<strong>Name:</strong>Alex Macauley<br/><strong>Role:</strong>Increasingly frustrated Tactical Officer<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Control Room<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Mari<br/><br/>"Jesus Christ on a bicycle," Macauley muttered to himself as he watched the XO head off down the ladder for the Captain's stateroom.  When they got back to port he was definitely going to have to lend this girl his copy of<span class="bbc_u">How to Win Friends and Influence People</span>.  Granting, of course, that they did get back to port.  He did his level best to tamp down on the impatience and frustration that roared up inside of him- sure, the girl was a civilian and couldn't be held to the same standard of discipline the crew could, but it wasn't exactly a promising start to learning survival skills down here.  As she turned back towards him Macauley knew he hadn't done a very good job of hiding his feelings- his arms were still crossed in front of his body, and his glare could probably strip the paint off the bulkhead.  Mari, though, just lifted her chin a bit higher when she saw it, daring him to make it an issue.<br/><br/>No.  They could discuss it later, in private, but damned if he was going to have a shouting match with her in front of the entire watch section.  The control room was fairly large for a submarine, about twenty-five feet by ten, but crammed with displays, a pair of large, bulky periscopes, and men- the two sailors at airplane-style control wheels who steered the boat, the diving officer at his ballast control panel, the torpedo, jammer, and decoy operators, all the way down to the yeomen making sure the vertical glass plotting boards around the edge of the room were up to date.  Too many eyes and ears for a public argument.  Tone barely under control, he pointed at the clear vertical plotting boards that ringed the outside of the room.<br/><br/>"Those are the tactical plotting boards.  One of the jobs I've got in mind for you is updating them with new information as it comes in.  Doesn't take much technical skill, but you've got to be able to think on your feet."  Gesturing the girl to accompany him, Macauley stalked through the aft hatch, into the sonar room.  The sonar shack was narrow and even darker than the rest of the sub, a single row of consoles tended by thin, pale men wearing expensive headphones, lit only by the green phosphor of their screens.  Back through the radio shack, giving a smile to the spook type, Levan, and his girl as they headed back into the Intel center.  Intel was as large as Control but more like Sonar, full of whispered conversation and electronic gadgets.  The map on one wall showed the Soviet Union, with a few electric lights and pins showing information Mari could only guess at.  Macauley moved over to an unoccupied console and gestured for her to sit.<br/><br/>"This is the other.  You said you spoke some Russian?  We picked up some Soviet fleet traffic this morning, just decoded it.  One of our Russian specialists will check it later, but let's see what you can make of it."  There was more than a hint of challenge in his voice.