The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [252]
"If this is true, then we have to ease off on our support for Narmonov. We cannot be party to a reversion to more centralized rule, particularly if it results from elements who so clearly dislike us."
"Agreed," Liz said. "Better to lose Narmonov. If he can't break their military to his will, then someone else will have to. Of course, we have to give him a fair chance how we do that is rather tricky. We don't want to dump the country into the hands of their military, do we?"
"Are you kidding?" Fowler observed.
They stood on a catwalk inside the massive boat-shed where the Trident submarines were prepared for sea, watching the crew of USS Georgia load up for their next cruise.
"Talked his way out of it, Bart?" Jones asked. "His explanation made a lot of sense, Ron."
"When's the last time you caught me wrong?"
"For all things there is a first time."
"Not this one, skipper." Dr Jones said quietly. "I got a feeling."
"Okay, I want you to spend some more time on the simulator with his sonar troops."
"Fair enough." Jones was quiet for a few seconds. "You know, it might be fun to go out, just one more time "
Mancuso turned. "You volunteering?"
"No. Kim might not understand my being away for three months. Two weeks is long enough. Too long, as a matter of fact. I'm getting very domesticated, Bart, getting old and respectable. Not young and bright-eyed like those kids."
"What do you think of them?"
"The sonar guys? They're good. So's the tracking party. The guy Ricks replaced was Jim Rosselli, right?"
"That's right."
"He trained them well. Can we go off the record?"
"Sure."
"Ricks is not a good skipper. He's too tough on the troops, demands too much, too hard to satisfy. Not like you were at all, Bart."
Mancuso dodged the compliment. "We all have different styles."
"I know that, but I wouldn't want to sail with him. One of his chiefs asked for a transfer off. So did half a dozen petty officers."
"They all had family problems." Mancuso had approved all the transfers, including the young chief torpedoman.
"No, they didn't," Jones said. "They needed excuses, and they used them."
"Ron, look, I'm the squadron commander, okay? I can only elevate my COs on the basis of performance. Ricks didn't get here by being a loser."
"You look from the top down. I look from the bottom up. From my perspective, this man is not a good skipper. I wouldn't say that to anybody else, but we were shipmates. Okay, I was a peon, just a lowly E-6, but you never treated me that way. You were a good boss. Ricks isn't. The crew doesn't like him, does not have confidence in him."
"Damn it, Ron, I can't allow stuff like that to affect my judgment."
"Yeah, I know. Annapolis, old school tie - ring, whatever matters to you Canoe U. grads. You have to approach it a different way. Like I said, I wouldn't talk this way with anybody else. If I was on that boat, I'd try to transfer off."
"I sailed with some skippers I didn't like. It's mainly a matter of style."
"You say so, Commodore." Jones paused. "Just remember one thing, okay? There's lots of ways to impress a senior officer, but there's only one way to impress a crew."
Fromm insisted that they take their time. The mold had long since cooled and was now broken open in the inert atmosphere of the first machine tool. The roughly-formed metal mass was set in place. Fromm personally checked the computer codes that told the machine what it had to do and punched the first button. The robotic system activated. The moving arm selected the proper tool head, secured it on the rotating spindle, and maneuvered itself into place. The