“There is one alone who is ultimately responsible for the sage navigation, engineering performance, accurate gunfire, and morale of his ship. He is the commanding officer. He is the ship! —Bronze plaque, Office of Chief of Fleet Operations At zero three hundred hours and seventeen minutes, when the ship is at a low ebb of activity, an alarm—an electric and raucous scream—startles the crew into life. Lights blink in confusion, fade out abruptly with just as much puzzlement, fade in again, then sw...itch to battle-alert orange. Hurried footsteps, muffled curses, confused mutterings—men, pad-pad quickly down corridors. “What the—?” followed by others, swearing, “Come on! That’s an alarm! They’ve found something!” Doors slam shut; there is the whoosh of air as compartments seal themselves off and pressurize. Emergency panels flash in indecision, then abruptly a voice—Barak’s—on the intercom: “All hands, battle stations! All hands, battle stations!” “Dammit! I thought we weren’t going to have any more drills—”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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