Ammunitional Inadequacies
Ammunitional Inadequacies
Arc: None
Summary: Paz reveals a potential trouble spot in the Majestic's supply chain to Saint-Cloud
Date: 2658.319
Related Logs: None
Participants: Paz, Saint Cloud

XO's Office Deck 1

Tingerhoff System, Clarke Quadrant — 0031 Hours 2658.319

The XO's office is probably not quite what one would expect of a Military officer. For one the packing crates that have been turned on their sides and stacked to create shelves are filled with, mainly, Science texts. All with very arcane sounding titles relating to Astrophysics, thermodynamics, and other doctorate level stuff. Below those is a smaller collection of Military and Tactical Doctrine. More crate-shelves line the other walls and hold his medal cases. And rolled up maps. Then there are the strange nicknacks. Most look like they were formed by children's hands and are probably all cups and ashtrays. There is a neat looking desk with a THREE terminals on it and a large mug saying "Universe's Greatest Dad". Framed in the very center of the wall are his awards, of course, and rank and division certificates.. And a number of degrees. 4 different bachelors, four different Masters and some space for what may be a coming doctorate. But around all these, the rest of the wall is plastered with photos of kids and adults. A LOT of kids. Almost a dozen different ones in different groupings. And half of them look a lot like the XO when he is in them. The pictures of the adults together, two women and another less built male, look like wedding pictures.. with two brides and grooms.

Saint-Cloud sits at his desk, hunched over a few large books and data-tablets. Strangely, he has never taaken the old CO's office, basically transforming his XO office into the new CO office rather then move everything.. which would be ridiculous since they are next to each other. He has a pipe in his mouth. An honest to god ivory pipe which he puffs on.. And considering that he is only in his mid thirties that may be a bit amusing.

1st Lieutenant Paz "Tizona" Garcia, clad in undress browns, marches through Flag Country with such intent that none of the Marines bother to challenge her, assuming she's here on some official business. The small stack of file folders she's carrying tucked smartly beneath her left arm help with that, perhaps? Squaring herself up in front of Saint-Cloud's stateroom, she takes a deep breath, a little gulp, and proceeds to rap sharply on the wood grain-veneer over aluminum-slash-unpronounceable, indecipherable metal alloy door.

Saint-Cloud blinks and looks up from his work.. looking so much like a miniature Sherlock Holmes. He stares at the door a moment then nods to Paz. "Lieutenant. Please, come." he states, motioning to the chair across the desk from him. "You'll have to forgive the mess.. I was doing some research." he closes one of the books and sets it aside.

"No worries, sir." Paz replies with her usual ebullient grin as she enters, scrupulously closing the door behind her. "I apologize for my part, stopping by unannounced, sir." she adds, and ~gasp~ seems to _mean_ it. Respect for a superior officer? This can't lead anywhere good. "If you're busy, this could keep until later." she continues.

Saint-Cloud shakes his head. "No.. Not really busy. In the lul I was catching up on some old research I was doing for my doctorate." he tells her. After she sits he stands and moves to the shelf behind him where there is a tea service and a small wet bar. "Drink, Lieutenant? I got most everything. Coffee. Tea. Water. Soda. Beer."

"Eh, some water would be lovely, sir." Paz replies, nodding slightly in that slightly-nervous way of someone doing something she probably shouldn't, but thinks she has to. "I'd murder a pint, but I got CAP in four…" she smiles, shrugging. "Not really a good time to be logy-headed, you know?" she smiles.

Saint-Cloud nods in agreement and pulls out a large glass bottle of water. "I completely agree. Unfortunately, unless I drink booze from Dusk, or a lot of normal alcohol, I don't get logy headed." he admits. He pouts two glass and returns to the desk, setting hers down then retaking his seat. "I think you will like this. It's from my home world. From the subterranean glaciers. Only part of the planet with any ice."

Paz nods gratefully at the offering, but pauses to take an experimental sniff at the contents of the glass before drinking it. "That's odd….doesn't smell like much of anything besides ice…" she notes, tipping the glass to her mouth to take a tiny sample, swilling it around her mouth for a moment as if it were a fine Scotch or French wine…"Hah…..That's kind of amazing, sir." she grins, taking another, tiny sip. "Not a trace of chlorine or salt….Back home, our water's so hard, you could make bats out of it." she chuckles.

Saint-Cloud grins now, picking up his pipe again. "Chlorine is almost non existent on Dusk." he admits. "Unnecessary too. The heavy metal content of the crust kills most microbes. But the glaciers are three miles below the surface. The pressure is so high the metals are squeezed out. Purest water on the planet." he then taps out the pipe in one of the clay ashtrays that seem to have spawned around his office. "So, Lieutenant. What can I do for you today?"

"We hadda run our own desalinization plant, lots of ozone, lots of chlorine.." Paz replies with a slow, almost homesick smile. "If you're ever on New Illyricum, sir." she adds, chuckling. "I'd advise against trying to hang your clothes out to dry, unless you want them to turn into sea-salt licks. But….anyhow." she says, mentally changing gears as she lays out file folder on The Old Man's desk. "I think we've got a problem, and a _big _ one." she says quietly. "I've been studying After Action reports for a while now, on the QT, you know, sir?" she begins. "And our fighter's ammunition is just not performing to spec."

Saint-Cloud chuckles. "Better then the acid rains that would eat the clothes away." he says, and even though he smiles it doesn't seem he is jesting. Then he raises a brow at this and turns his terminal on. Well.. One of them. He has three along his desk. "And how would you say it isn't performing to spec and isn't, say, a user issue." and before she can say anything, "And I am not saying it /is/ a user issue.. But you know that’s the first thing Command would ask, so I thought I would just get it out of the way first."

"No, sir, I'm right there with you." Paz replies, nodding her understanding. "Been studying gun cam footage versus payloads." she explains. "Now, I know a lot of these are flukes." she says, opening the file folder with it's various pie-charts and graphs. "And a lot more of them are just bad luck." she continues, pulling a pen out of her uniform top to point out the instances. "But there's a few of these, specifically _here_ and _here_." she adds, noting them with her pen. "That should've been a hell of a lot more effective, even with Kilrathi shield technology..

Saint-Cloud frowns and plucks his small spectacles from his pocket. Fitting them on the tip of his nose he turns the folders to see what she is pointing out. He hmmms.. comparing them to the other maybe luck related shots… the wheels in his head going round and round as he contemplates equations. "I see." he says, quietly. "You may be right.. Have you brought this up to your CAG? Or even the Deck Chief and crew who do the ammo loads?"

"No, sir." Paz replies simply. "I didn't want this to turn into some kind of inter-departmental witch hunt. Our crews are the best in the business." she says firmly. "I don't think it has anything to do with anyone on board, it's about the sources of our munitions." she explains, flipping over a page to show another that shows munition stocks over the time she's been aboard and the source codes of the armories that provided them.

Saint-Cloud squints even more, thumbing through the pages slowly. "break it down for me, Lieutenant. I'm a mathematician and still have trouble with business related numbers." he admits. "What is the pattern /you/ see?"

"Well, sir, it's like this." Paz begins, starting to indicate various armories by their numbers and the relevant effects of their munitions. It takes her about fifteen, long, complicated, obviously well-rehearsed moments to explain it all. But the upshot of it all is this: The Majestic's Air Wing is receiving second-rate ammo from at least two, possibly three contracted armories. Faulty fuzes, improper powder loads, deformed casings, deformed shot, you name it. We're getting some crap ammo for the air wing and somebody's making money off of it. To be fair, she readily admits she doesn't know who. But her facts are pretty good.

Saint-Cloud studies the numbers for a few long minutes after her spiel. At first he seems.. skeptical. Then he seems shocked. Then finally there is anger in those emerald eyes of his. He growls and the massive hand clenching the arm of his chair flexes and the arm seems to bend a little. "This.. is.. unacceptable." he says, then narrows his eyes on the pilot. "We need to do this quietly. Some Brass and the companies always have a few little unspoken deals going. I need all this in electronic copy. Multiples copies. and multiple hard copies. Squirrel them away. I want backups so these facts don't disappear when I report them."

"Yes, sir." Paz replies firmly. "Again, I apologize for skipping over the chain of command." she says, wincing a little as she begins to anticipate the fallout from this little skull session. "It's just that, in the wing, if you report a problem like this, everyone just fobs it off on your gunnery skills." she explains. "And I damn sure didn't wanna take it to the Chief, because it'd seem like I was _blaming_ him for this, which is most assuredly _NOT_ the case." she states flatly. "If I could borrow your copier, sir, I can get a brace of hard copies done up tout-suite."

Saint-Cloud sighs and nods, seeming to understand where it comes from. "I understand, Lieutenant. I really do. And don't worry about jumping the chain. But I /will/ be speaking to the chief. He would probably understand. It's a business thing and, apparently, our esteemed deck chief knows a /few/ things about business." he says but doesn't elaborate. He wheels back his chair and opens a cabinet in the wall, where the copy scanner is. "All yours, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir." Paz replies, collecting her documents and feeding them into the copier's hopper to spit out a dozen hard copies, collated. "I've got a couple of digital copies hanging around in my music player." she winks conspiratorial-like. "They're not going anywhere, my squad mostly hates Pink Floyd, uncouth bastards." she chuckles.