I still had Ava on my mind, but I did what I could to hide my excitement from Hollingsworth and from myself. As we approached the fleet, I stared at the various ships, their triangular outlines reminding me of moths and wedges. Hollingsworth located the Kamehameha in the logjam and got us clearance to land.
He was a good pilot. He brought us in smooth and fast, and touched us down gently. I still missed Herrington, the old veteran with whom I had fought some major battles, but Philo Hollingsworth was a good Marine.
The sled brought us through the locks and into the docking bay. With the docking bay in control of his transport, Hollingsworth powered down the engines and switched off the cockpit controls. Once he finished, we headed down into the kettle.
“You know, Captain Harris, I was thinking about Fahey. He’s okay. I mean he popped off pretty bad in that meeting, but do you blame him? I mean, he’s got to be desperate to find some scrub.” Hollingsworth dispensed this advice as the kettle doors opened.
“I hope you’re right, Sergeant, because I’m going to flatten the specker next time he crosses me,” I said. I wished Hollingsworth had not brought up Fahey. The mere thought of him made my stomach tense.
“Okay, well, what I really want to say, sir, is give Warshaw a fair break. He’s not like Fahey. He’s a stand-up officer. We’ve been on the same boat for four years now, and I can tell you, he’s not the kind of guy that shoots you in the back.”
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered.
Across the deck, Master Chief Petty Officer Gary Warshaw stood shouting orders to a pack of sailors. When he saw us, he worked up a smile and came bounding in our direction. I noted the spring in his step and decided it did not bode well. No matter what Hollingsworth said, this man was no friend.
In his right hand, Warshaw carried a folder with the seal of the Office of the Navy. Parking himself at the base of the ramp, the master chief looked up at me and saluted. “Captain Harris, may I have a private word with you, sir?”
Hollingsworth excused himself, shooting me an I-told-you-so self-satisfied smirk. He must have thought Warshaw had come to shake hands and ask to be my buddy. I made a mental note: reliable or not, Hollingsworth was a piss-poor judge of character.
“What can I do for you, Master Chief?” I asked, trying to smother the voice in my head. I got the same feeling in my gut dealing with sailors that I got pulling the pins from live grenades.
“I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I asked Admiral Thorne if he would join us,” Warshaw said, looking slightly apologetic.
“Not a problem,” I said, ignoring the tightening knot in my stomach. I really wanted to kill this man. I could feel the beginnings of a combat reflex. My nervous system did not differentiate between war and infighting.
Warshaw led me out of the landing area without any further explanation, and I followed without asking.
“I’m sorry I missed your staff meeting the other day. I hear you and Fahey had some friction.”
“You might say that,” I agreed. “Fahey seems to think he can ignore my orders.”
“I’ll have a word with him about that,” Warshaw said, sounding a little embarrassed. I took that as a good sign.
After that, the conversation trailed off. Trying to restart the collegial patter, Warshaw said, “Congratulations on liberating Terraneau. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“I lost most of my men,” I said. “I’m not entirely sure that congratulations are in order.”
“You rescued a planet with a handful of Marines; congratulations are in order,” Warshaw said. He was all muscles and smiles, a man trying too hard to be my friend. “I haven’t seen the official report, but I understand the fighting was fierce.”
There was no official report; I had not written it yet. I did not point this out, though. If Warshaw wanted to be my buddy, I would go along for the ride. Maybe he would reveal a few of his cards.
He didn’t. He chatted me up as we walked most of the length of the ship, finally ending up in a conference room near the bridge. Thorne had already arrived. The normally passive admiral sat at the table looking irritable, his thin lips pursed and his eyes not quite meeting ours as we entered the room.
As a man holding the rank of master chief petty officer, Warshaw did not have the authority to call commissioned officers to meetings. He did not seem to care. Paying no attention to the look on Admiral Thorne’s face, he slid into the conference room and took a seat.
“What is this about?” Thorne asked as I sat down. Apparently he thought this meeting was my idea.
I shrugged.
“Actually, Admiral, I called this meeting, sir,” Warshaw said. “Well, maybe not me. I suppose you would say that Admiral Brocius is calling the shots.”
“Admiral Brocius?” Thorne repeated. “He’s back in Washington.”
“Yes, sir,” Warshaw said.
An embarrassed smile wormed its way across Warshaw’s mouth, and he said, “I took the liberty of traveling to Earth.”
“You what?” asked Admiral Thorne, his voice hard but low.
“I caught a ride back to Earth on the last transfer ship,” Warshaw said.
“Unless one of my senior officers approved that trip, you were absent without leave, Master Chief,” Thorne said.
“You’ll need to take that up with Admiral Brocius, Admiral. He approved my leave …retroactively.” Warshaw placed the folder with the Office of the Navy seal on the table and pulled two envelopes from it.
He slid Admiral Thorne an envelope with his name on it, then he handed me one with my name as well. A small triangle of foil sealed the back of the envelope—an automated security seal. When I pressed my thumb against the foil, it read my thumbprint and curled open.
As I removed the sheet of paper inside, Warshaw said, “Sorry, Harris, it’s nothing personal.”
I pretended not to hear him. My combat reflex was full-bore at that moment. In another minute, I might not be able to stop myself.
Beside me, Admiral Thorne silently read the contents of Admiral Brocius’s memo, his face an impassive mask. I did the same. I read and realized that Warshaw had not the slightest clue of what was written in these orders, the poor bastard.
When I looked up, I met Warshaw’s gaze. He had the petulant expression of a little boy caught breaking rules he does not like.
Thorne reread his letter, then folded it and slipped it back into its envelope. I placed mine face down on the table.
“So it’s official, Harris, once Admiral Thorne is gone, I will assume command of the fleet.”
“I see,” I said. The orders I had just read mentioned more than a change in command.
“You will retain the rank of general and assume command of the Marines,” Warshaw said.
Thorne started to say something, but Warshaw interrupted him. “I’m sorry to have gone around you, Admiral, but it had to be done. I could not allow them to leave the Scutum-Crux Fleet in the hands of a Marine.”
“I understand,” said Thorne.
“Do you have any questions, Captain Harris?” Warshaw asked. He sounded as if he were already a commanding officer, not a noncom speaking to an officer.
I shook my head.
“Admiral Thorne?”
“You took this directly to Admiral Brocius?”
“I served under him for twelve years in the Sagittarius Central Fleet,” Warshaw said. “Any other questions?” He paused, then said, “If neither of you have anything else to discuss, I think I’ll get back to work.” With that, he left the room.
“I never did care for that son of a bitch,” Thorne said, as soon as the door closed behind Warshaw.
“Which son of a bitch?” I asked. “Brocius or Warshaw?”