''Now that is a scary picture. Say no more. I'll talk to Crossenshild. He won't bother you anymore.'' Mac tore up one of his flimsies. ''But you are long overdue from your leave,'' he said, eyeing her like a vulture long overdue for dinner. ''I can bring you up on charges, but I don't think your pappy would be very happy to have you splashed all over the newsies. You may have missed the latest from Wardhaven, but the Prime Minister's lost a few bielections, and the opposition is breathing hot down his neck. You could just resign for, shall we say, health reasons so you can concentrate on your regal obligations.''
Kris did not need to think about his offer. ''Sir, I will not resign, and I might caution you.'' Lieutenant JGs did not caution four-star Generals. That was the rule. Kris had not broken one of the damn rules this morning. It was time to reduce one to kindling. ''If you bring me up on charges, it may be difficult to prove that I did not check in with the embassy as required by regs. I don't pass through anyplace without a whole lot of people noticing me.''
Mac eyed another flimsy, sighed, and tore it up. ''I told Crossie that wouldn't work. So, Princess, what do I do with you?''
''Sir, I am a serving Lieutenant, Junior Grade, and there have to be many places you can safely dump me,'' she said, risking a smile.
''I send you off to a wet, hot jungle, dump the worst excuse for sailors and Marines we've got, and you rehabilitate the damn command… including one of the best officers I've ever had to want a resignation from,'' he said, shaking his head.
''I make you a boot Ensign under a hard-driving Skipper… and you relieve him for charges and win a war I don't want to fight. I give you the worst excuse for ship duty, and then you run off, crash a diplomatic crisis, and hand me back a situation well on its way to comfortable normalization. Young woman, I can't think of anyplace I dare send you where I will get anything close to what I think I'm aiming for.''
''There's got to be someplace,'' Kris squeaked before she remembered that Junior Officers don't plead with Generals.
Mac picked up another flimsy. ''That was some interesting ship driving you did, shooting your way out against a six-inch cruiser.''
''Sandfire did not have a trained crew,'' Kris pointed out. ''And while mine was small, it was a small ship.''
''But one with structural problems. Who would put lasers on a boat and not cool them? Even dinky twelve-inchers. And that fire control system. A piece of crap.''
''Yes, sir.''
''You put it through its teething problems rather quickly.''
''Nothing like a cruiser bearing down on you to give you a strong incentive, sir, and concentrate your mind.''
''I can imagine,'' he muttered as he eyed the last flimsy. ''Twenty years ago, we tried to come up with a fast patrol boat, something just for planetary protection. To keep the politicians happy we wasted a small fortune on a fleet of a hundred boats. Ended up using them for customs work.'' He tossed a picture Kris's way. She glanced at it but did not recognize the ship.
''This Uni-plex stuff has some of our designers thinking they might try PFs again. Small, fast, high acceleration. Have to be young to stand the g's. Four eighteen-inch pulse lasers could put a dent in a battlewagon if handled right. Decent fire control, though you might have a different opinion. Interested in skippering your own boat?''
''Yes, sir,'' was out of Kris's mouth almost before she opened it.
''Why am I not surprised?'' He leaned back in his chair. ''Now you still won't be out from under the chain of command. Some poor Lieutenant Commander will be stuck with a bunch of prima donnas as bad as you, no doubt. Maybe if I put all you brash puppies in one place, you can keep yourselves busy chasing each other's tails.''
That didn't require an answer. Kris just tightened her smile.
''I can't have a JG commanding a commissioned ship. The Skipper's slot is a full Lieutenant. So,'' he said, standing, ''it looks like I'm going to have to promote you again.''
''I can see how much it pains you, sir,'' she let slip.
From his top desk drawer, he pulled out a set of Lieutenant shoulder boards, two nicely thick strips, unlike the ones on Kris's shoulders where one strip was anemically thin. ''I had my secretary get these for me this morning. There's nothing special about them. Just what she grabbed from the store downstairs.''
''You knew you'd be giving them to me,'' Kris said, raising an eyebrow.
''Last time we had one of these little counseling sessions, you wouldn't quit. Remember why?''
Kris remembered only too well. When you finally find the words that contain your soul, you don't forget them. ''I'm Navy, sir.''
''And I'm beginning to think that you are.''
Kris stood, accepted the boards, saluted, then left. Maybe she was a bit dizzy. Maybe she didn't cut the corners quite as square as when she went in. And maybe she was just a bit starry-eyed.
In the waiting room, the secretary gave her the kind of sweet smile Kris dreamed of getting from her mother. Jack rose, took the Lieutenant's shoulder boards in, and raised an eyebrow.
''I'm getting my own ship,'' Kris crowed.
''Oh Lordy,'' Jack breathed. ''The Navy is in for it now.''
About the Author
Mike Shepherd grew up Navy. It taught him early about change and the chain of command. He's worked as a bartender and cabdriver, personnel adviser and labor negotiator. Now retired from building databases about the endangered critters of the Northwest, he's looking forward to a serious study of human folly and glory.
Mike lives in Vancouver, Washington, with his wife, Ellen, and her mother. He enjoys reading, writing, dreaming, watching grandchildren for story ideas, and upgrading his computer—all are never ending.
You may reach him at MikeShepherd@comcast.net.