The Command

Four men had been standing on the quarterdeck as he’d come up the brow the week before. By the time he’d finished saluting, only the officer of the deck remained. When crew scattered at the sight of khaki, something was wrong. His unease grew as he filtered through the spaces, talking to chiefs and white hats, learning who the shitbirds were, what gear was due to fail and which was bulletproof. He’d met department heads and reviewed inventory letters. Spot-checked ammo and crypto materials and the controlled equipment like night vision devices and handheld radios and computers. Signed the admin and relieving letters, and looked over the disbursing officer’s audit of cash on hand.

Now he had to stand in the noon sun and show them their new skipper.

A trilling tone from the ship’s service phone. Ross flinched and snatched it off the bulkhead. “They’re mustered.” He stood too fast, knocking over his cup. The dark fluid just missed Dan’s whites.

Looking at the oily black liquid dye the carpet, suddenly he didn’t feel well. A shadow moved over his perception, darkening the very light. He didn’t want to go out in front of these people. Didn’t want this command. All he had to oppose to fear was duty. That and the blue ribbon he wore. Which attested, like the Cowardly Lion’s medal, that he had once been brave.

He followed Ross out into sunlight and the wind.

* * *

Standing on Horn’s flight deck as a cloud strains the sun into searching beams of golden light. Looking down past the Sea Sparrow launcher to the after five-inch, its tapered barrel centered and elevated.

Spruances were no longer the most modern destroyers in the fleet. But they were bigger, roomier, more comfortable than the Gearings and Knoxes he’d begun his career on. They carried antiship Harpoons between the stacks and Tomahawks forward. A tug churned by, screws whipping the Elizabeth River into malt frappé. He held the salute as the honors tape played over the 1MC, the ship’s public address system. As a smiling, glasses-shining Commodore Saul Aronie, Commander, Destroyer Squadron Twenty-Two, passed between saluting sideboys. The sun was blazing now, right in his eyes. He was standing with Ross and Ross’s wife, what was her name, he couldn’t remember whether it was Cecilia or Cynthia or Cindy.

His own wife couldn’t make it out of D.C. With the new administration, Blair had moved from Senate staff to the executive branch. It was one of those long-distance relationships. The week after the wedding, he’d been off to the Naval War College, while she briefed the new administration’s transition team.

The day was as bright now, the wind as warm as his glance out the porthole had promised. The crew were phalanxed ranks of white. The commodore settling into his chair, adjusting his sword. At the podium, Dan’s new exec. From behind he contemplated the small waist, the swell of her hips. This would take some getting used to.

Claudia Hotchkiss was a head shorter than he was, an energetic woman with apple cheeks and dusty blond hair. She looked like the actress who held the torch for Columbia Pictures. The same enigmatic expression, too. Horn would be the first warship in history to deploy to a combat zone with an integrated male/female crew. Hotchkiss had served in oilers and ammunition ships and had done her department head tour aboard Mount Whitney before screening for exec. She stretched on tiptoe to reach the mike. “Captain Carter Llewellyn Ross, commanding officer, USS Horn.”

Ross lifted his cover, smoothed what was left of his hair. Gripped walnut-stained plywood and faced the ranks, the seated rows of guests, with the embattled crouch of one resolved to tell the unwelcome truth, come what may.

“Commodore Aronie; Commander Lenson; distinguished guests; officers and men of USS Horn. Thank you for joining me on this morning, on what should be a happy occasion.

“It should be happy; yet for me, it is not.

“I must speak out against what is happening to this navy I have loved and served.”

A stir rippled across the sailors, listening at parade rest. Here and there Dan caught a bark, a grunt, a low, questioning growl.

“The United States military cannot be a laboratory for social change. We cannot allow the freedoms civilians take for granted. Nor can we accede to every fad or frenzy that agitates the body politic. We see this in the current attempt to welcome to the armed forces those who are not only condemned by Scripture, but dangerous to cohesion in battle.

“Linked to this is the attempt to place women in harm’s way, aboard warships such as Horn.”

The murmurings swelled to agreement, approval. Hotchkiss was straining forward like a small pit bull on a tight leash. The commodore sat motionless, legs crossed. His face had lost its tolerant smile. But he made no move to interfere. Dan understood. This was Ross’s swan song. For the only time, maybe, since he’d joined the service, he was free to say exactly what he liked.