“Yeah, he said something that I didn't like — something plain wrong, skipper — and I called him on it, and you should have seen his reaction. Shit, I thought he'd have a stroke or something. And he was wrong, Bart. It was my tape. He was hassling his people for not cueing on something that wasn't there, okay? It was one of my trick tapes, and they saw that it was bogus, but he didn't and he started raisin' hell. That's a good sonar department. He doesn't know how to use it, but he sure likes to kibbitz like he does. Anyway, after he left, the guys started talking, okay? That isn't the only bunch he gives a hard time to. I hear the engineers are going nuts, trying to keep this clown happy. Is it true they maxed an ORSE?”
Mancuso nodded, despite the fact he didn't like hearing this. “They came within a whisker of setting a record.”
“Well, the guy doesn't want a record, he wants a perfect. He wants to redefine what perfect is. I'm telling you, man, if I was stuck on that boat, after the first cruise the first thing up through the hatch would be my sea bag. I'd fuckin' desert before I worked for that guy!” Jones paused. He'd gone too far. “I caught the signal his XO gave you; I even thought he might have been a little out of line, maybe. I was wrong. That's one very loyal XO. Ricks hates one of his JOs, the kid does tracking-party duty. The quartermaster who's breaking him in — Ensign Shaw, I think his name is — says he's a real good kid, but the skipper's riding him like a broke-down horse.”
“Great, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Beats me, Bart. I retired as an E-6, remember?” Relieve the son of a bitch, Jones thought, though he knew better. You could only relieve for cause.
“I'll talk to him,” Mancuso promised.
“You know, I heard about skippers like that. Never did believe the stories. Guess I got spoiled working for you,” Dr. Jones observed as they approached the terminal. “You haven't changed a bit, you know that? You still listen when somebody talks to you.”
“You have to listen, Ron. You can't know it all yourself.”
“I got news: not everyone knows that. I got one more suggestion.”
“Don't let him go hunting?”
“If I were in your position, I wouldn't.” Jones opened the door. “I don't want to rain on the parade, skipper. That's my professional observation. He isn't up to the game. Ricks is nothing near the captain you used to be.”
Used to be. A singularly poor choice of words, Mancuso thought, but it was true. It was a hell of a lot easier to run a boat than to run a squadron, and a hell of a lot more fun, too.
“Better hustle if you want to catch that flight.” Mancuso held out his hand.
“Skipper, always a pleasure.”
Mancuso watched him walk into the terminal. Jones had never once given him bad advice, and if anything he'd gotten smarter. A pity he hadn't stayed in and gone for a commission. That wasn't true, the Commodore thought next. Ron would have made one hell of a CO, but he would never have had a chance. The system didn't allow it, and that was that.
The driver headed back without being told, leaving Mancuso in his rear seat with his thoughts. The system hadn't changed enough. He'd come up the old way, power school, an engineer tour before he got command. There was too much engineering in the Navy, not enough leadership. He'd made the transition, as did most of the skippers — but not all. Too many people made it through who thought that other people were just numbers, machines to be fixed, things to order, who measured people by numbers that were more easily understood than real results. Jim Rosselli wasn't like that. Neither was Bart Mancuso, but Harry Ricks was.
So. Now what the hell do I do?
First and foremost, he had no basis for relieving Ricks. Had the story come from anyone except Jones, he would have dismissed it as personality clashes. Jones was too reliable an observer for that. Mancuso considered what he'd been told and matched it with the higher-than-usual rate of transfer requests, the rather equivocal words he'd heard from Dutch Claggett. The XO was in a very touchy spot. Already selected for command… one bad word from Ricks and he'd lose that; against that possibility he had his loyalty to the Navy. His job demanded loyalty to his CO even while the Navy demanded truth. It was an impossible position for Claggett, and he'd done all that he could.
The responsibility was Mancuso's. He was the squadron commander. The boats were his. The skippers and crews were his. He rated the COs. That was it, wasn't it?
But was it right? All he had was anecdotal information and coincidence. What if Jones was just pissed off at the guy? What if the transfer requests had just been a statistical blip?
Dodging the issue, Bart. They pay you to make the tough decisions. Ensigns and chiefs get the easy ones. Senior captains are supposed to know what to do. That was one of the Navy's more entertaining fictions.
Mancuso lifted his car-phone. “I want Maine 's XO in my office in thirty minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” his yeoman responded.
Mancuso closed his eyes and dozed for the rest of the ride. Nothing like a catnap to clear the mind. It had always worked on USS Dallas.
Hospital food, Cathy thought. Even at Hopkins, it was still hospital food. There had to be a special school somewhere for hospital chefs. The curriculum would be devoted to eliminating whatever fresh ideas they had, along with any skills they might have with spices, knowledge of recipes… About the only thing they couldn't ruin was the Jell-O.
“Bernie, I need some advice.”
“What's the problem, Cath?” He knew already what it had to be, just from the look on her face and the tone of her voice. He waited as sympathetically as he could. Cathy was a proud woman, as she had every right to be. This had to be dreadfully hard on her.
“It's Jack.” The words came out rapidly, as though by a spasm, then stopped again.
The pain Katz saw in her eyes was more than he could bear. “You think he's…”
“What? No — I mean — how, why did you…?”
“Cathy, I'm not supposed to do this, but you're too important a friend for that. Screw the rules! Look, I had a guy in here last week, asking about you and Jack.”
The hurt only got worse. “What do you mean? Who was here? Where from?”
“Government guy, some kind of investigator. Cathy, I'm sorry, but he asked me if there — if you had said anything about trouble at home. This guy was checking up on Jack, and he wanted to know if I knew anything that you were saying.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I didn't know anything. I told him that you're one of the best people I know. You are, Cathy. You're not alone. You have friends, and if there is anything I can do — that any of us can do — to help you, we will help you. Cathy, you're like family. You're probably feeling very hurt, and you're probably feeling very embarrassed. That is stupid, Cathy, that is very stupid. You know it's stupid, don't you?” Those pretty blue eyes were covered in tears, Katz saw, and in this moment he craved the chance to kill Jack Ryan, maybe do it on a table with a very sharp, very small surgical knife. “Cathy, being alone doesn't help. This is what friends are really for. You are not alone.”
“I just can't believe it, Bernie. I just can't.”
“Come on, let's talk in my office, where it's private. Food's crummy today anyway.” Katz got her out of there, and he was sure that no one noticed. Two minutes later they were in his private office. He moved a stack of case files from the only other chair and sat her in it.
“He's just been acting different lately.”
“Do you really think it's possible that Jack is fooling around?” It took half a minute. Katz watched her eyes go up and down, finally staying down as she faced reality.
“It's possible. Yes.”
Bastard! “Have you talked to him about it?” Katz kept his voice low and reasonable, but not dispassionate. She needed a friend now, and friends had to share pain to be useful.
A shake of the head. “No, I don't know how.”
“You know that you have to do that.”
“Yeah.” Not so much a word as a gasp.
“It's not going to be easy. Remember,” Katz said with gentle hope in his voice, “it could all be a mistake. Just
