"Then bypass the contaminated cells and continue the refueling. Indicate to the Brazilian personnel that they are to stay out of our way until we've finished topping off. Also put the duty security team in the wheelhouse of that tug. Keep them off their radio-telephone until we're done."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
"This is not authorized!" the agitated Brazilian officer said, stepping forward. "There must be investigations! This is not authorized—"
"Silence!"
Amanda continued in an ominously low voice. "Mister, you — and, I presume, the government that you represent — have just tried to disable my ship. I am not pleased about this."
With great deliberation, Amanda poured the contents of the beaker down the front of the Brazilian's uniform.
"An official protest will be filed, but until then, you may inform your superiors of this. You do not ass around in this fashion with the United States Navy. You do not ass around in this fashion with the USS Cunningham, and you most definitely do not ass around in this fashion with me!"
7
The last transfer flight had been made, the last ton of stores had been secured, and Deck Division was rolling up and striking below the last of the heavy rubber matting used to protect the Plessey LA-1 RAM tiling that sheathed the destroyer's weather decks. Amanda glanced down at the luminescent hands of her old Pusser's Lady Admiral wristwatch and then up at her exec.
"Eighteen minutes to midnight, Ken. I said we'd take her out by twenty-four hundred hours. Think we can do it?"
"We can give it a good try."
"Then let's make it happen."
As she started topside from the quarterdeck, the word was relayed to all compartments.
"Station sea and anchor details! All hands, make all preparations for getting under way! The officer of the deck is shifting the watch to the bridge!"
"Captain on the bridge."
"Carry on," she said, brushing through the light curtain that covered the entryway.
As with everything else aboard, the big destroyer's bridge was cutting-edge technology, its centerpiece being the helm control station. Like something transplanted out of the cockpit of a state-of-the-art airliner, two comfortable-looking contoured chairs faced a bank of multimode telepanels, the lever-studded pedestal of the lee helm's propulsion controls set between them.
Instead of a set of aircraft joysticks, there was only the single dial of the main helm controller on the console's centerline. Here, too, was a little human sentimentality. The issue black plastic knob had been replaced by a stainless-steel miniature of a sailing ship's spoked wheel.
Forward, there were twin rows of monitor screens, one above the transparent curve of the bridge windscreen, one below. The upper row provided navigational data: low-light television images of the ship's surroundings, fore, aft, port, starboard; chart and positioning displays; tactical situation; depth soundings; meteorological information.
The lower tier covered ship's systems; engineering, sensors, damage control, communications, ordnance. Every fragment of data a watch officer might require to make a critical decision was there, instantly accessible, vastly reducing the number of seconds squandered in having to ask for information.
The officer of the deck and the duty bridge crew had already been on-stream for some time, running down their predeparture checklists. From below came the whispering wail of the big Rolls-Royce/Westinghouse turbogenerator sets load-testing up to full output.
Amanda lifted herself into the elevated captain's chair to the right of the helm station. Disconnecting her command headset from the little transceiver clipped to her belt, she jacked it directly into the interphone system, then activated the personal telepanel built into the chair arm, calling up her own procedures listing.
"Okay, Lieutenant," she said, "go get yourself a cup of coffee. I'll take her out."
"Aye, aye, ma'am." The OOD lifted his voice slightly. "The Captain has the con."
"All right, ladies and gentlemen. Ready for final departure checklist. Helmsman?"
"Helm control is on the bridge. Rudder has been tested on primary and secondary steering systems. Stabilizers are set to standard. Autopilot is off. Ready to maneuver."
"Lee helm?"
"Engine control is on the bridge. Power Rooms One and Three on-line. Power Room Two on cold-start standby. Primary throttles and propeller controls tested. Hydrojet propulsors to standby mode. Main engineering reports all boards green. Ready to answer bells."
"Interior integrity status?"
"Condition Zebra set in all spaces. All watertight doors and hatches are secure."
"Navigation?"
"SINS and GPU systems checked, cross-referenced, and tracking. Position locks verified. Fathometers tested and verified. Navigational radar on-line. Ship's siren tested…"
Overhead, the Cunningham's distinctive twin-tone air horns squalled, sending echoes rippling off of Rio's shore-side mountain peaks.
"… departure course plotted and on the boards."
Projected from the quartermaster's station at the right rear of the bridge, a computer-generated chart of Rio's outer harbor appeared on one of the brow monitors and on a telepanel in front of the helmsman, displaying water depth, shipping channels, and maritime traffic. A blue ship-position hack for the Cunningham appeared a moment later, along with a white course plot that would guide her out to the open sea.
Underlit by the glowing surface of the main chart table, the senior quartermaster of the watch looked up inquiringly.
"Begging your pardon, Captain, but what about the port pilot and sailing clearance from the harbor master?"
"Chief, after that incident with the refueling barge, anyone who thinks I'm letting any of the locals anywhere near the helm of this ship is sadly mistaken. We'll take her out ourselves.
"As for the harbor master, he can figure out we've gone when he looks out tomorrow morning and sees the hole in the water."
Amanda tapped a call number into the interphone and a filtered voice sounded in her headset. "Capstan room, aye?"
"This is the bridge. Ready to heave 'round?"
"Affirmative, bridge. Ready to weigh anchor at your order."
"You may proceed."
Three hundred feet forward, a boatswain's mate peered down the narrow shaft of the anchor well with the aid of a flashlight as the great, gleaming links of chain began to rise out of the churning water. Over the roar and clatter of the capstan, he chanted the traditional litany.
"Showing twenty fathoms at the waterline…. Chain is up and down…. Anchor is breaking ground…. Anchor's aweigh!"
Moments later, the massive, submarine-type mushroom anchor slammed into its recess in the keel.
"Anchor retracted and secured for sea."
"Very well. All engines ahead slow."
"All engines ahead slow." The lee helm echoed, rolling her throttles forward.
The Cunningham utilized an integrated electric drive as her primary propulsion system. Her main engines were carried outboard of the hull on the stern quarters in pylon-mounted "propulsor pods," not unlike those of a dirigible airship.
The massive, twin 45,000-horsepower electric motors drew their energy from the power room turbogenerators and spun contrarotating sets of propellers mounted tractor-style at the forward end of the pods. Now, smoothly, those great tribladed screws began to cut water.
"Engines answering ahead slow, ma'am."
"Helm, bring her around to marked departure headings."
"Steering to marked departure headings."
The helmsman delicately spun his controller. Beyond the windscreen, the lights of Rio de Janeiro began a slow drift to port.