“I guess we could argue that both ways,” Dan said. “And there are legal issues … UCMJ, Navy Regs, laws of war … but I don’t want to sound negative.” He flattened the still-warm pages under his hand. Cleared his throat. “But I’ll offer a caveat up front, Amarpeet.”
“Amy.”
“Amy. A personal warning. I’ve seen JOs who don’t have good relationships with their chiefs. Not only do they screw up their divisions, they get ostracized within the wardroom. Since they don’t have the technical expert backing the stuff they say. And it’s hard for them to get deckplate compliance without support from the chiefs. Uh … that said, I’ll be happy to look this over. With an open mind. And then discuss it further.
“Any other issues you’re aware of aboard, Amy? Seeing as how this is the first time we’ve had a chance to really sit down together.”
Hands on knees, she’d started to rise, but sank back. “Well, sir, you may be aware that, just like you said, there’s some pushback from the chiefs’ mess.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean. What kind of pushback?”
“Maybe not so much even that, as a certain mind-set. I hear what you’re saying, about making things difficult for myself. But these men really don’t understand their sailors. They know their technical fields — most of them, anyway — but today’s young sailor is foreign to them. Even more so, the women. Also, I’m convinced ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ will be repealed soon. They’re not ready for it. At all. And speaking of men, have you noticed, we don’t have a single female chief?”
Dan blinked. “I hadn’t, but you’re right. But can you point to a specific example? Any chief in particular?”
“Actually, one of the worst was the former command master chief.”
“The one who got D/S’d with Captain Imerson.”
“Yessir. But by no means was he alone. I don’t want to name names. And I don’t think you meant to put me in that kind of spot—” She stretched an arm around the back of her neck to massage her nape. Grimacing, as if it hurt. “So I’ll sort of slide past that question.” She made as if to rise again. “Is that all, sir?”
“I guess so.” He lifted the paper. “I’ll read this. And thanks for bringing it to my attention. Especially about us needing a female chief. I’ll ask Sid Tausengelt to look at our E-6s, see if we can identify a candidate.”
“Yes sir; I’ll be glad to provide input. Want me to close this door? Oh, and one last thing … I do a yoga class Tuesdays and Wednesdays, back in torpedo stowage. If you wanted to join us, you’d be welcome.”
He said thank you, he’d keep that in mind, and the ribbon of ruby narrowed, shrank, vanished. He sat alone in the near darkness, still enjoying her scent. For a moment he imagined shaking that dark hair down over what were, by the way she filled out those coveralls, all too evidently more than adequate … no. He took a deep breath and let it out. God. He even had an erection.
Chill, Lenson. You’re twenty years older than she is. Well, maybe not. Maybe eighteen. Still, old enough to be her father.
What about her ideas? Think about that, not her tits. “Flattening management.” His initial reaction was skeptical. But hadn’t he felt exactly the same when he’d been her age? Enraged at the iron-rigid hierarchy of seniors who all too often seemed incompetent, if not, occasionally, clinically nuts? More serious was her charge about the goat locker. But received wisdom in the fleet was that a sure route to big trouble was to bypass or downgrade the chiefs and senior enlisted. They ran the ship, after all.
The muted shriek of the J-phone. He snatched it off the bulkhead. “Captain.”
“OOD, sir. Sorry to wake you—”
“Wasn’t asleep. Whatcha got?”
“Sir, we’re at course one one four, speed fifteen. Entering the Strait of Messina. Twenty-four contacts on the screen. Crossing contact, Skunk Bravo Lima, range eight thousand yards, bearing one three zero. Closest point of approach, time three zero, bearing zero nine four, two thousand yards—”
“Is the XO up there?”
“Yessir, Commander Almarshadi’s here. Did you want him on the line?”
Dan closed his eyes. Remembering how it had been with Crazy Ike Sundstrom. Whatever else, the Commodore from Hell had taught him what not to do. The commander bore the ultimate responsibility. True. But he had to trust. He had to trust.
He took a deep breath. “Not necessary. Log this: Commander Almarshadi is in charge. Maneuver according to his instructions. Call me only if we’re in extremis.”
A moment’s astonished pause, behind which he heard the crackle of the bridge to bridge; a warning going out. “Aye aye, sir,” the young voice said at last, its tone falling, as if doubting. But acknowledging the order. “I’ll log that.”
He hung up, figuring he wouldn’t get any more actual sleep that night than he would if he were in his bridge chair. But he had to build up his XO’s confidence. Where they were going, he’d need someone he could depend on for backup.
But Singhe. Hard to stop thinking of her. Was he too susceptible to an attentive young woman? He didn’t think so. She was ambitious. Hard-charging. Innovative. All the things that were supposed to rank JOs in the top 1 percent in their fitness reports. All the things he was supposed to nurture. As her commanding officer.
He felt around on his desk for the papers she’d left. When he lifted them to his face, he could still smell sandalwood.
7
“Captain, your presence is requested on the bridge.” Two days later Ensign Mytsalo, chubby cheeks glowing bright pink at actually speaking to his CO, held the J-phone up. Looking uncertain, as if unsure of the ceremonial involved in passing such a request.
They were in the wardroom. Dan blotted his lips, looking regretfully at the steaming tomato bisque, the hot turkey sandwich on white-and-blue Navy china before him. “Uh … ask if it’s urgent.”
“XO says the task force is in sight, sir.”
“Range?”
“Just on the horizon … closest unit twenty-three thousand yards.”
“Tell him I’ll be up in three.” He’d have time for soup, at least.
He savored a spoonful, but it soured as he remembered another time, on another ship. He’d been on the bridge, and they’d been making an approach on a carrier battle group. But the carrier did an unannounced 180. The result was that instead of approaching from the stern, they’d suddenly found themselves on a collision course with upwards of seventy thousand tons of steel coming down the ship’s throat at a combined closing rate of seventy miles an hour.
“Excuse me,” he said to the assembled wardroom. They started to rise too, until he motioned them back down. “Don’t get up. Ops, Nav, and Training, how about joining me on the bridge when you’re done with your meal. Don’t hurry. I’ll be up there awhile.”
He’d kept Savo Island at close to full speed. Past Greece and then, to the north, Crete. Point Hotel, their rendezvous with the task force, was about 170 miles south of Rhodes and 150 miles north of Egypt. Halfway between Europe and Africa, in the empty reaches of the central Med.
So far, there’d been no significant problems with shafts, props, or plant, and the rest of the coolant hoses had checked out. In CIC, Wenck and Dr. Noblos had been drilling the team by tracking the commercial airlines that arched between Europe and the east Med: Beirut, Haifa, Tel Aviv, Cairo. Noblos admitted they were shaping up. “But they’re still marginal,” he’d grumbled. Marginal was better than substandard, but Dan had asked him to keep pressing.