The officer of the deck lifted her head. The Indian-goddess profile he’d noticed the first day aboard belonged to Lieutenant Amarpeet “Amy” Singhe. Like the rest of the crew, the strike officer was in blue one-piece belted coveralls. But she made them look elegant. Deep black eyes met his. “Yes, Captain. Clear as far as the radar can see.”
He stared blankly, noting the tautness of blue cloth over her breasts, the glossy black curl of twisted-up hair.
In the eternal pot-stirring of the Navy Uniform Board, sailors no longer wore dungarees at sea. The surface fleet had taken over coveralls as a working uniform from the sub force. And since all hands wore it, officers were distinguished from enlisted by the color of the web belt — blue for enlisted, khaki for chiefs and officers — and, of course, collar insignia. It was comfortable, but he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about having everyone look so much the same.
“Sir?” Danenhower said.
“Let’s go,” Dan said. Danenhower hit the 21MC and relayed the order down to Main Control, then left the bridge.
“Right standard rudder, come to course zero nine zero,” Singhe said.
“My rudder is right standard, coming to zero nine zero true … steady on zero nine zero, checking zero-eight-eight.” The first number was the true course, by the gyrocompass; the second, by the magnetic compass. The phrases, even the cadence, were familiar, traditional, yet it sounded different. Maybe because both voices, the OOD’s and the helmsman’s, were female.
“Permission to start full-power run, Captain?”
“Soon as you’re steady on course, Amy.”
“Aye, sir. Bo’s’un, pass the word.”
BM2 Nuckols reached for his whistle and leaned to the 1MC. An earsplitting, endless call. Dan had never understood why it was a point of pride with boatswain’s mates to break every eardrum on the ship. Nuckols intoned hoarsely, “Now commence full-power run. All personnel stand clear of the fantail and aft of frame 315.”
Singhe said, “Log commencing run. All engines ahead flank three.” The helmsman answered up. In the old days there’d been a lee helmsman, too, separate controllers for course and speed, but now both steering and engine commands were executed at the same console. Yeah, they’d saved one body there.
He strolled out to the wing, into the icy wind, and leaned on the bulwark as Savo Island gathered speed. The acceleration was perceptible, but not exactly enough to knock you off your feet. After thirty or forty seconds, though, she was charging through the chop, sending a turbulent bow wave veeing out into the grayblue sea. The turbines rose to a whining roar. The wind did too, shifting to blow from ahead, buffeting him. He grabbed his cap just as it blew off, and tucked it into his belt.
Singhe stuck her head out. A loose strand of midnight hair whipped in the wind. “Flank three, sir. Hundred and seventy rpm.”
“Very well.” He stood there until he was chilled through, alone except for the starboard lookout. Just watching the rapidly passing sea.
His at-sea cabin, one level below the bridge, was snugger and less opulent than his inport suite two decks down, where he could host meetings, or welcome dignitaries for an intimate dinner. This small vibrating closet held only a bunk, a steel hanging locker, a desk and computer, and his own chair and one for a visitor.
And Master Chief Tausengelt, in that extra chair.
The command master chief was the senior representative of the enlisted. This too had originated with the submarine force, where the chief of the boat stood second only to the CO as the source and fount of authority. Master Chief Electrician Tausengelt wasn’t exactly grizzled, but he was older than almost anyone else aboard. He was lean as a smoked beef stick, with deep furrows down both sides of his mouth. His thin, light hair was only fuzz in front and not much thicker behind. He wore both the enlisted surface warfare water wings and enlisted aviation wings, and below them the heavy oval brass badge of the command master chief. Tausengelt was from Roald’s staff, like Mills. He’d replaced the previous CMC, who’d gone down in the purge.
But the CMC wasn’t just a mouthpiece for the crew to the skipper. He was also an inside track for the captain to find out what the crew really thought, before an abscess got to the point of bursting. Dan wanted to make him even more than that, to actually make the senior enlisted a stakeholder in the command team. Not quite a triumvirate — CO, XO, CMC — but as close as he could get. So that now Dan had no problem asking, “Well, Master Chief, you’ve had a chance to canvass the crew. And the chiefs’ mess. What’s your call? We over this, or not?”
The chief took his time answering, but finally said, “Basically, I’m not sure.”
The steady roar of the turbines, conducted through the steel of the superstructure, made them both raise their voices. “Not a real informative answer, Master Chief.”
“All I can give you right now, sir. Tell you one thing. This is the most suspicious goat locker I’ve even seen. Real closemouthed. If there’s some under-the-table there, they’re not giving it up.”
Dan thought about this. Wenck had said the same, but he’d chalked that up to the more senior chiefs resenting a newly fleeted-up E-7, plus the natural distrust any organization had toward someone a new leader brought with him. “How do they feel about losing the old CO, the previous CMC, all those people?”
“Basically, I won’t deny there’s grumbling. Some say the good went overboard along with the bad.”
“Probably not totally untrue. Collateral damage.”
“What’s that, sir?” Tausengelt cupped his ear. “It’s goddamn noisy in here.”
“Nothing. Yeah, it’s pretty loud in here at full power. How’s that command philosophy going? XO seen it yet?”
“Got a draft, sir. Should be in your mailbox.”
Dan half turned and brought it up on his screen. He scrolled down it, gaze snagging on clichés. Mission accomplishment first. Make your own quality of life. But he couldn’t fault a Navy document for clichés. The shorthand might sound tin-eared or repetitive to outsiders, but it conveyed concepts in efficient, almost digital bursts. “I’ll look it over and get back to you. How’s the junior enlisted feel?”
“I don’t get much of a sense either way from the deckplates. Basically, they’re focused on their jobs. Your inspection — that shook them up. You got into places Imerson never went.”
“Or Almarshadi?”
Tausengelt remained diplomatically silent.
“The first-class lounge?”
“Pretty much the same.”
“The JOs?” Strictly speaking they weren’t Tausengelt’s business, but an experienced chief knew what the junior officers were thinking. Usually, before the JOs knew it themselves.
Tausengelt took his time. Dan waited, hoping he didn’t start his next sentence with “Basically.”
“Basically, sir, there might be a problem. One of the lieutenants. She was on the bridge when the ship hit.”
“Really? Who?”
“The Indian girl … woman. Lieutenant Singhe.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“She was the officer of the deck. But you notice, she didn’t get shitcanned.”
He rubbed his chin. Yeah, that was strange. Even personnel who hadn’t been on the bridge were gone. But the examining board, and the admiral, had exonerated the OOD? “What’s the story there? Do you know?”
Tausengelt shook his head as the ship leaned. Something creaked in the bulkhead. Dan tilted his watch. They were halfway through the first hour of the full-power run. “Basically, no idea, sir. But the chiefs, the other JOs — they all clam up tight when she walks in. I’ve seen it. It’s weird.”