Choosers of the Slain

34

Lieutenant Commander Carl Thomson surfaced from Main Engine Control for the first time in over forty-eight hours. The Duke's chief engineer had been living on station ever since the first Argentine attack, alternating long stretches in front of the master console with short naps taken on the deck plates beside it.

Eventually, though, even he had to get away from the incessant whining song of the turbogenerators.

"Anybody get the word on the playoffs?" he asked, coming through the wardroom door.

"Vegas over Philly by eight points," Christine Rendino murmured in reply. The intel was stretched limply out on the couch, her eyes closed and her deck shoes kicked off. Across from her, Frank McKelsie sprawled in an easy chair, eyes open but staring off into nowhere in particular. The wardroom itself was being haunted by sea poltergeists. The edges of the cloth covering the central table swayed in a slow rhythm, cabinets creaked, and the cup rack clinked in time to the movement of the ship.

"Somebody must have bribed the damn referees."

"Tell me about it."

Thomson went over and selected a battle ration from the box sitting on the serving counter. Drawing a cup of coffee from the urn, he sat down at the table and investigated the "bat rat." Little more than a sack lunch run up by the galley for distribution when the ship was holding at battle stations, Thomson tore into the processed chicken sandwich with more relish than it probably deserved. The coffee was good, though, the minute difference in flavor between the engine room and wardroom percolators being a welcome change.

"Feels like she's slacking off a little," he commented.

"Uh-huh," Christine replied, "we're getting out of the worst of it. Be nice to have the deck quit walking around for a while."

"Just as long as the Captain doesn't decide to go sunbathing again," McKelsie grunted.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the intelligence officer demanded.

"Hell, Rendino. We were caught way out of position by that first Argentine strike. The Captain left us wide open for that one."

"In case nobody bothered to mention it before, that was a surprise attack, McKelsie. Nobody expected the Argentines to pull a totally off-the-wall stunt like that. Not even the Captain… or me."

"She violated basic stealth doctrine. She let herself get caught outside of weather cover. She damn near got us all blown away, and if you weren't so busy kissing up after her, you'd admit it."

Christine opened one cold, blue-gray eye. "McKelsie, fa' sure medical science has discovered cures for cholera, clap, and the black plague. What are you still doing here?"

"That's enough," Thomson said. "Lieutenant McKelsie, I believe that you'll discover that bad-mouthing your superior officers is not a sound way to get ahead in this man's Navy."

"Shit, Chief! I'm stating a fact! The Captain made a mistake out there the other day."

"Maybe she did," Thomson agreed, rummaging around in the bat-rat sack again. "I've served under a lot of captains, under a lot of different circumstances. Sooner or later, every one of them made some kind of mistake or other. How they reacted to it, and corrected it, marked the difference between a good skipper and a bad one."

The engineer removed a doughnut from the sack and deliberately gestured toward McKelsie with it. "This tells me that the Lady is good."

"How's that supposed to work, Chief?"

"Simple. This tin can has fought its way through three major engagements in two days, and I am sitting here eating this doughnut and some damn fish isn't. That, sonny boy, counts for a whole lot in this trade."