by John Ringo
* * *
The commander's office turned out to be a cramped antechamber of the captain's quarters. It was smaller than the office April had on her first command—also a frigate, as it happened—and very poorly positioned. The captain's quarters were nearly thirty meters away from the bridge through a twisting maze of unusually low corridors. Using this as an office was obviously out of the question.
She turned to her XO, standing at attention behind her. She waved a hand. "This isn't Fleet Headquarters, for God's sake. Simply bowing will suffice." She smiled to assure the XO it was a joke. "Is there anywhere closer to the bridge for me to do my paperwork?"
The XO shook her head. "No, ma'am, there isn't. Believe it or not, engineering and the bridge are almost collocated. The engineering section pretty much wraps the bridge. Then, out from there are a mass of environmental systems. This is as close as any quarters are to the bridge. And there's not anything that can be moved or taken off-line to get you closer. I'm even farther away, which is why I was using the office in the period between the last commander and your arrival."
Captain Weston nodded firmly. "Well, I suppose I shall have to learn to hurry." She sat in the workstation chair and spun it to face the XO standing at parade rest. "Sit," she commanded, pointing at the nearby bunk.
Sharon seated herself carefully, hands on knees.
Weston examined her just as carefully. The officer was attempting to radiate calm but was obviously as nervous as a virgin in the East End. Weston nodded unconsciously.
Sharon wondered what the nod meant. The new commander had been regarding her steadily for nearly a minute. If she thought she could outwait Sharon O'Neal she had another think coming. The stare was, however, disconcerting. The captain had blue eyes so dark as to be almost black. They were like looking into a Highland loch; there was no way to know how deep it might be. They seemed to suck light into them. Sharon almost shook herself, realizing she was becoming half mesmerized.
"Lieutenant Commander Sharon Jerzinsky O'Neal," said the new captain, startling the XO. The captain smiled. "Jerzinsky?"
Sharon shrugged. "Polish, Captain."
"That I recognized. Rensselaer Polytechnic, Class of '91. BS Aeronautic Engineering. Cum Laude. Entered the United States Navy Reserve Officer Training Program in 1989. Why?"
Sharon shrugged again. This was going differently than she expected. Among other things she was amazed at the officer's memory and wondered how far it would stretch.
"I took the ROTC program for the money, Captain. It wasn't much but with a couple of scholarships I only had to have one job on the side." She carefully refrained from discussing what the job was. Modeling was modeling but there were a few pictures around of her that she sure hoped never made it into her official packet. Or the fact that her minor had been in dance.
The new commander nodded and went on. "Commissioned as an ensign and took training as an aeronautics maintenance officer. Assigned USS Carl Vinson. Served four years, three on the Carl Vinson. Exited regular service in 1995. Why not continue?"
Sharon wondered how to explain to this career officer. How to explain that despite all the pressure being applied to reduce harassment, an aircraft carrier at sea for six months or more at a time was still no place for a former model. How to explain the decline in morale and discipline during those dark days of the American military. How to explain the frustration of not being able to keep birds in the air because of a lack of parts. Or the pressure to put up birds you were not one hundred percent sure were good. Of having a husband knife her in the back so he could get a few more hours in the air. Of having the same son of a bitch leave her for an "LBFM," a "Little-Brown-Fuck-Machine." The Indonesian wife was nice and almost apologetic. But that hadn't helped.
"There was no reason to continue at that time, ma'am," she answered, her stock noncommittal response. "I had never considered the Navy a career."
"Despite a string of 'Excellents' on your Officer Evaluation Reports?" asked the British officer. "Despite, 'this officer manifests maturity and ability far beyond her age and far beyond her peers. Future assignments of this officer should be determined keeping in mind the good of the service and possible future high rank rather than the immediate needs of career placement.' And it was 'enthusiastically endorsed' by the carrier commander." The professional officer cocked her head to the side in puzzlement. "That's better than any evaluation I got at the same rank. So, why leave? You had the possibility of a fine career in front of you."
Sharon raised her hands palm up. "I was never a careerist, Captain. I'm happy that Commander Jensen was so enthusiastic and that Captain Hughes agreed. But I still was not there for a career."
The new commander cracked her fingers and leaned back in the station chair, fingers laced behind her head. "Bullshit."
Sharon stared at her stonily. "Perhaps, Captain. But it is all I am required to discuss with my superiors."
Captain Weston cocked an eyebrow. "Once burned thrice shy?"
Sharon smiled faintly. "More like eternally shy. Ma'am."
"Okay." The officer nodded. "Fair enough. Returned to school, Georgia Technical Institute. Met and married one Michael O'Neal." She stopped. "Parenthetically, I met the Mike O'Neal who won the medal on Diess on a plane just the other day. Nice fellow, if you've never met him. Just as short as he looks on TV."
Sharon smiled thinly. "Yes, he is, ma'am. But I find him quite tall enough."
Captain Weston looked surprised for the first time in the interview. "Seriously? He's your husband?" she asked, her accent for once becoming prominent.
Sharon smiled whimsically. "Seriously. I mean, I know he's not much to look at . . ." she said and smiled again.
The captain shook her head and trudged on. "Took your masters in aeronautic engineering, specializing in determining maintenance cycling. Went to work for Lockheed-Martin in Atlanta on the F-22 project. The project was then in the process of being 'downsized.' I'm surprised you got a job." She cocked an eye for an answer.
"So was I," Sharon admitted. "But they were continuing background developmental work, figuring that sooner or later Congress was going to give up and buy the damn thing. I was fresh out of college and cheaper than the people they were letting go. I wasn't happy about it, but I took the job anyway."
"But you stayed for two more years. Until you were called up, in fact."
"I'd hardly been there any time when We Heard." Sharon finally crossed her legs and interlaced her fingers over her knee. "By then we'd started tinkering with the Peregrine variant. When the parameters came back it looked like the Peregrine would be the answer to our prayers. Now that I've gotten a better look at the data on Posleen weapons I think it's a death trap. But nobody listens to me these days."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Captain Weston, enigmatically. She leaned back and ran her fingers through her hair. They came away greasy and she grimaced. "They listened to you at the Board of Inquiry. And that was with an entirely male board and two Russians on it. Have you ever wondered why you are still on this ship when all the other officers have been cycled through like shit through a goose?"
Sharon snorted at the sudden profanity out of the somber officer. "Yes, Captain, actually I have."
"So, we're back to 'Captain' are we?" asked the officer, with a snort. "As you wish. You realize that none of the officers have been in place long enough to give you an evaluation report."
"Yes, ma'am," Sharon answered, more carefully.
"Captain Stupanovich tried. He submitted your review despite only being in command for sixty days. The minimum is one hundred and eighty."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Sharon with a grimace. "I saw it."
"Not particularly good from what I've heard," admitted Weston. "Well, that was one piece of paper that will never see the light of day. If there is a remaining copy anywhere, Fleet has been unable to find it."
Sharon wrinkled her brow. "I don't understand. Why would Fleet be trying to purge that review? I can unde
rstand denying it, but why purge it?"
"Commander," asked Weston, leaning forward and pinning her with that deep, black gaze, "how many systems are currently down on this barge?"
Sharon grimaced. "There are seventeen 'minor' systems down and four 'major' systems, ma'am. The major systems are limited to environmental and defense. All weapon systems and drive systems are on-line." She shrugged. "The crew is doing wonders, especially the Indowy, but we don't have the spares! We might have been able to get spares delivered for the heat exchangers and the number six forward fans by now if Captain Stupanovich had bothered to forward the requests!" she finished angrily.
Weston nodded. "Commander, there are seventeen frigates assigned to Earth system defense. You know that, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you know how many are flying?" she continued, aggressively.
"Twelve, ma'am," said Sharon, wondering where the discussion was going.
Weston nodded again. "Do you know how many have more than fifty percent capability in weapons and drive? The two systems that you correctly pointed out are the most important?" She waved at the air. "It's hot! The exchangers are off-line, right?"
"No, ma'am, I don't know how many are out of service and yes, ma'am, the heat exchangers are out," said Sharon. "Actually, half—" she continued and was cut off.
"I'm not attacking your job, Commander. I'm telling you why you should straighten up your damn shoulders! Having all the heat exchangers off-line can be deadly. But not nearly as deadly as having our lance-launch ability off-line! Do you know what Admiral Bledspeth, whom I have known since I was in diapers, said to me?"
Sharon shook her head, wondering what the Terran System Fleet Commander would have said about this bucket of bolts. She felt like she was being slapped in three different directions by the rapid turns of the new commander.
"He told me to keep my damn comments to myself and listen to Commander O'Neal and I might just live to see Terra again." She shook her head and swore. "This is the only damned frigate circling Earth that has all its weapons on-line and a fully capable drive! And if you don't think Fleet notices that, you're not as smart as they say you are.
"We are currently the only frigate that is more or less ready to sail in harm's way!" continued the captain, seriously. "If there is an emergence of Posleen ships, the fighters and the other frigates will try. But most of the frigates, if they're not limping on one reactor their launch systems are off-line!"
"Oh, joy!" said Sharon as anger built in her system. "So, what you're telling me is I've been stuck in this hell-hole for doing a good job?"
"No, Commander!" said the captain, determinedly. "I'm telling you that you are stuck for doing an incredible job! And you are now going to have to teach still another sea-sucking regular Navy asshole how the hell you do it!"
"Oh, God," said Sharon, with a laugh for the accuracy of the phrasing. The laugh held a note of despair.
"And I, in turn," said the officer quietly, "will give you all the support I can. So, maybe, we can turn this into something other than a flying rat-hole sardine-can."
Sharon nodded and sighed. "Well, ma'am, in that case we'd better get you accustomed to the paperwork."
"Not the systems?" asked the captain. It was a test. The captain might learn a smattering of the equipment, but for the moment getting the parts out off the supply chain was much more important.
"Not if you want to have any running in a month," said Sharon, shortly. "The Fleet floats on electronic paperwork. And my AID is about to give your AID a crash course. Starting with how messed up the parts program is."
CHAPTER 15
Ft. Indiantown Gap, United States of America, Sol III
1427 EDT September 13th, 2004 ad
"Yes, Ampele?" First Sergeant Pappas looked up at the image of the operations sergeant displayed by his AID. The call had interrupted his attempt to reduce the mass of paperwork that had built up while he was on leave and he suppressed an illogical snarl; the recently promoted ops sergeant was famous for not wasting his time.
"Top, battalion PAC just called and we're getting another E-6."
"We're up to strength," responded Pappas as a knee-jerk reaction.
"No, we're down one, according to PAC, and technically they're right."
"If you're talking about Stewart's squad, you've got to be joking."
"I don't know what else we're going to do with him. He's senior to Stewart and all the other squads have staffs as squad leaders."
"Do we have his two-oh-one? And where are we on getting Stewart his Six?"
"The two-oh-one's still queuing from all the transfers, but PAC is 'very confident' that we will have it in hand by the time he arrives, and he has a hardcopy with him. And there is no way that battalion is going to board Stewart. He's barely out of basic!"
"So are you, and I got you your five stripes. Never mind, I'll take another hammer to the sergeant major. When the new guy arrives, send him straight in."
"Roger."
* * *
"Staff Sergeant Duncan," said the new NCO, from the doorway, "reporting to the first sergeant as ordered."
Duncan had been around—he was entering his twelfth year in the military—and he knew that when you reported to your company, whatever the procedure might say, you usually saw other NCOs before you were introduced to your new first sergeant or commander. Because they were very busy people with tight schedules, if you were ordered to report directly to one or the other on arrival, it usually meant trouble. And he really had no interest in trouble. Especially from the big son of a bitch that was his new Top.
"Come on in, Duncan was it? Pull up a chair." Ernie Pappas, who still thought of himself as a gunnery sergeant, could tell when someone was on pins and needles and suspected he knew why.
"No big problem," he continued. "If you're wondering why I asked to see you right away, just a couple of things I wanted you to be aware of. Termites in your new home, so to speak."
First Sergeant Pappas did a quick perusal of his newest NCO and came away with varying first impressions. For one thing, the guy was no rejuv. Pushing thirty probably, though it was hard to tell with his eyes. He had a battered look, kinda shocky, that reminded him of the Old Man when he first arrived, and a pin that he had only ever seen before on the captain, the one that meant that the person had been in nuclear ground combat. Despite how bad it was on Barwhon, the pin had only been earned in one engagement.
He held out his hand for the hardcopy personnel file clutched in the new NCO's hand. "Diess?" he asked, softly.
"Yeah. And I just got back from Barwhon," the staff sergeant replied, surprised. "How'd you know?"
"I've seen the pin before." Pappas let it lie at that and started reading the file. He skipped all the marketing bullshit at the front that was mainly for promotion boards and went straight to the military history file. Several items leaped off the page. After a few moments' scan he closed the file and smiled.
"What?" Duncan asked. He knew that his new first sergeant had seen something that made him adjust his first impressions, probably either the Article 15 just before Diess, or he had read through the lines on his most recent transfer. The smile could mean anything.
"Well, I have the old good news, bad news routine," said Pappas with a slight smile. "And I'll lay it out with the intermediate news first. I wanted you to know that your platoon sergeant is a female.
"Sergeant First Class Bogdanovich was an instructor for the Marines before they opened up the combat arms and she jumped at the chance to go to Strike. She is extremely competent and runs a helluva platoon. I doubt that you're going to have problems, but you're not prejudiced against women, are you? I'd appreciate an honest answer; I can shuffle things if you are."
Like I could say yes? thought Duncan. "No, that's fine. I've never worked with a female boss, but we were having them trickle in as I was leaving Diess. The ones who are professional are fine."
"You got a problem with some that aren't pr
ofessional?" asked the first sergeant cautiously.
"Top, if one of my troops starts bawling because I told them they fucked up, that's their problem," said Duncan with a frown. "I do not coddle my male troops, I damn sure won't coddle any female ones. Yeah, I had a little problem with that on Diess, not one of my troops. She eventually decided that maybe Fleet Strike wasn't the place for her."
The first sergeant decided to take that one on faith. It sounded like a couple of incidents he'd heard about, but not in Bravo since they'd received their first group of women. Fleet Strike was composed of multiple countries' forces, some of which had a tradition of women in combat. It made no allowances for feminine virtues or perceived weaknesses. It was not that what was generally considered a feminine approach did not have merit, it was just that it had no merit in combat. The Fleet forces were slowly coming to terms with that fact, the American forces generally much slower than others. From Pappas's point of view, it was up to the Bogdanoviches and the Nightingales to prove that they had a place. There were no freebies in the infantry. Not with a war on.
"Okay," he said with a nod, scratching the back of his head with a pen. "I don't think you're going to have a problem with that. Now for the really bad news. We've already completed our FSTEP, and maxed it, so I'm understandably proud of our junior leadership and don't really want to mess with it.
"The only squad that does not have an E-6 squad leader is headed up by an E-5 who is so outstanding I'm considering offing you to keep him in charge." Pappas smiled to show he was joking. "Unfortunately, he is also so incredibly junior—he's practically straight out of boot camp—that you virtually have to take the squad."
"Well, Top," said Duncan, furrowing his brow, "you know that thing about a lazy man? If I can let my Alpha team leader run my whole damn squad . . ." He held up his hands as if taking them off.
"Sure, sure, I believe that. Anyway, I think you can handle Stewart. You'll find this out soon enough, but I came here from the Fleet Basic course at McCall with the skeleton of the company, and Stewart came with me. Nonetheless, he really is extraordinary. Wait'll you deal with him. Last but not least, I think you should know that I doubt I will be able to do anything about it even if you do have problems with Stewart. Or Bogdanovich, for that matter. Or even me."
