“Come on, don’t give me that captain crap. Tell me the truth.”
Duncan ignored Beau’s question, reached over, and turned on the radio. He squeezed his small, but growing love handles. Maybe an inch. The news interrupted his thoughts.
“… during the night. The American ambassador to Algeria has asked all U.S. citizens to remain calm and stay inside until events are clear. Many units of the Algerian Army, thought loyal to the government, remained in their garrisons and there are questions on whether they would respond to calls to oppose the rebels. France has issued a warning to its citizens to remain indoors and has cautioned the Algerian government and the Algerian Liberation Front — the FLA — that it would hold them responsible for the safety of its citizens. Mers El Kebir, the major Algerian Navy base west of Algiers, appears to have fallen to the rebels. Unnamed sources at the State Department speculate that Algiers may also fall sometime today. CNN will keep you up to date as events occur. This is Mortimer Shell for CNN, Algiers.”
“Well,” said Beau, reaching over and turning the radio down.
“That takes the cake. Just when a great liberty site like Gibraltar appears to be unfolding away from the eyes of do-gooders, along comes a crisis to throw a rock into it.”
Duncan tuned Beau out as the lieutenant commander commenced his familiar diatribe against liberal fifth columnists ripping the fabric of American society apart.
If Cathy returned today, would he take her back? She had hurt him, but deep inside he still loved her. You don’t spend twenty years of your life sharing a house, sleeping in the same bed, and enjoying the little challenges that creep up without love growing deeper. He must have done something wrong. He didn’t know what. He wished he did. He’d do anything to win her back except grovel. He wasn’t going to beg. Even so, this emergent deployment to the Mediterranean sealed his hope of saving his tattered marriage.
For once, maybe Hodges was right. Maybe a few weeks in the Mediterranean, focused on operations, would take his mind off his problems and when he returned he might discover her waiting for him. Then, again, he may not.
“Damn,” said Beau as he rounded a curve and hit the brakes. They had come up against the inevitable Washington bumper-to-bumper gridlock.
Duncan accepted it as another example of how things were going this week. He looked up at the darkening clouds and gliding seagulls. He knew one of those birds had his name engraved on its asshole and that was probably next on the agenda for Duncan James. He put his hat on. Instead the birds disappeared as a summer shower burst upon the two men. Duncan shut his eyes and tilted his face upward letting the rain beat on his face, baptizing away his marriage. His hat fell off into the small space behind the seats. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat remained.
“Yeah, there’s something about the eyes of Spanish women, Duncan!” Beau shouted as he jumped out of the car to raise the top.
“Bedroom eyes! That’s what they got.”
The summer shower turned into a downpour.
“Damn, Duncan, the top’s stuck! Give me a hand.”
He ignored Beau as the rain soaked them — a perfect ending to a perfect day. Behind him the cursing of his number two, straining to raise the top, was muffled by the heavy rain pelting the hood.
CHAPTER TWO
“Captain, the coolant pump on the starboard close in weapons system broke again, sir. The electronic technicians are running in-depth diagnostics and we should know something in a couple of hours. And, yes, sir, I have already checked and Supply has a spare pump if we need it.”
Captain Heath Cafferty stretched and jumped down from his bridge chair.
“Keep me informed. Ensign O’Toole. We turn east soon and that system needs to be on-line. It’s on the side of the ship facing Libya.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Mr. O’Toole replied. Saluting sharply, he turned to leave the bridge.
“Mr. O’Toole,” Cafferty said, stopping the ensign, who was halfway through the hatch.
“Yes, sir.” Ensign O’Toole stepped back onto the bridge.
“That’s the CIWS you’ve had problems with since departing Norfolk. After you finish fixing it, I want a wrap up of everything that has gone wrong with that lemon. We’ll send a message to SurfLant telling them to do something or I’m going to use it as a spare anchor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Mr. O’Toole, if you’re going to wear the ship’s belt buckle then shine the damn thing.”
“Yes, sir. Captain.”
Cafferty scratched the end of his sunburned nose. Naval Surface Forces Atlantic couldn’t do anything his ship’s force hadn’t done, but it was better to keep those no-loads at SurfLant informed in case it turned into a major casualty.
Then when they swarmed on him like a bunch of pissed off hornets, asking dumb questions — why hadn’t he done this, why hadn’t he done that — he could point to the messages, showing he had given heads-up on the problems.
“Mr. O’Toole, if it’s still broke at noon I want a casualty report issued. Let the battle group commanders and SurfLant know that the starboard CIWS is inop. You’ve got two hours, no more. So, go and fix the damn thing and bring me great tidings of joy when you do.”
“Aye, aye. Captain.” Ensign O’Toole, the electronics maintenance officer, nearly bumped his head on the overhang as he hurried off the bridge, trying to put as much space as possible between him and the captain before the Old Man remembered some other piece of instruction to sling at him. The chief could have told the captain, but had refused. Said it was the officer’s job to carry bad news to the skipper. Bad enough he had one of the most important jobs on the ship, keeping everything electronic and electric working, but he was a real officer — college degree and all that — not a mustang like his predecessor. An electrical engineering degree was a whole world away from practical application. That redheaded bastard was making life miserable for everyone. He never thought he’d miss the old captain. Commander Cafferty smiled as he watched the gangly ensign scurry away. One thing he’d done right since his arrival was making his presence known. Relieving in the middle of a deployment was never an easy transition for a new commanding officer, especially when you inherited a lax ship. He sauntered over to the open hatch, the sound of the boatswain mate of the watch yelling “Captain off the bridge” ringing in his ears as he stepped onto the bridge wing. Raising the binoculars from around his neck he scanned the horizon to starboard before focusing ahead on the haze that masked the shore.
After a few minutes, having seen nothing, he stepped back inside, to the background of the BMOW shouting, “Captain on the bridge.” He grabbed his porcelain coffee mug with the USS Gearing’s emblem on one side and commanding officer on the other and immediately stepped back outside, smiling as the BMOW shouted, “Captain off the bridge.” Had a nice ring to it. Each time the BMOW announced the captain the quartermaster made an entry in the ship’s logbook. Handwritten logs remained a Navy tradition even with portable computers humming in every office, nook, and cranny on the modem warship. Even the bridge had two portable computers, one for the navigator to conduct ship’s business, since he was also the administrative officer, and a second for the captain, although no one had seen him use it yet.