybe a civilian contractor, to help us over the hump.”
Ogawa’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t favor contractor support in a war zone.”
“I didn’t mean a corporation, sir. Individual augmentees. A sonarman, retired Navy, and a PhD I’ve worked with before. And an E-6, who’s real sharp on digital systems—”
“Talk to Carl here. We might be able to, if we don’t have to advertise it. Out of my back-pocket fund. Carl?”
“We might could.” The deputy made a note.
“Your TAG guys, they’re what? Officer, enlisted?”
“One enlisted, one retired enlisted, one civilian.”
Ogawa fluttered a hand. “Sure that’s all you want? You’ll be at the tip of the spear. Carl, get their names and cut the orders. Call Mickey if you have to.”
Dan liked how this guy operated. At fleet commander level, things he’d always considered tough to arrange apparently became minor details, to be flicked aside for a staffer to sweat over. He cleared his throat. “Can I get an augment to my OPTAR? If there are material problems—”
“Cut him an extra half million,” Ogawa said, and Carl made another note. “Anything else? I know you don’t know yet what you’ll need. But when you do, shoot me a message.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“This won’t be easy. From the looks of the report, there are some real problems sitting out on that mudbank. And maybe today’s housecleaning won’t be the last. But Nick said Dan Lenson could turn it around. I hope this works out better for you than Horn did. I’m depending on his judgment here. And on you.”
Great, Dan thought. USS Thomas Horn still lay alongside a fenced-off pier at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard, with WARNING; DO NOT APPROACH; RADIOACTIVE HAZARD signs hanging over bow and stern as she half-lifed toward being cool enough to scrap. But aloud he said only, getting up as both Ogawa and the chief of staff rose, “I’ll do my best, sir.”
* * *
HE wondered where he should be—standing by, or headed down to the waterfront—but since he still didn’t have hard orders, he finally stayed. He called Erculiano from Mills’s office, since he couldn’t seem to get a cell connection again, and gave him what he could about his attacker, which wasn’t much. The NCIS agent said he’d be going down to the police station that afternoon to help sort through the demonstrators and see if they could identify the bomber, and that he’d like to have Dan with him. Dan said, “I have to stand by for the admiral, but if I’m done by then, I’ll go along. For what it’s worth.”
He hung up and checked the corridor, but the double doors to where Ogawa was holding mast were still closed. He consulted his watch, corrected for the time difference, and called TAG, back in Norfolk.
His former CO didn’t sound pleased at the idea of letting go of Donnie Wenck, but seemed happy to give him Rit Carpenter. “You sure you want him?” he asked, and Dan said yeah, the old sonarman would be okay once they had him sealed aboard ship. He was less cooperative at the idea of letting go his chief analyst. “I’m not sure we can do business without Dr. Henrickson,” he said.
“For two months?”
“You’re guaranteeing it’s only two months?”
Dan said reluctantly that no, he couldn’t make that promise. He wanted to add what Ogawa had told him about this being a national-level mission, but the line was not secure. He leaned out to eye the doors again; still closed. “Uh, I think you’ll be getting something from ComSixthFleet. To clarify what we’ve got to do out here, and how much I could use him.”
“Well, we have to support the operating forces. Then, too, I don’t know if I shared this with you before, but there’s some stuff coming down the pike about possibly shutting the doors here.”
Dan rubbed knitted brows. Shutting the doors? The Tactical Analysis Group developed tactics and doctrine for surface warfare battle. “I don’t understand. I know, teeth to tail, but they’ve already gutted the schools. If we don’t train people and develop doctrine, we’re eating our seed corn.”
“I hear you, but it’s in the draft POM.” He seemed to cut himself off then. Maybe remembering too that they were on a nonsecure line. “Anyway, I’ll talk to Monty. Since it’s you, he might go. When’re you relieving?”
“Not sure. Tomorrow? The mast is still in session.”
“Well, let me know. And walk light. Relieving a skipper can really wreck a crew. They’re going to be devastated.”
“I’ve been looking at the stats. There are underlying problems, that’s pretty obvious. And they just came out of four months in the yard. So maybe this will actually turn out positive for them.”
“But when you get hit, the bruise doesn’t show for a while. You need to stay on top of that. Ask for what you need. Stay close to the squadron commander—”
Dan leaned out again, to see the doors opening. “Gotta go, Dick. Court’s adjourning, I mean, mast’s adjourning.”
“Good luck.”
* * *
HE stood watching as they filed out. They staggered, as if unused to dry land, or as if they’d lost blood and were in shock. Their gazes slipped past his or dropped to the marble deck. Chiefs, a lieutenant, petty officers. He wondered if he should close his door. Let them pass unseen. He’d been a defendant himself. Once you’d gone through it, the experience was demystified. Yet still it felt strange watching each man emerge; orient himself, as if lost; then depart, soles scuffing away down the empty hallway. At the far end two marines waited, fists on hips. The escort to the barracks, from whence they’d be flown back to the States. Not even to return to the ship to pack.
Last out was a shaken-looking man with silver shining at his temples like the chromium eagles on his collar. He was fingering the gold star and anchor on his left breast that meant he’d held command at sea. He looked as if he were walking toward the electric chair.
Then his gaze rose, and Dan read the sentence in those blank eyes. Misconduct, improper performance of duty, improper hazarding of a vessel; the precise wording of the specifications hardly mattered. The man’s career was over.
The former commanding officer of USS Savo Island blinked. His gaze registered the eagles on Dan’s own collar. His lips tightened. “They needed a scapegoat,” he murmured bitterly.
“Excuse me?”
“They needed a scapegoat. Make sure you’re not the next one.”
Then he was gone, striding with steady paces down the bright echoing corridor.
“Captain Lenson? The admiral will see you now.”
He took a deep breath, squinting after the departing figure as it vanished into white light. Then checked his gig line, rubbed his mouth, and crossed the hall.
3
THE next day, as tugs chuffed and strained alongside in brilliant winter sunlight, Dan climbed the boat ladder to the main deck. A boatswain’s whistle trilled from the gray ramparts. A bell gonged, and the 1MC intoned hollowly, as if from the belly of a brazen idol,
“Captain, United States Navy, arriving.”
Savo Island rolled beneath his feet. A smoky haze above the city linked fingers with a mist over the water. The hills marched along with them as the tugs churned her stern-first toward an outer anchorage. As he reached the quarterdeck a blast of diesel exhaust blew across, rasping in his throat. A double line of chiefs and officers in blues snapped to attention, swaying in a buffeting wind. Dan right-faced aft, saluted a streamed-out flag, and nodded to the officer of the deck. “I have permission to come aboard.”
“Very well, sir.”
The OOD’s arm snapped down. He looked apprehensive. No one in the double line of sailors Dan paced between was smiling either. Another gust, and a white hat flew off, hit the deck, and rolled into the scuppers. The now-bareheaded sailor, whose name tag read Benyamin, winced but held his salute, lips paling, as dirty water darkened the bleached cotton. Dan ran his gaze along one rank, then the other, noting not so much the details of uniform as the faces.
He dropped his salute, and a ragged line of arms snapped down. He wheeled out of the wind, into the quarterdeck passageway that led from one side of the ship to the other.
A slight, balding, painfully thin commander in khakis hovered beside the watertight door that, if the layout here was the same as it had been aboard Horn, led to Officers’ Country and the wardroom. Moisture sparkled on his forehead. He murmured, “Captain, welcome aboard, sir. I’m Fahad Almarshadi. Your exec.”
Dan eyed the tentatively extended palm, but didn’t take it. “I understand there’s a temporary OIC. From the DesRon staff.”
“Yessir. He sent his respects, but said he had to stay on the bridge.” Almarshadi retracted his palm, smoothed slicked-back hair with it, and swallowed. “Shall I—shall I take you up there now?”
“That’d be best.” Dan took the lead to show he knew his way. Outside the wardroom the decks were torn up; their footsteps crunched on rusting metal. “What’s all this?”
“Sir, Captain Imerson didn’t like this old blue terrazzo. He wanted it chipped up and replaced. I’ve got the—”
“How many man-hours have you wasted on that?”
Almarshadi sucked air but didn’t answer, falling in behind Dan as they reached a ladder up. The climb seemed longer than on Horn, and he remembered the two additional decks an Aegis cruiser had. Decks crammed with radar equipment, transmitter rooms, and a much larger combat information center. Sailors gaped as they hove into view, then faded into side passages.
A watertight door thunked open, and they emerged onto a wide-windowed bridge filled with sunlight and thronged with uniforms. Conversations stopped. The faces turned to him were appallingly young, unlined, apprehensive. He pushed through a nearly tangible web of quickly dropped glances to the centerline of the pilothouse. Shading his gaze against the glare, he swept the harbor. Peered down at the anchoring detail, who were standing about in yellow hard hats down on the forecastle. Then paced out onto the wing to check aft. He didn’t much like leaving port stern-first, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it at the moment, since the tugs had her in hand.
The officer in charge introduced himself and offered a few terse sentences. Savo Island was in a lightened condition. The barges alongside held her fuel. All potable water had been pumped into the harbor. The six hundred five-inch rounds forward had been walked aft to raise the bow. Dan asked about damage. The OIC said the ship’s damage-control teams had found no leaks or sagging bulkheads. A port engineer from Norfolk and a combat systems engineer from Surflant were aboard. Savo was proceeding to anchorage Bravo 4, where divers would inspect the shafts, screws, and hull. “You might actually get off without a dry-docking,” he finished.
Dan said, “That’d be nice. How do you want to handle the turnover?”
“Ready when you are. Here and now, if you want.”
“Got the keys?”
“Firing keys? Right here.” He lifted them off over his head, on a glinting steel-bead neckchain, and handed them over.
When Dan settled them around his own neck they still felt warm. He searched around the harbor again, glanced astern. “Thanks, I’ve got it.—Who has the conn?”
“I do, sir.” A woman’s voice. A lieutenant. Raven hair, black arched eyebrows, the profile of a Hindu goddess. “The pilot’s on the starboard wing.”
He went out and introduced himself. The pilot, a cigarette stuck to his lip, looked him up and down, grimaced, then went back to instructing the tugs in rapid Italian on his handheld. Dan studied the distant double hump of Vesuvius, a powdery purple against the glorious gold morning light.
Usually there was a ceremony. The crew was mustered with traditional pomp to witness the turnover of command. But he didn’t have an outgoing skipper present; there would be no briefings by the man he was relieving, and by now every man and woman aboard knew he was here. Probably his official bio was being circulated on the LAN, and anyone who knew anyone who’d served with him was regaling his shipmates with embroidered Dan Lenson sea stories.
So … forget the ceremonials. As, he vaguely recalled, Ernie King had done without, when he’d left Lexington back in the thirties. Maybe what they needed most was just to know someone was in charge. “Shipwide circuit. All hands,” he told the boatswain’s mate, who flicked switches and bent to the mike, fitting his pipe to his lips. An earsplitting shriek echoed from every speaker on deck and rebounded from the slowly receding castle walls. The forecastle team flinched and looked up.
Dan gave it a second, then took the mike.
“This is Captain Daniel V. Lenson, United States Navy, speaking. In the next day or so I hope I’ll have the opportunity to meet each of you. I will now read my orders.
“‘Proceed to the port in which USS Savo Island may be and upon arrival, report to your immediate superior in command, if present, otherwise by message, for duty as commanding officer. By order of the Chief of Naval Operations.’”
He lowered the paper to find everyone on the bridge looking away. When their gazes swung back, something had altered in them. Infusing them with a new wariness. With … foreboding? Suspicion? Respect? It was difficult to say exactly, but it was plain; some invisible barrier now stood between him and every other person on the bridge.
The dark-haired woman cleared her throat. “Captain, this is Lieutenant Singhe. I have the conn. We’re under way cold iron, en route to anchorage B4.”
“Very well.”
“Do you have any orders for the conn?”
“The standing orders will remain in effect until further notice.” He stood waiting, but no one said anything. After a moment more, he went out on the wing, to consult again with the grimacing pilot.
* * *
HE told the XO he’d meet with the wardroom that afternoon. When the anchor was down and holding and the divers’ barge was alongside, Almarshadi called the bridge to say they were ready. Dan glanced down a ladderway on his way aft to see a steady stream of sweaty sailors hustling along the main deck passageway. Curious, he called down. They were coming back from up forward, where each had dropped a five-inch shell off at the forward magazine, then headed aft for another.
Standing in the torn-up passageway, he examined the maze of pipes and ductwork in the overhead. Noting dust, flaking paint, the evidence of too-casual maintenance, but not really thinking of that yet. Mulling, instead, how he was going to roll in, and fighting a gut-worm of nerves. Shit, you’d think he’d have gotten over this by now. But apparently not.
He’d taken on troubled ships before. Gaddis. Horn. But Savo Island was a major command, the kind of unit the Navy expected to be forged of hardcore blackshoe haze-gray steel through and through. Instead something had infected and dispirited her crew. He hoped they could avoid a dry-docking. That’d get them under way faster, and a ship under way was happier and tighter.
But fixing a damaged crew could be harder than repairing a damaged hull.
He remembered Imerson’s tortured glance, and his mut
tered, “They needed a scapegoat.” Had Savo’s last skipper been the victim of a deeper problem? Or had he been the problem?
He wouldn’t have long to make that determination, and figure out what to do about it.
“Attention on deck,” Almarshadi shouted. Twenty men and women around the long blue-leatherette-covered table and in the lounge area started to their feet. A few he’d already met, the major department heads, as they’d come up to the bridge that morning. Cheryl Staurulakis, from an old Navy family, was his operations officer. Hermelinda Garfinkle-Henriques was the supply officer. Ollie Uskavitch was Weapons. It turned out he already knew his chief engineer. Bart Danenhower, a black-mustached Baylor grad, wore a blue-striped locomotive driver’s cap along with his ragged coveralls. He’d gained weight, and Dan recognized him only with difficulty; he’d been the repair officer on Horn. Almarshadi—his exec—was standing off to the side, wringing his hands.
They all looked so very damn young. Even the lieutenant commanders. How savvy and grizzled his own department heads had seemed, back when he’d first joined the aging and foredoomed Reynolds Ryan. Which lay now deep in the Irish Sea, some of those same men sleeping with her.
He shook his head, dismissing those memories. The glances of these young officers were all pinned to his chest. To the racks of ribbons that signified that, like the Cowardly Lion, he’d once or twice been brave.
Forget that, too. He started to gesture them to sit, then left them standing. “Good afternoon. I’ll make this brief. I’ll be putting my guidance out in detail in the form of a printed command philosophy and changes to the operations and regulations manual. But I wanted you to hear a few things from me personally.
“First of all, and above all: I believe in you. I’ve looked over your records, and this is a solid wardroom. As far as I’m concerned, those who fouled up have already paid. I’ll trust you, and I expect you to trust me.”
