A Just Determination (24 page)

Jen shrugged. "Hey, if he did it, he did it. What kind of extra charges are you talking about?"

Paul pointed toward his display. "Well, look here for example. Right at the top. They're charging him with two counts of violating Article 86."

"Article 86?" Jen squinted at the charge sheet skeptically. "They're charging Wakeman with being AWOL?"

"No. It's not the Absent Without Official Leave component of Article 86, it's the Leaving Appointed Place of Duty component. They're charging Wakeman with Article 86 first for leaving our patrol area while we were chasing the SASAL ship, and then again for matching course with the wreck and accompanying it for a few days instead of heading back into our patrol area."

"You're kidding. We were in hot pursuit of the SASAL ship, and no one in their right mind would have just let the wreck zoom off into nowhere without going aboard."

"Then you see my point."

"Okay. I will, with great reluctance, agree that those two charges are over-the-top. But it isn't like Wakeman doesn't deserve to be hammered. He was a lousy commanding officer."

"I'm not debating that. I think he's also a lousy human being. But he's not on trial for his general performance as a commanding officer. No. He's being tried for the specific actions he took while pursuing and firing on the SASAL ship. And some of these charges are nailing him for doing things anybody would've done."

"Like shooting at an unarmed ship?"

"I said some of them! Why couldn't they have just charged him with involuntary manslaughter? And maybe the false official statement charge, because he knew those messages we sent didn't reflect what we'd found on the SASAL ship. Why all this other stuff? It's like in medieval times when they'd sentence someone to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then beheaded. It's overkill. And like I said, some of this stuff he's being charged with is the same sort of thing we'd have done in his place with the orders we had."

Jen leaned back, crossing her arms. "So, you don't think it's fair, huh? What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"Are you planning to somehow go to the mat defending Cap'n Pete's virtues as a commanding officer and leader because you don't think the system is being fair to him?"

"No! But . . . look, I just don't know."

"Will you at least promise me not to do anything stupid in the name of some personal concept of nobility?"

Paul frowned at her. "Why? What do you care what happens to me?"

"Who said I care?

"It sounds like you care."

"Ha! Don't get your hopes up, Sinclair. I'm just trying to keep your butt out of a bight so I don't get stuck trying to pry you loose and having to pick up all the pieces afterwards."

Paul stared stubbornly at his display, unwilling to meet Jen's eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Don't get your ego up. I hate seeing my friends dig themselves into deep holes. Does that sound better?"

Paul sat silently for a minute, while Jen waited as if sensing he needed time to think. "Jen, did you ever see something happening that you thought was bad, and everything you'd ever been taught said it was wrong to do nothing, but you ended up doing nothing anyway?"

"Duh. That's life. Theory versus practice."

"But didn't it bother you? Doesn't it still bother you? I remember back at the Academy, seeing some guy doing stuff that should have gotten him kicked out, but getting away with it all because he had the right connections. Thinking I ought to raise a stink. But I didn't. Now that guy's an officer and probably well on his way to becoming another Peter Wakeman. Because I didn't do something when I knew I should. How many lives will he make miserable? How many people might
he
kill through his own incompetence?"

Jen exhaled heavily. "Paul, part of me wants to try to slap some sense into that brain of yours. And part of me is amazed that someone can still believe in ideals like that. This is the real world. You're not personally responsible for all the injustices that take place. You can't stop them, you can't fix them. If you'd made a fuss over that jerk at the academy, maybe you would've been kicked out, too. Then you would've ruined your life, and that well-connected bozo would have gone on to live happily ever after anyway. Right?"

"That makes sense, but . . . it just doesn't seem right. Is my highest priority in life supposed to be looking out for my own best interests?"

Jen looked beseechingly upwards. "Heaven help me. It's not that simple. You're worried about people doing bad things? Wakeman did a bad thing. Now, he's going to get hammered. What's the problem?"

"He didn't get us into that mess alone, Jen. Our orders gave him discretion to get us there, and the people writing those orders knew Wakeman."

"Okay. Even if you happened to be one hundred percent right about that, and I'm not conceding that fact except for the sake of argument, even then, I can't see risking your career for the sake of Cap'n Pete. People like him aren't worth it."

"Then who is? Only people I like?"

"That's one way of looking at it. If I was the one being hammered I'd be really happy to have you donning your righteous armor on my behalf."

Paul nodded. "And I would, Jen. For you. In a heartbeat."

She eyed him for a moment, then smiled. "I bet you say that to all the auxiliary engineering officers you meet. So, does that perspective resolve your moral dilemma?"

"No. Where's the morality in only acting right on behalf of those you like?"

Jen shook her head. "You, Paul Sinclair, obviously read all the wrong books when you were growing up. And believed them. Heroic knights and common folk dashing off on noble quests just because it was the right thing to do. Fighting impossible odds against evil. Making the world a better place by their efforts and example and sacrifice. Right?"

"It sounds like you read the same books."

"Yeah, but I stopped believing in them. Mallory's book is called The Death of Arthur, remember? That's what the Round Table's idealism came down to: murder, adultery, war and a king and his son killing each other. Forget the noble causes, Paul. Look out for yourself. There's no sense in making your life any harder right now."

"I didn't think life could get any harder."

"That's probably what Kris Denaldo thought. She's picked herself up and learned the right lesson. I'd rather you didn't hit the same sort of wall before figuring out where you went wrong."

Jen's words made sense. He'd learned a long time ago that the world didn't work the way it should, and that trying to make a difference usually didn't seem to make any difference.
She's trying to keep me out of trouble. So why does her advice grate me the wrong way? She's right. Isn't she
? "Maybe."

"Instead of worrying about the fate of Cap'n Pete, shouldn't you be trying to catch up on some of your other duties?"

"Maybe."

"If they want to pile on the charges against Wakeman, they'll do it. It's not like you can make any real difference there. Right?"

"Maybe."

"And shouldn't you be agreeing with what I'm saying instead of repeating, 'Maybe?'"

Jen's last statement caught Paul off-guard, so that he found himself laughing. "Is that the key to happiness in life, Jen? Agreeing with you?"

"I certainly think it'd be a better world if everybody did that. My last advice to you right now is to get out of your stateroom and get to work, Paul."

"Okay. Thanks, Jen."

"So you're going to do what I said?"

"Uh . . . maybe."

Jen paused on her way out of the stateroom to glare back at him. "You're hopeless, Sinclair. I don't know why I bother."

Regardless of the truth of everything else Jen had said, she was right that Paul had plenty of other work to occupy his time and his mind. Paul located Chief Imari so they could review divisional training records, then sweated over the wording of a couple of fitness reports for enlisted personnel that Jan Tweed had asked him to take care of. After that, he pigeonholed Carl Meadows long enough to get a couple more of his OSWO qualifications signed off so that Garcia wouldn't flip out over Paul's lack of progress in that area.

All in all, it almost made him forget the upcoming court-martial, except that almost every task took him through a space or dealt with a document that brought Captain Wakeman to mind. The fact that he could neither shake his misgivings nor resolve them made Paul more and more restless, to the point where he headed aft as far he could go on the
Michaelson
, right back to the bulkhead unofficially labeled The End of the World, then turned and began working his way forward just to remain in motion.

Just past the crew's mess deck he found the chief master-at-arms, Petty Officer Sharpe, leaning against a bulkhead with arms crossed, checking out crew members who edged past him with assorted expressions of greeting, worry or hostility. "Hey, Sheriff."

"Hey, boss. Were you looking for me, sir?"

"No, not really. But I haven't seen you for a few days. How's the criminal element doing?"

Sharpe grinned. "Oh, they're being real good, sir. Or at least real careful. Nobody but nobody wants to end up restricted to the ship right after we get home from a patrol. So there's nothing legal to worry about. Except, well, you know."

"I know. Have you seen the charge sheet?"

"Have I seen the charge sheet? Sir, I haven't read a novel that long in ages. It's a doozy."

Paul shook his head angrily. "Sheriff, did you ever see someone hauled up on charges they didn't deserve? I mean, maybe they weren't great sailors or anything, but instead of being called to account for their real failures they ended being nailed on something they didn't necessarily do?"

"Why, sir, wherever could you have found that example?" Sharpe cocked his head to one side, regarding Paul intently. "Begging your pardon for the question, sir, but does this mean you're not happy with what's happening to Captain Wakeman?"

"You got it. I want him punished, but not the piling on, not the charges for doing things I might have done. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Sir, even if I did I wouldn't say so. Mama Sharpe didn't raise a fool. But justice is a funny thing, sir. Sometimes it happens in the wrong way but ends up doing the right thing."

"Then you never had a case where you felt somebody shouldn't be convicted on the charges against them, even if they were some kind of dirtball?"

"Dirtballs deserve whatever they get, sir."

Paul thought about that, then smiled wryly. "I forgot. You're a cop, Sheriff."

"Yes, sir."

"So you're going to see things in a pretty black-and-white way. A dirtball's got to be guilty of something, right?"

"You got it, sir."

"But I'm seeing a lot of shades of gray, Sheriff."

"Now, sir, don't you be turning into a lawyer on me."

Paul smiled again. "Surely there's a middle ground between lawyers and cops."

"I don't think so, sir. And if there is, you wouldn't want to be there because you'd be in the line of fire." Sharpe's own smile faded for a moment. "Mr. Sinclair, I think I understand what's bothering you. It doesn't bother me, but like you say, I'm a cop. And I'm not you. If there's something you think you ought to do, then that's up to you."

"Gee, Sheriff, I'd hate to let you down."

"Mr. Sinclair, as long as you're doing what you really believe is right, I can't very well think less of you. Not that you should necessarily care what I think. I might wonder why you did it, just like I'm wondering why anything about this is bothering you. But I'm just a cop. I catch dirtballs and let the justice system take it from there. You're the officer who has to worry about shades of gray."

Paul smiled again. "Yeah. You're right. I just wish I knew what was right for me to do. If anything."

"Seeing as I don't understand the problem, I can't help you there, sir."

"No, you can't. Thanks, Sheriff."

"For not helping you? This job gets easier every day."

"Go away, Sheriff."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Late afternoon found Paul in the office of Commander John Wilkes. Wilkes went over Paul's statement, asked for a few more details, told Paul he was on the list of witnesses to be called during the court-martial, then dismissed him. The brevity and coldness of the process left Paul feeling like a small cog in a steamroller aimed at Wakeman.

Dinners in the wardroom had been less than festive ever since the encounter with the SASAL ship, and since Wakeman's removal from command had become even more somber. Paul left fairly quickly, going back to his stateroom to dig further into his backlog of work. Sam Yarrow eventually came in as well, smiling with the same self-satisfied expression he seemed to have worn constantly since being promoted to lieutenant junior grade. "Working hard, Sinclair? Or hardly working?"

Paul glanced briefly toward Yarrow. "Working hard."

"Good idea. You'll need the best record you can get coming off this tour."

"What's that mean?"

"You know. Wakeman. What he did. Do you think any promotion board will look favorably on a fitness report signed by him?"

Paul took the time to glance at Yarrow again. "They did in your case."

"No. My promotion board met before Wakeman screwed up. But you guys . . ." Yarrow let his sentence trail off meaningfully. "Too bad."

Paul counted to five inside before speaking again. "I thought you liked Wakeman, Sam."

"Huh? No. No way. He's not half as good a leader as somebody like, say, Commander Garcia."

"Just to pick a name randomly, huh, Sam? Thanks for your sympathy, but I'm sure any promotion board will judge me on my merits."

Yarrow chuckled. "Boy, are you still clueless."

"Go to hell, Sam." Paul closed his work out and left the stateroom, standing in the passageway for a moment to cool off. At this time of day, in port and after the bustle of work had temporarily died down, the small stretch of passageway loomed empty in either direction.
Carl's on watch. I can't bug him. If Herdez caught us chewing the fat while he was standing the quarterdeck watch she'd rip us both up one side and down the other
. He glanced down toward the other ensign locker, thinking briefly of visiting there.
No. Jen and Kris don't need me moping around. Especially Jen. I wish she understood what was bothering me. Hell, I wish
I
understood what was bothering me
. He hesitated a moment longer, then headed for the wardroom for some coffee.