“Poly passed,” the message read. “Meet the team tomorrow 9.00AM at Naval Station Norfolk — Pier 7, USS Fletcher—Jeremy.”
“Yes!” Alex gave an excited yelp, jumped out of bed, and started dancing around the room. “Yes!”
…48
Alex had no problem whatsoever locating the USS Fletcher. Her hull was distinctively different, standing out from a distance. She quickly found parking, right across from Pier 7, then trotted toward the vessel, curious to explore.
She’d read about it during the past couple of days, thirstily absorbing every bit of information she could, and hoping she’d be able to retain something. Some of it read like a foreign language, filled with concepts she didn’t understand and had to look up.
Mason had given her credentials to join the team as an engagement consultant, her official cover job being liaison between the project team and the US Navy. Not all projects needed an engagement consultant, but some did, and Mason felt this was the most inconspicuous manner she could join the team with her limited knowledge of naval warfare and laser systems, and limited time to prepare.
She waited eagerly for Walcott’s van to appear and drop off the project team at the pier, so she could finally board the Fletcher with them. She checked every minute or so, but then turned her head back to study the ship’s elegant hull.
There had been controversy about that stealth-hull design, and, apparently, the jury was still out whether its seaworthiness exceeded that of an Arleigh-Burke class vessel, the backbone of US Navy’s destroyer fleet. The Fletcher was a Zumwalt-class destroyer, capable of sending more than a hundred guided missiles toward their targets before having to return and rearm. Its hull was what they called a tumblehome design, narrowing up from the water level and giving her a unique silhouette.
That was part of her stealth design; more stealth features were built in, like its inverted bow, designed to cut through the waves and generate minimal wake. The deckhouse was integrated into the hull design, making the Fletcher appear smooth in its narrowing toward the top and presenting minimal visible detail into its technical and weapons equipment. The power and propulsion systems were also integrated, none of that equipment visible above sea level. If she were to compare the Fletcher with any other type of vessel she’d seen, it would have to be a submarine. Yes, the Fletcher looked just like a submarine, more than 600 feet long, floating proudly on the surface. Amazing.
“And I’ll need you to help me with that, Quentin,” a female voice disrupted Alex’s study of the Fletcher.
There they were, passing her by, the Walcott team of five engineers, unmistakable; they all wore color-coded hard hats with Walcott’s logo on them. She caught a glimpse of the Sprinter leaving the dock and she hurried to catch up with the project team.
“Excuse me,” she said, and they stopped and turned toward her. “Are you guys the Walcott project team for the laser cannon installation?”
“And you are…?” the man Alex knew from photos to be Bob McLeod asked.
She extended her hand and gave Bob a firm handshake.
“Alex Hoffmann, engagement consultant for the Navy. I’m supposed to tag along with you guys, help you out with whatever you need, and document and observe the installation, to give our PR something to work from,” she spouted at machine-gun speed. “You do realize they want to make a big deal out of this launch, right?”
“Yeah, we do; we were wondering when you’d come. Sylvia Copperwaite, mobile installations,” the woman introduced herself. She was charming and delicate in person, features that her human resources file failed to convey. She also had a haggard, almost ashen look, covered for the most part with carefully applied makeup, but revealed here and there, especially around her tired, sad eyes.
“Bob McLeod, PM,” the first man introduced himself, a dutiful smile fluttering on his lips for exactly one second, quickly replaced by a look of irritation, complete with clenched jaws and tense muscles she could see knotting under the skin of his cheeks.
“Faisal Kundi, embedded software.” Faisal shook her hand politely, a little hesitant. Alex noticed about him a shyness, almost fear of scrutiny. Faisal averted his eyes immediately after introducing himself, and stared at the blue waters instead.
“Vernon Blackburn, lasers, but you can call me Vern.” This one studied her at large; there wasn’t a shred of shyness in this guy, as he was measuring her from head to toe. Whoa, buddy, we just met, she thought, feeling how he was undressing her with his eyes. He was an attractive man, his shoulder-length hair giving him an artistic, rebellious air. The way he studied her, his smile and body language, was a powerful, heady mix. Mr. sex-bomb with a PhD, she thought, almost chuckling. She refrained from that and returned a gigawatt smile instead, almost flirting. Sylvia rolled her eyes discreetly; she’d probably seen hordes of naïve women fly like moths into Vernon’s perma-flame.
She turned toward the last man and extended her hand.
“Quentin Hadden, weapons.” Quentin also averted his eyes and shied away from the physical contact of the handshake, making it as superficial and as quick as possible.
“All right, let’s get this show on the road,” Bob McLeod called them to order. “We’re on a very tight schedule.”
They boarded the Fletcher. Alex’s head was on a swivel, taking in all the details.
“Welcome aboard,” a uniformed man greeted them, “I’m Captain Anthony Meecham,” the man said.
Alex shook his hand enthusiastically, and said, “You must be proud of your command, captain.”
The man gave a wide smile, showing two rows of perfectly aligned, white teeth. “I sure am, ma’am.” Based on his record, he was a highly decorated sailor, although he didn’t seem a day older than thirty-two. None of those ribbons hung on his chest though; he was wearing a Navy working uniform.
“Call me Alex, please.”
“Ma’am,” he replied unperturbed, as if acknowledging the order, yet making it clear he was going to maintain his professional distance.
“You act like you’ve never done this before,” McLeod said, causing her an instant adrenaline rush.
Damn…
“You’re right, I haven’t,” Alex replied, deciding to go with the least amount of lying necessary. “You’re very observant, Bob. I just got this assignment; they were short on staff and gave me the opportunity to leave my desk and come out here, meet all of you in person and visit the Fletcher, get some hands-on experience. I am thrilled to be able to do that; it will help me a lot in my work.”
McLeod shrugged and went away, probably to start working. Most of the team had scattered the moment they set foot on the ship. They knew their way around, and they had a team of sailors and shipyard workers waiting for them.
“Then maybe you’d like a tour?” Captain Meecham asked.
“I would love it!”
Meecham turned and started walking quickly, after making an inviting gesture with his hand. She scampered behind him, trying to keep up.
“The easiest way to go down these stairs is to descend facing them, like this,” he demonstrated, leading the way below deck. She followed.
“The Fletcher is a stealth, guided-missile, destroyer,” Meecham explained, “or at least it was until now. The installation of the LaWS will enhance the ship’s capabilities, and might even drive the addition of a new battleship type in our nomenclature.”