"I'll be all right with that," Menefee said. "I just got here, so I don't know who doesn't like me and who really can't stand me. Those are about the only choices an exec has, aren't they?"
"Pretty much," Sam said. "Is this your first time in the duty?"
"Yes, sir," the younger man replied. By the way he said it, a second term as executive officer wouldn't be far removed from a second conviction for theft. Maybe he wasn't so wrong, either. Didn't a second term as exec say you didn't deserve a command of your own?
"Just play it straight, and I expect you'll do fine," Carsten said, hoping he was right. "Pretty soon you'll have a ship of your own, and then somebody else will do your dirty work for you."
Menefee grinned. "I've heard ideas I like less-I'll tell you that. But I don't know. The war's liable to be over before they get around to giving me my own command, and after that the Navy'll shrink like nobody's business. Or do you think I'm wrong, sir?"
"It worked that way the last time around-I remember," Sam said. "This time? Well, who knows? After we get done beating the Confederates on land, we'll still need ships to teach Argentina a lesson, and England, and Japan. One of these days, the Japs'll have to learn they can't screw around with the Sandwich Islands."
"Can we go on with the little fights once the big one's over? Will anybody care, or will people be so hot for peace that they don't give a damn about anything else?"
"We'll find out, that's all," Sam said. The questions impressed him. Plainly, Lon Menefee had an eye for what was important. That was a good asset for an executive officer-or anybody else. "All we can do is what they tell us to do," Sam went on, and reached for the brandy bottle. "Want another knock?"
"No, thanks," Menefee said. "One's plenty for me. But don't let me stop you."
"I'm not gonna do it by myself." Sam put the bottle back into the desk drawer. He eyed Menefee, and wasn't astonished to find the new officer eyeing him, too. They'd both passed a test of sorts. The exec would have a friendly drink, but didn't care to take it much further than that. And Menefee had seen that, while Sam didn't live by the Navy's officially dry rules, he wasn't a closet lush, either. And neither of them had said a word about it, and neither would.
As the desk drawer closed, Menefee said, "Will you give me the tour, then, and let me meet some of the sailors who won't be able to stand me?" He spoke without rancor, and in the tones of a man who knew how things worked-and that they would work that way no matter what he thought about it. The slightly crooked grin that accompanied the words said the same thing. Sam approved, having a similar view of the world himself.
He took Menefee to the bridge first. Thad Walters had the conn, which meant a petty officer was minding the Y-ranging screens. The Josephus Daniels just didn't carry a large complement of officers. When Sam told the new exec that the chief hydrophone operator was a CPO, Menefee raised one eyebrow but then nodded, taking the news in stride.
"Lots of antiaircraft guns. I saw that when I came aboard," Menefee remarked when they went out on deck.
"That's right, and I wish we carried even more," Sam said. "The only ship-to-ship action we've fought was with a freighter that carried a light cruiser's guns. We whipped the bastard, too." Sam remembered the pride-and the terror-of that North Atlantic fight. "Most of the time, though, airplanes are our number-one worry. Way things are nowadays, warships can't get close enough to shoot at other warships. So, yeah-twin 40mm mounts all over the damn place, and the four-inchers are dual purpose, too."
"Sure. They've got more reach than the smaller guns." Lieutenant Menefee nodded. "Things look about the same to me. If we don't find some kind of way to keep bombers off our backs, the whole surface Navy's liable to be in trouble."
"During the Great War, everybody flabbled about submersibles. This time around, it's airplanes. But as long as we bring our own airplanes with us, we can fight anywhere. And the carriers need ships to help keep the bad guys' airplanes away from them, so I figure we can keep working awhile longer, anyhow."
"Sounds good to me, sir." Menefee gave him another of those wry grins.
When they got to the engine room, the new exec started gabbing with the black gang in a way that showed he knew exactly what he was talking about. "So you come from engineering?" Sam said.
"Shows a little, does it?" Menefee said. "Yes, that's what I know. How about you, sir?"
"Gunnery and damage control," Sam answered. "We've got the ship covered between us-except for all the fancy new electronics, I mean."
"Most of the guys who understand that stuff don't understand anything else-looks that way to me, anyhow," Menefee said.
"Me, too," Carsten agreed. "If you can figure out all the fancy circuits, doesn't seem likely you'll know how people work. I wouldn't want one of those slide-rule pushers in charge of a ship." But then he stopped himself, holding up his right hand. "Thad's an exception, I think. He can make the Y-ranging gear sit up and roll over and beg, but he's a damn good officer, too. You'll see."
"He's mighty young. He's had the chance to get used to it right from the start," Menefee said. Sam nodded, carefully holding in his smile. To his eyes, Lon Menefee was mighty damn young, too. But the new exec was right-there were degrees to everything. Young, younger, youngest. Sam couldn't hide the smile any more. Where the hell did old fart fit into that scheme?
N ot Richmond, not any more. Richmond was a battleground. Basically, everything north of the James was a battleground-except for what had already fallen. And the damnyankees had a couple of bridgeheads over the river, too. They hadn't tried to break out of them, not yet, but the Confederates couldn't smash them, either. And so, when Clarence Potter left Lexington to report to Jake Featherston on what the physicists at Washington University were up to, he headed for Petersburg instead of the doomed capital of the CSA.
Getting to Petersburg was an adventure. Getting anywhere in the Confederacy was an adventure these days. But the Confederate States had hung on to equality in the air in northern Virginia, Maryland, and southern Pennsylvania longer than they had anywhere else. They'd hung on, and hung on, and hung on…till they couldn't hang on any more. That was how things stood now.
Antiaircraft guns still blazed away at strafing U.S. fighters and fighter-bombers. But antiaircraft guns were just annoyances. What really held enemy aircraft at bay were your own airplanes. And the Confederates didn't have enough to do the job any more.
His motorcar went off the road several times. It raced for a bridge once, and hid under the concrete shelter with bullets chewing up the ground to either side till the aerial wolves decided they couldn't get him and went off after other, easier game. Then, cautiously, the driver put the butternut Birmingham in gear.
"Some fun, huh?" Potter said.
The look the PFC at the wheel gave him told him how flat the joke fell. "Hope to Jesus whatever the hell you're doin' on the road is win-the-war important," the kid said. "If it ain't, we got no business travelin', on account of the damnyankees're too fuckin' likely to shoot our dicks off. Sir."
Potter wanted to clutch himself like a maiden surprised. The mere thought was appalling. Reality was worse. He'd seen it. He wanted no closer acquaintance with it than that. But he said, "It just may be, soldier. If anything can nowadays, it's got a pretty fair chance."
"Hope so," the driver said. This time, his suspicious stare was all too familiar. "How come you talk like a Yankee yourself?"