Chapter 20: Oversight Gone Wrong and A Replacement Crewman

The guys came back on board; tanned, relaxed and happy. (fat, dumb and happy?) Sure, they noticed the changes but didn't think much of them. The watch group noticed the equipment added to the S.A. radar corner.

I wondered how much Chris knew. He hadn't said much about his previous naval experience, only that it was there. His reactions to some things had proven anomalous. I was going to test him. I requested that he come up to the bridge to check on a repeater. I blocked his sight of the CIC until he was half-way across the room. I stepped aside and carefully watched his face. Our Chris knew a lot more than his CV said he should. He stopped cold and his face went white. He started to hyperventilate. He was in fight-or-flight. I closed and dogged the hatch behind him, then walked past where he stood to the console. I brought up the displays and initiated a stealth scan, then watched it fill in the details. He looked kind of sad. I picked up the phone and called the naval base security desk.

"Tony Santorini here, aboard the Blessed Silence. I've got a crew member, a Chris Offenbach, ssn XXX-XX-XXXX that I need to have vetted, and his security clearance checked. I'll hold. Security office? Got the flash from the gate on Chris Offenbach? Is he real: or should I shoot him, dump him over the side, and let YOU deal with the body? Christian Leonard Atkinson? Counterintelligence? Could have fooled me. He broke cover a couple of times. Top Secret you say? Okay. Yeah, yeah--'need to know', and all that. Base commander will confirm. Later."

I turned to face him. Chris, you just got real lucky. Events like this are why I had an extra heavy duty macerator pump installed."

I watched his Adam's apple do the high jump.

"Come with me." I said.

I took him into my suite, and looked over the shelf near the desk. Yep, there it was! It was a new binder set, with the operational instructions for the CIC, all signed off by the Office of Naval Operations, in my name. I was golden.

I sat him down, 'fa-lumph-ed' the first binder down in front of him and let him read the title page. I sat down across the corner from him.

"I'm legal. Read these."

I pulled out my briefcase and pulled out my certs. Then I opened th eback sleeve and removed the war college commendations and invitation. He went through everything, checking back and forth to see if the dates and filing codes matched. They did. He closed the case and sat back, looking at me.

"You've been too lucky, too busy."

I leaned forward on my elbows. "Accuse all you like. Fuck you if reality offends you. Reality doesn't give a rat's ass about you, either, asshole."

He jerked back like he'd just gotten an electrical shock. He was used to being the one dealing the aces. Too bad. He had been dealt a handful of shit and had no way to cheat. Too. Fucking. Bad. I gestured with my head.

"Door's that way. Don't let it hit you in the ass on the way out. If you won't trust me then I can't, and won't, trust you. Likewise I won't abide a judgemental asshole on board with a holier-than-thou attitude. Get. Off. My. Ship! Is that clear enough for you?"

Just like that, he was gone. I was sure that he'd write the most damming precis of his firing that he could. It was a good thing that I recorded his exit interview ... all of it. I made a DVD of the recording, finalized it to keep anyone from editing or overwriting it, and sent a copy to the office of the base commander, attention for his eyes. Lie your way out of that one, chump. I didn't even cut him a final check. He had been double-dipping anyway. I had to grin. Once the bean counters twigged to that little fact, he'd see no rest until the grave.

I called a quick all-hands crew meeting to tell them that we'd had a spy. I played the exit interview DVD for them. "Now you have a better idea of what to watch for. Watch for anomalous knowledge, strange questions or someone being in a place that makes no sense." I'm good with all of you. We just have to watch new crew members. Thanks for showing up. That is all."

I sent out another advertisement to the merchant marine register. I got a big guy, 6'6, 285 pounds, ex-Russian navy. His name was Andrei Topkei.

I asked him, What does Topkei mean?"

He grinned with all his teeth as he replied "Is from Siberia. It means: 'I can't feel my feet!'" I laughed. We needed a good smart-ass. He was good with diesels. He hummed in appreciation with his hands on one of the engines as he felt it running.

"Fuckers will last forever at low RPMs. Good engines!"

They still need the sumps checked through a microscope occasionally and watch for occlusion of the water intake screens, especially in warm waters. The goddamned zebra mussels have been raising hell all over the world. I learned that from and old pro." He nodded.