Man Of War: To Honor You Call Us Part 1

Man of War.

To Honor You Call Us.

Honsinger, H. Paul.

To my dearest wife, Kathleen, without whom this novel simply would never have come into being. Thank you for your incalculably valuable practical a.s.sistance in bringing this book to print and, of far more importance, your patience, your endurance of my many faults and thoughtless acts, your encouragement, your advice, your example, your fundamental decency and goodness, and-of course-your insistence in September 2012 that I just sit down and start writing. Thank G.o.d for you. You are the light of my life.

Lake Havasu City, Arizona.

June 6, 2013.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.

For the benefit of lubbers, squeakers, and others unfamiliar with Union s.p.a.ce Navy terminology and slang, there is at the end of this volume a Glossary and Guide to Abbreviations, which defines many of the abbreviations, terms, and references used in these pages.

PROLOGUE.

04:13Z Hours, 11 November 2314 (General Patton's Birthday).

Lieutenant Max Rob.i.+.c.haux, Union s.p.a.ce Navy, stood in the crowded boarding tube, breathing the scent of fear-acrid sweat from the thirty-four other men he had been able to round up from the USS Emeka Moro. With over fifty Krag boarders on his own s.h.i.+p, it seemed nothing short of insane to be counterboarding the enemy vessel instead of defending his own. Except that his s.h.i.+pmates were losing the battle for their own vessel. Except that unless the Krag s.h.i.+p could be disabled and the two vessels separated, the more numerous crew from the enemy battlecruiser would continue to flow into the Emeka Moro, overwhelming the less numerous complement of the smaller frigate. Except that unless this desperate gamble worked, his own s.h.i.+p would be taken, refitted, crewed with Krag, and sent back into battle against the people who built her. And of course, there would be the small matter of the enemy brutally killing Max along with his s.h.i.+pmates and dumping their mutilated bodies into interstellar s.p.a.ce.

Call it an incentive to succeed.

Max adjusted his gloves, the material chafing his large hands and trapping his own nervous sweat against them.

"Five seconds-brace yourselves!" yelled the engineer's mate.

Every man covered his ears and opened his mouth to help prevent his eardrums from rupturing.

"Three, two, one!"

Just as Max could see that the young man's diaphragm was beginning the contraction that would allow him to utter the word "now," the slowly telescoping boarding tube struck the outer hull of the Krag wars.h.i.+p, triggering the breaching charge with a deafening THOOOOOOOM, blowing open a nearly two-meter hole, into which the boarding tube penetrated just under an arm's length. Within a second, a polymer collar around the exterior of the tube folded out and adhered to the inside of the hull, making an airtight seal. Just as the seal formed, the door at the end of the boarding tube dropped to form a ramp, and the men under Max's command stormed into the Krag s.h.i.+p, weapons at the ready.

They found themselves in a large cargo hold, at least thirty meters square, full of a.s.sorted containers and with a hatch on the far wall. Three men slipped off packs and pulled out three components that they a.s.sembled into a device about a meter and a half square, which they activated. Max noted that both the blue and green lights came on, indicating that, for now, the Krag s.h.i.+p's internal sensors and comms were offline until their computer managed to decrypt the scrambling algorithm, which typically took from fourteen to twenty-three minutes. He hoped it would be long enough.

A quick hotwire job by the engineer's mate (what was his name-Tumlinson? Tomlinson? Tomkins?), and the hatch slid open, admitting the boarding party to a corridor. Max was the first one through the door, sidearm in hand. "After me," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, and the men followed him at a trot. The Union had captured enough Krag s.h.i.+ps, in the more than thirty-year-long war, for Max to know the general layout. So, he had no trouble leading them to the Main Engine and Power Control Room. The boarding party made its way quickly without encountering any Krag for about sixty-five meters, before turning a sharp corner into a short corridor that ended at the entrance to their destination.

They ran into a hail of gunfire. Ducking quickly out of the way of the bullets, Max pointed to three men behind him, then made a fist and a throwing motion, indicating that the three men were to use grenades. They pulled the fist-sized devices from their web belts and yanked the pins while holding down the safety levers, then looked back at Max. He held up three fingers and counted down silently: three, two, one. A full second after the "one," all three men threw their grenades hard against the far bulkhead of the corridor, to land at the guards' feet in a banking shot. The grenades went off about a tenth of a second apart. Max and his men scrambled around the corner, shooting as they came, in case anyone was left standing.

No one was. Four dead Krag lay bleeding near the door, rifles in their hands. They didn't look so threatening, lying there on the deck, dead. Alive was a different matter. Few humans could look with aplomb at a man-sized, bipedal alien with nearly human arms, legs, and torso, but sporting a 1.5-meter-long tail and a head that looked like it belonged on a giant rat with an overdeveloped brain.

"Remember men, once we get in, no shooting. Boarding cutla.s.ses only. There are too many things in there that can kill us all if they get punctured by a bullet." He turned to the engineer's mate. "Ready, Tomkins?" That was his name: Tomkins. "Blow it."

Tomkins pressed and held two b.u.t.tons on the side of his percom. The green light on the small breaching charge he had just stuck on the hatch changed from green to red, and with a sharp BANG, the shaped charge shredded the door. Max led the way, his boarding cutla.s.s, sixty-three and a half centimeters of cold, razor-sharp, gleaming steel drawn, his men wading into twenty-five or so Krag engineers who had been manning stations in that s.p.a.ce. Spotting the panels that he needed to reach near the far end of the room, Max strode in that direction. Three Krag converged to block him. The closest drew its own sword, a short, straight affair resembling a Roman gladius and stabbed at Max's gut. With a powerful downward swipe of his own longer, heavier blade, Max blocked the blow and struck his opponent hard in the snout with the back of his hand. Stunned, the Krag staggered, allowing Max to bring his cutla.s.s back up and chop into the Krag's neck, cutting three quarters of the way through, severing its spine and dropping it to the deck.

The second, more skilled with a sword than the first, held its weapon in front of it like a fencing foil, ready to duel. Max charged, leading with the point of his own weapon as if to accept the Krag's invitation to a fencing match. At the last moment, Max lunged forward and grabbed the end of the Krag's sword in his gloved left hand, pus.h.i.+ng the point away from himself while plunging his own weapon deep into the Krag's abdomen and out its back.

Sensing rather than seeing the approach of the third Krag, Max pulled his sword from the second and pivoted to his right to fend it off just as the one Marine Max had been able to find for the boarding party caught it from behind, stabbing into the Krag's right lung with a distinctly nonregulation dirk. The Krag fell to the deck on its back, gasping as its lungs collapsed from the air filling its chest cavity. The Marine silenced the sound with a savage stomp to the Krag's throat. The way to the panels was now clear.

Max took a quick look around the compartment, seeing that all the Krag were out of the fight except for four who were standing back to back, mounting a last-ditch defense. Twenty or so lay dead or badly wounded on the deck, along with seven of his own men. Confident that the remaining boarders would shortly overwhelm the four holdouts, Max reached the panels he sought in three long steps, struggling briefly with the unfamiliar labels on the controls, to verify that they were the right ones.

He pulled a small cylindrical device from his web belt; ripped off a piece of plastic film, exposing an adhesive strip; and gave the end a half twist. Max pressed the cylinder, adhesive side down, to the panel and stepped back. He then repeated the procedure, attaching a second cylinder to a second panel. A few seconds later, each made a loud, high-pitched whine that started out near the top of the musical scale and rapidly ascended beyond the range of human hearing, all the while emitting a brilliant red-orange glow that became brighter as the pitch became higher. When the noise and the light both stopped, all the displays in that section of the Krag engineering deck went dark, the delicate microcircuitry of their components hopelessly fused.

Until the Krag could bypa.s.s those units, a process that might take hours, their s.h.i.+p's grappling field was off-line, and its motive power limited to maneuvering thrusters.

"Men, her claws are cut and her legs are broken. Now, let's get away before we overstay our welcome."

Max had often entertained the idea of boarding with a nuke rather than sabotage gear, but the thought of what could happen if the boarding party's exit from the enemy s.h.i.+p got delayed didn't bear contemplation. Being caught inside the fireball of a nuclear explosion might be a quick and painless way to die, but it was also awfully d.a.m.ned certain. Boarders always took or crippled the s.h.i.+p they boarded, but never destroyed it. That was best done at a safe distance from your own vessel.

Max led the men back the way they came, turning into the main corridor only to be met by about two dozen Krag Marines, probably drawn by the sound of the earlier gunfire. Each side fell back from the intersection, too startled by the sudden appearance of its respective enemy to get off a shot. Knowing he had only a second to act before the Krag got the same idea, Max pulled two grenades from his own web belt, one in each hand, extracted the pins with his teeth, and tossed them both around the corner. As soon as they went off, he charged around the corner, his men behind him, the front rank of five men shooting from the hip and taking out about half of the Krag who had not been felled by the grenades.

The two clumps of combatants merged in a close-order melee, shooting at point-blank range with sidearms and hacking at each other with swords. Max shot one Krag through the bottom of the jaw and was turning to meet another when he felt an odd tug at his left arm. Turning, he saw a Krag sword slicing the back of his wrist, just as Ordinary s.p.a.cer First Cla.s.s Fong shot it through the back of the head. As both groups started to thin from casualties, opening up room between the fighters, what had been an even balance between shooting and stabbing turned more and more to shooting, with the advantage going to the slightly more numerous boarding party. The remaining Krag ran, the Union crew shooting at their fleeing backs and bringing down four more. Stepping over the bodies of friend and foe, Max led the remainder of his men, now numbering only nineteen, back into the cargo hold, down the boarding tube, through the airlock, and onto the Emeka Moro.

Tomkins pulled a large lever, sealing the boarding tube airlock, then slapped a red b.u.t.ton. A loud WHUMP marked the explosion that blew the tube, cutting the near end loose from the Emeka Moro.

Max gave himself the luxury of half a minute-five quick breaths-to savor the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of being back aboard his own s.h.i.+p. The boarding action had been a success, with the bonus that Max and most of his men were still alive. There were Navy crewmen left behind on the Krag s.h.i.+p, probably all dead by now, and there they would stay. Sentimental notions about retrieving bodies of comrades had perished in the first weeks of this desperate war for the survival of the human race. But if things continued according to plan, the fallen would receive the most thorough cremation known to man.

Leaning against the nearest bulkhead, Max hit the orange SND/ATN b.u.t.ton on his percom.

"Rob.i.+.c.haux to CIC."

"CIC," the voice from the s.h.i.+p's Combat Information Center responded over the tiny device strapped to Max's wrist.

"Boarding party is Romeo Tango Sierra," Max said, informing the command crew via his percom wrist communicator that the boarding party had "RTS," or returned to the s.h.i.+p. "Enemy main sublight drive and grappling field disabled for estimated one-hour minimum. Nineteen effectives remaining. Rest are Kilo India Alfa." Killed in action. Dead. Almost half.

"Excellent work, Lieutenant." Max recognized the cool, well-modulated voice of Captain Sanchez. "Make your way to Auxiliary Control with your party."

"Heading for Auxiliary Control, aye." Auxiliary control? With enemy boarders to be fought? Fighting the desire to shake his head at the order, he turned to what was left of his command.

"Men, we're ordered to Auxiliary Control."

Down a corridor Max led his men, now laboring to breathe, through the series of access ladders and corridors that would take them to the deck on which AuxCon was located. Then, CRACK-BOOOOOM! A sharp blast, followed by a long, deep rumbling, shook the s.h.i.+p. Max knew that sound. It was the detonation of an implosion charge array collapsing a heavy spherical pressure bulkhead. Like the one that surrounded CIC.

Now the order made sense. The captain must have known that the Krag had taken the s.p.a.ces surrounding CIC and were setting the explosives that, when detonated together, would crush the CIC pressure bulkhead like an eggsh.e.l.l, instantly killing everyone inside. Everyone in CIC, which likely included every officer on the s.h.i.+p senior to Max, was now dead. Captain Sanchez had just issued his last command.

Max and his men poured out onto H Deck and ran toward Auxiliary Control. Dead men and dead Krag littered the corridor. No one was left alive, save one Krag with a shredded right arm, trying and failing to set a breaching charge on the hatch. Setting a breaching charge is a two-handed operation. Max drew his sidearm, a ten-millimeter semi-auto based on the time-proven Browning Hi-Power, and shot it cleanly through the head; he absent-mindedly kicked the body to the side, put his palm on the scanner, and keyed the access code. The hatch slid open, admitting Max and his men to the room from which the s.h.i.+p could be controlled if the CIC were destroyed.

Only two petty officer thirds were manning stations. The rest of the crew who would ordinarily have been there had been sent out to fight boarders. Max threw himself into the seat at the Commander's Station and divided his attention between pulling up the displays he needed and putting people to work.

"Tomkins, Woo, and Lorenzo, take Maneuvering. Adamson, Tactical. Marceaux, Weapons. Fong, SysOps. Montaba, Sensors. Everyone else cover the rest of the stations as best you can-keep an eye on what's going on and go where you're needed. Don't be afraid to sing out if you see anything, need anything, or have a question. You've all got your Comets, so you know how to run every station in the s.h.i.+p, but you've never worked together doing these jobs, so you'll just have to talk to each other, pitch in, and be flexible. Now, let's see about getting the old girl back into the fight."

"Sir, you're bleeding," observed Montaba quietly.

Max looked at his arm. His uniform sleeve was soaked with blood, and he could see deeply into the muscles of his forearm. The slash was deep, and yet Max felt strangely distanced from the sensation of pain. He pulled a first aid kit from an emergency equipment bin, stuffed a volume bandage into the arm of his uniform, and then stuck his whole forearm into a compression sleeve, pulled the cinch, and tied it off. The sleeve inflated to put pressure on the volume bandage and slow the bleeding, while a medication ampule in the bandage was ruptured by the pressure, releasing coagulants and an antibiotic c.o.c.ktail into the wound. Maybe Max wouldn't bleed to death in the next few hours or die of an infection before he got to a doctor. Just maybe.

This took only about a minute. People were moving quickly but efficiently to their a.s.signed stations, getting their displays tied into working data channels and bringing their controls online. He turned to the man running the Comms Station. "Comms, give me 1MC."

"1MC, aye."

"Attention all hands, this is Lieutenant Rob.i.+.c.haux in AuxCon. CIC is gone and I have a.s.sumed command. s.h.i.+p is being conned from here. All DC and Boarder Repel Stations report your status by lights. I need two Marines to AuxCon. Maintain Condition One. That is all." How the Marines were supposed to determine which two were to respond to this command, they would have to figure out for themselves, because Max had his hands full.

Hands full was right. Max had never commanded anything larger than a 350-ton system patrol vessel. Now he was commanding a heavily damaged 25,650metric ton frigate in combat with a much larger and more powerful capital s.h.i.+p, light years from any hope of reinforcement or support, with virtually all of his officers and much of his crew dead. The expression "in over your head" didn't even begin to cover it.

The crewman at the Damage Control Station sang out, "Getting damage reports, sir. Relaying them to your board." It would take a few minutes before a complete picture developed.

"Boarders?" Max said to Lewis at the Onboard Defense Station.

"Only green lights so far, sir. They are pretty well distributed throughout the s.h.i.+p. I've got a voicecom report from a squad of Marines saying that they just surrounded and took out the five Krag who blew CIC. Maybe we got them all."

"Maybe so." And maybe not. Max stabbed the comm b.u.t.ton again. "AuxCon to Engineering."

A somewhat reedy but precise voice answered instantly. "Engineering here. Brown speaking."

"Wernher!" Max responded gleefully, relief flooding through his every cell. He gave the name a German p.r.o.nunciation, even though Engineer Brown's accent was decidedly British. "Do you have any kind of engines working down there at all, or am I going to have to order 'out sweeps' and have the crew row us home?"

"Leftenant,"-the engineer exaggeratedly gave the rank the archaic British p.r.o.nunciation, contrary to naval procedure-"since your meager training still doesn't encompa.s.s reading the Master Status Display, it is my duty to inform you that the main sublight drive is available at up to 39 percent power, but I suggest you endeavor to keep that lower than 25 percent. Compression drive is available, but no higher than two hundred and twenty c. Again, my strong recommendation is to approach that speed only in grave need-one hundred fifty would be much more prudent. The jump drive is nothing but sc.r.a.p metal and molten pieces of abstract art. Oh, and if I were you, I shouldn't want to pull anything more than about eight Gs, because the inertial compensators are capable of no more than seven point eight Gs. That is, unless you wish to kill what little crew you have left."

"Understood, Wernher. If anything else of any importance breaks, let me know by comm. Master Status is down. Would be nice if it worked. Of course, it's not like I expect you to fix it."

"I shall attend to it in my copious free time. And Leftenant, if you find yourself unable to remember the route to Lovell Station, feel free to ask me for directions."

"I'll bear that in mind, Wernher. AuxCon out." Somewhere between a third and two-thirds of the crew might be dead; one of the two star drives was gone for good; and a vastly more powerful enemy vessel was just meters off the starboard beam, but gallows humor was alive and well in the Union s.p.a.ce Navy. Good thing.

He jabbed the comm key once again. "AuxCon to Casualty Station... Anyone in Casualty, please respond." Nothing. "Anyone up here not insanely busy?" An ordinary s.p.a.cer second cla.s.s stepped forward.

"Shaloob, run on down to the Casualty Station, see what's going on down there, and report back from the nearest working comm. With CIC gone, your percom might not work. And we're not sure the s.h.i.+p is clear of Krag, so watch yourself. I want your sidearm in your hand, and make sure you've got rounds in it and a spare mag. Or three."

"Aye, Skipper," the man said automatically. He press checked his weapon, popped the magazine and looked at the witness holes, then drew three spare mags from the AuxCon weapons locker before heading out the door, pistol in hand.

"Skipper." Never been called that before, Max thought.

"Maneuvering, open up some range between us and the Krag s.h.i.+p, in case they've got any more ideas about boarding or they get their point defense weapons working again. Get us out to four hundred kilometers. Course and acceleration at your discretion, but take it easy on the old girl. She's had a rough day."

"Aye, sir, four-zero-zero kills, course and acceleration at my discretion, taking it easy," said Tomkins, who apparently was the senior of the three at the Maneuvering Stations-one for yaw and roll, one for pitch and trim, and one for the drive systems.

"Weapons, what's our status?" Dear G.o.d, please let something work.

"Status on pulse cannon: no lights at all, no response to comms," Marceaux responded. "My opinion is that we should a.s.sume forward and rear batteries are out. Number two and four missile tubes are available. Tubes loaded, crews standing by, reloads at the ready. But I've got a red light on the main coils and amber on the auxiliary. The auxiliary coil driver is running at only 5 percent, so it will almost be a dead tube fire. Tubes one and three show red lights across the board, and their crews do not answer." Short pause. "I think the crews are dead, sir." His report was quick and precise, but his voice shook. The adrenalin was wearing off.

"G.o.d rest their souls," Max said softly. "Good job, Marceaux." Then, in what the Navy called an officer's order voice, "This is a Nuclear Weapons Arming Order. Arm missiles and warheads in tubes two and four, and target the Krag s.h.i.+p."

"Nuclear Weapons Arming Order acknowledged and logged, sir. Arming missiles in two and four, arming warheads in two and four, and targeting the Krag," Marceaux responded.

"I plan to fire two while holding four in reserve, in case two does not destroy the target or another target presents itself," Max announced.

"Maneuvering, sing out when we get to four hundred kills; then turn to unmask the number two and four tubes."

WHAM! A hammer blow struck the s.h.i.+p, rattling the teeth of everyone on board.

"The Krag just fired one of their projectile weapons, sir," Tactical observed.

"We noticed. Mr. Adamson, give me a read on the projectile's velocity."

"It was just over a thousand meters per second, sir."

"So, about 10 percent. Most of their acceleration coils on the projectile weapon must be out. It'll take a hit at the optimal angle for them to penetrate the hull."

"Unless they can zero in on one of our hull breaches," Adamson muttered.

"Glad you thought of that, Adamson. DC, do we know where our hull breaches are, yet?"

"Affirmative, sir; reports are tolerably complete." This from Arglewa. Somehow he had acquired a nasty burn on his shaved scalp. "We have two right together in Frame Three at azimuth two-zero-five and two-one-two and one in Frame Five at azimuth two-two-three."

"Thank you, Mr. Arglewa. Get some burn foam on that s.h.i.+ny head of yours. The glare is distracting me. Maneuvering, do your best to roll the s.h.i.+p to present an azimuth of about..."-he took a rough average of the three azimuths and subtracted it from 360-"seventy-five degrees to the enemy."

"Just pa.s.sing four-zero-zero kills, sir, yawing to unmask tubes two and four and rolling to present seventy-five degree azimuth," said Tomkins.

"Very well."

Max's comm buzzed. "Rob.i.+.c.haux here. Go ahead."

"This is Shaloob. Casualty Station is gone, sir. I think the Krag blew the hatch and tossed in a satchel charge. Looks like the place was full of wounded when they did it too. Nothing but debris and body parts now. Nurse/Medic Salmons and Pharmacist's Mate Cho have got a makes.h.i.+ft casualty station set up on the RecDeck. I count fifty-three wounded there; thirty-two look serious. Salmons and Cho are performing surgery on someone right now, so I didn't interrupt them to get more information."

"Good call, Shaloob, and good report. When either Salmons or Cho gets a second, ask them if they can use you there. If so, lend a hand; if not hustle back here."

"Aye, sir."

"AuxCon out."

WHAM! Another Krag projectile slammed into the hull, this one causing two of the panels in the compartment's ceiling to fall to the deck. A prep.u.b.escent mids.h.i.+pman, who had appeared in AuxCon without Max noticing, calmly picked up the two panels and stacked them with the other debris he had quietly been arranging near the inoperable waste disposal chute, the look on his face as blase as if he were policing a park for candy wrappers. The boy had a short-barreled shotgun slung over his shoulder, the powder deposits on his face and hands proving he had made extensive use of it in the last few hours. The boy wasn't shaving yet, but in all likelihood, he had already killed.

Two Marines with blood on their uniforms and fire in their eyes stepped into the compartment. "Lance Corporal McGinty and PFC Nogura reporting as ordered, sir," said the older of the two. Both saluted smartly.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Max, returning the salute with equal precision. A Marine felt insulted if you gave him a sloppy salute. "Take up station outside the hatch to this compartment. You see any Navy, get 'em in here. You see any Krag, you know what to do."

"Aye, sir." The Marines did a perfect parade-ground about-face and took up their stations in the corridor.