Free China Sea by David Poyer

himself.
    Juskoviac sauntered by. When their glances crossed the XO’s went elsewhere, like a refused épée. He and the exec had had an unpleasant encounter yesterday, when Dan had called him in to read his detachment fitness report. Juskoviac had quivered in injured innocence. He’d said they were both in exactly the same position, waiting for boards. He’d helped push the ship through the yards in record time. He would most definitely be submitting a statement in response to this unfair fitrep. The implication was clear: Dan’s adverse grading of him was nothing more than knifing his temporary subordinate in order to make his own chances better.
    Robidoux, carrying punch for a platinum blonde in a pale sheath dress who reminded Dan of a Q-Tip. Sansone, alone, shifting from foot to foot as he listened to an older gentleman in a Pearl Harbor Survivors Association ball cap. Dave Zabounian, with his wife, Sarah. Zabounian, Dan had noticed, wore the maroon good conduct ribbon that identified ex-enlisted, what the Navy called Mustangs. He had four small children, whose photos he kept in the card pocket inside his cap. His wife had a stunned look, like an axed steer. Zabounian, Dan remembered, was on the list for the MTT: the Mobile Training Team, the remnant of the U.S. crew that would ride the ship from the commissioning port to the receiving country.
    â€œMarsh” Mellows, beside him. Dan lifted a glass to the towering chief master-at-arms. “Marsh, how you doing. Ceremony went real well.”
    â€œThanks, sir. Nice speech.”
    â€œYou didn’t invite your wife? Correct me if I’m wrong—you’re married, right?”
    The broad smiling face didn’t alter. “Was, sir. You know how it is when you deploy. Haven’t seen the ex for five years. The kids have got a new dad now.”
    â€œI know just exactly what you mean,” said Dan, thinking of Susan and Nan and the dermatologist, what was his name, Feynman. The showcase house in Utah. But he didn’t want to think about that; the taste was too bitter. “Your name’s on the MTT list, too, isn’t it?”
    â€œYessir. Been a while since I’ve seen that part of the world.”
    â€œJust stay out of Captain K.’s way.” They both chuckled, and Dan added, “Seriously, Marsh, you’ve been a big help, keeping the two crews working together, backstopping the exec as chief master-at-arms. I really appreciate it.”
    â€œIt’s not that tough keeping the guys in line, sir. Just make it your business to know everything that’s going on. Know what makes ’em tick. A little reminder here, a little favor there. Long as they figure you’re gonna find out whatever’s going on, they’re not gonna give you much trouble.”
    â€œWell, I appreciate your fine work. I signed your evaluation out yesterday. Should help you on the E-8 board.”
    Mellows’s smile dimmed a few watts. “I’m not gonna be going up, sir. This here’s my last tour.”
    â€œYou’re getting out? You don’t have thirty yet, do you?”
    â€œNo, sir. It’s a physical problem.” Mellows didn’t elaborate, and Dan didn’t get the impression a probe would be welcome. He lifted his beer bottle and Dan nodded farewell and the broad back drifted off toward the chief’s table.
    Someone took Dan’s arm. When he turned, there was Captain Munro. “Commander. Sorry I haven’t been much use to you the last few weeks.”
    Actually, he’d seen the chief staff officer exactly once, after the at-sea tests, when he came aboard for a hurried lunch. Khashar had been there, too, so Dan had been hobbled in discussing both his doubts about the incoming crew’s readiness for sea and the question that had nagged him ever since he got this assignment. So that now, free in the hum of chat and music to speak, he said, “Nice to see you,