The Med by David Poyer Page A

deck called him, hoping he had made the right decision on a closing contact, waiting for the scream of the whistle; but his fitness reports had always mentioned his dependability. He was short, and that was a drawback. Most of the golden, the select, were tall men. But there was nothing a man could do about that but watch his posture, and of course his weight. He knew that his caution and thoroughness made enemies, as they had at the Bureau of Personnel, that there were people who cared less than he did for doing things the safe way. These people would make him look bad if they could.
    But he was too close now to falter or even waver. The path was narrow, the ascent steep, and the competition keen. But he was still young. If iron determination, iron will, and tireless attention to detail counted for anything, Ike Sundstrom was sure he could make it.
    The essential thing, he thought, is never to make a mistake.

5
    Naples, Italy
    When word came down at last to secure main engines something relaxed inside Kelly Wronowicz’s chest. It was as if the dying whine of Ault ’s turbines, spinning down for the first time in two weeks, was a part of himself shutting down.
    He watched the throttleman spin the worn wheel with one finger, cutting the invisible bloodstream of steam that kept the old destroyer alive. The pressure gauge above his head spun down to zero.
    â€œClosed tight?”
    â€œYeah, Chief.”
    â€œStewie, remember the jacking gear. We don’t need no bowed shafts. And I want lube oil temps below ninety before you wrap up the watch down here.”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œAnd take that leftover coffee. Dump it on the deckplates with some scouring powder and get Blaney to kaieye it down before he secures.”
    â€œRight, Chief.”
    When the jacking gear had been engaged and tested, Wronowicz left the throttle board and walked aft through the engineroom. To either side they loomed up, his evaporators, his pumps, generators and reduction gears, the steel-shining complexity of steam and cooling lines, reach rods, wiring. He hardly noticed the hundred-degree heat, the dank smell compounded of steam, lube oil, hot steel, and baked insulation. The walkway rang under his boots, slippery with condensation and oil, and his ear tuned without conscious thought from the slight off-pitch of number-one ship’s service generator, to the hiss of steam through the gland exhausts of the air ejector (he would have to repack it soon, but not today, not today), to the gay shout of one of the watchstanders as he threw his log board onto its peg. Absently wiping his fingers, black with grease and soot, on a rag from his back pocket, he rubbed them over the casing of the low-pressure turbine. Around him, for the length of the engineroom, the grease-softened light of the fluorescents glowed off piping and ductwork, off hose reels, colored bottles of compressed gas and firefighting chemicals; off coils of emergency cable as thick as his hairy wrists. He paused at the ladder, looking back toward the throttle board. The top watch was making the last entries in the log, the lower level men were stowing their tools, oiling cans, rags, wrenches.
    Machinist’s Mate Chief Kelly Wronowicz looked over his kingdom, breathed one deep sigh, and went up the ladder toward the main deck.
    By the time the mooring lines were fast, the ratguards rigged, “A” gang busy on the pier connecting water and telephone lines, Wronowicz was exhausted. Although he did not show it. He never showed weakness or exhaustion to the thirty roughnecks he bossed in Ault ’s “M” Division, and especially not to the main propulsion assistant, Ensign Callin.
    The chiefs’ quarters was noisy with men showering and dressing, readying themselves for the first wild night in Naples. He peeled off his coveralls, noticing for the first time in days their smell, the grease and soot ground in so deep the ship’s laundry had long ago