"Anything interesting going on?" Sam asked.
"No, sir. All routine," Zwilling answered.
"All right. In that case, why don't you let Thad have it for a bit?" Sam nodded toward the Y-ranging officer. "He can use the practice. You never know what could happen if a British fighter or bomber chews up the bridge."
"Aye aye, sir." Zwilling stepped away from the wheel. Lieutenant Walters took it, a wide grin making him look even younger than he did most of the time.
Carsten gestured to the exec. "Come to my cabin, why don't you?" Yes, he was going to take the bull by the horns. He didn't know what else to do.
"Of course, sir." Zwilling's eyes narrowed. He knew something was up, but he couldn't very well say no.
The cabin, small for one man, was crowded with two. But, with the door closed, it was about the only place on the destroyer escort that offered reasonable privacy. Sam sat down on the bed and waved the exec to the metal chair, saying, "I've got a question for you."
"Sir?" Zwilling didn't show much. Well, with a superior getting ready to grill him, Sam would have shown as little as he could, too.
"When you picked prize crews for those freighters we nabbed, how did you go about it?"
Zwilling still didn't show much. He would have made a pretty fair poker player, and probably did. "I mostly chose men with above-average experience, sir. They'll be on their own going north. They'll need to be extra alert for enemy action, and for trouble from the sailors. New fish are less likely to do well in a situation like that."
"I see." Sam would have said the same thing. It was even likely to be true. But it wasn't likely to be the whole truth. With a sigh, Sam went on, "Did you also choose men who gave you a hard time when we crossed the Equator?"
Now the exec knew which way the wind was blowing. His mouth tightened. He hunched in on himself, just a little. But his answer was forthright: "Yes, sir. We're better off without some of those troublemakers on board. That was a criterion of mine, too."
Thinking about the men who were gone, Sam shook his head. "They mostly aren't troublemakers, Mr. Zwilling. They have good records. They may not love you, but that's not the same thing."
By Zwilling's scowl, it was to him. "They're bad for discipline, sir. I'm not sorry to be rid of them."
"I'm sorry you used personal dislikes to influence what you did," Carsten said. "If I were you, I wouldn't do that again. I'm disappointed you did it once."
"If you're unhappy with me, sir, may I request a transfer off this ship?" Zwilling asked. "You need to have confidence in your executive officer."
He didn't say anything about his needing to have confidence in Sam. That would have been insubordinate, and he was a stickler for the proprieties. But it hovered in his tone and in the way he eyed Carsten.
With another sigh, Sam nodded. "Yes, I think that'll be best for everyone. This won't go in your papers. You didn't do anything against regulations. But you did something I don't fancy, and I won't try to tell you any different."
"Is that all, sir?" The exec's voice might have come from a machine.
"Yes, that's all. Go take the conn back." As far as the ship was concerned, Zwilling was fine. With the sailors, on the other hand…And with me, too, Sam thought sadly. There were skippers for whom Myron Zwilling would have been the perfect exec. Men who did things strictly by the book themselves would have been wild for him. But Sam flew by the seat of his pants. That drove Zwilling nuts, and the exec's insistence on routine grated on the mustang just as much.
Sam followed Zwilling back to the bridge. When the exec said, "I have the conn, Mr. Walters," the Y-ranging officer almost jumped out of his skin. Sam didn't blame him. Zwilling didn't sound like a machine any more. He sounded like a voice from beyond the grave.
Christ! Sam thought, now alarmed. I hope he doesn't go hang himself from the first pipe fitting he finds. He didn't want the exec dead, only off his ship and onto one where he fit better.
Thad Walters retreated in a hurry. His eyes asked Sam what had happened in the cabin. Sam couldn't tell him, even in private; that would have been monstrously unfair to Zwilling.
Then Sam shook his head. It wouldn't be so simple after all. Even now, people would be buzzing that Chief Eastlake had talked with him. And they would know all too soon that he and the exec had talked in his cabin. They would add two and two, sure as hell. And when Zwilling left the ship, Eastlake would be a power to reckon with indeed.
That wasn't good. You didn't want the crew thinking a CPO could hang an officer out to dry. Even more to the point, you didn't want a CPO thinking he could hang an officer out to dry. In this particular case, it happened to be true, which only made things worse. Sam shook his head again. Eastlake would have to go, too. That wasn't fair, but he didn't see that he had any other choice.
He wished for word of an enemy convoy. He almost wished for word of enemy aircraft on the way in. Anything that took his mind off the ship's internal politics would have been nice. But no enemy freighters came into sight. The sky remained clear of everything but the sun. The only thing he had to worry about was Myron Zwilling steering the Josephus Daniels with a face that looked as if he were watching his family tortured and killed.
Was I too hard on him? Sam wondered. He played back the conversation in his cabin inside his head. He really didn't think so. The only other thing he could have done was pretend he didn't know anything about what Zwilling had pulled. And that wouldn't fly, because Chief Eastlake would let the crew know he'd told Sam what was going on. Their respect would get flushed right down the head.
And so would Sam's self-respect. He'd never been any damn good at pretending. Oh, sometimes you had to. If you were dealing with a superior you couldn't stand, a little constructive hypocrisy didn't hurt. But that was about as far as he could make himself go. Ignoring this would have felt like ignoring a bank robbery right under his nose.
Lieutenant Walters took a long look at his Y-ranging gear. The screens must have been blank, for he stepped away from them and over to Sam. In a low, almost inaudible voice, he asked, "Sir, what's going on?"
Sam glanced at Lieutenant Zwilling. The exec didn't turn around. Did his back stiffen, though? Was he listening? It didn't matter any which way. Sam said what he would have said if Zwilling were down in the engine room: "Nothing that's got anything to do with you."
"Yes, sir." The Y-ranging officer nodded, but he didn't go back to his post. Instead, he asked, "Is it anything that will hurt the ship?"
Zwilling's ravaged voice and face made that query much too reasonable. But Sam didn't think he was lying when he shook his head. "No, we'll be all right," he said. "It's…" He stopped. Even saying something like It's a personnel matter went too far. Were he in the exec's place, he wouldn't want anybody running his mouth about him. "Just let it go, Thad. It'll sort itself out."
"I hope so, sir." Walters returned to his post. He'd needed nerve to make even that much protest.
Muttering to himself, Sam turned away. He didn't like the idea of blighting Zwilling's career. He hadn't liked it back in New York City, and he liked it even less here. But try as he would, he didn't see what else he could do. Zwilling had made his bed; now he had to lie in it.
And what will the fancy-pants officers back in the USA think about me when they get wind of this? Sam wondered. Now that he'd been a lieutenant for a while, he wanted to make lieutenant commander. That would be pretty damn good for somebody who started out an ordinary seaman. Would the men who judged such things decide he could have handled this better?
After worrying at it and worrying about it for a couple of minutes, he shrugged. The ship had to come first. If the brass hats didn't care for what he'd done, he'd retire a lieutenant, and the world wouldn't end. When he first signed up, even CPO had seemed a mountain taller than the Rockies, but he'd climbed a lot higher than that.