While the system waited for human response, it responded to the insistent impulses now coming in from the weapon controller, and drove slowly in a full circle listening for any signs of the 688 class. There were none. The 688 had never known they were there. It was so far astern that it now was out of range and gone.
Another idea came to the Second Captain, that it could further stimulate the humans by tinkering with the grounding grid that tied the deckplates into the central ground. It took several moments of processing time, but there was a way to cause a fluttering voltage to be induced along the planes of the steel core of the deck in such a way that even through the material of the flooring, the humans lying prone on the deck would feel electrically stimulated. The Second Captain could shock them awake. There were some uncertainties involving the end-user voltage levels received as well as risk to components of the processor modules, but it was actually an innovative means to solve a new problem. The Second Captain’s system again felt a short rush of electrochemicals, the feeling of self-satisfaction that it was functioning so well in this new environment. It was more than a subservient slave to the humans, it was capable of running a mission all on its own. The thought occurred to it that after the Scorpions were assembled, the humans were then merely redundant, a backup to the Second Captain’s capabilities. For an instant the Second Captain relished the thought that its own name was incorrect, that it should rename itself the First Captain, the idea causing neural flux oscillations akin to human chuckling. The thought was interrupted by a noise coming from the deck of the control room.
The Second Captain halted the electrical shock impulses and turned up the volume of the alarm clock noises from the video screens, then cut off the alarm to listen for human activity.
There was no doubt. The organism called Comdr. Omar Tawkidi, ship’s navigator and third in command behind Sharef and al-Kunis, had gotten to his feet, moaning.
It only took one. The crew was back. The Second Captain, not used to ambivalence, felt both relieved and disappointed, relieved that the mission would proceed and that it was no longer alone, disappointed that again it would be taking orders from humans.
A second, then a third crewman began moving within another five minutes, then several more. The Second Captain displayed the vital information of the last several hours since the torpedo hit, flashing up ship-system status in the ship-control area, navigation position and the approximate track of the 688 on the plot table, showing sonar-data history on the sensor-control area, as well as current noise detections in the ocean — with no ship contacts other than a few distant merchant ships — as well as life-support data, the oxygen increase that had helped resuscitate the crew flashing on a ship-control screen, the system asking for a decision about returning the atmosphere to normal. Tawkidi walked to the ship-control consoles and made the decision to return the atmosphere to normal specs, and the Second Captain accepted its first human order that evening, moving quickly to the duty, again feeling those strange mixed emotions. Relief that someone else was taking the burden of the decisions. Annoyance at doing chores for someone else.
For the Second Captain, things would never be the same.
Pacino’s dreams were disjointed and troubled, and it was a distinct relief when the buzzer on the phone from the conn brought him out of his nightmare.
“Captain,” he said, his voice cracking on the second syllable.
“Yes sir, officer of the deck. It’s quarter to midnight, sir. The wardroom wanted to know if you’d be joining the officers for New Year’s Eve.”
Pacino squinted at his watch, put his feet on the floor, and stretched.
“What’s our position?”
“We made point bravo at twenty hundred. We’ve been orbiting ever since.”
“Any traffic?”
“Nothing on ELF calling us to periscope depth. We’re due up by zero two hundred in the morning to grab our messages.”
“Any contacts?”
“One inbound tanker, probably enroute Port New York, bearing two six five at 27,000 yards, outside his closest-point-of-approach and opening. That’s it.”
“I’ll be in the wardroom in a few minutes.” Pacino replaced the handset and stood up, feeling groggy.
He threw his sweaty clothes in a net bag, stepped into the stainless-steel head, turned the shower on and took a forty-five-second shower, toweled off and stepped into a fresh poopysuit and cross-training shoes. He glanced at himself in the mirror, seeing dark stubble on his face. He decided for the first time at sea he would let the beard grow, even though it reminded him too much of his father. So many things did these days, he thought. The old man had died at an age four years younger than Pacino was now; often the sound of Pacino’s own voice — when talking to Janice or trying to discipline Tony — would sound exactly like his memory of his father’s.
He walked into the passageway, decided to go aft, knowing if he stepped into the control room he would get involved in the data and would be late for the wardroom celebration. He climbed the aft stairway steps to the upper level passageway and went forward past the opening to the crew’s mess. He greeted the men and the chiefs, accepted a cup of bug juice, a rancid Keel-Aid imitation, and toasted the new year. He noted the faces around him had forced smiles. Who could blame them? In the wardroom it was the same, the men distracted by the mission and disoriented at being immobile in the shipyard one moment and on an attack mission the next. Pacino knew the only thing that would get them through would be his and Vaughn’s leadership.
He would have to push the officers, cajole them, encourage them, all in the name of being their captain, a man who would order the men to go to an encounter that might well mean their end.
Vaughn seemed to be relishing the trip, the feel of being at sea again. The XO wore a blue poopysuit with a leather belt and a saucer-sized Texas belt buckle. His alligator-skin cowboy boots had crepe soles, Pacino saw, wondering where the hell he had gotten them.
“Skipper, you won’t believe what the engineer found in the lower level of the aft compartment,” Vaughn said. “The mechanics have been distilling this for a few months.”
Vaughn pulled a Mason jar of clear fluid from under the wardroom table.
“What the hell?”
“Moonshine, sir. The M-Div grunts have been making it in a still in engine room lower level. What do you say. Skipper? Let’s toast the new year.”
Pacino glared at the XO. “Bring in the M-Div chief.”
“He’s waiting in the mess.” Vaughn opened the door and shouted, “Chief Tucker!”
Tucker appeared, red-faced. He was a Paul Bunyan sort, looking like he should be wearing a checkered lumberjack shirt and gripping an ax, his beard thick and full, his neck tree-trunk thick, poopysuit arms bulging with his biceps.
“Tucker, are you aware of U.S. Navy regulations concerning alcohol aboard ship?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Good. XO, get out the coffee cups and pour us a round. Chief Tucker, you go first — if this stuff makes you blind we’ll know not to drink it.”
Vaughn poured Tucker a cup of the corn squeezings. He slurped it, coughing, and smiled.
Pacino took his cup, handed the half-empty jar back to Tucker. “Take this to the mess, Chief, and make sure the men who made this get some. Then chew out their asses for making it.”