"Aye, aye, Captain. Will do. By the way, Air One requests permission to applaud."
A soft chuckle echoed back over the comm. "Permission denied, Air One. Let's just get our sick child back aboard."
12
They ran the Strait of Malvinas between the Falklands and the Argentine mainland that evening, with the con in CIC and the ship cleared for action.
Possibly it was an unnecessary precaution. Beyond "Pedro" circling at a respectful distance, that stretch of sea miles had proved to be empty. The Duke's sensors reacted only to the vigilant sweeping of search radars far to east and west.
It was near midnight before they passed back into the open waters of the South Atlantic. Running fast over a mild sea, the Cunningham held her course for the approaches to Drake Passage.
After standing the ship down from general quarters, Amanda returned the watch to the duty officer, then headed for her cabin. By rights, she knew that she should be feeling tired. However, the events of the day had built up a massive backlog of nervous energy within her. She had to move before she could rest.
She changed into her old brown leotard and ponytailed her hair with a band. Slipping on a beach jacket, she picked up her portable CD player and disk case and padded forward to the ship's gymnasium.
This was far from her first late-night visit to the gym. She favored this hour because she almost always had the compartment to herself. So she was startled to find the place already occupied as she came through the hatchway.
"What are you doing here?" she blurted out before she could catch herself.
"Pretty much the same as you, Captain," Arkady answered amiably. Clad in those same denim trunks and a T-shirt, he was just straightening up from setting the load lever on one of the treadmills. "Between one thing and another, this is the first chance I've had to get down here for a workout since I came aboard. If you'd like some privacy, I can come back another time?"
"Oh, no, go ahead."
Damn, damn, damn! She never danced in front of anyone anymore. On the other hand, she couldn't just turn around and walk out after lugging all of this paraphernalia down here.
When she had first come aboard the Duke, she had ordered certain modifications made to the gymnasium. All of the exercise and weight machines had been moved over against one bulkhead, leaving the other clear for the installation of a ballet bar and a full-length dojo mat. There had been a little grumbling over that, but then rank has some privileges.
She selected a disk that contained one of the mixed programs she had chosen and edited herself and fed it into the player. Then, feeling shy for the first time in years, she dropped her robe to the deck, took a deep breath, and started her bar exercises. By the time the "Young Prince and Princess" theme from Scheherazade had run its course, she had lost herself to the music and movement and had forgotten the steady whirring of the treadmill at the other side of the compartment.
The program changed from Rimsky-Korsakov to Richard Rodgers and she smoothly translated the sweeping tango of "Beneath the Southern Cross" into classical ballet. The next selection was more difficult, an involved, light electronic jazz piece by Ryuichi Sakamoto. She shifted from ballet to modern improvisational and began working her way through it. Twice she was dissatisfied and twice she replayed that segment of the disk, modifying the patterns she drew with her body until they flowed properly with the feel of the orchestration.
The last cut was another stylistic shift, Belinda Carlisle's old rock hit "Valentine." Amanda accepted the challenge and let herself take on the driving, elemental edge of the music, dancing the song out to final release and freedom.
The music ended and Amanda dropped to her knees, panting softly and coming back into herself.
"You're very good," Arkady said. He was sitting on the end of one of the exercise tables, regarding her intently.
"Not really," she replied, suddenly finding that she didn't feel quite as self-conscious as she thought she would. "I started ballet when I was eight and modem dance when I was in junior high. Ever since the Academy, though, I've just fooled around with it. It's more fun than doing pushups."
"I guess you know more about it than I do, but it sure seems to me like you know what you're doing."
"Thank you."
"By the way, while we're on the subject of talents, the signature on the big painting in the wardroom reads 'Garrett.' Is that another one of yours, Captain?"
"I can't draw a straight line. My father did that. It was a gift from him when I received command of the Cunningham."
"He knows what he's doing too. Ex-Navy?"
She nodded. "Yes, that was his Charley Adams in the picture. We're Navy from way back."
"At least four generations' worth, according to that picture."
"Farther than that. Dad was just recounting the destroyer branch of the family. What about the Arkadys?"
"Hmm, seagoing yes, Navy no. Back when the fishing fleets were a big deal in San Francisco and Monterey, the Arkadys were a big deal in the fishing fleets. Other than an uncle of mine whose claim to fame was being busted from petty officer first to seaman more often than anyone else in fleet history, I'm the first of the clan in living memory to join up."
"You made a good choice. You've run up a very impressive service record." Amanda rested her back against the bulkhead and tucked her feet under her. "There is one thing I'm curious about, though. According to your file, you started out in fixed-wing aviation before going to helicopters. You were near the top of your class when you transferred. Why? This isn't anything official. You don't have to talk about it if you'd rather not."
Arkady shrugged. "No big deal. I did start out intending to be a fighter jock and I was doing pretty good at it, right up to when I had to try my first carrier landing. You ever make one?"
"Once, in a C-2 COD transport. There weren't any windows in the cargo bay, so you couldn't really see anything. I just remember a long period of being scared silly followed by an almighty crash. My first priority after disembarking was a dry pair of panties."
"Seeing what's going on doesn't help matters much. When I tried it, it was in a T-45 out of Jacksonville with an instructor in the backseat, and I was shooting my first trap on the old Kennedy. That was a real interesting experiment in reverse optical physics. The closer you got to the flight deck, the smaller it looked."
Arkady angled his arms behind him and leaned back against the tabletop. "An actual carrier landing is like nothing else in the world. You can do all of the dry-land training, all of the simulator hours you want, but until you are actually out there, in the slot, riding the meatball down to the deck, you don't know what it's all about.
"The old-timers tried to explain it to us. How you have to put everything you have into getting from Point A, approach, to Point B, touchdown. Total concentration, zero error, no room for anything but absolute perfection."
Arkady chuckled. "I didn't do too bad. I nailed both of my traps first time around. No problem with my catapult launches, either. Then we flew back to Jacksonville, and that night I turned in my request for transfer to helo training."
"Why?"
"That's what my senior instructor kept asking. He also kept trying to tell me that everyone was a little scared during their first carrier op.
"I kept trying to tell him that fear had nothing to do with it. I've never been scared of, or in, any aircraft in my life. It was a matter of knowing myself and my own capabilities. Once I'd actually shot a carrier landing, I realized that I'd never be able to maintain the necessary mental focus to fly fixed-wing off of a flattop day in and day out.