The Stars Down Under Read Online Free PDF Page B

foxes, though only officers get to pilot them. But then they said there weren’t enough openings, and I could be in supply aviation. That I could still be in a crew.”
    â€œIt’s possible.”
    â€œYou’ve been on freighters, Chief. Any chance?”
    Myell didn’t want to lie. “Small one.”
    Romero looked down at his boots. “That’s what I thought.”
    The bells for eleven-hundred began to chime. Romero said, “First lunch period. That’s mine. You want me to show you where the mess is?”
    â€œI think I’ll wait. Thanks for your help.”
    Romero rubbed the side of his head and went off. At high noon Myell ventured over to the mess, which was teeming with students and staff. The high, airy room was separated into a large space for students, a smaller room for enlisted staff, and a wardroom for officers and chiefs decorated with banners, ship models, and plaques.
    He was sorely tempted to grab a tray and bring it back to his subterranean office. The chief’s mess on the Aral Sea had welcomed him well enough, though it had been with the tacit understanding that he’d undergo initiation at Fortune, as they had. He forced himself through the chow line, picked out a plate of spaghetti and soy meatballs, and headed for the wardroom.
    Six male chiefs sat at a table in the center of the room, with no chairs free. They had the jocular air of old friends, of drinking buddies. Two female lieutenants were dining in the corner, their heads bent close in conversation. A lieutenant commander, two ensigns, a senior chief, and Captain Kuvik’s secretary sat at a long table near an aquarium. One chair was free there, but cowardice overtook him and he aimed for an empty table along the bulkhead instead.
    Maybe it was meant to be humiliating, their ignoring him, but he’d had plenty of experience eating on his own. He used his bee to skim the day’s news. He ate with deliberate leisure, and sipped at his coffee long after it had grown cold. He was aware of sideways glances and whispers. One of the senior chiefs at the head table, a thickly built man with muscled arms, glared Myell’s way more than once, as if personally affronted by his presence.
    Well, then. If his tenure at Supply School was going to be shot down before it even got started, Myell might as well make it a spectacular flame-out. When the lunch period ended he followed the senior chief to a large auditorium classroom on the third deck. Two hundred or so sailors were already crowding into the tiered rows of blue chairs. Myell took an aisle seat halfway down and settled in.
    â€œWhat class is this?” he asked the sailor beside him.
    â€œCOSAL reporting,” the sailor said, surprised. Apparently chiefs didn’t sit in on each other’s classes here.
    â€œWhat’s the instructor’s name?”
    â€œSenior Chief Talic. Like italic, you know? But not like parentheses.”
    Myell nodded gravely. “I’ll remember that.”
    Senior Chief Talic didn’t notice Myell in the audience, or chose to ignore him. Myell believed the latter, considering he was the only one in dress whites in a sea of gray jumpsuits. Talic began his lecture by saying, “All right, settle down, thumb your way to chapter seven. Your homework assignments show an appalling lack of understanding of basic regulations. Let’s review the priority sequencing for all class-two general requisitions.”
    Ten minutes in, the sailors had glazed expressions and Myell was starting to yawn. Sequencing was a silly thing to spend time on. Young ATs would face much more interesting problems in the fleet. But mastering regulations and procedures meant doing well on tests, and high test scores led to promotion. Didn’t mean a person could handle an issue room, or deal with unhappy customers, or fix DNGOs that decided to shut down on their own.
    The second half of the class picked up a bit