The Command

He cleared his throat. Looked out over the sparkling river, the bay, imagining the sea beyond that. Its implacable fury. Its intolerance of human error, of weakness, of any lack or shortcoming. He didn’t want to face it with a divided crew. But he couldn’t insult Ross on his last day in command.

To hell with it, he thought. If the guy didn’t want to get stepped on, he shouldn’t have brought it up. He snapped the book closed on his prepared remarks.

“Commodore Aronie; Captain Ross; honored guests; officers, men, and women of USS Thomas Horn. Good morning.

“We are here today to honor Carter Ross and to thank him for his service. A long service, going back to USS Morton, DD-948, on the gun line off Vietnam. A period that saw the vanquishing of the Soviet Bloc and the end of the Cold War, that he’ll now cap with an honorable retirement.

“It is for us to pick up the torch he sets down and to carry it into an unfamiliar world. One without the old verities, the old enemies we knew for so long.

“But constant change is the law of life.

“Horn will lead in that change. Pursuant to legislative initiatives, we’ve been selected as the test ship for the Women at Sea program. This is a great honor, and due no doubt to the fine record you’ve all racked up under Captain Ross’s leadership.

“I have a great deal of respect for Carter Ross, and for those who believe, as he does, in the importance of tradition. But in one respect I have to disagree with them.

“Women have been serving at sea in tugs, tenders, oilers, for almost twenty years. Now they’re taking the next step. Horn’s been tasked with making sure the mixed-crew concept can work. And we will make it work. Because in combat, we have to fight together, as a team, or we’ll all go down. I’ve been there. I know it’s true.”

Now the flight deck was quiet. No murmurs of agreement, but neither, he noted, of dissent. The women, who’d looked dismayed at Ross’s remarks, seemed to have gained heart.

“All standing orders will remain in effect until further notice. Again, I look forward to serving with you.”

There, that was enough. He pushed his sword behind him and perched again on the green baize-covered chair. Feigned attention as Aronie began his remarks, lauding Ross and going over the ship’s deployments and awards during his command. Keeping his back straight, looking interested, while his gaze roved over the audience. He caught the eye of the command master chief, Woltz. The senior enlisted man nodded slightly. Met next the glower of the outgoing engineering officer. Dan had already told him he’d be leaving. Other than that, they were strangers to him.

They looked so young. Even the chiefs! What had happened to the grizzled, profane E-7s who’d instructed him as a fresh-caught ensign and sustained him as a lieutenant? The department heads looked like callow boys or self-conscious college girls.

He blinked, seeing suddenly, in their places, the crew of Reynolds Ryan, so many dead in the icy North Atlantic. Of USS Turner Van Zandt, lost in the hazy Gulf. Of Bowen and Barrett

and Gaddis and the other ships he’d served in. Just as young. Just as unformed.

Did he have what it took to command them, to take responsibility for their lives?

Aronie finished by presenting the outgoing skipper with the Meritorious Service Medal. The benediction pronounced, Hotchkiss dismissed the crew. Usually the ceremony was followed by a reception in the hangar, coffee and bug juice and a sheet cake cut with a sword. Instead, Ross and his wife left at once, passing down the line of sideboys as the pipe shrilled.

Aronie lingered, talking to Hotchkiss. When Dan came over, they looked up. “Commodore,” he said.

“Congratulations, Lenson. You’re making history.”

“I hope so, sir.”

“I’ve seen female soldiers on duty in Israel. They’ll do fine. And you’re taking over with enough time to get everyone used to working together before you deploy. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. We’ll discuss what has to be done before the joint task force exercise.”

Dan said that’d be fine, he’d be aboard all day. Hotchkiss nodded past him, and a moment later bells pealed out. “DESRON Twenty-Two, departing,” said the 1MC.

Aronie got into a sedan on the pier. And suddenly Dan was alone. A curious sensation, to be an isolate amid the bustle of the in-port quarterdeck. He caught furtive glances, swiftly averted as men passed. Woltz, and Camill, the operations officer; a young chief named Marty something. He wanted to say something to break the ice. Crack a joke. But he didn’t. His presence inhibited them. Perhaps even intimidated them.

He wasn’t one of them anymore.

Now he was the captain.

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