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good sailor, but more than one good sailor has wandered astray. Putting the fear of God in him at this point should ensure he stays on track. Alvarez, on the other hand . . . Senior Chief, I want you to be thinking about ways to get her transferred off this ship if necessary."
    Kowalski nodded. "Okay, ma'am. She's a bad egg. But the shore establishment don't like it when we dump bad sailors on them."
    "Since the shore establishment sends them to us in the first place, I don't see where they have cause to complain. See to it, Senior Chief. Thank you, Petty Officer Sharpe. Mr. Sinclair, I'll need to see you tomorrow afternoon."
    "Yes, ma'am." Paul went cold inside, imagining his foul up with Commander Garcia had attracted even worse attention than he had imagined.
    Herdez weighed Paul with her eyes, making him feel as if she were looking through him. "It's a legal issue, Mr. Sinclair. Thank you."
    Paul followed the others out of the stateroom. "Sheriff, you got a minute?"
    "Certainly, sir." Sharpe seemed to be in good humor.
    "I guess you enjoyed that little act with Franco."
    "That I did, sir. But it wasn't no act. The XO meant what she said." Sharpe inclined his head to indicate Commander Herdez' stateroom. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, that was a good leadership lesson in there."
    "I'd already figured that out, Sheriff. But tell me something. How much trouble do we have with sailors?"
    Sharpe grinned. "They're sailors, bless 'em. They get drunk, they get in fights with girlfriends and boyfriends and bartenders and cops and other sailors, they get home late, they say or do something stupid. It happens."
    "I know that much. What I was wondering was, do they get in much trouble when we're underway? I mean, are XO's Screening and Captain's Mast going to demand a lot of my time once we're underway?"
    "Oh." Sheriff Sharpe grimaced. "Look at it this way, sir. You're gonna go out on a long patrol. You're stuck in a metal box for months. No liberty. No booze. What're they gonna do to you if you mouth off or steal a little food or try to jury-rig a still so you can get drunk? You can fine them, but what's less money mean when there's no place to spend it? You can bust them a paygrade, but so what? You wake up in the same little box of a berthing compartment, eat the same rotten food, and do the same job. Even if we stick 'em in the brig, that's just a private room. And bread and water? That's better than half the meals they serve on the mess decks. So, I guess your answer is, yeah, we get a lot of work underway. The good sailors don't act too much different, though even they know any punishment don't mean much compared to six months stuck inside this can, but the bad actors figure it's open season for the first few months. Once we hit the halfway point, they start cleaning up their acts. Ain't nobody wants to be on confinement when we get home. No, sir. But up 'til then, it's gonna be busy, Mr. Sinclair."
    Paul blew out air in a long sigh. "Thanks, Sheriff. I guess I'll be seeing a whole lot of you."
    "That's because you're a lucky man, sir." Sharpe chuckled, then brought his right hand up in a salute. "By your leave, sir?"
    Paul returned the salute, unable to fight down a smile of his own at the exaggerated military courtesy. "Go away, Sheriff."
    "Thank you, sir!"
    Paul was still smiling when he reached his stateroom, but the smile faded as soon as he saw the message from Commander Garcia demanding his immediate presence in the Combat Information Center. Paul hastened to CIC, finding the compartment jammed with enlisted operations specialists and Lieutenant Jan Tweed as well as Garcia.
    "Where the hell have you been?" Garcia barked the question without taking his eyes off the tracking screen.
    "Attending XO's screening, sir."
    This time Garcia took a moment to glare directly at Paul. "Why?"
    "Commander Herdez requested—."
    "You're needed in here. Get to work."
    "Yes, sir." Paul glanced hopelessly toward Tweed, who was