Lab Rat’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m quite serious. Here, look over the details and talk to the lawyer on the ship. Armstrong can fill you in on anything you need to know. And as for living on your Omicron salary, well — how does triple your current pay sound?”
Lab Rat felt stunned. This was all moving too fast.
Just then, Lab Rat’s flight was called. He stood and slipped the papers Carter had given him into the side pocket of his suitcase. “I’ll think about it.”
“Nice to meet you, Lab Rat,” Carter said easily.
Lab Rat groaned. It was clear that the senior chief had made the nickname known to Omicron. Will I never live that down?
“Just let Armstrong know when you reach a decision,” Carter continued. “I hope to be working with you next year. I think you’ll find that it’s very gratifying to make a difference for world peace.”
“I’ve got to get going,” Lab Rat said. “Yes, I’ll let the senior chief know.”
“Officers first,” a flight technician called. Lab Rat walked numbly to the front of line, aware of just how much his way of life would disappear if he accepted Omicron’s offer. And, yet, it was still very generous — and very very tempting.
I’d be working for the senior chief.
Just as he reached the gate, a petty officer wearing headphones stopped him. “There a problem?” Lab Rat asked, suddenly anxious to be back on Jefferson, where the issues were much clearer.
“Don’t know, sir. I’m getting reports that — hold on—” And then the petty officer’s jaw dropped and his face turned pale. “Holy shit.” He turned to Lab Rat, disbelief in his eyes. “Sir, we’ve been put on hold. Three unscheduled troop transports just landed in Bermuda.”
“So?” Lab Rat said.
“They’re Russian, sir. Russian. They’re not on any flight plan and now the tower in Bermuda is not answering up. Jefferson is northeast of Bermuda, and, until they figure out what’s going on, they don’t want the COD launching.”
“Russians troop transports?”
The petty officer nodded, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated on the voice coming over his headphones. “Might as well go back into the terminal, sir. We’re cleared to launch in twenty minutes — as soon as a fighter escort arrives!”
If anything, the sunset was even more glorious than sunrise had been. Ensign Forsythe made his rounds below decks, checking each watch station, observing the general condition of the ship. He stopped by Cowlings’s stateroom and gave him a brief rundown on the status of the ship, including engineering plan configuration, depth of water in the bilges, and the status of shore power. When he was done, Cowlings nodded. “It’s been a quiet watch so far, but don’t let that fool you. Expect it to get busy after midnight. You know the procedure for picking up somebody that shore patrol has taken into custody, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cowlings leaned back in his chair. “How you coming on your quals?”
“A lot to study, sir. There are so many details — prototype school didn’t cover the half of it.”
“It will be that way on your next boat, too. Not quite as bad, though.”
“Sir?” Forsythe asked. “About this morning… well, I understood the point you were making. But I’m wondering, the stuff I’m learning for my qualifications is an awful lot of detail. Things like the engineering equivalent of where the flag is kept. How do you decide what you have to know and what you can look up if you need to? There’s no way I can remember everything. And I’m supposed to use my chiefs’ and my troop’s expertise, right? But I’m supposed to know every detail of their jobs as well, right?”
“Good question. I’ll see if I can explain it.” Cowlings closed his eyes for a moment, and then continued, “There’s two reasons for making you study the details, the where-is-the-flag stuff. First, anybody can have a dumb-shit attack. Even a chief can overlook something that’s just so painfully obvious that you question his sanity. You’re a safety valve for those dumb-shit moments. No, you can’t second-guess him on every detail, but you can do a sanity check. Sometimes, the chief has a solution in mind that he needs to run by you. He can’t use you as a sounding board if you don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
“And that brings us to the second point: context. Your chief is an expert in every area of his own spaces, and knows a lot about the rest the ship as well. But his time and attention are spent in his own division. You, as an officer, have broader responsibilities, up to and including, when you get more senior, actually taking the ship into combat. Sure, you’re not ever going to know as much about engineering as a chief in engineering does — but what about when you’re talking to an operations-type chief? Then you’ll be the one who knows more about engineering, and you’ll be the one who can think across departments to come up with an answer. The sonar man might know that certain equipment can cause an artificial signal, or artifact, on his gear. But he probably won’t know that we changed bearings on the number-two reactor coolant pump two days ago. You probably will. You can think across departments because the chief knows more about the details. That makes sense?”
Forsythe nodded. “It’s an awful lot to learn.”
“No shit. But that’s why they pay you the big bucks. Have the men put up the tent, right?”
Forsythe stood and said, “Thank you, sir. I guess I understand. I’ll go check on evening colors now.”
“Oh, Ensign?” Cowling said as Forsythe started to leave. “Do you know where the flag is kept now?”
Forsythe smiled. “For evening colors, it can be found at the top of the flag pole. Sir.”
Sunset that day would be at 2018, according to the ephemeris. The chief had not only worked the calculation manually, but had also double-checked with the harbor master to make sure they were coordinated. At 2008, the evening colors detail was assembled and took their positions around the flag pole. Forsythe stood to one side, observing as the chief gave the orders.
Five minutes before sunset, the chief called the detail to attention. Forsythe waited, the evening breeze warmed against his skin, the prospect of liberty in his mind. Sure, it might be a long duty night as intoxicated sailors staggered back on board, but tomorrow it would be history. Finally, his first long-awaited liberty. And in Bermuda, paradise.
The chief lifted his portable radio to his lips, and spoke softly in it, confirming the time with his counterpart on the senior ship present in port. Forsythe marveled again at the sheer amount of planning, coordination, and precision with which both the morning and evening evolutions were conducted. You wouldn’t think it was such a big deal to everyone, getting it precisely on time.
But it was. The sharpness during colors was a reflection of the discipline and training of the crew. Every flag on every ship hauled up at precisely the same moment, precisely at the moment that the sun first broke the horizon. And around the world, as the hours passed, every other military unit executing precisely the same drill in turn.
Just then, off in the distance, Forsythe heard a chatter of gunfire. Automatic weapons? He was no expert, although he had qualified on the handguns and shotguns used in the Navy.
The local police? The Navy? Forsythe stared across at the chief, growing concern on his face. The chief stepped away from the color guard, started for the quarterdeck then hesitated. He turned to Forsythe. “Sir?”