“Uh-huh. Well, can you background me on where we stand? Or — first, I guess, how about weapon loadout?” he asked the rider.
But Mills answered him. The lieutenant — originally on Roald’s staff, now seconded to Savo—nodded toward one of the overhead readouts. “Captain. That screen shows four SM-2 Block 4A theater missile defense missiles in your vertical launchers, along with Tomahawk, Harpoon, and Asroc.” It was carefully phrased, as if this were a diplomatic reminder; that Dan really knew all this.
“Okay, I see the callouts for those. But … there are only four Block 4As? The antimissile rounds?”
“The first four off the production line,” Noblos put in.
“I see.… So, what’s our system status?”
The white-haired scientist said, “Well, to background you, Captain … that would take some hours to do properly.”
“We can sit down later. And I want to. But give me the broad-brush now.”
“Well, you have a long-range surveillance and track function added to your AN/SPY-1. I’m assuming you’re familiar with the earlier baselines? The downside is, your install is a preproduction model. Not even really a beta version. So far the program’s had only two successful intercepts in five attempts. Also, several of your radar parameters are degraded and the rest are nominal.”
Dan glanced at Terranova. There was no greater insult to any sailor than to say his equipment was poorly maintained, and the stereotype of a typical shipboard fire controlman was one of a fairly temperamental person, both extremely intelligent and something of a prima donna. Essentially, a grossly underpaid Silicon Valley software geek. Surely there was no way she’d let such a direct insult go unchallenged.
But to his surprise the girl did not object, respond, or even look up. She just made a slight adjustment to a knob that did not seem to alter the display as far as he could see. Noblos too had paused, as if for a rebuttal, but now went on. “Mr. Mills and I can get into that, your transmitter power out versus your phase/frequency band. Along with Petty Officer … with Chief Wenck. But to summarize, your maintenance has not been kept up and your operator proficiency does not seem to be where it will have to be for a successful intercept.”
Dan looked at Terranova again; they were criticizing her; but still she didn’t respond. “Can we get up to those spec and proficiency benchmarks fairly soon? Or is this the kind of problem where I need to send a CASREP?” A CASREP meant that the ship’s capabilities were degraded; that it might not meet its assigned commitments.
Noblos cocked his head. “Well, it’s inherently a tough problem, hitting an incoming missile at a combined closing rate of over twenty thousand miles an hour. In my opinion — and this is not Johns Hopkins’s, just mine — this capability is being fielded too soon. It needs additional testing, and additional development. Which I gather is ongoing, aboard USS Monocacy at the Pacific test range.
“So the most accurate answer may be, I don’t really feel able to answer your question. At least, as specifically as you may want.”
Dan rubbed his face, getting a bad feeling. Just as he’d feared, the system was new and buggy. Maintenance was lagging, and his lead fire controlman seemed unwilling even to defend herself, let alone the ship.
Wenck said, out of nowhere, “Is it possible there’s a virus in the system?”
Noblos frowned. “A virus? No. That’s not possible.”
“That would degrade the parameters.”
“No. It’s just poor tuning, shoddy maintenance.”
Dan looked back at the readouts, remembering a ship that’d once had a virus. USS Barrett. Everyone had said that was impossible too. “Donnie, why do you bring that up? Do you think there’s a virus?”
“Hey, I ain’t even got my seabag unpacked, sir. But I’d like to make sure.”
“Wasted effort,” Noblos said.
Terranova just stared at her screen.
“Three hours.” Wenck held up a thumb drive. “Just to start with a clean slate.”
“I’d go with it,” Dan said, his tone making it not an order but a suggestion. Noblos shrugged and turned away, and just like that, he knew he’d gotten on the rider’s bad side.
He looked around the dim, chill, nearly empty space. Its ranks of vacant seats in front of unlit consoles were like the rows of seats in a theater before a play. He tried to relax, to rub the doubt off his face.
If this ship was really going to war, they all had a lot of work to do.
4
Two days later, leaning back in his chair on the bridge, Dan surveyed an untenanted horizon beneath a cloudy sky. Far to the east, long out of sight, the coast of Italy. A hundred sea miles northwest, the rocky coast of Sardinia. And an equal distance south, Sicily. He’d asked the senior watch officer to prune back the warm bodies in the pilothouse. But there were still twenty people up here. What had happened to “reduced manning through automation”? Navigation was computerized now, with a console instead of paper charts. But they still had to keep a paper track, in case the computers went down. Which meant you had double the people on watch.
Don’t be cynical, he told himself. You’re where you wanted to be: back at sea.
But sometimes it was hard.
The day was white, a pale sky over a smoky sea. But not dim; on the contrary, it glowed from within, as if beyond that frosted vault some master craftsman welded with a colorless flame. The wind was piercingly cold. The seas were parkerized steel, marching in low ranks from the west, barely three feet, at most. Just enough to make Savo Island surge slowly beneath him, a deliberate, gentle heave like the slow, steady breathing of a resting horse. He was still getting used to the ship, but as far as he could tell, she liked being back in harness.
“Ideal conditions,” he told the chief engineer.
“Yessir.” Danenhower looked haggard, unshaven, mustache askew, but the chief engineer had gotten his department ready in forty-eight hours, in a ship that two days before few had thought could have gone to sea at all. “We’re ready to start the run, Captain.”
“That’s good work, CHENG. Appreciate the effort.”
“What we do, sir.”
“I also appreciated what you did back when Horn got nailed.”
“It was the repair locker team leaders, Captain. They’re the ones saved us from taking a long swim.”
“Guess you’ve got that right. Have you kept track of Lin Porter? What’s she doing now?”
“Last I heard, she had a Burke-class. The Sullivans, I think.”
“She got a command? That’s great. Well, what about this panel-grounding issue on the engines that I keep hearing about?”
“Think we’ve got a handle on that, sir.”
“Is it a design issue?”
“It is, but there’s drawbacks to an ungrounded system, too. We had an intermittent, but I think we’ve got it nailed. It takes attention. But we’re on top of it.”
Dan started to ask if he liked the Harry Potter book he’d glimpsed on his bunk when he’d passed the engineer’s open stateroom door, but did not. It might sound patronizing, or as if he were making fun of the guy’s reading matter. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Navigator, what’s our draft?”
“Forward, twenty-two feet six inches. Aft, twenty-two three.”
“Make sure that’s logged. Along with the water depth at both turn points.”
“In the log, sir. 3190 meters here.”
That was good and deep. He raised his voice. “Confirm, clear to the east?” They’d run that way for an hour at flank speed, then turn and tear back through the same water. That would zero out any effects from wind and sea, though with today’s conditions such influences should be negligible.