The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel (11 page)

Dan blinked. “I hadn’t, but you’re right. But can you point to a specific example? Any chief in particular?”

“Actually, one of the worst was the former command master chief.”

“The one who got D/S’d with Captain Imerson.”

“Yessir. But by no means was he alone. I don’t want to name names. And I don’t think you meant to put me in that kind of spot—” She stretched an arm around the back of her neck to massage her nape. Grimacing, as if it hurt. “So I’ll sort of slide past that question.” She made as if to rise again. “Is that all, sir?”

“I guess so.” He lifted the paper. “I’ll read this. And thanks for bringing it to my attention. Especially about us needing a female chief. I’ll ask Sid Tausengelt to look at our E-6s, see if we can identify a candidate.”

“Yes sir; I’ll be glad to provide input. Want me to close this door? Oh, and one last thing … I do a yoga class Tuesdays and Wednesdays, back in torpedo stowage. If you wanted to join us, you’d be welcome.”

He said thank you, he’d keep that in mind, and the ribbon of ruby narrowed, shrank, vanished. He sat alone in the near darkness, still enjoying her scent. For a moment he imagined shaking that dark hair down over what were, by the way she filled out those coveralls, all too evidently more than adequate …
no
. He took a deep breath and let it out. God. He even had an erection.

Chill, Lenson. You’re twenty years older than she is. Well, maybe not. Maybe eighteen. Still, old enough to be her father.

What about her ideas? Think about that, not her tits. “Flattening management.” His initial reaction was skeptical. But hadn’t he felt exactly the same when he’d been her age? Enraged at the iron-rigid hierarchy of seniors who all too often seemed incompetent, if not, occasionally, clinically nuts? More serious was her charge about the goat locker. But received wisdom in the fleet was that a sure route to big trouble was to bypass or downgrade the chiefs and senior enlisted. They ran the ship, after all.

The muted shriek of the J-phone. He snatched it off the bulkhead. “Captain.”

“OOD, sir. Sorry to wake you—”

“Wasn’t asleep. Whatcha got?”

“Sir, we’re at course one one four, speed fifteen. Entering the Strait of Messina. Twenty-four contacts on the screen. Crossing contact, Skunk Bravo Lima, range eight thousand yards, bearing one three zero. Closest point of approach, time three zero, bearing zero nine four, two thousand yards—”

“Is the XO up there?”

“Yessir, Commander Almarshadi’s here. Did you want him on the line?”

Dan closed his eyes. Remembering how it had been with Crazy Ike Sundstrom. Whatever else, the Commodore from Hell had taught him what
not
to do. The commander bore the ultimate responsibility. True. But he had to trust. He
had
to trust.

He took a deep breath. “Not necessary. Log this: Commander Almarshadi is in charge. Maneuver according to his instructions. Call me only if we’re in extremis.”

A moment’s astonished pause, behind which he heard the crackle of the bridge to bridge; a warning going out. “Aye aye, sir,” the young voice said at last, its tone falling, as if doubting. But acknowledging the order. “I’ll log that.”

He hung up, figuring he wouldn’t get any more actual sleep that night than he would if he were in his bridge chair. But he had to build up his XO’s confidence. Where they were going, he’d need someone he could depend on for backup.

But Singhe. Hard to stop thinking of her. Was he too susceptible to an attentive young woman? He didn’t think so. She was ambitious. Hard-charging. Innovative. All the things that were supposed to rank JOs in the top 1 percent in their fitness reports. All the things he was supposed to nurture. As her commanding officer.

He felt around on his desk for the papers she’d left. When he lifted them to his face, he could still smell sandalwood.

7

Point Hotel
Latitude 33° 36' N,
Longitude 28° 35' E
The Eastern Mediterranean

“
CAPTAIN
, your presence is requested on the bridge.” Two days later Ensign Mytsalo, chubby cheeks glowing bright pink at actually speaking to his CO, held the J-phone up. Looking uncertain, as if unsure of the ceremonial involved in passing such a request.

They were in the wardroom. Dan blotted his lips, looking regretfully at the steaming tomato bisque, the hot turkey sandwich on white-and-blue Navy china before him. “Uh … ask if it’s urgent.”

“XO says the task force is in sight, sir.”

“Range?”

“Just on the horizon … closest unit twenty-three thousand yards.”

“Tell him I’ll be up in three.” He’d have time for soup, at least.

He savored a spoonful, but it soured as he remembered another time, on another ship. He’d been on the bridge, and they’d been making an approach on a carrier battle group. But the carrier did an unannounced 180. The result was that instead of approaching from the stern, they’d suddenly found themselves on a collision course with upwards of seventy thousand tons of steel coming down the ship’s throat at a combined closing rate of seventy miles an hour.

“Excuse me,” he said to the assembled wardroom. They started to rise too, until he motioned them back down. “Don’t get up. Ops, Nav, and Training, how about joining me on the bridge when you’re done with your meal. Don’t hurry. I’ll be up there awhile.”

*   *   *

HE’D
kept
Savo Island
at close to full speed. Past Greece and then, to the north, Crete. Point Hotel, their rendezvous with the task force, was about 170 miles south of Rhodes and 150 miles north of Egypt. Halfway between Europe and Africa, in the empty reaches of the central Med.

So far, there’d been no significant problems with shafts, props, or plant, and the rest of the coolant hoses had checked out. In CIC, Wenck and Dr. Noblos had been drilling the team by tracking the commercial airlines that arched between Europe and the east Med: Beirut, Haifa, Tel Aviv, Cairo. Noblos admitted they were shaping up. “But they’re still marginal,” he’d grumbled. Marginal was better than substandard, but Dan had asked him to keep pressing.

The bridge door opened on an opalescent glow. “Captain’s on the bridge,” the boatswain sang out.

“Good morning, Captain. I mean, good afternoon.” The OOD saluted, binoculars in his other hand. “We’re on zero niner niner, speed twenty-five. GTM 1A and 2B on the line. Eighteen contacts on the screen—”

“Thanks, good. Resume your watch. The XO can update me.” Dan bent to the radar scope, noting the cluster of bright pips ahead. Noting, too, the absence of chatter from the Navy Red and Fleet Tac speakers above his head. Ten years before, the ether would have been loud with voice comms as the destroyer screen maneuvered within their sectors and the carriers sought the wind. Now most interaction had gone to satellite-mediated chat.

He swung up into his leather-covered chair, reclined it, and let Almarshadi bring him up to speed. The day was bright with a curl of high cirrus. The seas were heavier, five to six feet, but the air was clear and hard as sharp ice. He sat with ankles crossed and boots propped, musing as one by one masts and upperworks porcupined the distant rim of sea. Destroyers. Frigates. Closer to the center of each formation, the cruisers, like
Savo Island
herself.

Last, slowly lifting deck on deck, majestic, broad, implacable … the carriers. Twelve miles apart, but he could see both at once, far to left and right, looming like gray islands. He glanced from the call-sign board to the formation diagram Almarshadi handed him, then out the window, trying to match names to distant specks. To port,
Theodore Roosevelt, Anzio, Cape St. George, Arleigh Burke, Porter, Winston Churchill
, and
Carr.
To starboard
Harry S Truman, San Jacinto, Oscar Austin, Mitscher, Donald Cook, Briscoe, Deyo, Hawes, Mount Baker
, and
Kanawha
. Three submarines were also attached to Task Force 60, though, of course, they weren’t showing on radar. Point Hotel was at just about the deepest part of the eastern Med. No doubt carefully selected, to give the subs the best sound channels. His gaze returned to the oiler; they’d be going alongside shortly.

As mast after mast grew around him, as he penetrated to
Savo
’s station aft of the tanker, he couldn’t help feeling proud of the country that could send such power halfway around the world. This assemblage of gray ships, these aircraft, missiles, guns, and those who knew how to use them, assured peace. Or as much of it as the world would know in this twenty-first century after Christ. For sixty years now, inheriting the task from the Royal Navy, the U.S. Navy had stood guard between the continents. For sixty years it had deterred and influenced, backing the word of the U.S., the UN, and international law. For what was law without power? What was justice without the means to enforce it, or compassion without the means to discipline those who massacred whole populations?

Not to mention guarding a trade that undergirded and sustained that world. He’d heard a man say in a bar once—some loudmouth drinking a Dutch beer, cooled by a Japanese air conditioner, no doubt wearing clothes made in Thailand or China and driving a truck fueled by Saudi crude, and wearing the logo on his jacket of one of the biggest exporters of American agricultural equipment—“Why the hell do I have to pay taxes for a fucking navy? I live in fucking Kansas.”

“… scheduled to go alongside at 1430,” Almarshadi finished.

Dan cleared his throat, retrieving the last few sentences from memory. “Are we ready to go alongside?”

“I believe so. First Division is laying out the gear. I’ll inspect it with the first lieutenant.”

“Safety,” Dan said, though he felt stupid having to say it. “Safety is para … I mean, did Captain Imerson practice emergency-breakaway procedures? When’s the last time we unrepped?”

“The week before Naples. We reviewed emergency breakaways, but—”

“Reviews are good. But from now on, we’ll end every refueling with an emergency breakaway. So everyone knows it cold. Hard hats and life jackets at all times. Safety observers. Muster the boat crews, make sure the RHIB’s ready to lower, and test our comms with search and rescue aboard the carrier.” He lowered his head to peer out at the sky. “Next item: the helo folks’ll be coming aboard right after the Vertrep brings their heavy gear over. We’re ready for them, berthing, messing, watch bills?”

“Yes sir. I inspected their spaces, made sure they were clean.”

“FOD walkdown? On the flight deck?”

“Did it this morning with the helo PO.”

“Okay, good, XO. You’re ahead of me. Oh, and also … something else … how often do we lift the hatches on the vertical launch systems?”

“Uh, I think we cycle ’em once a month.”

“You think. When was the last time we definitely did it?”

“Uh, I’ll have to find out from—”

“If it’s longer than three weeks, do it again. Check the gaskets. And the timing. The last thing we want is to try to fire a bird and find the hatch is locked down, or leaks, or sticks halfway.”

Almarshadi thumbed busily on his BlackBerry. “Aye, sir. Should we … should we not be reporting in?”

“Jesus! Good point.” Dan sucked air, a jolt of Annapolis-instilled panic; then relaxed. A couple of minutes late in a routine formality, that was all. Still, first impressions … He spun the dial at his elbow to the Command Net, double-checked—it did not do to make your report on the wrong channel—and verified his and the task force commander’s call signs on the board. Again, this was a satellite net, and he felt uneasy again. The Navy was growing all too dependent on its servants in the sky. If they went down, or fell silent … He depressed the Transmit button and waited for sync. “Iron Sky, this is Matador. Over.”

“That’s for us,” the OOD said, and Almarshadi wheeled, correcting him even as the junior officer of the deck was making for the phone. Mytsalo jerked his hand away as if it were red-hot.

The overhead speaker:
“This is Iron Sky. Over.”

“Iron Sky, Matador actual. Reporting in and conveying respects. Over.”

Another, different voice. Either the admiral or the chief of staff.
“Dan? Good to have you with us. We’ve got priority freight for you after your unrep. That’ll come via Vertrep before dusk. Report to the screen commander and antiair coordinator for night screening station. How long do you plan to steam with us? And is there anything we can do for you while you’re here?”

“Sir, thanks for the welcome. I could benefit from some tactical exercises. But as soon as possible after refueling, my orders have me heading farther east. Over.”

“Roger, copy. We’ve got a Mayfly tonight we can slot you into. That should help with your divtacs. Possibly can break you out a couple of F-18s if you need air services. Anything else?”

“No sir, that should do it. Many thanks. Heading in to unrep.”

“Iron Sky, roger, out.”

“Matador, out.” He rattled the handset back down, looked around the horizon; then focused on the stern of the tanker, looming larger and larger as they slid into their slot astern.

*   *   *

SAVO
put in the remaining hours until dusk refueling and replenishing, first alongside
Kanawha
for an hour, drinking down forty tons of JP-5. The sky got cloudy and the seas came steadily in, the same dark bluegreen as spruce boughs, as they headed into the prevailing wind. Dan sprawled in his chair, watching the black rubber hose sway between the rolling hulls. When refueling was complete, he ordered the emergency breakaway.

Well clear,
Savo Island
took station five thousand yards to the south. The vertical replenishment—by helicopter, from the carrier—took considerable time, as there were quite a few netted loads for them, equipment boxes, fresh stores, spare parts and equipment for the SH-60 bird that was coming aboard later that day.

Meanwhile he studied the twenty-page letter of instruction, scenario, and tasking message for that evening’s exercise. “Mayfly” was a generic proword, or shorthand, for at-sea missile-firing exercises. Tonight’s was called VANDALEX. He’d already reviewed the standing OPGEN for the battle group’s general warfighting guidance. For the most part, it followed the Med readiness standards and procedures he was familiar with from
Horn
’s deployment.