“I apologize if I don’t meet your standards.”
Dan slammed a fist at an equipment frame, pulling the punch at the last microsecond, so he didn’t break his knuckles. “They’re not my goddamn standards, Commander! We’re in Condition Three ABM. We can get a missile down our throats on fifteen seconds’ notice. I needed you to spell me in the command seat. Can I depend on you to be there?”
The liquid eyes slid aside. The exec was at parade rest, hands locked behind him. The ship leaned, creaking around them. A metallic snap somewhere aft. The superstructure again? Dan almost missed the softly spoken reply. “I’m not sure you can, sir.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly at sea in more ways than one. What was going on here? He’d had difficult subordinates before. Been a headache to his own seniors more than once. But he’d never come across someone like this. How had this guy made commander? How had he made jaygee? “I’m sort of at a loss here, Fahad. You’re saying … I can’t count on you? Or I’d better not? Or what? Exactly?”
“No sir. It was you who said that.”
“So what’s your take on it?”
“I was in the breaker.”
“Why are you all wet?”
“There’s spray coming over the bow. It’s getting rougher out there.” The little man tilted a wrist to check his watch. His voice quavered, but he appeared to be growing more resolute, not less. Dan was fitting together words, exploring how to ask whether he’d been down there contemplating doing away with himself, when his second in command murmured, “I don’t believe this was my scheduled time in CIC anyway. Not according to the rotation.”
“True, but I needed you.” He remembered the Motorola, and glanced at Almarshadi’s belt line. The XO wasn’t wearing it. “Where’s your Hydra? We’ve been calling you on that just about nonstop.”
“It’s back in my stateroom. Recharging.” Almarshadi frowned, as if taking back the initiative. “Captain, I have to protest. I was off duty. I went to my stateroom, put my battery on charge, then went down to the breaker for a smoke. Yes, I heard something aft. I didn’t know what it was. But the next thing I know, when I come in, you’re about to call away a man-overboard muster for me. And then you’re insulting me in front of the junior officers. Even the enlisted.
“To be frank, this is unjust. I know your wife was injured in the attack on the World Trade Center. I know you were hurt at the Pentagon. And yes, I am an Arab. I may have my shortcomings as an exec. If I’m not performing to your expectations, relieve me. But I’m not your enemy, Daniel.”
Dan splayed his fingertips to his temples. What was this asshole saying? That this whole fuckup was his fault? He said thickly, “This discussion’s over. Go to your stateroom. Don’t leave it again. Until I get … until I decide what to do about you.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Fahad nodded, about-faced crisply, and faded like a specter down the row of antisubmarine consoles, past the curtains of Sonar, passing from sight.
Dan lowered his hands, shaking. He’d pressed them to his temples so he couldn’t wrap them around Almarshadi’s throat. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered. Every time he faced off with the guy, he understood him less. He was sinking away, losing contact. Only who was actually receding? The other, or himself?
Mills, voice lifted to reach the far end of the space. “Captain? Prelim bitchback from Chief Quincoches. On the 21MC.”
“I’ll be right there.” He cleared his throat, which seemed to be closing up again. Then with swift, tired strides, headed back for his post.
14
He shifted in his chair as the night came for him out of the east. Out of a graphite, darkening sky, out of the blasts of snow.
The bridge was in full darken ship, every pilot lamp and screen turned to its night setting. The bridge team spoke in murmurs, near whispers. Dan kneaded his cheeks. So fucking tired.…
He’d watched as Quincoches and the other gunner’s mates had very gingerly boat-hooked the charred remains of a Sparrow II RIM-7P frag-and-blast warhead up out of the pried-open hatch. They’d set it on a cargo net. Ollie Uskavitch had pointed out the fuze booster to Dan, the weapons officer explaining how it had been designed to melt instead of detonating the main charge. It was melted, all right: a shapeless blob of blackened material that didn’t look like much of anything now. The main charge had burned entirely, leaving only a cagelike structure of charred, warped steel. Dan couldn’t stop a shiver ratcheting his spine as Grissett, who seemed to be the ship’s photographer as well as the chief corpsman, bent close, snapping off shot after shot. Turning the thing over, snapping off more. The lightning flicker of the strobe illuminated only a tiny circle of the deck.
When the postmortem ended, they’d regathered. Lifted the charred warhead, like firemen around an old-fashioned life net, and walked it toward the side. The boatswains had unreeved the deck-edge nets. The tumble home at that point bulged out slightly, so it wasn’t a straight drop. With cautious unanimity, they’d swung the net, and-a one, and-a two. At a muttered “three” they’d given it a last heave, and let go. Net and contents had vanished into the gathering dark with a muffled splash. As the disturbed patch eased aft, everyone concerned had straightened, sighing.
None more deeply than Dan. He’d given them all high fives, then gone below for a walk-through of the VLS interior.
The blowers had been howling, and the smells of burnt insulation and seawater were choking, but the metal trusswork bracing and the unaffected cells stood undamaged, though their corrugated white-painted exteriors were smoke-stained. Techs were disconnecting cables, running continuity checks with portable testers. They’d showed him a stub of connector. Quincoches and the chief electrician’s mate agreed it was the most likely place for the fire to have started. Most of it was burned away, though, so they couldn’t be sure.
Dan had walked the module from end to end and port to starboard. Then started to tell them they needed everything back up as soon as possible. But instead, bitten his tongue. They knew. Having the skipper say it again wasn’t going to get ordnance back on the status board any faster.
Now he stared out into the dark as Savo staggered and corkscrewed. She was on a southerly leg, the seas slamming into her quarter. The invisible beam lanced out from their port aft panel. He imagined it boring a hole through the overcast. They said the SPY-1, at full power, radiated enough microwave energy — four million watts, enough to power a good-sized town — to melt snowflakes. Fry seagulls in midflight. He hadn’t seen it do anything like that yet. Maybe in the morning, if it was still snowing, he’d go out and take a look.
“Captain?”
A vanishing shadow he identified only by voice. “Yeah, Cher?”
“You wanted to talk about rejuggling the watch bill. I made up a draft, taking the XO out of the rotation. For now.”
“Right. For now.”
“Who do you want to replace him with?”
“Put your name in there, Cheryl.”
She hesitated, then must have nodded; a faint red light illuminated a clipboard. “That makes you and me in the command seat. Lieutenant Mills as port section TAO. For starboard section, I recommend Mr. Branscombe.”