The Command

And suddenly it gripped him. A gush of cold sweat all over his back. The instantaneous and swiftly increasing fear he might turn and run. Or worse, stand mutely frozen, unable to respond or react.

At the edge of his mind, something began to glow. A thin, pale edge, like a white-hot steel blade seen end on.

He heard the engines start to whine, and cut them off. Hearing his voice high, almost out of control. Hoping it wasn’t too late, that he hadn’t stood rooted too long and missed his chance.

The stern halted its downwind drift and nudged twenty yards to port. The momentary shot of water through the rudders had kicked the stern to windward, but hadn’t increased their forward velocity that much. Maybe they could still brake with the lines, before they slammed the delicate dome below the bow into concrete and mud.

He eased out a shaky breath. Told the phone talker, calmly as he could, “Put over lines two and four.”

Two and four were the spring lines that tended aft, the only ones that could brake the forward momentum he’d built. The line guns popped. Orange ribbons uncoiled in the air. And thank God, the handlers on the pier grabbed the vivid filaments as they drifted down and began hauling them in hand over hand, first the lead line, then the nine-thread, and last the heavy elephant’s-trunks of mooring line. The handlers dropped the bights hastily over the bitts, then took to their heels.

He looked down again at the forecastle crew. They were edging back, too, but the chief was shouting at them to stand fast.

“Check two and four,” he said.

Hotchkiss spoke for the first time since turning over the conn. “Not hold them, sir?”

Dan rethought. “Checking” meant one turn on a chock, braking the outrunning line with friction. “Holding” meant making it fast, stopping the ship dead — unless, of course, the line snapped. And it was true they were not slowing fast enough.

The rat stood suddenly on its hind legs, seeing the bow towering above it. Then tore for the shelter of a Dumpster, speed laying it flat along the ground.

“No, we’ll check them. If we hit the quay, too bad. If we part a line, we’ll kill somebody on the fo’c’s’le.” He shouted into the pilothouse, “Rudder hard left. Engines back full.” And to the phone talker, “Put over one and six.”

A chattering groan rose below them. Nylon, biting and slipping over steel as it absorbed energy. White smoke burst off the bitts. Horn reeled, tilting. He felt the astern bell taking effect, but too late. The quay wall slid out of sight beneath the bow. He closed his eyes, bracing for the crunch.

When seconds passed without it, he opened them again. Nothing had parted, and they hadn’t hit the quay. He breathed out, looking around at those who watched from bridges and forecastles, who’d gathered, like spectators at a suttee, to witness his self-immolation. Said to Hotchkiss, “Okay, you’ve got the conn back. Remember your engines are still astern. Your rudder’s still right, and you’ve still got the tug alongside.”

The windlasses began going around, slowly warping Horn

into her berth, while Dan stepped back where no one could see him, lifted his cover, and smoothed a shaking hand over his sweat-soaked scalp.

* * *

The Second Fleet flagship was moored close enough to walk to. His briefcase was waiting at the quarterdeck, along with Lieutenant (jg) McCall, the strike officer. Strike was the rename for what had been missile officer on his previous ships. Kimberley McCall was rail-thin, as tall as Dan, and carried herself in a way that straddled boyish scrawny and model elegant. She was from Savannah and proud of it, single and into tennis, parties, and getting her MBA. Dan told her they’d be visiting Vice Admiral B. F. Niles. Had she ever heard of him?

“Yes, sir. ‘Nick’ Niles. First African-American three-star. Commanded Barney and California. I hear your paths have crossed before.”

“What?”

“You worked with him at Joint Cruise Missile Projects. Back when the test beds were crashing, and nobody knew why till you found out. They told us that story at Tomahawk School.”

Dan remembered it: how he’d frozen his butt off lost in Saskatchewan and only survived by burning the fuel out of the bird. “Sea stories get improved along the way. And Admiral Niles and I haven’t had the happiest of relationships.”

“Any idea why he wants to see you, sir?”

“I’d guess it has to do with Women at Sea. But we’ll find out when we get there.”

They fell silent, swinging along the waterfront. Gray prows grew, cast their shadows over them, fell behind. The smells of river, fuel oil, steam, exhaust. Passing enlisted muttered, “Good morning, sir, ma’am.” Dan noticed them eyeing McCall. She was humming under her breath.