The Cruiser (15 page)

Dan thought about this, wishing he felt more alert. “You restricted him to quarters,” Tausengelt prompted. “Threw him off the watch bill.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. His inattention let a sub past us. I didn't know he was sick. But that isn't germane; he's either on the sick list or he isn't. And if he's on watch, he's got to be alert and in charge.”

“Absolutely, sir. No one's arguing that.” The older man was respectful but firm. “I'm just trying to see if there's any middle ground here, okay? He's willing to admit he wasn't doing all that great a job last night. Problem is, this allegation you pulled his head back. Basically, I'm thinking of you now, sir. That could get sticky, any of the legal eagles got word of something like that. The way things are getting these days.”

Dan stifled a yawn, not meeting the other's gaze. Recognizing what wasn't actually being said, though it
was
, and very clearly. Knowing too the senior enlisted adviser was right; a commanding officer laying hands on a subordinate, causing injury, would be cause for instant relief. He didn't care that much, as far as his career was concerned. Whatever happened, he'd go out a captain, with the Medal and full retirement. As well as the Navy Cross, Silver Star, Navy and Marine Corps Medal, Bronze Star, and the rest … not that many end-of-tour awards, but not a bad career.

But this wasn't about Dan Lenson.
Savo Island
didn't need another failed skipper. And Jen Roald, and Ogawa, and the U.S. Navy, and, yeah, the residents of Tel Aviv, didn't need a ship that couldn't meet its commitments, when a war was slated to start in days.

To balance against that: his authority as captain. He needed the senior enlisted. Without their cooperation, nothing would improve. But giving them the idea you were a rollover was never good.

But was admitting you were wrong actually a rollover? He cleared his throat. “I appreciate the heads-up, Sid. How's the chiefs' mess taking this?”

“Well, sir, basically, you know how it is. They're a good bunch. They support the command. But right now I'd say they're … divided. This happens just once, well, we can keep it inside the tent. But you don't want to get a rep for going off on a hair trigger, sir. Or putting your hands on people. You really don't.”

The Hydra buzzed.
“Skipper, Bridge. You there, sir?”

Dan reached down. “I'm in the wardroom.”

The officer of the deck reported a contact that would cross their bow close aboard. Dan made sure he had it visualized, then told him to increase speed to put the closest point of approach behind them. “Check my solution. If it doesn't look safe, call me back.”

“Aye sir. Bridge out.”

Back to the unsmiling chief across from him. A friendly warning, from a peacemaker? Or a threat? It sounded like both. He decided to take the extended hand. “Okay, I admit, I flew off the handle last night. But he
was
asleep. You really think he's sick?”

“Looks like it to me, sir. You can go down and see him. He's in his bunk right now. And, you know, Captain, the guy's got three Good Conduct Medals.”

“He does? And … well, never mind. Okay, you made your case. I'm willing to lift his restriction.”

“Will you hold mast on him? For sleeping on watch?”

“Not this time. Just formal counseling. But, for the good of the ship, I don't want him back in Sonar until he's certified fit for duty. Carpenter can take his watch section; he's more than qualified. If I catch him napping again, though, I'll bust him to seaman. That's a guarantee.”

“Fair enough, sir. Let me take that back and see if we can arrange some kind of modus vivendi there.”

Dan raised his eyebrows. “‘Modus vivendi,' Master Chief? Nice.” The roar of an electric motor; the mess attendant was vacuuming the carpet at the far end of the space. He looked at his watch—
sleep?
—dusted his trousers, got set to rise. “That all?”

Tausengelt grinned apologetically. “Not quite, sir. One other issue. Lieutenant Singhe.”

“What about her?”

“Have you seen what she's doing on the chat function? On the LAN?”

The LAN was the local area network, the ship's hardwired internal network. He knew it included a chat-room function, but hadn't checked it out yet. “No. No time. What?”

“Basically, she's organizing work-center quality circles.”

“Uh … okay. Is that a problem?”

“Some of the guys don't like it. At least, not the way she's setting it up.”

“You mean, some of the chiefs?” Tausengelt nodded. “What don't they like?”

“It's just basically turning out to be bitch sessions for the no-loads. The dudes who work, they don't have time to sit around and
discuss
working. She's encouraging the seamen to come up with better ideas. That doesn't square with the senior enlisted. They already know how it should be done.”

Dan frowned. No, a lot of the enlisted khaki wouldn't like it. Not after they'd spent ten or fifteen years learning the right way, or, anyway, the Navy way. But how else would you come up with innovation? “Well, I'm not sure she's not right, Master Chief. Sometimes the best ideas come from the deckplates.”

“We already got a way to do that, sir. The Bennie Sugg. Pass it up the chain. She's chairing these discussion groups. Bypassing the goat locker. Like, they don't know where she's going with this.”

“Are they participating?”

“The chiefs? She doesn't want them in the chats. Blocked them, in fact. To ‘encourage free discussion.'”

That
didn't sound good. “I wasn't aware of this, CMC. Have they taken it up with the XO?”

“The commander doesn't get involved that much, Skipper.”

“Have you discussed it with him?”

Tausengelt glanced away. “No sir.”

Dan leaned back. “Well, look. Amy's a hard charger. She's got some bright ideas from business school she wants to try out. Unless it's actually hurting readiness, even if there's some steam being let off on these chat boards, I don't see it as a major issue yet. Let's let her run with it for a while and see where it ends up.” He hesitated. “Unless you don't think that's wise.”

Tausengelt's face was unreadable. “You're the skipper, sir.”

*   *   *

HE
checked with the OOD on the Hydra while climbing the ladder to his at-sea cabin. The contact to port had a left-bearing drift now; it would cross in their wake, three thousand yards astern. Dan told him to maintain thirty knots and keep a close eye on it until it was clear. He switched channels and talked to the navigator as he let himself in, unbuttoned his shirt, and fell into his bunk. They'd reach their patrol area tomorrow at noon. He called Cheryl Staurulakis and got the ops officer started on their reporting-in message.

Then lay staring at the overhead while the decisions he'd just made buzzed around inside his skullcase like trapped wasps.

Any choice a skipper made could lead to disaster under the right circumstances. Screw up the geometry on a closing ship, and it could cut you in two. He'd seen that happen, aboard USS
Reynolds Ryan
. One wrong rudder order, and almost two hundred men had died.

So … Zotcher. Had he come down too hard? Or not hard enough? Knuckled under to the chiefs, or just shown them he was reasonable?

Was Singhe really ambitious, hard-charging, innovative? Or was there something suspicious about the way she was bypassing the chiefs and the senior enlisted adviser? He didn't think she had anything malevolent in mind. But blocking the ship's middle management from online discussions didn't sound like a good way to advance a serious agenda. Of any kind.

He remembered dark eyes studying him, and seemed to smell sandalwood again. Then, somehow, he was asleep.

*   *   *

THE
buzzer jerked him out of a confused pursuit through endless corridors. It had seemed to be the Pentagon, but in some hotter, less affluent country. The windows were boarded up, and through those endless refuse-strewn passageways something stalked him. He had a pistol, but when he tried to use it the trigger malfunctioned, again and again, as he struggled to keep the sights on a shape he couldn't clearly see, that shifted identity and appearance even as it pursued him.

The buzzer went off again, and he rolled over, flinging an arm out. The back of his hand hit the brass lever and tore skin. “Captain,” he grunted. What time was it anyway? Apparently he'd missed lunch.

“Sir, OOD here.”

“What you got, Bird?”

“Sir, corpsman called a minute ago to report a man dead in forward berthing.”

He rolled out and put bare feet on the chilly deck. “Say that again.”

“It's Seaman Goodroe. In Weps berthing.”

A heavyset, truculent man in coveralls, hunched over a mess tray. “I … dead, how? I saw him on the mess decks just yesterday. Talking about …
Dead?
From what?”

“Sir, I didn't get the impression the chief corpsman was real sure.”

“Forward berthing? I'll be down right away. Does the XO know?”

“I'll notify him soon as I get off, sir. Figured you ought to hear it first.”

Dan told him he was right and hung up. Dressed as quickly as he could. The blue coveralls were a forgiving uniform, though he didn't care for the way they showed a corner of your skivvy shirt. He pressed his pins into his chest with the palm of his right hand and let the door lock click behind him.

*   *   *

FIVE
decks down, in the muzzy humidity of the berthing compartment. When he'd first joined the Navy, these had been pipe bunks, metal frames four high, a thin pallet and a worn fartsack sagging on a crisscross of webbing. Now each sailor had his own nook with reading light and curtain. Not exactly roomy, with fifty men in a compartment, but there was some privacy, at least.

The man who lay in bunk 24 was past privacy. The face, immobile as dark wax, and staring eyes told him that. The corpsman, Grissett, looked up from ballpointing notes. An astringent smell edged the air. Grissett wore thin blue latex gloves. A transparent tube lay on the bunk, still sealed in plastic. Behind him stood Chief Toan, the master-at-arms, badge glittering, hands behind his back. They both swung as they caught sight of Dan. A very slight, ugly young man with a dirty tee, scuffed, torn boots, and coveralls peeled down to his waist hovered a few feet away. “What happened?” Dan asked.

“Morning, sir. I mean, afternoon. The Troll here—”

“The Troll?”

“Sorry—the compartment seaman, here. He called the master-at-arms when he couldn't get Goodroe up.” The corpsman nodded at the body. “Cold. No pulse. He's been dead awhile.”

Dan looked the corpse over. By no means the first he'd seen, but definitely one of the most peaceful-looking. The heavy-jawed face was expectant, as if at a joke just heard but not yet fully grasped. The nude chest was covered with thick curling black hairs that shriveled to stubs as they approached the beard line. A trace of what might be dried foam at the corner of bluish lips. He bent closer; a hint of brown in it? Started to reach out, then, at a cautionary flinch from the corpsman, retrieved his finger before touching anything. “Is that blood? At the corner of his mouth?”

“Take a sample in a minute, sir. Downie here”—the compartment cleaner grinned, then sobered—“he says he, I mean Goodroe, felt a little down and had a cough. He was off watch, so he turned into his bunk. That's all.”

Usually you looked for an off-watch sailor in his work center during the day, but the era when all hands were expected to turn to at daylight was long gone at sea. These days, a sailor off watch, and not feeling well, might well decide to turn in for a Tallerigo. “What'd his work-center supervisor say?” Dan asked the CMAA.

“On his way down, sir. He knew Goody was in his rack, but didn't know nothing else.”

“Any history? Anything … Any idea what's going on here?” Dan scratched his head. He'd been talking to the man, what, just yesterday? A young, husky, jock-type guy. Maybe a little … antagonistic, with his remarks about how the crew needed to be in the picture more. But he hadn't seemed ill. “Is this a natural death? Or what?”

The corpsman frowned. “A lot of possibilities right now, sir. You know most of our guys are strong, healthy specimens of testosterone-filled manhood. So the first thing, you look for signs of strangulation, or beating. But I don't see any. Could be a drug OD—”

“I've seen those,” the CMAA murmured.

“—or poisoning, accidental or deliberate. He could've had underlying valve disease. A heart murmur they let go, or didn't hear, when he enlisted. If he got septic in the night, maybe endocarditis—the infected valve sends emboli to the rest of the body, like fingers. But, bottom line, this is gonna be a coroner's case, sir. We got to handle it by protocol, and get the body to the medical examiner ASAP.”

“Okay, I get it. Anything in his record?”

The chief corpsman slipped a file folder from beneath a clipboard. “His last entry's the final installment of the anthrax inoculation. That we got in Naples.”

Dan scratched his head again. He'd had a course of what he assumed was the same vaccine, experimental then, during the Gulf War. “This vaccine. Is it, I don't know, ever dangerous?”

“It's a mandatory inoculation.” The chief shrugged. Flipped pages. “A three-shot buildup and booster. No record of any adverse effects to the first two shots. No, wait … he reported fever and swelling after the second. Two days later, follow-up, he's fine.”

“Good records. When'd he get the booster?”

“Two days ago. I gave him that myself.”

“This is the AVA stuff, right? Is this a documented side effect? Sudden death, I mean?”