Free The Cruiser by David Poyer Page A

indentations. Where could moisture be coming from in the CRP shaft? No doubt Danenhower and McMottie were right; it was minor. But a full backing bell for fifteen minutes would surface any problems. Better to have it break now, than when they were on station, responsible to CentCom.
    Which was odd, come to think. He massaged his forehead, blinking down into the jade and cream that seethed below. He needed to read his orders again. Jen Roald had passed them to him in hard copy; they were locked in his safe, along with the 9mm Beretta he’d checked out from the gunner’s mates.
    Every Navy ship, whether deployed with a task force or on an independent mission, had three masters. The first was her type commander, who levied requirements based on maintenance, repair, manning, and logistics. The second was her operational commander, in his case Sixth Fleet, which reported to EuCom—European Command—more specifically, to Commander in Chief, U.S. Naval Forces Europe. The third was her tactical commander, usually the commander of a strike group.
    But Savo Island ’s orders for Operation Stellar Shield specified that CTG East Med—in effect, Dan himself—was assigned not to EuCom, but to Central Command. CentCom’s area of responsibility was the Mideast. Confusing, for it divided his responsibilities in a way he’d never seen before and wasn’t sure he liked.
    Not that liking it had much to do with it. That was why they were called “orders,” after all.
    *   *   *
    A quarter hour later. So far, no reports of damage. The gently heaving sea lay void all around them. Across the bridge, Singhe was head down in the radar again. He averted his gaze from her shapely derriere under the cotton coveralls.
    The 21MC said, “Bridge, Main Control: coming up on completion of fifteen-minute flank three ahead.”
    â€œVery well,” Singhe said. She dipped back into the radar, then looked around. Located him, and smiled again. “Captain, next on the training schedule is Event 0124, rudder trials. Nearest contact, skunk papa. Range, twenty thousand yards. Bearing, two two zero. Course, one four five, speed ten. Past CPA and opening. No other contacts. No failure or lube alarms from the engine room. Permission to conduct rudder trials.”
    He shaded his gaze out to starboard, remembering Ike Sundstrom’s nagging insistence that someone always go out and look in the direction you were going to turn. He’d seen his share of crotchety COs. Actually, more than crochets. But you picked up what seemed good from those you served under, and tried not to copy what didn’t. Passing the best practices on to your juniors. One contact, away to the southwest. From the speed and course, a coaster, plodding its way from Cagliari down to Sicily or Malta. He checked in with Danenhower on the Hydra. The engineer said everything sounded fine at his end. Do the rudder tests, and it’d be a wrap.
    â€œPermission granted,” he told Singhe. “But make sure someone’s out on the wing, or check there yourself, before you put that rudder over.”
    She sent the junior officer of the deck out, a fresh-faced ensign named Eugene Mytsalo. “Clear to port,” he reported back.
    The pipe shrilled. “ Commencing rudder tests. All hands stand by for heavy rolls. ” Dan took his fingers out of his ears and felt for his seat belt. Snapped it closed, and braced an elbow against a steel ledge. Around the bridge, men and women sought nooks between the helm and the remote operating console for the 25mm, or reached up to the woven bronze cable that stretched across the pilothouse, a handhold when the world tilted far out of vertical.
    â€œSpeed?”
    â€œThirty-five knots, sir,” said the navigator from his position over by the chart console.
    â€œThis really fast as we go, Bart?” Dan said into the Hydra. “No rocket boosters you can kick