The Circle (6 page)

“D'we come up with those anchor stoppers, Chief?”

“Yessir. Some dickhead storecreature sent 'em down to the snipes.”

“And did we get the pump covers, and the new garbage chute before we got under way?”

“Rousted 'em out of the tender last night.”

“Good. How about introducing Ensign Lenson here to some of his men?”

“No problem.” The chief bellowed downwind, “First Division! Front and center! Yeah, you!”

The men he addressed, the ones he'd been shouting with a few minutes before, dropped brushes into cans and ambled toward them. One straightened a paint-stained white hat; another slowly tucked in a ragged shirt. The others simply strolled up and stopped, swaying to the slow roll of the deck. “This here's our new division officer,” said Bloch. “Straighten up, Gonzales, for Christ's sake! That's Greenwald. Hardin. Jones. Williams. This here is Coffey. And this prize pupil is Seaman Recruit Lassard.”

The last named was older than the others. His face was handsome but spoiled by his hair. It was cut to the quick, boot camp—style. His pale hands were flecked with white paint. Seaman recruit, Dan thought. You couldn't get lower in the Navy. Most enlisted were third class, even second, at this man's age.

Lassard returned his stare with a faint, absent smile. His blue eyes were slightly bloodshot. He looked intelligent, but Dan had the feeling he wasn't really there with them, on the open fantail of USS
Ryan,
standing out to sea.

“Ay, four-oh to meet you, man,” he said softly. “You can call him Slick. Everybody does. You Flamer's replacement?”

“Lassard, that fuckin' mouth of yours—”

“That's all right, Chief,” Dan said. It looked like a chance to establish quick rapport. He took a step forward and extended his hand. Lassard took it with the same dreamy look. Dan felt the callus, the hard muscle beneath.

The grip tightened, forcing his knuckles together. Dan hissed in surprise and pain before he remembered his father's old cop trick. When his left thumb found the paint-smeared web of Lassard's, the remote eyes widened, just a fraction, and then the seaman let go and stepped back.

“Ay, man, you got soft hands there.”

He felt something sticky on his palm, and stopped himself from wiping it on his uniform pants. His hand hurt now, but he ignored it and shook hands with the others, too, trying to match names with faces. Gonzales, short and dark, grinned and slid his feet around when he was introduced. Greenwald was thin, with a face like an accountant's unexpectedly but not without reason accused of fraud. Coffey's was rigid as carved teak, his hand dry and neutral. He wore a shoelace braided around his wrist.

“Okay, back to work,” said Bloch. The men ambled aft again. He turned to Lenson. “The most useless set of cats' assholes in the division. No. In the ship. They call themselves the ‘kinnicks.'”

“‘Kinnicks?'”

“I don't know, and I don't care, sir. I just know I could get twice as much done around here without 'em.”

“Discipline problems? Or just lazy?”

Bloch uttered a fearsome blasphemy. “This is the worse division I seen in twenty-eight years in the Navy, sir. Half of 'em come in to dodge the draft. I got three new transfers—not these, these are the bright boys—Cat Five. That means IQ under eighty. You got to show them which end of a swab to hold on to. Every time. But they're not the ones give you trouble. Lieutenant here'll back me up—”

As he talked, Dan watched the men. Lassard was painting a white diamond around a pad eye. Each time he lifted his brush from the pot, he paused, staring out at the passing sea. As the paint drooled downward, the wind spun streamers of it out over the gray deck. “Just pretend I'm not here, Chief,” said Norden. “Give it to him straight.”

“All right.” Bloch rubbed his hand over his head. “We got short-sheeted on the last overhaul. XO cut my budget again last month. We ain't even got enough paint—I had to cumshaw twenty gallons haze gray off a master chief on the
Sara.
I could make do if I had good men. But we're short a lot of hands, and like I say, there's major problems with the ones we got.”

“How about petty officers?”

“Two of 'em are okay. One just made third. My first-class…”

“What's the matter with him?”

Bloch looked at the deck but didn't answer.

“I'm just showing him around the ship now, Chief. You two can get together for record review later.”

“Well, nice meeting you, Chief.”

“Welcome aboard, sir.” Bloch hesitated. “Don't get me wrong, sir. These old cans are the cat's nuts.”

“The what?”

“The best. We got problems, but I'd ten times rather be aboard here than the cookie tins they're building now. Aluminum! Single-screw! I done my whole career on these. When they go, that'll be time for me, too.” He turned away, leaving it unclear who had dismissed whom, and began shouting again.

Dan followed Norden forward again, catching up with him amidships. The whaleboat loomed above them, cradled in steel arms. “He seems pretty much on top of things,” he said tentatively.

“Yeah, Bloch's good. Most of his twenty-eight's sea time, except for two years at Great Lakes pushing boots. Divorced. Lives aboard. Got a little marine surveying business he does part-time in port.”

“That about manning, and budget, that doesn't sound so good.”

“Well, don't let us gloom and doom you too much. We aren't the only ship in the fleet with problems these days. That reminds me, this is your first tour; you get to pick where you go. How come you aren't on your way to Nam?”

“We, uh, you know, choose according to class rank. When they got to me, it was this or a tanker.”

“Well, nice to know we're a notch above somebody.”

“How about you? How come you're not somebody's aide, or—”

“Or in some high-powered staff billet? My great-granddad started out on the deck plates. I wanted to, too. I just told the detailer, send me where anybody of my rank and age would go if his name was Smith.” Norden grinned boyishly and slapped his shoulder. “And they thought I was serious! Maybe next time I'll wise up! Ready for lunch?”

“Sure,” said Dan, grinning, too. Somehow he couldn't help it.

Ryan
's wardroom was smaller than an average living room. It looked worn but clean. The only furniture was a threadbare couch, bolted to the deck through worn gray carpet, and a table. On the bulkhead hung an oil of a stern-looking man with high collar and rear admiral's stripes; in the background, a four-piper destroyer thrust its bow out of a malachite sea. A dozen men stood around the table, leaning on their chairs. They perked up as Norden introduced Lenson, reaching to shake his hand. “Mark Silver you know … This is Ralph Weaver, the comm-oh; Ken Trachsler, damage control; Aaron Reed, sonar; Barry Ohlmeyer, guns, our bull ensign and duty bachelor; Ed Talliaferro, chief engineer; Al Evlin, operations and senior watch officer; Tom Cummings, disbursing and acting supply. You'll be relieving him as junior ensign, also known as George, also known as Shitty Little Jobs Officer. He'll get with you later about turning over the mess accounts. Right, Chow Hound?”

“Soon's we put down our forks.”

“I guess that does it except for Murphy and Johnson, and they'll be down after they're relieved.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” said Dan to the wardroom at large. Despite getting stuck with the mess treasury, a thankless job of nit-picking and bookkeeping, he felt warmed by their welcome.

“You married, Dan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kids?”

“First due in February.”

“Good grief.”

“She don't expect you back by then, I hope.”

“Like they say, you got to be there for laying the keel, but not for the launching.”

He grinned wordlessly and let it wash over him.

“Hey 'Fredo! Captain coming down?”

“He say he come down.”

The redheaded ensign, Dan had already lost his name, said, “We'll give him five more minutes, then we'll—”

The forward door opened and Packer came in. The executive officer was behind him. Bryce was the only one in the room wearing a tie. Ohlmeyer ducked his head, glancing around in real or feigned embarrassment. The captain said nothing; either he hadn't heard the remark or he ignored it. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table and nodded to the assembled officers.

The table sat in a ripple movement, by seniority. Dan wedged himself into the chair at the foot, directly beneath the portrait. He had eight inches between the table and the bulkhead. When he looked up, the captain was staring at him over the silver. They were face-to-face, ten feet apart, with the others ranked on either side. “Who's this?” asked Packer. “Didn't I see him on the bridge?”

“This is the new man I called you about, sir. Daniel Lenson, Mr. Sullivan's replacement,” said Norden.

“Sully's not coming back?”

“No, I don't think the Flamer will rise again this time,” said Bryce, smiling.

“That so? Well, welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Packer lowered his attention to a bowl of mucky-looking stuff the steward slid in front of him. Mabalacat delivered along both sides, two plates at a time. Dan got his last. It was a spicy potato soup that tasted better than it looked. He sipped at it, glancing up furtively to observe the captain.

“Jimmy John,” Bryce had called him, but Dan had a feeling no one called him that to his face. He was by no means the tallest at the table, but there was no question of his domination of it. It showed in the hushed tones the others used in the face of his silence. Now he was capless, Dan saw dark hair, but eyebrows the color of the silverware. He ate slowly, his attention on the soup. The tension he'd thought he saw on the bridge seemed to be gone.

The main course arrived. “What's this called, 'Fredo?” said Bryce.

“Knockwurst, sah.”

“No. This.”

“Boiled cabbage, sah. You like?”

“Yes, it's tasty. Real down-home. Let me have some more of that, on the side.”

“So where you from, Dan?” said a man midway up the table. Lenson swallowed rapidly, groping for the name. Pockmarked cheeks, tired eyelids, a swatch of black hair plastered across his forehead. Talliaferro, pronounced
Tolliver,
the engineer. First names? He decided it would be okay over food. “Pennsylvania, Ed.”

“Whereabouts? Out west? I'm from Bradford.”

“Uh, not really, it's near Philly.”

“Okay, hotshot check! You ready to take over my watch section, Lenson?” asked another man, a jaygee.

The others chuckled. He hesitated self-consciously. Should he act cocky? Confident but modest? While he was debating it, he lost his chance; the captain turned to the operations officer, Evlin. “Al, you got the Gap Filler directive copied yet?”

The senior lieutenant dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “It's in mimeo, Skipper. Distribute it right after lunch.”

“I want everybody familiar with it before we get to the exercise area. We can waste a lot of time up there if we screw up the runs. I want them to know it cold.”

“I'll see to that,” said Bryce, smiling around at the table.

“Was there anything else hot in that traffic they handed up before we got under way?”

“Nothing new, sir.”

“Ed, how's that port shaft sound now?”

Talliaferro shoved his plate aside. “I think we got her in shape, sir.”

“The steering unit? And number-two generator?”

“Like I say, we got her running again. But once we clear coastwise traffic, I'd like to kick her up to flank for an hour and get a stethoscope on a couple things.”

“Good idea. Let's combine a full-power run and crash-back with a shakedown general quarters tomorrow, Ben, say around oh-nine hundred.”

“Will do, Captain,” said Bryce, looking alert and jovial.

Norden coughed into his fist. “Could we possibly hold that till after lunch, sir? Deck division's putting fresh paint down aft. I'd like it to dry before people run through it.”

“Rope it off,” said Bryce, not waiting for Packer to answer.

“Aye, sir.” Norden glanced down the table at Dan, as if to say, I tried.

The steward raked in the empty dishes and dealt dessert: bread pudding. When the captain was done, he pushed the plate back and began packing his pipe from a leather pouch. That seemed to be a signal. The others folded their napkins and crossed silver on their plates. Mabalacat returned with coffee.

“Gentlemen, Mr. Evlin tells me he'll have the operation order for this little excursion available sometime this afternoon. Let me summarize it, just to put everybody in the picture—including our new ensign.” Packer's eyes lingered on him.

“We were pulled early from overhaul for this assignment. Squadron Ops says it was authorized at the Chief of Naval Operations level, via the type commander.
Morton,
that's the Pac-side test ship for the AN/SQS-thirty-five IVDS, reported performance degradation during cold-weather operations in the Chukchi Sea. Before COMCRUDESLANT signs off on a fleetwide buy, they want to check the figure of merit in heavy-sea, cold-weather operations.

“That's where we come in, as the prototype installation. We'll be heading up north of the Greenland-Iceland-UK gap to play convergence-zone ops with
Pargo,
a nuke attack boat. She'll be coming out of the Northern Fleet op area. She's up there now playing hide-and-seek with the Soviets around the Kola Peninsula. Estimated time out is three weeks, if all goes well. But I'll tell you now, much as I know everybody wants to get back to their families, doing this right has priority.

“The idea is to test the thirty-five B under the most demanding conditions any ship's likely to hit in wartime. So make sure you're ready for rough weather. If there's a storm up there, I intend to head for it, and I'll stay in it as long as I can.”