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Decatur had dinged him, but was beginning to think that he might have more to learn about the real nature of people than he had managed to learn so far. Up to this point, he had assumed that you did your job and did it well and that’s all it took to get to the top. And if others couldn’t cut it—why, they fell by the wayside, just as they had at Annapolis. Except by 1969, letting people fall by the wayside was no longer, if it ever had been, a viable option in the real fleet, beset as it was with declining enlistments and declining support in American society for the traditional values of the armed forces, as the unpopularity of the Vietnam War ensured that military people were no longer unquestioningly admired. Fleet commanding officers seemed to expect that successful officers would be able to make even the indifferent sailors produce, and Brian was beginning to realize that he had been slow to pick up on this expectation. He recognized that his assignment to Hood was going to be a test of sorts, to see whether he could cope with the changing circumstances of being a fleet officer as well as he had coped with the academic rigors of the Academy and various Navy schools.
    And then there was Maddy. The memory of their dismal parting was now locked up in a psychological black box somewhere in the magazines of his heart, secure, but to be opened with great care. The exec in Decatur had given him a gentle warning about the career damage a discontented wife could do, especially if she looked like Maddy. What to do about Maddy?
    Sounded like one of the new hippie folk songs. He loved her dearly, but as lieutenant commander approached, he was beginning to wonder whether they were headed for one of those “career or wife” choices—a choice he feared that Maddy might make for him.
    Now Brian and Austin climbed the two levels to the 03 level and went into the CIC through the front vestibule between the CIC and the expansive pilothouse. Brian had been standing watches as evaluator in CIC for several weeks during the ship’s workup in home waters and transit to WESTPAC, but he was still getting used to its size and complexity. Combat, as it was called, extended the full sixty-foot width of the ship and almost eighty feet back from the bridge. Combat was divided into functional areas called modules, where command and control functions were concentrated around their respective computer complexes.
    There were modules for surface operations, weapons control, electronic warfare, antisubmarine warfare, air detection and tracking, and the central command station, display and decision. The modules were interconnected on a local-area computer network called the naval tactical data system, which linked the ship’s sensors and weapons systems in a large computer complex one deck below CIC. The system also communicated with other similarly equipped ships over a radio data link, like several spiders with connecting webs, all poised off the coast of Vietnam.
    The CIC, normally kept darkened to enhance the scopes, was brighter than usual. The blue-filtered overhead fluorescents were on, bathing the entire room in blue light to provide maximum contrast to the amber colored radarscopes on the consoles. Brian noticed that the lighting did interesting things to people’s faces. Austin, with his long, thin face, prominently bridged nose, hooded eyes, and heavy-lidded, haughty expression, looked like a vampire prince from a thirties movie. Brian could now see why Austin’s nickname was “the Count.”
    Brian smiled as he recalled hearing a sly remark in the wardroom that the word count could have one vowel or two, depending on whether or not Austin was present.
    Austin went directly to the display and decision module, or D and D. He wasted no time with formalities. The entire CIC team, some sixty officers, chiefs, and enlisted men, was assembled in and around the display and decision module. Austin stood with his back to the central command