Temporary Duty (30 page)

Se’en eyed him with the lip-quirk that meant amusement. "That depends on what there is to fill my free time," she said. "Do you have suggestions?"

Jacks hadn’t been expecting a response, of course, but he was adaptable. "I didn’t have anything particular in mind. You want to get together later and see what we can come up with?"

"I usually eat here," she said with a shrug. "Ask around when you’re off duty." She focused on Peters. «Dreelig orders that you begin work with the rest of the humans,» she told him in Grallt. «Here is a paper saying so.»

«Good. We have already begun to do so, but it is good to have it made plain. Thank you, Se’en.» Peters indicated the other two with a wave and shifted to English. "You hadn’t oughta be takin’ these apes at face value," he warned. "Specially Jacks here, I reckon he ain’t necessarily got your best interests at heart."

She laughed, a short machinegun burst, and eyed Jacks, who colored, looked away, then looked back with a grin. "Who said I have his best interests in mind? Your name is Jacks? I’m Se’en, everybody knows me. Look for me when you have some time."

"I might do that," Jacks said cautiously.

"Good." She nodded and took herself off, to join a pair of Grallt females a few tables away. Jacks spent the rest of the meal giving them furtive glances, leaving Peters and Rupert to discuss the plans for the day between them. As far as Peters could tell, neither Se’en nor the other two girls at her table looked their way, but there did seem to be a little more staccato Grallt laughter among them than normal. He sighed. This could get interesting.

Or possibly disastrous, who knew? Peters sighed again, collected his helmet from the spare chair, and shepherded the other two out to the ops bay. It was time to get to work.

Todd was bustling around one of the Hornets in his deck gear: brown long-sleeve pullover, flak jacket, dungaree pants, steel-toed boondockers, and lightweight helmet. Only the mickey-mouse ears, necessary protection against jet roar on the carrier, were missing, useless here.

Peters was dressed much the same, green shirt instead of brown. The Grallt insisted that the feet of the
kathir
suit were enough, but Chief Warnocki hadn’t agreed, and after thought Peters had come around. Having a steel toe cap was comforting with crap that heavy rolling by. He’d reverted his suit to its Navy-blue pattern, invisible under the protective clothing, and presumed Todd had done the same. He, Rupert, and Jacks mooched on over to their console as the other retarder crews drifted in, mostly as individuals. Last to arrive was Howell, and Peters made no move to consult or inform, just began checking the setup.

First order of business was getting the alternate flight crews up to speed, and it was obvious after the first
utle
that it wouldn’t be done quickly. The retarder crews started ducking behind the consoles whenever a plane got close, because for some reason it seemed that if it was off center it would be coming their way, and there wasn’t any catwalk below deck level to retreat to. With no fuel in the planes there was little risk of fire, and the consoles seemed fairly sturdy; it failed to console when looking at the nose of a Tomcat coming straight at them at high speed. Commander Bolton watched from the balcony outside his quarters, and while his face wasn’t visible at this distance, his body language was murderous.

Three men per console was overmanning; one could handle it without strain. It meant they could take turns breaking for meals and head calls, and that Peters could let Rupert and Jacks go one at a time back to quarters for naps. Howell quirked an eyebrow at that but didn’t object verbally, and the rest of the retarder crews started to drift off by ones and twos, to return rested and allow others to take an hour or so off.

Even with that, it was a long two
ande
. Nobody broke anything, but it was hard on the nerves, which translated into exhaustion when first meal rolled around. Staying with the ship’s schedule would mean three
ande
of duty, followed by another two of flight ops; that wasn’t going to work. Chief Joshua made it official after the meal; starting now, enlisted would operate on the same schedule as the officers. Peters didn’t see Todd, or any of the Grallt he knew, at the meal. After shoveling something in he went directly to his room and went unconscious.

That set the pattern for the rest of the month. After the first day, half of the primary crews saddled up and headed out before giving the deck over to the nuggets, but that made very little difference in the workload. Most of the alternates started picking up on the requirements of their new jobs, but everybody on the deck learned the name of Samuel Joseph Carson, Lieutenant (Junior Grade), USN, and an informal contest began for the most scurrilous biography possible;
son of a bitch
was an insult to the entire canine species, as one wag noted.

The man hadn’t managed to splatter himself all over the stern yet; he also hadn’t yet managed to notice that there was air inside and none outside, and coming in nose-up and hot was likely to wipe the vertical stabilizers of the Tomcat off against the overhead. It didn’t help that he was a bad caricature of a Naval officer and hotshit pilot, incapable of accepting criticism from his peers and regarding enlisted as something like technically adept worms.

The planes started picking up dings, and splat patches appeared on wingtips and stabilizers. People got hurt, as happens when you get intense in a small area with multiton machines; nothing major, slips and strains and an occasional pressure cut from walking into wings. One genius managed to get a hand under a wheel, which put him in the infirmary until further notice. He’d be OK, the medics advised; they’d caught it before the full weight of the Hornet came to bear, but he’d have to change hands in the head for a while.

The third man on each retarder console got sent to the shops to help with maintenance; that meant there wasn’t as much flexibility for breaks and meals. Then the second man went for the first half of each shift, to bear a hand at prepping the planes. Finally people started rotating through other jobs, things they were barely qualified for. Peters found himself chocking wheels and shoving boarding ladders in place. That brought him back in contact with Todd for the first time in days.

"Yo, Peters, thought you had a cushy job catching butterflies," was his greeting.

"I did." Peters grabbed the boarding ladder. "I reckon the Chief wants some cross-trainin’ done. This how it goes?"

"NO, God damnit, if you do it like that you’ll ding the strake. Give me the God-damned thing." Todd took the ladder, shoved it into place. "Like that. You got it?"

"I got it, I think, but gimme a little slack." Peters opened his arms in a placating gesture. "I ain’t got a brown shirt, and up to now I never thought I might need one."

"Yeah, shit, sorry, I guess I’m a little stressed out." Todd shook his head. "Look alive now, here comes Ms. Travers. Just watch what I do." Travers was one of the first-line crews, only her walk distinguishing her as female in the bulky poopy suit. Todd followed her up the ladder and helped her strap in, ending the exchange by slapping the officer’s helmet lightly. Then he swarmed down the ladder and started pulling it away. Peters jumped in to help and got a nod of thanks; the thing was heavy when you weren’t working on adrenaline overdrive.

The Hornet rolled away, leaving the two sailors a moment without demands. "How ya been?" Peters asked. "I ain’t seen much of you."

Todd pulled off his helmet, rubbed his forehead. "Tired about sums it up. How long have we been at this, anyway?

"Ten days. No, Hell, it’s eleven now, ain’t it?"

"I guess." Todd shook his head, began putting his helmet back on. "Come on, we’ve got the 206 bird to prep. Over there." He gestured and began walking, and Peters fell into step. "Peters, sorry as I am to take you away from your job, I’m glad to see you. Need to ask you something." He paused. "Except I don’t really want to."

"Sure. What’s up?"

"I am catching one Hell of a lot of shit over being the only Third Class with a private room when there’s First Class still doubling up." Todd stopped, shook his head again.

Peters eyed him, a smile starting. "And what you want to ask is if you can move in with me, is that right? ‘Cause if so, start ferryin’ your shit. I got no objection."

Todd’s shoulders slumped. "Jesus, thanks, Peters. I’ll get at it right after we stand down."

"I’ll even help," Peters assured him as they started walking again. "But before you start shifting your stuff, you pick a First Class who’s doubled up, and you offer him your room."

"That’s a thought." Todd smiled for the first time in their exchange, and his stance came more erect. "I even know who to ask. Howard."

"The CT?"

"The same. He doesn’t have much time in grade, and he got lost in the shuffle that first day. He’s in with a Second Class tin-bender, and says they don’t speak the same language and that’s one he isn’t interested in learning." Todd looked at Peters, eyes twinkling. "Perfect. It even works when the Chief asks."

"How’s that?"

"He was bugging me at chow the other day, wanting to get started learning Grallt. I told him to look you up, you were ‘way ahead of me."

Peters shook his head. "Ain’t seen him."

"We’ve all been busy. If I move in with you and Howard moves in next door, we’ll be all set for language lessons, and there won’t be anything anybody can say about it." Todd looked across the bay, grinning. "Hah! I love it. When we go to chow after standdown I’ll look up Howard and tell him, and after that I’ll start moving my stuff. Jesus, Peters, thanks again."

"No thanks needed. Truth to tell, I been feelin’ a bit lonesome." Peters smiled too. "And after we get done shiftin’ your shit, I got a proposal. You get your pay on schedule?"

"Yeah, no problem."

"Then I propose we go have a beer."

"That’s the best idea I’ve heard all week." Todd paused. "All settled for now?"

"Far’s I know."

"Then let’s get on with it, we’re running behind. Peters, this is an F/A-18E Hornet, last in service in 2018. It used to have a pair of GE108 turbofan engines with afterburners, but now that it’s been resurrected from Davis-Monthan it’s got a shiny football like the rest of them. If you’re going to be helping on the prep line, you need to know how to check ‘em out. Start here, with the nosegear oleo …."

* * *

They were on their way back to quarters from first meal, which was lunch on their five-
ande
schedule, when the bay doors began opening with the usual commotion. All the planes were safely tucked away in the midships hangars, most with panels open for correction of some deficiency; the three
dli
were idle in the aft hangar among the clutter they hadn’t been able to clean because they weren’t supposed to go there; the "truck" sat all the way forward, ditto. What was this?

Running a retarder was Peters’s job; he more or less automatically headed that way, to find a Grallt in blue-and-whites at each console and Keezer standing by. The engineer nodded and pronounced the phrase that literally meant pleasant greetings. «Hello, Peters. Why are you here? Your assistance is not needed.»

«Hello, Keezer,» Peters responded, and offered the left-arm salute. «We are curious. Who is arriving?»

The engineer nodded. «The trade delegations have completed their work, and are coming back aboard for departure.»

Peters and Todd looked at one another. «Trade delegations?» Peters asked.

«Certainly. The first to arrive will probably be Prethuvenigis, head of the Trade Department.»

«Where has he been?»

Keezer was amused. «I don’t know the names of your places. Sinafor, perhaps?»

"Singapore," Todd murmured.

"Makes sense, that’s a big place for trade," Peters noted, "But I sure didn’t know these folks was goin’ that far afield."

Todd shrugged. "Like Dreelig said, it’s a planet, and not everybody has to talk about things instead of trading."

"I reckon you’re right." Peters looked at the Grallt. «Keezer, we do not expect to be needed, but may we observe?»

«I see no objection, but please don’t interfere.»

«Yes.» Peters saluted, getting a response, a wave and nod of the head. He and Todd moved back, standing with backs to the open door panel, and the Grallt ignored them, making settings and doing cross checks.

A loose group assembled in something resembling sloppy ranks near the midships hangar access hatch, a mixture of polychrome traders and the blue-and-whites of
zerkre
. Peters was astonished to see the portly figure of the Captain near the head of the group, and pointed him out to Todd.

Sparks were appearing aft, above the curve of the Earth. Keezer stood by the number-one console and brought out a small pair of folding binoculars. That was a good thought; Peters resolved to mention it to Howell. The engineer said something to the console operator, who passed it along the row. Peters and Todd, nearest the number-three station, understood the word being passed as
Look alive, big
dli
first
.

What flashed across the threshold and taxiied over to the receiving party was indeed a "big
dli
", easily twice the size of the ones they had seen and ridden in. The overall shape was the same, but details were enough different to suggest manufacture by yet another of the groups Todd had postulated; different builders, if not different races. It came to a stop forward of the waiting Grallt, presenting its portside forward hatch to the group. The hatch opened in-and-out like an airplane’s, operated by a Grallt rather than any sort of automatics, and one of the waiting party brought a short ladder and set it down for convenient access.

The first one out was a tubby Grallt with white hair and mustache, wearing a tunic and trousers similar to what Donollo had worn, high-class gear. He exchanged salutes with the Captain and stood next to him, conversing without urgency, as the rest came down the steps. Another
dli
, this one like the ones they were familiar with, entered and taxied over to park beside the first.