Sharon shook her head. “Hey, maybe this one will be different. Who is it?” she asked the AID.
“Captain April Weston,” said the AID.
At the name, Michaels sucked in his breath. “Bloody hell.”
“You know her?” asked Sharon.
“I’ve never met her,” said Michaels. “But everybody in His Majesty’s bloody Fleet knows about her.”
Sharon made a come-on gesture, indicating a request for enlightenment.
Michaels shook his head. “Well, she’s just about the only woman who has ever stood for admiral in the fleet who came out of surface warfare. She’s a bloody legend among the swifties. On her mother’s side she’s related to a dead chappie named Mountbatten.” He paused trying to figure out how to explain that to an American.
“I’ve heard of him,” Sharon said dryly. The late Earl Mountbatten had been the last of a breed. Closely related to the Royal Family he had been an officer in the Navy during World War II. After distinguishing himself as commander of a destroyer squadron and having repeated ships shot out from under him he had formed the first combined special operations groups in history. After the war he had been made Earl of Burma and expertly ushered that country into independence. He was a national hero and a treasure whose life was finally snuffed out by the bomb of an Irish terrorist. “So she’s related to the Royal Family?”
“Distantly,” said Michaels with a shrug. “Us Brits have still got a thing about, well, ‘blood.’ You know?”
“Lineage,” said Sharon.
“Bloody right. Well, this Weston is the sort of person who… sort of reinforces that. If there was ever a case of the acorn not falling far from the bloody oak.”
Sharon nodded. “So this is good?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh, yeah,” said Michaels. “Of course, Mountbatten survived four ships. And most of his chappies never made it back. There was some as would jump ship rather than sail with him.”
Sharon snorted and thought about the departed Russian. “I’ll take my chances.”
The air lock hissed and Captain Weston stepped forward, still fumbling at the catches of her pressure helmet. It annoyed her to demonstrate incompetence in her first moments on the ship, but the only previous time she had worn a battle suit was during the four-hour familiarization class at Titan Base.
One of the petty officers standing at attention stepped forward and unhooked the last recalcitrant fitting and her ears were blasted by the shrill of a recorded boatswain’s pipe.
She stepped forward and returned the salute of a good-looking brunette in a slightly soiled coverall. “Captain April Weston,” she said and removed a folded piece of paper from a sealed belt-pouch. That maneuver she had managed to practice on the shuttle over and it went off flawlessly.
“ ‘You are hereby ordered to proceed forthwith to the Fleet Frigate Agincourt for purposes of assuming command,’ ” she quoted. “Signed Hareki Arigara Vice Admiral, Director, Fleet Personnel Department.” Weston lowered the paper and nodded at the presumptive executive officer. “I take command, ma’am.”
“I stand relieved, ma’am,” said the brunette. “Sharon O’Neal, Lieutenant Commander. I’m your XO.”
Captain Weston nodded and looked around at the assembled crew. It was a fairly small party. “I am about to betray my ignorance,” she admitted. “Is this most of the crew?” she continued, slightly aghast. Normally most of the off-duty crew members would be present for the greeting party. There was more than enough room in the pressure hold for more people, so the group of twenty or so might be it. That would place the upper end of the crew at thirty or so. The crew of a “wet” frigate would number over a hundred. Her previous cruiser command had numbered over a thousand.
“Ma’am, there are four on duty in the tac center,” the XO answered, “three in engineering and four more at various other points. There are also six Indowy crewmembers.” She hesitated. “They… don’t usually associate with large groups of humans.”
Weston nodded her head. That was one briefing she had gotten. “Understood.” She looked around and raised her voice slightly. “I’m sure we’ll all get to know each other well over the next few months.” The tone was a command voice. It implied that what the speaker said would occur, whatever the universe might throw at the speaker. Compared to the whiny and blustering Russian she replaced it was immensely heartening to the crewmembers. Which was what she had intended.
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.