A heavy double-rap sounded, then the hatch swung open again and Commander Garcia stuck his head inside. "Sinclair!"
Paul hastily rolled out of his bunk, barely avoiding whacking his head on a support bracket, and stood facing his department head, still blinking against the light and hoping his guilt at being caught in his bunk didn't show. "Sir."
"Where's Tweed?"
"Lieutenant Tweed? I . . . I don't know, sir."
And how the hell am I supposed to know right now? It's not like I'm sleeping with her. And if I was, I'd really be in trouble.
"Find her! Find her and then the two of you find me! Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
The hatch crashed shut, leaving the stateroom dim once more. Carl Meadows yawned. "Have a nice day, sir," he advised the hatch, then rolled out of his own bunk. "Hey, Paul. Welcome aboard."
"You already told me that, uh . . ." When? Had it only been the day before yesterday?
"Two days ago. Time flies when you're having fun."
"In that case, time must be approaching light speed right now."
"Yeah." Carl yawned again, scratched himself, then checked his scheduler. "Don't worry, though. It gets worse."
Paul sighed, then hurriedly dressed and shaved before heading out in search of Lieutenant Tweed. Several minutes into his search, he came face to face with Master-at-Arms Sharpe. "Good morning, Mr. Sinclair," the Sheriff announced cheerfully.
"If you say so."
"Don't forget, sir. XO's screening at ten hundred."
"Uh . . ."
How can I forget something I didn't know? I've got to remember to read the plan of the day as soon as I get up.
"Ten hundred?"
"Right." Sheriff Sharpe smiled. "That's ten A.M., sir."
Paul couldn't help smiling back at the audacity of the statement. "I know that. They did teach me to tell military time."
"Can't take anything for granted with a new ensign, sir. See you at the XO's stateroom at ten hundred."
"Sure. Say, have you seen Lieutenant Tweed anywhere?"
Sharpe paused, then used his thumb to point forward. "She might be in the classified materials vault."
"She might be, huh? Thanks, Sheriff." Paul hurried along, vaguely recalling that the 'vault' containing the most sensitive classified material on the ship was located next to the ship's Combat Information Center. After asking a passing sailor for directions, he found the door and rapped softly. Getting no response, he rapped again, harder.
"Wait." The lock on the hatch cycled open, then a lieutenant with a slim face and a guarded expression gazed out. "Oh. Paul, right? Whatever it is will have to wait. I'm doing an inventory."
Paul nodded in apparent agreement, even though he could see Tweed blinking sleep from her eyes. "Commander Garcia said he needed to see us both. At once."
"He did?" Tweed looked around as if seeking an escape route, then shrugged. "Okay. Let's go."
Garcia's temper didn't seem to have improved in the brief period since Paul had last seen him. Their Department head glared at Paul and Lieutenant Tweed, then shoved a portable reader at them. "Where's the pre-ex for the simulated tracking drill this morning?"
Paul stared at the reader while dread grew in him. A pre-exercise message laid out coordination procedures for drills involving more than one ship. Most of the information was canned, Paul already knew, and simply had to be spelled out again, but every exercise required a pre-ex message to every unit involved. "I . . . I . . ." Lieutenant Tweed was frowning in thought, then looking sidelong at Paul with a worried expression.
She told me to take care of it. I remember now. Oh, geez.
Commander Garcia's eyes were fixed on him, hard and angry. Paul swallowed, then spoke in a voice he knew sounded thin. "I was supposed to take care of it, sir."
"You were
supposed
to take care of it. Why didn't you?"
"I intended doing it today, sir—"
"The exercise is today! Didn't you review the exercise material as soon as you got told to take care of the pre-ex?"
"No, sir. I . . . didn't."
Garcia's face reddened. Paul's department head looked as if he were barely restraining himself, then shook his head like an angry bull. "You'd better not screw up like this again, Sinclair. Now, I personally will have to coordinate all this on the fly. Do you think I'm happy about that, Sinclair?"
"No, sir."
"Were you planning on leaving the ship this evening, Sinclair?"
Michaelson
was due to get underway in the morning. Paul had already been invited out to a bar crawl with the other junior officers, but now he shook his head, knowing what his answer had to be. "No, sir."
"Good. At least you got
that
right." Garcia stomped away, leaving Paul and Jan Tweed alone.
Lieutenant Tweed tried to smile sympathetically. "It happens to everybody."
Paul held back a bitter reply, angry with her for not warning him the message had been a short fuse item, but also knowing it had been his own fault he hadn't checked on it before postponing action.
And at least she didn't blame me for it right off. I guess Carl was right. You can't count on her, but Tweed won't mess me over deliberately
. "Yeah. First time for everything. I'm sure it won't be the last. Should I try to help the commander with fixing this up?"
"Uh-uh. Bad idea. Garcia will cool down while he works, unless you're there to remind him you screwed up." Tweed checked her watch and smiled briefly again. "Hey. Breakfast time. Coming?"
"No, thanks. I'm not too hungry right now."
"Suit yourself."
Paul wandered down the passageway, his eyes fixed on the deck, feeling angry at his own failure but still resentful of Commander Garcia.
It's my fault, but it's also not like that guy is providing any real guidance or support for me. What's that they say about officers on ships? They eat their young. I guess that's true.
A body blocked his progress, causing Paul to look up into the sympathetic face of Ensign Sam Yarrow. "Hey, Paul, I heard Garcia did a number on you."
"Yeah."
"Too bad." Yarrow placed a friendly hand on Paul's shoulder. "Garcia's a real hard-ass, isn't he?"
"Sure seems to be."
"He riding you hard?"
"Real hard."
"Damn shame. I bet you didn't deserve getting chewed out, did you?"
"Well, uh . . ." Paul let his words trail off, suddenly wary of Yarrow's apparent concern. "I don't know. I made a mistake."
"A big mistake or a little one? You've got to have a chance to learn. Right?"
"Uh, right. Look, I've got some other stuff to handle. See you later."
"Sure thing."
Paul spent the next few hours working through his to-do list, making sure nothing else would miss being done on time, then hustled to be outside the XO's stateroom prior to ten hundred. Sheriff Sharpe was already waiting, along with the familiar senior chief, who grinned in greeting. "Howdy, Mr. Sinclair."
"Hi, Senior Chief. What's your name anyway?"
The grin widened. "Senior Chief Kowalski, sir. Leading chief on the
Michaelson
. That's why I'm here for XO's screening."
"Right." Paul nodded absently, trying to dredge up his memories of the XO screenings he'd attended during his limited fleet experience. Most violations of military rules and regulations weren't handled by courts-martial, but by Non-Judicial Punishment. NJP had its own rules and limitations, and allowed a commanding officer to deal with the great majority of breaches of good order and discipline in a quick and effective manner. But not every offense technically referred for NJP needed to be handled even in that fashion, which led to the XO's screening, where the executive officer reviewed each case and decided whether it should go on up to the Captain or could be disposed of without taking that step.
Two more chiefs arrived, each with a sailor in tow, then Sheriff Sharpe rapped on the XO's hatch and received permission to enter. Paul, Senior Chief Kowalski, and Sharpe crowded into the stateroom, Paul following the others' example by flattening himself against one bulkhead to leave a small space clear in the center. Commander Herdez nodded in general greeting, then pointed toward the hatch. "Let's start with Alvarez."
Sharpe leaned out, signaling to one sailor, who entered along with her chief. Alvarez stood at what could technically be called attention, though she somehow imbued the stance with an air of insubordination. "Attention!" Sharpe snapped, then stepped back as Alvarez tightened her stance marginally.
Herdez scanned her reader, her face as hard as the metal deck, then looked up at Alvarez. "Seaman Alvarez, you are charged with two violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Article 86, failure to go to an appointed place of duty, and Article 91, insubordinate conduct toward a petty officer. Chief Thomas."
The chief petty officer accompanying Alvarez wedged herself slightly forward.
"What happened?"
"During morning muster, Seaman Alvarez was not present, ma'am. She had still not appeared at the completion of muster, so I went down to the berthing compartment and found her in her rack. I ordered her to get up immediately and, instead of complying, Seaman Alvarez made a number of obscene remarks directed at me."
Commander Herdez' face somehow seemed to harden even further. "It seems to me that Seaman Alvarez should also be charged under Article 91 with disobeying an order from a petty officer. Is that correct?"
Chief Thomas chewed her lip for a moment before answering. "Seaman Alvarez did get up and proceed with her duties after I, uh, motivated her, ma'am."
"Hmmm." Herdez shifted her gaze back to Alvarez. "Seaman Alvarez, what do you have to say?"
Alvarez displayed an apparently insincere mix of regret and earnestness as she spoke. "I was sick, ma'am. Real sick. I could hardly move at all. I tried to tell Chief Thomas, but she wouldn't listen. So I got up anyway, but it was real hard. But it wasn't my fault, ma'am."
"Real sick?" Herdez looked back at Chief Thomas. "Did you send Seaman Alvarez to sick bay?"
"I did, ma'am. The doc reported Alvarez had a bad hangover, that was all."
"A hangover."
Alvarez spoke again, licking her lips nervously. "I didn't drink that much the night before, ma'am. Just a little. It was some bad booze. Real bad. Or somebody slipped me a Mickey. You know, to rob me or somethin', but I got back to the ship anyway. The doc wouldn't listen, though."
Herdez shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on Alvarez. "Neither will I, because your story is not very believable. Sick bay would have spotted any traces of drugs in your system from a Mickey, but you refused such a test. Why?"
"I, uh, they coulda taken my word—"
"They also could have detected other drugs, perhaps. But I can't charge you with offenses I only believe you committed." Herdez looked toward Sheriff Sharpe. "This case is referred to Captain's mast. Dismissed."
Alvarez, her head down so no one could read her expression, followed Chief Thomas out. Commander Herdez nodded to Sharpe. "Next."
Sharpe leaned out the hatch. "Seaman Franco."
Franco entered with his chief, then stood at rigid attention, almost quivering with nervousness. Herdez favored him with a stern look, then checked her reader. "Seaman Franco, you are charged with violating Article 86, failure to go to an appointed place of duty. Chief Blucher?"
Chief Blucher tilted his head toward Franco. "Seaman Franco, he didn't show up for morning muster yesterday. He got back to the ship maybe a half hour late, after liberty had expired."
"What do have to say, Seaman Franco?"
Franco twitched, his face rigid. "Ma'am, I . . . uh . . . didn't . . . realize the time."
"What were you doing that made you so unaware of your duties on the ship, Seaman Franco?"
"I . . . uh . . . ma'am . . . um . . . a friend . . ."
The corner of Herdez' mouth twitched. "Chief Blucher, can you shed any light on this?"
"Yes, ma'am. I believe Seaman Franco has a new girlfriend ashore."
"Ah. Your first girlfriend, Seaman Franco?"
Franco nodded once, his face rigid, worried eyes fixed on the far bulkhead. "Yes, ma'am. Uh, I mean, first real girlfriend."
"I see. And you were engaged in some activities with this girlfriend which caused you to be late returning to the ship?"
"I . . . I'm sorry, ma'am. I really didn't realize . . ."
Herdez turned to Chief Blucher again. "What sort of sailor is Seaman Franco?"
"He's a good sailor, ma'am. Hard worker."
"Has he been in trouble before?"
"No, ma'am."
"Very well." Herdez fixed a stern gaze in Franco. "Then I believe this can be handled without referring the case to the Captain. Chief Blucher, ensure Seaman Franco understands the consequences of failing to attend to his duties because of . . . social activities. As for you, Seaman Franco, it's not hard to balance your social life with your professional responsibilities as long as you think with the upper part of your spine instead of the lower part of it. I don't want to see you here again. Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am. Th-thank you, ma'am."
"Dismissed."
Franco and Blucher trooped out, while Senior Chief Kowalski rubbed his face to conceal a smile. "Thanks, Commander."
Commander Herdez kept her own face solemn. "No thanks needed, Senior Chief. Franco is a good sailor, but more than one good sailor has wandered astray. Putting the fear of God in him at this point should ensure he stays on track. Alvarez, on the other hand . . . Senior Chief, I want you to be thinking about ways to get her transferred off this ship if necessary."
Kowalski nodded. "Okay, ma'am. She's a bad egg. But the shore establishment don't like it when we dump bad sailors on them."
"Since the shore establishment sends them to us in the first place, I don't see where they have cause to complain. See to it, Senior Chief. Thank you, Petty Officer Sharpe. Mr. Sinclair, I'll need to see you tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, ma'am." Paul went cold inside, imagining his foul up with Commander Garcia had attracted even worse attention than he had imagined.