Taking a ladder up from the wide corridors and the vault doors of the munitions deck, Diosa stepped onto the narrow passageways with the widely spaced hatches of the gun and rocket batteries.
The inherent stress of support personnel came from anticipating the worst. Things happened which they couldn’t see or control yet affected them. That specific tension was rare in positions where the sailors and Marines dealt directly with the enemy.
Riflemen, fighter pilots, and gunners had the opportunity to release tension through aggression. Even if only an illusion, the feeling of power to influence their own fate during a battle and the ability to see the damage they inflicted on their foes, gave assault personnel an outlet. They suffered different types of anxiety. Fear of death and maiming, letting their team down, and failing at a critical moment were their concerns.
Diosa’s previous occupation as a shooter allowed her to talk with authority to the men and women on the gun deck. Mostly, her advice came in the form of pointing out their proficiency with their weapons, reminding them of their value to the operation, and appealing to their pride.
***
Near the end of the gun deck and after a long series of short talks, Diosa noted a young Marine bent over a pad. His face was screwed down in concentration and his fingers trembled as they hovered over the screen. His obvious distress drew her attention. As she approached him, he looked up with red-rimmed eyes.
“Ma’am, can we talk?” he inquired. He stood and stated. “Lance Corporal Gesche.”
Diosa started to correct him. She was a retired NCO, not an officer. Then, it occurred to her, the formal address meant he was seeking advice from an authority figure.
“That’s what the shoulder rope is for, Lance Corporal Gesche,” Diosa stated while tapping the counselor cord. “Speak to me.”
“I met with the ship’s therapist and he suggested I write a letter,” the Marine informed her. “A letter to Karen telling her how I feel about her dating Rodney. But I can’t get my words to convey my thoughts.”
The situation was one of two possible scenarios. Both were as old as when armies and ships first deployed for long periods far from home. Either an older brother was watching out for a younger sibling. Or it was the ever-present, Dear John/Jane, it’s not you, it’s about my selfish needs and my overblown ego, so go die, letter.
“Who is Karen and what is a Rodney?” asked Diosa.
“Karen is, ah, was my fiancé,” he mumbled. Then he added the part where the knife shreds the heart. “Rodney was my best friend.”
“Do you know what the roughest job in the Marine Corps is?”
“Striker?” Gesche ventured seeing the badge on Diosa’s utilities.
“Most people say bridge watch. Because you have to stand sentry duty under the eye of the ship’s captain,” she offered. “But it’s not. The toughest job in the Corps is being the spouse of a Marine. Think of Marine Corps recruit training, not everyone qualified for the honor.”
“You’re saying Karen didn’t pass muster,” he stated. “Like she failed and was booted out.”
“Think of her as trying for an advanced MOS and dropping-on-request from a challenging course.”
“Because she lacks commitment and drive,” the Lance Corporal said brightening a little. “I wouldn’t know how to put that into a letter.”
“I have no idea either.”
“Because you’ve never gotten a letter like this?”
“Oh, I have but I don’t correspond with losers,” Diosa admitted. “Let’s talk about Joey from the block.”
“You mean Rodney?”
“Whatever. Does Joey have a job?”
“He’s the manager at a department store,” the Marine told her. “It’s a good position.”
“Safe and comfortable, is he? That’s great,” Diosa observed. “Does he have a vehicle?”
“He has a truck. It’s a few years old but a nice ride.”
“What’s the value of this sweet machine?”
“Eighteen to twenty thousand pesetas.”
“Powerful with a good turning radius?”
“It’s a little underpowered, and a bit of a road hog,” Gesche described.
“Very interesting,” Diosa commented. “Is Joey from the block a hunter?”
“He tries. Every year he gets a license, goes into the woods, and comes back without a deer,” the Lance Corporal said. “I tease him about his stalking skills. Ma’am, I don’t understand the purpose of these questions.”
“Lance Corporal Gesche, tell me about your ride,” instructed Diosa.
“My ride? You mean back at home?”
“No. Your ride here,” Diosa corrected by pointing at the housing for the gun and rocket battery. “Value?”
“Three million pesetas,” Gesche answered with pride. Then a light came on in his eyes and he added. “Turning radius, ninety degrees from either side of centerline at a traverse rate of 100 degrees per second. She whips around like a snake, ma’am. We can track anything not under external drive.”
“Very impressive,” Diosa agreed. “And your job?”
“Assistant gunner on the cannon,” Gesche reported. “And my team hits what we aim at.”
“Doesn’t that position leave you exposed if the front shield of the unit is penetrated?” pondered Diosa. “Isn’t that dangerous and uncomfortable?”
“I have to be in place if the gunner goes down,” he shot back defending the job.
A puzzled look came over his face as the realization of his adventurous reality and importance raced through his mind. While he thought, Diosa typed on her PID and ignored the Marine. Forty seconds later, she received a reply and swiped her PID over the Marine’s.
“I feel better, ma’am,” he confessed without looking at what she passed along.
“What about the letter?”
“I’m not giving those losers a letter,” Gesche remarked.
“Good. I’ve just secured extra hours in the simulation chamber for you and your gun crew,” Diosa explained. “Better time spent practicing your skills, than pouring your heart out to someone who doesn’t really care.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Carry on, Marine,” Diosa said as she walked to the hatch to leave the gun and rocket deck.”
Each gun and rocket team spent hours a day in their battery running drills. Every month, they were allotted a few hours in the simulator to practice targeting and firing. Warlock had called in a favor from Colonel Wahid who used a favor to get Lance Corporal Gesche’s team some extra time. It wasn’t necessary or expected but it was something Diosa wanted to do.
***
It took all day to walk and chat the port side of the An Tiodhlac Òir. From bow to stern, upper deck to lower, she made herself known. Exhausted yet invigorated by the conversations, Diosa took a ladder to the mess deck where she met up with Walden.
“How goes the Counselor business?” Poet inquired as he placed his tray on the table across from Diosa.
“I’m starting to think it was a mistake,” she whispered. “It’s too high profile for a spy hunter.”
“We’ll start broadcasting the first message tomorrow,” Walden informed her. “It’ll be a warning that an important message is coming later. That’ll give us two advantages. When it’s downloaded, we’ll be able to isolate a section of the ship. And based on the message, the relay will monitor the computer waiting for the follow-up message. Unfortunately, the public system only has four wireless hubs. Stern, mid stern, mid bow, and bow. That’s a lot of hiding places.”
“After dinner, I’ll work the starboard side to maintain my cover,” Diosa said. “It’s odd but I’m enjoying the coaching.”
“I thought you’d be happier busting down doors and taking on bad guys,” offered Walden.
“We have to find the door first,” Diosa replied.
***
Hours later, she stepped over the knee knocker and entered a fabrication shop. This late in the ship’s
watch the shop only had a few sailors working on bench repairs. They all looked up when Diosa entered and nodded in her direction. As she wasn’t an officer or a supervisor demanding attention, they returned to their tasks.
No one indicated they wanted a talk with the counselor and Diosa started to leave. Then, a Chief Petty Officer waved at her through a glass partition. She held up a finger signaling wait and went back to typing in commands on a lathe machine. After closing the cover, a blade dipped into a block of alloy and thin shavings peeled off the block. The Chief opened the door to the enclosed section and the roar of the machine and wail of tortured metal filled the shop before she closed the door cutting off the noise.
“I heard there was a Master Sergeant Counselor,” the Chief Petty Officer stated coldly.
“Is that a problem?” inquired Diosa.
The Navy NCO eyed the Marine NCO from Diosa’s polished boots to the goggle over her eye.
“Seen some action, have you?”
“My fair share. Do we have a problem?”
“Litzy Zoilo and I don’t know yet,” the Chief answered. “Most Counselors are officers without much experience. They’re by the book and toe the military line. It colors their advice.”
“The name is Diosa Alberich. What are you expecting from an enlisted Counselor?”
“Either someone looking to get out of a forward deployment and climb to a safe position,” Litzy replied. Then pointing at the eye covering, the Chief continued. “Or, someone forced off the line and looking for a way to stay close to the action.”
“I’m medically retired and I don’t enjoy fishing,” Diosa responded. “I’m just trying to help while I’m on the An Tiodhlac Òir. Your issue won’t go further than me, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Coffee?” Litzy asked as she walked to the back of the shop.
“I’ll join you,” Diosa replied. “But I’ve had coffee at a number of stops and unless there’s a marathon starting soon, I better settle for water.”
While Chief Petty Officer Zoilo poured a mug of coffee and a glass of water, Diosa took a seat at a small table in the tiny compartment that served as the fabrication shop’s breakroom. Litzy didn’t say anything until she reached the table.
“I’m married and have sixteen years in the service,” Litzy explained. She placed the drinks on the table and took the seat across from Diosa. “I miss my husband but have four years until I can take retirement.”
“As a master machinist, I have to assume the Navy will offer you a sizable reenlistment bonus. And retirement pay would provide a steady income,” ventured Diosa. “But I can see where a civilian company would offer a healthy salary. Plus, allow you to come home at the end of the day. How am I doing?”
“You’ve summed up part of my issue and presented both sides in a nonjudgmental and balanced manner,” Litzy commented.
Then the Chief Petty Officer peered at Diosa as if perplexed by something.
“That’s not the whole story, is it?” suggested Diosa.
“I use my maiden name and because my husband is wealthy, he’s not on my pay records,” Litzy explained. “Although he is listed on my next of kin form. He’s a successful executive in the hospitality industry. Believe me, money isn’t an issue for us.”
“What does your husband have to say about this?” Before CPO Zoilo replied, Diosa lifted the goggle and rested it on her forehead. “Excuse me. The cover is uncomfortable. I didn’t catch your husband’s name.”
“I didn’t give it,” Litzy answered. “It’s as much to protect him as it is me.”
The Chief’s ammonia and carbon dioxide levels bumped up and her blood pressure spiked briefly. Litzy wasn’t outright lying but something was troubling her.
“I’m working with half the facts and no idea what lays at the heart of your problem,” Diosa informed her. Then Warlock tried a wild guess. Leaning across the table, she asked. “Chief Petty Officer Litzy Zoilo, are you assisting the Constabulary forces of the Empress?”
“How did you know?” Litzy burst out. “You really are good at this.”
The woman’s levels were all over the chart. When accused of treason, a suspect would deny it and lie so blatantly, Warlock could read the signs from down a passageway. Zoilo’s emotional response was neither a denial or an admission of guilt.
“I’m confused Chief. What did I know?”
“When the Empress took over the Tres sector, my husband was trapped on the planet,” Litzy described. “You figured out it had to do with the Empress.”
“Let me guess, you are not spying for the Constabulary,” offered Diosa.
“What? I’m a Chief Petty Officer in the Galactic Council Realm Navy,” Litzy insisted. “For sixteen years, I’ve given my life protecting my people, my ship, the fighters flying with the parts I fabricate, and my Realm. How could you even think something like that?”
Every word of her declaration rang true. Warlock dipped her head as if embarrassed by the accusation.
“I apologize but I had to ask,” Diosa said. “Let’s get down to the real issues here. Tell me.”
“If I leave the Navy, I might be able to pay a tramp steamer to take me across the Dos, Tres transition zone. Once in the sector, I can make my way to planet Tres and join my husband,” Litzy explained. “But if I’m captured in route or planetside, and the Constabulary discovers my unique skill sets, they will force me to work for their military. And that Counselor Alberich, is treason.”
“How would your husband feel about that?” questioned the Master Sergeant.
“Before going into the corporate world, my husband was a reserve officer in the Galactic Council Marine Corps,” Litzy bragged. “He wouldn’t allow it.”
“Your heart says go but your intellect knows it’ll go bad,” Diosa sympathized with the Chief. “It’s a difficult choice. What can I do for you?”
“Actually nothing, Master Sergeant,” Litzy confessed. “I’ve never verbalized the issue to anyone. Now that I’ve heard myself say it, the decision is clear.”
“What will you do?” questioned Diosa.
“Stay in the Navy and help fight to free Tres and my husband,” Litzy stated. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a part to get ready for installation. Thank you for letting me batter your ears with my troubles, Counselor.”
“It’s why they hung this rope on my shoulder,” Diosa replied. “I’m just going to sit here for a minute.”
“There’s more water or coffee if you want,” Chief Petty Officer Zoilo announced as she headed back to the shop.
Diosa lifted her PID and began typing.
‘Poet. Contact Special Agent Eiko. There is a former Marine Corps Officer in an executive position on Tres. His wife is a Chief Petty Officer on board. Both are loyal to the Realm. Continuing my patrol.’
***
Most of An Tiodhlac Òir slept during mid-watch. Sailors and Marines with jobs needing collaboration between groups on the heavy cruiser would begin their day in a few hours. Other positions required personnel around the watches. Combat control, the bridge, communications, sensor monitors, and the flight deck, where Warlock found herself, were always active. After wandering down empty passageways with locked doors and passing security patrols, she took a ladder to the hanger area.
Fighters, gunships, and huge battleplatforms rolled from the preparation zone where they were checked and armed. After boarding by pilots and flight crews, the sleds carried the warships to the ready line. From an observation platform above the deck, Warlock and another person watched as the ion cannons rattled fearfully and the fighters, gunships, and bricks rose off the sleds. One by one, they drifted through the first air curtain and vanished. But the unseen warship wasn’t forgotten by the two people watching. From the mouth of the launch tube, the pilot threw power to the ion wall. The roar came back through the air curtain loud enough to mask the rattling of those waiting and lifting. Once the unseen ship received clearance from flight control, the thunder from beyond th
e air curtain faded as the vessel shot up the launch tube.
While those warships launched, further down the deck, flights of fighters, gunships, and battleplatforms returned from flying the protective screen of the heavy cruisers. At the intake tube, they dropped power and settled onto sleds. The sleds whisked the ships off the flight line to maintenance for post-flight inspections and disarming. The launching and recovery went on around the watches.
“It’s impressive, don’t you think?” Diosa mentioned to the other person on the observation platform.
The young sailor, sitting cross-legged by the railing, didn’t reply. He just turned up a bland expressionless face, gave her a curt nod, and turned back to peer at the flight line.
People needed alone time. Diosa could respect that but, the sailor’s slouched shoulders, bent spine, slack hands, and lulling head showed this was more than a need to get away from people. He appeared to be detached from the action on the flight deck and very lonely.
“Do you come to watch the launches often?” Diosa inquired.
“My first time. I couldn’t sleep,” he spoke more at the grating of the platform than to Diosa. “This is my first deployment.”
“How long have you been on the An Tiodhlac Òir?”
“Two weeks,” he mumbled.
“What’s your MOS?”
“Cargo handling specialist, fourth class,” the sailor replied.
Being the second largest vessel in the Navy, the heavy cruiser ran through consumables at a rapid pace. In addition to food, it required constant resupplies of everything from paper goods to spare parts.
Cargo handlers brought it all over from supply ships. They sorted, stacked, and stored the items for distribution by the quartermaster staff. At the top of the handler’s rank were the airlock technicians. Experts at working in zero gravity, docking ships beside the cruiser’s hull, and safely transferring goods and personnel through the vacuum, the airlock jobs were high profile and coveted. At the bottom, newly reporting personnel to the department spent their time in the ship’s storage decks and compartments. Mostly alone until a Petty Officer showed up to bark orders and instruct the rearrangement of crates already positioned by the fourth class.
Op File Sanction Page 16