Against All Enemies

Chapter Four

Now that she was serving on "shore duty" on Franklin, Jen actually had assigned berthing on the station. Remarkably, she'd managed to score one of the few private single officer compartments. Granted, there were a great many closets on Earth that probably had a larger square footage, but Paul didn't particularly mind the fact that just being in the compartment with Jen made them stay practically touching the entire time. "Nice place."

"Thanks. It's just a little hole in the wall, but it's home." She handed Paul a drink and sat down next to him on the bed/couch. "Relax."

"I'm trying." Paul made a conscious effort to let the tension out of his body. "Let's talk about something besides my underway time. You know what I was doing. What've you been up to?"

"I had dinner with my father while you were out."

Gee, too bad I missed seeing Captain Kay Shen. But Paul kept his sarcasm silent, knowing Jen couldn't be held responsible for her father's opinion of Paul. "How'd it go?" he asked instead, trying to keep his voice casual.

He apparently didn't quite succeed, as Jen gave him an exasperated look. "You two remind me of a couple of bears or something. The old leader trying to keep control and the young upstart circling and looking for an opening."

"I am not trying to take control of anything from your father!"

"It's an analogy, Paul. You're not bears, either. Usually."

"So, how'd it go?" he repeated.

Jen shrugged. "Dad insisted on instructing me in lots of schemes to make my career 'healthy' again."

"He's fairly senior and he's got a lot of experience."

"Yes, but he's not me! He says I should stay away from engineering from now on. But I love that stuff, both theory and practice. And I swear, some of the things he suggested come down to kissing every butt in the solar system and begging them to forgive me. For what? For my being unfairly accused of sabotaging my own ship and killing my own shipmates and then having my name dragged through the mud and almost being convicted of a crime I didn't commit? I'm supposed to ask them for forgiveness?"

"I can see where that'd be hard to swallow. You got a raw deal."

"It would've been worse if you hadn't been there. Incredibly worse." Jen gave him a weary look. "But as you've probably guessed, father also suggested I dump overboard something that would immediately cause people to associate me with the court-martial."

Paul felt a flash of anger and stifled it in a short laugh. "Meaning me?"

"Of course. Good advice, huh? Give up my pride, everything I care about at work, the man I love, and hope that somehow I'll be able to salvage a 'career' out of what remains. Why the hell would I want a career doing things I don't like, alone, after I've flushed my self-respect down the toilet?"

"What'd you tell your father?"

Jen sat a little straighter, put an obviously artificial expression of gratitude on her face, and spoke in a lilting little girl voice. "Why, thank you, sir. I shall certainly give your suggestions all the consideration they deserve."

Paul coughed, choking on the drink he'd made the mistake of taking just as Jen started speaking. When he recovered enough to speak, he shook his head. "You didn't really do that to him, did you?"

She was laughing. "No. I was on my best behavior, Mr. Sinclair. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll think very carefully about what you've said, sir."

"You called him 'sir' that much?"

"Yeah. He knows when I do that he's stepping over the line. But he kept plowing ahead, anyway. Dad's one stubborn guy when he thinks he's right."

"Unlike his daughter, who's the soul of reason."

She grinned at him. "Or his future like-it-or-not son-in-law."

Paul grinned back. "What if the kids inherit it from both sides?"

"God help us." Jen smiled wistfully. "It's funny to be talking about kids. About having them."

"Funny? I think it's scary."

She laughed. "You're daunted by the prospect, Mr. Sinclair? You've been responsible for an entire Navy warship and all her crew."

He nodded. "Yep. But kids, I think, will be a lot bigger responsibility. I've never had to worry about screwing up someone else's entire life before."

"Really?" Jen came a little closer and slipped her arms around his waist. "What about my life?"

He looked into her eyes, marveling at the emotion he saw there. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. You could screw up my life something terrible, Paul. If you left me, if you were unfaithful, if you lied and cheated."

"I'd never do that. Any of that."

"I know. At least, I believe that, which is why I've got my arms wrapped around you right now and why I'm going to do this." Jen kissed him, long and hard, then slowly pulled back enough to see into his eyes again. "And that's not all I'm going to do," she whispered.

Roughly half an hour later, Paul looked over at Jen where she lay next to him, awed once again at the emotion in her eyes as she gazed back. I never thought someone would look at me that way. Never really believed it could happen. And there it is. "I love you."

She smiled with unusual gentleness. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"No. Only to the one I'm going to marry."

"Damn straight, sailor." Jen snuggled close. "Right now, in here, I can forget everything outside, and just be happy. Forget all about careers and ships and sailing out into space without each other. Oh, that's right. There's something I forgot to tell you."

"What's that?" Paul asked, unable to prevent a sudden sense of tension.

Her breath was warm against his ear. "Welcome home, sailor." Then she laughed.

Commander Garcia marched off the quarterdeck for the last time as if even that was a cause for aggravation. The petty officer of the watch bonged the ship's bell and announced, "Commander, United States Navy, departing," then Garcia was gone and the other officers dropped their salutes. Commander Moraine shuffled her data pad and several other items, then lunged off the quarterdeck into the ship's interior as if headed off on a desperate mission.

Paul had come aboard the Michaelson that morning in the highest spirits he'd had for a while. A few more months and he'd be married to Jen and on shore duty here on Franklin along with her. He'd remembered to get a completed and sworn statement from Garcia before his old department head left the ship. They'd be inport for a while taking care of long overdue maintenance, so while the work would still be brutal it wouldn't be quite as brutal. All in all, things could be a lot worse.

He went back to his stateroom and started scanning through all the messages which had downloaded upon the Michaelson 's arrival. While the ship was operating out in space, communications were always kept to a bare minimum to keep anyone from using the transmissions to help locate the ship's general position, speed and trajectory. Anything of high precedence or importance had been transmitted before the ship arrived at Franklin, of course, so he didn't expect to find anything except routine administrative and operational matters.

But Paul's scanning stopped when he saw a subject line with his name on it and the words "order modification." What? They're modifying my orders? This close to my transfer? It's probably just adding some training courses before I report in to Franklin's Operations Department.

It wasn't. Paul felt a odd numbness spreading across his body as he read. " When detached USS Michaelson (CLE(S)-3) report to transportation office, Franklin Naval Station, for flight arrangements to Theodore Roosevelt Naval Base, Mars. Upon arrival, report to Commander for duties assigned… "

Mars? They can't- Mars? How the hell-? Paul realized he was standing up and heading for what he still thought of as Commander Garcia's stateroom. He was knocking on the hatch before he remembered Commander Moraine would answer. She gave him a nervous frown as she opened the hatch. "Yes?"

"Req-" Paul swallowed and spoke again. "Request permission to leave the ship, ma'am."

Moraine's eyebrows shot up. "Liberty call just expired."

"Yes, ma'am. But something urgent has come up-"

"It'll have to wait. I won't have one of my division officers absent for the first officer's call at which I'm head of this department." Moraine shut the hatch, leaving Paul steaming in the passageway and mentally counting to ten to keep from punching the hatch.

The morning passed in a haze. He didn't pay much attention to Moraine's little speech at officer's call. Senior Chief Imari and Paul's fellow junior officers could tell something was wrong, but Paul waved them off, determined to fix the problem before he vented about it.

Knock off ship's work was announced for lunch and Paul was off the quarterdeck in a flash, heading for a phone terminal. It'd cost a mint to phone Earth real time, but that wasn't important right now.

A receptionist answered. "Naval Personnel Command."

"I need to speak to my detailer. Lieutenant Commander Braun." The time delay caused by the need for the signal to travel at the speed of light between Franklin and Earth wasn't too large, but large enough to be apparent and annoying.

"Thank you. Please hold."

The receptionist was reaching for the switch when Paul interrupted her, having anticipated her move and started talking before he heard her reply. "I'm calling from Franklin orbital station. I can't afford to hold long."

"Yes, Lieutenant. I'll make sure Lieutenant Commander Braun knows."

A screen saver appeared. Thrilling pictures of senior Naval officers giving no doubt inspiring speeches. Paul tried not to look at his watch, not to let anger get in the way.

The screen saver blinked, then gave way to his detailer. Lieutenant Commander Braun smiled at Paul, a gesture that came and went too quickly to have meaning. "Lieutenant Sinclair. Nice to hear from you."

Paul spoke with a carefully controlled voice. "Ma'am, I just received an order modification."

"Yes?" Braun's face and tone expressed friendly interest but nothing more.

"To Mars. But I'm supposed to transfer off of the Michaelson to duty on Franklin. I had those orders in my hands."

"Oh. Yes. Sinclair." Braun spread her hands with an expression of mild regret. "Yes. A sudden requirement came up and you were judged the best fill for the job."

"Four months out and I'm the only guy who fits the job?"

"Well, you were the best fit."

"Fit for what? This order mod doesn't even specify a particular assignment."

"Ah, well, you'd have to talk to the people at Roosevelt about that."

Paul tried to keep his temper from flaring. "That's not too practical. Real-time calls to Mars-"

"Oh, well, yes, it might be a little difficult."

"Look, ma'am, I'm getting married right after I leave the Michaelson — "

"Congratulations."

"— which I know is in your file on me, and I had orders to be stationed on Franklin, which is where my wife will also be stationed."

Braun spread her hands again. "Yes, well, needs of the Navy. Sorry."

"There must be some way to fix this."

"Fix it? No, no. Nothing to fix. Nothing that can be fixed. Mars assignments are locked in to allow transportation planning. If you had any objections, you should've let us know within forty-eight hours of message transmittal-"

"My ship was underway. I just got the message."

"We can't make allowances for that. Personnel policy is built around firm rules to ensure everyone is treated fairly."

" Fairly?"

Braun ignored Paul's biting rejoinder. "This is a great career move, Paul. Absolutely. People fight for the chance to serve on Mars."

"It's a hardship tour and if people are fighting for the chance why don't we let one of them fill this job you want to send me to?"

"Paul, I can't second-guess the judgment of the people on Mars. They judged you best qualified."

"For what? And why was my name even up for judgment when I already had orders to Franklin?"

Braun frowned. "Now, Lieutenant Sinclair, you should know by now that personal requests are given full consideration but the deciding factor always has to be the needs of the service. You're needed on Mars. End of discussion."

"I could put in my papers. Resign."

"Nooooo. You still have more than two years of obligated duty from your Academy time, and in any case you can't resign within six months of your transfer date."

"You won't even try to help me?"

Braun smiled again, looking for all the world like a sales representative on a used car lot. "I'm your detailer. I'm always here to help you. To balance your needs against those of the service. You know, coming off Mars duty you should be able to write your own ticket for your next assignment. Be sure to have a preference on file. We'll do everything we can to make it happen."

Paul just stared at her for a few moments, unable to think of anything else he could say. Finally, he nodded abruptly. "Thank you." Then he cut the connection. The tone of his words and his action were at least borderline insubordinate, but at the moment Paul didn't really care.

Who can I ask for help? Captain Hayes. Commander, no she's a Captain now, Herdez. Maybe one of them can do something.

Once back on the ship, Captain Hayes listened, letting his anger show, then promised to do what he could. "But I can't make any promises, Paul."

"I know, sir. Thank you, sir."

Paul left a message for Captain Herdez, then slumped in his stateroom chair and snarled at people for the rest of the day. Once he could leave the ship he went straight to Jen's quarters to wait for her, but found her already home and poured out the story.

Jen slammed a fist into one of the small cabinets the compartment boasted. "I don't believe he did this!"

"He?" Paul was momentarily surprised out of his own anger. "He who?"

"My father! Who the hell else?" She jabbed a finger at the data pad where Paul's order modification was displayed for her to read. "Mars! That's a four year assignment."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"He pulled some strings. He got your orders changed, sent you off to Siberia. No. Siberia would've been a lot closer and warmer. He found a worse place. I guess he couldn't swing getting you sent to Persephone or he'd have probably done that." Jen made a choking motion with her hands. "I'm going to-"

"Why?"

"Why?" She glared at him. "Because he-"

"No, no. I understand why you're ticked off at your father, but what's the point of sending me to Mars? Does he think we won't get married now?"

"I doubt it. Of course, he might've had help from others who had other reasons to go after you. There's at least one admiral who owes you a payback for your helping to get his son kicked out of the Navy."

"Silver deserved it! He caused the death of one of his own sailors!"

"I know that. Don't yell at me. And then there's the people who weren't happy with you for getting me off and proving that someone in the office of the Deputy Assistant Undersecretary of Defense for Acquisition and Development," she recited the full title with angry emphasis, "had covered up problems with equipment being fielded to the fleet. You've got plenty of people who'd be happy to see you rewarded with a trip to Mars." Jen sat down and closed her eyes, obviously trying to calm herself. "But I'm sure my father's involved somehow. Maybe he figures if we're separated that long we'll divorce or something. Mars is notorious for breaking up marriages. Lots of people far from home for a long time." Jen opened her eyes and fixed them on Paul. "And I admit it. I'd worry about that."

Paul snorted a brief laugh. "I doubt there's any woman on Mars the equal of you. No, that's wrong. None of them could be your equal and I know there's no one better than you."

"Yeah. Sure. After, say, two years apart you wouldn't be eyeing some babe with a halfway decent body who likes to smile at you?"

"No."

"I hate it when you're so positive about something without thinking about it! You're human. You're going to be tempted being alone out there that long."

"So?" Paul gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Being tempted isn't the same as doing anything. Hell, Jen, you'll be here without me. I'm not worried."

"Oh? You don't think any other guys would be interested in me?"

"No! Yes! Dammit, Jen. I trust you. I'll always trust you. And I won't betray your trust."

"Maybe we should rethink the marriage. To make sure you're not committed just in case-"

"No! Aren't you listening to me?"

"I'm thinking. That's all."

Paul lowered his head, looking down at the floor. I'm in this mess because of everything I've done. Getting involved in things I should've let slide. If I'd just kept my mouth shut and gone along I'd being going to whatever job I wanted now. Wouldn't I? Nobody gunning for me, nobody wondering what the hell I'm going to do next. He looked up again, his eyes coming to rest on Jen. But I know pretty much for certain that Jen fell for me because I did do things I didn't have to do. Because I didn't go along and keep my mouth shut. Maybe I'd have the duty of my dreams… without her. Would I want that?

Can't I even avoid second-guessing my own second-guessing?

"What are you thinking?" Jen asked.

"That I'm an idiot."

"Hey, I get to call you an idiot because I love you. Nobody else gets to call you that."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

"What are we going to do, Jen?"

"Have you talked to anybody about getting the order mod rescinded?"

"Yeah. The detailer-"

"Who lied?"

"Like a big dog. Yeah. 'Needs of the Navy,' my ass."

"Maybe your captain…"

Paul nodded. "Yes. I asked Captain Hayes. No promises, but he's going to see what he can do. And, uh…" He hesitated.

"And?"

"Herdez. I asked her."

Jen rolled her eyes. "I bet she told you it was a great career move."

"No. I haven't heard back from her, yet."

"Hmmm." Jen lounged backward and rubbed her eyes. "Talk about dealing with the devil."

"Jen, Captain Herdez is a very tough officer, but she respects you as an officer. You know that." Jen made a noncommittal sound, frowning toward one corner of the room. "I believe she'll do her best. Unfortunately, she's not very political."

"I'll give you that. Herdez worked us to death but she never played political games." Jen shook her head. "Four years. It's like I'm seeing you being sent to prison, with no visiting privileges."

"I'm not there, yet."

"No." She took a deep breath, her face hardening. "Excuse me. I need to make a phone call. In private. Can we meet somewhere? Fogarty's. I'll come there when I'm done."

Paul nodded, knowing that she meant to call her father. Paul had been present during earlier blow ups between Jen and her father and hadn't enjoyed the experiences, so he had no objection at all to taking a hike this time. "I'll be there. Jen, don't burn any bridges."

"I-" She glared at him. "Thank you. Go away."

"Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am."

Fogarty's hadn't changed, but then Fogarty's never changed. The bar that tried its best to mimic an old neighborhood pub somehow magically transported amid the metal and carbon fiber composites of Franklin Naval Station also tried its best to avoid redecorating so that crews returning from long cruises in space would find a familiar place to celebrate their return and drown accumulated sorrows.

Paul chose a small table and sat nursing a drink, imagining the conversation going on between Jen and her father, and more than a little relieved that he wasn't listening in personally.

"Hey, Sinclair! Aren't you the guy who used to have a career?"

Paul looked up, frowning at a short, heavy-set officer standing at the bar. The crowd around the short officer laughed, hoisting drinks in mock-salute toward Paul. He knew the man, knew him well enough not to want to talk to him, so he pretended to ignore him

But the short officer sauntered over to Paul. "So, what's it like?"

Paul controlled his voice, trying to keep it even and calm. "What's what like, Kramer?"

Kramer grinned. "That sucking feeling as your career goes down the flush. Anything like a catastrophic reentry?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never had one. How many catastrophic reentries have you had?"

Kramer's audience chuckled a bit at Paul's reply. Kramer himself kept his wide smile, though his eyes hardened. "None like yours, pal. Come on! Tell us how it feels!"

Paul just gazed back at Kramer, trying to keep his expression totally bland, as if nothing the other officer was saying mattered. "Go away. I'm not interested in talking to you."

"Aw, you're gonna hurt my feelings. What're you gonna do next? Everybody knows you're gonna screw up again."

Paul smiled humorlessly. "I won't bother telling you what everyone knows about you."

Kramer stopped smiling. "You'd better hope we're never on the same ship."

"I've been hoping that since the first minute I met you at the Academy."

The audience laughed a bit again and Kramer curled his lip. "I hear that girl of yours has finally left the Maury. They get tired of trying to keep her from getting anywhere near the engineering plant again?"

Paul's left hand, safely under the table, clenched into a fist and made an abortive jerk upward, but Paul managed to kill the urge to slug Kramer before the move was visible. Before he could say anything, one of the other officers with Kramer stepped forward and pulled on Kramer's arm. "Hey, that's enough. Not funny."

"It's true!" Kramer insisted. "Would any of you want her on your ship?"

An uncomfortable silence fell, while Paul sought for something he could say that wouldn't sound like he was defending Jen against something she never should've been accused of doing.

Finally, one of the officers with Kramer poked her finger at him. "Yeah. I would."

"Me, too," another muttered defiantly.

The officer who'd poked Kramer turned to Paul. "Sorry. He's a jerk." Kramer reddened.

Paul nodded, letting his gratitude show. "I know. Thanks."

Kramer raised his arm and started to speak but two of his comrades started guiding him out of the bar. The officer speaking to Paul shrugged helplessly. "Yeah. I had a friend on the Maury." Paul stiffened again. "I followed the court-martial real close, so I know what happened. Most people don't. They just remember the news of your girl being charged and stuff. Sorry," she repeated.

Paul rose and reached to shake her hand. "No. You don't have anything to be sorry about. Thanks. I mean that."

"S'okay." The officer followed her friends out of the bar, leaving Paul alone again. Very alone.

His data pad chirped, announcing an incoming call. "Captain Herdez? Ma'am, I need your help…"

Jen came in half an hour later, her face still flushed. "My father claims to be utterly shocked, shocked that I would think he had anything to do with this. Naturally, he says there's not a thing that can be done and he really thinks you should be happy at the opportunity to serve in such a cutting edge assignment."

"Happy. That's one emotion that hasn't come up yet." Paul hesitated. "I just talked with Herdez. Turns out she got my message earlier and has been discreetly checking out options."

"Huh." Jen took a big drink from Paul's glass. "Do you mind?" she asked as she sat it down again.

"No, dear. Of course not."

"Very funny. So what'd Herdez say?"

"It's hopeless." Paul held up a hand to keep Jen from exploding again. "She didn't put it quite that bluntly, but that's what it comes down to. The orders are set in stone and nobody with the power to change them is going to change them." He paused, knowing Jen wouldn't like the rest. "But there is one possible option."

Jen gave him a suspicious look. "What?"

"You know Herdez is going to command of a newly commissioned ship after her current tour is up. They always let captains of newly commissioned ships get their pick of any officers they want-"

"No!" Jen slammed her palm onto the table, drawing looks from others in Fogarty's. "Back to ship duty?"

"Jen. She can get me off Mars after only two years. She's sure of it. She can slip the orders in without anybody noticing. Yeah, it'll mean coming back here to another ship, but I'll be coming back here."

Jen hid her face in her hands. "Two years gone and then back here on ship duty where I may see you four months out of the year if I'm lucky."

"That's worst case, Jen. New ships need a lot of break-in. It should be spending a lot of time around Franklin."

"I hate this option, Paul Sinclair." She reached over and finished his drink. "But I hate the alternatives even worse. God! You're selling your soul to Herdez! And I'm agreeing to it! I'm letting that woman who hates me Shanghai my husband for her ship!"

"She doesn't hate you."

"I notice you're not disagreeing with the rest of what I said."

Paul ordered more drinks. Did I ever think I'd get to a point where two years of hell on Mars followed by two more years of hell on a ship commanded by Herdez was the best option available to me?

The next morning, Commander Moraine gave another little speech. She kept fumbling with her data pad and several other items as she spoke, and Paul found himself paying more attention to that than to her words. Then Moraine singled out Paul. "I need to see all of your training records."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I want them on file to me, with a dynamic link to any updates."

"Ma'am?" Paul tried not let his disbelief show. Was Moraine actually planning on constantly checking the progress of his division's training?

"You heard me. The same applies to you two," she ordered Taylor and Denaldo. "Maintenance records, too. For all equipment. I want continuous updates."

Taylor held out her data pad. "Maybe you just oughta take this, ma'am."

Moraine glared at Taylor. "You do your jobs right and there won't be any problems."

After she left, Paul slapped his forehead. "Where does she think she's going to get the time to continuously monitor every detail in our divisions? That's our job."

Taylor popped a wad of a synthetic substance the sailors called "chew" into her mouth. "Haven't you figured out Commander Migraine, yet, college boy?"

"No. You tell me."

"She's nervous. Real nervous. Nervous she'll miss something. Because if she misses something she'll get in trouble."

"If she tries to track everything," Kris noted, "she's not going to be able to do it. She'll be overwhelmed."

"Bingo to the college girl! Tell me who's fault it'll be if Migraine tries to do our jobs in addition to her own and gets overwhelmed."

Paul rubbed his forehead. "Ours."

"Bingo again! Kids these days sure know a lot."

"Fine," Paul agreed. "What can we do?"

Taylor shrugged. "Our jobs. That's all."

"Why does Moraine look at me different from the way she looks at you guys?"

"You noticed that, too, Paul?" Taylor grinned. "I could say it's because she likes your hot bod."

"But you won't."

"Hell, no. That'd be crude and unsophisticated and I'm an officer now." Taylor sobered. "She's scared of you, Paul."

"Scared of me?"

"Yup. Think about it. You're the guy who nailed that little jerk Silver. You're the guy who speaks up when he sees something's wrong. Now, imagine you're Ms. Migraine, scared to death of getting caught with your pants down. How'd you like to have you working for you?"

Paul made a fist and rapped his forehead this time. "I don't go looking for reasons to turn people in! How could she-"

"I ain't saying she's right." Taylor shrugged again. "Just do your best and try to avoid taking lots of notes when she's talking or doing something. Hey, on second thought, maybe if you did that when she gives her morning speeches she'd clam up real quick. Do that for me and I'll teach you some tricks next time we're on liberty together."

"Would you?" Paul asked with mock sincerity. "I bet Jen would be really grateful."

"That she would! Heck, it's no fun yanking your chain anymore. Any other wisdom you need from me?"

"Yeah. Why do you chew that awful stuff?"

Taylor spat the chew into her palm and frowned down at it for a moment. "Hell if I know." Then she popped it back into her mouth and waved. "Later, kids."

Kris clapped Paul on the shoulder. "Just a few more months, Paul. Keep telling yourself that."

"Speaking of time left onboard, where's your relief?"

"Pullman?" At the last instant, Pullman had been shifted from taking over as weapons officer to relieving Kris Denaldo. "He's got the quarterdeck watch."

Paul met with his division, giving them assignments for the day, then headed back for his stateroom. He hadn't made it there when he was paged to see the captain.

For once, there wasn't a line outside the captain's cabin. Paul knocked, announcing himself.

"Come on in, Paul."

Captain Hayes looked slightly uncomfortable, Paul realized. Bad news? For me? Why else would he look like that?

But Hayes just passed Paul a note slip with a compartment address on it. "I need you to go there and see the people who'll be waiting for you. Just tell the front desk who you are."

Paul frowned down at the compartment designation. The numbers and letters were only vaguely familiar, telling him the compartment was located somewhere well inside Franklin's administrative decks. "Can I ask what this is about, sir?"

"No." Hayes grinned briefly to take any sting from the reply. "Just go there and do what you can."

"Aye, aye, sir." Do what I can about what? I guess I'll find out. Paul turned to go but was halted by a sharp command from Captain Hayes.

"I'll let your department head know you left the ship. Don't check out with her, or anybody else."

"Aye, aye, sir." It all made Paul very uneasy inside. A personal direction from the captain to do something off-ship and not to tell anyone else. He found himself checking his conscience for any actions which might conceivably have merited the sort of treatment he thought Jen might have experienced when she was arrested for the incident on the Maury. But that was ridiculous. Hayes wouldn't do that.

Still, Paul's unease grew as he drew nearer to the compartment, and settled into a hard, cold lump in his stomach as he stared at the sign on the compartment. Navy Criminal Investigative Service. Why did the Captain send me to the NCIS offices on Franklin? Why am I seeing the fleet cops?

A harassed-looking petty officer looked up as Paul entered. "Yes, sir?"

Paul swallowed to ensure his voice wouldn't betray any nervousness. "Lieutenant Paul Sinclair."

The petty officer waited a moment as if expecting something more. "Yes, sir?"

"From the USS Michaelson. My CO sent me here. He said there'd be someone waiting."

" Michaelson…" The petty officer's eyes fastened on something on her desk. "Oh. Okay, sir. Wait one, please." She stood and hustled back into the NCIS offices, leaving Paul alone with her desk and a few battered standard issue office waiting chairs. Paul measured the discomfort of standing against the discomfort of sitting in the chairs and decided to keep standing.

A moment later the petty officer returned with two individuals in civilian jumpsuits in tow, one a middle-aged man and the other a younger woman. The petty officer indicated Paul, then sat back down as if he and the two civilians had ceased to exist.

The male civilian gestured Paul to follow, his face solemn. Paul considered asking for an explanation then and there, but decided against it. He followed the man, the woman taking up the rear, as they wound their way through a small maze of offices until they reached one with a fairly substantial door. The man fumbled out a key card, opened the door, and waved Paul in.

Fighting down images of himself being sealed away in a secret confinement facility, Paul went inside. As the two civilians entered behind him and swung the door shut, Paul's data pad chirped. He checked it, seeing it was informing him that he'd lost contact with Franklin's internal comm net. "A sealed room?" he said aloud.

The man nodded, his face now slightly apologetic. "Yes. This room's secured against electronic signals. And anything else that might allow someone to hear what's going on inside." He gestured to one of the chairs at the table which dominated the small room. "Have a seat, please."

Paul sat carefully, keeping his back erect and not relaxing in the least. "What's this about?"

Instead of answering directly, the man pulled out an ID wallet and proffered it to Paul. "Special Agent Bob Gonzales. This is Special Agent Pam Connally."

Paul looked the badges and cards over carefully, even though he knew he wouldn't have recognized fakes. "Okay."

Gonzales and Connally sat, watching Paul. Paul watched them. Finally, Gonzales sighed. "Sorry. Can I get you anything? Water?"

"I'm okay, thanks."

"You're not suspected or accused of anything. Nada. Period. That's not why you're here."

"That's a relief."

Connally grinned. As she shifted her seat, Paul noticed a slight bulge under one arm and realized she was carrying a weapon in a shoulder holster.

Gonzales quirked a brief smile, then went completely solemn again. "We need to ask you some things about your fellow officers. On the, uh, Michaelson."

Paul felt barriers going up in his mind. Is this how they tried to railroad Jen? What do they want me to say about any of the other officers? "I can't imagine what I could tell you."

Perhaps sensing Paul's reflexive suspicion, Connally leaned forward. "This is important. We'd appreciate your cooperation. Your captain said you were the best person to contact."

Captain Hayes. Great. No wonder he looked uncomfortable. But he wouldn't aid or abet anything wrong against me or anyone else. I'm sure of that. "Alright, ma'am."

Connally grinned again. "Don't make me feel old. Pam is fine."

"And I'm Bob," Gonzales added. "Like I said, you're not a person of interest. You're someone we're asking for help. Could you just tell us if you've noticed any of your fellow officers acting at all unusual?"

"Unusual?" Paul frowned and spread his hands. "How do you mean?"

"Uh, working extra long hours, say. After the normal work day is over."

Paul stared at Gonzales and then Connally, trying to judge if the question was serious. "We all work extra hours."

"I mean, consistently. Not underway, but inport."

"So do I. We all work extra hours. Inport, too."

Connally gave Paul a searching look. "None of the officers works longer than the others? At times when no one else is around?"

"Somebody's always around. And as for longer… look. Our typical work day is maybe twelve hours. Inport. Every four days inport is a duty day for junior officers. We spend twenty-four hours straight at work on those days. Maybe you get one of the night quarterdeck watches on your duty day and it's pretty much just you and the petty officer of the watch awake. But that's normal for us."

Gonzales leaned back and laughed. "Your work patterns are consistently after normal working hours and on weekends? All of you?"

"Yes. Pretty much. That's right. Even if it's not a duty day. There's always some emergency popping up, something that has to get done and get done right now."

"How about money? Does anyone seem to have a lot on hand?"

Paul let his puzzlement show. "How would I know?"

"Uh, spending, uh…"

"Yeah. On what? There's nothing much you can buy and take on the ship, no cars up here, no private housing, a couple of fancy restaurants maybe." Paul shrugged. "Somebody could be a billionaire and I wouldn't be able to tell. There's nothing they could be spending it on in front of me."

Connally looked at Gonzales. "I told you we'd have to bring him in on this. He can't help us otherwise."

Gonzales nodded heavily. "You're right. Lieutenant Sinclair, I have to ask that you swear to secrecy what we're about to discuss."

Paul felt his internal barriers rising again. "I don't understand. But whatever it is, of course I won't reveal classified information."

Gonzales waved to Connally, who gave Paul a level look. "I'll be blunt," she stated. "We have very good reason to believe one of the officers currently assigned to your ship is engaged in espionage against the United States."

Paul simply stared at her for a long moment before he could speak. "Espionage? You think one of the officers in the wardroom of the Michaelson is a spy?"

Both special agents nodded. Connally spread her hands, palm down, on the table before her. "Yes, but it's a lot more solid than 'thinking' that's the case. We have confirmed information of ongoing espionage. We've been tracking it for some time, with assistance when appropriate from the FBI and other government agencies. Just to let you know NCIS isn't alone in this. I can sum up what we know by saying the espionage operation has been ongoing for several years. We know, from sources we will not divulge to you, that one of the primary players is a Navy officer. I know," she agreed, seeing the look of shock on Paul's face, "that's hard to accept. But we know it."

Gonzales leaned back, rubbing his jaw line with one thumb. "Recently, there was a disruption in the deliveries by this officer. Then one delivery. Then another disruption, lasting from June 16th to the second of August."

Paul looked blankly back at the special agent for a moment, until the information clicked. "That brackets the period the Michaelson was just underway."

"Exactly. The officer transferred from the assignment they'd held before. We know he or she transferred up here. We know they couldn't pass materiel to their foreign contacts while your ship was underway. Within a few days of your ship getting back, there was a drop to their foreign contacts. Pretty clear cut, isn't it?"

"But most of our officers have been onboard for a long time," Paul protested.

"Right. But you had two new ones transferred to you recently."

"Yes-" Paul had to break his gaze on Gonzales to shake his head in disbelief. "Two of them." Commander Moraine, a spy? Is that why she's so nervous all the time?

Connally nodded, picking up the conversation. "A Lieutenant Pullman and a Commander Moraine."

"Yes, but Brad Pullman-"

"We can't rule out either of them. They both came from the area the spy was operating out of, and they both arrived on your ship at the same time."

"That's why you wanted to know if anybody was acting strange."

"But you say they're not."

"Not that way…" Do I really want to bilge Commander Moraine this way? But if she's doing what they say… is she doing that? I personally watched Jen get court-martialed and almost convicted on evidence that didn't prove anything. Is this that same sort of thing? How can I know? Paul became aware the special agents were watching him, waiting for the rest of the sentence. "Commander Moraine is usually pretty nervous. But," something made him add, "I've had some pretty experienced people say that's just because she's worried about her job, about not messing up."

"Do you work with Commander Moraine?"

"She's my department head. My immediate superior."

"Does she mess up a lot?"

Paul almost laughed at the question, but once again saw it had been asked seriously. "It's hard to tell. I've only been working for her a few days. I can say I've had worse superiors based on what I've seen so far."

"What about Pullman? Does he seem unusually nervous?"

"No, he-" He's so confident about everything. Brad never seems fazed by anything. "Not at all," Paul concluded.

The special agents exchanged a glance that Paul couldn't interpret, then Connally spoke with exaggerated care. "Paul, we'd like your help in investigating this."

"I'm answering your questions as best I can."

"Yes. You are. What I mean is that we need to take some steps to try to identify whether Pullman or Moraine is our guy. Steps on the ship itself."

"Herself," Paul corrected automatically.

Connally looked amused. "Herself. What I'm saying is we need you to actively help the investigation from the inside of the wardroom."

"Actively?" Paul eyed her warily, not liking what he was hearing.

"Yes." Connally leaned forward again. "What we'd like you to do is wear a wire. A tap, you know? And get into a conversation with Moraine and one with Pullman and bring up some subjects we'll provide you with. That may give us the answers we need to focus the investigation tightly on a single suspect."

Paul suddenly became aware he was holding his breath. They want me to spy on my fellow officers. Good God, how can I do that? He stared at the two special agents, knowing they could see his feelings clearly in his expression. "I can't do that."

"It's important."

" I can't do that. Those guys trust me. We work together. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for months on end. How can I go in there and spy on them? It'd be a… betrayal of trust. Their trust in me."

Special Agent Connally nodded in acknowledgement of Paul's words, her own expression understanding. "We know it's very difficult. But you have to consider what's happening."

"What you think is happening."

"No, Paul. We know, for certain, that espionage is taking place. I can show you the evidence for that if you swear not to reveal it, as well as the sort of material that's been compromised. Things like the capabilities of your weapons, your sensor arrays, your ship's internal layout, and contingency plans for open warfare in space if that erupts. You talked about betraying trust. Someone is selling you, and every other officer and sailor on your ship and every other ship, down the river. Literally selling you. We know money has changed hands."

Paul sat silently for a moment. "If you know money has been paid, then you must know who got it."

"No. We wish we could trace that. But international currency transfers have gotten very good at laundering money. If we can get enough specific information to get the right warrants, we can dig in the right places and find what we need to know. But if we try to dig now, we risk alerting the object of the investigation. Money launderers are very sophisticated. Lots of big-time criminals and assorted dictators need those kinds of services."

Paul nodded, then looked challengingly at the special agents. "I've heard our own intelligence services make use of that, too."

Connally shrugged and Gonzales made a noncommittal gesture as he answered. "I wouldn't know, Lieutenant."

"You're just a cop."

"Right."

"We have a cop on the Michaelson. A real good one. Ivan Sharpe."

This time Gonzalez nodded. "I met him when our team searched Lieutenant Silver's stateroom."

"I didn't know you were in on that."

"We lead busy professional lives, too," he responded dryly. "Your master-at-arms seemed very capable. But he's not in on this."

"Why not?"

"It's above his level. So far."

Quiet fell in the small room, Paul sitting silently and the two special agents watching him as if waiting for his next question. Why me? Haven't I given enough blood to the Navy already? Am I the only officer on the Michaelson who could possibly do this? He finally spoke again, openly stating his question. "Why me?"

Connally looked at Gonzales, who reached into one pocket as he replied. "The short answer is we called you because your commanding officer said you were the best one for the job. He told us you could be counted on." The agent held out an actual envelope to Paul. "This is for you."

Paul opened the envelope, fumbling at the unfamiliar task and ripping the envelope almost in half. Inside was a single sheet of paper, which Paul saw was on the same letterhead as the innumerable official e-letters he'd seen generated by the Michaelson 's systems. Instead of a computer font, though, the paper held a few lines of handwriting. Paul. I know this is asking a lot. It's a lousy job. I can't order you to cooperate. But I am asking you to do so. This is very important. I know I can count on you to do what needs to be done and do it right. The signature was Captain Hayes's. Paul read the brief note through twice, then blew out a long breath and gazed at the two special agents. "Do you know what this says?"

Gonzales shook his head. "Your commanding officer said to give it to you if you expressed serious reservations."

Paul turned the paper over in his hands several times. "I need to talk to someone else."

"We'd really prefer you didn't."

The tone made Paul smile. "Meaning I can't?"

"Basically, yes."

"I still need to think it over."

"Understood. Just please don't take too long. This guy, whether it's Pullman or Moraine, is doing damage every day they're free."

"Are you so certain it's one of them?"

Connally gave him a demanding look. "Lieutenant, if we wanted to railroad somebody, we wouldn't be going to you to help us generate evidence. Pro or con. Right? We wouldn't need you if we were certain who was guilty."

Paul looked away. "I'm getting married soon."

"Oh? Congratulations."

"To Lieutenant Jen Shen. Do you recognize the name?"

Connally had the grace to flinch, while Gonzales just nodded, his lips a thin line. "Yes. This isn't that kind of thing."

"How can I know?"

The special agents exchanged glances again. Gonzales finally answered. "All I can do is promise you it isn't. And point out that your commanding officer thinks it's real."

Paul nodded reluctantly. "That's true. But I need to think. I'll be in touch."

"Before long?"

"Before long."

The two special agents escorted Paul back to the entry area. "Ask for one of us when you come back," Connally advised.

Paul held up his data pad. "Why not just scan your cards into my pad so I have your contact info?"

"We don't want to do that. We don't know who might be looking at your pad besides you."

That took another moment to sink in. This spy, if he or she was in the Michaelson 's wardroom, might be going through Paul's own files. Paul's own data pad and personal files. Looking for things to sell. He felt a hot rush of anger at the idea, but just nodded abruptly to the two agents and left.

As he walked back toward the ship he remembered something. Earlier conversations in which he and other officers on the Michaelson had wondered how the SASALs could've been so confident at the asteroid that the American ship wouldn't actively move to stop them. As if the SASALs knew exactly what our rules of engagement were.

Maybe they had known.