Deftly done, without a hint of criticism. I sighed. “Tell Sergeant Radz he’s to cancel Drew’s demerits and see that no one else reaches ten before—”
“Aye aye, sir. Are you quite sure that’s what you want?”
I gripped the caller tightly, forced myself to relax. This woman knew what she was about. “What would you suggest, Sarge?”
“I don’t know, sir. But I wouldn’t think undercutting Sergeant Radz in front of his barracks is the answer.”
Damn it, she was right. Well, the alternative was letting Kyle Drew be caned. So be it, unless—
“Send the cadets groundside. All three of them.”
“Surely there’s a better way than washing them out.”
I growled, “I didn’t say I’d wash them out; just transfer them here. Do it before Mr. Drew has to report to the barrel.” That would get the boy off the hook, without undercutting Radz too obviously. I hung up the caller, trudged one more time to my table, where all waited for me to dismiss the assembly.
Tolliver saw me to the door. “I’ll be along after a word with Sergeant Olvira.”
“No. Come with me.” We walked in silence to my apartment. Safely inside, I flung off my jacket, threw myself on my couch. “Tolliver, should I resign?”
“I beg your pardon?” His eyebrow lifted.
“I’m out of control. Look at me.”
Unbidden, he sat. “You’re tired. We’re not as young as we used to be.”
“Goofjuice. Tantrums aside, I don’t know what I’m doing. I veer between harsh discipline and coddling them.”
“So, you’re erratic. You’re a Captain.”
I snarled, “None of your middy humor, Edgar. Not now.”
Tolliver shrugged. “You’re having a bad day. Don’t make too much of it.” He stood. “If that’s all, I’ll smooth Sergeant Olvira’s feathers. I’m sure he didn’t enjoy being chewed out in front of his cadets.”
“Sit. I haven’t dismissed you.” It sounded more petulant than I’d intended. “Sorry. Problems on Farside; a couple of the barracks sergeants are riding roughshod over their joeys. It’s gotten out of hand.”
“What will you do about it?”.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m the wrong man for the job.” I brooded. “How soon can you finish your expense and deliveries report?”
“The audit? You gave me a week. I could do it faster, if I didn’t have to supervise morning runs.” His expression was bland.
“Drop everything else, finish the report. As soon as you’re done I’m sending you aloft. The staff is—I need a moderating influence,”
“I’m hardly the one for that.”
I said gruffly, “You did well enough in Victoria’s wardroom.” Tolliver, as Midshipman, had soothed the burgeoning hostilities among my junior officers. I realized, with a pang, that my long-nursed resentment of his hazing might be somewhat unreasonable as well. “That’s all, Edgar. Get some sleep,”
“Right. Aye aye, sir. I’ll see Olvira first.”
“I’ll deal with him. No, don’t argue about it!” After he was gone, I sat on the couch, head in my hands, trying not to think of the ordeal ahead. Finally, after an hour, I stood slowly, reached for my jacket.
I strode from Officers’ Quarters across the compound to the cadet dorms, taking salutes from passing middies. The night air was chill; I increased my pace.
Sergeant Olvira ran Wilhaven Barracks, the third along the neatly bordered walk. I heard laughter from inside as I bounded up the steps.
A cadet saw me, shouted, “Attention!” They rushed into a line, stood with spines stiffened. Some wore jackets, other were in shirts and ties. A few were in undershorts only. Bunks were rumpled, holovids spread out and opened. A typical barracks evening, the relaxed cadets finishing their work before Lights Out.
“At ease.” I looked around. “Where’s your sergeant?”
A boy with a corporal’s stripe said tentatively, “I think he’s in his quarters, sir.”
“My compliments, and would he please join us.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The cadet slipped on his boots, hurried out.
We waited in silence. After a moment, footsteps returned. “Sergeant Olvira reporting as—”
“As you were, Sarge.” I took a position in the center of the aisle, addressed the cadets. “Someday you will command sailors, who have a right to expect your best. Let this be a lesson to you.” I turned to Olvira, spoke for all to hear. “Sergeant, I tender my apology for the rude and unwarranted remarks I made in dining hall tonight. They show I am unable to control my temper, which I will endeavor to correct in future. I am sorry.”
Every eye was fastened on me. I swallowed bile, turned to the line of cadets. “The only thing worse than misbehavior to a fellow officer is failure to acknowledge it. My discourtesy to your sergeant is not excused by your laughing at a fellow cadet, whose embarrassment at dropping a tray in the Commandant’s presence can only be imagined. I rebuke you, as I rebuke myself for my response. That is all.” With what dignity I could muster, I strode out.
That night I slept, free of dreams, a deep refreshing slumber. In the morning I hauled myself out of bed, showered, went to breakfast, settled in my office. I buzzed Sergeant Kinder. “Any word from Admiral Duhaney?”
“Not since last night, sir.”
Well, he had said it would take a day or two. I thought of Lieutenant Sleak, in the sickbay cooler awaiting transshipment. His life, taken in despair, would end in travesty.
“I’m sorry,” he had said. Would that he had waited long enough to add a few words of explanation.
I tapped my desk. Not only had we lost Sleak, I intended to reassign Tolliver to Farside. We needed a new lieutenant, and flank. I took up the caller. “Get me BuPers.”
After a short wait I found myself speaking to Captain Higbee, the same official who’d refused to reassign Ardwell Crossburn. Lamely, I explained that Lieutenant Sleak was to be transferred aloft at Admiral Duhaney’s orders, and I needed another officer. It was almost true.
“Do you have anyone in mind?” Higbee sounded preoccupied.
“No.”
“Very well, I’ll find you someone. You’ll hear from me.” He rang off.
I spent the morning skimming through reports. Shortly before lunch the caller buzzed.
Sergeant Kinders. “Midshipman Keene is down from Farside. He’s escorting three cadets.”
“Very well.” In my pique of the night before, I’d failed to make arrangements for them. Just as I’d failed to call off the invasion of the Marines. Early senility, perhaps. “Send them in.”
They came stiffly to attention before my desk, Thomas Keene proud with responsibility, the three young cadets subdued and wary.
“Did they give you any trouble on the way down, Mr. Keene?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well.” I thought for a moment. “Thank you. I suppose you’re anxious to get back?”
“Not rea—yes, sir.”
I felt magnanimous. “I suppose not. The acceleration must be terrible for a man of your advanced age.” Keene was barely eighteen. “Well, take two days leave, if you’d like. You could see London.”
His eyes lit up. “Thank you, sir!”
“Dismissed.” When he’d left I turned to the waiting cadets. “At ease. You must be Stritz.”
“Yes, sir. Johan Stritz. You met me in my barracks.” I concentrated, recalled the wiry, muscular boy who’d slipped into the dorm during my reverie. The cadet’s forehead gleamed; he was frightened.
“I won’t bite, Mr. Stritz.” I turned to Arnweil, my voice gruff. “How do you feel?”
“I’m all right, sir.”
“Can you sit at mess?”
Kevin’s face went red. “Yes, sir. I guess Mr. Paulson went easy on me.”
I turned to Kyle Drew. As often as the name had been in our deliberations, I’d seen him only once, on the Hull. His face was sallow, his cheeks sunken. Puberty was barely u
pon him. At fifteen, a hard burden to bear.
“So you’re Drew.” Inane, but I could think of nothing else to say.
“Yes, sir.” He shifted nervously.
I studied the three of them. I hadn’t thought the matter through beyond calling them down to Devon, out of harm’s way. I’d have to assign them to barracks. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Kyle Drew. “Because we can’t hold our own. We foul up.” His tone was bitter.
Arnweil added, “To see if you’ll give us another chance before washing us out.”
“Who told you that?”
“Sergeant Radz, sir.”
Damn the man. I blurted, “No, you’re here to—” I hesitated. By bringing them back to Devon I’d consigned them to classes they’d already passed, to plebe dorms. They would assume I judged them failures, and they’d act the part. But what else was I to do?
I improvised, “You’re here as—as part of an experimental program. Some cadets seem to do better with individualized instruction, and I want to see why.” Johan Stritz gawked. “I’ll bunk you in one of the dorms. You’ll exercise with your bunkmates. Your academic work at Farside will be converted to individual study projects.”
Kyle Drew said hesitantly, “Pardon, sir, but I don’t understand. What do we ... do? I mean, during the day?”
A good question, to which I had no answer. But of course they mustn’t know that. Decisively I said, “That’s the whole point. You’re assigned to me. You’ll accompany me back and forth to Farside and work at—at duties I assign from time to time. In my office.” I was perspiring. “That’s enough for now. Report to Sergeant Kinders. He’s to assign you a barracks. To Sergeant Ibarez,” I added. Ramon Ibarez would provide the nurturing Radz could not.
As the door closed behind them I sat, stunned. What in heaven’s name had I done? I’d babbled as if demented about programs that didn’t exist, independent studies that had never been authorized, duties I would have to invent before I could assign. And under my personal supervision, no less.
Effectively, I’d taken three troubled youngsters out of Academy and made them my personal responsibility. Worse, I’d shattered the tradition that cadets were so insignificant as to be beneath an officer’s notice. How could these joeys respect me if they knew me so well?
Chapter 11
BY EVENING, I’D GOTTEN Arnweil, Drew and Stritz settled into barracks. The next day I arranged for Sergeant Kinders to assign them tasks to keep them occupied. As it happened, they were rather useful now, as we were short an officer. The middies, whom we otherwise used to run errands or help with chores, were helping fill in with Lieutenant Sleak’s responsibilities.
The following morning a heli landed on the pad, and Darwin Sleak’s remains were quietly hustled out of Academy. I accompanied the sad bundle strapped to the dolly, offering a silent prayer as I walked. Whatever the cost of announcing his death, I knew we had done wrong to conceal it, and the fact that the Admiral had decided on the course did not excuse my part in it. After, I returned to my office.
My three cadets took meals with their plebe barracks; I was relieved not to have them underfoot. I was uncomfortably aware that for all my words of reassurance, I’d shunted them aside the moment our interview was done.
The following day I managed not to see them at breakfast and lunch, but by dinner I could stand it no longer. I signaled the mess steward. “Three more places, if you please.” With Sleak gone and Tolliver absent, we were hardly crowded.
The places set, I had the steward fetch my three cadets from Sergeant Ibarez’s table. They approached with embarrassment, Kevin Arnweil in the lead. Lieutenant Bien made as if to speak, looked away. In living memory, no cadet had ever been summoned to the Commandant’s table, not even for a rebuke. Tradition.
“Sit, gentlemen. From now on you’ll take dinner with us.” Arnweil sat shyly alongside Sandra Ekrit, the two other boys found a place nearby. The three huddled together as if for warmth in the disapproving chill.
I spooned my soup, waiting for someone to break the ice. At first, no one spoke. Then Midshipman Ekrit deliberately turned her face from the cadets, resumed her conversation with Lieutenant Bien. Arnweil went red, concentrated on his bowl. Johan Stritz whispered something to Kyle Drew, who played with his fork. Drew, after a moment, glanced sheepishly at Sergeant Olvira. “Good evening, sir. I mean, Sarge.”
“Good evening.” The sergeant’s tone was wintry. He swivelled to Midshipman Thayer. “Was Lunapolis all you expected?”
Anton Thayer grinned. “Yes, I—”
No. It wouldn’t do. I looked across to Stritz. “How old are you, Johan?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
“You were having trouble with Nav, as I recollect. How are you doing now?”
“A little better, sir.”
“Good.” My tone sharpened. “I believe Midshipman Ekrit did well at Nav.” I turned to the first middy. “Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, sir.” Warily, she studied my expression.
“Then you won’t mind giving Mr. Stritz a hand in his studies.”
Her distaste was apparent. “Of course not, sir.”
“And since you won’t know when Johan needs help, you’re confined to base until his grades improve.”
“And your manners.”
The midshipman looked down to her plate. “Pardon me for offending you, sir.”
I smiled coldly. “You didn’t offend me, Midshipman, though I’m sure Mr. Stritz feels affront: Of course, as a cadet he can’t express it.”
She said in a small voice, “I apologize, sir. And to you, Cadet.”
I’d accomplished my purpose; time to let up. I smiled at Anton Thayer, gestured to Arnweil. “Tell Kevin about your trip to Lunapolis, Mr. Thayer. Did you go Outside for the light show?”
Lieutenant Bien probed my face as halting conversation resumed. I looked back, impassive. If necessary, I would make an example of her as well. Perhaps she understood; eventually, she turned to Kyle Drew and began to chat.
After dinner I returned to my office, fuming at the callousness of my staff. I’d invited the cadets to break bread with us, and my officers owed them the same courtesy as any guest, tradition or no.
The caller buzzed. “BuPers, sir.”
A click. “Please hold for Captain Higbee, sir.” The line went silent. Waiting, I tapped knuckles against my teeth. True, lieutenants and midshipmen alike assumed cadets were less than nothing. But even as a cadet I’d known officers who saw the person inside the creased gray uniform. Midshipman Jeffrey Thorne, for example. He’d shown me kindness, had taken me into his world of risk and adventure, had been my mentor and friend.
“Seafort? I have a lieutenant for you. Brann, age fifty. He’s recovering from a fall; light duties would suit him perfectly.”
“Very well.”
“He was on the Vega run for several years, and isn’t very happy about going shoreside. But that’s his worry. When he’s well, we’ll see about transferring him out.”
Brann wouldn’t fit in at Academy, supervising frisky, healthy youths, resenting his own disability. What I really needed was a younger man, one with enthusiasm.
Higbee’s tone became more guarded. “Your Mr. Sleak is on Lunapolis, by the way. Assigned to the Admiral’s staff.” I grimaced, but said nothing. “I’ll transfer Brann’s file to your puter and send him his travel orders.”
“No.”
“You can expect him—what?”
“I don’t want him.”
“I asked if you had someone in mind, and you didn’t. We’ve been through this before, Seafort. Unless he has unsatisfactory ratings, you’re stuck—”
I took a deep breath. “Don’t bother sending him, I’ll just ship him back.”
“I’m senior to you, Mr. Seafort, please keep that in mind. And I’m acting with the authority of Admiral Duhaney.”
I snarled, “Very well, in that case, reassign me Lieutenant Sleak!” There was silence. “In fa
ct, I have a mind to give him a commendation. It would make a nice press release. The Admiral loves press releases, they stimulate enrollment.”
Higbee’s tone was cautious. “What do you want, Captain?”
“I don’t know. I want someone—someone who ... Someone like Jeff. “Tell me, whatever happened to a Thorne, Jeffrey? Graduated in ’88.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, and in any event we can’t pull someone off—”
“Very well, I’ll make do with Sleak.”
A long pause. “I’ll get back to you.”
I put my head in my hands. Higbee would ring through to Admiral Duhaney, whose patience with me was exhausted. Perhaps he’d relieve me. It was just as well. The Commandancy called for tact and political skills I could never master.
I brooded. Men like Sergeant Radz strove to do their duty, and were excellent officers in their own fashion. But competence had to be tempered with kindness. I myself was incapable of it; I lashed out indiscriminately, regretting my impetuosity only when it was too late. The cadets didn’t need coddling, they needed ... a hand. Sometimes, all one could give them was understanding. I sat in the dusk, remembering.
Jeffrey Thorne looked away, his expression pained. “I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean for it to end this way.”
I ignored his apology, echoed the word of greatest import. “End, sir?”
The midshipman scuffed the deck. “I have to watch myself for a while; any more trouble and they’ll throw me ashore. Mr. Zorn warned me.” His foot scuffed at the deck. “Even talking to you like this, I can’t risk it anymore.”
I felt the girders of my world snatched away. “Yes, sir.”
“Seafort, you’re second year now; soon you’ll make middy. You don’t need me.”
I flared, “You don’t know what I need!” Immediately I added, “I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne. Please excuse me.” Friend or not, he was an officer and I was but a cadet.
“Oh, Nicky.” He waved it away. For a moment he flashed the captivating smile that had brought about my humiliation and disgrace. “Anyway, no more missions. I told them it was all my fault.”
Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4) Page 22