He wondered where he should be — standing by, or headed down to the waterfront — but since he still didn’t have hard orders, he finally stayed. He called Erculiano from Mills’s office, since he couldn’t seem to get a cell connection again, and gave him what he could about his attacker, which wasn’t much. The NCIS agent said he’d be going down to the police station that afternoon to help sort through the demonstrators and see if they could identify the bomber, and that he’d like to have Dan with him. Dan said, “I have to stand by for the admiral, but if I’m done by then, I’ll go along. For what it’s worth.”
He hung up and checked the corridor, but the double doors to where Ogawa was holding mast were still closed. He consulted his watch, corrected for the time difference, and called TAG, back in Norfolk.
His former CO didn’t sound pleased at the idea of letting go of Donnie Wenck, but seemed happy to give him Rit Carpenter. “You sure you want him?” he asked, and Dan said yeah, the old sonarman would be okay once they had him sealed aboard ship. He was less cooperative at the idea of letting go his chief analyst. “I’m not sure we can do business without Dr. Henrickson,” he said.
“For two months?”
“You’re guaranteeing it’s only two months?”
Dan said reluctantly that no, he couldn’t make that promise. He wanted to add what Ogawa had told him about this being a national-level mission, but the line was not secure. He leaned out to eye the doors again; still closed. “Uh, I think you’ll be getting something from ComSixthFleet. To clarify what we’ve got to do out here, and how much I could use him.”
“Well, we have to support the operating forces. Then, too, I don’t know if I shared this with you before, but there’s some stuff coming down the pike about possibly shutting the doors here.”
Dan rubbed knitted brows. Shutting the doors? The Tactical Analysis Group developed tactics and doctrine for surface warfare battle. “I don’t understand. I know, teeth to tail, but they’ve already gutted the schools. If we don’t train people and develop doctrine, we’re eating our seed corn.”
“I hear you, but it’s in the draft POM.” He seemed to cut himself off then. Maybe remembering too that they were on a nonsecure line. “Anyway, I’ll talk to Monty. Since it’s you, he might go. When’re you relieving?”
“Not sure. Tomorrow? The mast is still in session.”
“Well, let me know. And walk light. Relieving a skipper can really wreck a crew. They’re going to be devastated.”
“I’ve been looking at the stats. There are underlying problems, that’s pretty obvious. And they just came out of four months in the yard. So maybe this will actually turn out positive for them.”
“But when you get hit, the bruise doesn’t show for a while. You need to stay on top of that. Ask for what you need. Stay close to the squadron commander—”
Dan leaned out again, to see the doors opening. “Gotta go, Dick. Court’s adjourning, I mean, mast’s adjourning.”
“Good luck.”
He stood watching as they filed out. They staggered, as if unused to dry land, or as if they’d lost blood and were in shock. Their gazes slipped past his or dropped to the marble deck. Chiefs, a lieutenant, petty officers. He wondered if he should close his door. Let them pass unseen. He’d been a defendant himself. Once you’d gone through it, the experience was demystified. Yet still it felt strange watching each man emerge; orient himself, as if lost; then depart, soles scuffing away down the empty hallway. At the far end two marines waited, fists on hips. The escort to the barracks, from whence they’d be flown back to the States. Not even to return to the ship to pack.
Last out was a shaken-looking man with silver shining at his temples like the chromium eagles on his collar. He was fingering the gold star and anchor on his left breast that meant he’d held command at sea. He looked as if he were walking toward the electric chair.
Then his gaze rose, and Dan read the sentence in those blank eyes. Misconduct, improper performance of duty, improper hazarding of a vessel; the precise wording of the specifications hardly mattered. The man’s career was over.
The former commanding officer of USS Savo Island blinked. His gaze registered the eagles on Dan’s own collar. His lips tightened. “They needed a scapegoat,” he murmured bitterly.
“Excuse me?”
“They needed a scapegoat. Make sure you’re not the next one.”
Then he was gone, striding with steady paces down the bright echoing corridor.
“Captain Lenson? The admiral will see you now.”
He took a deep breath, squinting after the departing figure as it vanished into white light. Then checked his gig line, rubbed his mouth, and crossed the hall.
3
The next day, as tugs chuffed and strained alongside in brilliant winter sunlight, Dan climbed the boat ladder to the main deck. A boatswain’s whistle trilled from the gray ramparts. A bell gonged, and the 1MC intoned hollowly, as if from the belly of a brazen idol, “Captain, United States Navy, arriving.”
Savo Island rolled beneath his feet. A smoky haze above the city linked fingers with a mist over the water. The hills marched along with them as the tugs churned her stern-first toward an outer anchorage. As he reached the quarterdeck a blast of diesel exhaust blew across, rasping in his throat. A double line of chiefs and officers in blues snapped to attention, swaying in a buffeting wind. Dan right-faced aft, saluted a streamed-out flag, and nodded to the officer of the deck. “I have permission to come aboard.”
“Very well, sir.”
The OOD’s arm snapped down. He looked apprehensive. No one in the double line of sailors Dan paced between was smiling either. Another gust, and a white hat flew off, hit the deck, and rolled into the scuppers. The now-bareheaded sailor, whose name tag read Benyamin, winced but held his salute, lips paling, as dirty water darkened the bleached cotton. Dan ran his gaze along one rank, then the other, noting not so much the details of uniform as the faces.
He dropped his salute, and a ragged line of arms snapped down. He wheeled out of the wind, into the quarterdeck passageway that led from one side of the ship to the other.
A slight, balding, painfully thin commander in khakis hovered beside the watertight door that, if the layout here was the same as it had been aboard Horn, led to Officers’ Country and the wardroom. Moisture sparkled on his forehead. He murmured, “Captain, welcome aboard, sir. I’m Fahad Almarshadi. Your exec.”
Dan eyed the tentatively extended palm, but didn’t take it. “I understand there’s a temporary OIC. From the DesRon staff.”
“Yessir. He sent his respects, but said he had to stay on the bridge.” Almarshadi retracted his palm, smoothed slicked-back hair with it, and swallowed. “Shall I — shall I take you up there now?”
“That’d be best.” Dan took the lead to show he knew his way. Outside the wardroom the decks were torn up; their footsteps crunched on rusting metal. “What’s all this?”
“Sir, Captain Imerson didn’t like this old blue terrazzo. He wanted it chipped up and replaced. I’ve got the—”
“How many man-hours have you wasted on that?”
Almarshadi sucked air but didn’t answer, falling in behind Dan as they reached a ladder up. The climb seemed longer than on Horn, and he remembered the two additional decks an Aegis cruiser had. Decks crammed with radar equipment, transmitter rooms, and a much larger combat information center. Sailors gaped as they hove into view, then faded into side passages.