"So, Lieutenant Rogers is the Vice President of the Mess this evening, is he?" asked Commander Higgins.
"Yes, he is, and why shouldn't he be? Tradition dictates that the Vice be the lowest-ranking member of the Mess. In this case, that honor falls to Mr. Rogers," said the admiral.
"I believe that the regs state that the position can be delegated to a person of higher rank, should the occasion call for it." Captain McLaughlin entered into the conversation. "Nothing against the lieutenant. Both Greg and I know that to become and remain your aide, he has to have his shit wired right—unlike your last, what, two or three aides that suddenly found themselves with new orders almost before they finished processing in. But with this much heavy brass floating around, I would think that he might feel a bit overwhelmed by it is all."
"You've got that right. He definitely is on the ball, and as you said, unlike the last four, actually, who seemed to think their job was to kiss my ass and shield me from all the bad news that they could intercept." Nodding and agreeing with McLaughlin's assessment of both his current and past aides, the admiral continued. "Rogers will do fine, and the experience will serve him well. Besides, it's not like things can be changed now anyway."
"True," said Higgins, smiling.
"Unfortunately, I'm the President of the Mess, and as stimulating as this conversation has been, it looks like the Vice President is going to be sounding the chimes soon, so I had best move on and greet the rest of my guests."
"Yes, sir," McLaughlin answered.
"Good evening, Admiral," Higgins intoned.
With his final statement, and a slight inclination of his head to the both of them, Admiral Stevens turned to the next cluster of officers and moved off.
* * *
"That there is a great man, and one hell of an incredible commander." Higgins' tone was admiring, with none of the humor or sarcasm that had colored most of their conversations this evening.
"Yes, he is. We're damn lucky to have him in command out here at the front," McLaughlin agreed. She extracted her cigarette case and was about to open it, then looked at her watch. She slid the case back into her jacket pocket, realizing that the Mess would be convening in a few moments, and tradition did not allow lighted smoking material in the Mess.
"Amen to that." Higgins smiled and tossed back the rest of his drink. Tradition also dictated that drinks were not brought into the Mess, either.
Alex smiled back, lifted her glass in salute to her XO's statement, and downed the rest of her drink as well.
Three silvery chimes rang throughout the wardroom, and Lieutenant Rogers' voice could be heard over the freshly quieted room.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Mess is now called to order. If you would please take your seats."
Drinks were finished and smoking material extinguished as the officers began to enter the dining room though the double doors the lieutenant had just opened.
"Well, now, you behave yourself, Captain McLaughlin, and play nice with the other captains," Higgins said.
"And you, Commander Higgins, I hope you remember how to use tableware. Eating with your fingers is just not acceptable among the company of other officers."
Some of their fellow officers appeared shocked by the interplay going on between captain and executive officer. While some of the other captains and XOs shared a close rapport, a majority acted in a strictly professional manner toward each other, with only a hint of friendship. Most of them did not mind the tradition of seating COs and XOs apart from one another. While this had the benefit of allowing new relationships to form and new ideas to be explored, McLaughlin and Higgins were among the few officers who didn't approve of this tradition. Those who hadn't shared their experiences would never understand their bond, and Alex and Greg would prefer to work as a team to deflect those who wanted to pry into their already painful memories at these kinds of formal engagements. Unfortunately, the admiral's aides who laid out the seating arrangements were sometimes not privy to the machinations of the upper ranks, so they followed the manual and tradition.
"Enjoy your dinner, Captain."
"You do the same, Commander."
With those final words, the two walked past the admiral and the other members of the head table, who were waiting to be announced so they could parade in after the guests had assumed their seats. They passed through the double doors and went in opposite directions, checking place cards as they walked between tables.
McLaughlin continued moving between tables until she came to a table near the front of the room. Glancing down, she saw a place card with Capt. A. McLaughlin printed on it, and took her seat. She was feeling a bit warm from all the whiskey she'd had in the wardroom, so reached past the glass of wine at her place setting and grabbed the pitcher of water. Filling her glass, she took a deep drink and glanced around at the place cards to her sides. Her good spirits started to fade.
"Oh, great," she whispered to herself with a wry smile, "Captains Zimmer and Beckham. This should be fun. Maybe water is not the way to go." She finished her water and reached again for the pitcher. This evening's dinner conversation was more than likely going to be akin to juggling live grenades. No need to dull her wits and possibly let slip her "colorful" personality.
"Captain McLaughlin, nice to see you again." Beckham took his seat and extended his hand. She took it and pumped it once before disengaging herself.
"Nice to see you as well, Captain Beckham." She pasted a false smile on her face.
"Good evening, Captain McLaughlin." Captain Zimmer had arrived. Looking at Beckham, she glowered and took her seat. Yes, fun indeed.
"Captain Zimmer."
"Well, Alexandra," began Beckham, "how have you been? We've not seen each other since you arrived in-system to join the fleet."
She could tell from his condescending tone that he was one of those officers who resented her independent command. Well, two could play at that game.
"I've been good, Richard. I'm sorry we haven't had time to socialize these past few months, but commanding a heavy cruiser like the Fenris," she said pleasantly, her false smile still in place, "keeps me occupied and limits my free time. It's a big job, with quite a bit of responsibility. Doubly so because I have an independent." She knew that he desired his own heavy cruiser, even a full squadron to let him get into the thickest parts of battle. She could see that reminding him of what he coveted stung, as his face fell into a frown.
"So," she said, turning to Zimmer, "Alice, it's been, what, seven years?"
"Yeah, I think that's about right." Zimmer was wearing a smile that Alex could see was sincere; clearly she was enjoying seeing Beckham put in his place. "Not since we were both on the Odin. That was a good tour, one of my best—that is, before fleet gave me the Mjölner and my squadron. It's like having my own personal fleet." She was getting her digs in against Beckham as well. Her battleships alone held more offensive and defensive capabilities than Beckham's entire squadron. And then there were the screening ships under her command to take into consideration.
Beckham's face was completely closed and hard. He looked from one woman to the other and, seeing that for the moment discretion was the better part of valor, turned to the captain seated on his other side and extended his hand in greeting. Alex and Alice watched him turn away from them and smiled at each other, Alex giving Alice a conspiratorial wink. But as she opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Lieutenant Rogers called, and the murmuring conversations died out. "I present to you the President of the Mess, Admiral Adam Stevens, and the members of the head table." The assembled officers stood and came to attention as "Ruffles and Flourishes" sounded from the overhead speakers while Admiral Stevens and the rest of the head table marched into position at the head table and stood behind their seats. As the music ended, the members of the head table took their seats. After settling in, the officers still standing at attention relaxed at a nod from the admiral and assumed their own seats once again.
The admiral picked up the gavel from its traditional position on the table to the right of his place settings and rapped it loudly, once.
"I now call this Mess to order," the admiral announced in a resounding voice. "Post the Colors."
At this command, the assembled officers, this time including the entire head table, came to attention facing the flag. The lights in the room dimmed, and a spot light illuminated the National Colors mounted to the right of the head table. A deep baritone began to sing the national anthem, a cappella. It took a moment for Alex to realize the voice was filling the whole room without the aid of a microphone or any other kind of electronic amplification. She was also shocked to recognize the voice of Lieutenant Rogers. As he finished singing, she found that she had been moved more by that single beautiful voice than she had ever been when it was performed by a full orchestra, broadcast and filtered through mixing boards and sophisticated speakers. Drama could be overdone, but this was a perfect blending of drama and simplicity, resulting in a powerfully emotional moment.
As silence fell in the room, the admiral cleared his throat quietly, overcome with emotion himself.
"Please bow your heads for the invocation."
Lieutenant Commander Yu, a short, slightly overweight man, shifted to face the assembled Mess as they bowed their heads. The soft light glinted off the silver crosses on either side of his collar, and the backlighting of the spotlight seemed to surround him with a heavenly glow that left no doubt as to the vocation of this man.
"Heavenly Father," he began in a soft, quiet voice that nevertheless carried great conviction behind it, "during this time of strife and battle, we commit our bodies and our souls to your keeping. When we are in peril of life, give us the courage to perform our duties. When we are tempted into sin, grant us the strength to resist. Should we fall sick or wounded, grant us healing. Should we fall in battle, we beg of your mercy to receive us to yourself, forgiving us our sins. We humbly beseech you to bless all who are near and dear to our hearts and keep them in your fatherly care. And through your good providence, out of these evil times, bring us to everlasting peace. In your name, O mighty Lord, we pray. Amen."
"Amen," came the quiet response from the bowed heads. The lights were brought back up and the spotlight extinguished.
The admiral spoke again as Father Yu raised his head and moved back behind his seat.
"Mr. Vice, I have a point of order," spoke a voice from one side of the room.
"Sir," replied Lieutenant Rogers' voice, "state your point of order."
The voice directed its next statement to the head table.
"Mr. President, I would propose a toast. To the Colors."
"To the Colors," came the response, and glasses were raised and sampled.
"Mr. Vice," called a voice from the opposite side of the room, "I have a point of order."
Again the lieutenant's response was just as formal.
"Madam, state your point of order."
"Mr. President, a toast, to the President."
The Mess responded as before. This toasting ceremony continued on as toasts were proposed for the Secretary of War, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of the Navy, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps. As the final toast was finished, the admiral spoke.
"Please be seated."
There was a quiet shuffling of chairs as seats were reclaimed. Alex adjusted the bulk under her jacket at the small of her back as she sat. Admiral Stevens, however, remained standing.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I would first like to thank you all for accepting my invitation to this Dining-In." The handful of chuckles from the audience brought a smile to his face. As if any of them would refuse an "invitation" from the fleet commander. Doubly so from "Steely" Stevens.
"There is a purpose for everything in the military, as I am sure you are all aware," the admiral continued in a pleasant yet firm voice. "The Dining-In ceremony is no different. The origins of the Dining-In are not clear, as with many of our traditions that come to us from ancient times. We do know, however, that formal dinners are rooted in antiquity, from the pre-Christian legions of the Roman Empire, Viking warlords of the second century, to the knights of King Arthur. Feasts to honor military victories and individual and unit achievements have been a custom. When the customs of the Dining-In were adopted by the military, they became more formalized and structured." He paused to let this sink in, and Alex saw him survey the room before continuing.
"The purpose of the Dining-In is to bring a unit together in an atmosphere of camaraderie, fellowship, and social rapport. While a Dining-In can be used as a way of bidding farewell to members of a command, or welcoming new arrivals, its main function is to allow its members to enjoy themselves and the company they find themselves in. It has the added feature of being a highly effective forum for building morale and esprit de corps. That is the purpose I wish to achieve tonight. As you are all aware, things have not been going well for us. While we are not on the brink of losing this war, the setbacks and defeats we have suffered have done more than deplete our physical strength. They have depleted our spiritual strength, our strength of conviction. We have lost our confidence in ourselves and our mission."
Alex joined the other seated officers in shifting uncomfortably at the admiral's words. Yes, they had suffered setbacks, but they had won some decisive victories as well. They had not lost anything.
"I know what you are thinking. We are still strong; we have not lost anything of ourselves. We've had losses, but we have had victories. Yes, that is true. We have had victories, and losses, but it is also true that we have lost something of ourselves. I have felt it for months, the slow downward spiral of our inner strength. The extinguishing of our inner fire. I could see it out there in the wardroom this evening. This is a time for relaxation, for letting our hair down and enjoying the company of our fellow officers. You are the commanders of the ships, the fighter squadrons, the marines of this fleet. The burden of this war lies heaviest on you. Your crews look to you not only for guidance but for assurance. Assurance that we are not only engaged in a just cause, but that we will be victorious! Yet when you are with your peers, when the burden of command is lifted from your shoulders for a few short hours, you do not take advantage of it."
As the officers sat shocked at what the admiral was saying, Alex could see that he had their attention. They each felt as if they were once again junior officers being chastized for not performing to expectations.
"You've wrapped the mantle of command around yourselves so tightly that you don't know when to let it drop. You've concentrated on being commanders, on setting an example for your crews, and make no mistake—you have been consummate officers. But in dedicating yourselves to your crews, you have neglected yourselves. You have forgotten the most important characteristic of leadership—be yourself. You are the finest group of officers it has ever been my privilege to command, and it pains me to see you ignore the part of yourselves that makes you the best commanders in the fleet."
She saw the others beginning to stir at the admiral's words. This was not a dressing down, but an assurance that they had not failed in the trust that he had in them.
"You must allow yourselves to see past what you are now, and to what you were, and to what you must become. You must attend to your own well-being, your own morale—you don't have to suppress your doubts but eliminate them. I should have addressed this problem when I first realized it, and I failed you when I did not. I am here now to rectify that mistake. I have already said that things have not gone well for us this last year, but that is going to change!" His exclamation brought Alex and the rest back from their inner reflections. Change. A change in the war, in their favor. The thought of this possibility started to fan the embers of their fire.
She could feel them begin to come around, to see that they, herself included, had been indeed neglecting their own well-being, had begun to lose confidence in what they were doing. The admiral smiled out at them.
"You all know what is going on here and at home. We are rebuilding and rearming. We will be going on the offensive once again, and we will not surrender that momentum. We will show the Xan-Sskarns that we are not a species to be provoked. They may have started this war, but, by God, we will finish it!"
The ember became a spark.
"We are going to build a pyre of their dead so large that not a single man or woman who has fallen in this war will fail to see it. Not a single soul will be denied entrance to the hallowed halls of those who have fallen in battle; we will buy their rest with Xan-Sskarn lives. With Xan-Sskarn blood. With Xan-Sskarn souls!"
The spark became a fire.
"The way forward will be difficult and dangerous, but I tell you now—we will prevail. We will make them pay for every cubic meter of space that they wish to take from us. We will fight, fight with everything that we are. We will show them that we can be even more vicious and deadly than they are. They will curse the day they decided to attack us, I promise you. I will not lie to you—there will be sacrifices, more losses of friends and comrades. But I am telling you now, we will fight to the last. We will not yield. We will never surrender. You all know the pain of loss and death. There is not one among us who has not been blooded in battle, who has not been on the front lines and fought the Xan-Sskarn's face-to-face. We have all seen more than our share of this war, and we know that death may claim any of us at any time. Death, however, will come for us all some day. Death may come for us today, or tomorrow, or years from now. In the coming months, though, he will have ample opportunity to claim us. The battles ahead will be hard fought and hard won, and if, during those battles, Death should come for you, there is only one thing you can do."
The response from the assembled officers could be heard three decks away.
"Make the bastard work for it!"
The fire had become an inferno.
* * *
A different mood prevailed as dinner began. Conversation flowed more easily and freely, laughter and smiles in evidence at every table. The admiral, more than pleased with the change in his officers, sat back in his place at the head table and reflected on that change. His officers were a sharpened sword, ready for battle. Of course, he did not expect the edge he had honed this evening to last much more than a day or two, but he would not allow that edge to be dulled, not again. He would continue to hone it until he had a razor edge that would cut through any opposition. Yes, he would not let this sword be sheathed again. He intended to use it, and soon, to fulfill his promise.
* * *
Captain McLaughlin enjoyed her meal almost as much as she had enjoyed the admiral's speech. His words had stirred something in her that she did not realize was dormant until it had been roused again. She could picture the battles ahead; she could see them with a clear vision, the admiral's words painting a picture inside her mind. She was even enjoying the company of Captains Beckham and Zimmer. Both officers now knew that what they wanted was there. Beckham's desire to attack and once more be in the thick of the fray was to come true soon enough, and Zimmer's desire to revitalize the fleet before committing it to a long and bloody campaign was also going to happen. Neither was getting what they wanted on the timetable they wished, but they were content with the compromise the admiral had alluded to. Each represented a significant number of the officers in the room. And like Beckham and Zimmer, those officers knew that the status quo was going to change and were excited by the prospect.
After dessert was finished and the dinner was coming to a close, a commander at McLaughlin's table stood and requested permission from the vice president to propose a toast. As he turned to face the Mess and present a toast to the marines, McLaughlin could see the gold wings of a Valkyrie pilot on his chest, which, coupled with his rank, indicated he was a senior wing commander. As the marines cheered his toast, a colonel—a regimental commander, Alex thought—stood and repeated the ritual that the wing commander had just gone through, the only difference being that he offered his toast to the fleet. As she applauded along with the rest of the members of the fleet in attendance, she found herself standing.
"Mr. Vice, I have a point of order," she called out over the applause.
"Madam, state your point of order." She could hear the rekindled passion in the lieutenant's voice.
"Mr. President, a toast to the air wing and their fallen comrades." She could hear a difference in her own voice as well.
The admiral nodded his approval, and she turned to face the Mess and began to recite a very old, traditional toast to airmen and their fallen comrades.
"We toast our hearty comrades who have fallen from the skies,
and were gently caught by God's own hands to be with him on high.
"To dwell among the soaring clouds they've known so well before,
from victory roll to tail chase at heaven's very door.
"And as we fly among them there we're sure to hear their plea,
'Take care, my friend, watch your six, and do one more roll for me.' "
The members of the air wing exploded into applause. She sat back down, feeling her passions stirring. She knew—right then, at that very moment—there was not a man or woman in the room who would not lay down their lives for another. She also knew it would not last. Old rivalries would arise, and the power of impassioned speeches would wane. But for now, the air itself seemed to be charged with electricity and conviction.
As the room settled back down, all eyes turned to the head table and saw that the admiral also appeared to have changed. They could see that he believed every word he had said to them—it had not been just a speech to boost their spirits, though it was obvious that it had had that effect.
He stood, addressed the Mess, and picked up his gavel.
"Ladies and gentlemen." His voice was filled with energy. "I invite you all to join me in the wardroom for cigars and brandy." He rapped the gavel twice, signaling the closing of the Mess.
Lieutenant Rogers took his cue and called the room to attention. The head table stood and proceeded out of the main doors, led by the admiral. Once the admiral's party had exited and the doors were closed, Rogers dismissed the room and reopened the doors. Alex found the closing and almost immediate reopening of the doors amusing, but tradition was tradition, after all.
* * *
McLaughlin and Higgins met up again and reclaimed their corner, drinks in hand.
"Steely sure knows how to give a speech. I don't think I've seen a room so keyed up and ready for a fight since Ross 128." There was still some pain in her voice as she said this. The same pain flashed across Higgins' face for a brief moment.
"You can say that again." He looked even more roguish than usual with a cigar in his teeth, a smile across his face, and a snifter of brandy in his hand. "By the time he was finished, the major seated at my table looked like he was ready to take on a company of Sallys in nothing but his shorts and a vibro-knife."
"I know what you mean. I wanted to climb back into the cockpit of a Loki myself." She reached up and fingered the black wings on her chest absently, a wistful look on her face.
"I'd rather have the shorts and vibro-knife, myself."
"That's a sight I would like to see. It would make for one hell of a picture on the Officers' Club wall." She laughed heartily at the thought.
"You're evil, you know that?"
"What? This is a surprise to you?"
"No, not really."
"So"—she changed the subject—"it looks like the admiral accomplished his goal. Morale certainly seems to be improved. Passions are definitely running high."
"Speaking of passions"—his voice dropped to a whisper—"I've had two inquiries this evening as to your, um, shall we say, your social availability."
"Oh, Jesus!" she muttered, eyes rolling. "We're in the middle of a war, and I have an independent command. What the hell kind of relationship do they think I could have? Besides just sex, that is."
"And what's wrong with that?" he inquired innocently.
"You know I'm not like that. I'm no prude, but, damn, at least a few dates and maybe a dinner or two, and not in the Officers' Mess, would be nice. Besides, I'm also not oblivious to the fact that I look like a teenager." Exasperated, she continued. "I swear, sometimes it seems all I attract are perverts with a slight predilection for pedophilia." She looked sharply at her XO. "Okay, Commander Cupid, what did you tell them in regard to my 'social availability'?"
"Hey, I'm many things, but Cupid isn't one of them." He had his hand on his chest, sounding as if he were lecturing. "I told them that if they wanted to know the answer, they should ask you the question. I'm your executive officer, not your father."
"Thanks," came her sarcastic reply. "So, what you're saying is that I can probably expect at least one or more passes tonight." She arched her eyebrow and fixed her eyes on him. "You know, you could've just told them I was unavailable."
"I could've," he agreed, "but do you think that would stop them from trying?"
"No." She sounded resigned. "Well, at least tell me this—were they good-looking?" She finished half the brandy in her glass while waiting for his reply.
"She was," he said, smiling around his cigar again, "but he wasn't anything to write home about."
"Well, at least I'm forewarned."
"That's my job—keeping my captain updated with all the current intelligence."
"Somehow"—it was her turn to smile—"I don't think that extends to inquiries into my social availability. But I appreciate the intel nonetheless."
He nodded as she squared her shoulders as if preparing for an assault of proposals.
"Admiral on your six"—he indicated over her shoulder with his drink—"and closing fast."
"You sounded like a Valkyrie rider there for a minute." She grinned at him.
"Perish the thought." He shuddered.
Alex let out a little chuckle as she turned to face the approaching admiral.
"Nice speech, sir," Higgins said by way of greeting as the admiral joined them.
"Thanks, Greg." He took the cigar from his mouth and turned to Alex. "And what did you think of it, Captain?"
"I liked it. Very powerful, very inspiring," she replied honestly. "I was just telling Greg here that I have not seen anyone this keyed up since before Ross 128. I think we would jump to the Sally home world tonight if you asked."
"I'm flattered by your support, Captain, but I don't think we will be jumping that far anytime in the near future. In fact, I don't think we'll have to worry about tangling with the Sallys anytime soon."
Alex and Greg both looked at the admiral, perplexed.
"Inside information, Admiral, or a hunch?" asked Alex.
"A bit of both, to tell you the truth." He snagged another brandy from the steward who approached them. "From what I have seen, it looks like things will be quiet for a while, and I don't think that the Sallys are ready to try anything. They've been going pretty strong for the last year, and I would guess that they're taking this time to rest and rearm as well."
"From your mouth to God's ears, sir," Greg said. "Lord knows we could use the break."
"Yes, everyone has been wound a bit too tight lately." His mood was somber. "Just look at the two of you."
Again they exchanged questioning glances.
"Us, sir?" they both said as one.
"Yes, you." His smile was back. "Both of you. This is a Dining-In, a gathering of your fellow officers and friends, and yet here you are, Captain McLaughlin, in attendance, armed."
Alex put her hand to the small of her back, feeling the pistol in her belt, and blushed guiltily.
"Ah, y-yes, sir," she stammered. "Sorry, sir. The standing order on my ship is to be armed at all times, and, well, I've just gotten used to carrying it."
She was blushing darker than her hair now, and he could see Higgins starting to blush and fidget.
"You carrying, too, Greg?" It was more of a statement than a question.
"Yes, sir."
"I see." He looked from one officer to the other then back again. "May I ask why you have that order in effect on your ship? It's your prerogative, of course. You are the captain, and it is well within the regs, but I must admit that I'm curious as to why."
"The Thor, sir," came her immediate reply. She still looked embarrassed, but not apologetic. He was right; it was her ship, after all.
"The Thor?" Puzzled for a moment, he remembered. The carrier Thor had been lost to enemy action. Enemy boarding action. The reports from the survivors told the story of how the marines had put up a valiant defense, but there were too many areas of the ship to defend, too many Xan-Sskarns on board, and not enough bodies to do the job. If the rest of the crew had been able to mount even a minimal resistance, the Thor might not have been lost. He nodded his understanding.
"I would say that you were paranoid, Captain." He grinned at them both again. "You, too, Commander. But then again, in this case I suppose that there really are things out to get you."
They all laughed at that. Alex extracted her case and retrieved a cigarette. The admiral's expression changed from puzzled to quizzical.
"Cigarettes, Captain?" he asked. "From what I've seen of your proclivity for smoking, I would have thought that you would enjoy a good cigar. They are Cubans, after all."
"I do enjoy a good cigar, sir, and Cubans have always been, and are still, the best." She looked around at the room. "But with the fact that I look like a teenage schoolgirl, coupled with my knowledge of the personality of my comrades here, I'm of the mind that a cigar might be a tad too Freudian for them."
They all chuckled at that. A guilty look came over her face, and she leaned in close to the admiral.
"Besides, sir"—she patted her jacket, indicating the pocket inside—"I took a couple for the road."
"Good for you. I hope you get a chance to enjoy them later. Now, it's getting late, and we'll be wrapping the evening's ceremonies up soon, so I need to circulate a bit more before I retire." With that, he smiled at them both one last time and turned to leave.
"Good evening to you then, sir," Alex called to him as he turned, "and thank you."
He looked over his shoulder and saw that she was thanking him for more than just the party. Higgins nodded in assent with his captain.
"You're welcome. Captain. Commander." And with that he disappeared into the crowd and smoke.