Till the Conflict is Over
by Michael A. Hooten
Text Copyright © 2019 Michael A. Hooten
All Rights Reserved
Cover image by Thomas Budach via Pixabay
For the survivors
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 1
Stepping on board the USS Montgomery was more than just déjà vu. It was the same class of ship as the Roosevelt Roads, so I came in to the same port, with the same quarterdeck, and the only difference was the crest on the podium. And the fact that I had been delivered by a rescue crew. And that all my shipmates were dead. Yeah, other than that, exactly the same.
I turned forward, saluted, turned back to the officer of the deck, saluted again, and said, “Permission to come aboard.”
The OOD saluted back and said, “Permission granted.”
Behind me, the airlock closed with the familiar clarions, flashing lights, and a voice telling us how doomed we were if we didn’t stand clear. Okay, the message wasn’t that dire, but it was insistent, in that calm, detached, computerized way. The inner hatch opened, and I thought the OOD was going to lead me to the captain’s cabin. But the captain was waiting for me, along with two masters-at-arms.
I saluted, and he returned it solemnly. “I’m Captain Rodgers,” he said. “It’s good to meet you, petty officer. I understand you’ve been busy.” He cracked a tentative grin.
It felt weird, like he was being deferential to me. “Not so much in the last couple of weeks, sir. Just waiting for you guys.”
He nodded. “I want you to go with these two petty officers to sick bay. We want to get you checked out, let you get some rest.” He saw me hesitate, and said, “Is there something you need, petty officer?”
“My shipmates,” I said. “I don’t want to leave without them. Especially Big Mike—EN1 Otewa. You’ll find him in my turret. It’s important I get him back to his family. It’s important to get them all home.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got twenty-five of my best men over there,” he said. “We’re going to take good care of them.”
I let out a deep sigh, and probably would have collapsed except for the zero gees that makes it hard to fall down. As it was, the MA’s jumped forward and helped guide me off the quarter deck and towards sick bay.
We passed plenty of sailors, and most stared at me with a combination of amazement and fear. I didn’t realize how strange I must look, unshaven and unshorn, and probably pretty wild eyed. And they all knew who I was. I didn’t know anyone, and I felt very alone.
HN1 Appleton, who looked Latino despite his name, met us at the hatch into medical. He whistled at the sight of me. “You look like you’ve been living in a haunted house.”
“Lotta dead people,” I said. He guided me into a seat, dismissed the MA’s, and hooked me up to a machine that started dumping all the data out of my steel suit. He pulled up a summary on his tablet, swiping a few times to get all the info. Finally he just shook his head.
“Physically, you seem fine. At least your suit thinks so.” He peered closely at me. “But how are you feeling?”
“I don’t know.” I looked down at my hands. “I guess I’m more relieved than anything. I guess.”
“Sure, that’s pretty normal,” he said. “Come on, I need you out of that steel suit, and we’re going to get you some assisted sleep. Good drugs, man, not just ibuprofen. If your body is forced to rest, your mind will soon follow.”
“Aye, that sounds good.” I just kind of stood there, though, until he began helping me. Taking off the steel suit made me feel cold and vulnerable, but he got me into some kind of special coverall that had warmers, sensors, and plenty of blinky lights. It was loose and awkward, but then he got me settled in bunk on the side of the compartment, hooked me up to an IV, and I was out in about thirty seconds.
He was right about one thing; those were some good drugs. They kept me under, but I kept almost waking, where I could hear everything, but couldn’t open my eyes. Usually it was just the various clicks and beeps of the equipment, and maybe Appleton moving around, but at least twice, I heard him talking to people. The first time, I guess the captain came to check on me.
“How’s he doing?”
Appleton said, “Not too bad, sir. We’re keeping an eye on him around the clock, but physically everything checks out.”
“And mentally?” the captain asked.
“Hard to tell while he’s asleep, sir.”
“True, but it seems like the best thing right now.”
“Why is that, sir?” Appleton said. “Our normal protocol is to get people active and busy after a major trauma.”
“His tablet indicates he’s got friends at Port Farragut. We want him to wake up with something other than Juno on the monitors.”
“So a month long nap,” Appleton said. “We’ll keep him comfy.”
“Thank you.”
The second time could have been later that day, or weeks later. I recognized Appleton’s voice, but didn’t recognize the second voice.
“Dude, are you going to give him a shave? He looks like one of those Martian explorers.”
“Naw,” Appleton said. “Shave and a haircut when we wake him. Let him look pretty for whoever he knows on Farragut.”
“Yeah, I guess they’re not worried about uniform standards right now. Is this his steel suit?”
“Sure is.”
“It looks really good.”
“It didn’t when we brought him in. I swear that kid is the luckiest bastard alive.”
“It was pretty beat up?”
“I’ve never seen that many nicks and scratches on a suit that still had atmospheric integrity. But none of them were deep, so I guess he was a lot more careful than it first looked.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“Yep.” I thought the other guy had left, or that I had fallen back into a deeper sleep, but Appleton said, “Okay, it’s late, and I’ve still got to go check on a few guys fighting the crud.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” the other guy said. I heard the hatch open. “You think he did the right thing?”
“Dude, he survived,” Appleton said. “You think you would have?”
The hatch closed before I heard the answer, but I was thinking about the first question. Had I done the right thing?
***
They woke me two days out from Port Farragut. The base wasn’t visible on the monitors yet, but the asteroid was, and I recognized the shape immediately. The captain was right; it felt familiar and welcoming somehow.
They cut four months of hair off my head and face, and made sure I had good coveralls to match my refurbished steel suit. Everyone treated me weirdly, like I had some kind of unknown virus, but one that they were too polite to talk about. And they didn’t want me to be overwhelmed, so I mostly stayed separate from the crew. I ate in the wardroom once, but by myself. That felt awkward. I preferred sick bay, and Appleton and I played video games and talked about the places we had been. I told him about growing up on Earth, he told me about growing up on the moon. We joked about officers, complained about the food, and generally just talked about life in the Navy. But he didn’t ask about Juno, and I didn’t volunteer.
They let me email Katy and Hernandez. Hernandez was by far the easiest to write. I simply said, “I’ll be in port in two days. Up for a beer?”
I could he
ar his voice in the response: “For the most famous squid in the galaxy? I’ll buy the first round! But I figure you’ve got four months pay stored up, so you get the second, okay?”
I answered in the affirmative, and then sat staring a blank page, wondering what I could possibly say to Katy. The problem was solved when she messaged me.
“You there?”
“Yeah. How did you find out I was back?”
“Hernandez. He’s spread it all over the base.”
“Figures.”
“You okay?”
“Doc says I am. Still don’t quite feel like myself.”
There was a pause, and I wondered what she was doing. Her next message gave me a clue: “Meet me at the religion center. Monday, 1000 hours.”
I had to check to see what day it was. Saturday. “Before beers with Hernandez?”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll get it cleared.”
“Don’t forget to watch the auroras going through the dust cloud.”
That happened late the next afternoon. The ship had gone to general quarters, standard procedure when pulling into port, but I didn’t even have my steel suit on. I brought up the keel camera on my tablet and just sat in my bunk, watching the undulating glow of our magnetic field, and trying not to be too nervous about seeing Katy.
Yeah, it didn’t work.
I also emailed my Grampa. He was thrilled to hear from me, wanted to know all the details, and I spent several hours writing it all up for him. He responded that I had probably done better than anyone else could have in the same situation. It meant a lot to me that he was still proud of me.
When I finally saw Port Farragut, the first thing I noticed were the dozen or so ships docked along its two tentacle like piers, including the biggest warship I had ever seen. My tablet said it was the USS Abraham Lincoln, BBDN-21. The largest dreadnought class ship in the fleet, and flagship of Fleet Admiral Duffy. Well, it gave me something new to worry about, I guess.
As soon as they announced all clear, Appleton came back to sick bay, along with Captain Rodgers. “You need to get in your steel suit, pronto,” he said. “You’ve got a welcoming committee waiting for you.”
“Sir?” I said, confused.
Shaking his head, he said, “Just get dressed.”
There’s not really a dress steel suit, but we do wear special insignia for formal occasions. The last time I had worn mine was when I became a petty officer third class. That seemed so far away it may as well have happened to another person. But Appleton and Captain Rodgers himself made sure I was squared away, and we crossed the brow together. I glanced at my tablet just before we started: 0800. I had two hours to kill before meeting Katy.
And then they met me with a freaking band. Seriously, trumpets, drums, and those curly tubas. They had taped streamers to the ceiling, filled half the concourse with balloons, and filled the other half with people. There were tons of regular squids, but also professional looking civilians taking pictures, and a dais with more brass than I had ever seen in one place at one time.
And everyone was looking at me. Shit.
My first instinct was to do a quick about face and scamper back to the ship. Unfortunately, the captain and Appleton each grabbed an arm and basically lifted me off the deck. Then they marched forward and I had no choice but to go with them. There are times I really hate zero-g.
It was loud, what with the music and all the cheering. It was maybe fifty feet to the dais, but it felt like an eternity, and all I could do was focus on the man with five stars on his sleeve. Fleet Admiral Duffy. The guy in charge of the entire frickin’ Navy in space, and he was watching me coming to meet him. He was a lot shorter than I would have imagined, and built like a whisky barrel. At least he was smiling.
We stopped ten feet in front of him, and Captain Rodgers and Appleton saluted smartly. I copied them a half a beat late, but no one seemed to notice. Admiral Duffy and his staff saluted in return. “Welcome home, son. Good to meet you face to face finally.”
I mentally kicked myself. Of course I had talked to him while waiting to be rescued, but it was one thing when I had just a smidgen of hope and he was just a voice on the radio. Now it was real, he stood in front of me, and I had just enough presence of mind to say, “It’s good to be back, sir.”
The admiral gestured to a yeoman standing off to the side, and he stepped forward and unrolled what looked like a large parchment sheet with a blue and white ribbon hanging off the end. I didn’t know they had parchment in space. I wondered if it was synthetic. That’s the mental state I was in when the yeoman began reading.
“The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Navy Cross to Fire Controlman Third Class Peter Wright for extraordinary heroism in actions against the enemy while serving as part of the war fleet sent to subdue the hostile forces on Juno.” The citation went on to list my accomplishments, and made them sound brave and decisive, not desperate and hopeless. The bright lights from the myriad video cameras and the constant camera flashes made it me feel a little light headed, and this time I was grateful that there was no gravity, just in case I fainted.
The ceremony went by in a blur. I posed with the brass, shook a bunch of hands, and tried not to worry about the time. Captain Rodgers and Appleton disappeared, and Admiral Duffy basically took charge of me. I noticed that we kept moving further and further back from the crowd, and all of the sudden he was saying, “Thank you, yes, he’ll be doing some interviews later, but we have official Navy business for him at the moment, yes, that’s all for now.” And then the door shut, and I was in a small conference room with the admiral, a few other officers, and several petty officers.
Admiral Duffy turned to me. “Okay, that’s the dog and pony show for today. How’re you doing?”
“I think I may be in shock, sir.”
He grinned. “That’s not unexpected. But you are not the typical anonymous squid anymore, and there are certain things that have to happen. But there’s also things you need to take care of for yourself, I’m sure. Yeoman Meyers, what does he have on tap?”
A first class petty officer with a larger than issue tablet stepped forward. “Religious center in 15 minutes, and then meeting with friends at the Bottoms Up bar at 1700 hours. In between, I think we are going to get him settled into his quarters.”
“Excellent,” the admiral said. “Use the staff transport, make sure that security is all set, and off you go.”
“Come with me,” Meyers said, and I followed him out a different door than the one we came through.
We went through a long passage to a thick hatch. We went through, and into a shuttle complex. I could see a half dozen airlocks from where I stood, and it looked like there might be a dozen more. Meyers led me to a central kiosk, got his tags scanned, and punched in a code. Four lines appeared on the floor, and we followed one of them straight into a waiting shuttle. The pilot looked at us and said, “Hot damn, I'm the designated driver!”
Yeoman Meyers grinned. “It’s your lucky day.”
“Where we headed?”
“The hub. Dock 17.”
“You got it.” While the brow disengaged, the pilot punched in some numbers. When we started moving, so did three other shuttles. Two headed for the Lincoln, and the other shadowed us.
Meyers saw me watching them and said, “Decoys. Just in case.”
“You must be pretty special for the full security special,” the pilot said.
“This is FC3 Wright,” Meyers said. “Perhaps you've heard of him?”
The pilot whistled, and turned around to shake my hand. “It’s an honor, sir.”
Without thinking I said, “Don't call me that, I work for a living.”
The pilot laughed and said, “Awesome.”
We docked a few minutes later, and passed through another shuttle station and into the main part of the base. I just followed Meyers, keeping my head down for the most part, trying to be invisible. It mostly worked, and a few min
utes later we checked into the Religion Center.
I didn’t see Katy at first, and I had a moment of disappointment. Then Meyers, looking at his tablet, said, “CE2 Panetta is on route, and should be here in a few minutes. In case you wondered.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m not sure what I would do without you right now.”
He chuckled softly. “It’s just my job.”
“Still.” I looked around, and went to the central kiosk and typed in “Mormon”. The page that came up told me about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and informed me that I could contact the local leader if I wanted to. I pressed the button for yes, put my tablet up so it could get my info, and then turned around to see the hazel eyes I had dreamed of watching me with amusement.
“I didn’t know you were LDS,” Katy said. She still had her hair up, but it looked neater than I remembered it being.
“I’m not,” I said. “My friend Big Mike is—was—and I wanted to see if there’s anything I can do for him or his family.”
“That’s a good idea.” She looked around. “Are you here with someone?”
“Yeoman Meyers,” I said, looking around, but he had disappeared. “Well, he’s supposed to be keeping an eye on me. What about you?”
“Greta made a beeline for the Catholic Center. I think you make her nervous.”
I just shrugged. “I'm not really here to see her anyway.”
The smile she gave me made me even more nervous. She took my hand and led me down one of the smaller corridors to a door marked Wiccan. The lights came up when we entered, and the space looked different than anything I had seen anywhere in space. A tree grew in the middle of the room, and the walls had been paneled with wood. The whole place smelled faintly of patchouli and sandalwood, and several brass basins showed signs of ash in the bottom.
“You’re Wiccan?” I asked.
“No, but neither is anyone else on board right now,” she said. “This room is currently used by people who need a little privacy, for one reason or another.”
She sat me down on a bench on one side of the room, took my hands, and looked into my eyes. “Are you okay?”
Till the Conflict Is Over Page 1
