She read silently and intently for a few minutes, leaving Arkady free to discreetly glance around the small, odd-shaped compartment. There wasn't much to be seen at first, beyond standard government issue. Then he began to note the personal traces Amanda Garrett had overlaid on her surroundings. The faint scent of cologne and baby powder mingling with the neutral, painted-metal warship smell. A thin, golden chain necklace coiled in a compartment of a desk organizer. A flash of unmilitarily bright clothing showing through the partially open door of an overloaded locker. Then there was the picture.
It was a small oil, mounted on the bulkhead behind her desk. Vince was no art expert, but he could recognize that it had been done by the same skilled hand as the larger painting he had seen in the destroyer's wardroom. It showed a white-hulled Cape Cod sloop running free before the wind, a young woman at the tiller. Her features couldn't be made out, but that distinctive red-brown-gold hair was easy to identify.
"That's impressive."
She had said just exactly what he had been thinking, and Vince mentally floundered for a moment until she continued.
"The Sea Comanche hasn't been with the fleet that long. I didn't think anyone had been able to accumulate four hundred hours in it already."
"I've been with the bird pretty much from the start," Vince replied, rather relieved to find that his new captain wasn't a mind reader on top of everything else. "HS Sixteen was the first squadron to get the SAH-66, and for a while before that, I flew with the operational conversion unit assigned to the type. Some of those hours are in standard Army RAHs, but essentially, there's not much difference."
"None of those hours are off of a Cunningham, though?"
"No, but I've flown the Cunningham-class approach-and-departure program a lot of times on the simulator. I've been checking the positioning points and approach angles just now while we've been cross-decking. They seem to match up pretty well. I don't see any problem."
"How about stealth doctrine?" she inquired.
"I'm current on the standard package and I've done some studying on my own. The Sea Comanche LAMPS and the Cunningham-class destroyer were intended as mated stealth systems, so I figured I'd pull duty on one sooner or later."
"Well, it looks like now will be the time. Are your people aboard yet?"
"No, Captain, they had to pallet up our maintenance kit and our spares. They should be coming across inside the hour."
She nodded approvingly. "Good enough. Commander Hiro should have your billeting assignments ready by then. Now, what kind of an outfit am I inheriting?"
"They're solid, Captain," Arkady replied with certainty. "I've got a good air detachment and a first-rate systems operator."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it. Now, what about you?"
"Me, ma'am?"
"Yes, how good are you at what you do? An accurate personal assessment, please. Excessive modesty is of no more use to me than excessive machismo."
Arkady noticed that Amanda Garrett was one of those rare individuals who look directly at a person when they speak to them. Most people were uncomfortable doing that, they angled their line of vision slightly to one side or the other. She didn't. She fixed those big hazel eyes right on you, alert and calmly demanding of all pertinent information. He decided there and then never to play poker with this woman and never, ever, attempt to lie to her.
"I'm good, Captain. Just about anything you want done with a helicopter, I can do."
"All right." She nodded. "I'm glad to hear it, because as of now you're my new senior air group officer.
"I think you'll find that basically we have a sound outfit here on the Duke as well," she continued. "It might be a little ragged around the edges, primarily because our current pilot is still a bit of a nugget. Nancy is a competent officer, but she desperately needs more shakedown time."
Vince nodded. "I know Ensign Delany from the squadron and I can concur with that. She got a raw deal when she got dumped out on her own like this, first crack out of the box. Do you think there'll be any problem with me bumping her out of the group leader slot?"
"My guess is that you'll be greeted with considerable relief. There shouldn't be any trouble."
She stood up behind her desk. "I suppose that should do it for now. I know that you've got more loads to fly and that you've got your people to get bedded down. We can finish the paper chasing tomorrow."
As Vince got to his feet, Amanda extended her hand out to him. "I say again, Lieutenant Arkady. Welcome aboard the Cunningham."
There was a formality to the way she spoke, like a queen accepting a retainer into her court. Vince almost found himself bowing over her hand instead of shaking it.
"And I say again, ma'am, glad to be aboard."
They exchanged parting salutes. Vince had turned for the door when she called him back.
"Arkady," she said levelly. "There is one other thing. I don't think I really have to say this, but just for the record, what happened on the beach today doesn't cut either of us one millimeter of slack on the decks of this ship."
"I never figured that it would, Captain."
Gus Grestovich straightened from his slouched position against the bulkhead as his pilot exited the Captain's cabin. He looked on as the aviator stood in the passageway for a moment, an odd, thoughtful smile on his face.
"How did it go, Lieutenant?" the SO asked apprehensively.
"Hm… Oh, it went just fine, Gus. No problem. We're all dialed in."
As they started back down the passageway, Vince threw his arm around his SO's shoulder. "In fact, pal, I think we're gonna like this boat."
Amanda gazed at the door for several seconds after Arkady had left. Eventually, a small snicker escaped her. It grew into a full-fledged gale of laughter that tilted her back into her chair until her head thumped lightly against the bulkhead.
Of all the total improbabilities of the world. No wonder the poor guy had looked as if he'd been struck by lightning this afternoon on the beach. Good Lord! What if Chris hadn't found them when she did and the topic of mutual professions hadn't cropped up until later? Say, as pillow talk at about two in the morning.
The concept was intriguing. She bit her lower lip in amused consideration for a moment, then shrugged and returned to the work at hand.
However, she soon found that she couldn't get back into the mission data scrolled up on her terminal. Her concentration had been broken. There was another task, though, that she had wanted to tend to. Now would be an excellent time to take care of it.
The Cunningham had been granted a direct microwave link into the Rio telecommunication net, so it was a matter of simply tapping the fourteen-digit international calling code into her desk communications deck. A quarter of a minute later, an old-style wall phone began to ring in response in the kitchen of a sea-gray ranch house outside of Norfolk, Virginia.
Amanda visualized the lean, angular figure that would come slamming in from the converted garage studio, still sea-tanned and with a white crew cut, likely clad in his usual paint-smeared Levi's and sweatshirt.
Four rings and a curt "Yo!"
"Hi, Dad."
Rear Admiral Wilson Garrett, USN (Ret.), grinned into Ms end of the circuit. "Hi, Angel. How's it going?"
"It's going fine, Dad. How about you?"
"Stinkin', but what's unusual about that? You still in Rio?"
"For the moment."
"How is it? Rio is one liberty port that I never had the chance to hit."
"It's a beautiful city, Dad. I only had this afternoon to wander around, but I enjoyed myself. How's the latest masterpiece coming?"
"Like I said, stinkin'. I've shaken my sources down for every photo and model of the South Dakota-class battleship they can come up with. I've been sketching all week and l still can't find what I want."