A Just Determination

by John G. Hemry

  "Yeah. Let's check a few places. After we finish this check-off list of yours."

  "Who's left?"

  Carl chuckled. "Dazed and confused, huh? Think about it, Paul. Who haven't you seen yet?"

  "Umm . . . oh. The Captain."

  "Right-o. So let's go see your new lord and master."

  The Captain's cabin was located not far from the bridge of the Michaelson. Carl paused before the hatch, indicating the letters spelling out P. C. Wakeman on it, then rapped and waited. At the sound of a gruff "Enter," Carl swung the hatch open and gestured Paul inward.

  Captain Wakeman, sitting before his desk in a stateroom that appeared slightly larger than that occupied by Commander Herdez, squinted at Paul as if examining an unwelcome pest. "Yes?"

  Paul came to attention and rendered his best salute. "Ensign Paul Sinclair, reporting for duty, sir."

  "Oh. Hmmm." Wakeman fiddled with his desk terminal for a few moments, scowling. "Your record's supposed to be in here. Why isn't your record in here? You checked in with ship's office, didn't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, they didn't put your record in here." Wakeman glowered at Paul, then with an apparent effort relaxed his face into a semblance of camaraderie. "But we'll take care of that later. Welcome aboard, Mr. . . .uh . . ."

  "Sinclair, sir. Paul Sinclair."

  "Yes. Of course. Ah, Academy? Good. Good." Brief smiles flickered across the Captain's face, coming and going in a manner which suggested nervous twitches. "Well, let me tell you, this is a great opportunity for you. Outstanding. Lots of visibility. Chances to excel. But you have to be a team player. Are you a team player, Mr. . . . ?"

  "Sinclair, sir. Yes, sir."

  "Sinclair. Right. The team. That's important. And you know who the captain of your team is?"

  "Uh . . . you, sir."

  Wakeman nodded vigorously. "Right. Right. And you, you're a blocker. And a tackle. You tackle problems before they become problems. You block bad attitudes and bad morale. Because you're a team player."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Visibility. Yes." Wakeman relaxed slightly, leaning back and gazing upward. "Opportunity. That's good. Opportunity to succeed." He sat silent for a long moment, lost in a reverie, while Paul waited and tried not to show any sign of impatience until Wakeman abruptly focused his attention back on Paul. "Well. Welcome aboard."

  It took Paul a few seconds, until Captain Wakeman frowned in displeasure, to realize he'd been dismissed. Paul hastily saluted again. "Thank you, sir." He closed the hatch carefully as he exited, afraid he might bang it shut and draw the Captain's wrath, then saw Meadows eyeing him. "Is he always like that?"

  "Cap'n Pete? Oh, yeah." For the first time since Paul had met him, Meadows let his feelings for another officer show. "He talk to you about visibility?" Paul nodded. "Being on his team?" Another nod. "Be careful, Paul. Just try to watch your step."

  "But what—?"

  "I don't know. He's the Captain. That's all there is to it. Come on, let's see if we can run down Jan Tweed for you." Half an hour later, after several frustrating attempts to locate Lieutenant Tweed, Carl was called away to handle something pertaining to the ship's weaponry. Paul, left to his own resources, wandered through the ship, repeatedly losing his way and encountering officers and enlisted who eyed him with curiosity. He was standing before a large hatch with No Entry—Authorized Personnel Only stenciled on it in large letters when a familiar voice interrupted him. "Mr. Sinclair?"

  Paul turned, seeing the senior chief who'd first brought him on board. The joy of seeing even that small familiarity caused a wave of relief to wash through him. "Yes, Senior Chief. How's it going?"

  "Could be worse, sir. I been looking for you, but you've been moving around a lot." The senior chief eased back, indicating his companion. "First Class Master-at-Arms Ivan Sharpe, Mr. Sinclair. Being as you're the new legal officer, I knew you two should get together."

  "Thanks, Senior Chief." Paul extended his hand even as the master-at-arms did the same. "Pleased to meet you, Petty Officer Sharpe."

  Sharpe looked Paul over carefully while he shook Paul's hand. "Looking forward to working with you, sir."

  The senior chief leaned forward, commanding attention immediately. "Sheriff Sharpe's a good petty officer, Mr. Sinclair. You can count on him. I gotta go handle some work, now."

  "Thanks again, Senior Chief," Paul called after his retreating back, then faced Sharpe again. "Sheriff?"

  Sharpe spread his hands, grinning fiercely. "A man's got to have his handle, sir. And I am sheriff of this here town."

  "What's that make the legal officer? The town judge?"

  Sheriff Sharpe shook his head. "Commander Herdez is judge and jury around here, Mr. Sinclair."

  "Judge and jury? Then where's the Captain come in?"

  "The Captain?" Sharpe kept his expression carefully noncommittal. "The Captain is God, sir."

  Chapter Two

  Paul opened his eyes, staring blearily upward through the darkness at the dim images of ducts which seemed only inches from his nose. The shrill whine of the bosun's pipe echoed through the ship's intercom, its trilling notes gradually dying out. A moment later, a voice rapidly recited the words that officially began every day on every ship. "Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up. The smoking lamp is lit."

  Paul lay still, unwilling to rise. There isn't any smoking lamp. There hasn't been a smoking lamp for who knows how long, and even if there were a smoking lamp people, haven't been allowed to smoke on ships for who knows how long. But every day we say we light the lamp in the morning and put it out at night. The Navy. Centuries of tradition unmarred by progress.

  A groan from somewhere in the Ensign Locker announced one of his roommates rolling out his bunk. A moment later, a desk light flickered to life, bringing more groans from the other occupants of the stateroom. "Put it out, man."

  "Sorry. Got to see if they fixed the port power distribution net last night. Hey, who had the mid-watch last night?"

  Paul closed his eyes again even as he answered. "I did." The midwatch ran from midnight to 0400 in the morning, leaving little room for sleep on either side of it. Paul had spent most of the watch trying to stay awake, a task made slightly easier by the need to keep from dropping the long glass, the telescope which had to be carried by the officer of the deck.

  "Did any contractors come on board?"

  "Uh, no. A couple left, but no new ones came on."

  "Damn! They don't give us enough technicians because they claim outside contractors can do the work, then they don't give us contractors! Damn!" The hatch swung open, then slammed shut as Ensign Sam Yarrow stormed out. Paul looked blankly at the closed hatch, trying to remember Yarrow's face. They'd crossed paths repeatedly in the last couple of days, but only for moments at a time, and every event somehow merged into the haze of too much happening too fast. He still didn't have any real personal impression of the fellow ensign he'd been warned against.

  A heavy double-rap sounded, then the hatch swung open again and Commander Garcia stuck his head inside. "Sinclair!"

  Paul hastily rolled out of his bunk, barely avoiding whacking his head on a support bracket, and stood facing his department head, still blinking against the light and hoping his guilt at being caught in his bunk didn't show. "Sir."

  "Where's Tweed?"

  "Lieutenant Tweed? I . . . I don't know, sir." And how the hell am I supposed to know right now? It's not like I'm sleeping with her. And if I was, I'd really be in trouble.

  "Find her! Find her and then the two of you find me! Understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The hatch crashed shut, leaving the stateroom dim once more. Carl Meadows yawned. "Have a nice day, sir," he advised the hatch, then rolled out of his own bunk. "Hey, Paul. Welcome aboard."

  "You already told me that, uh . . ." When? Had it only been the day before yesterday?

  "Two days ago. Time flies when you're having fun."

  "In that
case, time must be approaching light speed right now."

  "Yeah." Carl yawned again, scratched himself, then checked his scheduler. "Don't worry, though. It gets worse."

  Paul sighed, then hurriedly dressed and shaved before heading out in search of Lieutenant Tweed. Several minutes into his search, he came face to face with Master-at-Arms Sharpe. "Good morning, Mr. Sinclair," the Sheriff announced cheerfully.

  "If you say so."

  "Don't forget, sir. XO's screening at ten hundred."

  "Uh . . ." How can I forget something I didn't know? I've got to remember to read the plan of the day as soon as I get up. "Ten hundred?"

  "Right." Sheriff Sharpe smiled. "That's ten A.M., sir."

  Paul couldn't help smiling back at the audacity of the statement. "I know that. They did teach me to tell military time."

  "Can't take anything for granted with a new ensign, sir. See you at the XO's stateroom at ten hundred."

  "Sure. Say, have you seen Lieutenant Tweed anywhere?"

  Sharpe paused, then used his thumb to point forward. "She might be in the classified materials vault."

  "She might be, huh? Thanks, Sheriff." Paul hurried along, vaguely recalling that the 'vault' containing the most sensitive classified material on the ship was located next to the ship's Combat Information Center. After asking a passing sailor for directions, he found the door and rapped softly. Getting no response, he rapped again, harder.

  "Wait." The lock on the hatch cycled open, then a lieutenant with a slim face and a guarded expression gazed out. "Oh. Paul, right? Whatever it is will have to wait. I'm doing an inventory."

  Paul nodded in apparent agreement, even though he could see Tweed blinking sleep from her eyes. "Commander Garcia said he needed to see us both. At once."

  "He did?" Tweed looked around as if seeking an escape route, then shrugged. "Okay. Let's go."

  Garcia's temper didn't seem to have improved in the brief period since Paul had last seen him. Their Department head glared at Paul and Lieutenant Tweed, then shoved a portable reader at them. "Where's the pre-ex for the simulated tracking drill this morning?"

  Paul stared at the reader while dread grew in him. A pre-exercise message laid out coordination procedures for drills involving more than one ship. Most of the information was canned, Paul already knew, and simply had to be spelled out again, but every exercise required a pre-ex message to every unit involved. "I . . . I . . ." Lieutenant Tweed was frowning in thought, then looking sidelong at Paul with a worried expression. She told me to take care of it. I remember now. Oh, geez. Commander Garcia's eyes were fixed on him, hard and angry. Paul swallowed, then spoke in a voice he knew sounded thin. "I was supposed to take care of it, sir."

  "You were supposed to take care of it. Why didn't you?"

  "I intended doing it today, sir—"

  "The exercise is today! Didn't you review the exercise material as soon as you got told to take care of the pre-ex?"

  "No, sir. I . . . didn't."

  Garcia's face reddened. Paul's department head looked as if he were barely restraining himself, then shook his head like an angry bull. "You'd better not screw up like this again, Sinclair. Now, I personally will have to coordinate all this on the fly. Do you think I'm happy about that, Sinclair?"

  "No, sir."

  "Were you planning on leaving the ship this evening, Sinclair?"

  Michaelson was due to get underway in the morning. Paul had already been invited out to a bar crawl with the other junior officers, but now he shook his head, knowing what his answer had to be. "No, sir."

  "Good. At least you got that right." Garcia stomped away, leaving Paul and Jan Tweed alone.

  Lieutenant Tweed tried to smile sympathetically. "It happens to everybody."

  Paul held back a bitter reply, angry with her for not warning him the message had been a short fuse item, but also knowing it had been his own fault he hadn't checked on it before postponing action. And at least she didn't blame me for it right off. I guess Carl was right. You can't count on her, but Tweed won't mess me over deliberately. "Yeah. First time for everything. I'm sure it won't be the last. Should I try to help the commander with fixing this up?"

  "Uh-uh. Bad idea. Garcia will cool down while he works, unless you're there to remind him you screwed up." Tweed checked her watch and smiled briefly again. "Hey. Breakfast time. Coming?"

  "No, thanks. I'm not too hungry right now."

  "Suit yourself."

  Paul wandered down the passageway, his eyes fixed on the deck, feeling angry at his own failure but still resentful of Commander Garcia. It's my fault, but it's also not like that guy is providing any real guidance or support for me. What's that they say about officers on ships? They eat their young. I guess that's true.

  A body blocked his progress, causing Paul to look up into the sympathetic face of Ensign Sam Yarrow. "Hey, Paul, I heard Garcia did a number on you."

  "Yeah."

  "Too bad." Yarrow placed a friendly hand on Paul's shoulder. "Garcia's a real hard-ass, isn't he?"

  "Sure seems to be."

  "He riding you hard?"

  "Real hard."

  "Damn shame. I bet you didn't deserve getting chewed out, did you?"

  "Well, uh . . ." Paul let his words trail off, suddenly wary of Yarrow's apparent concern. "I don't know. I made a mistake."

  "A big mistake or a little one? You've got to have a chance to learn. Right?"

  "Uh, right. Look, I've got some other stuff to handle. See you later."

  "Sure thing."

  Paul spent the next few hours working through his to-do list, making sure nothing else would miss being done on time, then hustled to be outside the XO's stateroom prior to ten hundred. Sheriff Sharpe was already waiting, along with the familiar senior chief, who grinned in greeting. "Howdy, Mr. Sinclair."

  "Hi, Senior Chief. What's your name anyway?"

  The grin widened. "Senior Chief Kowalski, sir. Leading chief on the Michaelson. That's why I'm here for XO's screening."

  "Right." Paul nodded absently, trying to dredge up his memories of the XO screenings he'd attended during his limited fleet experience. Most violations of military rules and regulations weren't handled by courts-martial, but by Non-Judicial Punishment. NJP had its own rules and limitations, and allowed a commanding officer to deal with the great majority of breaches of good order and discipline in a quick and effective manner. But not every offense technically referred for NJP needed to be handled even in that fashion, which led to the XO's screening, where the executive officer reviewed each case and decided whether it should go on up to the Captain or could be disposed of without taking that step.

  Two more chiefs arrived, each with a sailor in tow, then Sheriff Sharpe rapped on the XO's hatch and received permission to enter. Paul, Senior Chief Kowalski, and Sharpe crowded into the stateroom, Paul following the others' example by flattening himself against one bulkhead to leave a small space clear in the center. Commander Herdez nodded in general greeting, then pointed toward the hatch. "Let's start with Alvarez."

  Sharpe leaned out, signaling to one sailor, who entered along with her chief. Alvarez stood at what could technically be called attention, though she somehow imbued the stance with an air of insubordination. "Attention!" Sharpe snapped, then stepped back as Alvarez tightened her stance marginally.

  Herdez scanned her reader, her face as hard as the metal deck, then looked up at Alvarez. "Seaman Alvarez, you are charged with two violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Article 86, failure to go to an appointed place of duty, and Article 91, insubordinate conduct toward a petty officer. Chief Thomas."

  The chief petty officer accompanying Alvarez wedged herself slightly forward.

  "What happened?"

  "During morning muster, Seaman Alvarez was not present, ma'am. She had still not appeared at the completion of muster, so I went down to the berthing compartment and found her in her rack. I ordered her to get up immediately and, instead of complying, Seaman
Alvarez made a number of obscene remarks directed at me."

  Commander Herdez' face somehow seemed to harden even further. "It seems to me that Seaman Alvarez should also be charged under Article 91 with disobeying an order from a petty officer. Is that correct?"

  Chief Thomas chewed her lip for a moment before answering. "Seaman Alvarez did get up and proceed with her duties after I, uh, motivated her, ma'am."

  "Hmmm." Herdez shifted her gaze back to Alvarez. "Seaman Alvarez, what do you have to say?"