“The weight saved on engines and fuel is going to add-on armor, hon; good stuff, too. There’s some new design coming from off-planet — though we’ll actually manufacture it here — that resists the weapons you’ll have to face.”
McNair looked up at the triple eight-inch guns projecting from turret two. “They were marvels in their day, girl, outshooting and outranging anything similar. But wait until you see the new ones. The Mark-16s are out. We’re putting in automatic seventy caliber Mark-71, Mod 1s: faster firing, longer ranged, and more accurate. Going to have to open up or pull all your main turrets to do that. We’ll have to pull off your twin five-inch, thirty-eights, too. They’ll be mounting single Mark-71s, but the ammo load will be different for those. Different mission from the main turrets’ guns.
“Think of it, babes: fifteen eight-inch guns throwing more firepower than any two dozen other heavy cruisers ever could have.
“And your twin three-inch mounts are going. The Air Force is giving up forty thirty-millimeter chain guns from their A-10s for you and your sister.”
McNair looked down, as if seeing through the deck and the armored belt below. “We’re changing you around inside, too, a bit. Automated strikedown for your magazines, a lot more magazine capacity — you’re going to need it, and more automation in general. You’re going to get some newfangled alien computer to run it all, too.
“Crew’s dropping. Between the rust- and barnacle-proof hull and the automation, you aren’t going to need but a third of what you used to. You were always a great ship; you’re going to be a damned luxury liner in comparison.”
McNair was sure the slight thrum he seemed to feel through his feet was an illusion or the result of shifting tides. While the ship was unquestionably alive, he didn’t believe it was actually conscious.
McNair suddenly became aware of a presence standing a respectful distance away. He turned to see a stocky, tan-clad teenager wearing the hash marks of a senior chief and smiling in the shadow of turret two. Something about the face seemed familiar…
“Chief?” he asked, uncertainly.
“She’s still a beaut’, ain’t she, Skipper?”
“Chief Davis?” McNair asked again of his very first boss aboard Des Moines.
“Hard to believe, ain’t it? But yeah, Skipper, it’s me. And recognizing you was easy; after all, I knew you when you were seventeen.”
McNair started to move forward to throw his arms about his former boss and later subordinate. He started, and then stopped himself. This was the by-God Navy, not a reunion of a ship’s company in some seedy, seaside hotel or at the Mercer farm in Pennsylvania. Instead, the captain extended a welcoming hand which Davis took and shook warmly.
“You been aboard long, Chief?”
“Maybe a week or so, Skipper. Long enough to see the mess below.”
McNair took a deep breath to steel himself for the anticipated blow. “How bad is she?” he asked.
“Structurally she’s as sound as the day she was launched, Skipper. But nobody’s given a shit about her in over thirty years and it shows. We’ve got water — no, not a hull leak, just condensation and weather leakage from topside — about three inches deep down below… plenty of rat shit; rats too, for that matter. And the plates are worn to a nub. They’re all gonna have to be replaced.”
Davis sighed. “The argon gas leaked out. What can I say? It happens. Wiring’s about gone — though Sinbad says he’s got a special trick for that. Engines are in crappy shape, take six months to get ’em runnin’ again, if we’re lucky. And then the guns are shot, o’ course. Some stupid bastard left ’em open to the salt air. Rusted to shit, both in the tubes and deeper down.”
Nodding his head slowly in understanding, McNair keyed on one word Davis had dropped in passing. “Sinbad?” he asked.
“Sinbad’s just what I call him. His real name’s Sintarleen. He’s an… Indy? No, that’s not it,” the chief puzzled. “He’s an… Indow… um, Indowee. You know, Skipper, one of them fuzzy green aliens. He’s a refugee and he sort o’ got drafted too, him and another twenty-seven of his clan on this ship, another thirty from a different clan to the Salem. Real shy types, they are. But hard workin’? Skipper, I ain’t never seen nobody so hard working. Only the twenty-eight of ’em, well twenty-seven actually ’cause Sinbad’s been doin’ other stuff, and they’ve already got nearly an eighth of the ship cleaned out. Only problem is they can’t do nothin’ about the rats. Can’t kill ’em. Can’t set traps for ’em. Can’t even put out poison for ’em. They’ll even leave food for the nasty little fuckers if you don’t watch ’em careful. I asked ’em though, if they could feed somethin’ that could kill ’em and then dispose of the bodies. Sinbad said he and his people had no problem with that. Funny bunch.”
As if to punctuate that, a furry-faced, green-toned Indowy, face something like a terrestrial bat, emerged from below, straining under an enormous weight of a capacity-stuffed canvas tarp. The Indowy walked to port and dumped a mass of organic trash, rats and rat filth to splash over the side before returning wordlessly below.
Davis paid no more than a moment’s attention to the Indowy before turning back to McNair and continuing, “So anyways, my own cat Maggie had a litter of kittens about a month before I went into the tank; you know, rejuv? Under their mom’s guidance, they are taking pretty good care of the rat problem. There’s eight of ’em. Maggie drops big litters.”
Laid out on the helicopter’s litter, Digna expired not twenty minutes flight from their destination, her chest rising suddenly and then slowly falling to remain still. The paramedic in attendance had at first tried to revive her, using cardiopulmonary resuscitation and then, when that failed, electric shock. Finally, after half a dozen useless jolts, he had shaken his head and covered her face with the sheet. He shrugged his regrets at Digna’s son, Hector, then politely turned away as Hector covered his face with his hands.
The inspector’s face remained impassive throughout.
Hector had managed to gain control of himself by the time the helicopter touched down on Ancon Hill overlooking Panama City at what had once been officially know as “Gorgas Army Hospital,” and was still commonly referred to as “Gorgas.”
At the helipad, Hector was surprised to see an ambulance still waiting for his mother. What did they think they could do for her now? She’s gone. He was even more surprised that the ambulance sped off, sirens blazing and tires lifting from sharp turns at a breakneck speed, once his mother’s body had been loaded.
Another car, a black Toyota, was left behind as the ambulance raced away. Into the back seat of this vehicle the inspector peremptorily ordered Hector, before seating himself beside the driver. Hector’s pride bridled but, realistically, he knew that the reach of the Miranda clan’s power stopped well short of Panama City. He went along without demure.
Hector Miranda hated the antiseptic stink of hospitals. Worse, this was an ex-gringo hospital where the smell of disinfectant had seeped into the very tile of the floors and walls. It didn’t help matters that his mother had just died. Almost as bad was uncertainty over his own future. A conscription notice at his age seemed too absurd for words.
And then there was that heartless bastard, the inspector. Did he have a word of sympathy over Digna’s death? A kind gesture? Even minimal civilized politeness? No, he just sat unspeaking as he pored through one file folder after another.