The aviator looked on silently as she signed and dated the paperwork, resealing the appropriate ones in their respective envelopes ready for mailing, the others going into her own briefcase.
“You’ll need to take your luggage when we leave, Captain,” he commented. “You won’t be coming back here.”
“Good enough,” she replied, looking up. “But before we set out to save humanity again, would we have time to go out to
dinner? Suddenly I’m starving.”
Port Jackson
(Sydney Harbor)
2310 Hours; Zone Time, October 9, 2008
A brief tropic rainsquall had swept over the harbor a short time before. The truck-battered tarmac of the long jetty glistened wetly in the glare of the overhead arc lights. The night air was moist and rich with the ocean scents of salt and marine organics, the smell of a port. A smell that Amanda Garrett relished.
The Range Rover bounced over the last cluster of potholes and Arkady brought it
to a halt. “Here she is.”
She didn’t say anything in reply. All of her attention was anchored on the great living shape moored to the pier, outlined in the night by its own deck lights. Arkady smiled to himself, tasting the bittersweet. Once upon a time before, he’d lost this unique woman to a ship.
When he had learned that he was going to serve with The Lady again, he had wondered if … Well, he had wondered.
Now, seeing the intentness in her eyes, her total focus, he understood. It hadn’t been just that one time. Now, only hours after their reunion, there was yet another ship. There would always be another ship. If it was any consolation, he sensed that no other mere man would ever really possess any more of Amanda Garrett than he had. He was going to have to be content with that.
He let her get out first and alone, giving her a few silent minutes to introduce herself to her new love.
*
Amanda let her eyes trail down the length of the great ship, pushing out her senses and instincts to take in every visible detail, every nuance of design.
She was a merchantman, an OB bulk carrier, riding low in the water under full burden. With her deckhouse set right aft and the row of seven big MacGregor hatches spaced out down the long, open sweep of her deck, the class signature was unmistakable.
This was right. This was as it should be.
Unlike the tanker or the container ship, the bulk carrier had an inherent freedom of operation. Designed for the cheap and efficient transport of “unimproved cargos” such as grain, coal and ore, the bulkers were the twenty-first century’s incarnation of the old tramp steamer. Ranging the world’s sea-lanes on no fixed route or schedule, they hunted for the most profitable payloads on the global commodities markets.
Amanda started to walk slowly, her heels clicking on the pavement, pacing the ship’s length. She was a big vessel for her kind, although not one of the largest. Amanda judged her to be a Panamax, sized to fit through the Panama Canal. Still, it would be a tight squeeze through the Gatun Locks. She must be a good nine hundred feet in length, if Amanda was any kind of a judge, and she must displace at least sixty thousand tons, making her larger than any World War II vintage battleship or aircraft carrier.
She was also a handsome brute for one of her massive breed. Possibly out of a Japanese yard. They liked a pretty ship. She also had exceptionally fine lines for a bulk carrier, with an unusually long bow and forecastle and a sharply raked cutwater. Amanda would wager there was a streamlining bulb under that cutwater as well, a Yamato hull. Engined properly, she’d have speed.
That was also how it must be.
The ship was well maintained, her black hull and white superstructure freshly painted and free of rust staining. Given the antenna arrays on the main mast and on the auxiliary jackstaff at the break of the forecastle, she’d been well outfitted.
A pair of angular, side-by-side funnels were fared into the aft end of the large six-leveled deckhouse, clusters of sooty diesel exhaust stacks protruding from the funnel tops.
There were rents in the cloud cover over the harbor and Amanda squinted at the stars above the funnels. They shimmered slightly. Her mains were turning over, idling, ready to answer bells. She could feel the rapid pulse beat of the massive engines radiating up through the concrete of the jetty.
Multiple high RPM plants, diesel-electric propulsion. Quick to respond to Lee Helm commands and quick to crash start, should you need to get underway in a hurry. She would be multi-screw as well, for better maneuverability in tight waters.
Just as Amanda had wanted.
She could sense the critical, almost subliminal whir of ventilator fans, the sigh of air flowing through ductwork, the exciting whisper of a ship alive. A broad blue band circled each angular funnel, a spotlight playing up across it. Centered in each stack band was a white spiral galaxy symbol. Another set of spotlights illuminated the name board on the bridge wing.
GALAXY SHENANDOAH.
Was this the vessel she had imagined when she had first conceptualized the Phantom Force Project? Suddenly, she could imagine no other in the role.
Amanda heard a car door slam behind her and Arkady came to her side, carrying
her luggage. “What do you think?”
“She’s a beauty, Arkady.”
He nodded in agreement. “She’s a sweet platform,” he agreed. “Having the deckhouse right aft takes a little getting used to, but nobody’s having adaptation problems. Not even the Army guys.”
“Excellent.” Amanda glanced at him, her hands braced on her hips. “And how about you? You know the drill. Stark honesty, please.”
He tilted his head and shrugged. “Semper Gumby, captain. I’ve learned a few things. You got yourself a good CAG.”
“I expected nothing less,” she smiled back. “Let’s go find a war.”
There had been only a single crewman on watch as they had drawn up. Now, two other men had emerged from the deckhouse to stand at the head of the steep aluminum gangway that extended down to the dock.
As Amanda climbed to the bulker’s weather deck, she was hit with the second and third jolts of the night and she half-ran the last couple of steps.
“Welcome aboard, captain.”
“Dix!” She didn’t try to disguise the delight in her voice.
Lieutenant Commander Dixon Lovejoy Beltrain stood before her in a tropic white merchant mariner’s uniform. Blond and ruddy, he still looked every inch the Southern conference quarterback he had been.
Beltrain had been another of her protégés, serving as her Tactical Officer aboard the Cunningham. She didn’t ask why he was here; the first mate’s shoulder boards on his uniform were self-explanatory.
