Tempered Page 2

  “Master Sergeant!” the officer shouted, calling for dock security.

  Three heavily armed marines appeared at the prissy man’s side as if by magic, guns at the ready. “Sir?”

  “Take her into custody and open those cases immediately,” the lieutenant said with a smile. Lording it over those he considered to be lowers must have been enjoyable for him.

  Raising their weapons, all three marines surrounded me. Relaxing my stance a bit, I didn’t bother to look at them. If I truly wanted to, even unarmed as I was, I could take them. Having a shootout with ship’s security while still on station wouldn’t look all that good to the Admiral, though. At least not again.

  “Charges, sir?” MST Draven asked. I could feel the man’s eyes on me, but I stayed at attention.

  “Insubordination to start with. We’ll see what else when you pop those containers open.” The lieutenant motioned toward my floating boxes.

  Frowning, Draven stepped away from me and gave them a once-over. Flicking the Fleet secure seals, the marine looked to the officer. “Sir, these are officially sealed. Are there manifests attached to them?”

  Still at attention, a small smile crossed my face. Regulations stated that for cases such as mine, manifests needed to be attached to orders. Everything was a test. The cases, the orders, even the reactions of the officers were counted upon. BuShips wanted to know everything about the ships I was assigned to. Way too many things were left out of the official reports as was. I wasn’t just a cook after all. My time at attention wasn’t wasted either. I still had my DMC and I used it to make a few calls.

  Straightening his uniform before speaking, Lieutenant Jesup Spark clamped down on the rage that was building up inside of him. How dare these subordinate peons question his orders? Couldn’t they see he was the officer here? Four years of prep school and another six years at the Clinton Academy were supposed to prepare him for stuff like this. The ship’s marine detachment was a force all their own. Only the captain could control them. Staring at the attached manifests, Jesup tried to keep his sanity.

  “These look in order, sir. Do you still wish us to arrest Chef Lewis?” MST Draven asked.

  “Of course. What part of insubordination didn’t you understand?” Spark whined. “We’ll see how a few days in the brig suit her. Stationside, of course. No need for trash like that to sully up our ship.”

  Draven grimaced as he looked down at the pad again. Chef Lewis’ orders were clear; she was on temporary assignment to the Washington, and not the station. She worked directly for Admiral Hawthorne. Old blood and guts himself! Disobeying Spark could get Draven brig time, but disobeying an admiral could get him busted to private. He knew whose orders he intended to obey. It was actually doing it that concerned him.

  “Get a move on, sergeant! We need to get this deck clear,” Spark ordered.

  Taking a single step forward, the marine reached for the Chef, only to freeze when a series of tones sounded.

  “What now?” Lieutenant Spark tapped the communication tab attached to his uniform. “Yes?”

  “Spark! What the fuck is going on down there?” Executive Officer Thomas Watson shouted. “The captain is getting grilled this very moment by Admiral Hawthorne’s office. What did you do now?”

  The prissy lieutenant snapped into a much-relaxed version of attention at the sound of the ship’s XO’s voice. “Insubordination, sir. It will all be in my report just as soon as the marines arrest the offender in front of me.”

  “Would the ‘offender’ be a Navy Chef under the orders of BuShips and Admiral Hawthorne? Because if it is, I will bust your ass so low you’ll never get off this ship again! Every fucking time you stand watch this shit happens. What did I say last time? Do you remember?” Watson yelled through the communication system, making Spark wince. The regular Navy didn’t use DMCs like the special forces did. Theirs was much simpler and more of a fancy radio mixed with some net access.

  “Sir, orders state…” Spark started to answer.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what orders state! Have you looked at the traffic jam you’ve caused on the quay? We’re supposed to lift in three hours but now you’ve set us back at least an hour. Fix it and fix it now. I don’t care who or what your family or father is. Those charges, they’ll be on you. I promise you that. Let the fucking chef go and fix that mess down there!” Watson shouted even as he cut communications.

  Spinning around in a drill maneuver, Master Sergeant Draven turned to face the lieutenant. “Sir?”

  Face red, shaking with fury, Lieutenant Spark glared at the marine. Waving his hands at the prisoner and cases, he shouted. “Belay that order. Release her. Get this crap into the ship. We’ve got a deadline to meet.”

  I tried to keep the smile off my face watching the play in front of me. All it took was one little call to my boss.

  Draven wasn’t smiling when he escorted me past the security point. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

  “Maybe. I move around quite a bit. Lots of ships in the Confederacy,” I replied to him.

  Pursing his lips the marine shook his head. “No. I’d have remembered a shipboard assignment. Have you always been a chef?”

  “Not always. Everyone has to start out somewhere. Cooking is something I excel at,” I answered vaguely. Guessing someone's age was harder with all the anti-aging procedures available. I myself was older than fifty but younger than a hundred. You know it’s not cool to ask a woman her age, right? Confed service wasn’t for life, but thirty years of service took its toll on human bodies. If it wasn’t chemical, it could be mechanical as a way to extend life. The Navy wanted sailors, not automatons. We’d tried that route before, to our dismay. AI’s and independent robotics were considered evil and immoral after the last war. Very few were used at all by anyone in the Confederacy.

  “Hmmm, I’ll think on it a bit then. Something about you rings a bell. Carry on, Chef Lewis. You’ll be met at the door,” Draven nodded me forward.

  I returned his nod with a smile. While the Navy was open to all, not all that many women joined, so we were a bit of a rarity. Interservice rivalry being what it was, Draven might figure out I was special operations. Maybe. My former service was pretty much defunct, but there were a few of us still knocking around. I’d have to keep one eye on that man.

  Nodding at me again, MSGT Draven waved me on. I didn’t look back, but I knew they were sending word ahead confirming the captain's orders and setting up my guide.

  There were two gangplanks leading into the ship, one for officers and special deliveries and one for general crew. My luggage would only fit through the main one. Upon entering, I immediately asked for directions, the young sailors in the entrance falling all over themselves to help me. My chrono could’ve helped me, but I like the personal touch more than the electronic one.

  “Seaman first class Ishmael Melville reporting as ordered,” the young man in front of me saluted.

  Pursing my lips, I smiled at him. “Put your hand down. I’m not an officer or in your chainsaw of command. Were your parents literary fans or just that religious?”

  Puzzled, the young sailor gave me a funny look. “Sir? Uh, ma’am?”

  “Sir will do. Your name, seaman. Do you know its origin?” I asked with a smile.

  “Oh. That. It was my Da thinking himself funny. A play on the origin of our name he says. A touch of both is what Ma says. I’m not seeking the great white whale if that is what you’re asking, sir,” Ishmael replied. “It wasn't until I finished Basic that I really understood the reference.” He blushed just a bit. Young men will do that when presented with a nice-looking woman. Officer or not.

  “Even so. That is an ambitious name to hold onto, nonetheless. Now, shall we be off? I need to find the main galley and whatever cabin they have assigned me. I don’t know your captain, but I will bet you ten credits that the very moment we shove off, I’ll be expected to cook him dinner,” I said with a smile.

  “Right you are, s
ir. It’s this way,” Ishmael said. Turning, he led me and my floating cargo into the bowels of the great ship.

  Too Many Cooks

  “Sir! MSGT Draven and the Watch below send this for your attention,” Lieutenant James saluted and passed a hard copy message to his commander. He glanced at it but didn’t understand why a cook would be so much trouble.

  Captain Vlasov eyed the paper in his hand with a small amount of horror. Chef of the Navy? That bitch was on his ship? She was the one causing all the trouble at the gate? Why now? This cruise was NOT one on which he needed a spy for BuShips around. He closed his eyes and ran through every combination of scenarios for the upcoming mission and events. In none of them was a chef a problem. He’d cut orders to keep her below. Sighing in relief, he scolded himself silently for the minor freak out. What was a glorified cook going to do, throw pots and pans at his men?

  Trying to not show any sign of his previous shock, Vlasov crumpled the message in his hand. He punched a button on the console built into his command center and queried the main computer, “What’s the status of the crew and loading?”

  “Crew induction and loading is almost completed as ordered. More than ninety percent of expected crew members are present and accounted for. Officers are expected to begin arriving within the hour. Ship stores are complete, and all holds sealed,” the computer replied. “Ship will be ready for space in two point three hours.”

  The captain leaned back in his chair and relaxed a bit. Everything else was moving according to Navy procedure and according to plan. Idly pressing the controls of his board, he watched the in-processing of personnel and cargo. The Washington was a very large, very old ship. Her last refit had filled the halls with security cameras that only he and the command staff knew about. Vlasov had plans for this ship, important plans.

  The main kitchen was pretty nice for such an old ship. According to the kitchen records it had gone through a refit when the ship’s guns and engines were replaced just last year. Captain Vlasov, it seems, was tired of eating cold eggs.

  “Sir.” The ship’s main cook stood at attention when he saw me enter. The rest of the staff joined him.

  I waved them down. “At ease. I only require formality inside the kitchen when there are outsiders present. Shipboard rules still apply. If you had to salute me all the time how would we get any cooking done.”

  There were chuckles all around as the men and women stood down.

  “Now. My name is Chef Casey Lewis. I’m known as the Chef of the Fleet. To you, though, I am just Chef or Chef Casey.” I waved towards the dining room. “Our primary duty is to feed everyone out there to the best of our abilities. That is why I was sent here and why you have the jobs that you do. I’ll let you and Chef Johnson here get back to work. There are a great many new sailors joining the crew and after we launch they will be hungry. Chef?” I motioned to Johnson.

  Chef Larry Johnson blinked a couple of times, then realized I was talking to him. With a surprised look, he motioned to the rear of the massive kitchen. “It’s this way.”

  “Excellent.” Looking over my shoulder, I spoke to my guide. “Ishmael, you can return to your duties. I’m sure we’ll meet up again soon. Everyone has to eat. One of the staff here can help me find my quarters.”

  “Understood. Thank you, sir.” He turned and stepped away.

  Tapping a button on my chrono, I directed my cases to follow Chef Johnson and me.

  “You have a nice set-up here, Chef,” I stated as we threaded our way past prep stations and a wide variety of kitchen equipment. Almost a dozen manufacturers were represented, as well as a few I’d never seen before. BuShips were the ones that outfitted the Navy, and as in most bureaucracies it was the lowest bidder that built everything. The Washington was one of the oldest in the fleet. It stood to reason that some of its original equipment might be here still.

  “The refit techs really helped us out. There was an entire section of coolers hit in our last battle, and without them we were in trouble.” Johnson waved his hand at a pad on the wall, opening up a large workspace filled with consoles. Pointing to an overflowing desk he explained, “That’s mine. My sous uses that row over there. I haven’t even touched the command desk yet.”

  Like the bridge above us high in the superstructure, the kitchen had a place for visiting royalty or command. While I didn’t have official rank in the command structure, I was the equivalent to an Admiral in the kitchen. This and all the kitchens on all the ships in the fleet were mine to command.

  Cocking my head to one side and pursing my lips, I gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I will bet that either on your first day in charge or on the day after, you sat in that command desk at least once. Come on, am I right?”

  The chef blushed a tiny bit before answering. “Maybe once or twice.”

  “Everyone has dreams, Larry. The Navy makes it possible to live those sorts of dreams if you work hard. I wasn’t always a chef. Or a cook, for that matter. Training and hard work makes many things possible. Now why were you in such shock when I called you the chef?”

  Johnson leaned against the wall of the office and stared at me. “I’m the head cook. My job title isn’t that of Chef. There’s only one of you.”

  I smiled. This was the reaction I got in almost every kitchen in the fleet and on the stations. “Until I stepped into your kitchen a few minutes ago who ran this kitchen?” I asked.

  “I do, Chef,” Johnson responded.

  “Do you make the menu, decide what to serve, train the staff, make the schedule, and cook for the captain?” I pointed upwards. Notice I didn’t say hire. BuShips, in their ever-present wisdom takes care of that for us.

  Larry nodded. “I do all of that and more. I mentioned the attack. We here in the kitchen had to help with damage control and still serve the meals, in null gravity. The main dining room doubled as morgue for that one.”

  “That is why I called you the Chef. That title doesn't come by just being here and having the job. The fleet isn’t looking for deck bunnies or coasters. They want men and women who dig in and work their asses off for the good of the fleet and the Confederacy. Planetside, you’d be the head chef of any restaurant you worked at. I may be the Master Chef of the Navy, but here you are the Washington’s Chef,” I pointed at him. “The reason BuShips sends me to different ships constantly is to see if you’ve got what it takes to do my job. You and I have a huge pile of work to do this tour. We’ll get your staff straightened out and go over all your recipes.” Seeing his expression, I smiled maliciously.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be fun. Wait till you see the surprises I’ve brought for you. Admiral Hawthorne gives me quite a bit of leeway when it comes to the types of food we offer and how to add it to a ship’s purchase. Think of this as a learning experience,” I explained.

  Stupid Rules

  Chef Larry Johnson stared at me in surprise as we unloaded my traveling cases. Of the six that had followed me onto the ship, five were destined for his kitchen.

  “Don’t be so shocked, Chef. You had to have heard all the rumors about me,” I asked him.

  “Uh…To be honest, I thought most of them were all lies. Not much is free in this man's navy,” Larry responded.

  “I do this for every command I visit, space permitting. Like most noncommissioned officers, I don’t have much say in where they send me every tour.” I smiled at the reactions of the men around me. “BuShips wants them to not expect me so they don’t tell them until the day they ship out.”

  Looking horrified, Larry asked, “By every God in space, why?”

  Pointing at him I explained, “That very reason right there. They want a good reaction from folks like you here and the captains, as well. Naval personnel are supposed to be able to tackle all obstacles and adapt to any situation. If they knew I was coming, things might be different. I’m not the inspector general, but I’m the next best thing in the eyes of BuShips.” Pointing up towards the ceiling, I continued, “those in charge want
us all to succeed. Down here in the bowels of the ship we forget we’re part of a greater team. They need us just as much as we need them. Especially in war time.”

  “I can see that,” Larry commented.

  “Think of it as an experiment in logistics and communications. Now let me show you my surprises,” I said even as I reached for the first cargo container.

  “One of my first assignments was to a fuel tug way out on the very edge of Confed space. The Gordo was and still is one of the oldest ships of her class still in use. When I got there I almost refused the job.” Shaking my head, I thought back to that place. “Old equipment is too tame a word for what was there. I was half surprised the crew wasn’t starving to death out there. If it worked, it was rusty. If it didn’t work, it was clean. The entire galley was an anachronism. The crew had been out there so long they’d forgotten that good food actually existed.”

  “My first request was new equipment. Even old school pots and pans would’ve been an upgrade to that place, but I hit a roadblock,” I paused.

  “New equipment isn’t a kitchen expense,” Larry commented.

  I pointed my finger at him. “Give that man a kewpie doll!”

  Larry looked at me with a strange expression. “Kewpie?”

  “It’s from Old Earth. Something I picked up from watching old vids, not important really. While we have amazing latitude in what we order when it comes to food and drink, we have to have both the ship's purser and captain approve all equipment. In the case of the Gordo they were stuck.” I pulled out three complete sets of professional cookware. “The captain wasn’t an evil man; he just had no taste in food. He liked basic and that’s what they made for him. Can you imagine twenty years of nothing but beans and rice or burgers?”