69: Bend Over

Lieutenant-Commander Bychkov tugged on a pair of latex gloves.  “Okay, Kelly, please to remove coveralls and under trousers.”

Sam unzipped his black coveralls and let them fall around his ankles, leaving only his white tee shirt.  “I ride freebird,” he said, the stress showing in his voice.

Bychkov nodded.  “Da, okay.  Turn head and make cough.”

Sam stared frostily at the Chief Medical Officer, who chuckled.

“I joke, I joke.  Just checking for lesions, boils, other problems.”

The doctor bent forward at the waist, eyeballed Sam’s genitals and legs before straightening up again and gesturing for Sam to turn on the spot.  Sam spun around slowly, and Bychkov nodded.  “Good, good, all healthy down there,” he said, scribbling on a paper form.  “You may put trousers on again, but please to remove shirt.”

Sam hastily yanked his coveralls up again, letting the sleeves hang down the backs of his legs, then stripped off his tee shirt.  Bychkov made the ‘turn around’ gesture again, and again he gave Sam’s skin a visual inspection.

“Okay, shirt on.  All exams finished.  Internal good, outside good, psychological okay, so no need for referral to psychologist.  Cardio-endurance excellent, but muscle tone not so good.  This can be retrained, of course, so I am not concerned with that.  However, to continue in Naval Special Forces, you will have to undergo re-test.  Not full SFET, of course, but some components must be checked.”

“I understand.  As long as they don’t try to put me through skills retraining, I’m happy.  A physical test is fine.”

“However, this does mean your category rating will revert to secondary qualifications; you will not be considered a Commando again until you complete the re-test.  Not on paper, anyway.”

“That’s okay, my secondary is Intelligence Specialist Officer, so I keep all my clearances.”

Bychkov lifted the report sheet off the clipboard and checked the personnel file.  “Ah, so it is.  Well, I will send word to Special Operations Command, who will send forms to you about re-test.  Now, we wait for X-ray and FMRI scans to come back.”

He checked a nearby terminal.  “Ah, good, here already.”

The doctor began to examine the scans, and after a few minutes he seemed satisfied.  Once the report was finalised, Sam signed it and Bychkov countersigned, and the paper was sealed into an envelope.

In the corridor outside the heavy cruiser’s medical wing, Sam picked up an intercom handset and punched the button marked ‘Bridge’.

“Bridge.”

“May I speak to the captain, please?”

“One moment.”

There was a pause, and a shuffling sound.

“Da, Wojciekowska.”

“Captain, sir, this is Lieutenant-Commander Kelly.”

“Ah, Mister Kelly, how was it?  I trust Mister Bychkov was gentle?”

“All good, thank you, sir.  Clean bill of health.”

Captain Jakub Wojciekowska gave a hearty laugh. “Da, maladyets, now you can go back to your secret workings.  I hear much about you, Mister Kelly, always very secret.  Good to hear from you again.”

“You too, sir.”

“And do not forget, you still owe me a beer.  Pakistan, remember?”

“I don’t think I’ll forget any time soon, sir.”

The big, bearded Pole laughed again.  “Neither will that herd of goats.  Anyway, I am delaying you.  You are clear to return to the Damocles.”

“Thank you, sir.  Good luck, and happy hunting.”

“And you, Sam.”

They hung up, and Sam made his way to the docking collar near the port bow; the medical wing was at the stern of the cruiser, near the engine rooms, so this meant walking almost the whole eight hundred and fifty-seven metres of ship.  Finally, he stepped into the docking corridor and was met by a bo’sun’s mate from the Damocles, who escorted him back across to the corvette.  He went up to the bridge to talk to Lt.Cmdr. McPeak while they waited for Vig to return.  The bridge windscreens gave a very impressive view of the Dubrovski-class heavy cruiser, as the two vessels were parked almost nose-to-nose and facing opposite directions; the bigger ship looked like a burly, angular sea monster painted all in dappled light- and dark-grey colours, the CNF standard paint scheme for wartime operations.  In peacetime, ships were a light ‘haze grey’ for higher visibility when manoeuvring, but the dappled ‘star-camo’ look was designed to have the opposite effect by breaking up outlines and reflecting light unevenly.  It worked, too; entire capital fleets had been known to cloak themselves in dust clouds and asteroid belts, indistinguishable from space junk.  The tide of Confederate victory at White Rim had been turned by three fighter carriers hiding in the Rim itself, waiting for just the right moment to begin spewing light attack fighters and stealth bombers.

“How far is it to Haiti-Nouveau?” asked Kelly, staring out at the flank of the cruiser stretching out to vanishing point, mulling over his part in the White Rim campaign.

McPeak looked at the navigator, who said “Six more hours, sir.”

Sam nodded his thanks to the nav.  “You ever seen Port-au-Prince, Lee?”

McPeak shook her head.  “Nope.  Been to Dessalines a few times, but not down to the surface.”