Tipping Point: The War With China - the First Salvo (Dan Lenson Novels) (11 page)

“Here, sir. Signed and witnessed.” Staurulakis placed pages on the lectern.

“You are advised that a captain’s mast is not a trial and that a determination here is not a conviction by a court of law. Further, you are advised that the formal rules that apply in courts-martial do not apply at mast.” When Peeples nodded Dan held up the paper. “Is this your signature?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you understand this statement? And were your rights personally explained to you by the exec?”

A hesitation; then a firm “Yessir. I understand.”

“All right, good.” Dan gave it a beat; looked around the wardroom. Holding mast was the least favorite part of his job. Being judge, jury, and executioner. But he had a pretty good idea what punishment was in order here, or at least what the typical “award” was and thus what the crew would expect.

The purpose of mast wasn’t justice. As Melville had made perfectly clear in
Billy Budd.
Discipline first, consistency second—no one liked a capricious captain, or one who played favorites.

Dan focused on the now-perspiring young face in front of him. “Peeples, it’s essential we know exactly what happened, both from your point of view as well as that of your senior, Petty Officer Scharner.

“Now, both the chiefs and the XO felt her accusation warranted bringing you up before me. I will advise you personally that what is best for you right now is to come clean. Equivocate or lie, and life can get unpleasant very fast. Understand?”

A hesitation, then a nod. “All right,” Dan said, trying for a friendlier tone. “Now what’s your side of the story?”

“Well, sir … the petty officer, she always gives me the dirtiest jobs. I’m not sure why. I just came off watch, and I was tired, and I had the
Savo
crud—”

“The
what
?”

“That’s what they call it, Captain. Anyway, we’re shorthanded in the gang, and I’m headed for my rack when she tells me I’ve got to tear down the fucking … tear down the damn coolant pump. That’s a twelve-, fourteen-hour job, tear down and rebuild. And she wants it by tomorrow morning. I said, how about Petty Officer Alonso, and she said, she’s busy. And that she doesn’t want any back talk, she just wants that pump back on the line. I admit, I lost my temper. But I didn’t call her what she said I called her.”

“What did she say you called her?” Dan asked him.

“A fucking cunt,” Peeples murmured.

Dan cleared his throat, trying hard not to laugh out loud. “The charge sheet doesn’t say that. It quotes you as calling her a, um, hucking skunt. Is that accurate, Seaman?”

“Uh, yessir, that’s pretty much accurate.”

“Is it, or not?”

“Uh, yessir, that’s pretty much it. That’s what I said, sir.”

A beam of sun leaned in the window and explored the carpet. Dust motes milled through it. Sand, from the deserts of Arabia, the wastes of the Sudan. Was what he was doing here any more important than the milling of those motes? “What exactly is a ‘skunt,’ Seaman Peeples?”

“Sir?”

“You called her that. What is it? I am unfamiliar with the terminology.” God, he sounded so stuffy.

“A skunt’s like a low-class, um, bitch, sir. Sort of like a skank.”

“So there is such a word?”

“I don’t know if it’s in the dictionary.…” Peeples glanced at Tausengelt, as if for corroboration, but the senior enlisted’s visage was iron.

“Let’s set that aside for the moment, and focus on the fact that you intended it as an insult. Is that correct?”

This was the come-to-Jesus moment Dan had calculated on, and to his relief Peeples rose to it. How does a fish get caught? He opens his mouth. The seaman said, shamefacedly, “Yessir.”

“And it referred to her, specifically, as a female?”

Again the seaman said, “Yes sir,” looking at the deck.

Dan said briskly, “If you intended it that way, the specific wording, seems to me, is beside the point. Petty Officer Scharner, anything to add? Specifically, on the assertion you habitually award him the dirtiest jobs?”

The petty officer said, “He’s junior guy in the work center, Captain.”

“Chief McMottie. Any substance to the accused’s statement that Petty Office Scharner habitually awards the scuzziest jobs to male crew members?”

The senior engineering chief said, “Not to my knowledge, Captain. But we all had to work long hours, there in Crete.”

Dan polled the division officer, then Danenhower. Neither supported Peeples, though Danenhower added he was a conscientious watchstander and equipment operator. “He does have a smart mouth on him, but when he signs off on a maintenance job, it’s done right.”

Dan asked the exec, for form’s sake, if this was Peeples’s first appearance at mast. She said it was.

He looked at his notes, letting silence fall, to give the appearance of deliberation. A chipping hammer clattered somewhere far aft. To dismiss the case wouldn’t help discipline. He could assign extra military instruction, which would make the kid work extra hours. But that didn’t mean much when you were pulling eighteen-hour days anyway. Plus, usually the chiefs or the exec awarded EMI; it was below the CO’s pay grade. And restriction to the ship didn’t mean squat when they were under way.

The harshest punishment he could impose was thirty days’ restriction and extra duty, reduction in rank to seaman recruit, and dock half Peeples’s pay for three months. Any of that could be suspended, and he’d normally suspend the bust and pay. This way he could give the guy a second chance, and if he screwed up again, he knew he’d get hammered.

The key was consistency, and Dan cleared his throat. “In previous cases, my predecessor as CO awarded hefty punishments for violating this article. And rightly so. This being my first time holding mast aboard
Savo,
I don’t see any reason to veer … I mean, vary from that precedent. However, as this is Seaman Peeples’s first time at mast, there may be grounds to—”

“Excuse me, Captain. If I may?”

He glanced up, taken aback. “Lieutenant Singhe?”

Singhe took a step forward, leading Scharner with her. “With all due respect, sir, the typical punishment will not suffice in this case.”

Dan frowned. “Explain why not.”

“This isn’t just a case of a seaman mouthing off to his petty officer. However phrased, the fact remains he called her, let’s speak plainly here, a ‘fucking cunt.’ It typifies a widespread and growing problem on this ship: a lack of respect for authority, when that authority happens to be female. We need to make it crystal clear the command supports its female members.”

The wardroom suddenly seemed a lot quieter. Dan looked from her, to Peeples, to Staurulakis. The exec’s eyes were narrowed, but she wasn’t disagreeing. Then back to Singhe. “Are you acting as some sort of prosecutor here, Lieutenant? Because there’s no such position at a captain’s mast.”

Singhe said, “I’m acting as a spokesperson for Petty Officer Scharner and the other women in the crew. Since no one else seems to be standing up for them.”

“There’s no position for female spokesperson, or ombudswoman, or whatever you want to call it.” Dan curbed his angry tone too late, but the comment about “no one else” had stung. He said more evenly, “I’ll take your comments under advisement for the command policy board.”

“Aye aye, sir,” she said, stepping back. Lifting that goddesslike profile, widening her eyes and lifting her gaze, as if calling on some higher authority as witness.

He looked down again, seething. Singhe had wrecked his plan. He’d been going to award Peeples restriction and dock him three months’ pay, and not suspend any of it, making clear that the reason was the slur he’d used wasn’t just a general insult, but a specifically sexual slur. But if he did that now, he’d look as if he’d given in to Singhe, caved to feminist pressure. While if he went easy, it would look as if he were supporting any male crewman who felt resentful about having a female boss.

Damn it.… He cleared his throat again and rasped, “I just came from commissioning a destroyer named after a woman who died under my command. USS
Cobie Kasson
. Any idea we’re not supporting our female members is flat wrong.” He gave it a beat, then went back to the formula. “Are there any more witnesses you’d like to call, or additional statements or evidence you would like to present?”

Peeples shook his head, looking enervated, but beside Dan, Tausengelt stirred. The senior enlisted adviser growled, “Captain, a comment.”

“Speak your piece, Master Chief.”

“Basically, I agree with what you said and all, the command policy about supporting female members. But on the other side, it’s not really fair to try this kid on how politically correct he is when he loses his temper. Or give him some kind of extra punishment because of it.”

Dan sighed again, inwardly. Now he had Tausengelt, McMottie, and the chief master-at-arms, the three most influential chiefs on the ship, glaring at Singhe and Scharner, while beside Dan, Staurulakis was staring at him expectantly. He harrumphed and they all looked at him. “I appreciate everyone’s input. After due consideration, I am imposing the following punishment: sixty days’ restriction to the ship and half pay for three months, the half pay to be suspended for a period of six months. To clarify this, Peeples, you’ll serve the EMI and restriction. If you succeed in not repeating your offense for six months, your pay will not be docked. But if you screw up like this again, I’ll revoke the suspension and your pay reduction will start then.

“I strongly advise you to take this opportunity to revise how you interact with your seniors. Petty Officer Scharner, you are reminded to exercise fairness and restraint in dealing with your juniors, just as you expect fairness from those above you in the chain of command.” He paused, but got only weak “Yessirs” from them both. He snapped, “Dismissed.”

“Accused: Cover. Ready … two. About
face,
” said Toan. “Forward …
harch
.”

When the door closed on them Dan snapped the binder shut and handed it to the exec. She looked remote. Singhe, angry. Danenhower, puzzled. The chiefs left quickly, speaking to none of the officers.

The chief engineer, still frowning, went to the sideboard and valved coffee into a heavy mug. “Uh, what just happened?” he muttered.

“You think that was a fair sentence, Bart?”

“For Peepsie? Oh, sure. Pretty much what they usually get, right? For a first-time fuckup. But what was all that from Amy?” He lowered his voice, glancing toward the exec. “And the XO nodding, agreeing with her?”

Dan didn’t answer. He’d hoped this whole Singhe versus the Chief’s Mess fight was over, but it looked like it was on again. He raised his voice. “Cheryl, we need to talk. About the exercises. We’re heading into dangerous waters. I want us to be ready.”

“Yes sir. Certainly, sir,” his exec said, expressionless, gaze eluding his. She flipped her PDA open. “Let’s see what we have planned.”

6

The Gulf of Aden

DESPITE
the wind, the clouds never seemed to move. Since dawn, they’d been visible only now and then through low plaques of fog that hugged the sea. Beyond them a burning sky should have belonged to some hellish planet much closer to the sun. six- to eight-foot seas were locomotived by winds from the southwest of twenty knots, with gusts to thirty. The bulwark of the bridge wing that Dan leaned on was too hot to touch with bare skin. The arid wind spasmed his throat; after the icy air in CIC, the heat made his temples throb. Right now they were in one of the gaps in the fog. The blue sea rolled, streaked with foam but otherwise empty, for ten thousand yards in the direction they’d be firing.

He lowered the binoculars. “Check again with Combat.”

“Combat confirms: range clear, both radar and visual.”

“Very well.” He coughed into a fist and screwed bright yellow foam plugs into his ear canals. “Batteries released.”

The phone talker repeated the command, and the first rounds cracked out of the chain gun, followed by light gray smoke that blew aft as the ship left it behind. Dan followed the projectiles in the binoculars by the furrowed instantaneous trace they left, like a crease in reality itself. The target rocked and rolled amid blue swells, a lashup of empty oil drums and scrap dunnage daubed fluorescent orange. Gray-helmeted, life-jacketed, the gunner’s mates took turns at the pedestal-mounted gun, fitting their shoulders to the yoke to trigger bursts of five to seven rounds. Spray fountained up, obscuring the target. He braced his elbows, watching. The 25mms seemed more accurate, or maybe just easier to aim, than the 50-cals. And the rounds would hit harder, though a .50 was nothing to sneeze at.

He lingered on the wing as control was shifted to the remote operating consoles, just inside the doors. The operators twitched joysticks, watching screens. This time the rounds perforated the target. Within seconds, as the white spray subsided, it rolled over and disappeared beneath the blue.

“Target destroyed.”

“Very well. Come back to base course.” Dan crossed the pilothouse to his chair, stowed his glasses, and climbed up. And once again, resumed flipping through, and worrying about, that morning’s messages.

After a five-hour refueling stop in Djibouti, then exiting the Bab-el-Mendeb,
Savo
had reported in to Commander, Task Force 151, the antipirate coalition that patrolled the Arabian Sea. Since then she’d been trolling the Gulf of Aden and east coast of Africa, what the Navy called the “internationally recognized transit corridor” or IRTC. Maritime Trade Operations was reporting dozen of attacks each month on commercial vessels, and not long before, a private yacht had been hijacked and four Dutch nationals killed. A Russian combat tug, patrolling off Socotra, had reported boarding and sinking a confirmed pirate. So far, though, no one on
Savo
had glimpsed Edward Teach, Johnny Sparrow, or indeed any pirates whatsoever.

Meanwhile, the Iranians were threatening again to close the Gulf to foreign, meaning Western, shipping. He reread the top message: a maritime advisory for vessels transiting the Strait of Hormuz, southern Arabian Gulf, and western Gulf of Oman. It warned about swarm attacks by the Revolutionary Guard Corps, or Pasdaran, an ideological force separate from the regular Iranian navy.