The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel (7 page)

“Basically, I won’t deny there’s grumbling. Some say the good went overboard along with the bad.”

“Probably not totally untrue. Collateral damage.”

“What’s that, sir?” Tausengelt cupped his ear. “It’s goddamn noisy in here.”

“Nothing. Yeah, it’s pretty loud in here at full power. How’s that command philosophy going? XO seen it yet?”

“Got a draft, sir. Should be in your mailbox.”

Dan half turned and brought it up on his screen. He scrolled down it, gaze snagging on clichés.
Mission accomplishment first. Make your own quality of life
. But he couldn’t fault a Navy document for clichés. The shorthand might sound tin-eared or repetitive to outsiders, but it conveyed concepts in efficient, almost digital bursts. “I’ll look it over and get back to you. How’s the junior enlisted feel?”

“I don’t get much of a sense either way from the deckplates. Basically, they’re focused on their jobs. Your inspection—that shook them up. You got into places Imerson never went.”

“Or Almarshadi?”

Tausengelt remained diplomatically silent.

“The first-class lounge?”

“Pretty much the same.”

“The JOs?” Strictly speaking they weren’t Tausengelt’s business, but an experienced chief knew what the junior officers were thinking. Usually, before the JOs knew it themselves.

Tausengelt took his time. Dan waited, hoping he didn’t start his next sentence with “Basically.”

“Basically, sir, there might be a problem. One of the lieutenants. She was on the bridge when the ship hit.”

“Really? Who?”

“The Indian girl … woman. Lieutenant Singhe.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“She was the officer of the deck. But you notice, she didn’t get shitcanned.”

He rubbed his chin. Yeah, that was strange. Even personnel who hadn’t been on the bridge were gone. But the examining board, and the admiral, had exonerated the OOD? “What’s the story there? Do you know?”

Tausengelt shook his head as the ship leaned. Something creaked in the bulkhead. Dan tilted his watch. They were halfway through the first hour of the full-power run. “Basically, no idea, sir. But the chiefs, the other JOs—they all clam up tight when she walks in. I’ve seen it. It’s weird.”

“Okay, well, thanks.” Dan slapped a palm on his desk, realized only after he’d done so that he was unconsciously mimicking Niles. Not a pleasant thought. “Thanks for coming up. I’ll get back to you on the command philosophy.”

“I’ll look for it, sir.”

His guest was standing, about to let himself out, when a tap sounded at the door. “Come in,” Dan called.

“Lieutenant Uskavitch, Captain.”

“I remember you. Come on in, Ollie.” The weapons officer had to be the largest man aboard; he filled the doorframe and looked down even on Dan. Right now, he looked tense and reluctant. “The master chief was just leaving. Whatcha got?”

“Maybe he should hear this too. Not good news, sir. We’re missing a firearm.”

Dan sat back down. “Please tell me somebody saw it go overboard.”

“Not gonna be that easy, sir. Seaman Downie was the messenger of the watch, on the quarterdeck, while we were aground. He left his sidearm on the log table for a couple of minutes, while he got relieved. When he came back, it was gone. We tore the quarterdeck apart. Interviewed everybody we can identify who went through there. No joy.”

Dan shook his head, mood going even darker. Of all the paperwork nightmares, losing a pistol was about the worst. Not to mention the fact that an unsecured, unaccounted-for firearm could now be floating around his ship. “Goddamn it. Tell me about Downie.”

“I don’t think he’s got it, sir. Downie’s no rocket scientist, but he’s a pretty dependable dude. We tried to handle this at the division level. He gave us permission to search his locker.” Uskavitch raked his fingers back through spiky short hair. Perspiration glimmered at his hairline. “We had a lot of people going on and off during the grounding. Divers. Italians—customs, the garbage scow people, all those dudes on the barges we offloaded fuel and oil to, all the deliveries. I’m worried one of them happened through the quarterdeck just then, saw an opportunity, and dropped it into his tool bag.”

Dan shook his head. He didn’t need this. At all. “We’re going to have to hold a shipwide search. Right away, this afternoon. As soon as we secure from full-power run. Sid, can you organize that with the chief master-at-arms?”

“Will do, sir.”

“And Downie?” Uskavitch said hesitantly. “I’m not sure he’s really at fault here—”

“What? Of course he’s at fault, Lieutenant. He’s going to have to stand mast. That’s just negligence, leaving it unattended. And lack of training.” The weapons officer winced. Dan nodded curtly, trying to master his anger before he said something he didn’t want to. “If it doesn’t turn up by evening meal, start drafting the messages.”

They nodded and, after a moment, let themselves out.

*   *   *

HE
caught up on his e-mail, though nothing was high-precedence. Anything flash, of course, would come in hard copy, hand-carried to the bridge or his cabin by a radioman with a clipboard. Routine material came into Radio, was automatically scanned for keywords, and was routed to a distribution list on the ship’s network. A secure intership high-level chat function was also accessible at his battle station in CIC. One message was from the squadron supply officer, informing him of an additional $459,000 in his quarterly operating fund account. Ogawa had come through. That lightened his mood a little. Could it be he’d actually have some cash to spend on nice-to-haves?

He logged off and the screen blanked. He made sure he had his stateroom key and locked the door. Turned toward the ladder up, out of habit, then thought: Better show your face in the engine spaces.

*   *   *

HE
slid down one ladder, then another. Aft, past the smells of cooking meat and seething grease, the clatter and bustle of the mess attendants setting up. Reminder to Self: Talk to the supply officer and the chief messman about how they could bump up the quality of the meals. Better chow was the fastest way to improve morale, especially on long stretches under way. Maybe he could put some of those extra bucks into food. Desserts, especially—young sailors loved fancy desserts.

Down another ladder, and the decks turned to painted steel and the air smelled not of soup and bread but of fuel and lube oil. When he opened the door faces turned. Someone yelled, “CO’s on deck.”

Dan remembered when Main Control had been in the engine room, 120 degrees as soon as you stepped out from under the blower vents, with the paint worn off greasy bronze fittings and valves by hundreds of hands. This space was brightly lit and air-conditioned, with comfortable chairs where the electricians and enginemen watched screens. Interestingly, the screens showed digital representations of analog gauges, dials, and valve handles. There was even an icon of red fluid perking in a glass tube. “Carry on, guys. Where’s my EOOW?”

“Here, sir. ENC McMottie.”

“How’s it going, Chief?”

“Okay so far, sir. Had a frequency blip from generator number two, but she’s back in spec now. All temps and pressures in the green.”

Instead of sweaty dungarees and rags wrapped around forehead and hands, McMottie looked natty in pressed coveralls. One thing that was the same, though, was the racks of samples in glass tubes against a light panel on the bulkhead. They shone clear and yellow or reddish gold. All but one, which was cloudy, like fouled urine. Dan pointed to it. “Problem there, Chief?”

“Keeping an eye on it, sir.”

“What’s that sample from?”

McMottie pulled the tube and held it to the overhead light. “This is from the starboard CRP.”

CRP was short for controllable reversible-pitch prop, the nine-foot-diameter screws that were driving them through the water at thirty-plus knots right now. Dan said, “That should be clear.”

“Right, Cap’n. Should be piss-clear. Trouble is, we run it through the purifier and it comes out clean. A day or two, it’s cloudy again. Thought at first it was condensation from the fuel oil tank, next to it. But we heated that tank and it didn’t clear.”

“How long’s it been like that?”

“Long as I’ve been aboard, sir. We had the yard birds check it out, last yard period. They didn’t have any brilliant ideas.”

“Shall we take a look?”

“Uh, sure, Skipper. Stant, can you take the captain down? I’d take you myself, sir, but I got the watch. Commander Danenhower’s back in ER 1. You might run into him.”

“How are we on parts? The loggies taking care of you?”

“Well, that’s a sore point, sir. This just-in-time system … we don’t carry the spares we used to, when I was a engineman seaman. I know, inventory costs money, but when you need a part, you need it right then. Not at your next port visit.”

“I hear you. Let me look into that.” Dan gave it a beat, then lowered his voice. “Anything else I need to know about?”

“What’s that, sir?” McMottie glanced at the others at their consoles.

“If there’s anything you or anyone else wants to bring me, I meant what I said in the chiefs’ mess yesterday. Bring it to me. If I don’t know about it, I can’t fix it.”

McMottie’s gaze dropped. “I’ll remember that. The EN2 will take you down to the ER, sir.”

*   *   *

THE
engine room felt more familiar. White-painted insulation on pipes and uptakes, rattling steel gratings slicked with the oil that seemed to ooze out of the atmosphere. Ticos were powered by gas turbines, not the steam plants he’d grown up with. Which meant the air was dry, but still hot, and the never-ending clamor of pumps and generators and reduction gears followed them from upper to lower level, growing to an eardrum-numbing roar as they approached the turbines, now at full power.

He checked the Hydra radio on his belt, making sure he hadn’t lost comms with the bridge. The second class’s shaved head bobbed as he slid down a ladder, showing off, and slammed steel-toed boots into metal with a rattling clang. Dan followed more cautiously, gripping the slick smooth handrails. The space was huge. You could hide something small … like a pistol … down here, and no one would ever find it. As they hit the deckplates Danenhower bustled out of a side alley, locomotive engineer’s cap askew, barking into his own Hydra. Of course, McMottie had called him at once with the word the skipper was poking around the engine room. As was perfectly proper. They huddled to discuss the CRP. “It’s clearly moisture,” Danenhower shouted. “But we don’t know where it’s coming from.”

“Is this a major problem, Bart? Where you have water, you get corrosion.”

“I don’t think so, sir. Not if we keep cycling it through the purifier. This is the hydraulic oil that runs through the center of the shafts, to operate the prop pitch and reversing system. Annoying, but it’s not going to rust anything. Not at the levels we’re seeing.”

“Okay. If you’re not worried, I’m not.” Dan looked around, up, down, at the terra-cotta-painted bilges beneath the gratings. He didn’t see any rust, nor trash, nor torn insulation, nor the other signs of neglect or cut corners. Whatever problems
Savo Island
might have, they didn’t seem to be in her engineering department.

Danenhower looked up from his watch. “Leg’s almost over, Captain. We’re ready to go to the crashback phase.”

“I’m going to observe that on the bridge. You be down here?”

“I’ll be here, Skipper.”

*   *   *

THE
air was icy when he let himself into the pilothouse again. “Captain’s on the bridge.”

He nodded to the OOD—still Singhe—and eyed her again, wondering how you could escape a grounding board and an admiral’s mast when everyone around you got flushed. But maybe that was it; the process had to stop somewhere, and probably the board had considered her lack of seniority and let her go. She caught his look and smiled over one shoulder, and he immediately averted his gaze. It’s in the past, he reminded himself. You told them that. So act accordingly.

But why had she smiled that way? And why were those dark eyes so riveting?

“Sir, three minutes left on this leg.”

“Hm. Very well, Lieutenant. Just let me look at the training package.” An hour at flank three, then a crashback to full astern. Back for fifteen minutes, then reverse from full astern to flank three again for fifteen minutes more. At that point, they’d finish with a full left and full right rudder at full power ahead, then the same rudder test, going full power astern.

The 21MC said,
“Bridge, Main Control. Standing by for crashback.
”

Another earsplitting whistle. Dan couldn’t help it; he had to plug his ears with his fingers, though he caught amused glances. “All hands stand by for crashback,” grated the boatswain. Singhe reminded the aft lookout to retreat to the 01 level, to get off the fantail.

Dan looked to the navigator, who held up ten fingers, then began counting down one by one.

“Remember, one fluid motion,” Singhe said to the helmsman, that cryptic smile still curving her lips. “Don’t jerk it back. All the way from ahead to astern in one smooth pull. Ready? Stand by—
all back full.”

The turbines whined down the scale, then respooled up. He clung to the jamb of the starboard wing door, looking aft. The ship seemed to shudder—if ten thousand tons of metal could be said to shudder. The quivering was slow, but it ran up his legs and shook his guts under his diaphragm. Past the leveled barrel of the aft 25mm a white flood tide churned up, crashed down over the fantail, then surged forward as the stern, quaking as if in a seizure, began to back over their own wake, gathering speed as the propwash turned the sea sliding by beneath the wing to a turbulent cold chartreuse-and-cream.

A soft, persuasive voice beside him. “Sir, I’d like to talk with you sometime. About our enlisted leadership program.”

He blinked. Suddenly recalling where he’d seen the name Amarpeet Singhe before. “You wrote an article for
Proceedings
.”

“
Defense Review,
sir.” She glanced aft, then back up at him. “I’ve been trying to put some of those initiatives into practice. Flattening the management structure. It’s standard procedure in corporate management. But the previous CO…”