Apra Harbor Repair Facility, Guam
“WATCH yourself!” The supervisor pulled the slight officer in the white hard hat back as a silver-hot shower of sparks burst out high above them. The liquid steel fell in a crackling, coruscating waterfall exactly where she’d been about to step. Molten drops sizzled on wet iron like a fiery snowfall. Blue smoke rose, with the hot choking stink of burning metal.
Commander Cheryl Staurulakis, USN, hesitated, blinking through the data streaming in front of her eyes. Then, adjusting her smart glasses, she settled the hard hat more firmly over a black-and-olive shemagh and marched ahead, through the smoke and sparks.
A step behind her pale-haired, hard-cheekboned, steeltoe-booted, blue-coveralled figure, a foreman sighed and hitched a tool belt over a drooping paunch. The dry-dock supervisor punched numbers into a battered notebook.
Above them loomed a darkling presence so immense and curved that, like a planet, only a portion could be glimpsed. The cruiser’s hull was spotted with the dull red and bright yellow and glistening black of fresh paint, the charred seams of fresh welds, the silvery patches where workers had ground them down to bare metal. As soon as the metal cooled, women in dust masks slapped paint over it, edging along platforms above the wetshining floor of the dry dock. Shouts and the clatter of pumps echoed in the cavernous space. The sun glittered through catwalks far above. A pump throbbed; water spattered down. A grinder shrieked, scattering sparks like gold coins thrown to paupers by a pope. The workers were finishing the new bow structure, and buttoning up the other repairs.
Through the augmented-reality lenses, Cheryl noted the blisters along the hull where the new Rimshot sensor/output modules had been welded in. She squinted at where fresh paint ended and barnacles started. If only they’d had time to strip and repaint the whole hull … The bright blue sky seemed far away as the supervisor explained, “We edge the dock out into the channel, then start flooding. Right before you float, we secure ballasting. Our fitters are down belowdecks inspecting your seals and sea valves for watertight integrity. Once you’re satisfied your DC checks are set, you give the order, ‘Float the ship.’ I’m up at the head of the dock, watching trim and list. If you go off half a degree, I stop and we figure out what’s wrong. Once you’re fully afloat, we power you out with the trolleys and wire pendants up there”—he pointed up to where steel threads crisscrossed the blue—“and make you up to the tugs, take you over to Victor Wharf. Just make sure your engineering guys know—”
“Excuse me.” Staurulakis halted again, shielding her gaze with a gray-gloved hand as she read the repair and readiness status of each object she looked at. “But can we pressure test that sonar dome one more time?”
“We already did that twice, Commander—”
The radio clipped to her web belt, her Hydra, clicked on. “Commander? Comm here. Where exactly are you right now?”
“XO here. Down in the dock. By the bow dome.”
“Got a message for you. Running it down.”
“Never mind, I’ll be right up.” She clicked off. Said to the super, “I’m not confident we found the weak point. Out there in some sub’s torpedo danger area is not when I want to find out we have a reduced acoustic capability. Keep pushing, okay? We appreciate everyone’s efforts.”
“You got it, Commander. Fix yer battle damage, get you back out there to fight, that’s why we’re here.”
Pompously put, but the shipyard people were coming through. Three shifts, working around the clock since USS Savo Island had pulled in. Despite the missile raid drills and the flights evacuating military dependents back to the States. Almost all the workers were locals anyway, Chamorros and Filipinos. The naval shipyard had been BRAC’d years before, but the wharves, cranes, and most of the other facilities—foundry, labs, motor rewind, industrial gases—had remained. Now hastily remanned, the facility’s wharves were lined with damaged ships.
No one knew what was coming. Invasion, perhaps, or the bombardments that had preceded the landings on Taiwan and Okinawa. Worst of all, a nuclear strike like the one that had wiped out an entire battle group at sea. The Army had moved a THAAD battery here from Meck Island, and the Air Force a squadron of F-22s, but they wouldn’t be enough to stop a serious attack.
The story of the whole war so far. The Allies had been surprised, outmaneuvered, outthought, and overwhelmed. The only good news was that the carriers were still holding east of Hawaii. Which meant her husband, Ed, aboard Vinson, wouldn’t see action for a while. So she could stop worrying about him. Short of the usual back-of-the-mind anxiety about flameouts or bad landings. But he was a solid flier. A squadron leader, now. And since the wedding, he’d promised to take fewer risks.
Thank God, at least they still had an operational dry dock out here. The huge, hollow mass of steel could be ballasted down, allowing a ship to be floated in. Then the ballast was pumped out, buoying the carefully propped-up vessel and exposing the hull for repairs.
The missile had come in from astern during a confused nighttime imbroglio in the Taiwan Strait. They’d known a sub was out there, but hadn’t been able to localize it closely enough to neutralize. Though the missile could have been air-launched, too, programmed to loop around and approach from astern to maximize surprise.
At any rate, it had bored in so fast—transonic, or supersonic—and so low that their radar had picked it up only a second before impact. Savo’s electronic-countermeasures team had managed to spoof it away from the centroid, but not enough to miss entirely.
A hundred yards ahead and above, another coverall-clad figure, also female, waved and started down. Two men trailed her down the steel stairway that descended flight after flight into the dry dock’s Stygian depths.
Hitting at an angle, the warhead had penetrated before explodings. The blast had blown off everything forward of the wildcats. Lifelines, bulwarks, bullnose, ground tackle, both anchors, and the upper part of the stem down to four feet above the waterline. The anchor chain had run out with a grating thunder. After they’d gotten the fire under control, Captain Lenson had ordered them to cut away what was left, leaving a gaping hole. “Have to call her Old Shovelnose from here on,” the first lieutenant had cracked.
The damage-control teams had welded and shored bulkheads, but they’d had to avoid taking heavy seas head-on for the agonizingly slow twelve-hundred-mile creep back. During that passage, apparently, more of the forward stringers had cracked and separated from the shell plating. The Tiger Team engineers from Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard had reviewed the damage documentation Cheryl and the chief engineer had prepared, and translated that into work orders. Savo had to wait her turn—she wasn’t the only battle-damaged ship around—but eventually it had come.
Since then both the yard and ship’s force had been cutting, fabricating, welding. Covering everything in the ship with dust, and tracking grinder grit over the decks. But cleanliness was the least of her worries now. Neither was aesthetics, though she hated that the new bow wasn’t as graceful as the old. Where the original had been sharp, it was square, shorter, cruder, and carried only one anchor. A hasty wartime repair, for a ship needed back on the front line. The super had promised to have everything buttoned up before dawn tomorrow. Get her off the blocks, a quick engine test, then under way to load ammo at the magazine wharf.
Everyone expected the next phase in the Chinese offensive. Only what would it be? She murmured, “Glasses: power off,” as the approaching woman angled to meet her, snagging the admiring gazes of the male workers. No wonder, the way she filled out her coveralls, that long dark hair flowing from under her hard hat …
“XO. Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Cheryl tucked the glasses away and returned Lieutenant Amarpeet Singhe’s salute. “Amy? Dave? And Master Chief. What’s this little party for? I said I’d be right up.”
Singhe was Savo Island’s strike officer, in charge of the Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles, though she had other responsibilities too. The taller lieutenant behind Singhe was Dave Branscombe, Savo’s communications officer. The third, lagging them, was Master Chief “Sid” Tausengelt. The senior enlisted’s receding hairline and grooved cheeks went with his being probably the oldest person aboard.
“Thought we’d bring this one down ourselves,” the comm officer said, handing over an aluminum clipboard.
Cheryl carried it to where sunlight slanted. They stepped around water-soaked oaken blocks as big as buffaloes, picking their way between pools of dirty slime, over the uneven rusty steel. Other balks had been stacked into a makeshift shelter. She doubted they’d afford much protection. If the enemy hit this harbor, a ballistic-missile cruiser parked helplessly in the single floating dry dock west of Hawaii would be a prime target.
“As soon as we realized what it was, we printed it out and called your cabin,” Branscombe said. “Then we got on the Hydra.”
“Dave was going to bring it down, but I had to come too,” Singhe said. “I grabbed the master chief on the way.”
What the heck? Cheryl flipped the cover up.
TO: COMMANDER CHERYL STAURULAKIS USN
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY ASSUME COMMAND USS SAVO ISLAND.
That was all. Other than the prosign BT, which just meant the end of the text proper.
Shouldn’t there be more?
But maybe that was all there had to be.
And maybe it wasn’t really a matter for congratulation.
As she stood blinking, her relationship to the mass of metal above her, to the other officers, to the crew, to the world, had changed.
“Cheryl?” Singhe was smiling radiantly. Even through the smells of scorched iron, paint, and fetid mud, her sandalwood perfume penetrated. “This is great. Really, really. We’re going to make some changes. Make everything different. Right?”
Branscombe said nothing, just studied her. Of course, the comm officer knew what it said. As probably everybody in the ship above them did too, by now. Scuttlebutt traveled faster than light. The old master chief’s weathered face was attentive, but unreadable as a catcher’s mask.
Staurulakis pulled off a glove, took the proffered pen, and initialed the message. Scratched the itchy patch between her fingers, and handed back the clipboard. Singhe’s expression changed, faltered, as Cheryl didn’t respond to her enthusiasm. Altered, in some indefinable way, when the woman who was suddenly, now, to them all, the captain, gave her only a brief smile, and headed for the stairs.
* * *
THE work-progress meeting convened at 1300 in the wardroom. Cheryl ran it just as she would have if she were still the exec, but the oxygen content of the atmosphere had changed. As the chief engineering officer, Bart Danenhower, briefed on the checkoff list for flooding the dock and getting under way, she propped her chin on one fist. Remembering how often the previous skipper had looked abstracted, rubbing his face or massaging his eyes as they’d briefed him. Snatching a few seconds to multitask behind those opaque gray eyes.
Yeah, he was a hero. Medal of Honor. Silver Star. Been everywhere. Done everything. But he was so damned demanding. A perfectionist. She’d never felt she knew him, even as she’d worked like a dog to anticipate his next thought. He didn’t shout when someone fell short, like other skippers she’d worked under. In a way, that silence was worse. Facing the disappointment, in those flat, cold, judgmental eyes. He never doubted. Saw everything in black and white. Expected too much, of himself, and then, of them.
Now she was in charge. Her chance to do things differently. And, she hoped, better.
At the same time, some of the things he’d done right, she hoped she could do half as well.
The first question was who was going to fill her billet as second in command. No clue in the message, which meant she’d have to select, or “fleet up,” someone to fill her still-warm steeltoes.
But who? Danenhower was the obvious choice, as next senior lieutenant commander. Matt Mills, the handsome blond intent on his notebook next to him, was another option. The operations officer was usually next in the pecking order after the XO. But Mills was still a lieutenant, too junior even in wartime. Amy Singhe was smart, ambitious, a Wharton grad. But she wasn’t senior enough either, plus she’d gone behind the chiefs’ backs to stand up for the enlisted women too many times. Praiseworthy, but it didn’t make her popular with middle management. Slotting her as XO, even as a temporary fill, would guarantee friction. And it was the chiefs who made the ship titivate, motivate, and navigate, as the saying went.
Scratching absentmindedly between her fingers, she looked from one to the next of her department heads. Better a guy backing her up than another woman. Danenhower … Mills … Ollie Uskavitch, the weapons officer? Physically, the biggest hunk aboard. But … kinda dumb. Her Supply Department head, Hermelinda Garfinkle-Henriques? Not a line officer. A woman. And only a lieutenant. Three strikes, she’s out. Branscombe, the comm officer? Reasonably smart. A male. But again, too junior.
If only she could Frankenstein them together, Amy’s Wharton degree, Ollie’s size, Matt’s Harlequin-cover looks, Bart’s seniority, and Engine Room savvy—
Danenhower was winding up. “Dry-docking or not, we’ve been at sea way past our overhaul date. This was supposed to be just a Med cruise, remember. Then we got extended. To the Red Sea. The Indian Ocean. Then here. Machinery wears out. At some point … well, I’ve said it before. Sooner or later, we’re asking for major equipment degradation.”
He paused, looked to her, and she murmured, “Thank you, CHENG. What about the moisture issue in the CRP?”
“Um, Chief McMottie had them ultrasound the bottom all along the starboard shaft. They found a crack. Minor, but enough so that inaccessible void under the sump would fill up slowly. We cut that section out and rewelded it.”
“The grounding issues in the engine control consoles?”
“They put that in the ‘too hard’ file. Said we needed rip-out, all new consoles. Just got to be careful, don’t get ourselves in situations where we depend on instant engine response.”
She nodded and leaned back, enjoying the way they eyed her. If only Eddie could see her now. “All right … Oh, the dock supe wanted me to remind you, make sure your shafts are locked out during the undocking.… Let’s move on. Ollie, did you check on the Annex?”
“I went over there this morning with Chief Quincoches. Did you know, he’s got family around here?”
“Really? Interesting … What have they got for us?”
The weapons officer said, “The flight got in from Australia, but with only four Advanced Standards. Which makes a light loadout.” The weapons officer went over the tally, but since he was sending her the inventory on the LAN, she just checked that it was in her queue. She’d get all too familiar with those numbers. Provided no one was lurking offshore waiting for them. Fleet had warned that even with swept harbor exits, it was possible smart mines would be waking as days and weeks passed. Just to keep the pucker factor high, she reflected sourly.
Murmuring around the table; it ceased as she cleared her throat. “We need an acting XO. I’m going to call Squadron and request a permanent fill.” She didn’t look at Singhe, but noted her cheeks paling, the heavy black eyebrows contracting. “For now, CHENG will be acting XO as well as our resident Harry Potter expert.” A dutiful chuckle; as ever, even a lame pleasantry from the skipper got a laugh. “But he really deserves a full-time exec billet. There are other folks we could promote from within”—she dispensed Singhe a glance—“but they’re still too junior. I know, wartime, but years in grade still counts. If we don’t get fills in a reasonable time, then I’ll fleet people into the billets. We’ll just have to deal case by case.
“For the time being, though, Bart will dual-hat as CHENG and XO.”
She pulled up tomorrow’s plan of the day on her notebook. “Bart, can we start this checklist at 04 vice 05? I want to be ready when the yard people start ballasting down, with fenders ready for the tugs. Both sides, in case the wind changes. Once there, single lines. We have to be ready to clear the channel quickly, once the engine tests are complete. If Apra is attacked, I’d rather have sea room. Lieutenant Singhe”—she deliberately didn’t use Amarpeet’s first name—“how’s the software patch to ALIS? And, are we doing a combat systems battery alignment after the dry dock?”
ALIS—the acronym had originally stood for Aegis Light Exoatmospheric Projectile Intercept System—was the cruiser’s antiballistic missile system. A major radar and combat upgrade, it had made USS Savo Island the first ship capable of shooting down incoming ballistic missiles. At least … part of the time. Singhe said, still pale, “I’d rather brief you offline on that. With the new bow, hog will change by the weight delta—”
”Bottom line, please, Amy.” God, she even sounded like Lenson now.
“Um, yes. We should do a CS alignment, yes. If we have time.”
“All right, I’ll meet you in CIC.”
* * *
SHE was breezing through the mess decks when Tausengelt snagged her. “XO … sorry, sir, ma’am, I mean, Skipper.” He snapped his turtlelike beak shut, looking confused. “Basically, I … was used to…”
“Forget it, Master Chief.” She pressed a surprisingly frail arm. “Gonna take everybody a little while to adjust. Me, too. What’ve you got?”
“New joins … indoc. Want to say a word?”
“Absolutely.”
The replacements were seated with coffee and bug juice as the mess cranks swabbed down at the far end. Duncanna Ryan, one of the hospitalman seamen, was setting up a CPR dummy. “Attention on deck,” the old chief bellowed, and everyone jolted up, looking startled, then apprehensive. Not as many as she’d hoped for. With the folks they’d lost, they were down five on the total head count. Which wasn’t going to help on the GQ watchbill. “This is our CO. Commander Cheryl Staurulakis,” Tausengelt told them.
“Take a seat,” she said, motioning them down. Looking them over, and letting them take her in too. Girls and guys, most looking fresh out of high school. The majority seemed impressed, but two heavyset black men sitting together, older than the rest, eyed her up and down skeptically, lifting their chins and folding their arms. “How many of you just got out of Great Lakes?… Uh-huh. How was that? Challenging?… We’ll be picking up from your graduation battle problem in your damage-control training once we get under way.”
Facing them, she searched for words. What would Captain Lenson have said? “Um … Savo Island’s motto is ‘Hard Blows.’ The words come from a bitterly-fought battle during World War II.
“Now we’re in another war. Right now, the situation looks … dark. But as our last captain said, we will come back. And you will be part of that history. Historically—” She caught herself. Keep it short. “I have time for one question.”
One of the beefy men raised a hand. “There in back. Petty Officer—I can’t quite read your name from here.”
“Sergeant, ma’am. Alonzo Custis. I just wondered, if it’s not out of place, about your warfighting philosophy. How aggressive your style is, as a CO.”
Heads lifted. She noted now that Custis and several others wore Army-style BDUs. Which made them part of the California Guard unit that had joined. The rack for their short-range Stingers was set up on top of the hangar structure, to prevent another stab in the back when Savo’s attention was elsewhere.… How aggressive? Was he challenging her? She measured her words. “Human qualities such as aggressiveness aren’t really the issues in modern warfare that they were years ago. At least, at sea. Our job is more technical in nature. We follow orders and execute doctrine. Strategy pushes us forward, supported by logistics.
“Where boldness is required, yes, I believe in showing initiative. But only after a careful risk analysis. I expect all of you to think before you act, as well.”
She looked to Tausengelt. “I’d like to spend more time getting to know you all, but we’re getting under way tomorrow. The master chief will steer you through indoc. Learn as much as you can, as fast as you can. His life, my life, and all your shipmates’ lives will depend on you.”
She nodded, once, then turned away. Behind her, they bolted to their feet again with a creaking of chairs, a thundering of boots on polished flooring.
* * *
IN the Damage Control Room, two decks below. Brightly lit, smelling of the diesel-like distillate, the turbine engines ran on. Diagrams of electrical circuits, firefighting lines, and fire-extinguishing systems lined the bulkheads. Computer screens reflected statuses. She was reviewing the closure log with the damage-control officer and the chief and petty officers who’d make sure Savo floated when the dry dock ballasted down. Basic, but sometimes ignoring the basics bit you in the ass.
“Undocking calculations?” she murmured.
The DCA said, “Here, Skipper, but we haven’t been in long enough to have much in the way of weight changes. Ballast, fuel, fresh water—pretty much the same as when we came in, except for the steel we added with the new bow. And that’s an easy calculation.”
“All right. But I’d feel better if we got all our accesses to the sea closed early,” she said. “Tonight, if the repairs are finished.”
Chief McMottie murmured, “They’re not planning on flooding until 0500, Captain.”
“I know. But like I said before, this rustbucket dry dock’s not only forty years old, it’s the only one west of LA that can take a ship this size. If the enemy wants to take out our repair capabilities, I don’t want to go down with it.”
* * *
THE Combat Information Center stretched from port to starboard, two decks above the main deck. Enclosed, windowless, painted dead black, it smelled of electronics and old sweat. Just now, most of the consoles that funneled data to the four large-screen flat-panel displays, LSDs, were deserted. Only the combat systems controller and radar system controller consoles were manned. Doing systems tests, Cheryl assumed. On ship’s power, with only one gas turbine generator online, there wasn’t enough wattage to operate the SPY-1. Only two of the LSDs were lit. She folded her arms in front of them as the ventilation whooshed chills down the back of her neck.
One display—from the Global Command and Control System, she assumed, since the radar was down—showed the Mariana Islands. Only a few green lines—air activity, air patrols—laced the periphery. The other screen displayed dusk falling over Apra Harbor, video from one of the aft gun cameras.
Smaller text readouts above the screens presented statuses of the various combat systems, weapons inventories, daily call signs, and computer status summaries. The older displays were flickering green on black, or orange on black. The new full-color ones didn’t shimmer.
She placed her gloved hands on the back of the padded leather chair she would occupy during general quarters. A cruiser’s primary mission was to shield higher-value units in a task force. To knock down incoming weapons until its magazines were empty. Then, position itself between the carrier and the threat, and radiate electronically to look as much like that carrier as it could. Like a rook or a bishop sacrificing itself to protect the queen.
Fortunately, she’d had a thorough peacetime training on the system, and had fought under battle conditions, understudying Lenson. If everything worked, they could present a reasonable defense.
As long as they had rounds in the magazines. But even before the war, the experimental Standard antimissile rounds had been scarce. Now they were apparently worth their weight in rubies.
Off to the right of the command table, the Aegis team was manned up. Donnie Wenck was the leading chief. His mad blue eyes, cowlicked hair, and casual demeanor disguised a mastery of arcane software, some of which he’d written himself. Just now he was bent over the console with the leading petty officer. Bethany “the Terror” Terranova looked like a cream puff, soft-cheeked, meek-voiced, but she’d shown steel over the past few months. A civilian woman in a pantsuit was perched on a stool, code-scrolling the screen of her notebook. “How’s the patch going?” Cheryl asked them.
“ALIS is being a bitch, as usual,” Terranova huffed.
Cheryl nodded to the civilian, who looked Asian. As if reading her mind, the woman said, “I’m Thai, Captain. Not Chinese, in case you’re wondering. From the Missile Defense Agency.”
“Dr. Soongapurn installed the upgrade on Hampton Roads,” Chief Wenck said. “They kicked her out of Kwajalein to do some actual work.”
Cheryl shook her hand warily. Their previous tech adviser had been major trouble. Hampton Roads was one of their sister antiballistic missile cruisers, now on station off Australia. “How’s it going?”
“Actually, not well,” Soongapurn said.
“What’s the problem? Can’t we just patch, the way you did Hampton Roads?”
“Hampton Roads was a baseline nine. You’re two generations behind.”
“We can’t update to baseline nine, then patch that?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to crack that drum of snakes.” Soongapurn grimaced.
“I see. Well, failing that, can we go back to the previous version?”
“Unfortunately,” the adviser sighed, “the updates to 7.9 make that impossible. You can’t go back. Only forward. We’re trying to reverse engineer, get the first version of Hampton Roads’ software running on your system. Then backtrack, to fix issues line by line. Including a new repertoire of clutter-cancellation waveformology, increased sensitivity for better low-flier detection … the lack of which probably explains why your skimmer punched through. Your chief here seems to be knowledgeable. As does the rest of your team.”
“But can we get it up and any bugs worked out before we … actually need the system, real-world?”
“Your air-side capabilities will be fine. ALIS may be a different story. But I promise, if you aren’t up by the time you have to go to sea, I’ll come along.”
Not exactly reassuring, but apparently all she was going to get. “Well, thanks, Doctor. Chief, Terror, we’ll catch up later.”
But even as she said this, their gazes were drifting back to their screens, as if a magnetic field had been turned on again.
* * *
AT the CO’s at-sea cabin, one level down from the bridge. She fitted the key to the lock, then hesitated. Sucked a breath, and turned the knob.
It still smelled of him. One of his caps hung on a peg, the gold braid sea-tarnished green. Lenson had seldom used the more spacious inport cabin, on the main deck. He gave that to guests or riders, preferring to stay close to CIC and the bridge. This room, though it had a couch, a counter with drawers, and a desk, was only slightly larger than the junior officers’ staterooms. Through a side door was a bunk, and a head with a stall shower.
Behind her a pimply, gangly messman coughed into a fist. “‘Want me ta get his shit outta here, XO? I mean, uh, Skipper?”
“Box it up. Get it down to ship’s office. They’ll send it on.” She plopped her own bag and suitcase on the bunk.
“Know where to? Ma’am?”
“I have no idea,” she snapped. Ship’s commanders hadn’t had stewards for years. When they needed help, they got assistance from a culinary specialist for housekeeping and delivering meals, since the cabin had no galley of its own. But she wasn’t sure she wanted a male snooping around her personal space. Pawing her photos, makeup, tampons … “Um, can you ask Lieutenant—never mind, I’ll ask her.”
“Okay. Want me to strip this bunk? Get his nasty old sheets off?”
Yeah, she could see this creep sniffing her underwear. “Uh, yeah. Get it changed. The towels, too.”
“You betcha. Want me to get you a sandwich? Some cookies? Anytime, just ask.”
Hissing through his teeth, Longley began pulling off linens and stuffing them into a laundry bag. Avoiding looking at him, she went into the head, glanced around, and shuddered. Time for a scrubbing. She centered her notebook on the desk and plugged it in to charge. Longley let himself out, still hissing. She sank into the chair and pulled up the LAN.
The bandwidth wasn’t good. Six of the eleven fiber-optic cables to Guam had been destroyed somehow, and satellite comms were still down. Which slowed everything to a crawl. Still, military took priority, and though graphics were scarce, text was coming through.
The news was as bad as it had been for weeks now. Another tanker sunk on its way out from Hawaii. The third, as far as she was aware. George Washington was officially interned in Japan, out of the war for good, it looked like. So much for steaming her all the way from the East Coast.
She massaged her temples wearily, then caught herself. How many times had she caught Lenson doing the same thing at the command desk, in the wardroom, here? It wasn’t déjà vu, but it wasn’t far from it. She needed sleep … tomorrow would be a full day. The float, then the engine test and fueling. If that went okay, shift berths and load ammo, always a nerve-racking evolution. Yeah. A busy day. She stifled a yawn.
A tap at the door. “Who is it?” she called.
“Amy.” A moment, then, reluctantly, “Captain.”
“Come in.”
The darken-ship lights were on in the passageway, their glow a deep blood red. Singhe’s silhouette seemed even more curvaceous than usual. Was she gaining weight? While I’m losing it, Cheryl thought. “What have you got?” she said, remembering how often she’d heard Lenson say just that, then growing annoyed at how often she was reminded of him.
Singhe raised an eyebrow. “A minute?”
“I was hoping to get my head down, but if it’s important…”
“I wanted to clear something up.”
“Sure. Go ahead.” She didn’t invite her to sit, though there was a chair. Hoping to get what promised to be a scene over with quickly.
The dark eyes were accusing. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“Um, what understanding was that, Amy?”
“That we’d run things differently. If we ever got the chance.”
Cheryl sucked a slow breath. Without Amarpeet Singhe and her strike team, Savo Island might look like a warship, but it was just junk metal. “Amy, some of those ideas were dreams. Some were ambitions. But they were all based on peacetime conditions. Equal opportunity, leveling management—those were great goals. Are great goals. But now we have to concentrate on combat readiness. If we can’t stop the next incoming skimmer, none of that will matter. We’re all going to burn alive.”
“You’re really disappointing me.” She moved to the bed. Stood beside it.
Right, it was all about her. Cheryl put ice in her tone. “We’ll discuss it later, Lieutenant. Good night.”
When Singhe was gone, she pushed out a breath. Not as bad as she’d feared. Though she had the feeling this wasn’t the end of the issue. How had Lenson handled Singhe? Good grief … had she visited him at night too? The spicy scent of sandalwood lingered. Then, gradually, faded, as she showered, brushed her teeth, her hair, and sank at last, with unutterable gratitude, into her rack.
Only to stare up at a photograph pinned just above where Lenson’s head would have lain. Of a blonde. Oh dear. A rather … intimate snapshot. She recognized the woman, despite the seductive pose. Blair Titus had visited the ship in Crete. Cheryl smiled unwillingly. Slipped it out and placed it facedown on the desk, to mail out tomorrow. Or maybe, better, just to shred it?
She lay back again and closed her eyes. Her stomach rumbled. Lacing her fingers over it, she pressed. That seemed to help. Tomorrow she’d put a picture of Eddie “Afterburner” Staurulakis up there. Maybe leaning shirtless on his F-18. Yeah, right …
* * *
THE buzzer woke her, raucous, unending. She groped blindly, not grasping at first what the noise was, or where she was.… A red light flashed in the dark. She snatched a handset off the bulkhead. A covered remote. Oh, yeah … she was in the CO’s at-sea cabin. The buzzer cut off. Thank God.
“Matador, Matador, this is Barbarian, Barbarian, over.”
“This is Matador, over.” Matador was Savo Island’s call sign. A petty officer was answering up, guarding the Navy Red circuit.
“This is Barbarian. Request Matador Actual, if available.”
A moment of uncertainty. Then she realized that would be her. She pressed the button, waited for the sync. “This is Matador Actual. Over.”
“Stand by. Over.”
A new voice, one she recognized instantly. “This is Barbarian Actual. Are you in my sea cabin, Commander? Over.”
“This is, um, Matador Actual. Now. That is correct. Sir. Over.”
“Congratulations. A message is on its way. You’re joining my task group.”
“This is Matador. Um, congratulations to you, too. We heard about the promotion.”
“For the duration only. Was the Q-89 upgrade completed? Are you ready for alfa sierra whiskey operations?”
“The sonar upgrade’s done. Assuming we pass FAST and machinery tests, which I have no reason to assume we won’t … yes, we’ll be ready for ASW operations.” A moment too late, she recalled the dome leaks. Well, the supervisor had said they were fixed. “Though we don’t have a great loadout for antisubmarine work. Details via reporting-in message. Over.”
“Do that, but we’re all short-stroked on logistics. You know about the glitches with the production lines back in the States.… I did get a couple extra fish broken out for you tomorrow. And some of the new hypervelocity projectiles for the five-inchers. Make sure you have full food and fuel loadout. Commandeer any bagged rice, cabbage, cigarettes, and seven six two and fifty cal you can lay your hands on. Over.”
Rice? Cabbage? Oh, for the Korean units. “Um, roger. Bagged rice, cabbage, cigarettes, small-arms ammo. I’ll get Hermelinda and Ollie on that, over.”
“There’s fighting ahead. TF 76 will be in the thick of it. Oh, and I sent you some Army point defense. For that keyhole problem. But … can I depend on you? Are you ready for sea? Over.”
For just the fraction of a moment she considered telling him they were undermanned. They needed a bottom strip and repaint. Their combat systems software was half-done and untested. Now she was taking the risks, not he.
“Yes, Admiral,” she said firmly, pressing the button with a suddenly desperately itchy finger. “We are ready for sea.”