For Honor We Stand

by Harvey G. Phillips

  Four pulse cannon bolts zoomed past the Cumberland and exploded. The fifth, its containment field disrupted by the ship’s drive trail, detonated harmlessly in the Destroyer’s wake. LeBlanc gave the orders to return the ship to its base course. The ship straightened out and steadied on its former course and Sauvé reestablished the lock his jamming transmitters had on the Krag missile targeting sensors with about six tenths of a second to spare before they were able to generate a firing solution.

  “They’re all at Prefire again,” said Bartoli. “All twenty tubes.” Now, that’s a shock. “Now at ready . . . firing.” Again, twenty star points appeared on the optical displays, only, instead of all of them simply growing larger, meaning that they were all targeted exactly on the Cumberland, most of them seemed to move ever so slowly, down, left, or right against the stellar background, indicating that they were targeted at points slightly offset from the ship’s position, in a firing pattern designed to bracket the ship so that in whatever direction it dodged, there would be a pulse cannon bolt in the vicinity.

  “Skipper,” Levy said, “My optical readings show that these bolts have a significantly lower color temperature than the others, meaning that they have much lower pressures and heat levels. My rough estimate is that they all have the range to reach us, sir, but that there is going to be a major drop in explosive yield. At least thirty percent, maybe more.”

  “Thank you, Mister Levy.” Yes, thank you so very, very much Mister Levy for the wonderful news. Oy vey.

  “Maneuvering, expect little or no attrition on this pattern,” said Max.

  LeBlanc knew what to do. He gave the orders to his people. Another violent maneuver. The ship headed at Emergency toward the edge of the slowly spreading pattern of glowing plasma spheres. LeBlanc had eyeballed the pattern carefully and found the two bolts at the edge that, due to random variation were the farthest apart, and was headed toward the gap between them.

  WHAM. Max felt as though he had been driving in a ground car that was rear ended by a delivery truck. The inertial compensators took out most of the blow, but that didn’t keep everyone from feeling as though their eyeballs were bouncing off the bulkheads. Two pulse cannon bolts had detonated within a kilometer of the ship, their plasma shock waves striking the Cumberland’s deflectors hard enough to give her a hard kick in the behind.

  LeBlanc ordered the ship back to its base course so that sensor jamming could be restored in what should have been, once again, in the nick of time. Unfortunately, the direct path between one of the Destroyer’s jamming emitters and the targeting sensor arrays on the Krag Destroyer at the far left edge of the formation—but only that Destroyer--went right through the fireball created by one of the Krag plasma bolts and was disrupted for three additional tenths of a second. This was not long enough for the Krag ship to lay down the lengthy series of polyphasic, polarized, multi-planed, multi-frequency scans that would give it a clear picture of what was ahead, but it was good enough to give it a firing solution on a warship only 10,500 kilometers ahead. The same explosion disrupted the Cumberland’s passive sensors to such an extent that it was not able to detect this fact.

  Accordingly, no one on board the Destroyer was expecting incoming missiles until Bartoli called out, “Vampire, vampire, vampire! Hotel one has just fired missiles, Foxhound type. Full spread of six. No other launches.”

  Thank goodness for small favors. Six missiles was quite enough to lend excitement to the day. None of the men said a word, retched, passed out, or otherwise displayed any fear or emotion of any kind, other than to somehow manage to fill the air with the distinct smell of terror in less than a second. Midshipman Gilbertson, only twelve years old, was not quite so stoic. To his credit, his only reaction was to whisper a single word. “Shit.”

  Max suddenly thought, irrelevantly, that some one should put the young man on report. There was no evading the attack, because the evasive maneuvers necessary to get away from missiles would not only break the jamming lock that was preventing the Krag from being able to see ahead, which was the entire purpose of this exercise, but would also allow all the other ships to fire their missiles. We don’t want to go there, do we? There was only one thing to do. “Maneuvering, go to Emergency and turn the handle.”

  “You heard him,” LeBlanc said to Fleishman at Drives.

  Fleishman shoved the main sublight drive controller all the way to the stop and then grasped the ring just under the knob on the lever, rotating it one half turn clockwise. That turn sounded a tone and lit a purple light in Engineering, signaling that department to take out all of the safety interlocks and governors on the system and to cause it to generate as much thrust as possible without actually melting down the drive or blowing up the ship. The purple status light on the Drives console illuminated a second later, showing that Engineering had complied with the signal. The additional speed would not cause the ship to be able to outrun the missiles, but it would decrease their relative speeds giving the point defense systems more time to respond and, therefore, a higher probability of destroying the incoming weapons.

  The Krag missiles were equipped with a cooperative attack mode similar to that of the Union weapons but, at least for now, the Union jamming technology was sufficient to defeat any ability of the missiles to communicate with each other. Each weapon was on its own. Accordingly, each sensed the location of its brothers and veered off so that they could all approach from amidships each from a different direction. At 6,000 kilometers, the Cumberland’s electronic defense systems engaged the missiles, sweeping them with electromagnetic energy of various frequencies, polarizations, and phases in order to confuse or disrupt the missiles. Two succumbed to the attack, one detonating and the other losing its target lock and wandering into a useless trajectory.

  As soon as the remaining four missiles got within 4,500 kilometers, the Destroyer’s active missile defense system engaged them. A swarm of forty tiny Terrier anti-missile missiles issued from a launch bay near the stern. Having already received their targeting instructions, the Terriers divided into four packs of ten, each pack closing rapidly on one of the attacking weapons. The attackers fought back, varying their courses to evade the defenders, broadcasting confusing electronic signals, then going silent and stealthy to evade detection, and finally transmitting high energy pulses designed to fry the electronics of the tiny hunters.

  In this war of missile versus missile, two of the Krag missiles were overwhelmed. In the case of the first, three Terriers penetrated the Foxhound’s defenses and exploded in its path, the shrapnel produced by their demise shredding the Foxhound into useless scrap. In the case of the second, the Foxhound had run at a deceptively slow speed and, when the Terriers committed to an intercept trajectory at that speed, accelerated at the last minute. The Terriers, however, while lacking true Cooperative Interactive Logic Mode attack software, did have a rudimentary communications ability which caused the missiles to arrive upon distributed solutions to certain kinds of intercept calculations, sending a few missiles ahead and a few missiles behind the most probable enemy trajectory, just in case one of the operative assumptions proved to be wrong. Accordingly, two Terriers were not “fooled” by the Foxhound’s deception and were ready and waiting when it accelerated away from the remaining defending weapons. They intercepted it easily, destroying it with a combination of their small warheads and the enormous kinetic energy of projectiles colliding at high sublight velocities.

  Leaving two. At 2000 kilometers, the Cumberland automatically engaged the missiles with its rail guns, like some kind of amazingly advanced machine gun, electromagnetically accelerating tiny projectiles to over half the speed of light in rapid-fire succession, sensors adjusting the aim to try to cause the stream of pebble sized “bullets” and the incoming missile to intersect, destroying the latter. One missile was quickly obliterated in this fashion, its tiny fusion reactor chamber penetrated by two of the rail gun projectiles and filling the surrounding space with plasma. This plasma, however, so d
isrupted the rail gun targeting scanners that they were unable to engage the last missile, which aimed itself for the Cumberland’s center of mass.

  With only one incoming missile remaining, the whole of the ship’s defensive capabilities were able to focus on the single attacking weapon. The deflectors surged and focused their full power on the missile, arresting its forward progress nearly a kilometer away from the hull. Sensing that it would get no closer, the missile’s computer decided that causing some damage was better than causing no damage at all and detonated the weapon.

  “Missile detonation, one hundred and two point eight kilotons, range one kill, epicenter at frame eight, azimuth one-two-five,” announced Tufeld at Damage Control in a rich, arresting voice more befitting a tridvid announcer than a Navy Petty Officer. “Several systems offline, either tripped by EMP or damaged physically, impossible to tell at this point. Unavailable Tier One Systems at this time are number two IMU, auxiliary fire control, primary air handling, auxiliary has taken the load. Unavailable Tier Two Systems at this time are all starboard lateral sensor arrays, all starboard lateral comm arrays, all starboard amidships point defense systems, coverage of that area being picked up by starboard forward and starboard aft point defense, starboard deflectors from frame three through frame thirteen. Several Tier Three systems as well, will report them if requested. My board shows DC parties responding. I’ll update you as soon as I know more. And, sir, I would strongly advise that we not take another major hit anywhere in that part of the ship. If we do, you won’t need to file a report about it, if you take my meaning.”

  “I do, indeed. Thank you, Tufeld.”

  Suddenly a loud and seldom heard alarm started hooting.

  “Hull breach,” Tufeld practically shouted over the too loud alert signal.

  “Turn that damn thing off,” Max barked. The alarm fell silent.

  “Hull breach is in Auxiliary Fire control, nothing further at this time. All my feeds from that compartment are EMP tripped at this time. Reset expected in approximately two minutes.” Tufeld hit a few keys. “I’ve just detailed my Alfa DC team to that location. We should have a report shortly.”

  “Thank you, Tufeld. Good job.”

  ***

  “Hello? Hello?” Midshipman Park nearly shouted, but there was something funny about the sound. It didn’t carry the way it should have. He didn’t know what was going on except that it was very dark and very cold and there was a loud whistling sound that he didn’t recognize. For some reason, he was lying on the floor. Not floor. Deck. The deck of the ship. His ship. He managed to stand up and the room spun around him. “Hello?” he shouted again into the already noticeably colder darkness.

  No answer. Then his thoughts started to reassemble themselves. He had been at his Battle Station in Auxiliary Fire Control. A missile got through the defenses and the next thing he knew, he was on the deck in the cold darkness. If only he could see.

  Wait a minute. He wasn’t just little Park Dong-Soo from a tiny village in Korea that no one had ever heard of, he was Midshipman Park Dong-Soo of the USS Cumberland, this vessel’s “Will Robinson.” And he was dressed for duty. That meant . . . he reached into the appropriate pocket . . . it was there. He pulled out his compact hand torch and turned it on, methodically sweeping the compartment with the narrow beam of light. What he saw scared him shitless. There were five men in the compartment, all unconscious on the deck. What had happened was obvious. The shock wave from the explosion propagated through the hull and into the air of the compartment, knocking the men unconscious. Park, on the other hand, less than a meter tall and having a meter a half tall fire control console between him and the outer hull, had been shielded. The primary shock wave had passed right over his head leaving only the much weaker reflections off the flat surfaces in the room to strike him, knocking him out briefly.

  He found the emergency lights and manually activated them. The automatic trigger had been fried by the warhead’s EMP. The only exit was blocked by one of auxiliary fire control’s secondary processing units which had gotten torn from the bulkhead. The six hundred kilo auxiliary fire control secondary processing unit. Park knew he was not leaving the compartment without help. He looked at his percom. Red light. The unit was not in communication with the network. EMP again. He tried the comm panels on each of the four consoles. All dead. He was on his own.

  And, to top it off, there was a hole in the outer hull the size of his fist that was venting atmosphere. That was why his voice sounded so thin. The air pressure in the compartment had already gone down so much that sound no longer carried well. That was also why it was so cold. When you lower the pressure, you lower the temperature. Gay-Lussac’s law.

  CLANG. The air vents into the compartment slammed shut. The ship was protecting itself from bleeding all of its air into space by closing off the vents, stopping the flow of air into the compartment. Only when the sensors in the compartment detected that the venting had stopped would the computer repressurize the area.

  Even with Park’s limited training and experience on board a warship, the situation was absolutely clear to him: if he didn’t patch the hull breach, everyone in the compartment would die. In just a few minutes. Six lives now depended on him: his own and those of the five men.

  Unbidden, the voice of the now-dead Chief Amborsky, his old Mother Goose, spoke from his memory. “You never know when some of your shipmates’ lives, maybe all of them, will depend on you. Maybe never. Maybe next week. Maybe this afternoon. But, when that moment comes, you had better be ready.”

  That moment was now.

  He had been trained for this: patch the breach. He knew how to do that. Problem. The breach was near the ceiling, over two and a half meters from the deck and he was less than a meter tall. He would have to climb. On what? He had to be fast. He was starting to feel the hypoxia. He knew what it felt like from training in the hypobaric chamber. He knew to watch for--the euphoria, like being drunk. He had never been drunk. Maybe now, he would never be drunk. How sad. Think. Get back on track.

  Get going Park. You don’t have much time. First, he located the patch kit. It was where it was supposed to be, in the Emergency Locker for this compartment. There were six portable oxygen units, each consisting of a mask and a small tank. He grabbed one and put it on. It wouldn’t save his life if the air pressure in the compartment got too low but it would buy him a little more time by enriching the thinning air around his nose and mouth with a higher proportion of oxygen molecules. He’d get an extra minute. Maybe two. It might make a difference.

  There were also six emergency pressure suits. Far too large for him. He could get into one and it would keep him alive until rescue came, but he was so small and the suits were so large there was no way he could wear one and get the hull breach patched. He could save his own life, but only by letting five men die. No. Park would either save his shipmates, or he would pay for his failure by dying with them.

  Too bad the Navy didn’t make a Space Combat Uniform small enough to fit him. If he had been in an SCU like the rest of the crew, he could have just reached in the thigh pockets, pulled out his gloves and soft helmet, zipped them on, activated the oxygen generator in one of the breast pockets, and he would be enclosed in a flimsy but serviceable emergency pressure suit that would keep him alive for hours. He wouldn’t have to worry about passing out from hypoxia while he was trying to keep everyone else from dying. If he lived through this, there would be a nasty memo. Maybe not. His hands were already so cold that, even if he had been wearing an SCU, he probably couldn’t have manipulated the zippers well enough to make them seal. He was certain he couldn’t get SCU gloves and helmets on five unconscious men in time.

  The only way anyone in the compartment was going to live was if he managed to get to the breach and seal it. First, he shoved a chair under the opening. Then he started piling on the chair whatever he could find. Ration boxes from the Emergency Locker, equipment and tool drawers, even two rectangular light fixtures that ha
d been knocked loose by the shock. It looked like it might be enough.

  He slung the patch kit over his shoulder using the strap it had for that purpose and started to climb. Already suffering from moderate hypoxia, he grew dizzy from the small exertion and fell to the deck. He lay on his back for a few moments staring at the ceiling wondering why he was so dizzy and so cold. The skin under his fingernails was noticeably blue. There was a name for that. Cyano-something. Cyano de Bergerac. He giggled.

  Then it all came back to him. He stood up and saw the five men on the deck. He had only been rotated into this station a few days ago, but these men had been nothing but kindly and fatherly to him. They had taught him the ropes of the systems in that room, told him interesting stories about Navy life (many of which were wildly improbable), and gave him some sensible advice about how to approach his duties and his training. They amiably referred to him as “Admiral Park,” smilingly saluting him when he came into the compartment at the beginning of watch. He always returned the salute, put on a haughty expression, and said, “As you were, gentlemen, despite my high rank, you know I don’t stand on ceremony.”

  He gritted his teeth with fierce determination. He was not going to let the icy vacuum of space claim their lives.

  Not today.

  With an effort of will, he stood up and slowly climbed his makeshift ziggurat. When he reached the top, he was still several centimeters short of the hole. And he knew he had already piled on every thing that he could move and lift and that could be stacked on the chair with any kind of reasonable stability. Think. He opened the patch kit anyway and sorted through the various sized patches. Some of them were a meter square, and some were only a few millimeters in size. Then he came up with one the right size for that breach, one about the size of a sheet of paper. But, he couldn’t get it to the hole.

  Something was nagging at him. He knew he had the solution in his hand. It was getting so cold. Ice was forming on the inside of his oxygen mask. He had only a minute, maybe two, and that would be it. When they found his body it would be frozen solid, like a tiny Korean icicle. No it wouldn’t. When the DC people got into the compartment he would still be warm and breathing. He had the solution in his hand. Yes! He had the solution in his hand. Literally.