For Honor We Stand

by Harvey G. Phillips

  The men all had a good laugh, with their bass and baritone and tenor guffaws joined by Hewlett’s soprano/alto giggles. Max slapped the boy on the back. “So, Hewlett, bring that ‘gimbal alignment tool’ to Chief Farnell with my compliments and don’t forget that I want to see him in my Day Cabin at the end of watch. You are dismissed.” The boy came to attention and saluted. Max returned the salute, and Hewlett left.

  “To be his age again! Warship service an unending wonder, nothing but adventure and the prospect of more adventure stretched out in front of you as far as the eye can see.” Kraft was gazing after the boy wistfully. DeCosta and Brown smiled, too, happy memories that had been deeply submerged in an ocean of present cares buoyed to the surface by the irresistible convection of nostalgia. The smile on the doctor’s face showed that, although he spent his boyhood someplace other than a warship, childhood had been a happy time for him, as well. Max, however, did his best to keep the others from seeing that the only emotion he experienced at the thought of being Hewlett’s age again was undiluted horror.

  Max shook it off. Or tried to. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught Doctor Sahin catching him in the act of being appalled before he managed to hide it.

  “I do hope, Captain, that you are not too hard on Chief Farnell,” Brown said. “While he is remarkably inept in his dealings with subordinates, he is one of my best men at diagnosing quirks in the guidance and attitude control systems. I would hate to see him take such a verbal drubbing that he ceased to be effective.”

  “Don’t worry, Werner,” Max responded. “I am well aware of his contributions to the ship. I wasn’t planning on doing anything more than telling him that I want him to lay off the mids for a while and to pass the word that I don’t want them being pranked for the next month or so. We’ve got too many other things to do.” The engineer nodded his assent. “Ok, folks, now that we’ve solved the problems of the Junior Midshipmen’s Berth, we’ve got our own problems to solve. Tougher problems.” He gestured to the red blinking star in the projection he had started to talk about earlier. “Once we jump to this system—no name, just a catalog number—and get out from under observation and any chance of our movements being spied out and leaked to the Krag, you’d think that, since we’re a light, fast Frigate/Destroyer Group, we’d take off under compression drives at high c multiples and head across interstellar space for Rashid. Maybe not following the lubber line, you know, put a few zigs and zags in to make us hard to find in all that immensity, but otherwise we’d just strike out for our destination.”

  The illumination element went on over DeCosta’s head first. “You mean, sir, we’re not?”

  “No, XO. Not even close.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Brown, his aristocratic Avalon accent giving the imprecation an impressive ring.

  “You got that right, mate,” Kraft replied in a rather feeble imitation Cockney, imperfectly picked up from watching tridvid dramatizations of Dickens novels.

  “You see, our exalted group commander is of the view that, since our little assemblage of vessels consists of a valuable pigeon to be protected, i.e., the Frigate, in the company of two protecting Destroyers, i.e., escorts, it is—listen carefully, gentlemen—a convoy. And, my friends, if Commander Gerard Duflot knows about only one thing in this big bright galaxy, that one thing is convoys. You know, if the only tool you’ve got is a hammer, every problem you see is a nail, right? And, since we are a convoy, standard tactical doctrine tells us that the safest and most orthodox procedure is certainly not to strike out across open space where we have no protection but ourselves. Oh, no. We do what a gigantic, pokey, lumbering, impossible to hide logistics convoy does: minimize our exposure to attack by sticking to areas kept clear of the enemy by planet and station based sensor coverage and forces in place.” The looks of stunned incredulity around the room were impressive in their unanimity. Except for the doctor, who was too aghast at how aghast everyone else was to let his own aghastness show.

  Max continued. “Accordingly, we will cross this unnamed system at point-four-five c to its Alpha jump point. From there we jump to Kalkaz.” Max hit another key and another star started blinking. “And from there to Murban, thence to Madoom, then Schewe 23,” each named star blinked in succession, “and so on through nine, that’s right folks, a total of nine systems until we jump into the Rashid system. Each of those systems has some kind of established sensor coverage and some kind of defense in place and, according to the official Assessment of Condition, is ‘cleared of enemy forces.’ The entire route is, therefore, by definition--apparently a favorite phrase of his--safe for our ‘convoy.’ As if a goddamn definition is going to matter to the Krag. On the other hand, the wise and exalted Convoy Commander says that, if we just picked a route between the stars, we could be attacked at any time.”

  “That’s insane!” DeCosta wasn’t pounding his fist on the table, but he was about as close to that as he could come in a senior officer’s meeting. “Out there in all those light years, the enemy would require the most improbable stroke of wild-assed luck to get close enough just to detect us, much less get in firing position, much less be able to do all of the difficult things you have to do in able to hit a superluminal target with subluminal weapons. You don’t need planet-based sensor coverage and in-system forces to defend the group when you have light years to hide in and your speed to defend you.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, XO,” said Max. “And, I made my point of view abundantly clear to our new group commander. So clear, in fact, that he threatened to charge me with insubordination, then threw me out of his office, and had me escorted to my Launch under Marine guard. He also made clear that he had recorded the entire interview to use at my Court Martial if I so much as made a single transmission to Admiral Hornmeyer to try to get his tactical decision overruled. He specifically ordered me to ‘send no signal to anyone up the chain of command.’”

  “Recorded it, did he?” The Engineer smiled knowingly.

  “So he said. Told me he had not deactivated the monitoring system in his Day Cabin as is customary when you are meeting with a brother captain. Not that it matters. Recording or not, he’s got us on EMCON so I couldn’t send a signal to anyone. In-group comms are by lights and lasercom. External comms are restricted to the pennant ship. Oh, and we will be setting up three-way lasercom as soon as we get into formation after going through jump, so we’ll be networked with the pennant ship and the Broadsword.”

  “Formation?” DeCosta didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

  “That’s right, XO, formation.” Max didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm. “We will be in line ahead formation, two hundred and fifty kill interval, with the Broadsword on point and us as Tail End Charlie. And, yes, I know that with that interval our passive sensor coverage is going to be in the shitter. Commander Duflot has, however, devised a brilliant solution to that problem.”

  “You don’t mean . . . .”

  “Indeed I do, XO. Active sensors. Yankee search omni the whole way.”

  “Queen Bess’s Bleeding Bottom!” It was Brown’s turn and he was moved to employ an oath he rarely used. The old nation-states still mattered, even if they had long been subordinated first to the United Earth and then to the various political associations that had united humans across the stars. The ancient throne of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Northern Ireland, and British Worlds was sat upon by the much-beloved (and splendidly beautiful) Queen Elizabeth VIII, affectionately known to her billions of subjects as “Queen Bess.” “Why not just turn on the ID transponder to the main Krag squawk frequency and broadcast in the clear in the Krag language, ‘here we bleeding are, now come blow us to flaming atoms’? It’s basic inverse square law physics—given equally sensitive sensors they can detect our active sensor transmissions and get a bearing on us at more than double the range at which we can even begin to get a detectable sensor return.”

  “You know, Werner, you’re actually not that far off. With wh
at we’re going to do, a transponder signal couldn’t do a much better job of letting Mister Krag know where we are. Because, you see, gentlemen, the route from jump in to jump out in each system is going to be a pure circumferential trajectory, three hundred AU radius, oriented exactly ninety degrees negative z to the system ecliptic.”

  “OK,” said DeCosta, not getting it. “That’s the base course. What kind of zig zag or drunkard’s walk or randomized spiral or other variation is he going to use?”

  “None. The only reason it’s an arc instead of a line is to get us out of the civilian traffic pattern.”

  That one took a moment to sink in. “None? Zero?” DeCosta was flabbergasted. “You mean that we are just going to be following a perfect geometric arc—part of a circle with a three hundred AU radius oriented exactly ninety degrees ‘below’ each system’s ecliptic—from beginning to end: a course that any Mid could plot with a compass, a protractor, a ruler, and a sheet of graph paper? Please tell me we’re going to vary our acceleration at least.”

  “Nope. AC/DC profile Bravo. “We’ll use the standard acceleration for the slowest vessel in the group, which is the Frigate, until we get to point-four-five-five c, and then standard deceleration as we near the jump point. The only deviation from perfect predictability is going to be in the Murban system. Duflot wants to rendezvous with NAVCOMNET relay buoy 8677. He wants to do a laserlink with the buoy so he can transmit and receive messages on the fleet network without breaking EMCON.”

  “But, but, but,” DeCosta began, stunned into inarticulacy. “The First Law of Destroyer and Frigate Combat is . . . .”

  Max nodded and made a mollifying gesture with his hand, something like a patting motion, palm facing DeCosta. “The First Law of Destroyer and Frigate Combat is ‘Stealth is Life.’ If the enemy can’t find you, he can’t kill you. I feel your pain, XO.”

  “But, that means that anyone who wants to intercept and attack us need only plot us for an hour or two and can then extrapolate our position for the whole system crossing, get ahead of us, lie in wait, and already have a nearly perfect firing solution.” The XO was really starting to get agitated. “He doesn’t have to detect us on sensors. He just keeps an eye on the clock to know when to shoot. We are conceding to the enemy almost every possible advantage. Is this man on the Krag payroll?”

  Max bristled. “Hold it right there, XO. It’s one thing to question the competence of a brother officer. It’s quite another to question his loyalty. I have no doubt that this man is as loyal to the Union and the Navy as you or I. He’s simply the prisoner of rather limited abilities and of his experience. He’s spent so long attached to those great convoys that are so easy to locate that he has no practical understanding at all of the tactical benefits of remaining undetected. His idea of how to defend something is to surround it with a net of sensors and layers of firepower, not by hide it in the immensity of interstellar space and then cross the void so quickly that even if the enemy localizes you he has to run flat out to catch you, giving himself away in the process. I’ll have no more of that kind of talk on my ship, even in the privacy of these meetings. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir. Sorry, Captain.”

  “No harm done. Think no further about it. Anyway, I made all of these tactical points to Duflot. Almost the exact words. Hell, I might as well have been trying to teach compression drive field dynamics to a gerbil. Each of those systems has a comprehensive sensor grid, he told me. Even if an enemy vessel gets in, we will have plenty of time to take defensive measures. It’s the safest and most prudent course of action.” He shook his head. “Idiot. The only thing that I can think to do is follow orders and then take a hard look to see of there is anything we can do within the scope of those orders that will make the failure of this mission a little less than perfectly inevitable. I’ve done one thing that might do some good and I was wondering if . . . .” He was interrupted by the buzz of the comm.”

  He hit the button. “Skipper.”

  “We just had a request by lights from the Broadsword, sir. Her skipper wants to come aboard to see the doctor. Says he needs a shot of Vanchiere-Unkel serum for his Lavoy’s Syndrome and that his Casualty Station’s batch of the serum is no longer usable. It got accidentally put in the ambient temperature pharmaceuticals locker instead of the refrigerated one.” Max looked at the doctor who nodded.

  “Reply that we await the honor of his visit at his convenience. Skipper out. Anyway, we’ve got a few more hours in this system and, with the fighter squadron from the Wasp flying escort, we don’t have anything to worry about until we jump. In that time, maybe we can figure something that will increase the chances of the Envoy meeting with the other Envoys instead of with a thermonuclear warhead. Anything further? Then, we’re adjourned.”

  They all stood and left the compartment. In the corridor, Brown pulled the XO aside and spoke in a confidential tone, too low, he knew, to be recorded by the monitoring system. “XO, I know that things are a bit different on Battleships, but out here in the Destroyer and Frigate Navy, we take a dim view of any affront to the honor of our ship, or to that of our Captain. A very dim view, indeed.”

  “Battleships are the same. As far as I know, that’s a universal. Been that way in the whole Navy for centuries.”

  “So, tell me then. On a Battleship, would Commander Duflot’s treatment of Captain Robichaux call for the taking of corrective measures?”

  “Absolutely. Serious ones.”

  “Jolly good, because it does on a Destroyer, as well. I would do something right now, but . . . .”

  DeCosta nodded his understanding. “But, the job of vindicating the ship’s honor in such a case falls to the XO, doesn’t it?” Brown nodded. A quick bob of the head.

  Max, Sahin, and Kraft had vanished down the corridor to their various destinations. Other than Brown and DeCosta, and the Marines mutely guarding the entrance to CIC several meters ahead, the corridor was deserted. The only sounds were those of the living ship: the myriad electronic sounds and the constant comm chatter its nerve and brain activity, the air handling system its life’s breath, the throb of the engines its heartbeat.

  They were a kind of sonic environment, consciously perceived by neither man from years of habituation, but the absence of which they would notice instantly, a subliminal reminder that they were not standing in a hallway in an office building on Earth or Sagan V, but on a metal deck mounted in a metal tube surrounded by light years of emptiness, their survival dependant upon the machines that provided them with air and water and heat and that carried them between the stars. And not just the machines, but also on the men whose constant duty it was to control the machines, repair the machines, maintain the machines. Bound with him in a cocoon of metal suspended in the dark and endless deep, you are your brother’s keeper. And he is yours.

  DeCosta stood in the corridor for a moment. What to do? On one hand, there was the possible damage to his career from taking retribution in some unknown form against Commander Duflot, a man who must have some sort of powerful connections or he would not have been given this important mission notwithstanding his obviously limited abilities. On the other, there were the eternal and immutable naval laws. Stand for the honor of your shipmates. Stand for the honor of your Captain. Stand for the honor of your ship. What to do?

  It wasn’t even close.

  “Well, ‘Werner,’ if I may be so bold as to call you that, I would like very much to even the score, and am open to any suggestions you might have.”

  “You may, any time, ‘Number One,’ any time at all. Now, my friend, I do have an idea that might do very nicely. Very nicely, indeed. We just need to enlist the help of a few more co-conspirators.”

  “Whoever you need. But, remember, the fewer the better.”

  “Oh, yes. ‘A slip of the lip will nuke a ship,’ and all that. Just Sparks and Gates. With the four of us, we’ll have everything we need to refresh Commander Duflot’s understanding of historical military nomenclature.�
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  “Historical military nomenclature?”

  The Engineer gave the XO a solid thump on the shoulder. “Vocabulary, my good man, vocabulary. We’re going give the Commander an unforgettable lesson on what it means to be ‘hoist on one’s own petard.’”

  ***

  As Commander Kim Yong-Soo, skipper of the USS Broadsword, was piped aboard and rendered honors, Max had time to get a good look at his counterpart. Like most humans of Korean descent, Captain Kim (the Korean custom is for the surname to come first) was of smallish stature and lightly built. Max had checked his Biosum and knew Kim to be four years his senior and roughly his equal in combat experience, with a reputation for being a tenacious and resourceful commander. The “fruit salad” on his Dress Blue uniform (Duflot had decreed that Dress Blues were the Uniform of the Day throughout the group) had half a row more than Max’s and included a Navy Cross and several decorations that reflected achievements in combat. He moved with the fluid efficiency of an athlete, had the beginnings of smile lines around his mouth and his dark, intelligent eyes, and looked like he was born wearing the uniform and walking the deck of a warship. Max very much liked the cut of his jib.

  Honors rendered and senior officers introduced, Max caught the subtle jerk of Kim’s head that indicated he wished Max, rather than the Mid whom Max would ordinarily detail for the task, to walk him to the Casualty Station. During the short walk, they exchanged small talk, mainly inquiries about men with whom they had both served. Although the two men had never met, they had both been serving in combat commands in the same theater of operations for years, and so had a store of mutual friends, acquaintances, and shipmates. Kim seemed amiable enough, but studiously avoided saying anything of consequence and gave no hint why he wanted Max with him.

  The two men entered the Casualty Station and were shown into one of the small treatment rooms by Doctor Sahin’s Head Nurse, a large, burly man named Chapel with perfectly immense biceps and incongruously soft hands. Kim inclined his head almost invisibly in the direction of the tiny black dome in the ceiling that held the camera for that compartment’s surveillance system. Chapel, a fourteen year veteran who had served eleven and a half of those years on warships in or near the FEBA, caught the motion and its significance. “No monitoring in here, sir. Doctor Sahin hadn’t been on board two hours before he asked me where ‘all the bloody, damned, contemptible spy eyes’ were. I showed him, and he started snipping wires himself. Naturally, that brought Major Kraft and Lieutenant Brown down here practically at a run, and there was something of a row, with the Doctor yelling about patient confidentiality and the Hippocratic Oath with the other two men going on about safety of the vessel, security of its personnel, tracking enemy boarders, and all that. They compromised—the doctor can be a very stubborn man as you may know—there is no monitoring in any patient area, but there is in the doctor’s administrative office, my office, the pharmacy, and all the storage areas. If we yell “help” in here, it will get picked up by one of those and we’ll have Marines in here in less than a minute. But, otherwise, whatever goes on in this room is neither seen nor heard by anyone other than the people present.”