“Forget it, Master Chief.” She pressed a surprisingly frail arm. “Gonna take everybody a little while to adjust. Me, too. What’ve you got?”
“New joins… indoc. Want to say a word?”
“Absolutely.”
The replacements were seated with coffee and bug juice as the mess cranks swabbed down at the far end. Duncanna Ryan, one of the hospitalman seamen, was setting up a CPR dummy. “Attention on deck,” the old chief bellowed, and everyone jolted up, looking startled, then apprehensive. Not as many as she’d hoped for. With the folks they’d lost, they were down five on the total head count. Which wasn’t going to help on the GQ watchbill. “This is our CO. Commander Cheryl Staurulakis,” Tausengelt told them.
“Take a seat,” she said, motioning them down. Looking them over, and letting them take her in too. Girls and guys, most looking fresh out of high school. The majority seemed impressed, but two heavyset black men sitting together, older than the rest, eyed her up and down skeptically, lifting their chins and folding their arms. “How many of you just got out of Great Lakes?… Uh-huh. How was that? Challenging?… We’ll be picking up from your graduation battle problem in your damage-control training once we get under way.”
Facing them, she searched for words. What would Captain Lenson have said? “Um… Savo Island’s motto is ‘Hard Blows.’ The words come from a bitterly-fought battle during World War II.
“Now we’re in another war. Right now, the situation looks… dark. But as our last captain said, we will come back. And you will be part of that history. Historically—” She caught herself. Keep it short. “I have time for one question.”
One of the beefy men raised a hand. “There in back. Petty Officer — I can’t quite read your name from here.”
“Sergeant, ma’am. Alonzo Custis. I just wondered, if it’s not out of place, about your warfighting philosophy. How aggressive your style is, as a CO.”
Heads lifted. She noted now that Custis and several others wore Army-style BDUs. Which made them part of the California Guard unit that had joined. The rack for their short-range Stingers was set up on top of the hangar structure, to prevent another stab in the back when Savo’s attention was elsewhere.… How aggressive? Was he challenging her? She measured her words. “Human qualities such as aggressiveness aren’t really the issues in modern warfare that they were years ago. At least, at sea. Our job is more technical in nature. We follow orders and execute doctrine. Strategy pushes us forward, supported by logistics.
“Where boldness is required, yes, I believe in showing initiative. But only after a careful risk analysis. I expect all of you to think before you act, as well.”
She looked to Tausengelt. “I’d like to spend more time getting to know you all, but we’re getting under way tomorrow. The master chief will steer you through indoc. Learn as much as you can, as fast as you can. His life, my life, and all your shipmates’ lives will depend on you.”
She nodded, once, then turned away. Behind her, they bolted to their feet again with a creaking of chairs, a thundering of boots on polished flooring.
In the Damage Control Room, two decks below. Brightly lit, smelling of the diesel-like distillate, the turbine engines ran on. Diagrams of electrical circuits, firefighting lines, and fire-extinguishing systems lined the bulkheads. Computer screens reflected statuses. She was reviewing the closure log with the damage-control officer and the chief and petty officers who’d make sure Savo floated when the dry dock ballasted down. Basic, but sometimes ignoring the basics bit you in the ass.
“Undocking calculations?” she murmured.
The DCA said, “Here, Skipper, but we haven’t been in long enough to have much in the way of weight changes. Ballast, fuel, fresh water — pretty much the same as when we came in, except for the steel we added with the new bow. And that’s an easy calculation.”
“All right. But I’d feel better if we got all our accesses to the sea closed early,” she said. “Tonight, if the repairs are finished.”
Chief McMottie murmured, “They’re not planning on flooding until 0500, Captain.”
“I know. But like I said before, this rustbucket dry dock’s not only forty years old, it’s the only one west of LA that can take a ship this size. If the enemy wants to take out our repair capabilities, I don’t want to go down with it.”
The Combat Information Center stretched from port to starboard, two decks above the main deck. Enclosed, windowless, painted dead black, it smelled of electronics and old sweat. Just now, most of the consoles that funneled data to the four large-screen flat-panel displays, LSDs, were deserted. Only the combat systems controller and radar system controller consoles were manned. Doing systems tests, Cheryl assumed. On ship’s power, with only one gas turbine generator online, there wasn’t enough wattage to operate the SPY-1. Only two of the LSDs were lit. She folded her arms in front of them as the ventilation whooshed chills down the back of her neck.
One display — from the Global Command and Control System, she assumed, since the radar was down — showed the Mariana Islands. Only a few green lines — air activity, air patrols — laced the periphery. The other screen displayed dusk falling over Apra Harbor, video from one of the aft gun cameras.
Smaller text readouts above the screens presented statuses of the various combat systems, weapons inventories, daily call signs, and computer status summaries. The older displays were flickering green on black, or orange on black. The new full-color ones didn’t shimmer.
She placed her gloved hands on the back of the padded leather chair she would occupy during general quarters. A cruiser’s primary mission was to shield higher-value units in a task force. To knock down incoming weapons until its magazines were empty. Then, position itself between the carrier and the threat, and radiate electronically to look as much like that carrier as it could. Like a rook or a bishop sacrificing itself to protect the queen.
Fortunately, she’d had a thorough peacetime training on the system, and had fought under battle conditions, understudying Lenson. If everything worked, they could present a reasonable defense.
As long as they had rounds in the magazines. But even before the war, the experimental Standard antimissile rounds had been scarce. Now they were apparently worth their weight in rubies.
Off to the right of the command table, the Aegis team was manned up. Donnie Wenck was the leading chief. His mad blue eyes, cowlicked hair, and casual demeanor disguised a mastery of arcane software, some of which he’d written himself. Just now he was bent over the console with the leading petty officer. Bethany “the Terror” Terranova looked like a cream puff, soft-cheeked, meek-voiced, but she’d shown steel over the past few months. A civilian woman in a pantsuit was perched on a stool, code-scrolling the screen of her notebook. “How’s the patch going?” Cheryl asked them.
“ALIS is being a bitch, as usual,” Terranova huffed.
Cheryl nodded to the civilian, who looked Asian. As if reading her mind, the woman said, “I’m Thai, Captain. Not Chinese, in case you’re wondering. From the Missile Defense Agency.”
“Dr. Soongapurn installed the upgrade on Hampton Roads,” Chief Wenck said. “They kicked her out of Kwajalein to do some actual work.”
Cheryl shook her hand warily. Their previous tech adviser had been major trouble. Hampton Roads was one of their sister antiballistic missile cruisers, now on station off Australia. “How’s it going?”