Read Online The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel by David Poyer - Free Book Online
Authors: David Poyer
Ads: Link
“Goddamn it. Tell me about Downie.”
“I don’t think he’s got it, sir. Downie’s no rocket scientist, but he’s a pretty dependable dude. We tried to handle this at the division level. He gave us permission to search his locker.” Uskavitch raked his fingers back through spiky short hair. Perspiration glimmered at his hairline. “We had a lot of people going on and off during the grounding. Divers. Italians—customs, the garbage scow people, all those dudes on the barges we offloaded fuel and oil to, all the deliveries. I’m worried one of them happened through the quarterdeck just then, saw an opportunity, and dropped it into his tool bag.”
Dan shook his head. He didn’t need this. At all. “We’re going to have to hold a shipwide search. Right away, this afternoon. As soon as we secure from full-power run. Sid, can you organize that with the chief master-at-arms?”
“Will do, sir.”
“And Downie?” Uskavitch said hesitantly. “I’m not sure he’s really at fault here—”
“What? Of course he’s at fault, Lieutenant. He’s going to have to stand mast. That’s just negligence, leaving it unattended. And lack of training.” The weapons officer winced. Dan nodded curtly, trying to master his anger before he said something he didn’t want to. “If it doesn’t turn up by evening meal, start drafting the messages.”
They nodded and, after a moment, let themselves out.
* * *
HE caught up on his e-mail, though nothing was high-precedence. Anything flash, of course, would come in hard copy, hand-carried to the bridge or his cabin by a radioman with a clipboard. Routine material came into Radio, was automatically scanned for keywords, and was routed to a distribution list on the ship’s network. A secure intership high-level chat function was also accessible at his battle station in CIC. One message was from the squadron supply officer, informing him of an additional $459,000 in his quarterly operating fund account. Ogawa had come through. That lightened his mood a little. Could it be he’d actually have some cash to spend on nice-to-haves?
He logged off and the screen blanked. He made sure he had his stateroom key and locked the door. Turned toward the ladder up, out of habit, then thought: Better show your face in the engine spaces.
* * *
HE slid down one ladder, then another. Aft, past the smells of cooking meat and seething grease, the clatter and bustle of the mess attendants setting up. Reminder to Self: Talk to the supply officer and the chief messman about how they could bump up the quality of the meals. Better chow was the fastest way to improve morale, especially on long stretches under way. Maybe he could put some of those extra bucks into food. Desserts, especially—young sailors loved fancy desserts.
Down another ladder, and the decks turned to painted steel and the air smelled not of soup and bread but of fuel and lube oil. When he opened the door faces turned. Someone yelled, “CO’s on deck.”
Dan remembered when Main Control had been in the engine room, 120 degrees as soon as you stepped out from under the blower vents, with the paint worn off greasy bronze fittings and valves by hundreds of hands. This space was brightly lit and air-conditioned, with comfortable chairs where the electricians and enginemen watched screens. Interestingly, the screens showed digital representations of analog gauges, dials, and valve handles. There was even an icon of red fluid perking in a glass tube. “Carry on, guys. Where’s my EOOW?”
“Here, sir. ENC McMottie.”
“How’s it going, Chief?”
“Okay so far, sir. Had a frequency blip from generator number two, but she’s back in spec now. All temps and pressures in the green.”
Instead of sweaty dungarees and rags wrapped around forehead and hands, McMottie looked natty in pressed coveralls. One thing that was the same, though, was the racks of samples in glass tubes against a light panel on the
“I don’t think he’s got it, sir. Downie’s no rocket scientist, but he’s a pretty dependable dude. We tried to handle this at the division level. He gave us permission to search his locker.” Uskavitch raked his fingers back through spiky short hair. Perspiration glimmered at his hairline. “We had a lot of people going on and off during the grounding. Divers. Italians—customs, the garbage scow people, all those dudes on the barges we offloaded fuel and oil to, all the deliveries. I’m worried one of them happened through the quarterdeck just then, saw an opportunity, and dropped it into his tool bag.”
Dan shook his head. He didn’t need this. At all. “We’re going to have to hold a shipwide search. Right away, this afternoon. As soon as we secure from full-power run. Sid, can you organize that with the chief master-at-arms?”
“Will do, sir.”
“And Downie?” Uskavitch said hesitantly. “I’m not sure he’s really at fault here—”
“What? Of course he’s at fault, Lieutenant. He’s going to have to stand mast. That’s just negligence, leaving it unattended. And lack of training.” The weapons officer winced. Dan nodded curtly, trying to master his anger before he said something he didn’t want to. “If it doesn’t turn up by evening meal, start drafting the messages.”
They nodded and, after a moment, let themselves out.
* * *
HE caught up on his e-mail, though nothing was high-precedence. Anything flash, of course, would come in hard copy, hand-carried to the bridge or his cabin by a radioman with a clipboard. Routine material came into Radio, was automatically scanned for keywords, and was routed to a distribution list on the ship’s network. A secure intership high-level chat function was also accessible at his battle station in CIC. One message was from the squadron supply officer, informing him of an additional $459,000 in his quarterly operating fund account. Ogawa had come through. That lightened his mood a little. Could it be he’d actually have some cash to spend on nice-to-haves?
He logged off and the screen blanked. He made sure he had his stateroom key and locked the door. Turned toward the ladder up, out of habit, then thought: Better show your face in the engine spaces.
* * *
HE slid down one ladder, then another. Aft, past the smells of cooking meat and seething grease, the clatter and bustle of the mess attendants setting up. Reminder to Self: Talk to the supply officer and the chief messman about how they could bump up the quality of the meals. Better chow was the fastest way to improve morale, especially on long stretches under way. Maybe he could put some of those extra bucks into food. Desserts, especially—young sailors loved fancy desserts.
Down another ladder, and the decks turned to painted steel and the air smelled not of soup and bread but of fuel and lube oil. When he opened the door faces turned. Someone yelled, “CO’s on deck.”
Dan remembered when Main Control had been in the engine room, 120 degrees as soon as you stepped out from under the blower vents, with the paint worn off greasy bronze fittings and valves by hundreds of hands. This space was brightly lit and air-conditioned, with comfortable chairs where the electricians and enginemen watched screens. Interestingly, the screens showed digital representations of analog gauges, dials, and valve handles. There was even an icon of red fluid perking in a glass tube. “Carry on, guys. Where’s my EOOW?”
“Here, sir. ENC McMottie.”
“How’s it going, Chief?”
“Okay so far, sir. Had a frequency blip from generator number two, but she’s back in spec now. All temps and pressures in the green.”
Instead of sweaty dungarees and rags wrapped around forehead and hands, McMottie looked natty in pressed coveralls. One thing that was the same, though, was the racks of samples in glass tubes against a light panel on the
Similar Books
