"Uh, yeah. So?"
"So that means her captain is in port, too." Jen paused, eyeing Paul as he looked baffled. "Captain Kay Shen."
"Captain Shen? Your father?"
"The only one I know of."
"Captain Shen?"
"You already said that."
"Your father."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Look, I'll be at the Michaelson by 1730 that night to make sure you look decent. We'll be dining on the Mahan as guests of the captain so you'll need to break out your service dress. Mine's fresh-pressed. How's yours?"
"Uh…"
"Wadded up in the back of a drawer? Probably. We've got a couple of days to see what we can do with it. Although I don't know what you were planning to wear to the change of command. Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"You're not worried about meeting my father, are you?"
"What's he like? You've never said much about him."
"He's my father. Don't worry. It's no big deal."
Jen walked into the wardroom, exchanging greetings with the other officers there whom she knew, while Paul hung back for a moment. No big deal? Give me a break. Her father's the captain of the Mahan? Life just keeps getting more complicated.
Chapter Four
There wasn't any one place on the Michaelson even remotely big enough for the entire crew to gather, so the change-of-command ceremony took place in a special hall on Franklin Station which existed for just such functions. With the exception of a skeleton duty section remaining behind on the Michaelson to watch over the ship, every other officer and enlisted were gathered in the hall, the sailors ranked by their divisions, the divisions grouped into their departments, and the officers in charge of each standing out in front of their division or department. Chief Imari, the leading chief petty officer for Paul's Combat Information Center division, walked down the ranks of sailors in their unit, trying to form them into straight lines, align the ranks front to back, and correct any sailor whose idea of standing at attention didn't conform to Navy standards.
Grumbling under her breath, Chief Imari came up to Paul and saluted. "OI division assembled and accounted for, sir," she reported, using the shipboard designation for the unit.
Paul returned the salute, feeling stiff in his formal dress uniform. "Thanks, Chief. They look pretty good."
Imari glanced back at them. "For sailors, I guess. Just be glad there aren't any Marines around to make them look bad. And that they don't have to march anywhere." She shook her head. "Sailors don't march worth a damn, sir."
"I know." Paul remembered being a midshipman at the Naval Academy, where slightly sloppy marching was often considered a sign of distinction. Army cadets at West Point or Air Force cadets at Colorado Springs marched in perfect formations. But Navy midshipmen were above all that, except when the officers and senior enlisted training them cracked down. Paul turned his head and spoke in a clear but low voice. "OI Division, puh-rade rest!" With a slightly ragged movement, the sailors went from the erect posture of attention to the slightly more relaxed position of parade rest, their legs spread slightly and their arms crossed behind them with their hands overlapping at the base of their spines.
Commander Garcia walked rapidly across the front of the divisions in his department, glaring at each unit in turn. Apparently finding no problems he could hammer anyone for, Garcia took his proper position in front of the rest, his back stiff even at parade rest in an attempt to look very, very professional.
Paul and the rest of the crew waited. Aside from an occasional scuffing sound or a brief cough, everyone remained silent. The minutes crawled, and Paul let his mind wander. At least at parade rest individuals could maintain their stance for long periods without cramping anything, but inexperienced sailors could still pass out if they held themselves too tightly. Paul, with years of Academy experience of standing around at parade rest waiting for something to happen, didn't have any problem, but after a long enough time he came to attention, pivoted 180 degrees, and checked over his division carefully to see if anyone looked about to fall over. No one did, so Paul pivoted to face front again and resumed his parade rest stance.
Finally, a door at the back of the hall opened and Commander Kwan strode briskly to the front and center of the room. "Attention on deck!" he snapped.
The crew of the Michaelson came to attention, not with the crisp snap Marines would have easily achieved, but with a slightly drawn out rustle of uniforms. Kwan eyed them narrowly, then turned to face the door through which he'd entered. "Post the colors." From somewhere, the "Star-Spangled Banner" began playing. "Hand salute."
Paul brought his right arm up, his hand flat, the index finger against his right temple. If his sailors had been carrying rifles, they'd have been ordered to present arms, but since they didn't have rifles they stayed at attention. Three sailors entered, the front one carrying at a slight angle a short flag pole from which a brilliant American flag hung, the other two behind him with the flags of the US Navy and the US Marine Corps. The honor guard marched slowly across the hall to the front center, placed the flags into stands awaiting them, then stepped back and saluted as well. The music continued for a few more seconds, while Paul recited the words in his head.
Silence fell for a moment. "Two," Commander Kwan called out, and all those saluting brought their arms back down to their sides. Kwan saluted again as Captain Gonzalez and Captain Hayes started to enter.
A bosun mate standing at the door piped a full wail. Six other sailors, arranged three to a side on either side of the door, came to attention, fulfilling the ancient role of sideboys. Some of the "sideboys" were women, of course, but in the change-of-command ceremony they retained the name given back when ships traveled under sail and were built of wood. Another sailor bonged a bell four times in pairs of two bongs and announced "USS Michaelson, arriving" as Gonzalez passed through. Hayes was heralded with the announcement "Captain, United States Navy, arriving." The captains returned Kwan's salute, and Kwan marched to stand to one side.
Gonzalez let her gaze wander over the crew for a moment. "Parade rest." Another prolonged shuffle followed. "I am here today for one of the most painful tasks any officer must face, the need to say farewell to a ship and a crew who have served me and their nation well. My superiors tell me I'm leaving the Michaelson with a good record, that while I was in command the ship performed well and her crew performed better. But I know the only reason I look good to my superiors now is because of the crew I had the honor to lead for the past year. I thank you. I could talk at length about your sacrifices, about the deeds you accomplished, about how well you met every challenge. But I'm not a big talker, as you know. I hope I have nonetheless offered praise each time it was merited to each of you who merited it. Now, rather than hold you in formation for an extended period while I reminisce about the good old days and go over my career day-by-day, I will cease this speech and let my actions, and yours, speak for me."
Captain Gonzalez pulled out her orders, but stopped as Senior Chief Kowalski stepped forth, carrying a large object. "Ma'am, with the compliments of the crew of the USS Michaelson."
Gonzalez smiled slightly and took the object, then carefully pulled off its wrapping. A gleaming model of the USS Michaelson emerged, its football shape shone to a high-polish instead of the vision-defying dullness of the real ship. Captain Gonzalez's face lit up. "Thank you. This will be the center of my love-me wall, I promise. Thank you very much."
Paul found himself smiling as well. A "love-me wall" was the slang for the place where a sailor hung up all the pictures, plaques, and medals acquired in the course of a career. Paul's own "love-me wall" (if he'd a wall to use that way) would be very sparse at the moment, limited to his Academy diploma and his ensign bars. He imagined Gonzalez's wall, made up of the achievements and assignments of more than twenty years in the Navy, with the model of the Michaelson shining in the middle. It felt nice to think about.
Kowalski went back to his position and Gonza
lez returned her attention to her orders, reading them aloud as tradition required. She went through the boilerplate in every set of orders, to the heart of these. "When relieved as Commanding Officer, USS Michaelson, proceed to duty on staff, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Pentagon, Washington D.C." Gonzalez licked her lips, her eyes lowered, then stepped back.
Captain Hayes stepped forward and held up his orders. Paul watched, barely listening, until Hayes reached the important part. "… Proceed port in which USS Michaelson (CLE(S)-3) may be, upon arrival assume duties as commanding officer."
Commander Kwan pivoted to face the crew. "Attention on deck!"
Captain Hayes faced Gonzalez and saluted. "I relieve you, ma'am"
Captain Gonzalez returned the salute. "I stand relieved."
Instead of leaving at that point, Captain Gonzalez faced the crew again. "With Captain Hayes's kind permission, I have been allowed to issue one more order to the crew of the USS Michaelson. Early liberty shall be granted today, commencing immediately upon the completion of this ceremony." A brief murmur of excitement rose up, quickly quelled as officers and chiefs turned their heads and glowered back at the enlisted ranks.
The two captains headed for the door. As Gonzalez departed through the channel between the sideboys, the bosun piped again and the bell bonged four more times. "Captain, United States Navy, departing." A moment later, Hayes followed. "USS Michaelson, departing." The Michaelson, and her crew, had a new master.
Commander Kwan faced the crew again. "Officers and crew of the USS Michaelson, you are dismissed except for those members of the duty section present."
Paul relaxed, taking a deep breath and letting it out as a babble of voices arose around him and the neat ranks started to dissolve into their component sailors. "Chief, they're all yours."
Chief Imari saluted him with a grin. "Only for a moment, Mr. Sinclair. OI Division, duty section personnel return to the ship. Directly to the ship. All the rest of you are dismissed until expiration of liberty at 0700 tomorrow."
Paul started walking back to the ship himself. He didn't really have any place else to go for a while, and there was still plenty of work to catch up on.
But he still found himself leaving the Michaelson as soon as he could reasonably head for the Maury, docked one section over from his own ship. The Maury and the Michaelson were sister ships, part of the same class of spacecraft built from the same plans. Yet there were subtle differences to the Maury 's quarterdeck, the results of years of minor changes. A fitting that on the Michaelson shone with polished metal, on the Maury revealed nothing but a smooth coat of paint. The Maury 's bell had been set perhaps a half-meter to one side of where the Michaelson 's bell rested. Paul stood on the brow leading to the Maury 's quarterdeck, saluted aft to the national flag, then saluted the officer of the deck. "Request permission to come aboard."
The Maury 's ensign returned the salute. "Granted. What can I do for you, sir?"
Sir? Oh, yeah, I'm not an ensign anymore. "I'm here to see Lieutenant Junior Grade Shen. Personal business," Paul added, to ensure the ensign wouldn't put too much priority on getting Jen to the quarterdeck.
"Lieutenant Shen? Oh." The ensign grinned. "You're Lieutenant Sinclair?"
Paul turned to make his name tag fully visible. "Right."
"I'll let her know you're here."
Jen popped out onto the quarterdeck a few minutes later. "You're early."
"We got early liberty, just like I said we might."
"And you spent it working until you could come over here."
"Uh…" How did she know?
"Give me a couple of minutes. Want to come inside?"
Paul hesitated. Inside her ship? Why does that feel strange? "Okay."
Jen led the way through passageways whose small differences jarred with their overall familiarity before stopping at her stateroom hatch. "Why don't you wait out here for appearances sake?"
"Why'd I come in if I was going to wait outside?"
"You'll survive." She went inside.
Paul heard her talking to her roommate as he waited. Some sailors came by, giving him curious looks, then a lieutenant who frowned slightly. "Can I help you?"
"No, thanks, sir. I'm just waiting for Je — I mean, Ms. Shen."
"Oh." The lieutenant smiled. "She's taken, you know."
Jen popped out at that moment. "Hey, Gord. Have you met Paul?"
"Oh, this is The Paul," the lieutenant laughed, emphasizing the capital he gave the "The." "Nice to meet you."
"Thanks. Same."
Jen gave Paul's arm a tug. "Let's go before something else breaks and the XO tells me to stay aboard all night trying to fix it. See you tomorrow, Gord." They went back out to the quarterdeck, requested permission to go ashore, and saluted the national flag as they left. Jen glanced at Paul after a few moments of silence. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Well, it felt funny back there."
"What? What felt funny?"
"That ensign obviously knew about me, and so did the lieutenant, and I realized there was a wardroom over on your ship that knew about us, even though I'd never met most of them. If felt a little strange, that's all. I mean, on top of being on a ship that's so much like the Merry Mike but isn't the Mike, you know?"
"I know. You never quite get used to it. I stop by the Michaelson and see something different from the Maury and sometimes can't figure out which ship I'm on. Then I see officers I never met during my time on her. It's like seeing someone else on your home." Jen laughed. "I never thought I'd refer to the Merry Mike as home, even in a figure of speech."
They walked all the way, but bars tended to locate themselves near they sailors they served, so in less than half an hour, Paul was flopping down into a chair in Fogarty's, where the officers from the Michaelson normally hung out during too-rare in-port periods. Jen sat next to him, then hoisted her drink toward Carl. "To Lieutenant Carl Meadows. Farewell! May the road rise to meet you, yada, yada, yada."
Everyone laughed and drank to the toast, then Jen sighed and shook her head. "I still can't believe you're leaving the Merry Mike, Carl. She won't be the same without you."
Carl grinned. "And she hasn't been the same without you, Jen. I hope you don't begrudge my impending freedom."
"Hell, no. Where's your relief, by the way?"
"I know that." Mike Bristol waved in the general direction of the Michaelson. "He showed up about noon. With most of the crew gone on early liberty, they just checked him in and told him to come back tomorrow."
"Lucky timing," Carl observed. "The clock stops ticking on his leave, but he doesn't actually have to go to work until tomorrow. Ah, well, it doesn't matter to me. Lieutenant Silver's life will overlap only briefly with my own, then we shall part like, uh…"
"Ships in the night?"
"Yeah. Same with Captain Hayes, of course. He might be one fine captain, or he might turn out to be a screamer, but I won't have to worry about it."
"We will," Paul observed.
"Whatever. He won't be as bad as Wakeman was."
"I hope. I don't need to go through that sort of thing again."
Kris Denaldo raised her glass. "Amen. None of us need to. But if worse comes to worst, we can count on Paul to make a glorious moral stand and set everything right."
Paul winced as everyone else laughed. "I think I've had enough of that for one career."
Ensign Diego leaned closer. "That must have been something. Having your captain court-martialed."
Carl stood up and struck a dramatic pose. "I was there, young ensigns. I was there when Paul Sinclair made his famous charge into the very teeth of the military legal system. Forward, Paul Sinclair! Nobly he rode. Lawyers to the right of him, lawyers to the left of him, judges in front of him, volleyed and thundered with verbs and adjectives and really hard legal-type questions. But Paul rode on, plucking the fruits of victory from the very jaws of defeat, and came forth again unscathed, his new lady fair at his side."
Jen stuck her tongue out
at Carl. "You're just jealous."
Paul assumed a puzzled expression. "'Plucking the fruits of victory from the very jaws of defeat?' What the heck does that mean?"
Carl grinned. "Who says it has to mean anything? It's poetry."
"It is not. Nothing rhymed."
"It's, uh, free verse poetry."
"You don't even know what that is."
"Do you?"
"No."
"Then how do you know it's not?" Carl bowed triumphantly to acknowledge applause from several of those present. "Who needs another drink?"
The evening wore on with everyone recounting favorite stories about Carl Meadows' time on the Michaelson. After they ran out of real stories, they started inventing new ones that had Carl involved in various heroic and frequently obscene exploits. Captain Hayes stopped by, not in uniform, and offered Carl a handshake along with regrets he'd be leaving the ship soon. Everyone then toasted the new captain, who begged off after two rounds.
At some point, Paul and Jen found themselves alone with Carl, at a point where gaiety had subsided and weariness had set in. Paul noticed Carl gazing somberly at nothing in particular. "You okay?"
Carl shrugged. "I guess. Worn out's more like it. I'm glad I'm leaving the ship before I got bled too dry. I've never been Mister A-Number-One Supersailor to begin with, but I've been feeling tired with everything more often these days."
Paul nodded. "I could tell something was bothering you."
"I haven't been acting any different. Have I?"
"You've ridden a couple of the new ensigns pretty hard. That's not like you."
Carl frowned down at his drink. "No," he finally admitted, "it's not. I guess I feel sort of bad leaving them. You know, it's like we're wise elders trying to teach them and protect them."
"Wis er elders, maybe."
"I won't argue that. But I'm leaving. Those new ensigns, and the Merry Mike, they'll be on their own without me. Maybe I'm trying to teach them as much as I can as fast as I can."
Paul thought about it for a little while. "You still feel responsible. For whatever happens after you leave."
Burden of Proof ps-2 Page 7