Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jerry Ahern
was— He started to interrupt Sebastian. But Sebastian kept on talking, his voice echoing back through the open watertight doors, piped over the entire ship, Darkwood realized. “I have the honor to announce the promotion of Commander Jason Darkwood to the rank of Captain, with all honors and privileges pertaining thereto. All personnel performing nonessential ship’s functions, ten-hut!”
Margaret Barrow handed him the radio-fax, Department of the Navy orders signed by Admiral Rahn and countersigned by President Fellows, which wasn’t necessary to make the orders of promotion official but was quite an honor. More of an honor, though, was the collection of signatures on the reverse of the radio-fax. Every officer and man of the Reagan.
Sebastian held the microphone in his left hand, rose to his full height—which was substantial—and saluted. “Captain Darkwood. The microphone, sir.” He offered the microphone.
Darkwood took it, stared at it a moment.
“Go ahead, Jason,” Sebastian smiled.
Darkwood still didn’t know what to say. “This is— the Captain speaking, I suppose. Well. I really am a Captain. Not just a Captain. Nuts. A man couldn’t ask for a better crew. I’ve just been handed the radio-fax all
of you signed. I know I’ll receive the official document once we return to Mid-Wake, but this is the copy that I’ll always treasure. Lest I have to remind anyone, we have a submarine to run and our Soviet friends would be more than happy to take it off our hands if we let them. Thank you. Thank you all very much. Return to your stations.”
Darkwood handed the microphone back to Sebastian. Sebastian said, “The Captain is receiving his cake.” Darkwood looked at Sebastian, then looked toward Margaret Barrow. Behind the ship’s doctor stood his Warfare, Sonar, and Navigation officers, Warfare holding an impossibly large sheet cake with chocolate frosting on top and Sonar and Navigation holding plates, napkins, and a funny-looking knife Darkwood assumed was designed for cutting cakes. “Slices will be available during the regular mess schedule. That is all.”
“It’s hot, sir,” his Warfare officer warned him.
“I’ll take that into consideration, Lieutenant,” Darkwood nodded, smiling, feeling embarrassed and slightly tongue-tied. Sam Aldridge and Tom Stanhope appeared on the bridge behind his female bridge personnel, Aldridge grinning, laughing both at him and with him.
Margaret Barrow leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ve got that Russian woman to look after, Jason. All the best.” And she turned and ran off, past Walenski and the cake that had been decorated too hurriedly; frosting was gooing in the middle where the temperature was still too warm and all the bridge crew knotted around her.
“Ahh—”
“Captain. May I suggest that Lieutenant Walenski continue her supervision of the cake and undertake its equitable distribution to all members of the bridge crew and the remainder of the ship’s company after you
have made the initial cut?”
Jason Darkwood wasn’t quite certain what Sebastian had said, but he agreed with it anyway and Lieutenant Junior Grade Bowman smiled at him as she handed him the odd-looking knife…
A piece of cake on a saucer in his left hand, Jason Darkwood pushed through the door into Margaret Barrow’s sick bay, past Lieutenant Stanhope’s Marine guard, telling the corporal, “As you were.” The young girl (a Rourke) who’d been the only one conscious when the Reagan had surfaced answering the transponder now lay asleep—sedated, he guessed—on one of the beds, at the opposite end of sick bay from the Russian woman. Darkwood had never seen the Rourke girl before, but he had seen the Russian woman. The Rourke girl—her name was Annie Rubenstein—was exceedingly beautiful. The Russian woman, Major Tiemerovna, was exquisite. Tossing and turning as she was beneath the blanket, restraints crisscrossing the bed, she looked somehow very
Margaret Barrow handed him the radio-fax, Department of the Navy orders signed by Admiral Rahn and countersigned by President Fellows, which wasn’t necessary to make the orders of promotion official but was quite an honor. More of an honor, though, was the collection of signatures on the reverse of the radio-fax. Every officer and man of the Reagan.
Sebastian held the microphone in his left hand, rose to his full height—which was substantial—and saluted. “Captain Darkwood. The microphone, sir.” He offered the microphone.
Darkwood took it, stared at it a moment.
“Go ahead, Jason,” Sebastian smiled.
Darkwood still didn’t know what to say. “This is— the Captain speaking, I suppose. Well. I really am a Captain. Not just a Captain. Nuts. A man couldn’t ask for a better crew. I’ve just been handed the radio-fax all
of you signed. I know I’ll receive the official document once we return to Mid-Wake, but this is the copy that I’ll always treasure. Lest I have to remind anyone, we have a submarine to run and our Soviet friends would be more than happy to take it off our hands if we let them. Thank you. Thank you all very much. Return to your stations.”
Darkwood handed the microphone back to Sebastian. Sebastian said, “The Captain is receiving his cake.” Darkwood looked at Sebastian, then looked toward Margaret Barrow. Behind the ship’s doctor stood his Warfare, Sonar, and Navigation officers, Warfare holding an impossibly large sheet cake with chocolate frosting on top and Sonar and Navigation holding plates, napkins, and a funny-looking knife Darkwood assumed was designed for cutting cakes. “Slices will be available during the regular mess schedule. That is all.”
“It’s hot, sir,” his Warfare officer warned him.
“I’ll take that into consideration, Lieutenant,” Darkwood nodded, smiling, feeling embarrassed and slightly tongue-tied. Sam Aldridge and Tom Stanhope appeared on the bridge behind his female bridge personnel, Aldridge grinning, laughing both at him and with him.
Margaret Barrow leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ve got that Russian woman to look after, Jason. All the best.” And she turned and ran off, past Walenski and the cake that had been decorated too hurriedly; frosting was gooing in the middle where the temperature was still too warm and all the bridge crew knotted around her.
“Ahh—”
“Captain. May I suggest that Lieutenant Walenski continue her supervision of the cake and undertake its equitable distribution to all members of the bridge crew and the remainder of the ship’s company after you
have made the initial cut?”
Jason Darkwood wasn’t quite certain what Sebastian had said, but he agreed with it anyway and Lieutenant Junior Grade Bowman smiled at him as she handed him the odd-looking knife…
A piece of cake on a saucer in his left hand, Jason Darkwood pushed through the door into Margaret Barrow’s sick bay, past Lieutenant Stanhope’s Marine guard, telling the corporal, “As you were.” The young girl (a Rourke) who’d been the only one conscious when the Reagan had surfaced answering the transponder now lay asleep—sedated, he guessed—on one of the beds, at the opposite end of sick bay from the Russian woman. Darkwood had never seen the Rourke girl before, but he had seen the Russian woman. The Rourke girl—her name was Annie Rubenstein—was exceedingly beautiful. The Russian woman, Major Tiemerovna, was exquisite. Tossing and turning as she was beneath the blanket, restraints crisscrossing the bed, she looked somehow very
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