“Actually, not well,” Soongapurn said.
“What’s the problem? Can’t we just patch, the way you did Hampton Roads?”
“Hampton Roads was a baseline nine. You’re two generations behind.”
“We can’t update to baseline nine, then patch that?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to crack that drum of snakes.” Soongapurn grimaced.
“I see. Well, failing that, can we go back to the previous version?”
“Unfortunately,” the adviser sighed, “the updates to 7.9 make that impossible. You can’t go back. Only forward. We’re trying to reverse engineer, get the first version of Hampton Roads’ software running on your system. Then backtrack, to fix issues line by line. Including a new repertoire of clutter-cancellation waveformology, increased sensitivity for better low-flier detection… the lack of which probably explains why your skimmer punched through. Your chief here seems to be knowledgeable. As does the rest of your team.”
“But can we get it up and any bugs worked out before we… actually need the system, real-world?”
“Your air-side capabilities will be fine. ALIS may be a different story. But I promise, if you aren’t up by the time you have to go to sea, I’ll come along.”
Not exactly reassuring, but apparently all she was going to get. “Well, thanks, Doctor. Chief, Terror, we’ll catch up later.”
But even as she said this, their gazes were drifting back to their screens, as if a magnetic field had been turned on again.
At the CO’s at-sea cabin, one level down from the bridge. She fitted the key to the lock, then hesitated. Sucked a breath, and turned the knob.
It still smelled of him. One of his caps hung on a peg, the gold braid sea-tarnished green. Lenson had seldom used the more spacious inport cabin, on the main deck. He gave that to guests or riders, preferring to stay close to CIC and the bridge. This room, though it had a couch, a counter with drawers, and a desk, was only slightly larger than the junior officers’ staterooms. Through a side door was a bunk, and a head with a stall shower.
Behind her a pimply, gangly messman coughed into a fist. “‘Want me ta get his shit outta here, XO? I mean, uh, Skipper?”
“Box it up. Get it down to ship’s office. They’ll send it on.” She plopped her own bag and suitcase on the bunk.
“Know where to? Ma’am?”
“I have no idea,” she snapped. Ship’s commanders hadn’t had stewards for years. When they needed help, they got assistance from a culinary specialist for housekeeping and delivering meals, since the cabin had no galley of its own. But she wasn’t sure she wanted a male snooping around her personal space. Pawing her photos, makeup, tampons… “Um, can you ask Lieutenant — never mind, I’ll ask her.”
“Okay. Want me to strip this bunk? Get his nasty old sheets off?”
Yeah, she could see this creep sniffing her underwear. “Uh, yeah. Get it changed. The towels, too.”
“You betcha. Want me to get you a sandwich? Some cookies? Anytime, just ask.”
Hissing through his teeth, Longley began pulling off linens and stuffing them into a laundry bag. Avoiding looking at him, she went into the head, glanced around, and shuddered. Time for a scrubbing. She centered her notebook on the desk and plugged it in to charge. Longley let himself out, still hissing. She sank into the chair and pulled up the LAN.
The bandwidth wasn’t good. Six of the eleven fiber-optic cables to Guam had been destroyed somehow, and satellite comms were still down. Which slowed everything to a crawl. Still, military took priority, and though graphics were scarce, text was coming through.
The news was as bad as it had been for weeks now. Another tanker sunk on its way out from Hawaii. The third, as far as she was aware. George Washington was officially interned in Japan, out of the war for good, it looked like. So much for steaming her all the way from the East Coast.
She massaged her temples wearily, then caught herself. How many times had she caught Lenson doing the same thing at the command desk, in the wardroom, here? It wasn’t déjà vu, but it wasn’t far from it. She needed sleep… tomorrow would be a full day. The float, then the engine test and fueling. If that went okay, shift berths and load ammo, always a nerve-racking evolution. Yeah. A busy day. She stifled a yawn.
A tap at the door. “Who is it?” she called.
“Amy.” A moment, then, reluctantly, “Captain.”
“Come in.”
The darken-ship lights were on in the passageway, their glow a deep blood red. Singhe’s silhouette seemed even more curvaceous than usual. Was she gaining weight? While I’m losing it, Cheryl thought. “What have you got?” she said, remembering how often she’d heard Lenson say just that, then growing annoyed at how often she was reminded of him.
Singhe raised an eyebrow. “A minute?”
“I was hoping to get my head down, but if it’s important…”
“I wanted to clear something up.”
“Sure. Go ahead.” She didn’t invite her to sit, though there was a chair. Hoping to get what promised to be a scene over with quickly.
The dark eyes were accusing. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“Um, what understanding was that, Amy?”
“That we’d run things differently. If we ever got the chance.”
Cheryl sucked a slow breath. Without Amarpeet Singhe and her strike team, Savo Island might look like a warship, but it was just junk metal. “Amy, some of those ideas were dreams. Some were ambitions. But they were all based on peacetime conditions. Equal opportunity, leveling management — those were great goals. Are great goals. But now we have to concentrate on combat readiness. If we can’t stop the next incoming skimmer, none of that will matter. We’re all going to burn alive.”
“You’re really disappointing me.” She moved to the bed. Stood beside it.
Right, it was all about her. Cheryl put ice in her tone. “We’ll discuss it later, Lieutenant. Good night.”
When Singhe was gone, she pushed out a breath. Not as bad as she’d feared. Though she had the feeling this wasn’t the end of the issue. How had Lenson handled Singhe? Good grief… had she visited him at night too? The spicy scent of sandalwood lingered. Then, gradually, faded, as she showered, brushed her teeth, her hair, and sank at last, with unutterable gratitude, into her rack.
Only to stare up at a photograph pinned just above where Lenson’s head would have lain. Of a blonde. Oh dear. A rather… intimate snapshot. She recognized the woman, despite the seductive pose. Blair Titus had visited the ship in Crete. Cheryl smiled unwillingly. Slipped it out and placed it facedown on the desk, to mail out tomorrow. Or maybe, better, just to shred it?
She lay back again and closed her eyes. Her stomach rumbled. Lacing her fingers over it, she pressed. That seemed to help. Tomorrow she’d put a picture of Eddie “Afterburner” Staurulakis up there. Maybe leaning shirtless on his F-18. Yeah, right…
The buzzer woke her, raucous, unending. She groped blindly, not grasping at first what the noise was, or where she was.… A red light flashed in the dark. She snatched a handset off the bulkhead. A covered remote. Oh, yeah… she was in the CO’s at-sea cabin. The buzzer cut off. Thank God.
“Matador, Matador, this is Barbarian, Barbarian, over.”
“This is Matador, over.” Matador was Savo Island’s call sign. A petty officer was answering up, guarding the Navy Red circuit.