Burden of Proof (9 page)

Jen gave Sharpe an arch look. "Heck, Petty Officer Sharpe, I can't even kiss this guy. Do you know how hard it is not to do that?"

"Not ever having had the urge to kiss him, ma'am, I can't say I do."

"That's a relief." With another grin, Sharpe left the quarterdeck. "Paul, how
do
you put up with that guy?"

"The Sheriff? He's respectful when he should be, he never crosses the line into being too familiar, and he really knows his job."

"Works for me." They headed for the wardroom. "So, what's tomorrow look like on the good ship
Merry Mike
?"

Paul paused outside the wardroom hatch. "Change of command ceremony. After that, rumor says we'll get early liberty."

"Ohhhh, good deal."

"Then tomorrow night Carl's got his farewell laid on at Fogarty's. You'll be there, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it." Jen stared down the passageway. "It's funny. The
Michaelson
stays the same ship, the ship that was my home for more days, weeks and months at stretch than I care to remember, a place I knew like the back of my hand. But as the people I knew onboard transfer off she's slowly becoming like a place I don't belong. I belong on some past version of the
Merry Mike
, crewed by the memories of officers and enlisted who have gone on to other assignments. I wonder if this is how a ghost feels?"

Jen stood silent for a few moment, leaving Paul to think through her words.
I don't understand. I guess because I'm seeing the changes happen one by one and they don't impact on me the way seeing a bunch at once would. Or maybe because the
Michaelson
is still home for me, all too often twenty-four/seven. I wonder what'll it feel like to watch her leave port, knowing I don't belong onboard anymore
? He glanced at Jen's face, then reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "You feel real to me."

"Watch it, sailor. You're going to need that hand someday." But Jen grinned to remove any hint of real threat from her words. "Life goes on. Whether we like it or not."

"Yeah. Speaking of which, are you coming to our change of command?"

"Sorry. No can do. I served less than forty-eight hours under Gonzalez, so I can't convince my department head to let me go. But I'll bolt from the
Maury
the instant liberty call goes down. How's your new captain look? Is he another Wakeman?"

"Hell, no." Paul couldn't hide his reaction to the thought. "Hayes seems okay. Of course, he hasn't taken over, yet." As an observer, Hayes had been bound to follow the way Gonzalez wanted to run the ship. As captain, Hayes would be able to change things to suit himself.

"Speaking of captains, we're meeting for dinner on Thursday."

"Gee, Jen, that's three days from now, right before your own ship leaves. Are you sure it's a good idea to plan for that?"

"Excuse me, Paul. I didn't say 'can we meet.' I said we
are
meeting."

"What's so important about dinner that night?"

"The
Mahan
is in port. Long-term refit."

"Uh, yeah. So?"

"So that means her captain is in port, too." Jen paused, eyeing Paul as he looked baffled. "Captain Kay Shen."

"Captain Shen? Your father?"

"The only one I know of."

"Captain Shen?"

"You already said that."

"Your father."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Look, I'll be at the
Michaelson
by 1730 that night to make sure you look decent. We'll be dining on the
Mahan
as guests of the captain so you'll need to break out your service dress. Mine's fresh-pressed. How's yours?"

"Uh . . ."

"Wadded up in the back of a drawer? Probably. We've got a couple of days to see what we can do with it. Although I don't know what you were planning to wear to the change of command. Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You're not worried about meeting my father, are you?"

"What's he like? You've never said much about him."

"He's my father. Don't worry. It's no big deal."

Jen walked into the wardroom, exchanging greetings with the other officers there whom she knew, while Paul hung back for a moment.
No big deal? Give me a break. Her father's the captain of the
Mahan
? Life just keeps getting more complicated
.

There wasn't any one place on the
Michaelson
even remotely big enough for the entire crew to gather, so the change-of-command ceremony took place in a special hall on Franklin Station which existed for just such functions. With the exception of a skeleton duty section remaining behind on the
Michaelson
to watch over the ship, every other officer and enlisted were gathered in the hall, the sailors ranked by their divisions, the divisions grouped into their departments, and the officers in charge of each standing out in front of their division or department. Chief Imari, the leading chief petty officer for Paul's Combat Information Center division, walked down the ranks of sailors in their unit, trying to form them into straight lines, align the ranks front to back, and correct any sailor whose idea of standing at attention didn't conform to Navy standards.

Grumbling under her breath, Chief Imari came up to Paul and saluted. "OI division assembled and accounted for, sir," she reported, using the shipboard designation for the unit.

Paul returned the salute, feeling stiff in his formal dress uniform. "Thanks, Chief. They look pretty good."

Imari glanced back at them. "For sailors, I guess. Just be glad there aren't any Marines around to make them look bad. And that they don't have to march anywhere." She shook her head. "Sailors don't march worth a damn, sir."

"I know." Paul remembered being a midshipman at the Naval Academy, where slightly sloppy marching was often considered a sign of distinction. Army cadets at West Point or Air Force cadets at Colorado Springs marched in perfect formations. But Navy midshipmen were above all that, except when the officers and senior enlisted training them cracked down. Paul turned his head and spoke in a clear but low voice. "OI Division, puh-rade rest!" With a slightly ragged movement, the sailors went from the erect posture of attention to the slightly more relaxed position of parade rest, their legs spread slightly and their arms crossed behind them with their hands overlapping at the base of their spines.

Commander Garcia walked rapidly across the front of the divisions in his department, glaring at each unit in turn. Apparently finding no problems he could hammer anyone for, Garcia took his proper position in front of the rest, his back stiff even at parade rest in an attempt to look very, very professional.

Paul and the rest of the crew waited. Aside from an occasional scuffing sound or a brief cough, everyone remained silent. The minutes crawled, and Paul let his mind wander. At least at parade rest individuals could maintain their stance for long periods without cramping anything, but inexperienced sailors could still pass out if they held themselves too tightly. Paul, with years of Academy experience of standing around at parade rest waiting for something to happen, didn't have any problem, but after a long enough time he came to attention, pivoted 180 degrees, and checked over his division carefully to see if anyone looked about to fall over. No one did, so Paul pivoted to face front again and resumed his parade rest stance.

Finally, a door at the back of the hall opened and Commander Kwan strode briskly to the front and center of the room. "Attention on deck!" he snapped.

The crew of the
Michaelson
came to attention, not with the crisp snap Marines would have easily achieved, but with a slightly drawn out rustle of uniforms. Kwan eyed them narrowly, then turned to face the door through which he'd entered. "Post the colors." From somewhere, the "Star-Spangled Banner" began playing. "Hand salute."

Paul brought his right arm up, his hand flat, the index finger against his right temple. If his sailors had been carrying rifles, they'd have been ordered to present arms, but since they didn't have rifles they stayed at attention. Three sailors entered, the front one carrying at a slight angle a short flag pole from which a brilliant American flag hung, the other two behind him with the flags of the US Navy and the US Marine Corps. The honor guard marched slowly across the hall to the front center, placed the flags into stands awaiting them, then stepped back and saluted as well. The music continued for a few more seconds, while Paul recited the words in his head.

Silence fell for a moment. "Two," Commander Kwan called out, and all those saluting brought their arms back down to their sides. Kwan saluted again as Captain Gonzalez and Captain Hayes started to enter.

A bosun mate standing at the door piped a full wail. Six other sailors, arranged three to a side on either side of the door, came to attention, fulfilling the ancient role of sideboys. Some of the "sideboys" were women, of course, but in the change-of-command ceremony they retained the name given back when ships traveled under sail and were built of wood. Another sailor bonged a bell four times in pairs of two bongs and announced "USS
Michaelson
, arriving" as Gonzalez passed through. Hayes was heralded with the announcement "Captain, United States Navy, arriving." The captains returned Kwan's salute, and Kwan marched to stand to one side.

Gonzalez let her gaze wander over the crew for a moment. "Parade rest." Another prolonged shuffle followed. "I am here today for one of the most painful tasks any officer must face, the need to say farewell to a ship and a crew who have served me and their nation well. My superiors tell me I'm leaving the
Michaelson
with a good record, that while I was in command the ship performed well and her crew performed better. But I know the only reason I look good to my superiors now is because of the crew I had the honor to lead for the past year. I thank you. I could talk at length about your sacrifices, about the deeds you accomplished, about how well you met every challenge. But I'm not a big talker, as you know. I hope I have nonetheless offered praise each time it was merited to each of you who merited it. Now, rather than hold you in formation for an extended period while I reminisce about the good old days and go over my career day-by-day, I will cease this speech and let my actions, and yours, speak for me."

Captain Gonzalez pulled out her orders, but stopped as Senior Chief Kowalski stepped forth, carrying a large object. "Ma'am, with the compliments of the crew of the USS
Michaelson
."

Gonzalez smiled slightly and took the object, then carefully pulled off its wrapping. A gleaming model of the USS
Michaelson
emerged, its football shape shone to a high-polish instead of the vision-defying dullness of the real ship. Captain Gonzalez's face lit up. "Thank you. This will be the center of my love-me wall, I promise. Thank you very much."

Paul found himself smiling as well. A "love-me wall" was the slang for the place where a sailor hung up all the pictures, plaques, and medals acquired in the course of a career. Paul's own "love-me wall" (if he'd a wall to use that way) would be very sparse at the moment, limited to his Academy diploma and his ensign bars. He imagined Gonzalez's wall, made up of the achievements and assignments of more than twenty years in the Navy, with the model of the
Michaelson
shining in the middle. It felt nice to think about.

Kowalski went back to his position and Gonzalez returned her attention to her orders, reading them aloud as tradition required. She went through the boilerplate in every set of orders, to the heart of these. "When relieved as Commanding Officer, USS
Michaelson
, proceed to duty on staff, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Pentagon, Washington D.C." Gonzalez licked her lips, her eyes lowered, then stepped back.

Captain Hayes stepped forward and held up his orders. Paul watched, barely listening, until Hayes reached the important part. " . . . Proceed port in which USS
Michaelson
(CLE(S)-3) may be, upon arrival assume duties as commanding officer."

Commander Kwan pivoted to face the crew. "Attention on deck!"

Captain Hayes faced Gonzalez and saluted. "I relieve you, ma'am"

Captain Gonzalez returned the salute. "I stand relieved."

Instead of leaving at that point, Captain Gonzalez faced the crew again. "With Captain Hayes's kind permission, I have been allowed to issue one more order to the crew of the USS
Michaelson
. Early liberty shall be granted today, commencing immediately upon the completion of this ceremony." A brief murmur of excitement rose up, quickly quelled as officers and chiefs turned their heads and glowered back at the enlisted ranks.

The two captains headed for the door. As Gonzalez departed through the channel between the sideboys, the bosun piped again and the bell bonged four more times. "Captain, United States Navy, departing." A moment later, Hayes followed. "USS
Michaelson
, departing." The
Michaelson
, and her crew, had a new master.

Commander Kwan faced the crew again. "Officers and crew of the USS
Michaelson
, you are dismissed except for those members of the duty section present."

Paul relaxed, taking a deep breath and letting it out as a babble of voices arose around him and the neat ranks started to dissolve into their component sailors. "Chief, they're all yours."

Chief Imari saluted him with a grin. "Only for a moment, Mr. Sinclair. OI Division, duty section personnel return to the ship.
Directly
to the ship. All the rest of you are dismissed until expiration of liberty at 0700 tomorrow."

Paul started walking back to the ship himself. He didn't really have any place else to go for a while, and there was still plenty of work to catch up on.

But he still found himself leaving the
Michaelson
as soon as he could reasonably head for the
Maury
, docked one section over from his own ship. The
Maury
and the
Michaelson
were sister ships, part of the same class of spacecraft built from the same plans. Yet there were subtle differences to the
Maury
's quarterdeck, the results of years of minor changes. A fitting that on the
Michaelson
shone with polished metal, on the
Maury
revealed nothing but a smooth coat of paint. The
Maury
's bell had been set perhaps a half-meter to one side of where the
Michaelson
's bell rested. Paul stood on the brow leading to the
Maury
's quarterdeck, saluted aft to the national flag, then saluted the officer of the deck. "Request permission to come aboard."