Gust Front

She looked around at the damaged and dingy interior of the ship. The lighting was purplish and unpleasant and the cargo hold was covered in scuffs and dents. For all that there was little real dirt. The ship was obviously well cared for. But the age and poor condition were clear nonetheless. She smiled and chuckled. «I'm sure we're going to get real friendly.»

There was an uneasy chuckle in response from the group and she turned to the XO. «Mrs. O'Neal, why don't you show me to my dayroom and we'll get down to business.»

«Yes, ma'am,» said Sharon. The new commander had obviously gotten a realistic first impression and the response was better than she had hoped. «If you'll follow me?»

* * *

The commander's office turned out to be a cramped antechamber of the captain's quarters. It was smaller than the office April had on her first command—also a frigate, as it happened—and very poorly positioned. The captain's quarters were nearly thirty meters away from the bridge through a twisting maze of unusually low corridors. Using this as an office was obviously out of the question.

She turned to her XO, standing at attention behind her. She waved a hand. «This isn't Fleet Headquarters, for God's sake. Simply bowing will suffice.» She smiled to assure the XO it was a joke. «Is there anywhere closer to the bridge for me to do my paperwork?»

The XO shook her head. «No, ma'am, there isn't. Believe it or not, engineering and the bridge are almost collocated. The engineering section pretty much wraps the bridge. Then, out from there are a mass of environmental systems. This is as close as any quarters are to the bridge. And there's not anything that can be moved or taken off-line to get you closer. I'm even farther away, which is why I was using the office in the period between the last commander and your arrival.»

Captain Weston nodded firmly. «Well, I suppose I shall have to learn to hurry.» She sat in the workstation chair and spun it to face the XO standing at parade rest. «Sit,» she commanded, pointing at the nearby bunk.

Sharon seated herself carefully, hands on knees.

Weston examined her just as carefully. The officer was attempting to radiate calm but was obviously as nervous as a virgin in the East End. Weston nodded unconsciously.

Sharon wondered what the nod meant. The new commander had been regarding her steadily for nearly a minute. If she thought she could outwait Sharon O'Neal she had another think coming. The stare was, however, disconcerting. The captain had blue eyes so dark as to be almost black. They were like looking into a Highland loch; there was no way to know how deep it might be. They seemed to suck light into them. Sharon almost shook herself, realizing she was becoming half mesmerized.

«Lieutenant Commander Sharon Jerzinsky O'Neal,» said the new captain, startling the XO. The captain smiled. «Jerzinsky?»

Sharon shrugged. «Polish, Captain.»

«That I recognized. Rensselaer Polytechnic, Class of '91. BS Aeronautic Engineering. Cum Laude. Entered the United States Navy Reserve Officer Training Program in 1989. Why?»

Sharon shrugged again. This was going differently than she expected. Among other things she was amazed at the officer's memory and wondered how far it would stretch.

«I took the ROTC program for the money, Captain. It wasn't much but with a couple of scholarships I only had to have one job on the side.» She carefully refrained from discussing what the job was. Modeling was modeling but there were a few pictures around of her that she sure hoped never made it into her official packet. Or the fact that her minor had been in dance.

The new commander nodded and went on. «Commissioned as an ensign and took training as an aeronautics maintenance officer. Assigned USS Carl Vinson. Served four years, three on the Carl Vinson. Exited regular service in 1995. Why not continue?»

Sharon wondered how to explain to this career officer. How to explain that despite all the pressure being applied to reduce harassment, an aircraft carrier at sea for six months or more at a time was still no place for a former model. How to explain the decline in morale and discipline during those dark days of the American military. How to explain the frustration of not being able to keep birds in the air because of a lack of parts. Or the pressure to put up birds you were not one hundred percent sure were good. Of having a husband knife her in the back so he could get a few more hours in the air. Of having the same son of a bitch leave her for an «LBFM,» a «Little-Brown-Fuck-Machine.» The Indonesian wife was nice and almost apologetic. But that hadn't helped.

«There was no reason to continue at that time, ma'am,» she answered, her stock noncommittal response. «I had never considered the Navy a career.»

«Despite a string of 'Excellents' on your Officer Evaluation Reports?» asked the British officer. «Despite, 'this officer manifests maturity and ability far beyond her age and far beyond her peers. Future assignments of this officer should be determined keeping in mind the good of the service and possible future high rank rather than the immediate needs of career placement.' And it was 'enthusiastically endorsed' by the carrier commander.» The professional officer cocked her head to the side in puzzlement. «That's better than any evaluation I got at the same rank. So, why leave? You had the possibility of a fine career in front of you.»

Sharon raised her hands palm up. «I was never a careerist, Captain. I'm happy that Commander Jensen was so enthusiastic and that Captain Hughes agreed. But I still was not there for a career.»

The new commander cracked her fingers and leaned back in the station chair, fingers laced behind her head. «Bullshit.»

Sharon stared at her stonily. «Perhaps, Captain. But it is all I am required to discuss with my superiors.»

Captain Weston cocked an eyebrow. «Once burned thrice shy?»

Sharon smiled faintly. «More like eternally shy. Ma'am.»

«Okay.» The officer nodded. «Fair enough. Returned to school, Georgia Technical Institute. Met and married one Michael O'Neal.» She stopped. «Parenthetically, I met the Mike O'Neal who won the medal on Diess on a plane just the other day. Nice fellow, if you've never met him. Just as short as he looks on TV.»

Sharon smiled thinly. «Yes, he is, ma'am. But I find him quite tall enough.»

Captain Weston looked surprised for the first time in the interview. «Seriously? He's your husband?» she asked, her accent for once becoming prominent.

Sharon smiled whimsically. «Seriously. I mean, I know he's not much to look at . . .» she said and smiled again.

The captain shook her head and trudged on. «Took your masters in aeronautic engineering, specializing in determining maintenance cycling. Went to work for Lockheed-Martin in Atlanta on the F-22 project. The project was then in the process of being 'downsized.' I'm surprised you got a job.» She cocked an eye for an answer.

«So was I,» Sharon admitted. «But they were continuing background developmental work, figuring that sooner or later Congress was going to give up and buy the damn thing. I was fresh out of college and cheaper than the people they were letting go. I wasn't happy about it, but I took the job anyway.»

«But you stayed for two more years. Until you were called up, in fact.»

«I'd hardly been there any time when We Heard.» Sharon finally crossed her legs and interlaced her fingers over her knee. «By then we'd started tinkering with the Peregrine variant. When the parameters came back it looked like the Peregrine would be the answer to our prayers. Now that I've gotten a better look at the data on Posleen weapons I think it's a death trap. But nobody listens to me these days.»

«Oh, I wouldn't say that,» said Captain Weston, enigmatically. She leaned back and ran her fingers through her hair. They came away greasy and she grimaced. «They listened to you at the Board of Inquiry. And that was with an entirely male board and two Russians on it. Have you ever wondered why you are still on this ship when all the other officers have been cycled through like shit through a goose?»