by David Poyer
The red diamond of a hostile sub ignited on the screen. At the same instant, the cool tones of the exercise coordinator murmured in Dan’s headphones, “Simulated Orange Vampire launch, two seven zero, nine thousand.”
“Vampire, Vampire, Vampire!”
On the chat screen: SJC TAKE TRACK 7895
Frozen, Dan watched as USS San Jacinto veered left to place herself in front of the carrier, locking on the rapidly nearing sub-launched missile. “The fucking sub’s in the inner screen,” Mills said, incredulous. “His little buddy went south to fox us. We had him all the way. But how in the hell did the other bastard sneak past us?”
Dan slammed down his headset and stormed back through Combat. Savo slanted, hard, as she slewed around again. If the sea had been pavement, rubber would have been smoking. He slammed his shin into the steel frame of a chair and ripped the blue Sonar curtain aside.
In here the darkness was almost total; the only lamps were the wavering orange curtains on the screens, a Northern Lights cat’s-cradle that wound the gaze seamlessly into them. He put a hand out to avoid any stray stanchions. “What the hell’s going on back here? We can’t track a nineteen-knot sub at nine miles’ range?”
No one answered, though one of the sonarmen flinched. The other was just as hypnotized as before. To Dan’s astonishment, though, Zotcher’s head was back against his headrest at an awkward angle. And … he was snoring.
When he seized the man’s shoulder and shook it, he might have been rougher than he meant to be. Zotcher’s head snapped forward and back. His eyes jerked open; he blinked groggily, sniffling. “Goddamn it, Chief! What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
Zotcher flinched and rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh—ah—sorry, Captain. Just resting my eyes—”
“Resting your eyes, hell! You were asleep! On watch, in the middle of an exercise.” Dan lowered his voice with an effort. “We’re not up to standard in our ASW readiness. And now I see why.”
Zotcher seemed to realize what was going on. He struggled out of the chair. “Sir, you got to understand. I don’t feel—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Who’s your relief? The off-watch sonar supervisor?”
“Sonarman First Skelton, sir. But I don’t—”
“Call him. When he gets here, brief him. Then I want you out of the sonar shack, Zotcher. You’re restricted to the chiefs’ mess until I decide what to do about you.”
The chief grimaced, still massaging his nape. “You hurt me, sir. Hurt my neck, when you did that.”
“Oh, really? Well, I don’t give a—”
He halted himself, suddenly aware of other faces at the ripped-open curtain, of a murmur outside, men and women looking in. Suddenly remembering the anger of other captains, and how it had spread fear instead of confidence. A commander without self-control had no control.
“Chiefs’ quarters, until further notice. Call your relief.” He spun on his heel and walked out. Back to the air-conditioned cool, the gossip-whisper of ventilation, the muted prattle of keyboards. Smoothing his hair, blotting sweat from his scalp, he sank into his chair once more. Blinking at the never-sleeping screens streaming with new data, and trying to force his weary mind back to the problem at hand.
8
East Med
DAWN, and still without sleep. He felt twinned from reality, stuck in a parallel universe that existed on some separate brane from the one he was probably supposed to be in. Exhausted, yet jittery from too much caffeine. “We should’ve had ’em both cold,” he muttered, shifting in his bridge chair. The newly risen sun burned like a forest fire directly in their path. Low clouds mounded like foam in a bug-juice cooler, orange and cotton-candy pink, while blue heaving swells tore apart into a salmon froth on either hand. They’d detached, and now southeasted over a lumpy sea toward the arced sector where they’d take station. Awaiting the starting gun … He kneaded his stomach; was that sensation hunger, or something else? He grabbed his freshly charged Hydra and slid down.
“Captain’s off the bridge.” The hollow pressed steel of the bridge door thump-clanged closed. He dogged it, then slid down the ladder, gripping handrails polished glossy-smooth by a decade of horny-palmed sailors. Enlisted in coveralls stepped aside as he slammed down, spun the corner, vaulted down the next ladder.
“Attention on deck!”
“Seats.” He took his place as the rest of the officers found chairs. Apparently the previous CO had preferred the head of the table, the traditional arrangement, but he liked the center. It was less intimidating, and he could talk to more of his JOs face-to-face. Still, it took a few minutes before the ensigns and jaygees resumed discussing whatever it was they’d been talking about. He checkmarked the slip for eggs and bacon and rye toast. Pushed away the coffee the attendant put beside him. He had to relax. Detoxify. Maybe today he could get back to the weight room—
As he forked the first bite the J-phone beeped. The mess attendant said, “Captain, for you.”
Dan rattled the handset out from beneath the table. Mumbled through a full mouth, “Cap’n.”
“Sir, Radio here. We have the quick-look report on last night’s VANDALEX. Do you want it in your in-box, or—”
“Hard copy to the wardroom.”
“Aye, sir, on its way.”
As he scanned the clipboarded message, the junior officers stood and excused themselves in muted voices. He grunted, skipping the boilerplate, looking for the name of his ship. At last he found it. Savo Island had let the Orange sub through the outer screen, and two hits on Theodore Roosevelt had reduced the carrier’s strike capacity to 70 percent. He all but snarled aloud. He scribbled his initials, and slammed the clipboard on the table. Then snapped his Hydra on. “XO, you up? Fahad? You there?”
“Yessir, on the bridge.”
How had he and Almarshadi missed each other? “Have you seen this quick-look? From last night?”
“Um, no sir, I—”
“Are you reading your traffic? Look it over. Or, wait, I’ll send the messenger up with the hard copy. Read it. Then call me back. I found our sonar chief sleeping on watch last night. I want to—” He caught the mess attendant’s wide-eyed gape and cursed himself. Shouldn’t have said that. “Anyway, call once you’ve read it.”
The exec said he would, and Dan hung up. He exhaled, and drank half the cup of coffee before realizing what he was doing. Slammed it down, just in time for a heave and roll to splatter it over the tablecloth. He sucked at a tooth, trying to sort through it. He was disappointed. Dissatisfied. Yet the anger felt good.…
A tap at the door. Tausengelt stuck his head in. “Skipper? A word, sir? After you’re done?”
“I’m finished.” He crammed half a piece of buttered toast, jammed his napkin into the ring. Tilted his head at the rear of the wardroom, where a settee and bookcases around a central table gave at least the illusion of privacy.
An ensign poring over a coffee-table book on the Titanic got up hastily and excused himself. Dan waved the elderly command master chief to the sofa. “Want some coffee?”
“No thanks, sir.”
“What’s on your mind, Master Chief?”
“Basically couple problems, sir. First off, I think, is what happened this morning.”
“This morning?”
A quizzical glance. “Al Zotcher, sir. You and him. In Sonar. Here’s the version I have so far. Basically, Chief Zotcher’s hard down with a respiratory bug. He was thinking about putting himself on the sick list when he got the word about the exercise. Knew that was important, so he took the watch. You came in, found him with his eyes closed, and jerked his head back. With considerable force. Now he’s got whiplash, maybe some kind of disc problem.”
Dan snorted. “That’s what he’s saying? He had his eyes closed? He was fucking snoring, Master Chief. He’s sea-lawyering both of us.”
“Well, sir, that does put a different light on it. But, basically, he’s still got neck issues. Were you planning on taking
him to mast?”
Dan thought about this, wishing he felt more alert. “You restricted him to quarters,” Tausengelt prompted. “Threw him off the watch bill.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember. His inattention let a sub past us. I didn’t know he was sick. But that isn’t germane; he’s either on the sick list or he isn’t. And if he’s on watch, he’s got to be alert and in charge.”
“Absolutely, sir. No one’s arguing that.” The older man was respectful but firm. “I’m just trying to see if there’s any middle ground here, okay? He’s willing to admit he wasn’t doing all that great a job last night. Problem is, this allegation you pulled his head back. Basically, I’m thinking of you now, sir. That could get sticky, any of the legal eagles got word of something like that. The way things are getting these days.”
Dan stifled a yawn, not meeting the other’s gaze. Recognizing what wasn’t actually being said, though it was, and very clearly. Knowing too the senior enlisted adviser was right; a commanding officer laying hands on a subordinate, causing injury, would be cause for instant relief. He didn’t care that much, as far as his career was concerned. Whatever happened, he’d go out a captain, with the Medal and full retirement. As well as the Navy Cross, Silver Star, Navy and Marine Corps Medal, Bronze Star, and the rest … not that many end-of-tour awards, but not a bad career.
But this wasn’t about Dan Lenson. Savo Island didn’t need another failed skipper. And Jen Roald, and Ogawa, and the U.S. Navy, and, yeah, the residents of Tel Aviv, didn’t need a ship that couldn’t meet its commitments, when a war was slated to start in days.
To balance against that: his authority as captain. He needed the senior enlisted. Without their cooperation, nothing would improve. But giving them the idea you were a rollover was never good.
But was admitting you were wrong actually a rollover? He cleared his throat. “I appreciate the heads-up, Sid. How’s the chiefs’ mess taking this?”
“Well, sir, basically, you know how it is. They’re a good bunch. They support the command. But right now I’d say they’re … divided. This happens just once, well, we can keep it inside the tent. But you don’t want to get a rep for going off on a hair trigger, sir. Or putting your hands on people. You really don’t.”
The Hydra buzzed. “Skipper, Bridge. You there, sir?”
Dan reached down. “I’m in the wardroom.”
The officer of the deck reported a contact that would cross their bow close aboard. Dan made sure he had it visualized, then told him to increase speed to put the closest point of approach behind them. “Check my solution. If it doesn’t look safe, call me back.”
“Aye sir. Bridge out.”
Back to the unsmiling chief across from him. A friendly warning, from a peacemaker? Or a threat? It sounded like both. He decided to take the extended hand. “Okay, I admit, I flew off the handle last night. But he was asleep. You really think he’s sick?”
“Looks like it to me, sir. You can go down and see him. He’s in his bunk right now. And, you know, Captain, the guy’s got three Good Conduct Medals.”
“He does? And … well, never mind. Okay, you made your case. I’m willing to lift his restriction.”
“Will you hold mast on him? For sleeping on watch?”
“Not this time. Just formal counseling. But, for the good of the ship, I don’t want him back in Sonar until he’s certified fit for duty. Carpenter can take his watch section; he’s more than qualified. If I catch him napping again, though, I’ll bust him to seaman. That’s a guarantee.”
“Fair enough, sir. Let me take that back and see if we can arrange some kind of modus vivendi there.”
Dan raised his eyebrows. “‘Modus vivendi,’ Master Chief? Nice.” The roar of an electric motor; the mess attendant was vacuuming the carpet at the far end of the space. He looked at his watch—sleep?—dusted his trousers, got set to rise. “That all?”
Tausengelt grinned apologetically. “Not quite, sir. One other issue. Lieutenant Singhe.”
“What about her?”
“Have you seen what she’s doing on the chat function? On the LAN?”
The LAN was the local area network, the ship’s hardwired internal network. He knew it included a chat-room function, but hadn’t checked it out yet. “No. No time. What?”
“Basically, she’s organizing work-center quality circles.”
“Uh … okay. Is that a problem?”
“Some of the guys don’t like it. At least, not the way she’s setting it up.”
“You mean, some of the chiefs?” Tausengelt nodded. “What don’t they like?”
“It’s just basically turning out to be bitch sessions for the no-loads. The dudes who work, they don’t have time to sit around and discuss working. She’s encouraging the seamen to come up with better ideas. That doesn’t square with the senior enlisted. They already know how it should be done.”
Dan frowned. No, a lot of the enlisted khaki wouldn’t like it. Not after they’d spent ten or fifteen years learning the right way, or, anyway, the Navy way. But how else would you come up with innovation? “Well, I’m not sure she’s not right, Master Chief. Sometimes the best ideas come from the deckplates.”
“We already got a way to do that, sir. The Bennie Sugg. Pass it up the chain. She’s chairing these discussion groups. Bypassing the goat locker. Like, they don’t know where she’s going with this.”
“Are they participating?”
“The chiefs? She doesn’t want them in the chats. Blocked them, in fact. To ‘encourage free discussion.’”
That didn’t sound good. “I wasn’t aware of this, CMC. Have they taken it up with the XO?”
“The commander doesn’t get involved that much, Skipper.”
“Have you discussed it with him?”
Tausengelt glanced away. “No sir.”
Dan leaned back. “Well, look. Amy’s a hard charger. She’s got some bright ideas from business school she wants to try out. Unless it’s actually hurting readiness, even if there’s some steam being let off on these chat boards, I don’t see it as a major issue yet. Let’s let her run with it for a while and see where it ends up.” He hesitated. “Unless you don’t think that’s wise.”
Tausengelt’s face was unreadable. “You’re the skipper, sir.”
* * *
HE checked with the OOD on the Hydra while climbing the ladder to his at-sea cabin. The contact to port had a left-bearing drift now; it would cross in their wake, three thousand yards astern. Dan told him to maintain thirty knots and keep a close eye on it until it was clear. He switched channels and talked to the navigator as he let himself in, unbuttoned his shirt, and fell into his bunk. They’d reach their patrol area tomorrow at noon. He called Cheryl Staurulakis and got the ops officer started on their reporting-in message.
Then lay staring at the overhead while the decisions he’d just made buzzed around inside his skullcase like trapped wasps.
Any choice a skipper made could lead to disaster under the right circumstances. Screw up the geometry on a closing ship, and it could cut you in two. He’d seen that happen, aboard USS Reynolds Ryan. One wrong rudder order, and almost two hundred men had died.
So … Zotcher. Had he come down too hard? Or not hard enough? Knuckled under to the chiefs, or just shown them he was reasonable?
Was Singhe really ambitious, hard-charging, innovative? Or was there something suspicious about the way she was bypassing the chiefs and the senior enlisted adviser? He didn’t think she had anything malevolent in mind. But blocking the ship’s middle management from online discussions didn’t sound like a good way to advance a serious agenda. Of any kind.
He remembered dark eyes studying him, and seemed to smell sandalwood again. Then, somehow, he was asleep.
* * *
THE buzzer jerked him out of a confused pursuit through endless corridors. It had seemed to be the Pentagon, but in some hotter, less affluent country. The windows were boarded up, and through those endless refuse-str
ewn passageways something stalked him. He had a pistol, but when he tried to use it the trigger malfunctioned, again and again, as he struggled to keep the sights on a shape he couldn’t clearly see, that shifted identity and appearance even as it pursued him.
The buzzer went off again, and he rolled over, flinging an arm out. The back of his hand hit the brass lever and tore skin. “Captain,” he grunted. What time was it anyway? Apparently he’d missed lunch.
“Sir, OOD here.”
“What you got, Bird?”
“Sir, corpsman called a minute ago to report a man dead in forward berthing.”
He rolled out and put bare feet on the chilly deck. “Say that again.”
“It’s Seaman Goodroe. In Weps berthing.”
A heavyset, truculent man in coveralls, hunched over a mess tray. “I … dead, how? I saw him on the mess decks just yesterday. Talking about … Dead? From what?”
“Sir, I didn’t get the impression the chief corpsman was real sure.”
“Forward berthing? I’ll be down right away. Does the XO know?”
“I’ll notify him soon as I get off, sir. Figured you ought to hear it first.”
Dan told him he was right and hung up. Dressed as quickly as he could. The blue coveralls were a forgiving uniform, though he didn’t care for the way they showed a corner of your skivvy shirt. He pressed his pins into his chest with the palm of his right hand and let the door lock click behind him.
* * *
FIVE decks down, in the muzzy humidity of the berthing compartment. When he’d first joined the Navy, these had been pipe bunks, metal frames four high, a thin pallet and a worn fartsack sagging on a crisscross of webbing. Now each sailor had his own nook with reading light and curtain. Not exactly roomy, with fifty men in a compartment, but there was some privacy, at least.
The man who lay in bunk 24 was past privacy. The face, immobile as dark wax, and staring eyes told him that. The corpsman, Grissett, looked up from ballpointing notes. An astringent smell edged the air. Grissett wore thin blue latex gloves. A transparent tube lay on the bunk, still sealed in plastic. Behind him stood Chief Toan, the master-at-arms, badge glittering, hands behind his back. They both swung as they caught sight of Dan. A very slight, ugly young man with a dirty tee, scuffed, torn boots, and coveralls peeled down to his waist hovered a few feet away. “What happened?” Dan asked.
