Victoria loved the Navy. She was meant for this life, she knew. Her father, and his father before him, had served in America’s Navy.
She had never expected to become what she now was — a battle-tested officer on a ship at sea. But as she saw the look of pride in the eyes of the men and women who passed her, she was so glad that she had chosen this path.
She opened and stepped through a door with a blue sign that read, “Officer’s Country: Enter on Official Business Only.” She remembered the first time she had seen that sign, many years ago as a US Naval Academy midshipman, on a destroyer as a part of her summer training. She had stood outside the door for five minutes, too afraid to open it without permission. “O-country,” as it was known, was the part of the ship where the officers’ quarters and the wardroom were located. When an ensign had finally seen her, paralyzed with fear, he’d chuckled and explained to her that she was part of the club. The sign was more tradition than actual warning. And besides, no one paid any attention to it except for brand-new seamen and midshipmen.
Victoria opened the wardroom door and stepped in for breakfast. She looked around the filled room and met the eyes of the ship’s new captain, Commander James Boyle. She liked him so far. But while she respected the memory of the recently deceased previous ship captain, it didn’t take much for an upgrade. And there was always a feeling-out period as you began working with someone new. Time would tell what Commander Boyle would really be like to work with.
“Permission to join the mess, Captain?”
“Have a seat, Airboss. Good morning.” The half dozen conversations at the wardroom tables quieted a few decibels whenever the captain spoke.
“Good morning, sir,” she replied.
“They getting ready for the phase maintenance on the bird?”
“Yes, sir, I was just back there in the hangar. They’re set to begin taking her apart this morning.”
There was a single long table in the destroyer’s wardroom. A smaller table with only a few seats stood off to the side. This was the room where the officers ate, and where many meetings were held.
“Coffee, ma’am?” asked the petty officer over her shoulder as he laid out a clean set of silverware and a napkin.
“No, thanks. Just a water, please.”
He placed a glass of ice water in front of her. “What would you like, ma’am?” The sailor had a pencil and paper in his hand.
“Could I get scrambled eggs and toast?”
“Sure. Any sausage? We have sausage this morning.”
“No, thank you. Got any fruit?”
“Apples are still good.”
“Oranges?”
“No, ma’am. We ran out yesterday. Should get more the next resupply.”
“No problem. Thank you, CS2.”
The petty officer nodded and went over to the window on the far bulkhead, where another enlisted man was waiting to take the order from him. They ran it like a high-speed diner. Fast, polite service. Get everyone fueled up quick so that they could get back to work. There were still remnants of long-held naval traditions in modern wardrooms. The silverware was a little fancier than in the enlisted mess downstairs, and the tablecloths were nicer. Officers were expected to eat here for most of their meals. Proper etiquette rules were followed. They were expected to ask the captain or the highest-ranking person in the wardroom permission to join and leave the mess. The enlisted mess a deck below was buffet-style. Hundreds of sailors flowing through the line every meal. Nonstop cooking and cleaning. The thick smell of grease in the air at all times. But everyone on board ate the same food — officers and enlisted.
Victoria made small talk with the captain and the other officers at the table. None of her pilots were there yet. Normally they crawled in five minutes before the meal hour ended, their hair embarrassingly disheveled, lines on their faces from just rolling out of their racks.
They didn’t disappoint this morning.
First came Plug, then Juan, then Caveman. All in wrinkled green flight suits. Plug’s hair was sticking up, and he needed a shave. Victoria would have to talk to him about that later. She didn’t want to piss off the new captain. First impressions were important, and he’d already screwed the pooch on that. Her pilots grabbed boxes of cereal and any of the leftovers that the CSs would provide. They gave them plates of sausage, toast, and hard-boiled eggs. If there was one group on board the ship that her aviators kept up a good relationship with, it was the cooks.
It was a bit of an odd relationship between Victoria and Captain Boyle. She had been the acting commanding officer of the USS Farragut for almost a week before he had arrived. She had taken command after the previous captain and XO had been killed in combat. While she would have given anything to bring them back, she had to admit that the thrill of command was everything she had been told about by her father. Admiral Manning had held many commands in his career. And even though he was a naval flight officer, his favorite job had actually been commanding ships. He had been the commanding officer of two deep draft vessels, including once as an aircraft carrier captain.
Victoria now understood why he had said that. To hold that awesome power and responsibility was unlike anything else in the world. The commanding officer of a ship at sea was all at once a town mayor, county sheriff, restaurant owner, and military commander. Command was the ultimate goal and the ultimate high of many military officers.
The wardroom began clearing out. The captain excused himself. The place settings were being removed and Victoria’s pilots rushed to finish, shoveling food and gulping down their glasses of juice.
“You gentlemen plan on staying for OPS Intel?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Good. Next time, please make sure you shave before showing up in front of the captain, okay?”
Plug gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Boss.”
The petty officer who was running the wardroom said, “Ma’am, gentlemen, would you mind getting up so we can clear off the table before OPS Intel?”
“Of course. Sorry, CS2.”
“Oh, it’s no problem, ma’am. I just see the ensign over there in the corner waiting to set up his PowerPoint presentation.”
The communications officer waved. He was holding a laptop and a bundle of cables, each with a bright red sticker on them that read “Classification: SECRET.” The pilots each went to their staterooms while the room was cleaned up. Victoria washed out her thermos and left it by her sink. She grabbed her notebook and walked back into the wardroom. The seats had been arranged in rows now, and dozens of people had entered the room. Many stood, swaying with the ship’s rolls, not wanting to take the seat of someone who might be of higher rank.
At exactly 8:15 a.m., the captain and XO walked in.
“Attention on deck,” one of the senior chiefs called out.
Most were already standing at attention when they saw him enter. A few tightened up. Plug got up from his seat in the corner, standing at attention a little too slowly for Victoria’s taste.
“At ease,” replied the captain. Those with seats sat down. All of the off-duty department heads and many of the senior enlisted were present.
“What have you got for us, COMMO?”
“Sir, this is the morning OPS Intel brief. First, OS2 will give the weather.”
“Captain, good morning. The weather is predicted to be in the midseventies and partly cloudy for most of the week. A sea state of two until Friday, when a low-pressure front is moving into the area and we’ll have a sea state of three, and some rain is possible.”