zero, checking zero-eight-eight.” The first number was the true course, by the gyrocompass; the second, by the magnetic compass. The phrases, even the cadence, were familiar, traditional, yet it sounded different. Maybe because both voices, the OOD’s and the helmsman’s, were female.
“Permission to start full-power run, Captain?”
“Soon as you’re steady on course, Amy.”
“Aye, sir. Bo’s’un, pass the word.”
BM2 Nuckols reached for his whistle and leaned to the 1MC. An earsplitting, endless call. Dan had never understood why it was a point of pride with boatswain’s mates to break every eardrum on the ship. Nuckols intoned hoarsely, “Now commence full-power run. All personnel stand clear of the fantail and aft of frame 315.”
Singhe said, “Log commencing run. All engines ahead flank three.” The helmsman answered up. In the old days there’d been a lee helmsman, too, separate controllers for course and speed, but now both steering and engine commands were executed at the same console. Yeah, they’d saved one body there.
He strolled out to the wing, into the icy wind, and leaned on the bulwark as Savo Island gathered speed. The acceleration was perceptible, but not exactly enough to knock you off your feet. After thirty or forty seconds, though, she was charging through the chop, sending a turbulent bow wave veeing out into the grayblue sea. The turbines rose to a whining roar. The wind did too, shifting to blow from ahead, buffeting him. He grabbed his cap just as it blew off, and tucked it into his belt.
Singhe stuck her head out. A loose strand of midnight hair whipped in the wind. “Flank three, sir. Hundred and seventy rpm.”
“Very well.” He stood there until he was chilled through, alone except for the starboard lookout. Just watching the rapidly passing sea.
* * *
HIS at-sea cabin, one level below the bridge, was snugger and less opulent than his inport suite two decks down, where he could host meetings, or welcome dignitaries for an intimate dinner. This small vibrating closet held only a bunk, a steel hanging locker, a desk and computer, and his own chair and one for a visitor.
And Master Chief Tausengelt, in that extra chair.
The command master chief was the senior representative of the enlisted. This too had originated with the submarine force, where the chief of the boat stood second only to the CO as the source and fount of authority. Master Chief Electrician Tausengelt wasn’t exactly grizzled, but he was older than almost anyone else aboard. He was lean as a smoked beef stick, with deep furrows down both sides of his mouth. His thin, light hair was only fuzz in front and not much thicker behind. He wore both the enlisted surface warfare water wings and enlisted aviation wings, and below them the heavy oval brass badge of the command master chief. Tausengelt was from Roald’s staff, like Mills. He’d replaced the previous CMC, who’d gone down in the purge.
But the CMC wasn’t just a mouthpiece for the crew to the skipper. He was also an inside track for the captain to find out what the crew really thought, before an abscess got to the point of bursting. Dan wanted to make him even more than that, to actually make the senior enlisted a stakeholder in the command team. Not quite a triumvirate—CO, XO, CMC—but as close as he could get. So that now Dan had no problem asking, “Well, Master Chief, you’ve had a chance to canvass the crew. And the chiefs’ mess. What’s your call? We over this, or not?”
The chief took his time answering, but finally said, “Basically, I’m not sure.”
The steady roar of the turbines, conducted through the steel of the superstructure, made them both raise their voices. “Not a real informative answer, Master Chief.”
“All I can give you right now, sir. Tell you one thing. This is the most suspicious goat locker I’ve even seen. Real closemouthed. If there’s some under-the-table there, they’re not
“Permission to start full-power run, Captain?”
“Soon as you’re steady on course, Amy.”
“Aye, sir. Bo’s’un, pass the word.”
BM2 Nuckols reached for his whistle and leaned to the 1MC. An earsplitting, endless call. Dan had never understood why it was a point of pride with boatswain’s mates to break every eardrum on the ship. Nuckols intoned hoarsely, “Now commence full-power run. All personnel stand clear of the fantail and aft of frame 315.”
Singhe said, “Log commencing run. All engines ahead flank three.” The helmsman answered up. In the old days there’d been a lee helmsman, too, separate controllers for course and speed, but now both steering and engine commands were executed at the same console. Yeah, they’d saved one body there.
He strolled out to the wing, into the icy wind, and leaned on the bulwark as Savo Island gathered speed. The acceleration was perceptible, but not exactly enough to knock you off your feet. After thirty or forty seconds, though, she was charging through the chop, sending a turbulent bow wave veeing out into the grayblue sea. The turbines rose to a whining roar. The wind did too, shifting to blow from ahead, buffeting him. He grabbed his cap just as it blew off, and tucked it into his belt.
Singhe stuck her head out. A loose strand of midnight hair whipped in the wind. “Flank three, sir. Hundred and seventy rpm.”
“Very well.” He stood there until he was chilled through, alone except for the starboard lookout. Just watching the rapidly passing sea.
* * *
HIS at-sea cabin, one level below the bridge, was snugger and less opulent than his inport suite two decks down, where he could host meetings, or welcome dignitaries for an intimate dinner. This small vibrating closet held only a bunk, a steel hanging locker, a desk and computer, and his own chair and one for a visitor.
And Master Chief Tausengelt, in that extra chair.
The command master chief was the senior representative of the enlisted. This too had originated with the submarine force, where the chief of the boat stood second only to the CO as the source and fount of authority. Master Chief Electrician Tausengelt wasn’t exactly grizzled, but he was older than almost anyone else aboard. He was lean as a smoked beef stick, with deep furrows down both sides of his mouth. His thin, light hair was only fuzz in front and not much thicker behind. He wore both the enlisted surface warfare water wings and enlisted aviation wings, and below them the heavy oval brass badge of the command master chief. Tausengelt was from Roald’s staff, like Mills. He’d replaced the previous CMC, who’d gone down in the purge.
But the CMC wasn’t just a mouthpiece for the crew to the skipper. He was also an inside track for the captain to find out what the crew really thought, before an abscess got to the point of bursting. Dan wanted to make him even more than that, to actually make the senior enlisted a stakeholder in the command team. Not quite a triumvirate—CO, XO, CMC—but as close as he could get. So that now Dan had no problem asking, “Well, Master Chief, you’ve had a chance to canvass the crew. And the chiefs’ mess. What’s your call? We over this, or not?”
The chief took his time answering, but finally said, “Basically, I’m not sure.”
The steady roar of the turbines, conducted through the steel of the superstructure, made them both raise their voices. “Not a real informative answer, Master Chief.”
“All I can give you right now, sir. Tell you one thing. This is the most suspicious goat locker I’ve even seen. Real closemouthed. If there’s some under-the-table there, they’re not
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