Chapter 3 - The King of the Wardroom
The wardroom of the USNS Arctic was an impressive space: wood-paneled bulkheads, polished brass fittings, and panoramic portholes that looked out across the gray Atlantic chop.
At 0915, the room smelled of expensive roast beef, maple-glazed bacon, fresh-baked pastries, and the heavy, sweet floral perfume that Leona had sprayed liberally across her cashmere wrap before boarding.
Warren Reeves stood at the head of the long dining table, his white uniform immaculate, holding a crystal glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Around him were eight junior officers, two regional defense contractors in bespoke suits, and my family.
My mother, Clara, sat in an upholstered high-backed captain’s chair, her cheeks flushed with the pure, intoxicating pleasure of proximity to military authority. She had spent the last twenty minutes telling the ship’s supply ensign that her son-in-law was "the visionary" behind the entire base modernization project.
Beside her, my father, Richard, was wearing an ill-fitting navy-blue blazer that still had the creases from the dry-cleaner’s bag. He was leaning back, nodding with an air of profound, unearned importance, holding a porcelain teacup with his little finger slightly extended, as if he were dining at Windsor Castle rather than on a military support vessel.
And then there was Leona.
She had placed her oversized Prada bag squarely in the center of an empty side table, right next to a silver coffee urn, so that every steward who walked past had to edge around it. She was leaning against Warren’s arm, laughing loudly at a joke made by one of the defense contractors, her left hand positioned so the four-carat diamond caught the light from the overhead fixtures.
"Oh, it's just exhausting," Leona was saying, her voice carrying through the room with that sharp, nasal drawl that had grated on my nerves since we were children. "Warren works sixteen-hour days managing the logistics for the entire Atlantic command. People have no idea what it takes to run an operation like this. It’s not like sitting in a warehouse filing requisitions all day."
One of the contractors, an older man with graying temples, smiled politely. "Logistics is the lifeblood of the fleet, Mrs. Reeves. Your husband carries an enormous responsibility."
"Well, someone in the family had to make something of themselves," Clara chimed in, taking a delicate bite of a blueberry scone. She patted Leona’s wrist with open adoration. "Leona and Warren have been our rocks. When Richard had his business difficulties a few years back, Warren stepped right in with guidance. It's such a relief to have an executive in the house instead of... well, instead of people who drift from post to post without any real career path."
The junior supply ensign standing near the coffee urn shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward the deck plates.
"Where is Vera this morning, by the way?" the contractor asked casually. "Didn't someone mention your other daughter is stationed here in Norfolk?"
Clara’s face went through that familiar, practiced sequence: the tiny flinch of embarrassment, followed immediately by the smooth, condescending smile of a mother explaining away an eccentric, disappointing child.
"Oh, Vera," Clara sighed, waving a hand as if brushing away a persistent fly. "She’s... well, she’s in an administrative pool over at the support facility. You know how the service is for people who don't go to the academy. We invited her for Thanksgiving dinner last night, but she was so terribly defensive. She left before we even cut the dessert."
"She works the night shifts in the records basement," Leona added with a sharp, cruel giggle. "Probably sleeping in her barracks room right now on an army cot. She always was terrible with people. She doesn't have the social grace for this kind of environment."
Warren chuckled, wrapping his arm around Leona’s waist, pulling her against his white uniform. "Now, honey, let's be fair. The Navy needs clerical workers too. If Vera didn't stamp the discharge forms, the real officers would have to do their own typing."
A chorus of polite, sycophantic laughter rippled through the contractors.
Richard puffed his chest out, taking another sip of his tea, basking in the warm, safe glow of his son-in-law's reflected glory. "That’s what I told her, Warren. I said, 'Vera, you find your lane and you stay in it.' But she always had that stubborn, angry streak. Thought she knew better than everyone else."
CLANK.
The heavy steel dog-latch on the wardroom's primary watertight hatch gave a sharp, violent mechanical snap.
The laughter died instantly.
The door swung outward with a heavy, pneumatic hiss.
Standing on the steel coaming, silhouetted against the dark, functional gray of the operational passageway, were four armed Master-at-Arms personnel wearing tactical vests, sidearms, and black service covers.
Behind them stood Lieutenant Commander Sarah Lin, carrying a leather dispatch case with a red federal seal.
And walking through the threshold between the armed guards was me.
I did not wear an olive-drab field jacket.
I wore the Service Dress Blue uniform of a Navy Captain.
The double gold rows of lace on my sleeves caught the recessed lighting; the silver eagles on my collar gleamed against the dark wool; and the three stars on my ribbon bars burned like small, cold fires over my heart.
The room went completely, terrifyingly silent.
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The ensign near the coffee urn took one look at my sleeves, his heels snapping together with a sharp, concussive CRACK against the deck plates, his right hand shooting to his forehead in an absolute, trembling salute:
"CAPTAIN ON DECK!"
