THE next morning Mills took him to the Spina, a bricked courtyard with a Subway, a Navy Federal Credit Union office, and a Navy College storefront. Admin Two’s long, wide, light-filled corridors smelled of cappuccino. They were floored with glossy white callacatta veined with writhes of cinnabar. The slick hard marble felt strange underfoot; he was used to buffed tile or terrazzo.
Across a desk, a woman who’d always made him nervous was giving orders over her cell. They’d shaken hands when he came in, her small palm slightly sweaty; then her phone had chimed. Intense, skeptical Jennifer Roald, a small-boned, sharp-faced brunette was only a little older than he. She’d directed the White House Situation Room when Dan had worked in the West Wing. They’d stayed in touch, and now and then she’d been able to extend a helping hand, or pulse the Old Girl Network on his behalf. She’d obviously hit wickets and punched tickets since; now she was ComDesRon 26, Savo Island’s squadron commander—and thus, his putative direct boss, at least for manning, equipment, and administrative matters.
Studying her, he wondered if she could have been the one who’d gotten the promotion board to throw out its initial recommendations. Probably not. They hadn’t been that close. Coworkers, no more. Only Niles had the clout to swing a board his way. And the cunning to make sure no one would ever be able to prove it.
Snapping the cell closed, Roald focused a dark gaze on him. “Dan, good to see you again. That was the NCIS. They’re helping the Italians with the case. The police are working their way through the demonstrators. They want to know if you got a look at who threw the bomb.”
“It wasn’t a bomb. Just a bottle of gasoline. Green, maybe a wine bottle. I only got a glimpse. And I didn’t see who threw it. It flew up out of the crowd, then hit our windshield. I smelled gas, and whoosh—it ignited.”
She pushed across a paper slip. “Call this number. The agent’s name’s Erculiano. Italian name, but he’s American.”
He said he would and Roald glanced at a notebook screen. “Okay. Where we stand on the grounding … Sixth Fleet convened a JAG manual investigation, came down with a six-man team. They’ll wrap at noon and present their conclusions to Admiral Ogawa. You know him?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
She frowned. “He seems to know you. Or of you. Anyway, he’ll hold mast at 1400. I can’t anticipate the results officially, but between us, I think he’ll fire several people on the spot. Captain Imerson will be one. The base master-at-arms is over on Savo packing their seabags. They’ll go from mast to the barracks and we’ll fly them back to CONUS tomorrow.”
“They’re not going back to the ship?”
“There’s some concern there might be, um, physical violence.” She nodded at his raised eyebrows. “Yeah, that bad … Some things here for you to read. The last Insurv report. The Command Climate Survey. But right now we have to talk about where Savo Island’s going from here.”
He nodded and took out his BlackBerry, but she gestured to put it away. “Let’s make this off the record. To tell the truth, I was surprised to see your name on the message. I asked for a forceful backup, but I thought you were … off the board, somehow.” She smiled. “That doesn’t mean I’m not glad to have you.”
“Uh … thanks.”
“What have they told you? Well, first. You’ve XO’d an Aegis, haven’t you?”
The XO was the executive officer, the second in command. “Actually, no. Horn wasn’t Aegis capable. My XO tour was on a Knox.”
“But you have missile experience? Computer background?”
“With the Tomahawk program. Computers, yes. And as far as conning goes, I’m pretty confident on the bridge.”
“If you mean you wouldn’t have put her aground, I certainly hope not. From what I’ve heard, it was a real monkeyfuck, the last few minutes before they hit. But we’ll read all about that in the investigator’s report.”
“You don’t want me at the admiral’s mast.”
“Absolutely not. Stay out of sight.” Her cell chimed again and she flipped it open, listened, said, “Make it so,” and oystered it. “Okay, what’d they tell you before you got on the plane … never mind. I’ll start from square one. You know Savo just went from a baseline 7 Aegis to something new.”
“Theater ballistic missile defense.”
“TBMD’s a new mission for us. Up to now it’s been an Army responsibility, from the old Sprint to the Patriot. But if the Navy can do it without boots on the ground, shore installations, and host-country complications, this could be a Surface Force breadbasket for the next fifty years. We’ve grown the Standard missile with a higher-energy booster and a lighter proximity-kill warhead. So you get the range and altitude for a midphase intercept. Dahlgren rewrote the operating system with addendum units and took out the software stops they built in back in the seventies. With me so far?”
“I think so, but I’d want to get down in the weeds with some people I’m bringing over from TAG.”
“I’m glad you have additional personnel resources. You’ve got a tech rider aboard from Johns Hopkins. I can break you out a couple bodies from my staff, too. Gap fillers only; I’ll want them back.”
“Thanks. So—this mission?”
She glanced at the door, and dropped her voice. “You’ll be loosely associated with the Med strike group that’s hitting Baghdad with Tomahawks and manned strikes. But you, yourself, will be defense of Israel. That’s why Sixth Fleet’s hair is on fire over this grounding. It was supposed to be an overnight in-and-out, to fuel, pick up the last shot for the anthrax inoculations, and head straight for station off Tel Aviv. Instead, she’s high and dry in full view of every TV network in the Med. The Israelis are screaming, and I can’t blame them a bit. We promised them a missile shield, and we’re not delivering.”
She glanced at her watch and he took the cue. “Okay. What are the personnel redlines? Any you’re aware of?”
“Yes, I am aware of some,” Roald said, in a voice that said Do not accuse me of not knowing the status of my own units.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to—”
“Forget it. You’re billeted for 299 enlisted and thirty officers. That’s not counting the air det. They’re lily-padding up from the Gulf of Aden. If this mast goes like I expect, you’ll be down eight to ten bodies. A big hit. The command master chief. Even worse, your combat systems officer.”
“Holy smoke.” He’d already discussed candidates back at the Tactical Analysis Group, his last duty station; guys he’d worked with before. But they’d need time to get up to speed. The personnel Roald had just promised from her own staff could be hot-runners, or they could be bottom-blows. All too often, what you got from another source, even a well-disposed one, were no-loads who weren’t pulling their weight in a current billet. “Do you think—will the XO go too? Or stay?”
“Admiral Ogawa’ll decide that based on the report of the investigating board. Right now I can’t say. I won’t tell you what I think of him. The exec, I mean. Let you form your own opinion.” She looked back at her screen. “The other issue I wanted to surface is material condition. Form your own opinion on that too, but keep an eye on your engine controls. All the consoles, the back plane wiring, where they run Chip A to Chip B, it’s grounded. Not a good design, in my book.”
“That can shut the engines down when you don’t expect it.”
She nodded. “And cascade—take the next engine down too. Actually, that might have been a contributing factor to the accident. That Main Control reset without notifying the bridge, or the bridge didn’t quite register the reset, with all that shouting going on, so the throttles were full ahead when the engines came back online. Then suddenly they get this huge surge of power and don’t react in time.”
She spread her hands. “But like I said, I’m out of the loop, and rightly so. It doesn’t exactly come across as career enhancing for me, either.” She frowned, glanced at her cell, as if the fact it hadn’t rung in the last couple of minutes puzzled her.
Dan got up. “I don’t see how it can hurt you.”
“Mud has a way of spattering.” A closed-mouth bend of the lips that this time wasn’t really a smile.
“Thanks for the briefing. I appreciate your support, Commodore.”
She bent to fish in a black sample case. “That’s my job. Here’re the reports I told you about. Go someplace quiet and read them. Call NCIS about the gate incident. We’ll sit down again when we find out who’s going and who’s staying. Discuss specifics.”
Her cell chimed again. He left her frowning into the distance as she listened.
* * *
HE found an empty meeting room and read through the files. The Insurv report first, the ship’s last board of inspection and survey. It was like a marine surveyor’s appraisal, or the inspection you ask a mechanic for when you’re thinking of buying a used car. Every mechanical and electronic system, its status and shortcomings and how well the records reflected that, which told you whether the crew were gundecking their maintenance. He read the engineering plant section with particular care, noting the control system grounding problem Roald had alluded to.
The next document was the Command Climate Survey. This was a new report sailors completed anonymously via the Internet. It rated their perceptions of how fairly they were treated, any instances of discrimination, whether the command played favorites, and so forth. There’d been a lot of strife over it, the hardshells complaining that giving the crew power to rate their commander was inverting the chain of command. But as he read it over, flipping back and forth to the unit sitreps on psychological problems, DUIs, and administrative separations, an unsettling picture emerged.
Something had been deeply wrong aboard. And of course, whatever the problem, the skipper was ultimately responsible. As Roald had said, heads had to roll, and Imerson’s would be the first.
But this would be only one of a rash of recent DFCs, detachments “for cause.” What was happening to the fleet? His unease grew as he recalled a Navy Times piece that had said cuts in crews and training funding had left some Aegis units in a low state of readiness. Was Savo Island one? If so, he might be getting issued a real can of worms. Especially if the people he lost included the strike team, the very officers and sailors he’d need most in combat. He was glad now he’d talked to Donnie Wenck and Rit Carpenter before he’d left TAG. Wenck could be a real help. Carpenter, probably, too, although the older man had baggage Dan wasn’t comfortable with. He’d talked to Monty Henrickson, but the civilian analyst had been less than enthusiastic about a months-long deployment.
He went to the Subway for a six-inch turkey, light on the mayo, then back to the second deck of Admin Two. He was rereading the Insurv report when a civilian in slacks and sweater looked in. “Captain Lenson?” Italian, by her accent. “You are Lenson? Admiral Ogawa will see you now.”
* * *
COMMANDER, Sixth Fleet, wore rimless spectacles and had buzzcut hair the color of weathered asphalt and a receding chin that did not seem to diminish his command presence. His name was Japanese, but he didn’t look markedly Asian. Another officer—the deputy chief of staff, Dan guessed from his rank—nodded as he entered. Ogawa pointed to a chair. “Grab a seat, Captain. We haven’t met, but I’ve heard about you. From Steve Leache, Vince Contardi, among others. Seems like you really leave an impression—either one way or the other.”
“Um—thank you, sir.”
“How’s Blair doing? She was in the South Tower, wasn’t she?”
“That’s right, sir. She was burned. And broke a hip. But she’s recovering.”
“We met in Ukraine, the negotiations for Black Sea porting rights. Impressive woman. Well, I’ll make this quick.” Ogawa tapped a blue-bound document. “I’ve reviewed the report of the investigating board. I’m relieving Captain Imerson this afternoon. Have you inspected the ship?”
“I haven’t been aboard. I did a waterline inspection as she lies.”
The admiral skated another file toward him. “Damage report. Preliminary, but it’ll give you an idea what you have to work with. I’m convening mast in half an hour, as soon as my jaggies can set it up. I’ll listen to the defendants, but unless they can change my mind, the following will go: commanding officer, command master chief, two E-8s, two E-7s, and an O-3—your combat systems, unfortunately.
“You, Captain, will take command. I expect you to bring the ship back up to full proficiency as soon as possible. This will be a wartime deployment on a national strategic mission, executing a presidential directive. We’ve committed Truman and Roosevelt battle groups in the Med. Abraham Lincoln, Constellation, and Kitty Hawk strike groups in the Gulf. Bunker Hill and Cowpens will launch from the Red Sea. You’ll be our goalie, in case Saddam decides to hit Israel. He threatened that during the Gulf War—”
“Yes sir, I know. Actually I—”
“Oh, yes, I heard about that. Captain Roald has volunteered people from her staff to help you out.”
Dan cleared his throat as the deputy thumbed away at a tablet, trying to wrap his head around the geopolitics and at the same time figure out what he needed to ask for. What had Nick Niles himself said, back when they’d handed him a cruise missile program that was about to crater? I’ve been handed a sick program. What I ask for, I’m going to get. Let’s take advantage of that. “Sir, I’d like to pluck some folks from TAG I’ve worked with before. And maybe a civilian contractor, to help us over the hump.”
Ogawa’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t favor contractor support in a war zone.”
“I didn’t mean a corporation, sir. Individual augmentees. A sonarman, retired Navy, and a PhD I’ve worked with before. And an E-6, who’s real sharp on digital systems—”
“Talk to Carl here. We might be able to, if we don’t have to advertise it. Out of my back-pocket fund. Carl?”
“We might could.” The deputy made a note.
“Your TAG guys, they’re what? Officer, enlisted?”
“One enlisted, one retired enlisted, one civilian.”
Ogawa fluttered a hand. “Sure that’s all you want? You’ll be at the tip of the spear. Carl, get their names and cut the orders. Call Mickey if you have to.”
Dan liked how this guy operated. At fleet commander level, things he’d always considered tough to arrange apparently became minor details, to be flicked aside for a staffer to sweat over. He cleared his throat. “Can I get an augment to my OPTAR? If there are material problems—”
“Cut him an extra half million,” Ogawa said, and Carl made another note. “Anything else? I know you don’t know yet what you’ll need. But when you do, shoot me a message.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“This won’t be easy. From the looks of the report, there are some real problems sitting out on that mudbank. And maybe today’s housecleaning won’t be the last. But Nick said Dan Lenson could turn it around. I hope this works out better for you than Horn did. I’m depending on his judgment here. And on you.”
Great, Dan thought. USS Thomas Horn still lay alongside a fenced-off pier at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard, with WARNING; DO NOT APPROACH; RADIOACTIVE HAZARD signs hanging over bow and stern as she half-lifed toward being cool enough to scrap. But aloud he said only, getting up as both Ogawa and the chief of staff rose, “I’ll do my best, sir.”
* * *
HE wondered where he should be—standing by, or headed down to the waterfront—but since he still didn’t have hard orders, he finally stayed. He called Erculiano from Mills’s office, since he couldn’t seem to get a cell connection again, and gave him what he could about his attacker, which wasn’t much. The NCIS agent said he’d be going down to the police station that afternoon to help sort through the demonstrators and see if they could identify the bomber, and that he’d like to have Dan with him. Dan said, “I have to stand by for the admiral, but if I’m done by then, I’ll go along. For what it’s worth.”
He hung up and checked the corridor, but the double doors to where Ogawa was holding mast were still closed. He consulted his watch, corrected for the time difference, and called TAG, back in Norfolk.
His former CO didn’t sound pleased at the idea of letting go of Donnie Wenck, but seemed happy to give him Rit Carpenter. “You sure you want him?” he asked, and Dan said yeah, the old sonarman would be okay once they had him sealed aboard ship. He was less cooperative at the idea of letting go his chief analyst. “I’m not sure we can do business without Dr. Henrickson,” he said.
“For two months?”
“You’re guaranteeing it’s only two months?”
Dan said reluctantly that no, he couldn’t make that promise. He wanted to add what Ogawa had told him about this being a national-level mission, but the line was not secure. He leaned out to eye the doors again; still closed. “Uh, I think you’ll be getting something from ComSixthFleet. To clarify what we’ve got to do out here, and how much I could use him.”
“Well, we have to support the operating forces. Then, too, I don’t know if I shared this with you before, but there’s some stuff coming down the pike about possibly shutting the doors here.”
Dan rubbed knitted brows. Shutting the doors? The Tactical Analysis Group developed tactics and doctrine for surface warfare battle. “I don’t understand. I know, teeth to tail, but they’ve already gutted the schools. If we don’t train people and develop doctrine, we’re eating our seed corn.”
“I hear you, but it’s in the draft POM.” He seemed to cut himself off then. Maybe remembering too that they were on a nonsecure line. “Anyway, I’ll talk to Monty. Since it’s you, he might go. When’re you relieving?”
“Not sure. Tomorrow? The mast is still in session.”
“Well, let me know. And walk light. Relieving a skipper can really wreck a crew. They’re going to be devastated.”
“I’ve been looking at the stats. There are underlying problems, that’s pretty obvious. And they just came out of four months in the yard. So maybe this will actually turn out positive for them.”
“But when you get hit, the bruise doesn’t show for a while. You need to stay on top of that. Ask for what you need. Stay close to the squadron commander—”
Dan leaned out again, to see the doors opening. “Gotta go, Dick. Court’s adjourning, I mean, mast’s adjourning.”
“Good luck.”
* * *
HE stood watching as they filed out. They staggered, as if unused to dry land, or as if they’d lost blood and were in shock. Their gazes slipped past his or dropped to the marble deck. Chiefs, a lieutenant, petty officers. He wondered if he should close his door. Let them pass unseen. He’d been a defendant himself. Once you’d gone through it, the experience was demystified. Yet still it felt strange watching each man emerge; orient himself, as if lost; then depart, soles scuffing away down the empty hallway. At the far end two marines waited, fists on hips. The escort to the barracks, from whence they’d be flown back to the States. Not even to return to the ship to pack.
Last out was a shaken-looking man with silver shining at his temples like the chromium eagles on his collar. He was fingering the gold star and anchor on his left breast that meant he’d held command at sea. He looked as if he were walking toward the electric chair.
Then his gaze rose, and Dan read the sentence in those blank eyes. Misconduct, improper performance of duty, improper hazarding of a vessel; the precise wording of the specifications hardly mattered. The man’s career was over.
The former commanding officer of USS Savo Island blinked. His gaze registered the eagles on Dan’s own collar. His lips tightened. “They needed a scapegoat,” he murmured bitterly.
“Excuse me?”
“They needed a scapegoat. Make sure you’re not the next one.”
Then he was gone, striding with steady paces down the bright echoing corridor.
“Captain Lenson? The admiral will see you now.”
He took a deep breath, squinting after the departing figure as it vanished into white light. Then checked his gig line, rubbed his mouth, and crossed the hall.