Rule of Evidence ps-3

by John G. Hemry

  Rule of Evidence

  ( Paul Sinclair - 3 )

  John G. Hemry

  John G. Hemry

  Rule of Evidence

  Chapter One

  "Evidence, including documents or physical evidence, which is under the control of the Government and which is relevant to the investigation… shall be produced if reasonably available."

  Rule 405(g)(1)(b)

  Rules for Courts-Martial, Manual for Courts-Martial, United States

  "Every time I look at an intelligence report, it seems we're edging closer to war." Lieutenant Junior Grade Paul Sinclair leaned back and away from the Combat Information Center Officer's console, gazing somberly at the intelligence report displayed there.

  "I thought young U.S. Navy officers like yourself looked forward to combat, Mr. Sinclair." Chief Imari grinned from where she sat at her own console.

  Paul twisted one side of his mouth in a half-smile. "Not me, Chief. I'll do it if and when I have to, but I won't be looking forward to it."

  Imari nodded. "It's not a pretty business, sir. Not like the games we play on these." She waved at the consoles cluttering Combat. "Realistic combat simulations, hell. I tell you, sir, no simulation of combat is realistic unless you're sweating like a pig and scared to death while you're running it."

  "Thanks for cheering me up, Chief. But you know as well as I do that the simulations can only duplicate the physics of fighting in space. I depend on you to keep our happy sailors sweating and scared."

  Imari grinned again. "Only if they screw up, sir."

  Paul glanced toward one of the bulkheads, thinking of the endless dark which lay beyond the outer hull of the USS Michaelson. "There's a huge volume of space in the solar system, Chief. But the South Asian Alliance keeps demanding what it calls its 'fair share' of that space. What the hell is 'fair' for them or anybody else?"

  "Beats me, sir. The U.S. Navy's never been big on 'fair,' so I don't know much about it. We're not the only one's the SASALs are pushing against, though."

  Paul nodded, looking back at the intelligence report. "No, we're not. The SASAL pressure to expand back on Earth is pushing the Europeans toward us. It looks like we'll even have some joint maneuvers soon. That'd be different, operating with foreign warships in space. Have you ever worked with any, Chief?"

  Chief Imari shrugged. "Just a couple, a few years ago. Some kind of Brotherhood of Humanity in Space crap to show everyone we were all happy campers up here together." She paused, screwing up her face in thought. "Let's see. There was a South African ship, and a Japanese, and a Brit. I don't remember any of 'em doing anything stupid."

  Paul smiled. That last statement qualified as praise from Chief Imari. "Back on earth the Royal Navy has a good reputation."

  "Oh, they're real good, sir. Never get in a drinking contest with 'em, though. Not if you're smart. They'll drink you three sheets to the wind and then convince you to play one of their crazy Brit games like naked zero-gravity rugby."

  Paul felt his eyebrows rising. "Naked zero-gravity rugby?"

  "Trust me, sir, it ain't as fun as it sounds. I hurt for a couple of weeks afterwards, and I was one of the lucky ones."

  "I'll remember that, Chief." Paul reached over and closed out the intelligence report. Will we end up shooting at someone in earnest before this is all over? It'd been a year and a half since the Michaelson 's former commanding officer had mistakenly ordered the destruction of a SASAL research ship, and Paul had never been able to shake the memory of the bodies he'd seen onboard the wreck afterwards. Maybe we'll have to destroy another ship, or maybe we'll take damage. He looked around Combat, a compartment he thought of as his after several months as Combat Information Center Officer, and imagined it riddled with holes from enemy lasers and particle beams, open to the vacuum of space, the bodies of his sailors drifting slack in their harnesses.

  Chief Imari followed Paul's gaze, and as if reading his thoughts smiled reassuringly. "Don't you worry, Mr. Sinclair. If it comes to that, we'll kick butt. Ain't nobody gonna take down the Mike."

  Paul grinned. "Not with the crew we've got." Then he laughed. "That sounds like something from a bad movie."

  The Chief cocked an eyebrow at him. "Sir, I sorta know what you mean. But it's important to say it and mean it. Or sound like you mean it, anyway. When the crew hears it, they believe in themselves a little more. Yeah, it's corny and macho and all sorts of other stuff, but you've got to tell the crew you believe in them. They want to hear it."

  Paul nodded slowly. "It helps them believe in themselves?"

  "I guess you could say that. It's part of being an officer, Mr. Sinclair. The crew looks to you for that kind of stuff."

  Paul nodded again. Now, that's a funny responsibility. I'm younger than most of the sailors in my division, and a whole lot less experienced in almost every way, but they look to me for guidance. For me to say I think they can kick butt when needed. Funny. But I'm sure Chief Imari knows what she's talking about. That's funny, too. I'm looking to her for some guidance while she's looking to me for other guidance. "I'll remember that, Chief. For what it's worth, I do have a lot of confidence in the crew, and in the division. I'll make sure I express that every once in a while."

  Imari grinned at him. "Don't go overboard, sir. Just a little. Otherwise it'll make it harder for me to tell 'em how screwed up they are."

  "Got it." Paul checked the time. "As far as preparing for combat goes, it probably wouldn't hurt if I managed to show up for religious services every once in a while."

  "Can't hurt and it might help, sir. You never know."

  "Later, Chief." Paul walked out of Combat, threading through the narrow hatch with the ease of long practice. He checked the time again, then shrugged. He'd spent too much time reviewing the intelligence summaries. No sense in trying to make Sunday morning worship services now. Instead, he started to head for the small compartment grandly labeled the officers' wardroom, but halted after a couple of steps and went down another passageway.

  Being tied up at Franklin Naval Station always felt different than being underway. Part of it was the constant sensation of gravity imposed by Franklin's majestic rotation. But a bigger part, to Paul, was the nights and weekends when most of the crew went off the ship. Underway, it seemed the narrow passages and low overheads of the Michaelson were always crowded with sailors trying to dodge each other and all the wiring, equipment and controls almost covering every bulkhead and overhead. In port, on a slow Sunday morning, the Michaelson felt almost deserted by comparison.

  Paul went through the ship, compartment after compartment, able after more than a year and half onboard to almost subconsciously evaluate the status of everything he saw from the knife edges of the airtight hatches to the inspection labels on the emergency survival suit lockers. Near the bow, where the hull tapered to a blunt cone, he absentmindedly tapped a spot on the forwardmost bulkhead where the metal had been worn smooth by countless fingers following the same ritual.

  When Paul reached the hatch leading into Forward Engineering, he paused, listening for a moment, then walked steadily in and through the compartment, trying to focus on important details even though his ears kept straining for any untoward sounds until he was done and back out the hatch. That blasted compartment still spooks me. It shouldn't, but it does. And there's no way I'm admitting that to anybody.

  Then back and forth, working aft, until he reached the "end of the world," the last bulkhead, and repeated the tap he'd given at the forwardmost bulkhead. Why do we do that, anyway? Funny ritual or superstition or whatever. It's like we're checking to make sure the last thing between us and empty space is really there. Or reassuring ourselves that those last barriers aren't ready to implode. Well, whatever th
e reason, like Chief Imari says, it can't hurt.

  A bit worn from the tour of the Michaelson, Paul finally made his way to the officers wardroom. Inside the small compartment with the grand name, Lieutenant Sindh sat at the table sipping a drink labeled "chai — decaf — non-dairy — official issue — zero g." She looked up as Paul entered, waving a small greeting. "You look a little tired."

  "Just took a tour of the ship." As he headed for the coffee, Paul flipped a half-salute toward Lieutenant Sindh. "I have the pleasure to report to the command duty officer that the ship is all secure, ma'am."

  Sindh solemnly returned the salute. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. Paul, you don't have to check every compartment on the ship multiple times every duty day." Paul busied himself with the coffee to avoid answering. "It happened once. It wasn't your fault. I appreciate your thoroughness, but also fear you're driven by guilt you shouldn't carry."

  Paul shrugged, still not looking her way. That's easy for her to say. She wasn't on duty when that fire started. She wasn't on duty when Chief Asher died. And she didn't get implicated as part of the cause in the initial investigation. The fact that the investigation's conclusions had been reached by his girlfriend's father still rankled even though those conclusions had been subsequently disproved. However, a friend like Sonya Sindh deserved some consideration for her concern. "It's okay. Really."

  "There's much you've never shared about how that incident affected you, Paul. I'm a lay minister. We can talk."

  Paul grinned at her. "Not my religion, Sonya. But thanks, anyway. For what it's worth, I've talked it over with Jen."

  "Ah. That's worth something." Sindh smiled. "But both you and the inexhaustible Lieutenant Jen Shen are very close to the problem. A third party's advice might be of help."

  "I've also talked it over with Commander Herdez a few times."

  Sindh's eyebrows shot up. "Our former Executive Officer From Hell as trauma counselor? I assume our old XO recommended hard work at least twenty hours every day as the best means to recover from your experience?"

  This time, Paul laughed. "I think she actually recommended at least twenty-two hours a day of hard work. Minimum."

  Sindh's smile widened. "It's good to hear she's not slacking off while on shore duty. Everyone else should suffer as we did. Have you seen this?" she asked, indicating her data pad's screen.

  Paul came closer to peer at the information. "Orders for someone?" He read through the standard format, looking for the key pieces of information. Lieutenant Sonya Sindh… when directed detach from USS Michaelson (CLE(S)-3), proceed to Joint Forces Training Command, Norfolk, Virginia… upon arrival report Commanding Officer for duty. "Oh. You're leaving"

  "In about a month. Aren't you happy for me?"

  Paul settled into the nearest chair, pushing aside the straps officers used to fasten themselves into their seats while the Michaelson was underway and no longer benefiting from Franklin's induced gravity. "I am. But you're a friend and a good officer, so I hate to see you go."

  She smiled. "If you really thought of me as a friend you'd be thrilled I was heading for nice, relaxing shore duty. Earthside shore duty! Blue sky! Atmosphere! Constant gravity!"

  "Insects. Bad weather. Pollen."

  "Real food."

  "That's a big one. Okay, I'm happy for you. But, you know, it's hard to see people leave the ship. We're kind of a-"

  "Please don't say 'family.'" It was Sindh's turn to shrug. "Officers come, officers go. That's the Navy. We're on our third captain since you reported aboard, and our second executive officer."

  "Yeah, but I don't work directly with the CO and XO like I do with you or the other junior officers."

  "Look at it this way. Someday our fellow junior officer and dear friend Sam Yarrow will also leave. Isn't that nice?"

  Paul laughed. "I don't know what I'll do when I don't have to worry about Smilin' Sam sliding a knife into my back."

  "I'm sure you'll find plenty of things to fill your time," Sindh observed dryly.

  Another laugh. "Oh, yeah. And if I don't, I'm sure Garcia will help."

  Sindh took another drink, then made a face. "I'll also be able to get real chai again Earthside, instead of whatever this stuff is that they feed us. I wonder what real coffee will taste like after years of Navy coffee? But I digress. Paul, the job of a department head is to keep junior officers gainfully employed. Commander Garcia just happens to be a little bit incendiary in his approach to that."

  "Incendiary? Hell, Sonya, there's been times I was sure he was going to strangle me for making him look bad because I'd screwed something up. And that's just when I screw up in my primary job as CIC Officer. Garcia hates my collateral duty with a passion."

  "Duty?" Sindh looked up questioningly. "You have more than one collateral duty."

  "Yeah, but the one that torques Garcia off is the legal officer job. You know that. He hates the time I have to spend on it and he hates that I go directly to the Captain or XO for stuff related to ship legal matters."

  "If you'd manage to stay away from courts-martial for a few months at a stretch it wouldn't be such a burden and Garcia wouldn't be so sensitive about it." Sindh grinned again.

  Paul smiled back. "It's been six months since the last court-martial. I'm not planning on getting involved in any more."

  "You didn't plan on getting involved in the first two. Or did you? I ought to ask Jen. She'll know the truth. And, speaking of Jen, is she coming over tonight?"

  Paul's smile turned rueful. "No. Jen's got duty, too. The Maury 's gone to three sections, so Jen's got duty every third day."

  "Three sections? That's not pleasant. What happened?"

  "They're trying to get the Sorry Maury working after that yard period. The modifications to engineering are driving Jen nuts. She's working overtime because of them."

  "Paul, we're space warfare officers. We always work overtime." Sindh let out a sigh. "I was hoping Jen could bring some carry-out onboard so we wouldn't have to eat wardroom food tonight. Not that carry-out on the station is that great, but it's better than rations."

  "Nope. I guess we're stuck with Navy cuisine."

  Lieutenant Sindh paused in thought, then tapped her data unit. "Chief Imari. Do you have a meal run planned? I expected as much. Please contact Mr. Sinclair and myself prior to the run so we can place orders as well. Thank you." She settled back with a satisfied smile. "When in doubt, always check with the chiefs. They may've already solved your problem."

  Paul rose and bowed toward her. "Thank you, Master. I still have much to learn."

  Sindh smiled and made a brief bow back. "Much more than you realize, Grasshopper."

  About twelve hours later, Paul rolled out of his bunk, taking care to keep his body low so he wouldn't hit any of the pipes and ducting positioned just above his sleeping area. Yawning as he pulled on his uniform, Paul gave the digits on his watch a sour look. Half-an-hour until midnight, and I'm getting up to spend four hours standing watch. The glamorous life of a naval officer. Checking his appearance to make sure he looked fit to stand watch, Paul stumbled to the quarterdeck.

  Petty Officer First Class Fontanelli was rubbing his eyes as Paul came up. "Sir, I don't mind telling you that you're a sight for sore eyes."

  "Yeah. But you get to rest yours now and I don't. What's up?"

  Fontanelli ran through the status of the ship, telling Paul nothing he didn't already know, advised that Captain Hayes and the ship's current executive officer, Commander Kwan, had both returned to the ship after taps, and closed his turnover with a warning to Paul that there'd been Franklin Station personnel conducting unannounced security checks of quarterdeck watches. Paul listened through it all, then straightened and raised his right hand, touching his brow in a casual salute. "Okay. I got it."

  The petty officer returned the gesture. "I stand relieved." Fontanelli hoisted the heavy old-fashioned brass telescope called a long glass which signified his status as officer of the deck import and passed it to Paul. "Have
fun, sir."

  "Thanks." Paul put down the long glass and leaned on the watch desk as the petty officer of the watch finished turning over with his relief.

  "Mr. Sinclair, I have the watch." The third class petty officer saluted Paul with the same kind of weary salute Paul had used earlier. "Any special instructions, sir?"

  "Yeah, if I start to fall asleep, kick me."

  The petty officer grinned. "Yes, sir. It'll be a pleasure."

  About four long and essentially uneventful hours later, the hatch onto the quarterdeck opened and Chief Imari stepped out, yawning. "Have a fun mid-watch, sir?"

  "They're always fun, Chief."

  "Oh, yes, sir. Anything happen?"

  "Nope."

  "Of course, if something did happen, we'd be a lot unhappier than we are with nothing happening," Chief Imari observed.

  Paul snorted and nodded. "Yeah, 'cause anything that happens at O-dark-thirty is bound to be bad." He briefed the chief just as he'd been briefed four hours before, exchanged salutes as Chief Imari relieved him, then walked slowly back to his stateroom and peered at the time. Zero four hundred. Two hours until reveille, when he and the rest of the crew would have to officially wake up, and when the lighting on the Michaelson and Franklin Station would brighten for the artificial day. Paul shrugged out of his uniform and pulled himself up into his bunk, ducking and rolling as he did so to avoid hitting the obstacles on the overhead.

  It seemed only moments later that the piercing sound of a bosun's pipe wailed through the ship, followed by the announcement made every morning. "Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up."

  One of Paul's four roommates in the starboard ensign locker staggered up and hit the stateroom lights. Three groans from those still in their bunks answered the brightness. Paul kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying to extend his sleep a few precious seconds longer. Trice up. Why do they keep telling the crew to trice up? That's what you do with hammocks. The crew doesn't sleep in hammocks. Crews haven't slept in hammocks for who knows how long. Centuries? But if they ever sleep in them again, they'll know now is when they're supposed to trice those suckers up.