now, with a console instead of paper charts. But they still had to keep a paper track, in case the computers went down. Which meant you had double the people on watch.
Don’t be cynical, he told himself. You’re where you wanted to be: back at sea.
But sometimes it was hard.
The day was white, a pale sky over a smoky sea. But not dim; on the contrary, it glowed from within, as if beyond that frosted vault some master craftsman welded with a colorless flame. The wind was piercingly cold. The seas were parkerized steel, marching in low ranks from the west, barely three feet, at most. Just enough to make Savo Island surge slowly beneath him, a deliberate, gentle heave like the slow, steady breathing of a resting horse. He was still getting used to the ship, but as far as he could tell, she liked being back in harness.
“Ideal conditions,” he told the chief engineer.
“Yessir.” Danenhower looked haggard, unshaven, mustache askew, but the chief engineer had gotten his department ready in forty-eight hours, in a ship that two days before few had thought could have gone to sea at all. “We’re ready to start the run, Captain.”
“That’s good work, CHENG. Appreciate the effort.”
“What we do, sir.”
“I also appreciated what you did back when Horn got nailed.”
“It was the repair locker team leaders, Captain. They’re the ones saved us from taking a long swim.”
“Guess you’ve got that right. Have you kept track of Lin Porter? What’s she doing now?”
“Last I heard, she had a Burke-class. The Sullivans, I think.”
“She got a command? That’s great. Well, what about this panel-grounding issue on the engines that I keep hearing about?”
“Think we’ve got a handle on that, sir.”
“Is it a design issue?”
“It is, but there’s drawbacks to an ungrounded system, too. We had an intermittent, but I think we’ve got it nailed. It takes attention. But we’re on top of it.”
Dan started to ask if he liked the Harry Potter book he’d glimpsed on his bunk when he’d passed the engineer’s open stateroom door, but did not. It might sound patronizing, or as if he were making fun of the guy’s reading matter. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Navigator, what’s our draft?”
“Forward, twenty-two feet six inches. Aft, twenty-two three.”
“Make sure that’s logged. Along with the water depth at both turn points.”
“In the log, sir. 3190 meters here.”
That was good and deep. He raised his voice. “Confirm, clear to the east?” They’d run that way for an hour at flank speed, then turn and tear back through the same water. That would zero out any effects from wind and sea, though with today’s conditions such influences should be negligible.
The officer of the deck lifted her head. The Indian-goddess profile he’d noticed the first day aboard belonged to Lieutenant Amarpeet “Amy” Singhe. Like the rest of the crew, the strike officer was in blue one-piece belted coveralls. But she made them look elegant. Deep black eyes met his. “Yes, Captain. Clear as far as the radar can see.”
He stared blankly, noting the tautness of blue cloth over her breasts, the glossy black curl of twisted-up hair.
In the eternal pot-stirring of the Navy Uniform Board, sailors no longer wore dungarees at sea. The surface fleet had taken over coveralls as a working uniform from the sub force. And since all hands wore it, officers were distinguished from enlisted by the color of the web belt—blue for enlisted, khaki for chiefs and officers—and, of course, collar insignia. It was comfortable, but he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about having everyone look so much the same.
“Sir?” Danenhower said.
“Let’s go,” Dan said. Danenhower hit the 21MC and relayed the order down to Main Control, then left the bridge.
“Right standard rudder, come to course zero nine zero,” Singhe said.
“My rudder is right standard, coming to zero nine zero true … steady on zero nine
Don’t be cynical, he told himself. You’re where you wanted to be: back at sea.
But sometimes it was hard.
The day was white, a pale sky over a smoky sea. But not dim; on the contrary, it glowed from within, as if beyond that frosted vault some master craftsman welded with a colorless flame. The wind was piercingly cold. The seas were parkerized steel, marching in low ranks from the west, barely three feet, at most. Just enough to make Savo Island surge slowly beneath him, a deliberate, gentle heave like the slow, steady breathing of a resting horse. He was still getting used to the ship, but as far as he could tell, she liked being back in harness.
“Ideal conditions,” he told the chief engineer.
“Yessir.” Danenhower looked haggard, unshaven, mustache askew, but the chief engineer had gotten his department ready in forty-eight hours, in a ship that two days before few had thought could have gone to sea at all. “We’re ready to start the run, Captain.”
“That’s good work, CHENG. Appreciate the effort.”
“What we do, sir.”
“I also appreciated what you did back when Horn got nailed.”
“It was the repair locker team leaders, Captain. They’re the ones saved us from taking a long swim.”
“Guess you’ve got that right. Have you kept track of Lin Porter? What’s she doing now?”
“Last I heard, she had a Burke-class. The Sullivans, I think.”
“She got a command? That’s great. Well, what about this panel-grounding issue on the engines that I keep hearing about?”
“Think we’ve got a handle on that, sir.”
“Is it a design issue?”
“It is, but there’s drawbacks to an ungrounded system, too. We had an intermittent, but I think we’ve got it nailed. It takes attention. But we’re on top of it.”
Dan started to ask if he liked the Harry Potter book he’d glimpsed on his bunk when he’d passed the engineer’s open stateroom door, but did not. It might sound patronizing, or as if he were making fun of the guy’s reading matter. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Navigator, what’s our draft?”
“Forward, twenty-two feet six inches. Aft, twenty-two three.”
“Make sure that’s logged. Along with the water depth at both turn points.”
“In the log, sir. 3190 meters here.”
That was good and deep. He raised his voice. “Confirm, clear to the east?” They’d run that way for an hour at flank speed, then turn and tear back through the same water. That would zero out any effects from wind and sea, though with today’s conditions such influences should be negligible.
The officer of the deck lifted her head. The Indian-goddess profile he’d noticed the first day aboard belonged to Lieutenant Amarpeet “Amy” Singhe. Like the rest of the crew, the strike officer was in blue one-piece belted coveralls. But she made them look elegant. Deep black eyes met his. “Yes, Captain. Clear as far as the radar can see.”
He stared blankly, noting the tautness of blue cloth over her breasts, the glossy black curl of twisted-up hair.
In the eternal pot-stirring of the Navy Uniform Board, sailors no longer wore dungarees at sea. The surface fleet had taken over coveralls as a working uniform from the sub force. And since all hands wore it, officers were distinguished from enlisted by the color of the web belt—blue for enlisted, khaki for chiefs and officers—and, of course, collar insignia. It was comfortable, but he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about having everyone look so much the same.
“Sir?” Danenhower said.
“Let’s go,” Dan said. Danenhower hit the 21MC and relayed the order down to Main Control, then left the bridge.
“Right standard rudder, come to course zero nine zero,” Singhe said.
“My rudder is right standard, coming to zero nine zero true … steady on zero nine
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