Kris shivered and answered, ''Hear! Hear!'' with the rest. So this was what it felt like to be ''us'' to the likes of Trouble and Ray. This was what it meant to be ''the few.'' She took a deep pull from her coffee.
And Nelly gave her polite equivalent of a cough. ''Kris, you are wanted in General McMorrison's office at one o' clock.''
''Oh, oh,'' Tru said. ''One of those Friday afternoon talks with the boss.''
''Want us to put in a good word for you?'' Trouble offered.
Kris straightened her shoulders. ''No sir. This is my problem. I'll handle it.'' It's my career. I better be able to handle it.
''Wouldn't have expected any other answer,'' Ray said. ''What a Longknife gets into, we get ourselves out of.''
''Probably ‘cause no one else could get themselves in so much, so fast, so deep,'' Trouble grumbled through a smile.
Kris laughed with them, realizing that they were giving her all they had to give. A joke and a laugh and a lighthearted confidence that she could handle her own problem. With that she took her leave of them.
As he had this morning, Jack walked her into Main Navy. This trip covered several halls and an elevator before Jack announced unnecessarily, ''Here's Mac's office.'' He opened the door, and Kris presented herself to the general's secretary. ''Ensign Longknife reporting for a thirteen hundred meeting.'' The clock behind the woman showed Kris to be thirty seconds early.
''The general is waiting for you.''
Kris squared her shoulders and marched forward. How hard could this be? She'd rescued a little girl…and got shipped off to a mud hole. She'd fed a lot of people…and damn near drowned for the honor. She'd gone hell for leather into her first live firefight…only to discover she needed to refine her targeting for her second. Now she'd led a mutiny and fought a small naval battle to prevent a bigger one. Explaining to the Chief of Staff of her father's military just why and how she'd mutinied shouldn't be too painful.
The door slid open. General McMorrison was behind his desk, deep in reports, but he glanced up as she entered.
She marched for the proper place in front of his desk, but as she did so, he was already out of his chair. A thin, graying man, he looked more like an accountant than a general, but he moved with quick, smooth steps around his desk.
She ended up saluting a moving target. He answered with a wave in the general direction of his forehead that moved easily into an offered hand. As she shook it, he said, ''Well done, Ensign. Very well done.''
That was a good start. ''Thank you, sir.''
''Might as well get comfortable,'' he motioned her in the direction of a couch.
She settled onto one end as he took the chair next to it. Just as Grandfather Alex's office was gray, this one was beige: tan walls, tan carpet, tan furniture. Even the general was wearing khakis. Kris crossed her ankles, folded her hands in her lap, and prepared for whatever was to come.
The general cleared his throat. ''I guess I should start by thanking you for saving my neck. All I could think of as AttackRon Six spread out was that after they'd made their run, they'd lead the survivors of a very mad Earth's battle line right into Wardhaven's fleet.''
''Is that what Commodore Sampson intended?''
''Yes, but that's not for publication. The politicians are still trying to find a way to smooth this over.''
''They're going to have a hard time of it,'' Kris said.
''Where was Sampson planning on running? Who paid him?''
''We've checked his banking records. I don't think anyone paid him,'' the general said wearily. ''I think he was doing something he believed in.''
Kris considered all the talk she'd heard from those in uniform and decided that was quite likely true. ''Still, he'd have to take our ships somewhere. This wasn't the start of an internal revolt on Wardhaven, was it?''
''No, he apparently acted alone. He refused to tell us where he planned to take the squadron.''
''Refused.'' Kris didn't like the finality of that word.
''Commodore Sampson died of a heart attack last night.''
That knocked Kris back. ''A real one or…''
''One of the other type.'' The general scowled. ''We were able to follow the money on that one. The fellow who brought him his supper last night had a strangely excessive bank account.''
''You wouldn't be willing to tell me where that money led?''
''I suspect if I don't, Tru will worm it out of our database soon enough for you.'' He almost smiled. ''A small businessman on Greenfeld. Runs a software firm.''
''Makes Ironclad Software,'' Kris finished.
''Yes. We already noticed that unauthorized software on your ships, so this provides us no new leads,'' the general said, settling deeper into his seat. ''There is one bit of information that you might have a personal interest in. Commodore Sampson did select the Typhoon for that little girl's rescue mission. He was quite angry that you disrupted his entire plan after surviving what he'd set you up for during the kidnapping.'' McMorrison looked puzzled. ''What did he do?''
''I and my squad of marines were ordered to do a night drop…onto a minefield,'' Kris said, both glad to have one mystery answered and frustrated that Sampson wasn't around to answer more about it. There was no use following that one any further. ''Are you getting anything out of the other people, like Thorpe?''
''Painfully little. They claim that Commodore Sampson hadn't told them what his battle plan was. They were just following orders.'' The general made a sour face at that.
''And what will you do with them?'' The answer to that would pretty much tell her what was in store for a certain mutineer.
''Hang them from the highest yardarm, even if I have to build it myself, is what I want to do. Nothing is what I'll probably settle for.''
''Nothing?'' was out of Kris's mouth before she knew it. Damn it, girl, you have to do something about yapping first, thinking second.
''Nothing,'' Mac repeated. ''Oh, we'll cashier them, though most are eligible for retirement. But a court-martial would only provide them the public forum they want. And I'll be damned if I want either my officers wondering if they can trust their orders or the citizens of Wardhaven wondering if they can trust my officers.''
It was hard to disagree with that. It also told Kris what awaited her.
Mac reached over to the table beside his chair to pick up two small boxes. Opening one, he handed it across to Kris. She eyed its contents: the Legion of Merit. Nice medal. The second one contained the Navy Cross. Very nice medal.
She held them in her lap for a moment, then closed the boxes and handed them back. She'd learned at Father's knee to let silence grow until the other fellow fills it. General McMorrison took back the medals but set them on the table in front of her.
''I've read Colonel Hancock's full report. You did well on Olympia. Very good for a junior officer.'' The emphasis was on junior. Kris ignored that and said, ''Thank you,'' softly so as not to interrupt or let the general off the hook for filling the silence.
''You earned the Legion of Merit on Olympia,'' Mac said. Kris nodded but refused to ask why the Navy Cross was on the table. Mac eyed her as the silence stretched, thinned out, and started to twang like an out-of-tune violin.
''You are a problem, Ensign,'' he finally growled. This time from the table he pulled a plastic flimsy and handed it to her. It was her resignation all filled out with today's date.
Kris locked her face down even as her stomach went into free fall. This was just another fight. Unlike the last one, the incoming was plastic and could not kill her. She finished reading and looked up. ''You want me to sign this?''