To Honor You Call Us Read Online Free PDF

Lieutenant Robichaux in the whole task force.  Not many people know how to spell it.  It’s . . . .”
    “I know how to spell it, Lieutenant.  I’ve heard of you.” said Sahin.  “Until later, then.”  He turned briskly and strode out of the room in a manner that was both surprisingly inconspicuous and yet extremely fast.  Max wondered how he did it.  Max knew that he had never been simultaneously awake and inconspicuous for more than two or three seconds at any time in his life. 
    He finished off his bourbon, paid his respects to the Admiral, and walked slowly back to his tiny berth in Guest Officer’s Quarters, taking several detours, spending some time on the hangar deck watching the Banshee fighters being fueled and serviced, and stopping at the Ship’s Store to pick up a spare battery for his percom.  When he finally got back, having killed a few hours, he could barely shoehorn himself into the cramped space, and then only if he left the shoehorn in the corridor.  By moving slowly and with great deliberation, he was able to take off his Ice Cream Suit (an age-old description for Naval Dress Whites) without banging his hands or elbows on the bulkhead, hang it up carefully in the almost microscopic closet, and change into the Royal Blue jumpsuit and half boots known as the Working Uniform that was the Uniform of the Day today and most days on the Halsey.  He had a duty shift in SIGINT in two hours, so he had time to make his way to the Number Five Wardroom, drink some coffee, and maybe shoot the breeze with some of the other off duty officers.  Maybe one of them had an interesting story to tell that was not too obvious a fabrication and that he had heard fewer than a hundred times.
    Or maybe not.  Either way, it was better than sitting inside this shoebox and staring at the bulkhead or poking around the news feeds on the berth’s work station. 
    In the habit possessed by anyone who wears a uniform for a living and who cares about not getting negative reports in his anachronistically named “jacket,” Max checked himself in the mirror before leaving his quarters.  Max had no thoughts of being handsome.  Coming from Nouvelle Acadiana, Max was mostly a descendent of Louisiana Cajuns, and had the fair skin, prominent nose, dark hair, and dark eyes that sometimes went with that ethnicity.  But, while pure-blooded Cajuns tended to be short and slight, Max was a tall man, approaching two meters in height, but slender and wiry.  As did so many people who were nominally Cajun, Max had some German, Scottish, and Irish ancestors hiding in some of the far branches of his family tree giving him not only his decidedly un-Cajun height, but also a square jaw and high forehead that spoke more of the Gaelic than the Gallic.  Thoroughly unimpressed with his natural appearance, Max made sure that his uniform was unwrinkled and hanging straight on his frame, that the limited badges, decorations, and insignia that went on the Working Uniform were appropriately arranged (especially his new Navy Cross), that the brass belt buckle shined, and that his boots gleamed. 
    He had gotten out the door and three steps down the corridor when his percom beeped.  He glanced at the screen.  It read:  “PI MX OR W G-894.”  While the percom had a voice capability, most routine messages were sent by text and used a highly condensed code so that they could be read on the twenty character alpha-numeric only exterior screen of the device, rather than on the color, graphical screen revealed when the cover of the device was flipped open.  The symbols meant:  “Priority Implementation.  Message.  Orders.  Written.  Compartment G-894.  Or, in something more closely approaching normal speech:  “Priority, immediate implementation.  A message for you, consisting of Orders in written form, is waiting to be picked up in compartment 894 of G Deck.”
    Max shook his head.  Fifteen strategically located message rooms on the