Harris grinned, showing his mulish front teeth. “Hey shit-for-brains, let’s go up to the starboard break and smoke a ciggy-butt.” His voice was loud. It had to be to carry over the sounds of the machinery.
“I’ve got to get this oil sample up to the lab,” Carpenter said.
“So get a move on,” Harris said. “We can swing by the lab on the way up.”
Carpenter checked the oil level in the sample bottle out of the corner of his eye, not willing to turn his back entirely on Harris, who was a bit of a prankster. The bottle was about two-thirds full. “What’s the rush?”
“Your Hot-a-malan girlfriend is up there taking a smoke break. She usually likes to smoke two, so she doesn’t feel like she wasted the trip. If we hurry, we can catch her.”
Gitana Delgado was Guatemalan, not Hot-a-malan, as Harris insisted on calling her. And she wasn’t Carpenter’s girlfriend. Not that he would have minded …
It struck Carpenter for about the thousandth time how lucky Harris was that Gitana Delgado didn’t take his nickname for her personally. With a word or two in the right direction, she could have nailed him for sexual harassment, or maybe even racial discrimination. The Navy didn’t play games with either one of those subjects. If you had opinions on someone’s gender or ethnic background, you had damned well better keep them to yourself. Gitana could get Harris into serious trouble if she wanted to.
Carpenter smiled. For that matter, she could probably kick Harris’s ass.
Gitana spent a lot of time in the gym, and everybody knew that Harris’s most developed muscle was his mouth.
Carpenter looked around suddenly, as he felt the hot oil flow over his fingers. Damn. He had overfilled the bottle. He shut the valve quickly and tried to get the lid on the sample bottle without spilling any more than he had to. As soon as the lid was on tight, he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped the bottle down. He slid the bottle into his hip pocket and surveyed the mess. He hadn’t spilled much. Just a few ounces.
Nothing major.
He flipped down the locking arm and pinned the sample valve in the locked position. That done, he knelt down and used his rag to mop up the tiny puddle of oil in the bilge. There. No harm done.
He looked up at Harris. “All right, I’m done. We have to make a quick stop by the lab, and I have to tell the Engineer of the Watch that I’m taking a quick smoke break.”
“Stop dragging ass,” Harris said. “My lungs are overdosing on oxygen.”
Carpenter bumped into Harris on purpose as he walked toward the ladder. “Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me. Coming through.”
Harris followed him. “Shithead!” A few seconds later, the watertight door closed behind him with a bang.
Down in the bilge beneath the line shaft bearing, a fresh spot of oil appeared on the steel deck. After a second or two, it was joined by another one. And then another. The sample valve on the bottom of the oil sump was locked in its current position. It was nearly closed, but the disk was not completely sealed against the seat. The drip became a trickle.
CHAPTER 38
Chief McPherson swirled the last bit of coffee around the bottom of her cup and glared at the dark liquid with accusatory eyes. She knew the coffee was cold, and she could see the grounds in it. She thought for a second about getting a fresh cup, but she would be going off watch in about a half hour, and she didn’t want the caffeine kicking in just when she was trying to catch a few winks. Not that she’d sleep for long anyway.
She’d be back in CIC in an hour or two. She was having a hard time staying away, even when she wasn’t on watch. In fact, she probably wouldn’t hit her rack at all. Maybe she’d just catch a catnap in a chair at one of the unused consoles.
She was very careful not to actually do the math in her head. Because, when she did, she’d have to admit to herself that she had been awake for two days and counting. The logical part of her mind knew that dedication and willpower only went so far. Her energy reserves were running low, and she’d have to put in some major sack time in the not-too-distant future.
But she was all right for now. Or, rather, she would be after a little nap.
She looked up at the big red digits on the CIC battle clock. She and the sonar watch teams were due for turnover at 2145—in a little less than thirty minutes — and that nap was starting to look better all the time. With any luck, the subs wouldn’t show up during the watch turnover, the way they had the last time.
She slurped the last swallow of coffee and made a face when the cold, sludge like liquid hit her taste buds. She was in the process of picking stray grounds off the tip of her tongue when it hit her. She stared dumbly at the CDRT for several seconds with her tongue still sticking out. Last time, the subs had struck during the watch turnover. But what about the time before that?
Her tongue retreated into her mouth. She punched keys on the CDRT, calling up a history of encounters with the German submarines. The data she was looking for came up quickly. The subs had tangled with the Antietam SAU at 2152, right in the middle of watch relief for the 2200–0200 watch. The day before, in the Gulf of Aden, they’d nailed the Kitty Hawk strike group at 0647, during the turnover for the 0700–1200 watch.
The pattern fell apart when she looked at the attack on the British ships in the Straits of Gibraltar. That one had taken place at 0348, and the Brits wouldn’t have been turning over the watch then.
Or maybe they had been …
In the late 1990s, in response to reduced manning, the U.S. Navy had shifted from six watches a day to five. Instead of the traditional rotation, with six four-hour watches per day, the Navy now ran a five-section rotation, with four five-hour watches and one four-hour watch — the 2200–0200.
What if the Brits were still running an old-style six-watch rotation?
That would put the Gibraltar Straits attack, which had occurred at 0348 hours, right in the middle of the 0400–0800 watch turnover!
The chief stared at the list of attacks on the CDRT and shook her head slowly. “Every time,” she said softly. “You crafty bastards hit us during watch turnover every single time. Right when we were at our most disorganized. And you were even smart enough to account for the differences between our watch rotation and the British rotation.”
She glanced up at the battle clock above the Aegis display screens again. The large red digits read 21:22. The early birds would start trickling in about ten minutes from now, but the majority of the reliefs would show up at about 2140. She keyed her mike. “TAO — USWE, I think I know when the subs are planning to attack, sir.”
The Tactical Action Officer on watch was Lieutenant Nylander, the Operations Officer. His voice sounded as tired as Chief McPherson felt.
“USWE — TAO. Practicing a little black magic over there, Chief?”
“No, sir. Just your run-of-the-mill crystal ball. And if you’ll step over here to the CDRT, I’ll show it to you.”
“On my way,” the TAO said.
Two minutes later, he keyed his mike. “Bridge — TAO. Call away GQ.”
“TAO — Bridge. Say again?”
“Bridge — TAO. Call away General Quarters. Do it now! We’re about to be attacked. I’ll give you the details in a minute.”