Captain James Heron: First into the Fray: Prequel to Harry Heron: Into the Unknown of the Harry Heron Series

by Patrick G Cox

  After they placed their orders, the Captain studied her for a moment. “Right, Lieutenant-Commander Rowanberg, care to tell me what this is all about? The information on that chip confirmed some of what I already suspected, but there’s a lot more, I think.”

  “I don’t use my rank in this role, sir. It gets in the way.” Piet Brandeis had warned her the Captain was sharp and could be very direct, and she’d experienced some of that when, as a Midshipman, her class had done some space time aboard the ship he was serving on.

  “I expect it does. I should think driving a desk is a bit different from the usual role.” He laughed, remembering her as a Midshipman who coped very well leading a team in a deliberately difficult exercise. “Don’t worry, I won’t expose you. I know you’ve an important job to do. Anything I can do to help it along, you need only ask.” He paused as the waiter approached and poured a sample of the wine he’d ordered. Taking the glass, he inhaled the wine then swirled it, then inhaled again and nodded his approval. “That’ll do, thank you.” The waiter departed, and James looked directly into Felicity’s eyes. “I think it would probably help if we were a little less formal, don’t you?”

  “Thank you, Captain. Yes, that’ll help a lot.”

  “Then call me James. Which do you prefer? Felicity, or something else?”

  Raising her glass, she saluted him. “Felicity is my real name, and Rowanberg was my grandmother’s.”

  “Then Felicity it shall be.” He lifted his wineglass, returned the salute, and took a sip, relishing its palate and aroma. “Yes, that’s excellent,” he said. “I apologise if I spoiled someone’s plan by not taking the private transport pod sent to my quarters. Have I upset things?”

  She laughed. “Not really, just made it tricky for whoever was checking on you, but they’ll survive.”

  “Ah, nothing serious then.” Skilfully changing the subject he steered it into general chitchat while drawing his companion out on her likes, dislikes, taste in music, hobbies and a great deal more as they enjoyed their meal. She very quickly realised that he was an astute listener. Herself a skilled interrogator, she realised she’d met her match. The Captain was a master of the art of such informal interviewing. He was also a good raconteur, using his anecdotes to draw out responses and answers.

  When the meal was done, they stood in the foyer of the restaurant to say their goodbyes.

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening, James.”

  “My pleasure, Felicity.” He wanted to ask, “Shall I walk you back to your suite?” but decided against it. Maybe next time, he told himself. He was really drawn to Felicity. She was more than just an attractive woman. She was brilliantly intelligent and quick-witted, yet lighthearted and effervescent, just the sort of woman he liked. In fact, she reminded him so much of his late wife that it was uncanny.

  “I hope you’ll accept another invitation soon,” he said, feeling somewhat nervous at the prospect of dating again after so many years of marriage.

  “I’d like that,” she said with an easy smile that didn’t quite betray whether she was genuinely interested in him on a personal level or merely being polite.

  Chapter 7

  Trials and Delays

  Commander Valerie Petrocova let her annoyance show. There was a malfunction somewhere in her target location and tracking system, and it was proving elusive. The shakeup in management of the Dock Platform and the project brought an unforeseen side effect. The civil managers refused to allow any changes, no matter how trivial, unless they were first requested using an endless and time consuming set of forms. Even the very helpful and efficient Ms Rowanberg had so far been unable to clear the logjam.

  Valerie stabbed at her tablet, completing yet another requisition for a change that somehow, seemingly by magic, would make the unworkable work.

  “It’s bloody obvious the damned thing can’t work in this configuration, but that moron in the Installation Office refuses to allow me to do what is needed, even though it won’t cost a single cent, unless I have filled in this damned form yet again so he can cover his fat backside. Even then he’ll find reasons why I haven’t completed it to his satisfaction and will want it rejigged and then refer it to another meeting!”

  Commander Grenville nodded in weary agreement. “They’re all the same, supposed to be here to make our jobs easier to ‘allow you to focus on your specialty’,” he added, mimicking their least favourite bureaucrat, and this brought a snort of laughter from Valerie.

  “Waste of space,” snapped Mary Allison. “At least we’ve now got the right kit for our reactors. Damned fool could have killed the lot of us with the inferior equipment he substituted.”

  Richard Grenville seated himself in the group. “It’s all about control. If they can make you jump through hoops, it makes them feel important and of course means their job is indispensable. Learn to beat them at their own game. Every time they ask for something like this, put your request to them in writing with copies to Fleet, the Captain and the Admiral Constructor. Then include a statement in your submission notating the cost per day of these ridiculous delays.”

  Commander Petrocova laughed. “And you say they’re devious! You make even the great Machiavelli look like a saint. I’ll do it, but where can I get a figure for the cost that’s provable and authentic?”

  “I’ll give you one.” The Executive Commander smiled. “I got it from the Chief of Construction. It’s all worked out right down to the cost per day and even the hour.”

  “I’ll take it,” pandered Mary Allison. “Just look at the cost overruns they’re trying to push now that we’ve identified all the cheap and underspec components they substituted.”

  “You can rest easy on that one,” Richard replied. “Fleet have invoked a contract clause that states all costs must be borne by the responsible parties. The contractors are squirming because they’d skimmed off a massive profit and diverted it. Now they have to pay it back with interest. Their pals among the bureaucrats know they’re on thin ice on both sides. I suspect that’s why they’re trying this new game.”

  Felicity Rowanberg knew she was being followed, but couldn’t spot the tail. As she browsed the displays in a high-end clothing boutique in the marketplace, she surreptitiously activated her tracer device while appearing absorbed in studying the fine quality of the cloth and workmanship of a tailored wool blazer. The activation would alert the rest of the security team. All she needed to do was stay out of trouble until backup arrived. She worked her way back to the front of the shop and glanced out of the expansive front window. Spotting a café, she walked to it and sat at a vacant table.

  “Ms Rowanberg? May I join you?” The newcomer didn’t wait for consent. Pulling out a chair, she seated herself. “I’m Yelendi Dysson, Director of Contractor Relations for Brexley Dock Operators and DockCorp. You’ve probably heard of me.” The woman’s expression was a blend of fake friendliness and the expectation of compliance.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms Dysson.” Felicity smiled, and hoped it didn’t betray her mistrust of this woman. How did she know the exact moment to approach me at the table? Hmmm… Her senses prickled. Ms Dysson was the subject of extensive briefings. This was no chance meeting, but what was the woman after? “I’m afraid your name isn’t familiar to me, but then I’m just a Fleet Admin executive.” She smiled ruefully. “We just make sure all the paperwork is in order, tick all the boxes, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m sure your work is important nonetheless.” The smile seemed genuine. “Here’s my card.” Passing the small rectangle of plastic with its embedded chip, she paused as the android waiter brought Felicity’s order. “Those macarons look divine. I’ll have some as well, with a cup of tea,” she told the waiter. “I heard you were giving the Project Admin for the Vanguard a good shakeout. I expect it needed it.”

  “Not really, and hardly a shakeout, just tightening up procedures. One or two little lapses sorted out. Some practices developed that aren’t acceptable in a project of t
his complexity. Nothing spectacular” Felicity fingered the card idly as her bracelet scanned it and registered that it had a currently inactive listening device built into it. Her boss would find that interesting and possibly useful.

  She smiled and waited as Ms Dysson accepted her tea and the small plate of six perfect pastel-colored macarons. “So, what brings you here this morning?” said Felicity.

  “Oh, nothing in particular. You know how it is on these stations. Sometimes you just need to meet someone you don’t see all day every day, or just get out of your own space and try to relax.”

  “Definitely,” said Felicity, keeping her response neutral.

  Yelendi smiled. “When I saw you walking this way, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to meet you.”

  It sounded plausible enough to Felicity, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. A faint tingle in her bracelet told her a protection team were present, so she decided to play along. “I do know what you mean about being confined to these space stations, no matter how comfortable they make them. A leisurely walk in the botanical park does wonders for me, and the one here is a beauty.”

  “Oh yes! I often go there.” Ms Dysson’s link chirped. “Oh drat. I’m wanted. May I give you a call later? Perhaps we can have lunch or dinner together sometime.”

  About to refuse, Felicity felt the tingle in her wrist. “Sure, that’ll be great. I’m free most evenings.”

  The Captain surveyed the newly completed Command Centre. It gave the impression he was suspended in the centre of a vast sphere, a bit disorienting at first, but one got used to it. Everywhere he looked he could see the space surrounding the ship, even the massive docking arms that tethered her to the construction dock. More importantly, it showed the actual distances of objects outside the ship. Even the suited figures of the workers swarming over parts of the hull were in view.

  He walked forward to his Command Chair and sat. Immediately the displays came to life, activated by the motion of placing his arms on the armrests of his chair. He rotated himself slowly, taking in the surroundings yet again from this vantage point. Nothing seemed to interfere with his view, not even the clusters of workstations arranged around his seat.

  He nodded to his Executive Commander and the anxious technicians gathered for this first trial run. “It’s good, even better than the simulator.” To the Command Team he said, “Take your stations and let’s run the tests.”

  The officers and rates moved to their workstations and took their seats, each logging in and confirming their status.

  “Vocal command simulation,” the Captain ordered. “Commence voice pattern checks and recognition.”

  “Welcome, Captain.” The ethereal voice of the ship was brisk yet pleasant. “Voice recognised, Captain James Heron, officer in command. Your orders, sir?”

  “Simulate undocking and preparation for transit. Simulation only, repeat, simulation only.”

  “Simulation only. Undocking procedures ready, awaiting your command.”

  “Navigation online please,” the Captain ordered. “Navigation, simulate undocking. Course required for orbit preparatory for entering transit from this location.”

  “Course laid in, sir.” The voice of Commander Ben Curran, the Navigating Officer, sounded on the Captain’s link. “Helm on standby.”

  “Confirm, simulation only, helm on standby. Engineering, simulation of manoeuvring. Power to attain orbit to transit. Commence.”

  “Engineering online, manoeuvring power for undocking. Ready for simulation.”

  “Ship, commence simulation. Show movement as if the ship is undocking.”

  “Commencing simulation, activate docking locks release.”

  Captain Heron looked across at the officer responsible for this function. “Enter the simulation release code. Let’s run through all the checks. If we accidentally move her now, it’ll upset the workforce no end, and I don’t want to have to explain it to the Admiral!”

  Leaning back in his chair, the Chairman steepled his fingers, a slight frown giving him a saturnine appearance. “So the Fleet have appointed a new Head of Admin for the Vanguard Project. Why is this a problem?”

  “The new Chief of Admin is extremely thorough, and has uncovered anomalies her predecessor had been persuaded to ignore.” The secretary paused. “Our agent is working on her. She hopes to persuade Ms. Rowanberg to work for us, but these matters can’t be rushed.”

  “I see. And who is replacing Ribble? How was he exposed?”

  “The Engineering Commander on the Vanguard discovered the drive unit substitution. Unfortunately the units Ribble ordered were so underpowered their discovery was inevitable as soon as power trials were run. Had he followed advice and substituted more flexible units, it would not have been discovered until the final transit trials.”

  “But now it has been discovered, and they’re fixing the problem—at our expense! I want to discuss this with the legal team responsible for accepting that contract.”

  The secretary refrained from pointing out that the Chairman himself had pushed to accept the contracts to secure the ownership of the privatised Fleet Construction Platforms. “I will make appointments for them, sir.”

  “Do that. Get our legal team working on having them changed.”

  “Yes, sir.” The secretary moved to depart, but the Chairman said, “Wait.”

  Ari Khamenei was pensive for a moment. It had been overambitious to expect a competent Fleet Engineer to not notice such a large deviation from specification. He’d have to discuss this with his technical advisers. After all, they’d assured him it could be done, and they were also certain that by the time it was discovered, the ship would have been lost to a catastrophic failure. But something else was bothering him. “This new Head Administrator—Felicity Rowanberg—her efficiency must be curbed. Tell Ms Dysson to persuade her or recruit her. If she is unsuccessful at either, we will have to consider a more direct approach.”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  The secretary departed, and the Chairman sat scowling. I’m surrounded by incompetents, he fumed. He would allow no deviation from plan and expected no failure.

  In Weapons Control, Commander Petrocova glared at the displays. As with the display in the Command Centre, she had a full view of everything surrounding the ship in all directions. Seated around her were the weapons targeting staff and operators. The batteries of weapons, each controlled by an officer and a small team of targeting rates, could be fired independently or in groups. The ship would ultimately have an outfit of short-range plasma cannon, long-range particle beam projectors and batteries of long-range missiles. The Vanguard would also be equipped with a “doomsday” weapon based on a particle accelerator. It had never been tested in full size, though the small-scale tests certainly showed that it was potentially devastating. It was so secret that very few of the ship’s own crew, and certainly none of the builders, knew exactly what they were installing. On paper it was a high penetration scanner, but this masked the fact that its penetration was utterly destructive.

  The Lieutenant in charge of particle weapons approached Valerie with a look of annoyance on his face.

  “What is it this time?” she demanded.

  “The tracking lock is non-functional, ma’am. We had it working until they tried to adjust the ranging function. Now we can read the range but we can’t lock.”

  Valerie spoke to the ship. “Vanguard, identify fault please.”

  “Component incompatibility in Node 626Beta. The component fitted is incapable of processing all the functions you expect it to perform.”

  “Damn!” The Commander’s face was grim. “Another one. Very well, power everything down, Lieutenant, and get that node open. I want everything in there checked against the original specifications and the problem identified. If it’s another dodgy substitution, someone is going to be in deep trouble, and I know exactly how it will be recorded.”

  Marcus Grover sat at the back of the commun
ity meeting and listened with growing anger as the speaker droned on in her annoying whiny voice, spewing one platitude after another. This meeting had been called by the Community Council to provide an “opportunity” for the Johnstone Research Foundation (JRF) to “open a dialogue” with the residents.

  Stinking corporate buzzwords, Grover mused with a smirk. Some of us are not fooled. Grover noted with annoyance that Terrien Hurker had a place on the speaker’s platform, as did Gulan Hamadi, the bank manager, and Stepan Glinka, the power and utilities controller. Several of those from JRF were of a distinctly military appearance, and watched the community people with an almost predatory gaze. None of the elected members of the council looked happy among the Johnstone people, and several looked downright angry.

  “Due to the sensitive nature of the research we will be carrying out, the island will be a security zone. All shipments to or from the island will have to be registered with our office and checked.” The speaker paused to smile reassuringly—or so she thought—at the audience. “Our Foundation appreciates that this may cause some of you some difficulty, but it is a small price to pay when the work you will be supporting is absolutely vital to the future of humanity.”

  The angry murmur from the audience was punctuated by several shouts in protest.

  “What about our needs?” yelled one man.

  “Yeah, some of our produce has to be sealed for transport,” shouted another. “Opening the containers will spoil it!”

  “I’m sure we can find ways to accommodate that, Mister—”

  “No, it damned well can’t be got around,” shouted a man who was the head of one of the original settler families. “We’ve already got shipping problems now that Pangaea Trans has taken over, and we’re tired of the excuses!” Shouts of agreement echoed this. “And no damned compensation! Why? Because we were sold the wrong insurance coverage, according to the company that’s taken over the local insurers.”