Man Of War: To Honor You Call Us Part 2

CHAPTER 2.

08:53Z Hours, 21 January 2315 Max sat in the copilot's seat of the transferpod as it glided across the seventeen kilometers of s.p.a.ce that separated the Halsey from the c.u.mberland. There was no sense of motion except when the pod was nudged gently every few minutes by short growling burns from its maneuvering thrusters. He would have preferred to pilot the pod himself, but there were things that commanding officers of rated wars.h.i.+ps did not do: They did not carry their own gear (his gear had been sent over by a different pod and presumably had already been stowed in his quarters). They did not pour their own coffee unless they were alone. They did not s.h.i.+ne their own boots. And most emphatically, they did not pilot their own transferpods.

At this distance, and with the fleet moving slowly through the shadow of the tawny fourth planet out from this particular star-a gas giant world boasting a spectacular ring system-not even the outline of the c.u.mberland could be seen, but only the winking pinpoints of red, green, blue, and white running lights and the barely visible white rectangles of the occasional viewport. Max longed for a good look at his new command, even though Union wars.h.i.+ps were never very exciting to look at. They were all essentially long, squared cylinders (or long, rounded boxes) with the rounded bluntness of the sensor array on one end and sublight propulsion systems on the other, with much of everything in between studded with an apparently haphazard collection of smaller cylinders, antennas, weapons ports, point defense turrets, missile launch tubes, field emitters, and other mechanisms that helped the s.h.i.+p find the enemy, elude the enemy, confuse the enemy, or-Max's favorite-blow the enemy to h.e.l.l.

Even as he drew closer, the lines of the vessel stubbornly refused to resolve themselves. Union wars.h.i.+ps were jet black, their hulls coated with a polymer that absorbed light and most other forms of electromagnetic radiation so as to make the s.h.i.+p more difficult to detect. With running lights off and viewports shuttered, she was virtually invisible to the naked eye and darned hard to spot even with sensitive instruments. Even now, with running lights on, docking hatches illuminated, and viewport shutters open, the eye could not trace out her shape and lines from the disconnected dots and blobs of light that appeared to be floating in the darkness, unrelated to one another.

The pod was headed toward a green, blinking circle that indicated the main docking port through which he would gain entrance to the s.h.i.+p. The young able s.p.a.cer second cla.s.s piloting the tiny vessel guided it with practiced precision toward its destination. When the pod was ten meters from the port, he brought it to a stop and keyed the autodock sequence. Control of the pod transferred automatically to the c.u.mberland, which rotated the pod 180 degrees to bring its airlock in contact with the hatch and extended the docking seal. A slight hiss, followed by two distinct thumps, signaled to Max that the pressures had equalized between the two vessels and that both sets of outer airlock doors-those for the pod and those for the c.u.mberland-had opened.

A recorded voice announced, "Initiating artificial gravity" as the c.u.mberland's gravity was extended through induction into the pod. Feeling his weight return, Max stood, walked to the airlock, and took a deep breath. You're on, he said to himself as he palmed the door mechanism.

Both sets of inner doors slid open, revealing the c.u.mberland's salute deck, a small, square compartment holding six naval officers in white dress uniforms, an honor guard of six Union Marines in the emerald green of their service's dress uniform, the boatswain in the scarlet dress uniform of a senior naval noncommissioned officer, and one man in the plain black tunic and pants of an officer from the Union Military Intelligence Directorate. Max took all of this in without turning his head or showing any expression.

Almost lightheaded from emotion, he took one precise step from the pod onto the deck-his first onto his new command-and paused, feet together, for a slow count of five as he heard both sets of doors close and the transferpod detach from the airlock behind him. He then pivoted ninety degrees to his left so that he was facing aft and was looking directly at the Union national flag and the Union naval, or Admiralty, flag standing next to one another on flagpoles against the left bulkhead just inside the hatch. He briskly saluted them, then reversed the turn exactly to face an officer, a lieutenant who apparently was the XO, standing in his path about a meter and a half inside the hatch. Max brought himself into a second salute and held it. "Permission to come aboard, sir."

The lieutenant brought himself into a salute and held it while he said, "Permission granted, sir. Welcome aboard." He snapped his hand back to his side. A split second later, Max's hand followed suit. The lieutenant then said, "Attention on deck," and pressed a key on his percom. A chime sounded on the salute deck and throughout the s.h.i.+p, signaling that every word uttered in that compartment would be heard by all hands.

Max reached into the inside pocket of his uniform tunic, the pocket made for precisely this purpose, and removed the formal Commanding Officer's Warrant that had been delivered to him only an hour before. He unfolded the doc.u.ment and read aloud in his best official voice: "By the Authority of the President, the a.s.sembly, and the Senate of the Union of Earth and Terran Settled Worlds, and by directive of the Commissioners of the Admiralty, I hereby name, appoint, and const.i.tute Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Rob.i.+.c.haux to hold and carry out the post of Master and Commander of the Union s.p.a.ce s.h.i.+p c.u.mberland, Registry Number DPA 0004, the same being a vessel of war in the service of the Union s.p.a.ce Navy. The said Maxime Tindall Rob.i.+.c.haux is hereby required and directed forthwith to take charge and command of the aforementioned vessel; to obey all applicable laws, regulations, standing orders, and operational orders that shall issue from duly const.i.tuted authority from time to time; and to secure due obedience to the same from all persons lawfully under his command. Let him answer to the contrary at his peril. And for all of the above and foregoing, let this be his warrant. Given by my hand and seal this twenty-first day of January in the year 2315, by Louis G. Hornmeyer, Vice Admiral, Commanding, Task Force Tango Delta."

As soon as the echo of the word "Delta" died, the Boatswain sounded two notes on his whistle and announced in a stentorian tone: "c.u.mberland arriving."

"I relieve you, sir," said Max to the lieutenant in front of him.

"I stand relieved," he replied.

"It is with pleasure and pride that I accept the honor and responsibility of command of this fine vessel," Max said, sounding anything but full of pleasure. "I look forward to meeting all of you and, more important, to meeting and destroying the enemy. Let the deck officer log the change in command. All standing orders to remain in force until further notice. That is all."

Max shook the lieutenant's hand firmly. The man responded with equal firmness and with what seemed like genuine warmth.

"Max Rob.i.+.c.haux. You must be Garcia."

"Yes, sir. Roger Garcia. Welcome aboard, sir. Shall I introduce the officers?"

"Later, I think. Old Hit 'em Hard wants us underway with celerity." Everyone in the Task Force was taking delight in using that word, which until recently had been a part of practically no one's vocabulary. "What's our status?"

"Well, sir, the s.h.i.+p is ready for departure in all respects. We've got a top drawer chief engineer-really has his thrusters aligned. Sublight drive is on standby; navigational sensors and deflectors are energized; and Engineering is standing by to answer bells. All we need is a course and speed."

"Outstanding." Max was liking this XO already. "Course is one-one-five mark two-six-two, speed zero-point-zero-one c. Destination is Navbuoy Juliett Alfa Hotel one-niner-three-niner."

Garcia spoke into his percom. "XO to Maneuvering, did you get that?"

A voice responded from the unit, "Maneuvering to XO, aye, aye. Course one-one-five mark two-six-two, zero-point-zero-one c, destination Navbuoy Juliett Alfa Hotel one-niner-three-niner. Sir, are we rendezvousing with the buoy?" Maneuvering wanted to know whether he would be required to decelerate at the end of the run and stop at the buoy.

Garcia looked questioningly at Max.

"Negative."

"Negative," repeated the XO. "You are clear to maneuver."

"Understood, no terminal deceleration. Clear to maneuver, aye. Engineering reports main sublight drive ready to engage." A short pause. "Engaging." Another short pause. "Helm responding and s.h.i.+p coming to new heading." With the inertial compensators apparently set for less than maximum, Max could feel the s.h.i.+p start to move and the deck s.h.i.+ft slightly under his feet. "Steady on one-one-five mark two-six-two, accelerating at Standard."

From what Max could hear, whatever was wrong with the s.h.i.+p had not affected the really sharp-sounding man at Maneuvering.

"Very well," Garcia said. Then, to Max, "We're under way, Skipper."

"Well done, XO. How long have you had the s.h.i.+p?"

"Only about eighteen hours, sir. I joined her at Jellicoe Station and brought her here."

"I understand." The man hadn't been on board long enough to unpack his gear, much less make his mark on the crew. Whatever kind of order the s.h.i.+p was in, Max could not reasonably hold the XO responsible, and Max's response communicated that understanding. "I'll meet you in CIC shortly."

"Very good, sir. See you there." The two men shook hands again. Max nodded slightly to the remainder of those a.s.sembled on the salute deck, and following the route he had carefully memorized (it simply does not do for a new captain to be seen making wrong turns or wandering about lost on his own s.h.i.+p, no matter how new he may be to her), he went to his cabin. Even on a s.h.i.+p as small as c.u.mberland the captain enjoyed a relatively s.p.a.cious suite, consisting of a combination office, changing room, and dining area known as the "day cabin," with a small attached lavatory; and a "berth cabin" that contained a bed, various lockers for personal effects, a small sitting area, and a full bathroom with shower.

It was in the day cabin that Max carefully removed his dress whites and hung them in his uniform locker, before selecting the correct uniform designed to communicate exactly the message he wanted to send to the whole crew upon walking into his CIC for the first time. After putting it on, he accessed a security-keyed section of the day cabin lockers to retrieve just one more item.

A wars.h.i.+p's control center is never perched in a vulnerable position at the top of its command hull or in its bow behind a huge set of windows. Rather, it is locked away like the crown jewels of a particularly paranoid king, nestled near the ma.s.ses of computer cores and communication gear that allow it to function, deep in the center of the vessel; surrounded by an independent set of armored bulkheads; provided with its own life support and power supply; and accessible only through a single vault-like hatch watched unceasingly by several layers of electronic protection and heavily armed Marines.

Accordingly, two immense privates and one lean, grizzled sergeant, all holding M-88 pulse rifles at the ready and also bearing sidearms and boarding cutla.s.ses, watched carefully as Max placed his palm on the CIC access scanner. It was not until the scanner's readout changed from red to green, and the CIC hatch opened to admit him that they shouldered their weapons, nodded respectfully, and stood aside, allowing him to enter the s.h.i.+p's sanctum sanctorum.

Max took a deep breath and stepped into CIC. A mids.h.i.+pman posted by the hatch, barely thirteen by the look of him, spotted Max immediately and piped at the top of his adolescent lungs, "Captain on deck!" Everyone in CIC, except for those personnel seated at critical control stations, immediately snapped to rigid attention.

"As you were." That fast, Max knew something was seriously wrong on this s.h.i.+p. The mids.h.i.+pman's voice, apparently in the midst of changing from preadolescent soprano to something approaching baritone or even ba.s.s, broke comically in the middle of the word "deck." Although the boy blushed furiously, no one laughed. Not even a quickly stifled giggle from another mids.h.i.+pman. If even the generally irrepressible boys, who were on the s.h.i.+p to experience the life of a fighting man on a Union wars.h.i.+p and to begin their training to become enlisted men and officers, were too cowed to laugh, that was bad. Very bad.

Max knew he had to start turning things around, and he couldn't start any sooner than now. "What's your name, son?"

"Kurtz, sir." The young man's voice broke again, this time yet more comically. The child was, if possible, even more terrified than before.

Max smiled warmly at the boy and said softly, "Relax just a bit, son. Keep that up and you'll strain something." And more loudly, "Very good, Mr. Kurtz. Carry on."

Max started to walk the several steps that would take him from the hatch to the command island where the CO and XO Stations were located. As he cleared the bank of damage control monitors that blocked most of the CIC from seeing more than the top of his head, Max could hear the slight intakes of breath and s.h.i.+fting in place that indicated that people were startled at what they saw.

So, they're startled. Good.

Everyone in CIC was wearing dress blues. That is, everyone except the skipper. Max was wearing his SCU, or s.p.a.ce combat uniform. Although dress blues were just below dress whites in formality and were regarded as being one of the snappiest-looking uniforms in Known s.p.a.ce, the SCU was not snappy looking, even in the slightest. It looked, in fact, like a shotgun marriage between a repair technician's jumpsuit and a pressure suit, with just a dash of children's pajamas thrown in as a fas.h.i.+on statement. It consisted of a rugged, royal-blue coverall, with several odd-looking bulges and even odder-looking pockets, and had integrated "booties" that extended over the feet of the wearer. The bulges held two portable oxygen generators, and the pockets held a collapsible zip-on helmet and pressure gloves. This untidy a.s.sembly worked together as an emergency pressure suit that could be configured in about thirty seconds to keep the wearer alive for just over two hours in the event of a hull breach or life support failure. He was also wearing his station harness, which would secure him to his duty station if the s.h.i.+p's artificial gravity failed; his Beretta-Browning M-62 10 mm sidearm, along with five 18-round magazines for the weapon; and his 635-millimeter-long razor-sharp boarding cutla.s.s. In other words, whereas the rest of the CIC crew was dressed to impress, Max was dressed to kill.

Max turned to Garcia. "XO, status."

"Steady on course one-one-five mark two-six-two. Accelerating at Standard. No traffic along our trajectory. ETA at Navbuoy JAH one-nine-three-nine is seven minutes. All systems nominal except that when we tested the weapons before departure, we got a flow rate reading in the coolant manifold for the number four pulse cannon that was a little out of tolerance. An engineering crew is tearing down the unit right now."

"Very good, Mr. Garcia. Keep me apprised."

"Aye, sir."

Max stood at the CO station and took a long, slow look around. Everyone seemed to be doing their jobs: the plotters were manually adjusting the locations of s.h.i.+p contacts on the 3D tactical projection; the three enlisted men at the controls of the Maneuvering Station were making tiny adjustments to course and drive settings under the watchful eye of a chief petty officer; environmental control specialists were monitoring and tweaking the systems that maintained a livable environment on the s.h.i.+p; and so on around the compartment. Everything looked right and yet was subtly wrong.

He took a few minutes to walk around, briefly looking at each display, noting that as he approached each station, the man serving it would tense up, ever so slightly. And though most of the displays showed things in good order, two revealed what Max could see were comparatively minor but subtle problems that the watch stander should either have been addressing or should have announced for others to remedy. That's when he noticed the s.h.i.+ne. On everything. All the surfaces in CIC gleamed, even the ones that were unfinished metal when the s.h.i.+p came out of the yard. They gleamed beyond the rigorous level of cleanliness that was normal for a wars.h.i.+p-they gleamed as though they had each been polished laboriously, endlessly, obsessively, many, many times over the roughly year and half the s.h.i.+p had been in commission.

Max casually walked over to an emergency equipment access panel and opened it, as if to check the readiness of the reserve oxygen cylinders. Even the inside of the access panel was polished. He removed one of the oxygen cylinders. It was polished too, and the rough edges of metal where the two halves of the cylinder were welded together had been ground even with the rest of the tank and brought to a high gloss. It was then that Max noticed that the chief manning the computer core status console was watching him out of the corner of his eye and smiling smugly, as if he were aware his new captain had seen the extraordinary level of spit and polish to which the s.h.i.+p had been brought and was very, very proud.

Carefully maintaining a neutral expression, Max replaced the cylinder and closed the panel. He opened three other panels and found a similar borderline-psychotic level of polish behind each. To top it off, there was no wear of any kind on the deck tiles, even in places where there was a pair of watch stander's feet every minute of every day the s.h.i.+p was not moored. That meant that someone was replacing the tiles at least every few months, which was certainly not the norm.

"XO, ETA to the navbuoy?"

"Two minutes, fifteen seconds, sir."

"Very well. I'll be in my cabin. Notify me as we pa.s.s the buoy. I wish to see all department heads in the wardroom at ten hundred hours. You have the CIC."

"Aye, sir, I have the CIC."

With that, Max left CIC for his cabin. One of the perquisites of being the CO is having one's cabin just a few steps away from CIC. It took him less than thirty seconds to get from the CIC hatch to his day cabin. He went directly to the captain's safe, keyed in the combination, and opened the door. Inside, on top of the usual contents, were two envelopes. One was the large, blue, official Admiralty issue envelope with the red seal used for orders, and the other was a plain, cream-colored envelope addressed by hand to "Lt. Commander M. T. Rob.i.+.c.haux-Personal and Confidential."

His heart was racing. These orders could be the key to the most exciting days of his life, or they could be the introduction to untold months of unbearable tedium. And in just a few seconds, he would know. He slipped his index finger under the seal but did not break it.

The comm terminal on his desk beeped. "CO here."

"Skipper, this is the XO. We just pa.s.sed the buoy."

"Very well. Impose full EMCON, all decks, all systems. Steady as she goes." He broke the seal.

CHAPTER 3.

09:59Z Hours, 21 January 2315 Max sat at the head of the table, gazing at his department heads and taking his first good look at the wardroom of his new command. Of the group of twelve, four were in SCUs: the XO, the chief engineer, the weapons officer, and the Marine detachment commander. Of course, it was always possible that one or more of these men were already in their combat gear, but Max took it as a sign of support from these critical officers. On the other hand, he did not take the wearing of dress blues by the others as a sign of disloyalty. Not everyone would have heard about his appearance in CIC just over half an hour ago, and not everyone would have had time to change.

As for the room itself, it was less than impressive. In the trid vids about the valiant naval heroes of the Krag War, the jut-jawed, clear-eyed, broad-shouldered protagonists always conducted their meetings in a beautifully appointed conference room complete with walls of computer displays and lavish arrays of high-definition, 3D projections to show the tactical situation from several angles and on multiple scales. c.u.mberland was too small to have a s.p.a.ce set aside just for meetings, so the group was a.s.sembled in the wardroom, where the officers typically took their meals and coffee. The designers of c.u.mberland's wardroom had made only two concessions to the compartment's secondary function as a meeting room. First, it was somewhat larger than was strictly necessary to seat the eight or so officers who were the maximum number off duty at any given time. And second, there was only one flat-panel display on one wall, as well one standard-resolution, one-cubic-meter, 3D projector.

It was 09:59, and there were fourteen chairs around the wardroom table, but only thirteen occupants, counting Max. Perhaps whoever set out the chairs had allowed for an extra or someone had counted wrong. Surely, no one would dare be late. At exactly 10:00 to the second by the wardroom clock, Max began the meeting. In the Navy, 10:00 means 10:00.

"Good morning, gentlemen. For those of you who haven't met me, I'm Lieutenant Commander Max Rob.i.+.c.haux, your new commanding officer. I'll chat briefly with each of you at the conclusion of this meeting. I'm going straight to the point. We've been given a difficult and important mission that could make a significant difference in the course of the war and, not incidentally, restore to this s.h.i.+p the respect and good name that she deserves. Unfortunately, gentlemen, it's a mission for which this s.h.i.+p and her complement are no more ready than a newborn baby would be for a night at an Alnitakian wh.o.r.ehouse. I've been over the after action reports of your last two engagements and the evaluations from your last battle exercise. They can be described in six words." He counted them off on his fingers. "Pitiful. Wretched. Em. Bar. a.s.s. Ing.

"Your people can't acquire targets, can't track targets, can't hit targets, can't maneuver toward targets, can't evade targets, can't identify targets, and can't evaluate targets. The only thing that this s.h.i.+p seems to be able to do well is be a target. Now the strange thing is that there isn't one reason in this whole big, bright galaxy why this crew should perform like a bunch of f.u.c.k-ups. According to apt.i.tude tests, this crew should be well over the naval average for s.h.i.+ps of this type. In fact, most of the members of this crew were on the tech team that shook down the systems for the prototype vessel for this cla.s.s. These people are not morons. You are not morons. So, the question of the day is why is everyone performing like morons?"

Suddenly, the door to the wardroom door burst open, and-out of breath, bedraggled, and wearing a dirty lab coat over a mismatched a.s.semblage of different grades of uniform-appeared Dr. Ibrahim Sahin.

"Doctor," Max said severely, "you are late."

He bowed. "Apologies. Please accept my profuse apologies. I had difficulty finding the location of this inappropriately named s.p.a.ce in this most confusingly arranged vessel. I mean, when I was informed that this a.s.semblage was to take place in the 'wardroom,' I a.s.sumed that we were meeting in a s.p.a.ce a.s.sociated with the s.h.i.+p's medical facilities. After all, a 'ward' is part of a hospital or a clinic, is it not?" He gazed searchingly at his audience, expecting to receive a ringing affirmation. Hearing none, he forged on.

"When I was able to find no such room in or near the Casualty Station, I looked around the s.h.i.+p for a sign or guidepost, such as we had at the Military Physicians Training Facility or at Travis Station, to steer me in the right direction. But I am amazed to report to you, sir-totally amazed-that there are no such directive signs of any kind anywhere on this entire battles.h.i.+p except those pointing to emergency hatches, firefighting equipment, and escape pods. How, sir-how, I ask you-are those uninitiated to the construction of this complex wars.h.i.+p to find their way through the labyrinthine convolutions of her multibrachiated corridors? I ask you sir, how?"

The doctor stopped talking, not so much because he ran out of indignation, but because he ran out of air.

"Doctor, Doctor, please calm yourself and take a seat." Max could not help but notice that a few of those a.s.sembled were actually smiling indulgently. If the doctor had intended to provide some much-needed comic relief to the proceedings, he could not have timed it better or delivered a more exquisitely crafted performance. "Doctor, this is a destroyer, not a battles.h.i.+p. A different kind of vessel entirely. There are no directive signs because such things would be an aid to enemy boarders. If you are ever lost again, simply ask the nearest crewman for directions, and he will be happy to a.s.sist you."

"My thanks to you, sir," said the doctor, plopping into his seat, apparently mollified that the lack of signs was due to some considered reasoning process rather than mere incompetence. "Pray, sir, return to whatever it was you were talking about. I shall review the recording to acquaint myself with what was said before my arrival."

"Thank you, Doctor. As I was saying, why does a crew comprised of men who on paper are so intelligent and able perform like morons? You know, or should know, the answers as well as I do. Three things: Training. Leaders.h.i.+p. Fighting spirit.

"First, training. The level of training on this vessel is abysmal. Why? I've looked through the crew activity reports. This crew spends twice the time on spit and polish and half the time on combat training than the standard for type. Priorities are wrong. h.e.l.l, someone has buffed, polished, and polymer sealed the washers on the bolts that hold my toilet to the deck. This isn't cleanliness; this is insanity.

"Now, don't get me wrong; a wars.h.i.+p must be clean. Scrupulously, thoroughly, immaculately, militarily clean. But there are limits, and this s.h.i.+ning-the-insides-of-the-air-ducts c.r.a.p goes out the airlock from this moment. This is a wars.h.i.+p, not an admiral's yacht. I don't care if every metal surface gleams. I don't care if the carpets are deep-cleaned daily. I have posted on the s.h.i.+p's general database the cleaning schedule for the last destroyer I served on in a combat zone. I want it adapted to this s.h.i.+p and followed. From now on, training is the priority. I want as much training crammed into the schedule as humanly possible. XO, you're now the training officer. I want a training schedule on my desk at 0600 hours that'll bring this crew to a razor's edge within twenty-one days."

"If I may, sir," interrupted the XO, respectfully, "why twenty-one days?"

"Because, XO, that's all the time we have before we go into combat."

That got everyone's attention.

"Second problem: leaders.h.i.+p. The Admiralty got rid of part of the problem for us. Captain Allen K. Oscar and Lieutenant Pang, his XO, are gone. Good riddance. Based on the admiral's opinion of them, they are probably counting comets somewhere in the Zubin Elgenubi Sector. But you can tell just from walking into CIC that those officers didn't take the problem with them when they left. Now, the primary means by which those of us in this room exercise leaders.h.i.+p is by naval discipline, and the discipline on this vessel defies explanation: greenies put on report for making mistakes in duties for which they haven't had adequate training; able s.p.a.cers confined to quarters and even put in the brig for misinterpretation of orders and honest oversights... good G.o.d, there's a man in the brig right now who's been there for forty-five days because he misidentified a sensor contact. Major Kraft, I want that man-h.e.l.l, I want every man in the brig-released immediately upon the conclusion of this meeting."

The commander of the Marine detachment nodded. "Aye, sir. My pleasure."

Max noticed from some averted gazes and foot shuffling that not everyone at the table was equally enthusiastic about that last order. Tough s.h.i.+t.

"And that's going to be the order of the day, gentlemen. Simple mistakes, errors, and oversights are to be rectified by training, not by punishment. On this s.h.i.+p, punishment is reserved for neglect of duty, insubordination, and willful misconduct. And in the case of officers, add to that abuse of subordinates. Make no mistake about that. I will not have the men excessively shouted at, berated, or abused. I know that the Navy is fueled by profanity as much as by deuterium and that sometimes it takes a lot to get a s.p.a.cer's attention, but there is a line, gentlemen; there is a matter of degree between manly exhortation and abuse. That line will not be crossed on this s.h.i.+p. The Navy is a hard service, but it is not a cruel service.