Stauer shook his head. 'Not especially. It's part of the business. If you're going to be in this business, and have any business being in this business, then you have to accept that death is the cost of doing business.' He smiled, slightly, adding, 'You also have to accept that sometimes people will say really fucking redundant things like that, too.'
'I don't know that I have any business in this business,' she retorted.
Stauer shrugged, but asked, 'Didn't you ever lose anybody in ER?'
'Sure,' Phillie answered. 'All the time. But I never had any connection to any of them. They weren't coworkers, friends . . . well, neither was the dead pilot; I didn't really know him. But he was . . . '
She stopped for a moment, confused.
Again, Stauer smiled. 'If someone becomes important to you merely because he's a member of the organization you're a part of, Phillie, then you do have a place in this business. About the dead . . . well, you try to minimize the risk and the numbers. But you have to accept that it's going to happen.
'Frankly, I'm a lot more concerned about not having contact with our team of trained pinnipeds.'
She gave him a very confused look. 'Pinnipeds?'
'SEALs. The people on the minisub. They should have been done and contacted us by now. Not a word.'
'Come on,' he said, with a twist of his head. 'I'll buy you a drink before the memorial service.'
'Memorial service?'
'Sure,' he replied. 'Just because we accept death as part of the cost of doing business doesn't mean we like it, or that we don't owe something to the dead.'
The ship had an open area, roughly thirty meters by forty-five, so far down into the ship it was almost out of the ship. The deck was PSP, held up by the containers underneath it. Sternward and forward, it was framed by containers with single width gaps leading to the superstructure, to the rear, and other containers of various function toward the bow. Several of these containers served as galleys for the unit. Still others were part of the command apparatus. The area itself served in turn as mess and briefing-cum-planning room.
This far down, the natural roll of the ship was so muted as to be almost imperceptible to anyone who had spent any time higher up. Indeed, the sailors who had been aboard for three months or more with nary a break swayed themselves in time with what motion there was, but their swaying seemed exaggerated, as if some internal mechanism had adjusted itself to a greater motion, and couldn't adjust back in time.
Chaplain Wilson had set up a temporary chapel in the area, the maps and sand tables, as well as the dining tables, all being carried off to the sides. He stood now toward the bow, in battle dress adorned with a clerical collar.
Stauer was the first in, followed by Phillie and the staff. Along the starboard side flowed in the mechanized company, behind their leader, Reilly. The Marines, Cazz leading, filed in on the port. Behind Phillie more men, the naval, aviation, and headquarters companies filtered in, staying as much together as possible. Ahead of them, on a sheet hanging down, were projected the words of an old and famous hymn.
Wilson glanced at his organist, seated before the small field organ the chaplain had brought with him to Brazil. The organist-Phillie thought he was from the Marine company-nodded and began to play. She recognized the tune. Even if she hadn't, the words sung by-yes, she looked around and checked-every man and woman present that she could see, ringing off of hull and bulkhead and shipping container would have told her the title:
'Praise to the Lord, the Almighty,
the King of Creation!
Oh, my soul praise Him for he is
thy health and salvation!'
Phillie thought she detected at least one voice singing in Spanish and looked behind her. Sure enough, there were several of the Mexicans, covered in grease and looking inexpressibly tired. Yet from their lips she could make out the words:
'O, despertad arpa y salterio! Entonad
'Himnos de honor y victoria!'
On a hunch, Phillie continued searching out the people behind her. There, not far from the Mexicans, surrounded by his engineer section, Matthias Nagy, the German, sang:
'Lobe den Herren, der alles so herrlich regieret,
Der dich auf flugeln des Adelers sicher geuhret!'
On the chance, she glanced to Reilly, who was singing in English. Sure as crap, next to him was his Israeli girl. Phillie couldn't tell at all what words the Jew was singing, but assumed it was the same song (in fact, it wasn't, though the armored car commander was singing the psalm that had inspired the hymn).
This is too weird. At least the half dozen Moslems . . . hmmm? She looked. No, they weren't singing. On the other hand, each of them had his eyes closed, arms folded across chests, and was rocking head and body side to side in time with the music.
Phillie looked front and finally stumbled through the singing. She was of a younger generation and her church was more likely to indulge in modern things, or older ones set to modern music, than in the more traditional hymns. After a couple more verses she saw that the chaplain had raised his arms heavenward.
'Let the ‘Amen,' sound from his people again!'
Still singing, Phillie looked as Stauer and saw something she'd never have imagined as possible. Tears were coursing down her lover's face.
'Gladly forever adore Him!'
Chaplain Wilson dropped his hands. The organ gave its subtle signal and the singing stopped.
'Brothers and Sisters in the Lord . . . '
McCaverty had asked to do the eulogy himself. Since it seemed important, Stauer had let him go ahead. When he was finished, Stauer took his place and began to speak.
'Boys,' he said, while thinking, It's really bizarre to be calling a collection of mostly forty and fifty-year olds 'boys.' 'Boys, so far, with one significant exception, so good. The team to take out what passes for an Ophiri Air Force is in position. Welch's team is in position. The Russians are in position. Just after nightfall, we'll be in position to begin launching.
'The exception, though, is Biggus Dickus' crew, under Antoniewicz, we sent by Namu, the killer minisub, to mine the boats at Bandar Qassim. They may be fine, and their radio down. They may have completed their mission and just not be able to tell us. Unfortunately, we can't take the risk that they might have sunk before they ever got on station. Or been compromised. Or had engine trouble. Or any of a hundred other possibilities.
'How does this change things? Good question; glad you asked. We've got to ensure that the boats at Bandar Qassim don't come after us. So we're going to take one light airplane off the strike we planned for Bandar Cisman, and one from the medevac duty, arm the ex-medevac and send those two north to shoot up the boats at Bandar Qassim.'
Stauer gave a truly wicked smile. 'Yes, as a matter of fact that does mean you should try fifty percent harder not to get your ass shot, since it'll be fifty percent harder to get you back here.'
'And now, gentlemen . . . ' Stauer glanced at the organist.
'Mine eyes have seen the
glory of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage . . . '
'What was that about, Wes?' Phillie asked as the conclave filed back to their duties.
'What was what about?'
