Well-Traveled Rhodes
Gina Marie Wylie
Copyright © 2009,2013 Gina Marie Wylie
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1484061950
ISBN-13: 978-1484061954
CONTENTS
1
Welcome Aboard
1
2
Party Tine!
22
3
Götterdämmerung
42
4
Ragnorok
56
5
A Little Hoopla
71
6
Pixie
86
7
Getting Under Way
96
8
Bridges
111
9
Adobe
128
10
BuShips
147
11
Trials and Tribulations
165
12
Workup
188
13
Deployment
223
14
Home Again, Home Again
242
15
Questions and Answers
271
16
Questions Without Answers
295
Chapter 1 -- Welcome Aboard
Commander Lynn Shapiro entered flight ops, dangling her bubble in one hand, scratching her bare chest with the other. She was medium height, dark-haired and skinny as a rail. There was nothing wrong with her posture, and her eyes were dark pools that had intimidated more than their fair share of other officers.
Captain Juan Mendoza, the Flag Captain, glared at her with obvious distaste. “Commander Shapiro,” he said, acknowledging her presence. He was short, intense and even darker-skinned than she was. Thinner-skinned, however.
Lynn glanced down to the patch on her shipsuit with her name on it. “Some things ya can’t fake, I guess, Captain.”
Admiral Alfred “Lord” Tennyson entered the compartment in time to hear the remark and grinned. Without a word, he walked over to Commander Shapiro, reached out just below her modest breasts and pulled the zipper of her flight suit eight inches upwards.
“Even small distractions, Commander, can overwhelm some on my staff.” He twirled one of the ends of his long, waxed handlebar mustache and grinned.
“Yes, sir,” Lynn agreed. “I understand how little things can confuse staff officers.” Lynn nodded at a status board that covered one wall of the Ops office. “I assume there was a reason I was hauled away from my beauty sleep?”
“The workup of your squadron is proceeding adequately, Commander?” Admiral Tennyson inquired.
“I’m neither Donna Merriweather nor Hannah Sawyer. The squadron is coming along as well as can be expected of twenty souls, not counting myself, of whom exactly three of us have seen combat and only one of us is a Rim Runner.”
The admiral smiled slightly. “You didn’t include yourself in that last category, did you?”
Lynn ran a hand over her shapely bottom. “I still have my heinie firmly attached, Admiral! That’s not the sort of thing you can fudge.”
Tennyson sighed. “A squadron commander on the Athens tried it. Alas, his fighter suffered a malf and he spent a day adrift in the cold dark. He’s not the man he once was.”
The admiral was unprepared for the sudden fire in Commander Shapiro’s eyes. “You’d better not be thinkin’ I’d make a good replacement! Rome is my ship, Admiral! For better or for worse, until death do us part!”
Captain Mendoza sniffed. “Officers should go where they are assigned.”
“Lord” Tennyson saw the fires light in Commander Shapiro’s eyes. “Lynn!”
She paused and looked at the admiral, her face set in stone. She sketched a formal curtsy. “M’lord Tennyson! I assume there was a reason I was told to report. Could we get to it? I have a raft of work to do today.”
“Does the name Fleet Admiral Nagoya mean anything to you, Commander?” the admiral commanding all of the carriers in the Federation Fleet Aloft -- both of them -- asked, a grin on his face.
“That would be his exalted highness, the Chief of Fleet Operations,” Lynn Shapiro replied.
“That it would. And you know about his young officer project?”
“His ‘natural leader’ concept,” Lynn said, nodding. “Daft, I’d have said of it two years ago. But then, like I said, I’m not Donna Merriweather, age twenty now and who is senior to me. Or Hannah Sawyer, God rest her soul! Who could have done anything, anything at all, if she hadn’t died three months shy of her nineteenth birthday.”
“Children!” sniffed Captain Mendoza, dismissive.
Admiral Tennyson and the very large man who was perpetually at the admiral’s side managed to interpose themselves between Commander Shapiro and the Flag Captain before Lynn could perform the intended orchiectomy on him with her fingernails. It took both of them to stop her.
“Mendoza, return to your quarters!” Admiral Tennyson commanded. “I will see you shortly. You, sir, stand relieved!”
Commander Shapiro could see the captain debating speaking up to protest the decision. She saw his eyes fix on Admiral Tennyson’s collar and the four stars there. He turned and left because he’d seen all he’d needed to see. The admiral was ignoring him, as if he wasn’t there any more. As, in fact, he wasn’t.
“We are off topic, Commander Shapiro. Admiral Nagoya sent me an officer replacement for Rome; I’m giving her to you. She is, he tells me, a natural fighter squadron operations officer. As of now, you finally have the operations officer you’ve been clamoring for.”
He waved towards a hatch. “She’s waiting for you in shuttle bay six. She’s greener than I’m comfortable with, but Admiral Nagoya has five stars and the confidence of the President of the Federation and Federation Council.”
Commander Shapiro nodded. “It is my understanding, Admiral Tennyson, that none of the project officers have done less than their duty -- in fact, the sheer number of gongs they’ve turned down has to mean something.”
“Good, Commander! Very good! I’m pleased that you agree with Admiral Nagoya! Ensign Cindy Rhodes is waiting for you in bay six. Now take that shapely heinie out of here before I make a fool of myself!”
Lynn Shapiro laughed, saluted, turned and exited the flagship’s flight operations compartment, wiggling her butt as she walked.
Admiral Tennyson turned to the master chief petty officer standing next to him. “Fenris, please inform Captain Lewiston that MacArthur is now his.”
The master chief nodded. Chief Fenris was known to everyone on the ship, on any ship he’d ever served on. He was the largest and hairiest man in the Fleet. Every part of his huge frame was covered with bushy hair. It was legend but incontrovertible fact: the chief had once been dinged on an inspection for failing to shave his ears.
“You should have done it two days ago,” the master chief complained.
“Oh, Fenris! Fenris! Ye heap big chief of little faith! The man merely made incompetent faces! He had to say something truly incompetent. The only person in Mendoza’s camp was Nagoya and when he hears about the ‘children’ comment in regards to Hannah Sawyer Mendoza is going to find himself in charge of the school crossing guards on Pluto.”
*** ** ***
Lynn Shapiro walked out of Operations office, contemplating whether or not she should pull the zipper back down on her shipsuit. Sure, it scandalized dirty-feet, but that was only half the purpose. Officers were supposed to be examples to those under them; an officer
patently not wearing authorized undergarments was obviously subversive to good order and discipline.
However it was frequently useful to know which officers equated a bra with good order and discipline.
On the other hand, she was about to meet and greet a green new ensign, almost certainly young. Perhaps Hannah Sawyer or Donna Merriweather young. Better to scandalize her tomorrow -- today was going to be a tough row to hoe for both of them. She’d told Jack Marley that unless Fleet sent the second coming of Pappy Boyington to fill the ops slot, it was going to be his. Poor Jack. But then again, his chances of being alive a few days from now had just increased considerably.
She entered bedlam when she reached the shuttle bay.
Easily three dozen people were in a compartment designed for half that. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, talking about just every topic she could imagine and all of them were over-loud to be overheard over the rest of the din.
Her eyes fixed on a familiar face and she stalked forward across the bay to face the shuttle pilot. Lieutenant Mahdi grimaced, but saluted when she stopped in front of him. “Commander Shapiro, sir.”
“What is this, Lieutenant?” she said, waving around the compartment.
“They sent me over with a standard shuttle, Commander. All of these people have chits for it. Thirty-six people for twenty-two seats. The people in Operations haven’t been sympathetic, Commander, and they won’t commit another shuttle. I can’t fly unless everyone is seated. I’m committed for the rest of the day. I need guidance, Commander.”
She nodded. “There is a difference, Lieutenant, between can’t and shouldn’t. If it’s any consolation, lieutenants shouldn’t have to make this sort of decision. We could call ops back. They are, by the way, under new management. But, why bother? No, we’ll make do with what we have. Put them in the aisles. I’ll authorize it.”
“Aye, aye, Commander.”
Lynn Shapiro turned and cast her eye over the compartment. A lot of people, mostly young. One stood out, though. She was the only one wearing a single pip of an ensign, not to mention she was the youngest person in the compartment -- youngest by a considerable margin.
Lynn didn’t let the thought rest. You have to pay attention to the objective reality of a situation. The ensign looked to be not only young, but very young. Odds were she was going to be not only the youngest person in the squadron, but in Rome as well.
She walked over to the new ensign, who stood as she approached.
Commander Shapiro gestured towards the compartment wall a few feet away. “Ensign, you are mine. Lucky you, you get to ride in air-conditioned and spacious comfort. Please take yourself and your ship bag, stand at attention against that wall.” Lynn pointed where she wanted the girl to go.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Lynn simply reached out to the ensign and got a grip on her shipsuit, twisted her hand ninety degrees and pulled and lifted the ensign so that their faces were an inch apart. “I am, Ensign, Commander Shapiro, Commander, or sir. You will never, ever, utter that peculiar word again in my hearing. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Commander.”
The young woman’s eyes held Lynn’s.
It just wasn’t possible not to categorize people or make comparisons, particularly when you are meeting someone for the first time.
Lynn hadn’t known Hannah Sawyer or Donna Merriweather at the start of fighter transition. That first class had been a thousand strong after all and they had a lot on their plates. But Donna Merriweather had been pointed out to her before the end of the first day. Donna Merriweather had turned eighteen just before the war started, and had been immediately deposed as the Empress of Campbell’s World by her father.
Hannah Sawyer had also been an extremely young ensign, just a few days younger than Donna Merriweather. She showed up on everyone’s lidar the second day of the first fighter transition class. The girl who had stood pale and trembling before her first EVA -- but who had done it better than anyone else, even the ones who knew what they were doing and who had been unconcerned about the very low risk of EVA in this day and age. Oh yeah: before that Hannah Sawyer had popped a four-star admiral in the nose during the evaluation phase for new officers. More amazing yet -- no one said or did anything about it.
Lynn had gotten to know both Hannah Sawyer and Donna Merriweather during transition, then in Rome’s five-month work up before First Rome. Then the four months en route to First Rome and four more months of combat after that. She had come to know and love them both. Lynn would have followed either into hell. She had, in fact, over and over again.
Both of them, and the two other “natural leader” officers she’d met since, had eyes that flamed with desire and passion. Hannah Sawyer hadn’t been confident about anything she did; no matter that no one could do what she did half as well. Hannah Sawyer didn’t think she could lead, but the rest of them damn well followed her. Donna Merriweather was a for real, living Empress. When she was in a compartment with you, you looked sharp, you were sharp and you jumped to do what she told you to do.
But this ensign lacked the fire and passion those others had. It wasn’t just the neutral gaze that looked back at Lynn, it was her body language, her tone of voice; everything about the girl shouted, “I am nobody!”
The room emptied quickly and Lynn turned back to the ensign. “Come with me,” she ordered. Then Lynn turned her back on the new officer and walked away.
Relieving a new ensign was a terrible thing, particularly on her first day. But the young woman would either follow or fail. Better to make it quick, if it had to happen.
A moment later Lynn ducked under her fighter and motioned to the maintenance chief on duty. “Get the ensign a bubble, Pirate.”
The chief was in her thirties, lean and fit as were all of the men and women were who worked on the small craft every day. MacArthur wasn’t a carrier -- it was a Command and Control ship -- but there were dozens of small craft attached to it and fighters paid frequent calls. The flight deck crews worked very hard.
The chief looked at the ensign, and like Commander Shapiro, evaluated her with the single glance. “Trash hauling, Commander? I heard about the shuttle snafu.”
“You have a new captain. I expect glitches like that will smooth out pretty quick, now. The ensign will need a bubble,” Lynn repeated.
The crew chief waved at one of her minions, who hustled to fetch a bubble. Everyone ignored the ensign's difficulty putting it on.
The crew chief observed, “I hadn’t heard that. In that case, it’s too bad you can’t stay, Commander. There’ll be a hell of party tonight in the Chief’s Mess.”
She grinned at her. “And just what do you think we do on Rome? All work and no parties make for dull, dull evenings! We don’t even need a reason to party!”
It wasn’t exactly a lie, but everyone knew why all the squadron personnel on Rome, not just the fighter pilots, partied hard. Hail Caesar, for tomorrow we die!
The crewman who had handed the young ensign a bubble stood waiting like a puppy to have the stick tossed again. “Bring up a mail pod; the ensign’s ship bag can go in that. Check to see if we have anything else priority for Rome,” the chief told her tech. Again, the other was off at a trot to get it done.
It didn’t take but five minutes to attach the mail pod. Lynn Shapiro settled herself in her seat, while the ensign tried to get into the rear seat. Fighters weren’t small, but the crew compartments were. Large people rarely flew fighters.
The first generation fighters that she’d flown off Rome on their first two deployments had one seat. All of the pilots had reported the same thing: it was a stretch to have to fly and shoot at the same time. So, there had been a redesign and now Rome was equipped with a two-seat version of a fighter.
There was, however, a real problem. It was probably the first really serious organizational error the Fleet had made during the war: no one had told the Training Department about a need for weapons control officers for fighters. Now there
was a rush to get them out to the fighter squadrons, but there hadn’t been enough bodies beforehand, and the shortage of weapons control officers had gone from extreme to unmanageable. Her squadron had a grand total of zero weapons control officers assigned. And Rome’s Second Squadron was the premier squadron of all the fighter squadrons in Fleet Aloft -- they would get them first.
“As you can see from the display,” Lynn said, speaking to the ensign, “the controls are pretty much the same as for a standard Fleet shuttle or jitney. Crank her up and take us over to the Rome.”
There was a muffled sound that Lynn couldn’t identify. After a second, the ensign spoke, her voice cracking. “Commander, I’m not even old enough to learn how to drive a car.”
The words flew out of Lynn’s mouth, “Surely you have certificates?”
“One,” the girl said, sounding like she was spitting with anger. “My involuntary enlistment certificate.”
Lynn froze. What a second! Hold the mustard as well as the ketchup! What was this?
“You are an involuntary enlistee?”
“Yes, Commander. A voluntary involuntary enlistee. Admiral Nagoya told me that I could accept involuntary enlistment or take my chances with a Special Board.”
That wouldn’t be a hard choice to make, not if you wanted to live or were as pure as the driven snow and could walk on water! Special Boards were what the authorities back on Earth were using to prosecute “Race Treason,” said crime consisting of just about anything that obstructed the war effort. Unless you were innocent, about the best you could hope for was an involuntary enlistment “for the duration plus a year and day.” It was going to be a long war. The war was already two and a half years old and it looked to go for another thirty to fifty years, at a minimum. Maybe a lot longer.
And of course, the most common sentence of a Special Board was that you were to be taken out forthwith and shot. No, that wasn’t a choice at all.
Well-Traveled Rhodes (Kinsella Universe Book 6) Page 1
