The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

to the game. Ricks is nothing near the captain you used to be.'
Used to be. A singularly poor choice of words, Mancuso thought, but it was true.
It was a hell of a lot easier to run a boat than to run a squadron, and a hell
of a lot more fun, too.
'Better hustle if you want to catch that flight.' Mancuso held out his hand.
'Skipper, always a pleasure.'
Mancuso watched him walk into the terminal. Jones had never once given him bad
advice, and if anything he'd gotten smarter. A pity he hadn't stayed in and gone
for a commission, That wasn't true, the Commodore thought next. Ron would have
made one hell of a CO, but he would never have had a chance. The system didn't
allow it, and that was that.
The driver headed back without being told, leaving Mancuso in his rear seat with
his thoughts. The system hadn't changed enough. He'd come up the old way, power
school, an engineer tour before he got command. There was too much engineering
in the Navy, not enough leadership. He'd made the transition, as did most of the
skippers – but not all. Too many people made it through who thought that other
people were just numbers, machines to be fixed, things to order, who measured
people by numbers that were more easily understood than real results. Jim
Rosselli wasn't like that. Neither was Bart Mancuso, but Harry Ricks was.
So. Now what the hell do I do?
First and foremost, he had no basis for relieving Ricks. Had the story come from
anyone except Jones, he would have dismissed it as personality clashes. Jones
was too reliable an observer for that. Mancuso considered what he'd been told
and matched it with the higher- than-usual rate of transfer requests, the rather
equivocal words he'd heard from Dutch Claggett. The XO was in a very touchy
spot. Already selected for command . . . one bad word from Ricks and he'd lose
that; against that possibility he had his loyalty to the Navy. His job demanded
loyalty to his CO even while the Navy demanded truth. It was an impossible
position for Claggett, and he'd done all that he could.
The responsibility was Mancuso's. He was the squadron commander. The boats were
his. The skippers and crews were his. He rated the COs. That was it, wasn't it?
But was it right? All he had was anecdotal information and coincidence. What if
Jones was just pissed off at the guy? What if the transfer requests had just
been a statistical blip?
Dodging the issue, Bart. They pay you to make the tough decisions. Ensigns and
chiefs get the easy ones. Senior captains are supposed to know what to do. That
was one of the Navy's more entertaining fictions.
Mancuso lifted his car-phone. 'I want Maine's XO in my office in thirty
minutes.'
'Yes, sir,' his yeoman responded.
Mancuso closed his eyes and dozed for the rest of the ride. Nothing like a
catnap to clear the mind. It had always worked on USS Dallas.
***
Hospital food, Cathy thought. Even at Hopkins, it was still hospital food. There
had to be a special school somewhere for hospital chefs. The curriculum would be
devoted to eliminating whatever fresh ideas they had, along with any skills they
might have with spices, knowledge of recipes . . . About the only thing they