“Air Force Academy, Commander,” Brice said, smiling at him coquettishly. They’d learned by now that when when the acting CJCS went “cute” that they were about to have their heads handed to them. “Is that a problem?”
“No, ma’am,” the commander said, holding his hand up to his mouth to hide the grin.
“There is a picture in one of the D &D books, sir,” Brice said, turning back to the NCCC. “A knight in armor standing on a precipice wielding a sword against a horde of demons. The caption is ‘A Paladin In Hell.’”
“Thinking about it, that does sound rather apropos of Commodore Wolf,” Galloway said, nodding at Ellington.
“Every material, every person, has a breaking point,” Ellington said, hauntedly. He was staring into the distance. “Fighting the darkness forces one to either be the light or embrace the dark. Every paladin finds his precipice.”
“Colonel?” Brice said, carefully as the silence dragged out. “Marine!”
“Ma’am!” Ellington said, snapping upright.
“Colonel, I’m not sure where you just went,” Brice said. “But we need you present in this reality. Or do I need to call the medics?”
“No, ma’am,” the colonel said, sharply. “Present and accounted for, General. My recommendation is a Naval Captaincy, sir.”
“Excuse me?” Galloway said.
“You’re joking, right?” Commander Freeman said, tightly.
“Granting the Commodore a Naval Captaincy would allow him to command military personnel as well as direct civilian technical experts, sir, thereby reducing his overall difficulty load. Furthermore, absent finding and rescuing a higher ranking military officer, which would require in all probability the clearance of a Nimitz class aircraft carrier or better or more likely the clearance of a major ground base, he would outrank any of the current submarine commanders. The Captaincy would be contingent upon allowance of communications by professional officers to assure some semblance of reasonable command responsibilities. Absent that choice, he could outline his plans such as they are to the submarine commanders and upon developing some method of vaccine production turn it over to them. Sir.”
“A captaincy?” Commander Freeman snapped. “A Captaincy? Are you insane? To some unknown Australian pirate wannabe? For that matter, Under Secretary Galloway does not have the authority to grant a Captaincy!”
“As a matter of fact…” Brice said.
“I do, in fact, Commander,” Galloway said, tightly. “It’s in the fine print. I can even give a brevet to flag rank. Obviously, it has to be approved by the Senate in time. But for that we’d have to have a Senate.”
“I…” Freeman said, his face tight. “I was not aware and meant no disrespect… Sir.”
“Colonel Ellington, thank you for that novel suggestion,” Galloway said. “That language is not to suggest I am dismissing it. It is, however, I feel premature. Right now we have a virtual unknown whose only claim to fame is rescuing a few people including some coast guard personnel and possibly knowing how to produce vaccine. I would say that we need more CV than that before making such a significant decision. That is all.”
“Yes, sir,” Ellington said, then twitched.
“As for Commander Freeman,” Galloway said. “I can understand your distaste for the very idea. You are a professional naval officer who has spent many years honing his expertise and the idea of just handing a commission, much less a captaincy to, as you put it, a pirate wannabe, is obviously distasteful. I’ll remind you that various persons were given ranks to which they were not ‘entitled’ during World War Two, a much less serious catastrophe than the one in which we are currently engaged.”
“I recall the story of your grandfather, sir,” Freeman said. “But with due respect they weren’t given commands, sir.”
“As I said, it is premature,” Galloway said. “And this discussion has been contentious and, yes, tiring. We have time to consider even the subject of the Coast Guard personnel and the cutter. Let us use it.”
* * *
“Bureaucrats,” Steve said, tossing Kuzma the radio. “They’re trying to figure out what to do. I said I’d give them three days.”
“Okay,” the PO said. “What are we going to do in the meantime?”
“I’d run you back to Bermuda and put you on the Large,” Steve said. “But it’s a six hour steam both ways and there are EPIRBs. So just chill and we’ll go rescue people.”
“We can help, sir,” Fore said. “That’s the best part of our job.”
“Just rest,” Steve said, tightly. “You’re all knackered out. Which is normal. You’ll recover. I was wrong to use you to clear when you’d just been rescued. Besides, usually there’s nobody to rescue. It’d just be nice to have somebody I could trust at my back. But until the Powers-That-Be speak I can’t even trust that.”
“Da,” Sophia said. “While you were on the horn we got a call. There’s another yacht. Sixty footer.”
“Joy,” Steve said. “How far?”
“About two hours.”
“Make for it,” Steve said.
“It’s…getting dark, sir,” Kuzma pointed out.
“Odd thing at sea with no clouds,” Steve said. “You can really tell when the sun’s going down, PO.” Steve winced. “Sorry, I’m still bloody furious at that bugger on the radio.”
“I understand, sir,” Kuzma said. “What I was pointing out is that it’s getting dark as in ‘are you going to do a boarding in the dark?’”
“Why not?” Steve asked. “These things tend to be bloody dark below-decks, anyway. Really, it’s easier in the dark cause you don’t have to let your eyes adjust.”
“Oh,” Kuzma said, blinking rapidly. “How many boardings have you done, sir?”
“I don’t know,” Steve said. “I’d have to check the log. Probably not as many as you. But probably a few more that had zombies on them. No worries: usually these sixty footers are fairly straightforward. It’s the doing them by myself that’s getting tiresome…”
* * *
Kuzma moved up to the flying bridge to observe the evolution.
“If you want to tell me anything, go ahead,” the “commodore’s” daughter said, a touch nervously.
“You’ve done this a few times before?” Kuzma asked.
“Yes, sir,” Sophia replied. “This is my seventeenth approach to a yacht this side. For larger than this we usually use the dinghy.”
“You come directly alongside?” Kuzma said.
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “If you’ll hold on a second. I don’t see any on the deck, Da!” She picked up the intercom. “Horn, horn, horn…” she called, then hit the foghorn in three short blasts. She waited a moment, then hit two more. “That usually brings them out of there are any that can get on the deck.”
“Come alongside!” Steve yelled.
“Roger, Da!”
She moved up to the yacht and let the wind carry her in the last few feet as the crew put balloon fenders over the side and hurled grapnels to bring the two yachts together.
“We had problems getting those right at first,” Sophia said. “The balloons. You’ve got to get them at just the right height.”
“Yes,” Kuzma said. He didn’t mention that he’d have actively advised against tying two boats together in six foot swells.
“Tied down!” Paula called.
“Is that your mate?” Kuzma asked.
“Well, technically Da’s the captain, Mom’s the first mate and I’m the second. Paula’s sort of my mate if you will.”
“Was she a boater? Before?” Kuzma asked.
“Ran a t-shirt shop,” Sophia said. “Pardon, this is a bit tricky.”
She engaged power to the engines, carefully, reversing to port and forward to starboard.
“It’s easier to hold them together if they’re into the swells,” Sophia said. “And the ropes don’t snap as much. Well, except when I’m doing this.”
Kuzma tried not to flinch as he saw the strains being put on the three quarter inch lines that were used on the grapnels.