Keelhauled

[Jane Hartman]

Jane Hartman

---

Molloy glanced up at Valentine as though she were a ghost. He stood and raised a hand in salute, and for a moment he looked as though he were about to offer her a last cigarette. Instead, he tapped the intercom on the desk.

"Commander Valentine's here to see you, ma'am." He must have got a response, because the wiry Petty Officer gave a nod and killed the connection. He returned his attention to Valentine with put-upon air that was universal among sailors dealing with officers. "The Admiral's waiting for you, ma'am. Lieutenant Commander Lewis arrived a few minutes ago." Molloy stood and opened the door. He paused for a murmured "Good luck, ma'am. Might want to kill that phone." before he shut the door behind her.

*

"Nice of you to join us, Commander." Hartman and Lewis sat on the same side of a desk, facing the door. Hartman stood when Valentine entered, returned the junior officer's salute with one sharp enough to cut air. Hartman didn't tell her to relax.

Valentine couldn't have been far past twenty. Young for a Lieutenant, let alone a full commander. That was war for you. It ate experienced officers like an MG chewed through cells. Valentine's flight suit was still creased from duty, and Hartman knew that if she checked the station log she'd find Valentine's fighter on one of the decks.

Hartman exhaled.

"What, exactly, Commander were you playing at back there on patrol?" Hartman's fists balled tighter by her sides, but her voice was as flat as a knife blade. "I've got a transport that's come under hostile fire. I'm briefing a patrol, your patrol, to fly into a zone occupied not only by whatever mental patients have taken it upon themselves to attack a naval ship, but by the Gallic Royal Navy. An organised, efficient, and above all competent foreign military that have already put the Bretonian's balls through the bloody blender."

Hartman didn't move. If she started she wouldn't stop. She remained at attention, one fist clenched at her side, and one flat hand pointed at Valentine. "That's the least of what we're going up against. I'm going to make an Olympic leap of faith here and assume you've read the standing orders and, Lord help me, that you're at least vaguely aware of what we're fighting?" Hartman paused a moment. "Am I mistaken in that assumption, Commander?"

Another breath.

"Those threats aren't something to be tossed aside lightly. And yet, Commander, I find you interrupting my briefing, in front of three junior officers, with something to the effect of 'who cares?'" Hartman's voice was ice. "I hold that an officer shouldn't be disciplined in front of her troops, Valentine. But try that again, and I swear to the Almighty, I will break you in front of your squadron. You're a Commander. A mid-command officer. Your job, the sole reason you have those bars on your shoulders, is to get the boys and girls under your command through whatever mess fate is generous enough to spare you.'"

"Who cares?" Hartman let her arm drop to her side. "I care, Commander. And if you want to keep that uniform when you leave this room, I strongly suggest you start caring right now. Maybe you know everything I'm going to say in that brief. Maybe you're that hot that you don't need to listen to me. But don't you dare disrupt the other officers in that briefing with that infantile rubbish about your lunch again. I wouldn't expect that self-centered bollocks from a Recruit, let alone a full Commander.

They're your troops. You look after them. You keep them alive. You make sure they get the information they need to do their jobs, no matter how damn well you know it. If you don't feel you can do that, there's a bathroom down the hall. I'll have a set of civies sent up, and you can leave this office as Ms Valentine." Hartman waved toward the intercom to drive the offer home. "Have I made myself inescapably clear?"

---

| Character Sheet | Laws of Liberty | Hartman's Theme | Feedback |