The shipyard was already awake and busy. Cranes swung overhead, carrying steel plates and ammunition crates. Men in coveralls hurried between buildings, their breath misting in the October air. Officers strode purposefully in various directions, looking important and confused in equal measure.
Sal passed Dry Dock Number 3, where a destroyer was having its hull scraped. The workers on the scaffolding looked like ants against the massive steel walls. One of them waved. Sal waved back. He didn't know the man, but in the shipyard, you waved. It was the law.
Pier 4 was at the far end, past the supply depots and the barracks and the little chapel where sailors went to pray before deployment. The Eldridge was tied up there, and from a distance, she looked like every other destroyer escort Sal had ever seen: grey, utilitarian, and slightly menacing, like a wolfhound waiting for someone to throw a stick.
But as he got closer, he saw the difference.
Cables. Thick copper cables, wrapped around the hull in a spiral pattern, running from the waterline up to the deck and then across to the pier. They connected to a bank of generators that hummed with a low, persistent drone—the kind of sound you felt in your chest before you heard it in your ears. Men in civilian clothes clustered around the generators, checking dials and muttering to each other. Scientists. You could always tell. They had that look—like they'd just discovered something fascinating and were trying to figure out how to explain it to normal people without using too many big words.
Sal stopped walking. He'd seen degaussing cables before—they ran them on ships to protect against magnetic mines. But those cables ran straight, along the hull in parallel lines. These were wrapped, like someone had decided to turn a destroyer into a maypole.
"Hey, Lombardi!"
The voice belonged to Chief Petty Officer Muldoon, who was bearing down on Sal like a man with a schedule and no patience for deviations. Muldoon was built like a bear—a bear who'd been in the Navy since before the last war and had the disposition to match. His face was permanently set in an expression of mild annoyance, as if the universe was constantly trying his patience and mostly succeeding.
"Chief."
"Get below." Muldoon thrust a clipboard at Sal, who ignored it. "Head's backing up into the mess deck. The boys are eating breakfast with their gas masks on. It's like something out of a goddamn horror movie down there."
Sal nodded toward the cables. "What's with the decorations?"
Muldoon's face tightened. The expression of mild annoyance shifted to something more specific—the look of a man who'd been told not to talk about something and was now being asked about that very something.
"Nothing," Muldoon said. Flat. Final.
"They're not degaussing cables. Degaussing runs straight. Those are wrapped. And those generators—" Sal pointed. "Those are Westinghouse units. I worked on a project with those last year. They're rated for three times the power of standard degaussing equipment."
Muldoon stared at him. "How do you know that?"
"I'm a plumber. I pay attention to things. Pipes, wires, generators—it's all connected. You learn to notice when something doesn't fit."
Muldoon was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Look, Sal. I've known you for ten years. You're a good man. So I'm gonna give you some advice, and I need you to listen."
Sal waited.
"Those cables? Those generators? Those eggheads in the civilian clothes? They're none of your business. They're none of my business. They're the Navy's business, and the Navy doesn't want us asking questions. So you're gonna go below, you're gonna fix the toilet, and you're gonna pretend you didn't see anything. Understand?"
Sal understood. He'd been in enough Navy situations to know when to keep his mouth shut. "Fix the toilet. Pretend I'm blind. Got it."
Muldoon nodded. "Good man. Now get out of here before someone notices we're talking."
Sal headed for the gangplank. Behind him, the generators hummed their endless hum.
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