The Circle by David Poyer Read Free Book Online Page A

with white paint. Seaman recruit, Dan thought. You couldn’t get lower in the Navy. Most enlisted were third class, even second, at this man’s age.
    Lassard returned his stare with a faint, absent smile. His blue eyes were slightly bloodshot. He looked intelligent, but Dan had the feeling he wasn’t really there with them, on the open fantail of USS Ryan, standing out to sea.
    â€œAy, four-oh to meet you, man,” he said softly. “You can call him Slick. Everybody does. You Flamer’s replacement?”
    â€œLassard, that fuckin’ mouth of yours—”
    â€œThat’s all right, Chief,” Dan said. It looked like a chance to establish quick rapport. He took a step forward and extended his hand. Lassard took it with the same dreamy look. Dan felt the callus, the hard muscle beneath.
    The grip tightened, forcing his knuckles together. Dan hissed in surprise and pain before he remembered his father’s old cop trick. When his left thumb found the paint-smeared web of Lassard’s, the remote eyes widened, just a fraction, and then the seaman let go and stepped back.
    â€œAy, man, you got soft hands there.”
    He felt something sticky on his palm, and stopped himself from wiping it on his uniform pants. His hand hurt now, but he ignored it and shook hands with the others, too, trying to match names with faces. Gonzales, short and dark, grinned and slid his feet around when he was introduced. Greenwald was thin, with a face like an accountant’s unexpectedly but not without reason accused of fraud. Coffey’s was rigid as carved teak, his hand dry and neutral. He wore a shoelace braided around his wrist.
    â€œOkay, back to work,” said Bloch. The men ambled aft again. He turned to Lenson. “The most useless set of cats’ assholes in the division. No. In the ship. They call themselves the ‘kinnicks.’”
    â€œâ€˜Kinnicks?’”
    â€œI don’t know, and I don’t care, sir. I just know I could get twice as much done around here without ’em.”
    â€œDiscipline problems? Or just lazy?”
    Bloch uttered a fearsome blasphemy. “This is the worse division I seen in twenty-eight years in the Navy, sir. Half of ’em come in to dodge the draft. I got three new transfers—not these, these are the bright boys—Cat Five. That means IQ under eighty. You got to show them which end of a swab to hold on to. Every time. But they’re not the ones give you trouble. Lieutenant here’ll back me up—”
    As he talked, Dan watched the men. Lassard was painting a white diamond around a pad eye. Each time he lifted his brush from the pot, he paused, staring out at the passing sea. As the paint drooled downward, the wind spun streamers of it out over the gray deck. “Just pretend I’m not here, Chief,” said Norden. “Give it to him straight.”
    â€œAll right.” Bloch rubbed his hand over his head. “We got short-sheeted on the last overhaul. XO cut my budget again last month. We ain’t even got enough paint—I had to cumshaw twenty gallons haze gray off a master chief on the Sara. I could make do if I had good men. But we’re short a lot of hands, and like I say, there’s major problems with the ones we got.”
    â€œHow about petty officers?”
    â€œTwo of ’em are okay. One just made third. My first-class…”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with him?”
    Bloch looked at the deck but didn’t answer.
    â€œI’m just showing him around the ship now, Chief. You two can get together for record review later.”
    â€œWell, nice meeting you, Chief.”
    â€œWelcome aboard, sir.” Bloch hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. These old cans are the cat’s nuts.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThe best. We got problems, but I’d ten times rather be aboard here than the cookie tins they’re building now.