The Med by David Poyer Page B

given up on them, and sagged two hundred and twenty hairy pounds into his rack with a grunt. The mattress was soft, welcoming, and he felt that part of him that had relaxed with the shutdown ebb toward sleep. He wanted nothing more in the world. The last two weeks at sea—with materiel inspection, replacing a dozen failed flexitallic gaskets because Foster forgot he was driving a ship as old as he was, landing exercises, underway replenishment—had been hell. And Callin on him every minute, ignorant as a tick … he pulled his mind away from work. They were in port at last, and the machinery could cool into immobile metal, cool and shrink and rest. He rested too, and the whine of electric razors faded into a long-awaited unconsciousness.
    â€œHey, Kelly,” said a voice. “Lieutenant Jay wants to see you out in the passageway.”
    Wronowicz turned over heavily in his bunk. “Whatever it is, tell him to grease it good and cram it up his ass.
    â€œAll right,” he added, after a moment of silence. “I’m coming.” Three deep breaths later he got up, pulled a pair of pants over his belly, centered the buckle, and went up into the chief’s lounge.
    The engineering officer was small and finely built. He was fresh off the bridge, in tailored trop whites, and gold glittered at his shoulders and on the cap he held under one arm. Wronowicz felt his glance at his gut, at the dark circles of sweat under the armpits of his T-shirt, but he knew Jay didn’t really mind. If a snipe was clean he wasn’t doing his job, and the lieutenant, despite his crispness on watch, got just as filthy when something needed doing down in the hole.
    â€œYou wanted me, sir?”
    â€œYeah, Chief. I can’t find Mr. Callin. Some things have to be done before the department goes ashore.” Jay glanced around the lounge; Wronowicz shrugged. That meant, in the shorthand of men who worked together every day, that Jay didn’t want to say anything critical in front of the other chiefs, and that the machinist’s mate didn’t mind.
    â€œWhat’s that, sir?”
    â€œThing is, after the fueling, they didn’t clean up right. There’s oil on the deck and handprints all over the bulkhead. The exec brought it to my attention.”
    â€œYessir, I know about that. I figured the duty section could get it, sir,” said Wronowicz. He wiped what remained of his hair back with one hand. “I hate to keep the snipes turned to when everybody else is walking off the brow, after the hours they’ve put in this last couple weeks.”
    â€œI do too,” said Jay. “But we’ve been through this before, Chief. If they’d clean up after a job we wouldn’t take this flak. I want the same people to clean it who were on station when it happened. And I want it done now.”
    â€œAye aye, sir,” he said, rubbing his belly sadly. Jay left.
    â€œYou look terrible, Kelly,” said Chief Sullivan, coming out of the pantry with a cinnamon bun. He was already dressed for liberty in a loud Hawaiian shirt and seersucker slacks. “You said to stop by before we left … you sure you want to hit the beach tonight?”
    â€œYeah, I’ll hit it,” snapped Wronowicz. His sleep was wrecked now. “Just give me a couple minutes. I’ll meet you on the pier.”
    â€œWe’ll be there.”
    He made it to a chair before his legs gave way. Two shots of Chief’s Mess coffee, as much darker and more virulent than regular Navy coffee as that is to the weak stuff civilians brew, put strength back into his limbs. His heart began to beat. He felt mean again, as a chief should, and the lights got a little brighter.
    One more cup, black, and then he went down to engineering berthing and collared Roberts and Smee, chewed them out, and sent them up to the refueling station. He took a quick shower and put on a fresh set of whites, cocking his