“I understand. That is the American way, yes? And if I guilty?”
“Sentencing is out of our hands. But until then, we’ll have to confine you. For your own safety as much as ours. Chief, where do you recommend? The break?”
Ticos didn’t have brigs. Few ships did anymore, except for carriers. Detainees, such as captured pirates, were normally restrained with flex cuffs, and either kept outside under an awning or within the forward breakers, with a 24-7 guard. Each breaker had a forward and an aft hatch and only one door to the interior. Lock those, and you had a closed space out of the weather. “Port break, I think,” Toan said. “I’ll set it up, sir.”
“Make sure he has ventilation, water, and somewhere to piss. And once he’s locked down, get those cuffs off. Remember, he hasn’t been convicted of anything.”
“Yet,” Garfinkle-Henriques muttered grimly from her desk.
A rap at the door; two more masters-at-arms looked in. To a low instruction from Chief Toan, they escorted the prisoner out.
That night before dinner Dan sat flipping through the traffic in the wardroom. He’d looked in on Shah; the suspect was bedded down in the breaker, with a folding cot. Unfortunately, keeping a guard on him around the clock would cost three more hands, out of a workforce that was getting increasingly stressed the longer they stayed at sea.
The news was sobering. Threats and counterthreats between India and China continued to build. The biggest news, though, was from New York. Wall Street’s computerized trading systems had crashed, reopened four hours later to major losses, then crashed again, at which point trading had been suspended. A massive cyberattack was suspected, and analysts feared the panic might spread to the banking system. His own modest savings were bland, low-risk, and most likely safe, but Blair’s trust fund, and her stepdad’s investments, would’ve taken a major hit.
But the Indo-Pakistani confrontation over Kashmir seemed to be cooling off. A peace conference had been organized. World leaders would meet in Mumbai, the city formerly known as Bombay, a few hundred miles southeast of where Savo Island pursued her lonely patrol.
Even more good news: a German oiler, Stuttgart, was on its way to Ballistic Missile OpArea Endive. Another two days, and they’d have full tanks again.
He sat at the coffee table, fighting a tickle in his throat and trying to feel optimistic. Maybe peace could be preserved. Pakistan and India had fought before, but there was a new term in the equation now. Nuclear terror had always cooled down any disagreement between the U.S. and the USSR, reminding both sides what existential horror awaited if they didn’t compromise.
The tinkle of a hand bell called them to dinner. He ate with his head down, not really following the conversation. Until, when the main course was cleared, everyone shoved his chair back. Longley, looking triumphant, pushed in a cake on a rolling cart, complete with lit candles. The passageway door opened and several chiefs and senior enlisted sidled in.
“What the heck?” Dan muttered. The junior officers snickered. All, apparently, in on the joke. But what was the joke? It wasn’t his birthday.
“Go ahead, cut it,” Staurulakis said. “Captain.”
A two-tier white cake, with what looked like orange or banana frosting. But as soon as he sliced into it with the silver knife Longley handed him, the crackle of plastic told him what mattered wasn’t the cake, but what had been baked inside. Or maybe inserted afterward, in a cavity hollowed between the layers. He got a better grip, angled the knife, and cesareaned it out.
“Well, what do you know,” he muttered. It was his uniform hat, encased in a heavy wrapping. “Where’d I leave it this time?”
“Down on the mess decks, Captain,” said the cook, standing by the sliding door to the wardroom galley. “When you were inspectin’ cleanup. We knew we had to get it back to you. In some special way.”
They were all waiting, looking uncertain. Even the exec seemed anxious, her gaze begging him to play along. Christ, what did they think? That he was so uptight, so stuffy, he couldn’t take a harmless joke? He gave them all a shamefaced grin. “Guess I better tie a lanyard on it, keep from leaving it around. Thanks, Cookie, this looks real tasty. Now… who wants a piece of my hat?”
Their relieved laughter made his eyes sting. He turned away for a second, blotting them surreptitiously with the back of a hand. Then began cutting slices, one after another, onto the plates his officers and chiefs came up to hold out for a share.
16
TWO days later he was in forward berthing, inaugurating the newly reopened facilities with his own first full shower since Schell had closed down the potable water. Enjoying near-scalding heat on his skin. And, not coincidentally, showing he trusted that the crud had finally been eliminated. But he flinched back when Chief Tausengelt unexpectedly stuck his nearly bald old osprey’s head in past the plastic curtains. “Captain? Gonna be out soon?”
Dan covered himself instinctively, then relaxed and flicked foam off the disposable razor. “Uh — almost. Just got to finish shaving and rinse down, Master Chief. What’s so blazin’ damn hot I can’t finish my shower?”
“Urgent, sir. Messenger’s standing here.”
“Okay, send him in.”
“Uh, you might wanna come out instead, sir. Seein’ as how he’s a she.”
Towel knotted around his middle, Dan pinned the makeshift loincloth with one elbow. He’d expected a radio messenger. Instead it was the Terror, chubby-cheeked, holding out a folded note. He frowned, reading. It was from Donnie Wenck, suggesting he come up to CSER 1.
“What’s this all about, Petty Officer Terranova?”
“It’s on television, Captain.”
“We don’t have television out here. What’re you talking about?”
“Chief Wenck said you’d want to see it. That’s all I really know, sir.” The towel started to slip, and she averted her eyes as he grabbed for it.
“Well, all right, goddamn it… I mean, all right. Just let me get dressed.”
The Combat Systems Equipment Room was in the forward deckhouse, portside aft. The work space was narrow and long, racked with spares, a coffee mess at the far end. It smelled of hot rosin and ozone. This high in the ship, in the closed space, the motion was dizzying. He wouldn’t care to be locked in here all day long. Three of the ETs and Donnie Wenck got to their feet as he came in. He said, letting a little irritation show, “Okay, Donnie, what’s so important you got to summon your CO to see? Instead of just telling me about it? You know, things out here can’t be like they were back at Tactical Analysis.”
Wenck pushed his hair back — it was really getting long — and jerked his head at the screen. Dan glanced at it, then did a double take. Not crystal clear, but the picture was there. Talking heads, then jerky footage, maybe from a cell phone, of smoke rising from a tall building. Of black-uniformed assault troops with pointed rifles. Dimly, over the hiss of static, the crackle of small arms, came the occasional boom of heavier ordnance.
“Sorry to bother you, Captain. Thought you’d wanna see this.”
“Okay, okay, forget it. What is it? Where’s this broadcast from?”
“We were farting around, see what we could pick up. Couple days ago we latched onto this English-language channel out of Mumbai. Mainly these really lame Bollywood flicks, and dumbass game shows. But then this, about half an hour ago.”