Man Of War: To Honor You Call Us Part 3

"And remember, these men need to be encouraged at least as much as they need to be criticized. You, the men in this room, are their leaders. They'll be looking to you for guidance, for encouragement, for help. Give it to them. Show them how to be good s.p.a.cers, good crewmen, good warriors. They can't reach behind themselves and pull it out of their a.s.ses. They've got to learn it from you.

"Third and last, we need to cultivate a warrior spirit on this ship. Too many of these men act as though they are getting ready for a fleet exercise or an admiral's inspection instead of meeting the enemy in battle to take or destroy him. Until further notice, SCUs are the Uniform of the Day. Officers will carry sidearms and boarding cutla.s.ses at all times. Enlisted personnel will train regularly to repel boarders and be thoroughly drilled in sidearms, shoulder arms, edged weapons, and hand-to-hand combat. Men will practice boarding and repelling boarders at least three times a week, watch against watch, with an extra beer or liquor ration to the winners.

"I noticed that the corridor and CIC weapons lockers have been removed. I want all weapons lockers that were issued to this ship restored and stocked by 0600.

"I reviewed the armorer's log, and there is no record of any officer on this vessel having his sidearm serviced or his boarding cutla.s.s sharpened in over a year. I'll personally inspect the sidearms and boarding cutla.s.ses of every officer when he goes on duty, starting at 0600 tomorrow. That's for all three watches, and I pity any of you who fail. All of this goes for the senior noncommissioned officers as well. Ratings of petty officer first or higher will carry arms just like the commissioned officers.

"Major, what about your Marines?"

"Captain, we're c.o.c.ked, locked, and loaded for Krag. When on duty, every member of the Marine detachment, including myself, carries an M-88 pulse rifle or an M-72 COB shotgun, plus Model 62 or Model 1911 sidearms, boarding cutla.s.s, eight M-304 grenades, and combat knife. Every man sleeps with weapons within easy reach. Plus-well, sir, being Marines, sir..."

"Right. Every one of your men has one or two little personal surprises for any Krag that manages to get on the ship," Max said, grinning. He always liked the Marine approach to warfare.

"You got it, Captain. If they poke their little black noses onto the c.u.mberland, we want to welcome them properly." The major produced a very wicked-looking, six-inch, double-edged dagger from his sleeve, twirled it deftly in his hand, and made it disappear back into his sleeve in less than two seconds.

"We must never forget, gentlemen, that the purpose of this ship is to kill the enemy. Killing is what we're about, and every man and boy on board must be ready and able to kill at any moment. Our entire crew, including the cooks and the youngest midshipman, needs to be reminded continually that they're warriors, not stewards on a pa.s.senger liner.

"Because, gentlemen, if we are not ready to kill the Krag, I a.s.sure you that the Krag are ready to kill us."

Max let that sink in for a few seconds. Then, he touched a control on the table in front of him, causing a three-dimensional display of the sector to appear over the wardroom table. "Now, our mission. Most of you know that we're now on course for the Charlie jump point in this system"; a blinking circle appeared around one star. "That jump leads to Markeb B. From there, we will make our way, jump by jump, using an indirect route"-circles blinked around nineteen stars in sequence, tracing out a long, irregular arc-"through these uninhabited systems, to reach the Free Corridor un.o.bserved.

"Intel informs us that the Krag have been making up production shortfalls and resource shortages by obtaining substantial war materiel in the Free Corridor. They are buying raw materials, food, machine tools, and some premunition chemicals from neutral systems through human and neutral alien intermediaries, transferring them to their own freighters in deep s.p.a.ce, and transporting them back to the Krag Hegemony. The initial sellers never know that this stuff is going to the Krag.

"Our orders: While respecting all recognized territorial s.p.a.ce claims and neutral shipping, we are to conduct a war patrol in the Free Corridor, where we are to attack and destroy any Krag vessels of any description or other vessels that we can positively determine to be carrying Krag cargo, as well as any other enemy targets of opportunity that may present themselves, provided that we can engage them with a reasonable probability of success."

Max noticed that a young ensign, a very young ensign, was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, as though he wanted to ask a question but was afraid to interrupt. Max turned to the young man. "If you have something to say, Ensign, say it. That's why I called you together here in person, rather than just sending you written orders by email."

"What about resupply? Sir, I don't know if you know this about this destroyer cla.s.s, sir, but the Khybers have short legs. The book says that we have an unsupported endurance of seventy-five days, tops. With twenty-one days to get there, twenty-one days to get back-factor in a week for unexpected delays or if we have to come back by a longer route-that leaves only thirty-three days on station. If they don't send a tender in after us, it's going to be a mighty short cruise."

"You're Ensign Thieu, the supply officer?" The young man nodded. "Good question. Keep asking them. It's probably going to be shorter than that. That seventy-five-day endurance is a pretty optimistic figure, isn't it?" The ensign nodded again. "I've looked at the your stores inventory, and it looks to me more like sixty days of consumption under intermittent combat conditions plus another five or six days of emergency rations. That about right, Thieu?"

"Yes, sir. That's about how I calculate it, sir."

"Fortunately, the Admiralty has thought about this problem. They've prepositioned supplies, including weapons reloads, fuel, spares, and provisions in three separate locations for us in our operational area. The locations are not in any Union database and are known only to me. With what we've got on board and what's been squirreled away for us, we've got what we need for about 180 days of intensive operations. That'll give us all the time we need to learn the lay of the land, scout out what the enemy is doing, find his ships, and blow them and their valuable war materiel to flaming atoms. This ship is going to be doing what she was designed to do, gentlemen: bring the war to the enemy and hurt him where he lives-war production. Questions? None? We're adjourned."

A few minutes later, three chief petty officers sat around a small table in a tiny office for the use of CPOs, known as the "Goat Locker." They were not happy. "Ship's going to h.e.l.l on a maglev rail," said the first.

"You got that right," said the second. "First thing young Captain 'Row-Bye-s.h.i.t' does is stop the crew from doing the one thing that it's really good at. You can't have a taut ship if the men don't have pride in her, that's for sure."

"And discipline's going to go out the airlock, to boot," the third chimed in. "All this namby-pamby nonsense about encouraging the men and not crossing the line and not punishing them for not doing their duty... there'll be h.e.l.l to pay for it. With this bunch, you've got to be on them every second, and they've got to know that if they don't do their duty, there's more waiting for them than harsh language and being put on report."

"On top of that, this young torpedo jockey is going to get us killed, every man and boy of us. I can feel it. He's reckless. And this deployment is a suicide mission. It's all right out of some third-rate trid vid: resupply caches known only to him, independent operations in the Free Corridor, destroy enemy shipping-all bulls.h.i.t!" The first one was starting to get worked up. "That's not what destroyers do. We're escorts. We operate with other ships. Right in the training manuals, it says that the functions of a destroyer are primarily to screen larger ships from attack by fighters and other smaller ships, scout the route ahead, and operate as sensor pickets for the Task Force, not run around on our own in a distant sector cut off from all support like some overlong tree branch just waiting to get chopped off. There's only two ways this ends. We're all either cold dust between the stars or louse bait in some Krag POW camp."

"Unless we do something about it first," said the second.

"Aye," said the other two.

CHAPTER 4.

11:10Z Hours, 21 January 2315 The hand-addressed envelope in the captain's safe had contained confidential remarks from the admiral himself, addressed to Max's attention and for his eyes only. Max sat in the office section of his day cabin, a moderate s.p.a.ce consisting of a desk and office chair, a few chairs for visitors, a few other a.s.sorted tables and chairs, and a small waiting room outside a door. Max considered the admiral's comments while he waited for his next appointment, due in a few minutes.

As always, the admiral had said a lot in comparatively few words. Max knew he would reread the note several more times before he squeezed all of the meaning out of it. In particular, on top of some very interesting remarks about a few of the officers a.s.signed to him, he found the admiral's comments about his own attributes troubling: "Normally, a Navy Cross means a plum a.s.signment. In your case, however, certain conduct both in s.p.a.ce and in the dirt causes me to have serious reservations about your judgment. You know the incidents of which I speak. As things stand now, the prospects of your rising above your present rank are extremely slender.

"Still, you do seem to have a fire in your belly. There is always the remote chance that this command experience will be the crucible that turns poor metal into steel. So, against my better judgment, I am giving you this opportunity. It is opportunity mitigated by serious challenges: former CO is a loon; former XO, a sycophantic martinet; ship shines better than it shoots and has performed miserably by every measure; NCOs are likely to try mutiny or sabotage if you change anything; and even the conscientious officers are green and not terribly proficient.

"But it's not all bad. The ship is one of the best designs to come out of the yards in decades. You will find reason, too, to thank me for the officers whom I have recently transferred to the vessel.

"You are being given lemons. Go make lemonade. And kick some Krag a.s.s while you're at it."

The Marine posted outside his door stuck his head in to let Max know that Dr. Sahin had arrived for his appointment.

"Send him in."

The doctor entered, approached Max's desk, did a fair approximation of a salute, and started to take a seat.

"Doctor, wait."

The doctor froze. Sahin was in something approaching combat gear, but his weapons belt had a twist in it and his boarding cutla.s.s was attached to the wrong loop on the uniform. The sleeves were fastened in such a way that if the ship lost pressure and the doctor had to put on his pressure gloves, they would not make a proper seal with the sleeves, so the uniform would not hold pressure, and he would die. "Doctor, first, you need to review the training file on this particular uniform. You've got a few things wrong. And second, military courtesy dictates that you don't sit in the presence of your commanding officer until and unless he invites you to do so."

"I apologize, sir. I have been serving almost exclusively in a hospital for my entire naval career."

"I understand. You're probably going to want to brush up on these things now that you're on a combat vessel."

"Yes, sir."

"Please be seated."

The doctor sat.

"Doctor, you've sure got an unusual background for a chief medical officer on a warship. Undergraduate degrees in philology, theology, xeno-botany, and xeno-herpetology, master's degree in interstellar relations from the University of New Istanbul, second in your cla.s.s at Johns Hopkins Medical School, residency in the trauma unit of Beijing General Hospital. And according to your record, no one's quite sure how many languages you speak."

"I find it rather difficult to reckon myself, particularly as so many 'languages' are in reality only dialects or variants of other languages. Suffice it to say that I can converse with virtually all of the humans and most of the aliens in the part of s.p.a.ce to which we are headed. The only language that gives me difficulty is the particular argot spoken in the Navy."

"As smart as you are, you won't have any problems picking it up. Now, on top of what your records say, Admiral Hornmeyer has notified me unofficially that you have personal contacts in the Free Corridor that might be able to put us on the trail of Krag purchases and ship movements. Now, how in the big, bright galaxy is that?"

"Captain, as you know, I was born on Tubek. But at the risk of sounding like a well-worn literary cliche about Arab and Turkish traders, my father's ancestors for many generations have been merchants and traders from New Istanbul in the Markeb sector."

"I've served on patrol vessels in that area. Any company I might have heard of?"

"The firm was Harun Sahin & Sons, founded by my grandfather."

"That's not one I remember. But I'd remember only the largest ones and the ones who gave us trouble."

"I am certain that our company would have been neither of those. It was in that broad medium tier of firms. We kept something between five and seven ships running all the time, usually about half a dozen charters and the two with family members on board that were owned by the company."

"Well, that wouldn't make it one of the big players, but that's still a pretty good-sized company. What kind of trading-" The comm panel beeped unexpectedly. Startled, Max flinched. He shot a quick glance at Dr. Sahin, who was studiously looking toward the porthole, as though making a point of not noticing Max's reaction, although Max was certain he had noticed. d.a.m.n. He hit the b.u.t.ton to open the comm circuit.

"Robichaux."

"Skipper, this is the XO. We've got a minor power deficit on the forward main deflectors. Brown says he'll get the problem licked within the hour, but until he does, I'd like to transfer some power from the rear deflectors. Regulations don't allow me to do that without approval of the CO."

"Granted," Max said at once. "Let me know if there is any further problem."

"Aye, sir." Max closed the circuit.

"Where was I? Right. What did your folks do?"

"There wasn't any specialty, really. They stayed away from contraband and extremely bulky goods such as ore and grain, but on the whole they simply looked for items in one system that they could buy and sell for a profit in another. It really didn't matter what, although I remember carrying a lot of precision machine tools, gourmet olive oil, and fine art Pfelung gla.s.sware. The routes tended to be among the worlds of the Free Corridor and between the Free Corridor and the Union worlds in the Markeb and Tulloi sectors. Because my cousin and I were to take over the business when my father and his brother became too old to run it, we frequently went along so we could meet their business contacts.

"When the Tulloi sector fell to the Krag, my father, his brother, and their wives were all on board the two family ships, along with most of the rest of my relatives, and were never heard from again. I was relieved that my younger sister and two brothers were attending secondary school on Tubek and were not harmed. Of course, Tubek fell a few years later and they are now lost as well. In any event, on many worlds in the Corridor I know people or-at least know people who know people-who are likely to be the people with whom the Krag are doing business. From them we might learn departure times, routes, and other information that will help you find these ships in the immensity of s.p.a.ce."

"Quite possibly."

"Am I correct in my understanding that before our departure, this vessel was provided with a Piper-Grumman Shetland cla.s.s microfreighter?"

"It was. The Navy has done us proud too. She looks worn and banged up on the outside, but she's been retrofitted with naval specification engines and weapons that just might get you out of a tight corner or two."

"I look forward to piloting her," the doctor said with enthusiasm.

"Don't think so, Doctor. Able s.p.a.cer Second Fahad came aboard an hour before I did. His pilot a.s.sessment score is one-eighty-five on that ship and one-sixty overall. He looks enough like you to pa.s.s for a cousin at least. He'll be doing the piloting."

"But I grew up on freighters. I can pilot the ship."

"Sorry, Doctor, I've seen your piloting scores. They're barely high enough to let you at the helm of a Vespa-Martin Dragonfly in open s.p.a.ce in some of the more lenient systems. No way are they high enough for me to let you pilot a souped-up armed microfreighter in company with a rated warship, much less land on her hangar deck. Hangar deck landings are a specialized skill, and you haven't had the training. I don't want you banging up our new freighter."

"As you wish."

"Have you had a chance to check out your equipment, stores, and personnel yet?"

"I have. That was the first thing I did when I reported on board around 03:00 in response to Admiral Hornmeyer's most exigent directive."

"Exigent directive?"

"Indeed. I was wakened from a sound sleep at 02:10 or so by the admiral himself on voicecom. He told me, rather loudly, to get my lazy, overeducated a.s.s out of my bunk and said that if I wasn't on board the c.u.mberland in less than an hour, with my duffel ready for an extended cruise as her chief medical officer, he was going to play table tennis with my t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es."

"Sounds like you were shanghaied, Doctor."

"Indeed."

"So, is everything satisfactory?"

"For a ship with a complement of 215 men and boys, I find the Casualty Station admirably well equipped and stocked. I have also met the personnel a.s.signed to me, and I find them to be reasonably well trained for their respective positions, although there appear to be some deficiencies in some specific areas of training-areas that I plan to remedy immediately. I also note that the morale appears to be rather poor. My understanding is that the previous chief medical officer was less than stellar."

"He wasn't the only one," Max said. "What about your head nurse-what's his name?"

"Church. The admiral rea.s.signed him from the Nimitz, and he came aboard ten minutes before I did. When I got to the Casualty Station, he already had the secured pharmaceuticals locker open, an armed Marine sergeant standing by to guard the drugs, and was taking inventory with the pharmacist's mate witnessing and performing a cross-check. I am favorably impressed. I could not ask for better. There is only one thing more that one could wish for."

"And that would be?"

"A female nurse."

Max smiled. "Yes, that would have its advantages."

"I resent your implication, sir. There are distinct therapeutic advantages to having a female nurse on board, especially if she is attractive. In my experience, female nurses are more tender and sympathetic than the male ones, and injured men seem to be more willing to submit without resistance or complaint to embarra.s.sing and painful procedures administered by a female nurse. Resistance and opposition seem to disappear as if by magic in the presence of an attractive young woman. Whereas I might have to spend precious minutes, even hours, employing sophisticated reasoning and advanced psychological techniques to secure the patient's cooperation, a lovely young nurse need only bat her eyes at the recalcitrant, cantankerous old chief petty officer, and the thing is done.

"It also goes without saying that females are on the whole, by nature, more conscientious, more attentive to details, have better short-term memories, possess higher manual dexterity, and have a greater facility for understanding the speech of injured, infirm, or excited patients who may not be speaking clearly. They employ problem-solving techniques that are identifiably different from those employed by males. In short, they bring attributes to the table that are not present when one has an all-male medical staff."

"Actually, Doctor, I was making no improper implication, and those are the kinds of advantages I was thinking of. You see, I first went to s.p.a.ce in 2295, only two weeks after the Gynophage attack, so when I joined my first ship, the San Jacinto, the crew was still about a third female."

"But post-Gynophage..."

"Post-Gynophage, it's a different ballgame," said Max.

A different ballgame didn't begin to describe it. The Gynophage was an incredibly deadly viral disease cooked up by the Krag and launched against the Union sometime in the 2285 or 2286. It was carried on board 217 highly stealthed compression drive drones programmed to reach 217 different planets throughout the Union within hours of each other on 12 August 2295, the fourteenth year of the war, and to dispense thousands of atmosphere entry vehicles that spread the virus in the air over population centers.

Although the virus almost instantly infected everyone it reached, most males experienced no symptoms. Women, on the other hand, were subject to excruciating Ebola-like liquefaction of their internal organs and death within hours of infection, at a rate of nearly 99 percent. Those few whom it did not kill, it rendered scarred, brain damaged, and sterile.

As if that were not bad enough, the disease spread rapidly from person to person by virtually every known means of disease transmission. As infected men fled affected planets on private s.p.a.cecraft, they spread the disease to the remaining Union worlds within days. Only a Herculean effort, involving practically every human medical researcher in the galaxy, costing more than 300 trillion credits, and tying up most of the interstellar communications bandwidth and computing power available to the human race, saved humanity from extinction. In only thirty-two days from day of the attack, the Gynophage Project developed a combination antibody serum and vaccine known as the Moro Treatment, after the head of the project, the brilliant Kenyan physician and medical researcher, Dr. Emeka Moro.

With more than half of the human females in the galaxy dead and the demographic future of humankind in doubt, the Navy withdrew almost all of its serving female personnel, most of whom were of childbearing age, to the Core Systems, effectively making the Navy an all-male force.

"It's certainly unfair to the women who might want to serve, but I don't see any way around it," said Max. "d.a.m.n shame. Maybe, once we've won this war, we can bring them back."

"The Casualty Station will be a better place."

"So will CIC. So, Doctor, if that's all-"

"Lieutenant Commander?"