Eventually, the group reached the bridge, where an increasingly mystified Paul found Commander Herdez awaiting them despite the late hour. Senior Chief Kowalski stopped directly in front of the executive officer, proffering the fruitcake in one hand as he saluted rigidly with the other. "Commander Herdez, ma'am, it is my honor and privilege to present the holiday fruitcake."
Herdez returned the salute, her expression, like Kowalski's, absolutely serious. "I accept the honor of receiving the holiday fruitcake. Have you examined the holiday fruitcake to determine if it is fit for human consumption, Senior Chief Kowalski?"
"I have, ma'am."
"And your conclusion?"
"I regret to report that the holiday fruitcake is not fit for human consumption, ma'am."
"Then you and Ensign Sinclair are ordered to consign it to Davy Jones' Signal Shack in the depths of space, Senior Chief."
"Aye, aye, ma'am." Kowalski saluted the executive officer again, a gesture Paul hastily copied, then turned and led the procession off the bridge, the bagpiper starting her musical accompaniment again as they went.
This time the procession and its crowd of hangers-on proceeded outward toward the hull until they reached one of the launch tubes providing access to outer space. A gunner's mate stood at attention by the tube, waiting until Kowalski came to a halt before him. "Mr. Sinclair and I have orders to consign the holiday fruitcake to the depths of space."
The gunners mate nodded, then popped the outer and inner seals of the launch tube, revealing the spring-loaded launch platform resting cocked at its base. "Davy Jones' Signal Shack is targeted and awaiting the arrival of the fruitcake, Senior Chief."
Kowalski offered the fruitcake to Paul. "Sir, if you would do the honors."
"Sure, Senior Chief." Paul placed the fruitcake on the launch platform, then moved back as the gunner's mate resealed the tube.
Kowalski indicated a chronometer on the bulkhead nearby, where the time was running down to midnight. "At exactly midnight, we will launch the fruitcake, Mr. Sinclair." The gunner's mate keyed open panels on either side of the launch tube, revealing the buttons for manual launch commands. Kowalski took up position at one, waving Paul to the other. Then they waited as the final minutes ticked off, the bagpipes having mercifully fallen silent at last, even though the buzz from the observers crowding the passageway in both directions provided plentiful background noise. Paul took advantage of the relative quiet to lean close to Kowalski. "Senior Chief, what the hell are we doing?"
Kowalski looked surprised. "Why, sir, you've never heard of the parading and launching of the holiday fruitcake? It's a naval tradition, sir."
"A tradition? This happens every year?"
"Every New Year's Eve, yes, sir. On every ship underway. It's been that way about as long as there's been a space Navy."
"And Commander Herdez is okay with this?"
"Sir, the executive officer understands the value of traditions. She also, if I may say so, understands the importance of keeping morale from sinking any lower, and even perhaps raising it a mite, with a harmless tradition such as this."
"Harmless? Isn't that thing going to be a hazard to navigation?"
"The fruitcake, sir? No, sir. The launch tube's oriented to fire the fruitcake up out of the plane of the solar system. Just like the launch tubes on every other U.S. Navy ship underway right now. There's about a dozen ships out now, Chief Imari informed me. Think of it as humanity's holiday salute to the universe, sir."
"I see. Why am I helping with this?"
"The same reason I am, sir. Tradition says the most junior officer and the most senior enlisted on the ship will parade and then launch the fruitcake. That's you and me. Ah, almost midnight. Stand by, Mr. Sinclair."
Paul placed his thumb on the firing switch, watching as Senior Chief Kowalski did the same on the other firing panel. The last seconds scrolled off, and as the time hit midnight, Paul and the senior chief both pressed their switches. The jolt of the launch was barely discernable, followed by a miniscule firing of maneuvering jets to compensate for the ejection of mass from the Michaelson. The gunner's mate checked his readings, then gave a thumbs-up to indicate the fruitcake had indeed been launched on its endless journey to Davy Jones' signal shack, the space Navy's equivalent to Davy Jones' locker at the bottom of Earth's seas.
Senior Chief Kowalski faced the crowd, his expression solemn. "We have consigned the holiday fruitcake to the depths of space, to serve as a warning to all the universe of the awful culinary weapons available to the human race. Yet our motives are also noble. Mayhap in the far future, billions of years from today, some other race of spacefarers in dire need of provision will find the holiday fruitcake and be able to feast upon its substance, as edible and tasty after an eternity in space as it is at this moment. All salute the holiday fruitcake!" Senior Kowalski saluted, a gesture copied by Paul and everyone else visible. "That is all."
Paul waited for a few moments to let the crowd disperse, graciously accepting the congratulations of a number of enlisted sailors for his role in the parade and the launch. By the time he made it back to his stateroom, the year was another thirty minutes older, that period referred to by military personnel as o-dark-thirty to signify the darkest and most wearying portion of the night. What the hell. That still gives me two hours to sleep before I need to get up for my watch. Paul swung gratefully into his bunk, his visions before sleep set in filled with images of volleys of fruitcakes soaring through space, eternal monuments to the human sense of the absurd.
* * *
Franklin Station again. As their course had taken the Michaelson back into more heavily traversed portions of the solar system, they'd encountered more and more other shipping. The opportunity provided to relearn operating around lots of other spacecraft had been invaluable, Paul thought, staring at the clutter of ships and small craft buzzing around the massive orbital facility, but not nearly intensive enough to prepare them adequately for this. Did we actually go through this kind of mess when we left? He glanced over at Jan Tweed, who was visibly sweating. Thank heavens we're under station piloting control this close in, because the rules mandate automated docking. But if anything goes wrong, we're still supposed to take charge of the helm and somehow weave through all those other craft. Please, don't let anything go wrong.
"Captain's on the bridge."
Tweed and Paul, absorbed in watching the outside situation, jerked in surprise at the bosun's announcement. Tweed turned to the captain, licked her lips, then began a situation summary. "Captain, we are—"
Wakeman silenced her with a look and a gesture, belting himself into his chair with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner fastening the restraints on an electric chair. He sat silent, apparently staring at the main display, but with his eyes unfocused.
"Lieutenant Tweed." Jan spun around as Commander Herdez entered the bridge and made her way to her own chair. "Have all departments reported readiness for entering port?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How long until we tie-up?"
"Thirty-five minutes to berth contact, ma'am, according to Franklin's piloting system."
Paul felt himself hunching down and made an effort to sit normally, sparing a sympathetic glance toward Tweed, who was sweating more heavily now. Wakeman's sitting over there like an unstable explosive. No telling what might make him blow up at us. And now Herdez is here watching us, too, like she knows Wakeman might not spot any screw-ups, or might order something stupid this close in to Franklin. I have a feeling this is going to be the longest thirty-five minutes of my life.
Exactly thirty four minutes and twenty seconds later, the Michaelson's lines were shot out to waiting grapples as the ship came to a dead stop relative to Franklin. The grapples locked on, merging the Michaelson's mass to that of the station. The feeling of a steady one gravity's worth of acceleration settled on the ship as it joined with the station's rotation. Tweed signaled to the bosun, who shrilled his pipe before making the age-old announcement. "Mo
ored. Shift colors."
Wakeman pulled himself out of his chair and out the hatch so quickly that the bosun barely had time to call out. "Captain's left the bridge."
Herdez unstrapped herself, nodding to Tweed and Paul. "Good job. Notify me when you stand-down the bridge watch."
"Aye, aye, ma'am." Tweed watched her leave, then slumped back, breathing heavily. "God. Last time. I hope."
Paul noticed her hand was shaking. "I don't understand, Jan. I know it wasn't fun having Wakeman and the XO up here, but you handled the ship great out in open space. Why do ops near Franklin freak you out?"
"Look at the display! How many ways can you screw up here? I can't even count them. No. I hate this part. I like driving the ship out where it's free and clear, but not in traffic like this. Last time, Paul. I'll never have to do this again." She saddened abruptly. "I'll never get to maneuver her out in the big empty again, either. I'll miss that."
"I understand." Like so much else about Jan Tweed, her fears were easy enough to comprehend, even if they served mainly as a cautionary example for Paul. "Looks like the quarterdeck is sealing to Franklin."
"Good. When that's done, we're out of here." She triggered an internal communications circuit. "Quarterdeck, this is the bridge. Who's got the watch down there?"
"Ensign Denaldo. Seals are checked and cleared. Internal and external pressure readings are equalized. Request permission to pop the hatch." Since her rest in sickbay, Kris had apparently been none the worse for wear and had returned to full duty almost immediately. The only lingering effect had been a slightly slower working pace, interspersed with occasional down time. Kris had told Paul during one such period that Herdez had 'strongly suggested' she relax once in a while. Officially, the exhaustion incident had apparently never happened, though Paul suspected Kris was on probation against over-working herself again.
Tweed checked her own read-outs before replying. "Permission granted."
"Seals released. Hatch opening." A pause while hydraulics moved tons of material in the hatch ponderously out of the way. "Hatch open and secured. Assuming the watch."
"Understood. Bridge watch standing down."
"No brass band."
Paul winced at Kris' last observation. Normally, a ship returning from months in space would have a joyful reception awaiting. A band, any family members and friends of the crew who could manage to be there, and assorted high-ranking officers from the staff on Franklin. But not this time. Paul called up a picture from the quarterdeck camera. No band and no brass of any kind. No well wishers, either, which would have required active discouragement of their presence by the command on Franklin. A lone captain stood there, with a single enlisted assistant. Paul zoomed in on the image, close enough to see the insignia which revealed the captain was a Judge Advocate General's officer. A JAG. The only one to greet us back is a lawyer. No one else wants to be seen welcoming us, or was allowed to be seen welcoming us. That pretty much settles it. They're going to try to hang Wakeman. And maybe some of the rest of us as well.
Chapter Eight
Paul tried to maintain his composure as he waited outside the wardroom. The JAG captain hadn't wasted any time in getting her investigation rolling. He knew she'd already talked to Captain Wakeman, Commander Herdez and all the department heads. Now the JAG had reached far enough down the food chain to snare Ensign Paul Sinclair.
Tweed left the wardroom, her shoulders hunched in a defensive slump, nodded briefly to Paul as she waved him in, then headed off on some unknown errand. Paul exhaled slowly to relax himself, then entered. The JAG, seated at the wardroom table, glanced up at his entry. "Ensign Sinclair?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have a seat." Paul took the indicated chair, on the other side of the table from the Navy lawyer, then waited with fraying nerves while she finished entering something into her data link. "Alright, then." The JAG favored him with a brief smile. "Ensign Sinclair. Ship's legal officer. Correct?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You'll need to sign this." The data link displayed a standard form for attesting to sworn testimony. "It requires you to swear to the truth of your statement."
Paul signed. Command level investigations didn't require witnesses to be sworn. JAG level investigations did. It was just one more sign of how seriously the incident with the SASAL ship was being treated.
The JAG checked the signature, downloaded the form to her files, then faced Paul again. "Mr. Sinclair, I'll tell you frankly that your statement was a pleasure to read. Concise and to the point."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Is there anything in that statement you wish to change?"
Paul looked away for a moment, concentrating. "No. No, ma'am."
"I want to be certain of one thing. Your statement indicates that prior to firing a shot across the bow of the SASAL ship, Captain Wakeman asked you for your opinion on whether his orders authorized such an action."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you told him that, in your interpretation, they did."
"Y-yes, ma'am."
"Did Captain Wakeman ask you any other questions subsequent to that?"
"You mean while we were all still on the bridge? No, ma'am."
"Prior to actually firing on the SASAL ship, did he again ask you if you believed his orders authorized such an action?"
"No, ma'am."
"You're certain?"
"Absolutely."
The JAG smiled slightly, her lips pressed tightly together. "Thank you, Ensign Sinclair. Have you discussed your statement with anyone else on the ship in anything but general terms?"
"Well, yes, ma'am."
"And who was that?"
"The chief master-at-arms. Petty Officer First Class Sharpe."
"Ivan Sharpe? I know the man. What was the nature of your discussion with him?"
"He advised me to write a, uh, concise and to the point statement, ma'am."
"Ah. Very good. Congratulations on taking Petty Officer Sharpe's advice. I know a few full-fledged lawyers who wish they'd done the same." She cocked a questioning eyebrow at Paul. "You appear to have done a good job as ship's legal officer. Are you at all interested in pursuing a legal degree and transfer into the JAG corps?"
"Uh, no, ma'am. Not really." She doesn't need to know my brother's a civilian lawyer and I've been butting heads with him since we were kids. Nor that my dad was happy I chose to be a line officer like he'd been. And being collateral duty legal officer on this ship hasn't exactly made my life happier. Three good reasons not to be a lawyer, and none I know of to become one!
"That's all right, Mr. Sinclair. Not everyone wants to be a lawyer. Thank you. That's all. Please send in the next witness."
"Yes, ma'am." Paul fought down an impulse to grin with relief as he left, then frowned as he remembered one of the JAG's questions. Why'd she want to know if I told Wakeman if our orders said it was okay to shoot at the SASAL ship? Where would . . . Wakeman. I'll bet Cap'n Pete claims I gave him that advice. Like Jen said he would, he's still trying to place the blame on everyone else. I guess it's sort of a compliment that he thinks I'm important enough to be a target for some of the blame.
Later, comparing notes on their interviews with some of the others, Paul repeated his suspicion. Lieutenant Sindh nodded knowingly as he did so. "That also explains a question I was asked, I believe. The JAG wanted to know if I'd told the Captain the SASAL ship appeared to be trying to ram us."
"Ram us?" Carl Meadows stared at her. "Wakeman's trying to claim the SASALs were on some sort of suicide mission?"
"No. I think he's trying to claim all of us in a position to do so were giving him advice that made his actions seem correct at the time. In other words, that he acted properly based on the information and assessments we provided."
"What a sleezeball. I wonder what Wakeman's blaming me for? Using up some of the ship's oxygen so he didn't have enough to think straight with? Or the fact that my weapons worked when he told us to fire? Hey, if they'd all faile
d then we wouldn't be in this mess. It's too ridiculous."
"Be careful." Lieutenant Sindh looked at all present, a warning expression clear on her face. "This is the sort of thing which could easily drag down everyone involved in any way. Guilt by association. Even if Wakeman is found one hundred percent responsible, his accusations will find fertile ground if we act in a way that seems to support them."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean if we go around bad-mouthing Wakeman, calling him a fool and an idiot, it will cause those who hear us to believe we did fail to properly support him."
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