After the last enlisted had been presented with their awards, the Commodore held up a last medal case. "Lieutenant Silver, front and center."
Paul tried to keep his expression fixed as Silver marched up to stand in front of the Commodore, and as the Commodore began reading the medal citation. After lauding Silver's leadership during the crisis, and proclaiming it in the highest traditions of the Naval Service, the Commodore pinned a Navy Commendation Medal on Silver.
Paul somehow kept his face impassive, his eyes front, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Captain Hayes. The smile Captain Hayes had carried through most of the award ceremony had vanished, and his face seemed to be reddening. Paul didn't know what that meant, nor did he really want to know. At this point, he just wanted the ceremony over.
It ended mercifully a few minutes later. Paul quickly dismissed his division, then headed back for the ship, avoiding contact with anyone else.
But he couldn't hide on the ship. Within a few minutes of his own arrival, a group of his friends arrived at his stateroom. "They gave Silver a medal?"
Paul glanced up, keeping his expression flat. "Yeah."
Kris Denaldo was standing in the hatchway, Lieutenant Mike Bristol just behind her along with Ensign Randy Diego. "Why?"
"I don't know. I just work in the Combat Information Center, so I never know anything."
"That's really funny. Why'd they give Silver a medal?"
"You heard the commendation. I didn't really listen. Something about his control of the situation and crap like that."
"Crap is right. He got a medal and you didn't?"
Paul looked down at his desk, still trying to keep his face rigid. "Yeah."
"Isn't that kind of lame?"
"Look, Kris, what do you want me to do?"
Silence stretched, until Paul looked up to see everyone still standing there. Kris looked around at the others, then scowled. "Nothing, I guess. Do you want to vent?"
"No."
"You've got to be pissed."
"Sort of."
"But there's nothing you can do about it."
"Right."
"Any idea why Hayes did that?"
Another voice answered. "Captain Hayes didn't do it." They all looked to see Commander Sykes leaning against the bulkhead not far away. "The captain was just as surprised as you, Mr. Sinclair. He is not a happy man. This is, of course, not for attribution."
Bristol was staring at Sykes. "The Commodore did it? Without input from Captain Hayes?"
"Apparently. Our captain is attempting to run down the source of the medal recommendation. He can't really pull the medal. Not without cause. What damage has been done is done. I believe Paul is wise to attempt to accept this aspect of things."
"Suppo, he got hammered for that accident even though he led the Damage Control team in, and now Silver's getting rewarded even though he didn't do anything."
Sykes looked away. "I can't promise a just resolution to this."
Ensign Diego shook his head. "Paul's just got to live with it?"
"Unless he can find a constructive alternative, yes."
They all looked at Paul, who shrugged. "I don't know."
Mike Bristol grinned humorlessly. "I have an alternative. Liberty call's in fifteen minutes. Let's go have a drink."
That sounded as constructive as anything else.
The next morning, Paul was nursing a mild hangover when Ivan Sharpe called. "Sir, I have someone I believe you'd like to meet."
"Fine, Sheriff. Where?"
"In Combat, sir?"
"See you in a few minutes." Paul gulped a couple more aspirin, then headed toward combat. Commander Garcia and he passed each other outside the wardroom. Garcia frowned at Paul, then glared in another direction and went on his way. Is he mad at me or for me? Sometimes you can't tell with Garcia. He's almost always mad about something.
Sharpe, waiting near Paul's command console in the Combat Information Center, indicated the man standing next to him. "Mr. Sinclair, this is Chief Warrant Officer Rose."
Paul offered his hand, trying not to look too young. Warrants were former enlisted who'd worked their way up the ranks, which meant they were both highly-experienced specialists and notoriously underimpressed with typical junior officers.
But Rose smiled politely and accepted Paul's handshake. "Pleased to meet you. Bob Rose. Sharpe here tells me you're okay."
Paul glanced at Sharpe with exaggerated surprise. "He never tells me that."
Rose smiled a bit wider. "No, he wouldn't. Where do you want me to work?"
Paul looked around combat. Two of Paul's sailors were lounging around, watching Paul's group curiously. Then they saw the look on Sharpe's face and hastily went in search of another resting place. Paul indicated his command console. "You should be able to do anything you want to do from here, Warrant."
"Looks good."
"Do you need me to log in?"
"No." Rose grinned at Paul's reaction. "I actually want to see how easy your system is to crack, among other things." Rose sat, poised his hands above the controls, then glanced meaningfully at Paul and Sharpe. "I work best when nobody's leaning over my shoulder, if you know what I mean."
Paul barely bit off a reflexive, "Yes, sir" to an officer who was junior to him in the military hierarchy but carried authority and confidence with the ease of someone who knew his job and knew the Navy as only someone with decades of service could. Instead, Paul nodded, and he and Sharpe retreated to the far side of Combat.
Rose worked intently, his eyes never straying from the console display. Paul looked over at Sharpe, made a motion as if to speak, then a questioning gesture. Sharpe responded with an "I don't know" gesture of his own, so they sat silently.
Eventually, Rose straightened, stretched and then looked their way. "It was hacked."
"What?" Somehow, Paul hadn't expected to hear anything like that. "What was hacked?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
"The engineering logs."
"The damage was deliberate?"
"Yup. No question."
"Why didn't the investigation find that out? They called in someone to check the logs for the cause of the damage."
"Because the hacker used a real effective program that's been available for a while to anybody who really wants it. It leaves no fingerprints. At least, that's what most folks think. A few of us know it leaves one." Rose pointed at his display. "The designer of the software had as big an ego as anyone. His program takes one line in one shredded file and adds on his initials. In code. Unless you're looking for exactly that, you'll never find it."
"My God." Paul tried to absorb the news, looking neither at Sharpe nor Rose. Somebody mangled those records on purpose. Which means somebody tried to cover-up something. But who? And what? "You're absolutely positive, Warrant?"
"Absolutely."
"You'd swear to it?"
"Absolutely."
Sharpe leaned forward, his posture that of a hound straining to leap after prey. "Can you tell who did it?"
Rose shook his head, his face unhappy. "No. That's impossible. There were about thirty people logged on during that time period, but since it's real easy to use someone else's password and access, that doesn't really narrow it down."
"Then we can't rule out anybody on the ship," Sharpe noted with clear disgust.
"Maybe not. What time was that fire?"
Paul answered, the time burned into his brain. "The alarm sounded at 1922."
"Okay, then, you can rule out one suspect." Rose pointed to his display once more. "The line that contains the hack program designer's name also gets a time stamp put on it. According to that, this data base got hacked at 2235 that night."