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Siobhan Dunmoore remembered docking at Starbase 30 almost a decade earlier, just before she embarked on the most momentous mission in her career. It seemed unchanged to her eyes as Salamanca made her final approach. For a moment, she was back in Iolanthe, commanding Task Force Luckner and wearing a commodore’s star on her collar, though the storied Q ship was built as a lone hunter, not the leader of a formation which changed the course of history.
She didn’t turn when the door opened with barely a whisper, though it pulled her out of the moment.
“Reliving old glories?”
“Those were the days, Gregor. Life in this old Navy hasn’t been the same since we faced Brakal across the armistice table on Aquilonia Station. Starbase 30 isn’t even home to 3rd Fleet HQ anymore. A few years ago, it relocated to the surface, leaving the admiral commanding the local battle group as the senior officer aboard.” Dunmoore glanced over her shoulder. “But in a little twist of fate, that is now Rear Admiral Oliver Harmel, who had Terra back then. Remember him?”
Pushkin joined her by the command chair, dropped his bags, and nodded.
“Sure. Nice guy. Made that massive space control ship run like a finely tuned machine even with a surfeit of top brass getting in the way. He must have the patience of a saint.”
“Oliver and I commiserated many an evening watch on our way to Caledonia because both of us knew we’d never command another starship again. We’d had our turn.”
“Except Harmel parlayed his flag captain posting into a pair of stars and his own battle group.” Though Pushkin tried to keep an even tone, Dunmoore caught a hint of bitterness underlying his words.
“And I parlayed an extensive tour at the War College into command of RED One — that’s what you meant to say, right? But like I told Zeke when my orders arrived, no admirals in their right mind would take a former commodore whose broad pennant flew over the war’s most famous task force as their flag captain. Don’t worry. I’m not jealous of Oliver. He’s solid, competent, and yes, a genuinely nice guy who earned command of the Fleet’s flagship where he was noticed for the things a peacetime Navy wants in a senior officer. I’ll be making my manners with him when we dock and not only because he’ll pass on our orders.” She gave Pushkin a wry smile. “Who knows? If I set up a private military corporation after retiring, I might need a few reliable contacts who can steer work my way.”
“I think you’ll have more luck with that Mikhail Forenza chap. Based on what you told me about him, his lot are the ones who might employ shady operations the government can disavow.”
“Perhaps, though I’ve not come across him in so long that I don’t even know if he’s still working for the Colonial Office’s Intelligence Service. Or whether he’s even among the living. Besides, I’d need someone with deep pockets to help create a PMC before I can chase contracts, and that’s a whole different challenge.” A shrug. “I doubt I’d make a good mercenary in any case. Maybe I can find a job as a civilian starship captain. The big shipping companies will have absorbed the postwar surplus of trained officers by now.”
“Keep developing the PMC idea, Skipper. You wouldn’t last long working for outfits whose biggest concern is cutting costs.”
Dunmoore let out a soft snort. “Probably not.”
They watched the rest of the docking maneuver in silence until the public address system lit up with the first officer’s voice, calling the crew to harbor stations.
“I suppose we should head for the main airlock.” Dunmoore climbed to her feet and picked up her luggage.
They found the rest of the team, along with Captain Rydzewski and his coxswain, waiting for them.
Rydzewski stuck out his hand and grinned.
“Always a pleasure being put through the wringer by my old sensei.”
As they shook, Dunmoore smiled back. “Take good care of your ship and her crew, Piotr. They deserve nothing but the best.”
With that, RED One disembarked, another job finished to Dunmoore’s exacting standards, and headed for the base’s transient officers’ and chief petty officers’ quarters. She dropped her gear in the sitting room of a suite usually assigned to visitors with stars on their collars — no doubt Oliver Harmel showing her the utmost courtesy — and headed for the latter’s office, where she was expected.
Harmel’s flag lieutenant jumped to her feet when Dunmoore appeared in the antechamber and gestured at the door behind her.
“Welcome, sir. Please go ahead. The admiral is waiting for you.”
Before Dunmoore took more than two steps, a dark-complexioned, heavy-set, bald man in his late fifties with intelligent eyes beneath thick brows popped through the open doorway, smiling broadly.
“Siobhan! What a delight to see you again after all this time. Come in, come in.” His booming voice was as deep as ever.
He ushered her into the office once occupied by the Flag Officer Commanding 3rd Fleet and gestured at a settee group in one corner.
“Please make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you coffee, tea, or perhaps something a bit stronger?”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m good.”
Harmel sat across from her and leaned forward.
“You’ve not changed a bit since we last met.”
“Other than a few more strands of gray in my hair and additional wrinkles around my eyes, you mean?” She grinned at him. “You, on the other hand, look like a true flag officer. Congratulations on the promotion and the appointment.”
“Thanks. I never thought I’d make it this far.” Harmel’s expression changed, and he almost seemed chagrined. “Unfortunately, I’m the bearer of bad news.”
“I didn’t make the cut-off on the most recent commodore’s promotion list.” Dunmoore was happy her tone remained flat and without a shred of emotion.
Harmel shook his head.
“Sadly, no. And if I’m not mistaken, that was the last time you were under consideration.”
“It was.” She shrugged. “Such is life. I’m sure the Fleet will squeeze a few more years out of me as RED One’s team leader. Do you have the list? I’m curious about who made it.”
“Certainly. I also received the other flag officer lists if you’re interested. Shall I forward them to your quarters?”
“Please. And by the way, thanks for giving me the VIP suite. I appreciate the gesture.”
“You outranked me once and would still outrank me if there was any justice in this universe.” He sat back. “And now, deliberately changing the subject, how did Salamanca do? I’d give up any chances at a third star to see her assigned as my flagship.”
“She did extremely well. So well, in fact, I ran her through the nastiest no-win scenario as the last test.”
“Please tell me everything. Believe it or not, your job is more fun than mine most days. All I’m busy with is approving patrol schedules and various bits of administrivia.”
**
“How’s the admiral?” Pushkin asked when Dunmoore joined him in the almost empty wardroom for a drink before supper. Her other officers hadn’t shown up yet, but she knew without checking that Guthren and his colleagues were in the chiefs’ and petty officers’ mess next door.
“Prospering, and still a nice guy. He delivered the news I didn’t make the commodore’s list personally. And then, just to torture myself, I asked for a copy of the list so I could see which undeserving bugger took my slot.”
When Pushkin gave her a look of astonishment, she let out a grim chuckle.
“I also perused the various admirals’ promotion lists, so yes, I’m a tad bitter at the moment. Several of my less brilliant students at the War College are now wearing a commodore’s star, officers whose only saving grace is the ability to do precisely what their superiors expect, no more, no less. You know, the type I wouldn’t employ as captain in Task Force Luckner.”
She raised the whiskey tumbler she’d picked up at the bar on her way in and took a healthy sip.
“Too bad it’s not Thursday. The toast of the day would be more than appropriate.”
“To hell with it not being Thursday.” Pushkin hoisted his glass. “A bloody war or a sickly season.”
She imitated him, and both downed their drinks. Pushkin turned toward the bar, caught the bar tender’s eye, and raised two fingers. Fresh servings appeared within moments.
“But on to more easily digestible news. Officers of our acquaintance, people we actually like and respect, made the flag officers’ promotion lists too, so it’s not completely depressing.”
Pushkin cocked a questioning eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Kathryn Kowalski, after spending a mere two years as a commodore, is now a rear admiral and one of Fleet HQ’s rising stars in the Naval Operations branch.”
“Wow.” He let out a low whistle. “I wish I knew how she did it after finishing the war as a relatively junior commander.”
“Yes, but Kathryn served as the first officer of a Reconquista class cruiser, where she evidently shone because she was promoted to post captain two years after the armistice. Then, she spent the next two years in command of another Reconquista, followed by another two years as flag captain, then off to Earth and Fleet HQ where she evidently found a path to glory.”
“Well done, her. She’ll finish with four stars, if not five at this rate.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s her ultimate goal. Ezekiel Holt received his first star, almost in the nick of time. I think he had two more chances after this one. He’s another of our friends who made an assignment to Fleet HQ pay off, but in counterintelligence.”
Pushkin took another sip. “I guess during peacetime, it’s not what you know but who you know.”
“Things weren’t that different during the war. If you’ll recall, I could also count on friends in high places back then. They helped get me Stingray and Iolanthe.”
“Because you were the perfect captain for the job.”
Her face briefly took on a dismissive expression.
“Perhaps, but without them, someone else would have commanded both.”
“Screwing Stingray up even further and ensuring the war would continue for another ten years because there’s no one with your genius for doing what’s necessary in the most unusual and effective way possible.”
Dunmoore shrugged off the compliment and stared at the amber liquid in her glass.
“Any other acquaintances with new stars on their uniforms?”
“A few.” She rattled off half a dozen names.
“Can’t say any of them don’t deserve it.” He saw movement by the entrance. “Here’s the rest of the crew. Time to plaster our best smiles on and chat about other matters, such as whether we go home or directly to our next job.”
She looked up and gave him a tight smile.
“Saved by RED One. Oh, and we are going home on the next available ship. Admiral Harmel gave me our orders.”
**
Rear Admiral Kathryn Kowalski, the newly appointed Director of Operations for the Rim Sector and Protectorate Zone under the Chief of Naval Operations, looked up from her workstation as Commander Ahmad, one of the desk officers, rapped his knuckles on her office door jamb.
“Come on in.”
“Sir, we may face a problem that could involve the Protectorate Zone, something 3rd Fleet just kicked up to us.”
Kowalski, a tall, slender blond in her early forties with intense blue eyes, instinctively knew that what started as another ordinary day, had just taken a sharp turn to starboard. Only the most intractable — read political — issues filtered up to Naval Operations at Fleet HQ on Earth.