As she stood blinking, her relationship to the mass of metal above her, to the other officers, to the crew, to the world, had changed.
“Cheryl?” Singhe was smiling radiantly. Even through the smells of scorched iron, paint, and fetid mud, her sandalwood perfume penetrated. “This is great. Really, really. We’re going to make some changes. Make everything different. Right?”
Branscombe said nothing, just studied her. Of course, the comm officer knew what it said. As probably everybody in the ship above them did too, by now. Scuttlebutt traveled faster than light. The old master chief’s weathered face was attentive, but unreadable as a catcher’s mask.
Staurulakis pulled off a glove, took the proffered pen, and initialed the message. Scratched the itchy patch between her fingers, and handed back the clipboard. Singhe’s expression changed, faltered, as Cheryl didn’t respond to her enthusiasm. Altered, in some indefinable way, when the woman who was suddenly, now, to them all, the captain, gave her only a brief smile, and headed for the stairs.
The work-progress meeting convened at 1300 in the wardroom. Cheryl ran it just as she would have if she were still the exec, but the oxygen content of the atmosphere had changed. As the chief engineering officer, Bart Danenhower, briefed on the checkoff list for flooding the dock and getting under way, she propped her chin on one fist. Remembering how often the previous skipper had looked abstracted, rubbing his face or massaging his eyes as they’d briefed him. Snatching a few seconds to multitask behind those opaque gray eyes.
Yeah, he was a hero. Medal of Honor. Silver Star. Been everywhere. Done everything. But he was so damned demanding. A perfectionist. She’d never felt she knew him, even as she’d worked like a dog to anticipate his next thought. He didn’t shout when someone fell short, like other skippers she’d worked under. In a way, that silence was worse. Facing the disappointment, in those flat, cold, judgmental eyes. He never doubted. Saw everything in black and white. Expected too much, of himself, and then, of them.
Now she was in charge. Her chance to do things differently. And, she hoped, better.
At the same time, some of the things he’d done right, she hoped she could do half as well.
The first question was who was going to fill her billet as second in command. No clue in the message, which meant she’d have to select, or “fleet up,” someone to fill her still-warm steeltoes.
But who? Danenhower was the obvious choice, as next senior lieutenant commander. Matt Mills, the handsome blond intent on his notebook next to him, was another option. The operations officer was usually next in the pecking order after the XO. But Mills was still a lieutenant, too junior even in wartime. Amy Singhe was smart, ambitious, a Wharton grad. But she wasn’t senior enough either, plus she’d gone behind the chiefs’ backs to stand up for the enlisted women too many times. Praiseworthy, but it didn’t make her popular with middle management. Slotting her as XO, even as a temporary fill, would guarantee friction. And it was the chiefs who made the ship titivate, motivate, and navigate, as the saying went.
Scratching absentmindedly between her fingers, she looked from one to the next of her department heads. Better a guy backing her up than another woman. Danenhower… Mills… Ollie Uskavitch, the weapons officer? Physically, the biggest hunk aboard. But… kinda dumb. Her Supply Department head, Hermelinda Garfinkle-Henriques? Not a line officer. A woman. And only a lieutenant. Three strikes, she’s out. Branscombe, the comm officer? Reasonably smart. A male. But again, too junior.
If only she could Frankenstein them together, Amy’s Wharton degree, Ollie’s size, Matt’s Harlequin-cover looks, Bart’s seniority, and Engine Room savvy—
Danenhower was winding up. “Dry-docking or not, we’ve been at sea way past our overhaul date. This was supposed to be just a Med cruise, remember. Then we got extended. To the Red Sea. The Indian Ocean. Then here. Machinery wears out. At some point… well, I’ve said it before. Sooner or later, we’re asking for major equipment degradation.”
He paused, looked to her, and she murmured, “Thank you, CHENG. What about the moisture issue in the CRP?”
“Um, Chief McMottie had them ultrasound the bottom all along the starboard shaft. They found a crack. Minor, but enough so that inaccessible void under the sump would fill up slowly. We cut that section out and rewelded it.”
“The grounding issues in the engine control consoles?”
“They put that in the ‘too hard’ file. Said we needed rip-out, all new consoles. Just got to be careful, don’t get ourselves in situations where we depend on instant engine response.”
She nodded and leaned back, enjoying the way they eyed her. If only Eddie could see her now. “All right… Oh, the dock supe wanted me to remind you, make sure your shafts are locked out during the undocking.… Let’s move on. Ollie, did you check on the Annex?”
“I went over there this morning with Chief Quincoches. Did you know, he’s got family around here?”
“Really? Interesting… What have they got for us?”
The weapons officer said, “The flight got in from Australia, but with only four Advanced Standards. Which makes a light loadout.” The weapons officer went over the tally, but since he was sending her the inventory on the LAN, she just checked that it was in her queue. She’d get all too familiar with those numbers. Provided no one was lurking offshore waiting for them. Fleet had warned that even with swept harbor exits, it was possible smart mines would be waking as days and weeks passed. Just to keep the pucker factor high, she reflected sourly.
Murmuring around the table; it ceased as she cleared her throat. “We need an acting XO. I’m going to call Squadron and request a permanent fill.” She didn’t look at Singhe, but noted her cheeks paling, the heavy black eyebrows contracting. “For now, CHENG will be acting XO as well as our resident Harry Potter expert.” A dutiful chuckle; as ever, even a lame pleasantry from the skipper got a laugh. “But he really deserves a full-time exec billet. There are other folks we could promote from within”—she dispensed Singhe a glance—“but they’re still too junior. I know, wartime, but years in grade still counts. If we don’t get fills in a reasonable time, then I’ll fleet people into the billets. We’ll just have to deal case by case.
“For the time being, though, Bart will dual-hat as CHENG and XO.”
She pulled up tomorrow’s plan of the day on her notebook. “Bart, can we start this checklist at 04 vice 05? I want to be ready when the yard people start ballasting down, with fenders ready for the tugs. Both sides, in case the wind changes. Once there, single lines. We have to be ready to clear the channel quickly, once the engine tests are complete. If Apra is attacked, I’d rather have sea room. Lieutenant Singhe”—she deliberately didn’t use Amarpeet’s first name—“how’s the software patch to ALIS? And, are we doing a combat systems battery alignment after the dry dock?”
ALIS — the acronym had originally stood for Aegis Light Exoatmospheric Projectile Intercept System — was the cruiser’s antiballistic missile system. A major radar and combat upgrade, it had made USS Savo Island the first ship capable of shooting down incoming ballistic missiles. At least… part of the time. Singhe said, still pale, “I’d rather brief you offline on that. With the new bow, hog will change by the weight delta—”
”Bottom line, please, Amy.” God, she even sounded like Lenson now.
“Um, yes. We should do a CS alignment, yes. If we have time.”
“All right, I’ll meet you in CIC.”
She was breezing through the mess decks when Tausengelt snagged her. “XO… sorry, sir, ma’am, I mean, Skipper.” He snapped his turtlelike beak shut, looking confused. “Basically, I… was used to…”