The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel (24 page)

“When we launch. Armed? Hellfire?”

“Absolutely. Hellfire, EW, and FLIR. But stay data-linked. And I retain positive control. Weapons are tight unless specifically released. Unless you’re attacked, of course—that’s in your rules of engagement.”

“How long? Our endurance is four hours.”

“If you can do two four-hour patrols a day, that’d be great. But I won’t hold you to that. Two hours at dawn, two at dusk would make me happy. Don’t push so hard you degrade. Clear?”

Wilker nodded and left. Dan mused for a while, then crooked a finger at the OOD. “Hermelinda?”

“Yes sir.” She came over, still clutching her binoculars to her chest.

“I was down on the mess decks this morning, and I saw the same kid scraping trays in the scullery as last time I was there. That duty gets rotated, right?”

“I’m not sure who you mean, sir.”

“I mean, make sure your crank duty gets rotated, okay? Don’t let the divisions send you the same bodies over and over. Some of ’em’ll do that if you don’t stir the pot.”

He settled back into the padded seat, and the next thing he knew, he didn’t know anything at all.

*   *   *

HE
woke with a snort and a flinch, realizing he’d been snoring. He cleared his throat and swung down, catching sidelong glances from the bridge team. Not sharp, Dan. A skipper was human, he needed to sleep, but it didn’t help to do it in front of the crew. “Captain’s off the bridge,” he heard as the door closed, and waited, listening for chuckles, or any comment loud enough to hear.

But neither came, and he stopped at his cabin and shaved, then nosed himself and decided he could use a quick washup, too. A Navy shower: a quart to wet down, the shower turned off; lather up thoroughly; one last quart to rinse off. He threw his coveralls back on and rattled down the ladder to Combat. He was pulling up the SH-60B Tactical Manual on the LAN for a quick review when his Hydra beeped. He snatched it, heart instantly accelerating. “Skipper.” Beside him Mills glanced over from the TAO position.

“Sir, this is Sid Tausengelt. Where are you right now?”

“In CIC.”

“Be there in five.”

“What’ve you got, Master Chief?”

“Better in person, Captain.”

What fresh hell? He checked the vertical displays. Air and surface traffic had vanished east of Cyprus. Even the regularly scheduled commercial airlines had cancelled or diverted. The shadow of war lay across the Mideast. He checked the stats on Aegis. The system was at 87 percent. Not great, but not quite mission-compromising, either.

Tausengelt’s seamed visage appeared, lit from below, back by Sonar. He peered around the darkened space uncertainly, then felt his way forward. Dan wondered if the older man was losing dark adaptation. Then he oriented, homed in, lifted his chin, and Dan saw that Chief Van Gogh was behind him. Zotcher as well. The sonar chief was in an ivory plastic neck brace. He glowered at Dan.

“Captain,” the command master chief muttered, “you real busy?”

Dan wanted nothing less than to go into this, but nodded and got up. But Tausengelt motioned him back down and sidled past. He said a few words to Amy Singhe, who was perched on a stool in the Aegis area. Dark eyebrows knitted; she looked past him at Dan; her face darkened. She nodded abruptly, and stood.

“What is all this, Master Chief?”

The ship’s senior enlisted said, “Can we talk out in the passageway, sir? And I wanted the lieutenant there too. ’Cause, basically, it’s mostly about her.”

“Have you taken this up with Commander Staurulakis, Master Chief? She’s the department head. And the XO?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I think this is becoming a CO-level matter,” Tausengelt said with great dignity. The others, behind him, nodded.

*   *   *

DAN
told Mills where he’d be, and followed the command master chief and the others to an equipment room. A petty officer was hunched over a pulled-out rack with a tester. Tausengelt asked him gravely if he’d give them a few minutes. Wide-eyed, he slotted the computer blade back into place and left. Singhe stood with arms folded, glaring with such dark intensity that she seemed to be radiating in the far infrared. The three chiefs ranged themselves opposite her. “What’s this little kangaroo court?” she said harshly, before anyone else could speak. “Should I have representation?”

“I’m not sure, Lieutenant. Master Chief, what’s this about?”

“You said your door’s open, Captain. Basically we—that is, some of the chiefs—have a grievance. I’m hoping we can defuse it before it escalates to the official level.” Tausengelt eyed Singhe. “Which would not look good for any of us. As I’m sure the lieutenant will agree, if she takes a moment to think it over.”

She started to speak; Dan held up a hand to silence her. “Let’s hear what the senior enlisted have to say first, Lieutenant. You’ll get to respond.”

Tausengelt said, “Well, basically, sir, we’ve all been excluded from the discussion groups the lieutenant here’s been running. The chat rooms. I believe I informed you about that.”

“You did. Yes.”

“And you said we should run with it and see where it went. But today Chief Van Gogh here logged on under the name of one of his petty officers.”

“He lied to get into the chat room?” Singhe said, voluptuous upper lip curling.

“The petty officer gave me his password voluntarily,” Van Gogh said, his anger just as apparent. “He wasn’t comfortable with what was being said on there. And when I saw it, I wasn’t very fucking comfortable either.”

“What exactly was being said?” Dan asked.

Zotcher held out a printout. Dan ran his gaze down it, noting the exchanges highlighted in yellow. He pursed his lips. The foregrounded quotes seemed to be pretty much the kinds of summary and largely unfavorable judgments sailors had probably always made to each other around the scuttlebutt about their immediate bosses. Anatomically questionable references were made to the location of their heads vis-à-vis their anal canals, for example. But it did feel different seeing it in print. In particular, Zotcher and Van Gogh were coming in for a lot of criticism. At one point, where Singhe, leading a discussion on management styles, had asked the crew members to rate the chiefs in order of effectiveness, they’d tied for last place.

He cleared his throat. “Uh—interesting. All right … Lieutenant? Your response?”

Singhe cupped her elbows in both hands. “My response? The military’s got to follow the path private businesses are blazing, as computerization and the importance of human capital increase. That means a less hierarchical, more direct interchange between the deckplates and upper management. I’m acting to facilitate the transition. You read my article, Captain! Our command structures are too slow, too cumbersome, and they stop us from adapting. Open and uninhibited discussion is essential to that process.” She scowled at the chiefs. “Which is exactly why I excluded these men. Having them in the loop would make frank interchange impossible. As you can see.”

Tausengelt shook his head. “Basically, nobody wants to escalate this. Like I said. But I’m sort of coming in on the middle. I understand the previous CO more or less tolerated this sort of thing. The lieutenant’s … hobby.” Singhe bristled and he amended, “I mean,
research
. But Captain Lenson may have a different point of view.”

At that moment a sharp, loud crack reverberated through the metal around them. Dan flinched. He couldn’t pin the sound down, but it hadn’t been a noise he liked to hear a ship make in a seaway. He lifted a palm and they all fell silent, but it didn’t come again. He thumbed his Hydra. “DC Central, skipper here. I just heard a cracking noise, below and just aft of CIC.… Uh-huh … Yeah, pretty loud … Right. Let me know what you find out.”

He holstered the radio, both wondering what it had been and grateful for the moment it had given him. “Well, to get back to what we were discussing. My ‘point of view’ isn’t really what’s relevant here.”

Singhe’s angry frown was focused on him now. He chose his words carefully. “I think both sides have valid points. But what really matters here is what Navy regs say. Encouraging discussion—that’s a good thing. But, Lieutenant, I do think—and I know this wasn’t your intent—but encouraging this kind of speech, especially the personal remarks, can be prejudicial to good order and discipline. A lot of it reads like the loudmouths you get on every ship, blowing off steam just because you’ve given them a forum. Isn’t it possible to let the chiefs monitor the discussions? Or even participate? You’d get more informed opinions then.”

Singhe planted her boots farther apart. They all swayed together, as the passageway funhouse-leaned around them. “Then what’s the point, sir? The whole idea’s to surface issues that aren’t being discussed, or
can’t
be discussed, in the current forums. We have one group just for female crew. You might be interested, Captain, in what goes on. What they have to put up with, when the khaki’s not around.”

Dan couldn’t help his eyebrows lifting. “Are you telling me there’s—what? If there’s any harassment, hazing, criminal activity, I want that reported immediately. Not walled off in some special chat room.”

“Criminal activity? Maybe. Maybe not,” Singhe flashed back, as much to the chiefs as to him. “But let’s get this straight. You’re backing them? Instead of me?”

“Let’s not make this a personal issue, Lieutenant. It’s a question of command philosophy and discipline. We all have to work together, officers, chiefs, and enlisted. Not create splits in the crew.”

Singhe’s face had gone mottled, blood suffusing her smooth cheeks. “
Personal?
Who’s getting personal here, Captain? Maybe you should be asking them who Molly is. Instead of accusing
me
of undermining discipline.” She said the last word as if it left a poisonous taste.

Dan looked from her to Van Gogh, who’d paled. “Molly?” Dan asked. “Who
is
that? Chief?”

“Nobody.”

“Molly’s nobody?”

“Right. There isn’t any such person.”

Singhe shook her head sadly. “Isn’t that the point?”

Dan looked from face to face. Then, abruptly, lost his patience. “Okay, what kind of game is this? We’re on TBMD station. A war’s about to start. Who the fuck’s Molly, and what’s Lieutenant Singhe hinting around about?”

“Yeah,” said Tausengelt, and the steel in his voice this time was for his fellow chiefs. “Who is it? Come on. Give.”

Zotcher and Van Gogh glanced at each other, deflating inside their coveralls. The sonar chief jangled keys in his pocket, avoiding Dan’s eyes. Van Gogh was examining the overhead as if inspecting a diamond for inclusions.

“I get a straight answer, right now,” Dan said, and despite his resolve to stay cool he couldn’t keep his volume down. “Or everybody here’s going to regret it.”

Zotcher looked at his boots, or tried to; the neck brace brought him up short. Despite the seriousness of the situation, and what looked like embarrassment, he also seemed to be stifling a laugh.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll take you down to meet her.”

*   *   *

DAN
called Almarshadi and asked him to take the chair in CIC, then followed the party down and aft. Aft and forward, then down again, until they were far below the main deck level and had to wriggle through scuttles feetfirst. Finally he pushed open a door inscribed
SONARMEN DO IT AURALLY.
The space was so far forward in the stem that its bulkheads slanted inward. He’d poked his head in here during his initial inspection, but now faces turned, more men than one would expect in such a remote space. Guilty, startled faces. And all male.

Rit Carpenter rolled his chair forward and reached for a computer keyboard. Dan’s hand intercepted his wrist. “Rit. I should’ve guessed.”

“Guessed what? Hey, Dan. Good to see you down here with us peons. And who’s this? The beauteous Lieutenant Singhe? Oh,
yeah
.” The retired submariner had established his own nook, with a black-and-white photo of his beloved
Cavalla
taped above it and his copies of
Hustler
and a shot of him with a fourteen-year-old Korean girl, both players naked from the waist up. Dan remembered that girl, and her little friend Carpenter had sicced on him, and how narrowly all of them had evaded a military prison.

And again: Carpenter nearly getting them whacked after a sharia court in the Philippines, when he’d gotten caught banging the wife of one of the imam’s best friends.

Same old Rit. Never overly concerned with political correctness, or even halfway decent taste. Pretty much a caricature of what the typical U.S. Navy sailor had once been stereotyped as, but which, since Tailhook at least, was supposed to no longer exist. Dan had thought it would be safe having him aboard, to help with the manning shortfall. But apparently Carpenter had managed to get on Singhe’s bad side. Dan gripped the expostulating sonarman’s hand and examined the screen. At the ladder, a seaman tried to maneuver past a glowering Amarpeet Singhe. Her raised arm blocked the exit, and he shrank back.

“So, boss, come down about that self-noise figure? We got the whole stack dried out. Purged it with nitrogen and a hot plate. Learned that trick on
Skate.
I got the numbers here someplace—”

“Who’s Molly, Rit? Are you screwing around with one of the female enlisted? I’m only gonna ask once. So how about a straight answer?”.

“Molly?” Carpenter reared back in the chair, which protested alarmingly. “What, you wanna meet her? Can do, amigo.” He turned the monitor toward Dan, chuckling.

“Fuck,” Dan breathed. He touched the keyboard gingerly. It felt sticky. He hoped it was from the empty Pepsi cans heaped in the wastebasket. “What … where the hell did this come from?”

Carpenter shrugged. “Brought it along for shits ’n’ grins. The boys need a little R&R, and they ain’t getting any shore time.”

The game was called Gang Bang Molly. Cycling through three scenes told him all he needed to know. Dead silence reigned in the confined space, except for the whoosh of passing seas and the never-ending, very loud creaking of the sonar, like an iron wheel slowly revolving inside a too-tight, never-oiled socket.