“What do you want to do about it?” It could have been a challenge.
“Are we low on stores?”
“No, between frozen foods and hydro—”
“Call again. Anything else?”
His look was sullen. “Complaints from belowdecks about middies in the service corridors. Sometimes they leave softies—”
“Mr. Paulson, have a word with Keene for the middies to pick up after themselves.” I wasn’t about to prohibit midshipmen from standing around the corridors; Lord God knows where else they’d congregate.
“Aye aye, sir.” My graying first lieutenant made a note.
Crossburn shrugged helplessly. “I never heard back from Commandant Kearsey on the maintenance review plan I submitted, sir. I refiled a copy with you two weeks ago.”
I grunted. “Very well, I’ll look at it.” I suspected a glance would be all I’d need. “Systems?”
Lieutenant Paulson shifted in his chair, as if weary. “Nothing new, sir. All base systems are working properly, and the Training Station is closed down at the moment.”
“Until when?”
“Hillman’s cadets are scheduled to go in three weeks.”
“Very well.”
Crossburn looked up importantly. “When do you intend to inspect the Station, sir?”
“In a day or two. Why?”
“If you won’t wait for Sergeant Hillman, I’ll have to make everything ready.” Well, I couldn’t fault his preparation, but the self-satisfied tone left me itching to ... I didn’t know what.
“Next?”
Lieutenant Ngu Bien oversaw classroom training. “Test scores slightly above median for the month, sir. On the whole, no problems.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that was fast. Mr. Pau—” Sergeant Obutu cleared her throat. “Yes, Sarge?”
“Pardon me for interrupting, sir. Perhaps you might look at the individual highs and lows in each class.”
Lieutenant Bien rewarded her with a frosty look. “Does that concern your administrative duties, Sergeant?”
Ms. Obutu showed hardly any reaction. Only I could see her clenched fist under the rim of the table. “No, ma’am, it doesn’t.”
“Well, then—”
I overrode her. “A good point, Ms. Bien. Sarge is only a glorified secretary and has no business interfering.” Sergeant Obutu’s mouth tightened. I kept my voice casual, “By the way, Ms. Bien, would you mind telling me the individual highs and lows in each class?”
She colored at the rebuke. “Yes, sir, of course.”
While she ran through her notes Sergeant Obutu’s eyes met mine. My gaze was impassive, but just before turning away my eyelid twitched.
“In Nav Two, sir, Cadet Alicia Johns has the highest scores; she usually does. Jerence Branstead was second. Two failing grades this time, um, Arnweil and Stritz.”
Lieutenant Paulson said, “That’s under control, I believe. Their barracks sergeants have set up special tutoring.”
“Along with the usual loss of privileges. Now, in History, we have Benghadi, Guevire, and Boland at the top. The low grades are Kyle Drew and Kevin Arnweil.”
“Drew?” I puzzled. “Where do I know that name?”
Paulson said, “He was involved in the fatality, sir.”
“No, that was Arnweil. He ran to the lock while—” I snapped my fingers. “The other one.” The boy whose overeager launch had caused Edwards’s death.
“Yes, sir.”
I drummed the tabletop. “Let’s see grades for Arnweil, Drew and Stritz for the last three months.”
He punched in figures; a moment later the screen flashed. Scores for all three cadets had plummeted.
“It happens that way, sir. They’ll pull up, sooner or later, or—”
“Yes?”
“Or wash out.”
Jent Paulson started to speak, but I shook my head. After a moment I said, “Conference over. We’ll resume this afternoon. Mr. Paulson, I’d like a report on all cadets in trouble. Talk to the instructors yourself, interrupt classes if you must. Also the dorm sergeants. Some problems may not show up in grades.”
“Aye aye, sir. Are you—I mean, are we cleaning house, sir?”
“In a fashion.” I left them, returned to my office. After brooding for half an hour, I roused myself and called in Sergeant Obutu.
“Sarge, about the conference. Why your question?”
“I’m sorry if I intra—”
“Belay that. What was on your mind?”
She leaned back, clasped her hands around her knee, “She irked me, sir, with that talk of medians. We don’t teach medians here, we train cadets.”
“Go on.”
“It’s none of my business, but the joeys, uh, talk to me sometimes. Perhaps because I’m a woman.” She flushed, as if maternal traits ran against the grain of her duty. Perhaps they did. “I came across Kyle Drew scrubbing corridors, two days after the—the accident.” She smiled apologetically. “He went on with his work, but I watched for a while, and chatted with him. He was Edwards’s bunkie, you know.”
“He has a heavy load.”
Her tone was forceful. “You can’t imagine how heavy. Kyle insisted he knew it wasn’t his fault, yet a moment after, he began to weep and couldn’t stop.”
I sighed. “How did you leave it?”
“I patted his shoulder, went on my way, and saw to it that I ran across him later in the evening. I’ve talked to him twice since.”
“You should be a psych.”
“Lord God forbid. The point is, he’s not the only one, sir. You act, I mean, we act—the Navy—as if we’re dealing with adults. They’re just children, trying to learn about adulthood.”
“I know.” My words were barely audible.
“Sometimes, sitting in that outer room, when they leave the Commandant’s office, your office now, I see the look in their eyes, the remorse, the shame ... Sometimes I think you don’t know how hard they try to please you.”
“Oh, I do. Believe me.”
“I remember one such cadet many years ago, a brave one. He cried in the outer corridor, when he thought no one could hear.”
After a moment I met her gaze. “That was you?”
She looked to the deck, as if shy. “I was younger then. I don’t mean to drag up old—”
“I was so terrified, I barely knew where I was.” I reflected. “You’re a good woman, Ms. Obutu.”
“Thank you.”
A moment passed. I said, “She’s an ass, isn’t she?”
Sergeant Obutu looked shocked. “Ms. Bien? Well, it would be impolite to disagree with you.” But then she shook her head. “No, that was wrong. I do disagree. She sounds foolish, yes, but maybe she just can’t see past the paperwork. Perhaps, confronted with a real cadet, a real problem, she’d react differently.”
I was ashamed, both of my indiscretion and my lack of charity. “Yes. Very well. Dismissed.”
Again, we were in the conference room. I snapped off the holo; the dry statistics disappeared. “Makeup work, extra duties to occupy Drew’s mind. What else can we do for him?”
Paulson shrugged. “What else is there, sir?” Good point. Academy had its routines, and we shouldn’t disrupt them. Still, something nagged at me, and I wasn’t sure what.
“Let’s see if his sergeant has an answer.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Radz. Call him in.”
Crossburn blurted, “Into staff conference? That’s not how we—”
“He’s staff, isn’t he?” I waved the objection aside. “Ms. Obutu, page him, please.”
A few minutes later Sergeant Radz took the seat I indicated. I summarized. “What’s your opinion, Sarge?”
“He’s moody, yes. But they all are, at that age. Who can say why?”
“You think he’ll come out of it himself?”
Radz’s mouth turned grim. “If he’s to be a midshipman, he has t
o.”
I stood, paced a few steps, studied the seams of the bulkhead. “But don’t you think ...
Paulson cleared his throat. “It’s a question of approach, and the Navy’s philosophy is clear. They sink or swim on their own. Edwards’s death was a tragedy, but Drew has to learn to cope.”
Radz said, “When it comes down to it, sir, we’re teachers, not nursemaids. We can encourage, but we can’t hold their hands throughout their careers. The sooner they understand that, the better. If Kyle Drew buckles down to his work, he can still graduate with his mates. Otherwise you hold him back, or wash him out.”
“Just like that?”
“No, sir, not just like that. I’ve taken him for long walks through the warrens, like I have Arnweil. He shrugs and closes tighter, until I want to shake him. If anything, the Arnweil boy has it harder than Drew; he was closer to Edwards. They both knew the Navy was serious business when they signed on.”
Lieutenant Crossburn stirred. “If I may say so, sir—”
“You may not. I have no interest in what you have to say.”
“I—aye aye, sir.” He made his injury evident.
I sighed. “Your joint advice is not to interfere further. You’re probably right.” More than probably. A hundred seventy years of Naval tradition supported their position. “Very well. Keep me informed.”
Chapter 9
THE NEXT MORNING I suited, went Outside with Lieutenant Bien and two sergeants to observe another training exercise. I said little, watching every cadet’s unsure step like a mother hen, ready for a second dreadful incident. By the time we recycled through the lock, I was worn and irritable.
I unbuckled my suit and hung it in a locker, vaguely aware that the cadets, whom I’d expected to be chattering from accumulated tension, were unusually quiet. One boy dropped his helmet; it clattered loudly on the deck. He wilted at my glance. What was the matter with them? Were they all cowed by Edwards’s death? As soon as we were alone I asked Lieutenant Bien as much.
Her face lit in a wry grin. “Yes, they’re cowed, sir. But they’ll be all right next time.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you won’t be along.” Her smile broadened. “Couldn’t you see how they tiptoed around? How they watched you Outside? They’re terrified of you.”
I grunted. It was understandable, perhaps even appropriate. But still, I found it disturbing. The elusive thought led me nowhere.
That evening I had Sergeant Obutu set up my visit to the Training Station. We needn’t seek Admiralty’s approval; the Station was under my authority and we had a minishuttle of our own. I could stay as long as I wished, recall the shuttle to ferry me back to base.
Ms. Obutu rang back just as I settled into bed. “Tomorrow, right after breakfast. Mr. Trayn will pilot.”
“Very well.”
I lay in bed thinking of Annie. Was it too late to call? Should I contact her at all, or was it best to wait? Would I ever again be truly married? I drifted into restless sleep.
In the morning I dressed, went to mess hall, strode to my place. “Gentlemen, be seated!” Four hundred eighty cadets sat, almost as one. “Good morning.” I reached for coffee.
“Morning, sir.” Jent Paulson poured for both of us.
“Where are the others? Ms. Bien? Mr. Crossburn?” I chewed on a breakfast roll.
“Ms. Bien is rotated to Devon, sir. She’s probably at Earthport Station waiting for her flight. I believe Mr. Crossburn is checking your shuttle.” He hesitated. “Have you reviewed the Log this morning, sir?”
“I haven’t been in to the office yet.”
“Tenere was sent up again. Ten demerits. I made him wait outside so I wouldn’t be late for breakfast.”
“Adam?” I felt a twinge of guilt. Some of his demerits had come from me. “Mr. Paulson, could you go easy on him?” What was I doing? The boy had earned what demerits he’d been given.
“Aye aye, sir, if you wish.” He said no more. Perhaps I was intruding on his prerogative, but a Captain, any Captain, was allowed to have his way.
“Why?” I asked abruptly.
“Hm? The demerits? Ms. Bien gave him the last ones before she caught the shuttle. Something to do with Johan Stritz; he made the cadet late to class. I don’t know the details.”
I grunted. How was Stritz involved with Adam Tenere? It was bad discipline for middies to consort with cadets. I thought of Jeff Thorne, and shook my head. Still, Ms. Bien had probably overreacted. By asking Paulson to go easy I’d negate most of the damage, but I felt a continuing disquiet.
“What about the Stritz boy?”
“I have no idea. Ngu sent him to his sergeant, I imagine.”
I sipped at my coffee. Stritz had enough troubles, and if Sergeant Tripole was as unforgiving as Radz, the boy was in for more misery. I made a note to look into it, when I got back from the Station.
After breakfast, I took my duffel to the lock, vaguely depressed that I couldn’t get a handle on our personnel problems.
The shuttle was mated and ready. First Midshipman Thomas Keene waited to secure after we left. With him was Ardwell Crossburn.
“Ready, sir?” The pudgy lieutenant smiled politely.
I turned. “Yes, Mr. Crossburn. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye? I’m going with you, sir.”
“The hell you—That won’t be necessary.”
Crossburn looked aghast, while Midshipman Keene watched the byplay with interest. “You can’t go alone, sir. The Station is shut down. Someone has to start up the machinery, get things—who’d prepare your meals?”
“Not you, Mr. Crossburn.” I’d cancel my trip first.
“Whatever you say, sir. Let me point out that as maintenance officer I know where Station supplies are kept. Shall I call Mr. Paulson instead?”
“No, he has work to do.” I was brusque. Why hadn’t anyone mentioned that Crossburn would go along? Why hadn’t I asked? “I can manage alone, I think.” l
“Sir, be reasonable! What if something went wrong?”
He was right, but the thought of his company brought an edge to my voice. “Very well, then. Get your gear—” I stopped short.
My idea was unorthodox, perhaps, but it would solve another problem as well. I took the caller from the hatchway, keyed it to the first lieutenant’s cabin. No answer. Good; I wasn’t too late.
I turned to the waiting middy. “Mr. Keene, run down to Lieutenant Paulson’s cabin; Adam is waiting outside. He’s to get his duffel and report to me here. If you see Mr. Paulson, tell him I said Mr. Tenere’s chastisement can wait.”
The startled midshipman knew better than to question me. “Aye aye, sir.” He started off.
I called, “For Adam’s sake, you’d better hurry.” Paulson would be returning any minute. The middy raced down the corridor, prohibitions against running voided by my august authority.
Ardwell Crossburn cleared his throat. “Surely you don’t intend to take a middy as your only—”
I rested my hand on the hatch and sighed. “Ardwell, be quiet. So help me, I’ll—just shut up.”
“Aye aye, sir. I must advise you I will file a written protest with Admiralty over—”
“Fine. Do it.” If Admiral Duhaney relieved me, so much the better. Several minutes passed in uneasy silence before the two breathless middies returned.
“Midshipman Tenere repor—”
“You have your gear? Good. Get in the shuttle, we’re going to Training Station.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Adam was less surprised than I’d expected; apparently Keene had forewarned him. Good. It was his job to look after his middies.
We boarded and took our seats. The minishuttle was just large enough to ferry a squad of cadets between Station and Farside Base. For larger groups, we’d go through U.N.A.F. Transport at Earthport Station.
The Pilot busied himself calculating weights and trajectories. Adam buckled himself in. “May I speak, sir?”
Midshipmen were ex
pected to be seen and not heard. On the other hand, I’d summoned Tenere to special duty with me. Why seek his company if I intended to ignore him in the traditional manner? “Go ahead.”
“May I ask, I mean—” He smiled weakly. “What are we—why am I here, sir?” I raised an eyebrow. “That is, I know you ordered me, but ... He tried again. “Excuse me, sir, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just—”
I said nothing until he trailed off in confusion. No wonder Ms. Bien had sent the boy to be caned; any more blathering and I’d cane him myself. Even Ardwell Crossburn would be better company.
The Pilot called, “Ready for liftoff, sir. Stand by.” I waved, gripping my seat, though I knew acceleration from Luna hardly compared to the breath-wrenching gees needed to claw our way from Earth’s possessive grasp.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, felt rather than watched our ascent. After several minutes the hull became silent. I sat forward, loosened the straps. In the next seat, Adam Tenere carefully did nothing to incur my notice.
I sighed. He had to be dealt with, for my sake more than his. “Mr. Tenere, that performance was disgraceful.”
“I—yes, sir. I’m sorry. I won’t speak again.” His hands crossed tightly in his lap.
“Unsatisfactory.”
“Yes, sir!” Tiny beads of sweat shone on his forehead. “What do you want of me, sir?”
“Ask what you intended to before we lifted.”
“I wanted to know why we were going aloft. I didn’t mean to step out of line, sir!”
“Look at me, boy!” His head jerked around. I grabbed his wrist, pulled his hand to touch my chest. He yanked it back as if burned, while his eyes remained locked to mine. “I’m your Commandant, not Lord God. They’ve given me the power to cane you, even to have you dismissed. But that’s no reason to gibber like an idiot!”
“I’m sor—” He gulped. “Please!” An anguished cry.
“If you say sorry—” No, that wasn’t the way. I forced calm into my tone. “Adam ... I wished I’d let well enough alone. Now I’d have to discuss matters I loathed.
“How did you feel when you heard I was to be Commandant?” I swiveled to study his face.
He muttered, “I was—proud, sir. We all were. I couldn’t believe I’d actually get to serve under you.”
Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4) Page 17