Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [4]
“Yes, sir. Six months of rehab in Coronado, and Smokey couldn’t wait to blast off with the rest of us,” Sanders acknowledged. “And the new men fit right in. If only we had the LT on board, we’d have all sixteen of the platoon together.”
“He’s no doubt hobnobbing with the high brass and the diplomat corps,” the CO said, not unkindly. They both looked at the speck of the Pangaea, apparently motionless in space despite her tremendous acceleration.
“This will be the first jump for the Troy, won’t it, sir?” Sanders knew that the other frigate was only the second spacefaring vessel of the United States Navy and that she had been commissioned only a few months earlier.
“Yes. She made the usual local runs, out to the moon, down for a circuit around Mercury. But she hasn’t left the solar system yet.”
“Have you been aboard her, sir?”
Carstairs nodded. “Skip Kilkenny was a classmate of mine—he’s her captain—and he gave me the nickel tour. She’s the same class as the Pegasus but a little longer, with a larger hold and two shuttles bigger than your drop boats. Word is, she’ll eventually carry a company of marines, but for the time being you SEALS are still the only off-planet combat troops we have.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem likely that we’ll have any shooting on this trip. We’re just an escort, right?” Sanders asked.
“Yes. The real action is going to happen on Pangaea, and when the diplomatic party lands in the Darius system—that’s one of the stars we see, located right in Orion’s belt when you look at the sky from Earth—we’ll see how our people stack up against the negotiators from across the galaxy. First, we’re going to stage through Alpha Centauri—the system, not the star itself—to get a better bearing on the jump to Arcton.”
The thought did not inspire extreme confidence, but Sanders was a natural optimist. “They’re supposed to be the best and brightest in the world, those folks on the Pangaea. I have to like our chances.”
Carstairs laughed, though not with a lot of humor. “Have you seen the lounges in those observation pods?” he asked, nodding toward the massive passenger ship. “I guess it’s probably cocktail hour right about now.”
“Well,” Sanders said wistfully, “I hope the LT is having enough for all of us.”
Six decks below, it was cocktail hour on the Pegasus, though her captain at least pretended to be unaware of the fact. In the sacrosanct cabin area known as the goat locker, the domain of the chief petty officer of the ship’s crew, the chief of the boat (COB), Master Chief Bosun’s Mate Curt Swanson, was holding court with two of his crewmates—both petty officers—and two of the SEALS. Master Chief Rafael Ruiz and Chief Bosun’s Mate Fred Harris were happy to enjoy the COB’s hospitality and were trading speculation about the nature of their current mission.
“I think they’re sending us SEALS along to make sure the alien women are duly impressed with humankind,” Ruiz suggested, taking a sip from the tin cup Swanson had given him. The clear liquid seared his throat and almost brought tears to his eyes. “You know, in case you swabbies give ’em the wrong impression.” He nodded at the lone female, a navy petty officer, in the group. “With all respect, ma’am,” he added.
“My guess is they hope you SEALS pick up some civilized traits after hanging out with us prime specimens in the U.S. Navy,” CPO Amy McClellan retorted, shaking her head to clear the zing from the alcohol from her tongue.
“No doubt,” Swanson opined. Hoisting his cup in a toast, he carefully extended his little finger. “This is the way we do it in high so—SI—ity,” he enunciated before tossing back the entire contents of the drink.
The other four whistled, impressed, as the COB smiled broadly. “Now, kiddies, I suggest we see that all of our charges are properly tucked in. Can’t have them asking for a glass of water just as we make the jump, can we?”
The other NCOs agreed. The ship’s petty officers left to check on the crew, and the two SEALS descended the transport