For Honor We Stand

by Harvey G. Phillips

  He unrolled the largest patch, a patch large enough that its top portion would reach and cover the hole while he held the bottom from the height he could reach. Park held it flat against the hull by placing his hands to the left and the right of the center. Then he slid it upward toward the breach. It was fairly stiff so it held its shape well enough not to flop back down as he edged it further upwards, shifting his hands closer to the bottom of the patch as he inched it higher and higher. Soon part of the patch was over the breach and started to be held in place by the compartment’s diminishing air pressure. A few more shoves managed to get the breach completely covered. The whistling stopped.

  Then, he pulled out the aerosol can of patch sealant and sprayed it over the edges of the patch to hold it in place. His arm was wobbly and his aim was bad. He got some of the sealant on his uniform sleeve. He hoped it didn’t stain. He so liked looking squared away and shipshape. Chief Tanaka would make him run an extra mile on the treadmill for having a soiled uniform. He hated that treadmill. Park tumbled to the deck, the impact of his tiny body barely making a sound in the thin air. He couldn’t remember how to get back up. The compartment seemed to be getting dark again. And cold. So cold. He needed to go to sleep. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard the whistling of air rushing into the compartment.

  ***

  “Why are they not firing their cannon?”

  “Because, doctor, they fired missiles and they don’t want to interfere with them.” Max kept himself from shaking his head. Sometimes talking with the doctor was like talking to one of the Great Minds of the Age and sometimes it was like talking to the newest hatch hanger. “You use only one weapons system at a time to keep one from damaging or disrupting the other. It’s called the fratricide effect. But, now that the missiles have run their course and the Krag can’t generate a new firing solution for them, I’m certain they will resume firing their pulse cannon any moment now. They just need their optical scanners to recover from the flash of that nuclear explosion so that they can aim accurately. Speaking of which, Mister Levy, can we modify our pulse cannon to increase our range the way the Krag did theirs?”

  “Affirmative, skipper. In fact, I put Pavelka and Healy on it a few minutes ago and they tell me that the software modifications should be ready to be loaded in a minute or so from now. It’s a simple matter of reducing the plasma volume and changing the timer on the field generator. Of course, it really cuts into the weapon’s explosive yield, which is why we don’t do this all the time. I wasn’t going to implement it without your approval, sir, but I didn’t see the need to bother you with getting a few men started on working the problem.”

  “Levy, I might just have to put you in for a citation. I’d put you in for a promotion, too, but we have a rule in the Destroyer service that you can’t be made Lieutenant until you’re old enough to shave.” Max smiled at the very young officer. “Good job, Levy. Tell me when it’s ready. Maneuvering, I’m not in a mood to be shot at any more. Let’s open up the range to . . . .” He looked at Levy.

  “Twelve thousand kills, sir.”

  “You heard the man. Twelve thousand.”

  “Aye, sir.” LeBlanc’s relief was distinctly audible.

  About a minute and a half passed. “We’re ready, sir,” said Levy.

  “Resume firing.” From a greater range, the even weaker pulse cannon bolts from the Stinger flew toward the Krag, posing even less of a threat, but accomplishing exactly what Max set out to accomplish.

  He looked at the tactical display, at which he had been glancing every thirty seconds or so, and at the large CIC chrono. “Now, it’s about time for a little payback. Mr. Levy, Mr. Sauvé, have we confirmed the computer’s sequencing and timing of the next act of this drama?”

  “Aye, sir,” they replied in unison, and then looked at each other. Levy, being slightly junior to Sauvé, made a subtle “go ahead” gesture.

  “Countermeasures timing is in place, sir. I’ve consulted with Mr. Bhattacharyya who informs me that Krag reaction time on average is a bit faster than ours. Intelligence has subjected this problem to intense study based on combat data over the course of the war, and has concluded that mean time from the appearance of an unexpected situation, counting sensor detection, recognition and comprehension, issuance of the appropriate order, execution of the order, and physical response of the ship’s systems to that order, is thirteen point four seconds, with a standard deviation of two point one seconds. So, we plan to give Mr. Krag a ten second look. That should allow ample time for him to see and understand what’s about to happen to him while not being long enough for even the most adept Krag crew or a particularly speedy and decisive Krag Captain to do anything about it.”

  “Outstanding.”

  “Mr. Levy?”

  “We have been continually cross-decking our sensor readings and position data on the Krag vessels to our friends. Comms confirms receipt of the data and that the Rashidians have been putting out the Welcome mat and turning down the sheets in the spare bedroom for our guests. We’ve confirmed a clear corridor for our own exit vector three ways—digital file transfer, voice, and text. Mr. LeBlanc has it. We’ve got an egg scrambler loaded in the number three missile tube. Launch is set to go—synchronized with Mr. Sauvé’s play. When Mr. Krag sees what’s going on, he won’t be able to tell a soul.” The egg scrambler was a Talon missile modified to carry a metaspacial disruptor pulse warhead, the detonation of which prevented FTL communications and operation of a compression drive within a radius of about 4 AU for roughly two hours.

  “Outstanding.”

  “Mister LeBlanc. You ready to walk that tightrope? One false step and we’re going to be cochon de lait.” Max and Mr. LeBlanc were both born on planet Nouvelle Acadiana, a world settled mostly by Louisiana Cajuns, for whom a suckling pig communally roasted over a pit of hot coals, known as a cochon de lait, is a delicacy.

  “Mais oui, mon capitain,” he responded.

  “Ca c’est bon. Mr. Chin, are our friends ready?”

  “Affirmative, sir. They signal ready.” Pause. “I have a signal from Admiral Jassir.”

  “Read it.”

  “I’m not sure I understand it all, sir. It says, ‘Thank you, Captain, for conceiving this inspired course of action. I look forward to drawing swords with you again.’ Now, here’s the part I don’t understand. Next it says, ‘Al-Baqarah two,’ then there’s a colon, then ‘eighty-two.’”

  Sahin and the Minister looked at each other. The doctor gave the Minister a short, deferential nod.

  “It is a citation to the Holy Quran,” Wortham-Biggs said, reverently.

  “What does it mean? I can’t even spell it well enough to look it up.”

  “Captain, although it is preferable that the Quran be read and recited only in the original Arabic, I think that providing a translation would be acceptable under the current unusual, non-theological circumstances. The doctor here is far more the linguistic scholar than I, but I believe an approximation in Standard would be, ‘whoever does evil and surrounds himself with sin, those are the inmates of the fire, and there they shall abide forever.’”

  A sharp nod from Max. “Doctor, do you people say ‘Amen?’”

  “Almost. It is a Hebrew word. Hebrew and Arabic are closely related, both being Semitic languages. The word in Arabic is ‘amin.’”

  “Outstanding. Mr. Chin, send ‘amin’ in reply. . . . Belay that. Just a second.” He turned to his console, pulled up a reference menu, and quickly typed a query. “OK. Chin, send ‘Amin’ and then ‘Psalm 106, verse 18.’”

  “Aye, sir.” He prepared the message and transmitted it.

  Max sat up straighter and squared his shoulders. “Mister Chin,” said Max, “One MC.”

  “Aye, sir, One MC.”

  Chin flipped two switches. Max saw the light come on. Every man on board would hear him. Deep breath. You’re on. “Men, this is the skipper. My counter shows we’re just over a minute from execution. The Krag have rattled
us around a bit, but they haven’t put us out of action. We’ll still run this according to plan. I have complete and absolute confidence in your abilities, and in each of you. Stay focused, stay alert, and we’ll make this a day to remember. What we are about to do together will be something you can look back on with pride every day for the rest of your life. When your children and your grandchildren sit at your feet and ask about your time in the Navy during the Great Krag War, I want you to look them square in the eye and tell them with everlasting pride what you and your shipmates of the USS Cumberland did at the Battle of Rashid V B on March 20, 2315. I guarantee, you will forever be a hero to them, as you have been heroes in my eyes from the day we met. Now, let’s get the job done.”

  Doctor Sahin, who had been paying close attention to the discussion, happened to look at the tactical display on his console and almost fainted. “Captain,” he managed to sputter, “those objects on my display . . . those dozens of objects, fifty-four of them . . . the computer has attached a label to them that I don’t understand. What are they?”

  “Something we don’t want to hit. Chief LeBlanc?”

  “Right on track, sir. No worries here.”

  “Outstanding.”

  What the doctor saw on his display was that the icon representing the Cumberland was a short distance from a large array of blue icons, each of which was labeled PROV RSHD TF and a numeral, starting with 1 and going up to 54. Between the Destroyer and the blue icons was a blinking yellow dot labeled EXEC PNT, which the Destroyer was rapidly approaching. Before Doctor Sahin could ask what “PROV RSHD TF” and EXEC PNT meant, the Cumberland’s icon reached the yellow dot and Mr. Bartoli sang out, Execution Point! Firing tube three!” Bartoli’s console showed a status change. “Tube three just fired.”

  At that same moment, the Doctor saw a profusion of tiny dots appear in front of the blue icons that had so alarmed him earlier. There were seventy-four of them, moving very quickly. There were too many for the computer to label, so it placed an asterisk next to each one, with a note at the bottom of the screen explaining what they were. Doctor Sahin, quite naturally, noticed neither the asterisk nor the footnote.

  The next step belonged to Countermeasures. Sauvé announced, “Jamming shut down in five, four, three, two, one, NOW.”

  Immediately thereafter, LeBlanc patted Fleischman twice sharply on the shoulder. The young Spacer immediately pushed the controller for the main sublight drive all the way to the stop, kicking the Cumberland into the most rapid acceleration she could accomplish in normal space.

  “Egg scrambler just detonated,” announced Levy.

  Max smiled, turned to the Doctor and the Minister and said, using his ‘quoting’ tone of voice, “Nicephorus, thou dog of a Roman, son of an infidel mother, my reply shall not be for thine ears to hear, but for thine eyes to see.” Both men nodded their recognition of Max’s reasonably accurately paraphrase of the famous letter written in the year 802 by the namesake of both this star system and of its capital city, the brilliant strategist, Caliph Harun al-Rashid. The famous letter that al-Rashid sent to Nicephorus--just ahead of his avenging army.

  A few seconds later, in the Command Nest of the Krag Hegemonic Warship 96-11589, the commander of that vessel, and of what was left of the attack force sent to destroy the Rashidian fleet, chuckled to himself (or the Krag equivalent thereof) when he was told by his sensors specialist that the sensor jamming being transmitted by the humans’ Destroyer had just ceased. Doubtless, he thought, another failure of their ill-conceived and poorly-engineered technology. With a sweeping motion of his left arm, he instructed his central command display to clear itself of the myriad sub displays arranged on it in a complex matrix of tactical plots, ship performance graphs, and course projections. Touching a few controls on the input pad, he instructed the large, now-blank panel to devote itself to showing him, at the largest possible scale, the location and arrangement of the inert, moored enemy fleet and of the pitiful tail stump of the enemy force remaining to wage a futile, dying effort to prevent its destruction. He wanted to be able to give, quickly and accurately, the orders that would bring his Destroyers in position to deliver the killing blow.

  It took a few seconds for his ships’ sensor beams to leave their emitters, travel through space, reach the humans’ ships, be reflected, transit the same space in the opposite direction, be picked up by the receiver arrays of each vessel, and routed to the ships’ computers, there to undergo interpretation, coordination, and sharing between ships. Finally, when the data was processed, exchanged, reconciled, and reprocessed, it was ready to be presented on the commander’s display for view and—truth be told—a moment of self-congratulation, even gloating. Once these steps took place, it took less than a second for the symbols representing the tactical situation to pop in to existence on the display, and only another two seconds or so for the brilliant Krag commander to take it in.

  His tail, which had been extending from his rump almost perfectly parallel to the deck and whipping excitedly from side to side, suddenly dropped like a piece of limp rope. He had been had. At least, however, he would not have to spend painful years burdened by regret for his errors. Instead, he knew he would regret them for the rest of his life—just over five seconds.

  It was so simple, now that he saw the end game. The Rashidian fleet was not waiting helplessly to be destroyed at its moorings. Rather, the vessels had crawled out on their auxiliary fission reactors and maneuvering thrusters, arraying themselves like a wall across the Destroyers’ path: five rows of roughly ten ships each. Fifty-four Rashidian vessels head on. And each of those ships had somehow managed to fire at least one missile, for a total of seventy-four missiles, using firing coordinates provided by the humans’ Destroyer. That same Destroyer had run ahead and jammed the Krag sensors, not to keep from being fired upon, but to keep the Krag from sensing the trap into which they were being led.

  The Krag commander could only watch impotently as the Cumberland streaked under full acceleration through a 500 meter by 500 meter gap in the oncoming formation of 74 C57-D and assorted other nuclear-tipped homing missiles and then through the middle of the Rashidian ships before sweeping around in a great arc to orient its most sensitive sensors, as well as its forward firing weapons, back in the direction of the Krag. The Krag commander then began to issue futile orders, all the while watching in stupefied horror as approximately fifteen missiles per target started bending their courses to surround his formation.

  Given the abundance of nuclear ordinance at their disposal, the Rashidians gave their missiles an attack profile that made the advanced Krag defenses irrelevant. Set for simultaneous circumferential detonation, they converged from all directions on the space containing the five enemy ships and detonated at the same instant just outside the range of the Krag point defense systems, dozens of points of light merging into a blinding but short-lived newborn sun, producing a zone of blindingly bright destruction over forty kilometers across in which solid matter simply ceased to be, then fading into blackness. The Krag were gone.

  Since July 16, 1945, when mankind first unleashed the immense energies that, since the beginnings of the universe, had lain tightly coiled in the atomic nucleus, never had human beings simultaneously detonated so many nuclear weapons in one place, nor released so much explosive power in a single instant. Though the men in CIC were combatants in a three decade long interstellar war between two advanced, star faring civilizations waged with thermonuclear weapons, what they saw on their displays stunned them to silence.

  The doctor finally spoke. “Captain,” he said softly. “That biblical citation that you sent to the Admiral. What was it?”

  “One hundred and sixth Psalm, verse 18. ‘Fire blazed among their followers; flame consumed the wicked.’”

  “Amin,” said the doctor, Mecca in accord with Jerusalem.

  “Amen,” said Finnegan and Hatzidakis together, Rome and Constantinople adding their concurrence.

  Back to business. “Comm
s, contact the Rashidian flagship. Extend our most respectful compliments to Vice Admiral Jassir and inform him that, with his leave, we wish to come alongside. Request traffic control instructions. Maneuvering, follow exactly the instructions Chin relays to you. We don’t want to piss off our new friends by dinging one of their ships.”

  “Why are we putting ourselves so close to the Rashidian flagship?” asked the doctor. “Isn’t the battle over?”

  Max answered quietly. Over the background noise in CIC, his voice did not carry beyond the command island. “I seriously need to talk to the Admiral. We’re not out of the woods yet. Not even close. We’ve still got almost nine hours until this fleet’s main reactors are running. That’s nine long hours until they can maneuver and fight. Three full Rashidian fighter squadrons have been wiped out to the last man: that’s nearly a third of their total fighter force, half of their Navy’s active duty fighter pilots, and nearly all of the really good ones. It will be at least forty-eight hours before the Union can get any kind of a defensive force in here, probably closer to seventy-two, and for all we know there is a second wave of attacking Krag on its way right now. In fact, I’d bet on it. I had a few irons in the fire that might have solved this problem, but it doesn’t look as though they’re going to amount to anything. We may have just delayed the disaster by a few hours. I would seriously like to avoid bringing Rashid into the war and having their Navy blown to flaming atoms in the same day. Not exactly the sort of thing that would look good on my service record.”

  “Particularly as we would be likely to be vaporized right along with them,” added Bram.