Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [2]
“Yes, sir. I think I understand, sir,” Jackson said tightly. He was more than a little offended by the admiral’s words. It was a studied insult for the naval officer to voice a preference for marines to Navy SEALs or SEALS, no matter what the mission. But Jackson was not going to say anything more no matter what the provocation.
“Do you? That means you are not to be seen, not to be heard! I don’t want to hear so much as a single question among these diplomats as to who you are or why you are here!”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson stood at rigid attention, unsure of what else he could say, not that there weren’t a few old-sailor phrases he wanted to utter. His temper was surging dangerously, but he forced himself to draw a slow, calming breath. Don’t do anything stupid, Stonewall, he reminded himself.
“That being the case, what in the name of hell are you doing on this ship, right out where you’ll practically fall over those same diplomats and ambassadors?” the admiral demanded, his voice dropping in volume if not in menace.
“Following orders, sir,” Jackson replied. “My Team is aboard the Pegasus, and I thought I’d be traveling there, too, until I got word back on SATSTAR1 to board Pangaea. Sir, I request permission to transfer to the frigate at the earliest opportunity.”
In truth, Jackson didn’t know why he had been directed to travel aboard the civilian ship. The orders had come directly from the Special Operations Command at Tampa, Florida, and he had known better than to argue. But neither was he going to throw anyone at SOCOM under Ball-Breaker’s bus. In any event, Ballard didn’t seem interested in following up on where the orders had come from. He clearly wanted to get this lowly SEALS officer out of his sight.
“Dammit, man, we’re going to jump in six hours, and we’re accelerating under full power. You won’t be able to transfer till we come out in the Centauri system. Until then, you stay out of sight! Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear, Admiral!”
“Then what are you waiting for? Dismissed!” Ballard snapped.
Jackson came to a crisp, Naval Academy–style stance of attention, knowing that the admiral would continue with his dressing-down if Jackson snapped up a salute while they were in the corridors of the ship. The SEALS officer then turned on his heel and marched back toward his cabin. He was relieved to get away from the fire-breathing admiral until he reached the hatch to his quarters and remembered exactly how unappealing they were.
He stepped from the corridor into the dressing area, which was a closet-size alcove where two adults possibly could stand at the same time if they were prepared to be very close to each other. A total of nine small hatches in stacks of three faced into the central compartment. Each of the hatches was one passenger’s sleeping compartment, a flat-bottomed cylinder a little more than two and a half meters long and one meter in diameter. It was comfortable enough for sleeping and was equipped with variable lighting, a keyboard, and a vidscreen so that the occupant could read, work, or watch while lying on his back. But that was about it.
Jackson was contemplating with little enthusiasm the prospect of sliding into his cocoon and riding out the journey in seclusion, when he was startled by a buzz from the