"Good idea. Make sure you're at a tie-down when the final maneuvering warning sounds."
"You don't have to warn me. I'm a psycho Space Navy type like you, remember? Besides, I've already got my full quota of bruises for today. I don't want a concussion on top of those." Paul unstrapped, then offered a salute to Commander Sykes. "By your leave, sir."
Sykes gave Paul a sidelong look. "You don't need my permission to get to work, young man. I'm not in your chain of command like the good lieutenant sitting over there."
"I know, Suppo. I just made the gesture as a sign of my deep respect for you."
Sindh snorted into her drink, continuing to laugh as she cleaned up the mess. Sykes cocked an eyebrow at Paul and then shook his head. "I'll assume you're serious, of course, since otherwise I'd have to believe you were mocking your elders. John Paul Jones never would've stood for that kind of behavior in junior officers."
Sindh finally got her laughter under control. "How can you be sure, sir? Did you know John Paul Jones?"
Sykes smiled. "Of course. Quite a bright young lad. Now, he listened to my advice. Except the part about getting tasks started on time. One day he ended up in a battle and partway through it he hadn't even begun to fight yet." Sykes sighed and took another drink. "But it turned out all right in the end. As things will for you, young Sinclair, if you learn from your mistakes instead of repeating them."
"Believe me, Suppo, I intend continuing to do just that." Paul left, pulling himself rapidly through the ship. He had six officers to run down, including the Main Propulsion Assistant who already knew Paul had shafted her. But he had to formally advise even that officer, because he owed it to her.
Most of the officers grumbled mildly but took the news in stride. Personnel were often pulled off for extra duties with little or no notice. Lieutenant Kilgary, the main propulsion assistant, even joked that she was usually the one borrowing other division's personnel.
But, then there was Lieutenant Junior Grade Sam Yarrow. "Sam, I wanted to tell you that Petty Officer Geraldo has been assigned by the XO to watches on the compartments holding the Greenspacers until we get rid of them."
Yarrow glowered back. "I need Geraldo."
"Sam, he's a deputy master-at-arms, and the XO — "
"He won't be any longer. I'm pulling him out of that."
Paul glanced over at Chief Hadasa, Yarrow's senior petty officer, who was attempting to appear unaware of the dispute between officers which was being played out in front of him. "Sam, Geraldo has to make a request to be pulled off the deputy master-at-arms duties, and the XO has to approve it." So why don't you stop making a major issue out of this in front of your chief? What are you trying to prove here?
"We'll see what my department head says about you drafting people out of her department."
"I've already talked to her, Sam." And Commander Destin wasn't happy at all, but I'm not about to tell Sam Yarrow that right now.
Yarrow seemed to be trying to find something else to say, then shifted his glare to Chief Hadasa. "Chief, what's the story on these maintenance records? What's with these discrepancies?"
Paul backed out of the hatchway. And goodbye to you, too, Sam. First he picks a fight with me in front of a enlisted sailor, and now he's chewing out his chief in front of me. Did Yarrow go to some sort of anti-leadership school?
The starboard ensign locker, so named because it held four junior officers and their meager belongings crammed into every available square centimeter of space, offered a brief refuge. Paul pulled himself to his tiny desk, strapped in, then called up the personnel records for the enlisted sailors assigned to his division. I need to have performance evaluations done on all my sailors in four more days. And the XO's screening every evaluation with software designed to detect cut-and-paste copying, so every evaluation has to contain original wording. It'd be easy if I didn't have a hundred other things to worry about.
He'd barely begun writing when a hand rapped on the hatch. "Paul?" Lieutenant Mike Bristol, the Michaelson 's junior supply officer, leaned partway into the ensign locker. "Suppo told me to let you know the feeding schedule for the Greenspacers is all taken care of. They'll get three squares a day until we offload them."
"I thought they were getting soon-to-expire battle rations."
"They are. Those are sort of square." Bristol spread his hands apologetically. "The Navy says it'll feed people. It doesn't say how well it'll feed them. Say, do you know why Randy's in a snit?"
Paul rolled his eyes. "Ensign lessons. Carl warned him to get the gig's fuel topped off, but he didn't, so the captain took a bite out of Randy."
"Oh. Randy owns the gig?"
"Yeah. It comes with him being First Lieutenant."
"Oh," Bristol repeated, then looked puzzled. "Paul, why is he the 'First Lieutenant'? Randy's one of the most junior officers on board, and he's not even a lieutenant, come to think of it."
Paul grinned. "Ancient history, Mike. Back in the days when ships had sails, the guy in charge of the deck stuff, that is the sails and the rigging, was really important. They assigned the job to the most senior lieutenant on the ship, so he was literally the First Lieutenant in terms of rank. Since then, the importance of deck stuff has gone way down. It's still important, of course, but it's not nearly as important as it used to be in sailing days. But we still call the guy in charge of it the First Lieutenant."
"That makes absolutely no sense, Paul. Why not change the name to reflect the way the job's changed?"
Paul shrugged. "Because this is the U.S. Navy, and that's the way we've always done it, and that's the way we'll always by God do it until hell freezes over and forces us to change. How long have you been in the Navy, Mike?"
Bristol grinned as well. "Longer than you, but my Navy isn't the same as the one you nut-case line officers live in. I'm not saying everything in the supply system makes sense — "
"You'd better not try to claim that."
" — but it seems saner than some of the stuff you guys do. So is Randy going to catch major hell for this mistake?"
"Naw. It annoyed the captain, which isn't good, but it's not like Randy blew a hole in the hull."
"He won't be charged with some offense, then?"
Paul looked closely at Mike to see if he was serious. I guess he is serious. And as legal officer I'm the logical guy to ask. "No. Technically you could charge Randy with something like failure to obey a standing general order, of if you really wanted to nail him hit him with improperly hazarding a vessel. But nobody's going to do that because nothing serious happened, it wasn't that big an error, and Randy's not a habitual screw up. Randy got chewed out for making the captain unhappy, and that'll be all there is to it."
"I get it. No real punishment, then."
"What are they going to do to him? Cut his hair short and make him stand watches in the middle of the night?"
Bristol smiled wider, recognizing the irony of equating normal Navy requirements with punishment. "Or maybe assign him to a warship and send him out for a long patrol?"
"And then send his girlfriend out on another patrol as soon as he gets back."
"You're kidding. Jen's ship is taking off right after we return to Franklin?"
"Yeah. We've got about a week together, then the Maury 's heading off on a mission. I don't know how long, but it'll be a few months, at least."
"It sounds like a conspiracy," Bristol joked.
"I'd believe that, too, if I thought the Navy could manage a conspiracy like that without creating a book-length operations order that everybody and their brother would know about." The ensign locker's communicator buzzed rapidly in the tone pattern which meant the XO was calling. Paul made an "uh-oh" face to Mike as he answered. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, sir."
"Paul, get up to the captain's cabin. She wants you to brief Captain Hayes on ongoing ship legal matters."
"Aye, aye, sir. I'm on my way." Paul unstrapped and swung out of his chair. "Sorry, Mike. Gotta go. Duty calls.
"
"Better you than me."
Chapter Three
Halfway to Captain Gonzalez's cabin, Paul got another call from the XO diverting him to the wardroom. When he poked his head in, he saw Captain Hayes and Commander Sykes conversing casually. "Captain Hayes, sir? I'm supposed to brief you on ship's legal matters."
Hayes nodded, then smiled at Sykes. "It's good seeing you again, Steve. Let's talk again tonight."
"Certainly, sir."
"Gwen Herdez sends her respects. Apparently the Supply officers she's dealing with ashore aren't nearly so, uh, creative as you are."
Paul felt uncomfortable hearing senior officers bantering together on a first name basis. He could never think of the ship's old XO as "Gwen." She'd always be Herdez to him.
Sykes feigned regret. "Alas, my talents are somewhat unique." He waved toward Paul. "Have you met Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, sir?"
Hayes smiled politely at Paul. "Not one-on-one, though I could have sworn he was Ensign Sinclair this morning."
"He was indeed, sir. I credit my own example with his meteoric rise in rank."
Hayes laughed. "I'm sure. See you around." As Sykes exited, Hayes gestured Paul to another seat. "Quite a bit of action on the bridge today, wasn't there?"
Paul made a small smile. He knew so little about Hayes so far. I need to be very careful how I talk to him. Not too casual, but not too stiff. I wish I was sure how to do that. The last thing I want is to poison his opinion of me the first week he's onboard. This is the guy who's literally going to be controlling my life for the next couple of years. "Yes, sir."
"You seemed to handle things okay."
"Thank you, sir. Carl Meadows and I are a good team."
Hayes nodded again. "It sure looks like it. Too bad Lieutenant Meadows is leaving us. Who'll be your underway Officer of the Deck after that?"
"I don't know, sir."
"How close are you to qualifying to stand watch as OOD yourself?" asked Hayes, using the Navy's abbreviation for officer of the deck.
Paul took a brief moment to form his reply as he ran down a mental list of what needed to be done. "I almost have that section of my Open Space Warfare Officer qualifications completed, sir."
"You've been onboard a year?"
"About fifteen months, sir."
"Hmmm." It was hard to tell what Hayes thought about that. "Okay. Tell me about the legal stuff. Your chief master-at-arms is Petty Officer Sharpe?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you think of him?"
"He's an excellent master-at-arms and petty officer, sir. I can always depend upon his advice."
"Hmmm." Captain Hayes grinned. "I guess Ivan Sharpe hasn't changed. Say hi to him for me."
"Yes, sir." He knows Sharpe? Then he just asked my opinion to see what my judgment was like. I wish the Sheriff had given me a heads-up on that little item. What else does he already know?
"Anything major I should know about in the legal area?"
"No, sir, nothing major. No ongoing investigations or anything like that."
"How often do you talk to the JAGs on Franklin?"
Paul paused to think. The military lawyers on Franklin Station, usually called "JAGs" after the initials for the Judge Advocate General's Corps, were only called upon for serious legal matters. "Not too often, sir. Every once in a while I have a question whose answer isn't too clear from the Manual for Courts-Martial or the Judge Advocate General's Manual, and then I check with them."
"Are the ship's copies of the MCM and the JAGMAN up to date?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you like being legal officer, Paul?"
Paul hesitated while he thought about that. I don't hate the job, but it's not my favorite past-time, either. "It's a big responsibility, sir."
"As big as your line officer responsibilities?"
Paul didn't have to look to know that Hayes was watching him intently. "Yes and no, sir. I mean, no one's going to die because I slack off legal officer duties, like they could if I messed up while on watch, but mistakes on my part as legal officer could hurt the careers of any sailor onboard."
Hayes smiled tightly. "Not to mention my career, Mr. Sinclair."
"Yes, sir."
"And yours."
"Yes, sir."
"Keep on top of things. I don't want to be bit by anything because we failed to cross a 't' or dot an 'i' on some legal requirement."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks, Paul. You're the Combat Information Center Officer as your primary job, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll have a separate session with you and the rest of Operations Department. We'll go over that stuff then." As Paul unstrapped and rose from his chair, Hayes smiled again. "Commander Herdez sends her greetings to you as well."
She did? "Thank you, sir."
"Apparently you impressed Commander Herdez. That's not easy to do."
What do I say in response to that? "Yes, sir."
"Are you doing as well as she'd expect?"
That one was easy, if Paul was going to answer it honestly. "I'm trying, sir."
"But not always succeeding? Don't worry. You gave the right answer. If you'd told me you were doing that well, I'd figure you for a liar."
Paul hung in the passageway outside the wardroom for a minute, one hand on the nearest tie-down and the other rubbing his forehead. Did that go well? I wish I knew. It's nice Herdez told him something good about me, but that might mean Hayes now expects me to be the greatest junior officer since John Paul Jones. Well, so far this has been one hell of a day. I wonder what else — ?
The Bosun's pipe sounded on the all-hands circuit. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, your presence is requested in the executive officer's stateroom."
I had to ask. The XO's stateroom wasn't far from the wardroom, so Paul made it there within a couple of minutes. Paul knocked, waited for the XO to call out an invitation to enter, then pulled himself inside. "You need me, sir?"
Commander Kwan gave Paul a sour look. "The prisoners insist upon talking to an officer. Is that right, by the way? Are they prisoners?"
"Detainees, sir."
"Fine. The detainees insist on talking to an officer. The captain doesn't want to do it and I don't want to do it. Guess who that leaves, Mr. Sinclair?"
"Uh, sir, if it's a food or berthing issue, Commander Sykes — "
"Doesn't want to talk to them, either. No, this sounds like another job for the ship's legal officer. Have fun."
"Yes, sir." Paul tried not to sigh heavily as he turned to go.
"Oh, Sinclair, make damned sure you don't promise them anything."
"Aye, aye, sir." Paul headed toward the temporary confinement areas, trying not to get too angry over the XO's parting instruction. Does he think I'm an idiot? Ever since I've been on this ship I've been dealing with people making unreasonable demands on me. These Greenspacers ought to be easy compared to that.
Petty Officer Williams was standing watch outside the confinement area, her deputy master-at-arms patch in place to signify her status. Paul took a moment to wonder how even in zero-gravity sailors found ways to lounge against bulkheads. Williams noticed him, brought herself mostly to attention, and sketched a salute. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Not for me." Paul's answer brought a grin to Williams' face. "I understand our guests want to talk to an officer."
"That's right, sir. They've been banging on the hatch and calling on the intercom every few minutes."
"Okay. Pop the hatch, and let's see what's up."
Paul and Williams both stood back, ready for any tricks the Greenspacers might have cooked up, as the hatch automatically released and swung open. But it revealed only the detainees hanging in the compartment, looking toward them expectantly. Paul came forward, stopping at the hatch. "I understand you wish to speak to an officer."
The secular Saint nodded. "We wish to speak to the captain, to be precise."
"I'm sorry, but the captain is very busy. What d
o want to say?"
"We want to speak to the captain."
"The captain is busy. I'll listen to whatever you have to say."
The Saint eyed Paul for a long moment, then apparently decided that Paul could keep up the back-and-forth as long as the Saint could. "Our accommodations do not meet legal requirements for prison facilities. Are you familiar with those requirements?"
Not familiar enough to know precisely how many square meters of space each prisoner is supposed to have, but I know these compartments don't meet whatever standard that is. Come to think of it, the sailors' berthing compartments on this ship probably don't meet those standards. Outwardly, Paul simply nodded. "These are not prison facilities. They are temporary accommodations, so they don't have to meet prison standards."
"We are prisoners!"
"No, sir, you are not. You are being temporarily detained until you can be transferred to civil law enforcement authorities. You are being kept in these compartments in order to ensure your own safety."
"Surely you don't expect us to believe that."
"I can't control what you believe, sir, nor do I want to try. I'm simply answering your question. Is there anything else?"
The Saint held up a blocky-looking, fibrous mass. "Is this supposed to be food?"
"Yes, sir. Those are emergency rations. They meet all nutritional requirements."
"We demand to be fed as well as the crew of this ship!"
Paul pointed to the ration. "Sir, the crew's eaten those in the past and surely will again. I've eaten those. But I'll pass your complaint on to the ship's supply officer." Over the next few minutes, complaints were registered again regarding the size of the compartment the detainees occupied, the fact they were detained at all, the food, the lack of means to occupy their time, the food, the quality of the bedding they'd been issued, the food, the ventilation, and the food. Paul fended off each complaint until the Saint ran out of steam, then watched thankfully as Petty Officer Williams resealed the hatch. The intercom next to the hatch almost immediately erupted into a babble of insults.
Burden of Proof ps-2 Page 5
