She let her eyes close and felt a wave of weariness wash over her. Still tiring easily from the medication she was taking to mend her, she found that she had a tendency to slide into a light sleep if she sat still for too long. She knew that this would pass in a few more days, but until it did, she found the entire situation to be highly annoying. She felt her head begin to dip, and she tried to fight it, to stand up and stay awake, but to no avail.
Alex felt herself being shaken and opened her eyes.
"Are you well, Captain?" Painter's voice was as condescending as she remembered.
"Yes, I'm fine, Lieutenant Commander," she said, though her accelerated heartbeat and the last vestiges of a bad dream floating in her mind said otherwise. "Just fine. Is the admiral ready to see me?"
"Yes, ma'am. If you will follow me, please."
"I'm pretty sure I can find my way to the door by myself, Painter, but thank you anyway." She stood, clasping her beret in her left hand as she patted his shoulder and marched past him, ignoring the stares of the staff. Stopping at the open doorway, she knocked, waiting for permission to enter.
"Come," came the deep baritone of Admiral Greco.
Alex marched into the inner office. Seeing the admiral begin to rise to attention, she stopped him.
"Please, sir, don't. I'm not wearing it." She was slightly embarrassed. She knew she had used the Medal as a club a few nights past, to make a statement, but today it seemed somehow wrong to have the Chief of Naval Operations snapping to just for her. Her request did not have any effect. Admiral Greco came to parade-ground attention behind his desk. She sighed, feeling her face flushing.
"At ease." She watched as the admiral relaxed, smiling at her as he retook his seat.
"Please have a seat, Captain," he said, pointing at the same chair she had occupied two nights before. The armrests were still damaged from her hands. "Tell me, why are you not wearing your awards?"
"Sir, regulations state that I have the choice of wearing all, none, or just personal awards in uniform. I choose to wear none—it just makes life easier." She hated the stares she got wearing them, then the inevitable questions, dredging up memories she did not want to remember.
"I see. Well, that is your prerogative, of course." His voice and look seemed to indicate he understood. "Now, the reason I called you here today was to discuss your new command."
"Yes, sir." Her flat tone belied her interest. It usually took some time to bounce back and compose herself after what she had come to call "The Dream," but she had not had the chance this time. The admiral's quizzical glance and cocked head worried her. She needed to assuage his concerns before he down-checked her; besides, they were only dreams, and she was stronger than them. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm still not fully recovered from the meds, and they're really wiping me out. Please, go on."
"Very well," he continued, seemingly accepting her explanation for her apathetic demeanor. "As I said, I invited you here to discuss your new ship. It's unlike anything you have commanded before. Matter of fact, it's unlike anything anyone has ever commanded." Passing her a data pad sitting on his desk, he waited for her to glance over the first few pages. Alex could feel the excitement and interest building inside her with each line she read. When she got to the dimensions of her new command, she snapped her head up, mouth gaping.
"Two kilometers long?" she said disbelievingly.
"That's right." Admiral Greco smiled, clearly enjoying this.
"But that's huge. And this weapons load-out is an obscene amount of firepower. My God, you could take on a full Sally carrier group and come out on top."
"That's the point, Captain."
"Of course it is, sir. It's just overwhelming. I mean, I've heard about this project, of course, but I didn't think it would be on such a grand scale." She breathed, shaking her head, still having difficulty getting her mind around the size and power of her new command.
"Well, I was just as shocked when the design team brought this to me. But we are hoping that this will give us the edge we need. Two more keels were laid for her sister ships several months ago, and they should launch in approximately five weeks."
"So she's ready to sail now?" She held up the pad, indicating her new ship. "Her shakedown cruise is complete?"
"Yes, she's had her trials and is ready for action." He gave a short laugh. "Which is a good thing, because Admiral Tanner has been inquiring almost daily as to the status of his new flagship. Are you familiar with Admiral Tanner?"
"Yes, sir. He was the Valkyrie squadron commander during my midshipman's cruise. He was the one who recommend me for Loki training after graduation." She smiled at the memory.
"Well, I'm glad you remember him, because he remembers you and is looking forward to having you captain for him."
"Yes, sir." She did not know what else to say, but felt that she had to say something.
"Now, before I have your orders cut, I wanted to speak to you about one last thing." The admiral's tone was very serious now.
"My psych eval." It was not a question.
"Yes. I've read the doctor's reports, and you checked out just fine. But when I ordered the evaluation, I forgot you were a Loki pilot." The unasked question hung between them.
"And you wanted to know if I just told the shrinks what they wanted to hear, is that it, sir?" She asked the question for him.
"Yes, I do," he told her frankly.
"No, sir, I didn't." He kept staring at her, and she returned his gaze levelly. After several long minutes, he seemed to find what he was looking for in her eyes.
"Very well, Captain. Now, let's get into the specifics of your orders." Alex let her mind wander as the admiral began discussing her new duties, knowing from past experience that she would be able to recall this briefing with crystal clarity later. Right now she was thinking about her answer to the admiral's question. She had been honest in her response to him; she had not told the shrinks just what they wanted to hear. She just hadn't told them everything they had wanted to hear. She knew that it had been a very fine line that she hadn't crossed. Her reverie was interrupted with the admiral's next words.
"Finally, I want to be very specific as to your primary orders."
"Yes, sir."
"Your orders are to ensure the survival of the human race, by whatever means necessary. That is your mandate, as well as the mandate of the entire Home Fleet. I want every single member of the fleet to know it. We are not fighting to preserve our way of life, but to ensure the survival of our species."
"I'm sure the fleet understands what's at stake sir, and we won't fail, not so long as at least one of us is still alive."
"I have no doubt, Captain," Admiral Greco said approvingly. "Now, I think you need to go and get prepared to take command of your new ship. You launch in three days. Good hunting, Captain."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Alex acknowledged as she rose. Then, bracing to attention, she did an about-face and headed toward the door. Still clutching the pad in her hand, she glanced down at it and read the name of her new command. Snorting derisively, she shook her head and muttered to herself, "The universe is sure one hell of a twisted place."
* * *
Captain Alexandra McLaughlin stood still, staring out the porthole of the shuttle. Despite her outside calm, her mind was racing. She knew she was about to take command of the most powerful warship in the entire fleet and felt apprehensive. She still heard the voices of her dead every time she went to sleep, calling for her to join them. Alex closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pushing the dark thoughts to the back of her mind.
They're only dreams, for God's sake. In a few days, you'll put all that behind you and move on. You've done it before, so get your shit together and grow up!
Alex was pulled out of her ruminations by the voice of the shuttle pilot requesting permission to land. As the shuttle began its final approach, she got her first real look at her new command. Even having read the full details on her new ship, she could not get over how huge it was. Heavily armor
ed, bristling with weapon emplacements, it looked like some sort of killer leviathan. She turned and sat down, strapping herself in as the shuttle began to head into the port-side landing bay.
Several minutes later, the hatch of her shuttle cycled open, and the sound of a bosun's pipes, announcing her presence, greeted her. Stepping down onto the hangar deck, she headed toward the commander standing at the head of the side party. Immaculately turned out in full-dress uniform, he stood stiffly at attention, saluting, awaiting her approach. She marched directly up to him, her space-black uniform contrasting with the sea of white of the assembled crew's dress uniforms. She had not had the time or opportunity to replace her dress uniform.
Stopping in front of the commander, she returned his salute and spoke, very formally. "Request permission to come aboard, Commander."
"Permission granted, Captain," he said just as formally. Alex cast her eyes about the hangar deck, seeing hundreds of her new crew assembled there to greet her, and behind them, in the shadows, she could see the eyes of her ghosts, her fallen warriors. Alex felt a cold chill run down her spine as the commander continued his welcome.
"Captain McLaughlin, welcome aboard the battle carrier Valhalla."
Yes, the universe was definitely a twisted place.
Chapter Twenty-one
USS Valhalla
October 13, 2197
0730 z
Sol
Lance Corporal Alan Lewis, fresh from Marine Reconnaissance School and reporting to his first ship-based command, marched down the passageway, carrying an overstuffed duffel in each hand, eager to report in. His eyes, always thoughtful and intelligent, now held a new intensity, and after three months of long days and arduous physical labor, his features looked as if they had been planed down, leaving a strikingly handsome, chiseled face. The only detraction from his features was a nose that looked like it had been broken some time in the past, but that only added character.
Following the directions he had been given upon boarding, he made his way unerringly toward the battalion's area of the ship. Turning the corner and seeing the Marine Corps emblem emblazoned on the hatch at the end of the passageway, he increased his pace. Reaching the hatch and dropping the bag from his right hand, he reached out to punch the Open button, cycling the hatch to allow him to enter. Grabbing his duffel again, he stepped through the hatch and into what was known aboard ship as Marine Country.
Marines might be a department of the navy, but the corps was an entity unto itself. They had their own customs and traditions, and they most definitely had a very unique perspective on the world in which they lived. Some would say the whole lot of them were crazy; others would say suicidally brave. Both would be right. So, to make life much easier for all parties concerned, the marines maintained their own section of the ship and tended not to mingle with the navy. The navy was, of course, more than happy to return the favor.
With the hatch cycling shut behind him, Alan looked around the compartment and, spotting the desk with the marine seated behind it, stepped toward it. Reaching the desk, he could see that the marine was a woman, a very beautiful woman.
"Lance Corporal Lewis, reporting for duty," he said, dropping his bags and standing at attention.
"At ease, marine," said a drawling voice. Looking down, Alan could see that she had been reading a manual of some sort prior to his interruption. He felt vaguely uncomfortable as she set her pad down and slowly ran a critical eye up and down him. His discomfort increased when she finally stopped and let her gaze rest on his face, eyes locked on his. Her sea-foam green eyes seemed to be boring into his mind, as if reading everything there. Finally, she spoke again.
"Orders?"
"Here, Corporal." Digging into his breast pocket, he drew out a chip, dropped it into her hand, and watched as she inserted it into her console. Standing still, he waited for her to finish reading.
"This can't be right," she said, more to herself than to him. Then, looking up, she directed her next statement directly at him. "This here says you were Intel before you went to Recon School."
"Yes, Corporal." After that first day, the intense pace of training had formed the trainee platoon into a tight-knit unit. He may have been Intel before he got there, but by the time he graduated, to his classmates, he was Recon, and that was all that mattered. However, he'd been warned, by instructors and classmates alike, that he would have to deal with this kind of problem eventually once he got out to the fleet. He just hadn't thought it would be within the first minute of his arrival.
"How the hell did an Intel weenie get a slot at Recon School? That's an infantry position. Always has been." She seemed to be eyeing him more closely now.
"Well, Corporal, Recon is actually not a primary MOS, so anyone can apply for a slot."
The Marine Corps had once tried to make their special forces a primary military occupational specialty, thinking that it would draw more desperately needed personnel to a very understrength, but very necessary, occupation. Unfortunately, while this did get the bodies Recon needed, it didn't work out as planned. More time and money was spent per class, but roughly only the same number of graduates was produced. After several such cycles, it was decided to go back to the old way of doing things. Any marine, regardless of their primary MOS, could apply for a slot at Reconnaissance School as long as they met the minimum requirements to attend. The requirements included the recommendation of a current Recon Marine. Recon Marines, the corps' special forces, were combat units and, as such, typically deployed from infantry commands. Thus, Recon Marines tended to deal almost exclusively with the infantry. The infantry, in turn, had the most exposure to Recon, which ensured that a majority of the recommendations were given to them. This had continued until it became the norm for the only Recon applicants to be members of the infantry. The norm, but not the regulation. Anyone could apply.
"I'm aware of the fact that anyone can apply, Lewis. I'm Recon myself. Corporal Tracy Clark, third fire-team leader." She held out her hand, and he shook it. "Now, I seem to remember that when I was still regular infantry, Recon tended to only mingle with the infantry, and then only rarely. I can't imagine that has changed much in the past couple of years." She lifted one pale eyebrow, beckoning his response.
"It hasn't," he said, watching her bob her head in agreement.
"I thought not." She leaned forward now, intently curious. "So, I would like to know how you happened to get a slot."
Sighing, he felt his shoulders slump. He had told this story all too often in the past months.
"You want the short version, or the long version?"
"Oh, the short version will do for now. I still need to get you checked in." She rocked back in her chair, obviously settling in for a story.
"Okay, the short version." He hoped that this time it would be sufficient, but somehow he knew it wouldn't be. "I was home."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"You were home?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll say this much for you, Lewis," she said with a laugh. "You don't disappoint. When you said short, you meant short."
"Thanks." He smiled back at her.
"Tell you what, Lewis." Leaning forward, she began to enter information into her console, processing him into his new command. "Why don't you tell me the long version while I finish checking you in. Then, when my relief gets here, I'll get you settled in. Mine is the only fire team that's short a body, so it looks like you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together."
Feeling himself blush at her last comment, he saw her smirk, apparently enjoying herself. Still smiling, Alan cleared his throat and began.
"The long version . . . "
* * *
"Well, Lewis, I can't tell if you are the luckiest or unluckiest son of a bitch alive, but we'll have plenty of time to find out, I'm sure," Corporal Clark said. Some time during Lewis' narrative, they had left the quarter deck and headed toward third fire team's compartment.
"T
hanks, I think."
"No problem. That's what a good fire-team leader is for—keeping her troops' morale up." She laughed again, and Alan liked the sound of it. Her smile was infectious, and her eyes piercing. Just a few centimeters taller than he was, she was greyhound lean, with the smooth, confident grace of an experienced killer. Short dirty-blond hair framed a beautiful face. She could easily pass as a vid star, but shallow, flighty people did not survive Marine Reconnaissance training.
"Well, here we are—home sweet home."
Opening a blank hatch, she ushered him inside the compartment. A pair of bunk beds on opposite bulkheads showed that the entire fire team lived together. A small area beyond the beds contained a table and four chairs. Beyond that he could see the head though a partially closed hatch.
"This one's yours." Tracy indicated the top bunk, closest to the head. "And here's your wall locker. Keyed to one two three four right now. You're welcome to set it to anything you like." The locker stood to one side of the bunks; the other occupant's locker was on the other end. Alan opened the locker and, after dumping the duffel he carried unceremoniously on the bottom, took the one she had been carrying for him and dropped it on top of the first.
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