The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel (6 page)

“Yessir. Just outside ’a Newark.”

Dan cleared his throat. “Don, did you see Rit yet? And Monty?”

“Rit’s still out in town. Monty didn’t make the plane.”

This wasn’t good, about either Henrickson not coming, or Carpenter being loose in Naples. The old sonarman had caused an international incident in Seoul, caught banging a fourteen-year-old Korean girl on the grave of a British soldier in the UN cemetery. “We need to get him aboard. Now. He got a cell?” Wenck nodded. “Call him. I want his ass aboard in two hours, or he can buy his own ticket back to Norfolk. —Doctor, can I quiz you for a couple minutes? I hear you’ve been riding us for a while—?”

“Since Rota.”

He’d read as much as he could find about the TBMD upgrade before leaving Washington. Years before, the Navy had started a program called LEAP Intercept, for low exoatmospheric antimissile projectile. It was designed to uprate Aegis and the Standard missile to the point they could shoot down Scud-type ballistic missiles in the midcourse phase, prior to atmospheric reentry. If it proved out, the Navy would have a new mission: protecting allies from the new missiles North Korea, Iran, and China were deploying. They’d also have a sturdy shield for U.S. operations overseas.

“Uh-huh. Well, can you background me on where we stand? Or—first, I guess, how about weapon loadout?” he asked the rider.

But Mills answered him. The lieutenant—originally on Roald’s staff, now seconded to
Savo
—nodded toward one of the overhead readouts. “Captain. That screen shows four SM-2 Block 4A theater missile defense missiles in your vertical launchers, along with Tomahawk, Harpoon, and Asroc.” It was carefully phrased, as if this were a diplomatic reminder; that Dan really knew all this.

“Okay, I see the callouts for those. But … there are only four Block 4As? The antimissile rounds?”

“The first four off the production line,” Noblos put in.

“I see.… So, what’s our system status?”

The white-haired scientist said, “Well, to background you, Captain … that would take some hours to do properly.”

“We can sit down later. And I want to. But give me the broad-brush now.”

“Well, you have a long-range surveillance and track function added to your AN/SPY-1. I’m assuming you’re familiar with the earlier baselines? The downside is, your install is a preproduction model. Not even really a beta version. So far the program’s had only two successful intercepts in five attempts. Also, several of your radar parameters are degraded and the rest are nominal.”

Dan glanced at Terranova. There was no greater insult to any sailor than to say his equipment was poorly maintained, and the stereotype of a typical shipboard fire controlman was one of a fairly temperamental person, both extremely intelligent and something of a prima donna. Essentially, a grossly underpaid Silicon Valley software geek. Surely there was no way she’d let such a direct insult go unchallenged.

But to his surprise the girl did not object, respond, or even look up. She just made a slight adjustment to a knob that did not seem to alter the display as far as he could see. Noblos too had paused, as if for a rebuttal, but now went on. “Mr. Mills and I can get into that, your transmitter power out versus your phase/frequency band. Along with Petty Officer … with Chief Wenck. But to summarize, your maintenance has not been kept up and your operator proficiency does not seem to be where it will have to be for a successful intercept.”

Dan looked at Terranova again; they were criticizing her; but still she didn’t respond. “Can we get up to those spec and proficiency benchmarks fairly soon? Or is this the kind of problem where I need to send a CASREP?” A CASREP meant that the ship’s capabilities were degraded; that it might not meet its assigned commitments.

Noblos cocked his head. “Well, it’s inherently a tough problem, hitting an incoming missile at a combined closing rate of over twenty thousand miles an hour. In my opinion—and this is not Johns Hopkins’s, just mine—this capability is being fielded too soon. It needs additional testing, and additional development. Which I gather is ongoing, aboard USS
Monocacy
at the Pacific test range.

“So the most accurate answer may be, I don’t really feel able to answer your question. At least, as specifically as you may want.”

Dan rubbed his face, getting a bad feeling. Just as he’d feared, the system was new and buggy. Maintenance was lagging, and his lead fire controlman seemed unwilling even to defend herself, let alone the ship.

Wenck said, out of nowhere, “Is it possible there’s a virus in the system?”

Noblos frowned. “A virus? No. That’s not possible.”

“That would degrade the parameters.”

“No. It’s just poor tuning, shoddy maintenance.”

Dan looked back at the readouts, remembering a ship that’d once had a virus. USS
Barrett
. Everyone had said that was impossible too. “Donnie, why do you bring that up? Do
you
think there’s a virus?”

“Hey, I ain’t even got my seabag unpacked, sir. But I’d like to make sure.”

“Wasted effort,” Noblos said.

Terranova just stared at her screen.

“Three hours.” Wenck held up a thumb drive. “Just to start with a clean slate.”

“I’d go with it,” Dan said, his tone making it not an order but a suggestion. Noblos shrugged and turned away, and just like that, he knew he’d gotten on the rider’s bad side.

He looked around the dim, chill, nearly empty space. Its ranks of vacant seats in front of unlit consoles were like the rows of seats in a theater before a play. He tried to relax, to rub the doubt off his face.

If this ship was really going to war, they all had a lot of work to do.

4

The Tyrrhenian Sea

TWO
days later, leaning back in his chair on the bridge, Dan surveyed an untenanted horizon beneath a cloudy sky. Far to the east, long out of sight, the coast of Italy. A hundred sea miles northwest, the rocky coast of Sardinia. And an equal distance south, Sicily. He’d asked the senior watch officer to prune back the warm bodies in the pilothouse. But there were still twenty people up here. What had happened to “reduced manning through automation”? Navigation was computerized now, with a console instead of paper charts. But they still had to keep a paper track, in case the computers went down. Which meant you had double the people on watch.

Don’t be cynical, he told himself. You’re where you wanted to be: back at sea.

But sometimes it was hard.

The day was white, a pale sky over a smoky sea. But not dim; on the contrary, it glowed from within, as if beyond that frosted vault some master craftsman welded with a colorless flame. The wind was piercingly cold. The seas were parkerized steel, marching in low ranks from the west, barely three feet, at most. Just enough to make
Savo Island
surge slowly beneath him, a deliberate, gentle heave like the slow, steady breathing of a resting horse. He was still getting used to the ship, but as far as he could tell, she liked being back in harness.

“Ideal conditions,” he told the chief engineer.

“Yessir.” Danenhower looked haggard, unshaven, mustache askew, but the chief engineer had gotten his department ready in forty-eight hours, in a ship that two days before few had thought could have gone to sea at all. “We’re ready to start the run, Captain.”

“That’s good work, CHENG. Appreciate the effort.”

“What we do, sir.”

“I also appreciated what you did back when
Horn
got nailed.”

“It was the repair locker team leaders, Captain. They’re the ones saved us from taking a long swim.”

“Guess you’ve got that right. Have you kept track of Lin Porter? What’s she doing now?”

“Last I heard, she had a Burke-class.
The Sullivans,
I think.”

“She got a command? That’s great. Well, what about this panel-grounding issue on the engines that I keep hearing about?”

“Think we’ve got a handle on that, sir.”

“Is it a design issue?”

“It is, but there’s drawbacks to an ungrounded system, too. We had an intermittent, but I think we’ve got it nailed. It takes attention. But we’re on top of it.”

Dan started to ask if he liked the Harry Potter book he’d glimpsed on his bunk when he’d passed the engineer’s open stateroom door, but did not. It might sound patronizing, or as if he were making fun of the guy’s reading matter. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Navigator, what’s our draft?”

“Forward, twenty-two feet six inches. Aft, twenty-two three.”

“Make sure that’s logged. Along with the water depth at both turn points.”

“In the log, sir. 3190 meters here.”

That was good and deep. He raised his voice. “Confirm, clear to the east?” They’d run that way for an hour at flank speed, then turn and tear back through the same water. That would zero out any effects from wind and sea, though with today’s conditions such influences should be negligible.

The officer of the deck lifted her head. The Indian-goddess profile he’d noticed the first day aboard belonged to Lieutenant Amarpeet “Amy” Singhe. Like the rest of the crew, the strike officer was in blue one-piece belted coveralls. But she made them look elegant. Deep black eyes met his. “Yes, Captain. Clear as far as the radar can see.”

He stared blankly, noting the tautness of blue cloth over her breasts, the glossy black curl of twisted-up hair.

In the eternal pot-stirring of the Navy Uniform Board, sailors no longer wore dungarees at sea. The surface fleet had taken over coveralls as a working uniform from the sub force. And since all hands wore it, officers were distinguished from enlisted by the color of the web belt—blue for enlisted, khaki for chiefs and officers—and, of course, collar insignia. It was comfortable, but he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about having everyone look so much the same.

“Sir?” Danenhower said.

“Let’s go,” Dan said. Danenhower hit the 21MC and relayed the order down to Main Control, then left the bridge.

“Right standard rudder, come to course zero nine zero,” Singhe said.

“My rudder is right standard, coming to zero nine zero true … steady on zero nine zero, checking zero-eight-eight.” The first number was the true course, by the gyrocompass; the second, by the magnetic compass. The phrases, even the cadence, were familiar, traditional, yet it sounded different. Maybe because both voices, the OOD’s and the helmsman’s, were female.

“Permission to start full-power run, Captain?”

“Soon as you’re steady on course, Amy.”

“Aye, sir. Bo’s’un, pass the word.”

BM2 Nuckols reached for his whistle and leaned to the 1MC. An earsplitting, endless call. Dan had never understood why it was a point of pride with boatswain’s mates to break every eardrum on the ship. Nuckols intoned hoarsely, “Now commence full-power run. All personnel stand clear of the fantail and aft of frame 315.”

Singhe said, “Log commencing run. All engines ahead flank three.” The helmsman answered up. In the old days there’d been a lee helmsman, too, separate controllers for course and speed, but now both steering and engine commands were executed at the same console. Yeah, they’d saved one body there.

He strolled out to the wing, into the icy wind, and leaned on the bulwark as
Savo Island
gathered speed. The acceleration was perceptible, but not exactly enough to knock you off your feet. After thirty or forty seconds, though, she was charging through the chop, sending a turbulent bow wave veeing out into the grayblue sea. The turbines rose to a whining roar. The wind did too, shifting to blow from ahead, buffeting him. He grabbed his cap just as it blew off, and tucked it into his belt.

Singhe stuck her head out. A loose strand of midnight hair whipped in the wind. “Flank three, sir. Hundred and seventy rpm.”

“Very well.” He stood there until he was chilled through, alone except for the starboard lookout. Just watching the rapidly passing sea.

*   *   *

HIS
at-sea cabin, one level below the bridge, was snugger and less opulent than his inport suite two decks down, where he could host meetings, or welcome dignitaries for an intimate dinner. This small vibrating closet held only a bunk, a steel hanging locker, a desk and computer, and his own chair and one for a visitor.

And Master Chief Tausengelt, in that extra chair.

The command master chief was the senior representative of the enlisted. This too had originated with the submarine force, where the chief of the boat stood second only to the CO as the source and fount of authority. Master Chief Electrician Tausengelt wasn’t exactly grizzled, but he was older than almost anyone else aboard. He was lean as a smoked beef stick, with deep furrows down both sides of his mouth. His thin, light hair was only fuzz in front and not much thicker behind. He wore both the enlisted surface warfare water wings and enlisted aviation wings, and below them the heavy oval brass badge of the command master chief. Tausengelt was from Roald’s staff, like Mills. He’d replaced the previous CMC, who’d gone down in the purge.

But the CMC wasn’t just a mouthpiece for the crew to the skipper. He was also an inside track for the captain to find out what the crew really thought, before an abscess got to the point of bursting. Dan wanted to make him even more than that, to actually make the senior enlisted a stakeholder in the command team. Not quite a triumvirate—CO, XO, CMC—but as close as he could get. So that now Dan had no problem asking, “Well, Master Chief, you’ve had a chance to canvass the crew. And the chiefs’ mess. What’s your call? We over this, or not?”

The chief took his time answering, but finally said, “Basically, I’m not sure.”

The steady roar of the turbines, conducted through the steel of the superstructure, made them both raise their voices. “Not a real informative answer, Master Chief.”

“All I can give you right now, sir. Tell you one thing. This is the most suspicious goat locker I’ve even seen. Real closemouthed. If there’s some under-the-table there, they’re not giving it up.”

Dan thought about this. Wenck had said the same, but he’d chalked that up to the more senior chiefs resenting a newly fleeted-up E-7, plus the natural distrust any organization had toward someone a new leader brought with him. “How do they feel about losing the old CO, the previous CMC, all those people?”