The Circle by David Poyer Read Free Book Online

this coast—were slated for decommission and scrap. But that was two years ago.” Norden shrugged; his face darkened. “She’s like an old clunker nobody bothers to fix anymore or cares about. You just keep adding ten-weight till it craps out, then take the plates and leave it by the side of the road. Bloch, that’s your boatswain’s mate chief, he’s good. But you’re going to have to exercise leadership. We got some hard cases—guys been busted in rate, brig rats, that kind of shit. Anybody can’t hack it in the other division, they shitcan them to you.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI don’t mean to turn you off. We can use some youthful enthusiasm. But I want you to go in with your eyes open. You’ll get a lot of sob stories from the deck apes. But our job’s to keep this ship running somehow.”
    â€œI’ll do my best, sir.”
    â€œI know that. Just wanted to give you the straight skinny.”
    â€œI appreciate that—Rich.”
    They walked aft, around the turn of the deckhouse, into a knot of shouting men. Dan caught one of the voices: “… don’t got a fuckin’ clue what’s really going down—”
    â€œWhoa,” said Norden into sudden silence. “What’s going on?”
    â€œNothing, sir,” said several voices. The shouters moved apart warily, then drifted aft. The one who remained put his fists on his hips and looked expectantly at Norden. He was the man Dan had watched on the forecastle.
    â€œEnsign Dan Lenson, meet Boatswain’s Mate Chief Harvey Bloch.”
    â€œPleased to meet you, Chief.”
    â€œWelcome aboard, sir.”
    Dan looked at him eye-to-eye, but height was the only dimension he matched this man in. Bloch seemed as thick as he was wide. His bare head was bald, whether naturally or shaved, Dan couldn’t tell. His stomach bulged, turning the waistband of his trousers, and a nest of black hair showed at his neck. A knot of keys was clipped to his belt. He looked exhausted and angry.
    â€œYou our new division officer, sir?”
    â€œThat’s what they tell me, Chief.”
    â€œMr. Sullivan’s not coming back?”
    â€œNo, he’s gone for good,” said Norden. “He really stepped on his crank this time.”
    â€œToo bad,” said Bloch, looking off to sea. “I liked him.” His left hand slapped a chipping hammer into his right. It disappeared when he wrapped his fingers around it. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. Dan stared at a blurred Betty Boop in a sailor cap, skirt lifted and bodice open, showing purple breasts larger than her head. On the other arm, a scroll—the letters too seeped and faded to read—disappeared under the sleeve.
    â€œD’we come up with those anchor stoppers, Chief?”
    â€œYessir. Some dickhead storecreature sent ’em down to the snipes.”
    â€œAnd did we get the pump covers, and the new garbage chute before we got under way?”
    â€œRousted ’em out of the tender last night.”
    â€œGood. How about introducing Ensign Lenson here to some of his men?”
    â€œNo problem.” The chief bellowed downwind, “First Division! Front and center! Yeah, you!”
    The men he addressed, the ones he’d been shouting with a few minutes before, dropped brushes into cans and ambled toward them. One straightened a paint-stained white hat; another slowly tucked in a ragged shirt. The others simply strolled up and stopped, swaying to the slow roll of the deck. “This here’s our new division officer,” said Bloch. “Straighten up, Gonzales, for Christ’s sake! That’s Greenwald. Hardin. Jones. Williams. This here is Coffey. And this prize pupil is Seaman Recruit Lassard.”
    The last named was older than the others. His face was handsome but spoiled by his hair. It was cut to the quick, boot camp—style. His pale hands were flecked