“We’re going to need schools,” Weaver said. “We’re going to need somebody besides me who can astrogate. We’re going to need to send grad students to their schools to understand the theory behind their systems. They’re going to need schools, and supplies and lots of food from the Adar for the time being…”
“And now we’re getting into details,” the President said. “For which I have a very able staff. But I wanted to hear what your thoughts were on the broader picture and I’m delighted that they match my own so well. There will be changes and I’m sure that we will weather them as America always has. But a few are more immediate. Captain Blankemeier.”
“Mr. President?”
“I know that you love this new ship that the Hexosehr built much as you loved the one scrapped on the arms of Orion. However, you are leaving command.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Spectre said, his face falling.
“You’re no longer eligible to command it. I just sent your name to the Senate for confirmation of promotion to rear admiral. It was pointed out to me by some senior officers that there were boards and such for such things and that you are very junior to be a flag officer and I pointed out that not only did we need some admirals who had actually been in space combat, I was commander in chief so I trumped them.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Spectre said, nodding.
“I’ve been told that as a bipartisan show of support, you’re assured confirmation. I was assured that shortly after I showed the Select Armed Forces Committee your mission report. Commander Weaver.”
“Mr. President?”
“You’ve been what the Navy calls ‘frocked’ for some reason to captain,” the President said. “Which means you’ve got the rank but not the pay. I’m told the pay will come along in time. The same people that mentioned boards were somewhat more vehement that you did not yet have sufficient experience as a naval officer to assume command of the Blade Two.”
“Understood, Mr. President,” Bill said. “And agreed.”
“I wouldn’t say that the Chief of Naval Operations pitched a fit in this very room, but that’s because I’m polite,” the President continued. “Persons who shall remain nameless, however, were more than willing to accept you taking the position of Executive Officer, despite the bump in rank which would technically disqualify you, after I again had to use the phrase ‘commander in chief.’ The Blade, until we have other deep space ships, will probably be undergoing a series of skippers. We need officers with experience in space, simple as that. To an extent, in your new position as XO, it will be your job to train them. They will, of course, be your superior officers. They will have time in grade on you, not to mention a superior position in the chain of command. But persons who shall remain nameless were in agreement that one captain can say something to another captain, even if that person is their commander, which a commander could not. If that sentence parses out. Are we on the same page?”
“Yes, sir,” Bill replied.
“Very good. And we are left with the inimitable Staff Sergeant Bergstresser,” the President said. “The Blade is about to undertake some tedious but necessary infrastructure missions for what I believe to be the next several months. In other words the necessity for derring-do is significantly reduced. Are you, once again, going to volunteer to go where no Marine has gone before, Staff Sergeant? Or has the long drawn strife quitted you of the desire for adventure?”
“I will admit, Mr. President, that being baked by a plasma ball and having to take off my suit before I ran out of air, on a Dreen ship, has cooled my ardor,” Berg said. “But, no, sir. I’m not quitting if that is your question. I already told the first sergeant that I’m on-board for the next cruise. I was hoping for some personal time before we left, though. I’ve… got some things I need to take care of.”
“I think that can be arranged,” the President said. “Among other things, given the Blade’s next few missions, I believe that the first sergeant can spare you, can you not, First Sergeant?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” First Sergeant Powell replied stoically. It wasn’t like the Prez had just cut off his right arm or anything. Left, yes.
“Very good,” the President said. “I’d hate to have to use the dread phrase upon you, First Sergeant. In that case, Staff Sergeant, you’re going to school.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President?” Berg asked.
“I’m told that if one is intelligent, perceptive, in good physical condition and doesn’t break a leg or something, that a young Marine can complete officer’s candidate school in a bare four months. Don’t break your leg and the next time you run into First Sergeant Powell he’ll be required to salute you.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Berg said, stunned.
“When I discussed this choice with persons who shall remain nameless, after a long tirade about something called ‘mustangs’ which I had previously associated with horses, the salient point of sending you to OCS instead of my initial choice, direct commission by order of the dread phrase, was that you’d receive training in your new duties which have something to do with venereal disease and inventories. Since I’m sure you have no experience of the former and minimal experience of the latter, I acquiesced. Have fun in OCS. Oh, I was also told that Force Recon Platoon leaders had to have at least a year ‘with troops’ in regular units. The dread phrase was repeated at that point. Upon graduation you will become Third Platoon leader of Bravo Company, First Space Marines. If you don’t graduate, you will become something called ‘a goat’ and be sent to durance vile probably somewhere nearby as an instructor in Marine Space Combat, which was the initial suggestion of persons who shall remain nameless. I assure you that would be a tedious assignment. Graduate. Preferably with honors and on time. Barring another emergency, the ship will not leave for its next serious mission until you show up. I didn’t have to use the dread phrase that time but I was definite.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Berg said, starting to grin.
“And I’m throwing in another medal for capturing a Dreen battleship. Something tasteful, Silver Star or suchlike. First Sergeant Powell? Promoting you to sergeant major would remove you from your present position. Want the pay or the position?”
“The position, Mr. President,” the first sergeant answered.
“Eventually we’ll be able to put a battalion on a spaceship at which time, if I’m in office, dread phrase or no dread phrase you’ll get a battalion. In the meantime, you remain. Want a medal?”
“Got plenty, Mr. President.”
“You sure? Legion of Merit? Silver Star? That’s always bright and cheery on a uniform. Or a flag for that matter. Something to clutter the wall in your old age and dust? I’d be hard pressed to swing a Medal of Honor but I could try.”
“Got plenty of dust catchers, Mr. President.”
“Very well. Chief Warrant Officer Second Miller?”
“Mr. President?”
“You just got a jump in pay, Chief Warrant Officer Third Miller. Again, it was suggested that you become an instructor along with a suggestion that maybe a SEAL team would be better off on the Blade. At that point, a pointed discussion ensued between two persons who shall remain nameless, both of equal rank but one the other’s technical superior because of something called a ‘junior service,’ which phrase caused the larger and stronger to nearly strike his technical superior. After tempers had cooled, it was agreed that the Blade would continue to host Marines. And one SEAL if he’s still interested. If not, Coronado or Little Creek, take your pick.”