by David Tatum
“Now, that is strange,” Schubert said, frowning. “He argues tooth and nail if he thinks he should, but he’s never lost his temper like that.”
Rachel sighed. “But there was one more thing that has me worried. When we were headed for Captain Morrison’s class, we were talking about his desperate need for some rest. There was something odd in his voice – it almost sounded like he, well, resented having to sleep. Have you got any clue why that might be, if he really is as exhausted as we figure he has to be?”
Now, Schubert was genuinely alarmed. “No. But now that you mention it, he’s not had a pleasant time of it when he has had the chance to sleep, lately. He’s always tossing and turning, moving around almost violently. Frankly, the noise keeps me awake, sometimes.”
Rachel sighed. “So you really don’t know what it is that’s disturbing him, either?” Schubert shook his head. “Well, then, I don’t know what to do. But keep a close eye on him, would you? And be sure you let me know if you find out anything – even if you can’t tell me what it is.”
Schubert had never really liked Rachel. She’d always seemed too stuck up for his tastes, but now it appeared as if he needed to re-evaluate his opinion of her.
“Trust me, Rache – you’ll be the first to know.”
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Morrison shifted nervously. It wasn’t often she was called in to talk to Pierre Mumford, the lone five star Admiral in the fleet. By some twist of fate (the fifth star being honorary), he was only the second highest ranking Admiral in the Navy, but that knowledge did little to sooth her frayed nerves.
She didn’t know for sure why she was here. Perhaps word had reached the Admiral that someone actually managed a flawless victory in one of the “mission improbable” scenarios, as they’d come to be called. If that was it, she knew she was going into the meeting under-prepared. Her little dizzy spell had made it impossible for her to look over the strategy that Rachel Katz and Christopher Desaix had used and she had yet to talk to either one of them about the incident. She just hoped it wouldn’t hurt her career.
A middle-aged person emerged from the office, and to Morrison’s surprise she was a civilian. Dr. Kimiko Beccera, a top archaeologist and xenoanthropologist, was a very striking woman. By marriage, she held dual citizenship in both the Earth Alliance and the Pleiades Republic – the largest and the second largest nations in the known universe, respectively. The story, as Morrison heard it, was that she had fallen in love with an Army officer at the Alliance’s Consulate, and spent the better part of three years hunting him down. Then she spent several more trying to get him to marry her.
That man, Colonel Andrew Beccera, had finally given in when he turned forty. She was only twenty-three at the time, and while he worried she was a too young for him he figured he had better give in to the inevitable while they both could still enjoy themselves. Years of legal wrangling surrounded their marriage – they struggled to keep both their respective careers while remaining citizens of their respective countries. In the end, it actually required an interstellar treaty for their marriage to be made official. Their love story was almost legendary.
While the Army never sanctioned their marriage, the Earth Alliance benefitted greatly from Kimiko’s dual allegiance. By comparing analyses of ruins discovered by the Earth Alliance and ruins discovered by the Pleiades Republic, she had been able to predict where additional ruins might be found. Using her methods, ruins decorated with the first ever example of a non-human written language had been discovered. This language had yet to be translated, but the discovery had nevertheless won her numerous accolades.
None of which made her presence in Admiral Mumford’s office easier to explain. Morrison had no time to think about that, however, as Sally Hannah, the Admiral’s civilian secretary, gestured to her.
“The Admiral will see you now, Anne.”
“Thanks, Sally,” Morrison said, walking past the doorway into the Admiral’s office. Her nerves, which had momentarily disappeared while she puzzled over Mrs. Beccera’s presence, were back in full force. She could hardly imagine why Admiral Mumford would be so keen on her class results, but she couldn’t think of any other reason why he might have called her. She had actually anticipated a call from Admiral McCaffrey, who would periodically take an interest in one or two of her students, but Mumford was too high in the command structure for such minor pursuits.
“Ah, Captain Morrison. Please, come in, come in,” Mumford said, gesturing fervently for her to enter. “I’m having a bit of a problem, and my granddaughter said you might be able to help. She says you’re her favorite tactics instructor and that I should trust your judgment. I’m sure you won’t let either of us down.”
That sent her mind whirling. Crap. What’s his granddaughter’s first name again? Oh, right – Emily. Cadet Lt. Commander Emily Mumford. Bright kid, but so tactically inept I’ve always thought she owed her rank to a small degree of nepotism. “I’ll be sure to thank Emily for her kind words. Now, what can I help you with, sir?”
Admiral Mumford tapped a few keys on his desk comp. Gesturing to the screen, he said, “The Wargame is coming up soon.”
Morrison nodded. The Academy periodically held a number of war games, but there was only one event which could be called the Wargame. Descended from a centuries-old need to demonstrate the Alliance’s military might and intimidate hostile powers, the Wargame was held once every three or four years so that no Academy student graduated without participating in it at least once. It was the largest military exercise in the known universe, and occupied much of the Navy’s attention whenever it ran. Every student at the Academy, both officer candidates and those in training for enlisted duties, would be required to participate. So would almost thirty thousand regular Naval personnel and their ships. Naval stations on every Earth Alliance world outside Sol would be stripped to provide the manpower and warships for it... and even that wouldn’t be enough. Several shipyards full of ‘retired’ warships, mothballed due to age, would be raided in order to provide more.
By tradition, the scenario was simple. Take three Alliance systems, preferably lightly defended start-up colonies in need of military reinforcement. To one system, deploy a fleet composed of veteran crews and modern warships. Academy crews (supported, and often commanded, by reservists) would operate an equivalent force of warships refitted from the decommissioned stores in another. The third planet was the so-called ‘disputed territory.’ For three weeks, the two sides were to wage a simulated ‘war.’ Frequently, the ‘Fleet’ side of the Wargame was victorious, but more often then not it wound up as a stalemate. It was rare that the Academy side actually won, but it had happened on occasion. The record was Fleet 14, Academy 6, and Stalemate 27.
The dates for the Wargame, even the exact year in which it would occur, were kept secret until the last possible moment. Mumford letting her know that it was “coming soon” was big – just what role did he intend for her to play?
“Sir?”
Mumford smiled at her. “I’m talking to several Academy instructors, assigning each of them to act as personnel officers and recommend a crew for each ship. I figure, as their teachers, you know the students best. You don’t need to worry about the Marines – the Marine Corps Academy will take care of them – but this will still be a difficult assignment. Your assignment will be easier than most – all you have to be concern yourself with is the crew for a corvette.”
Morrison nodded. While some of her senior co-workers might have considered such a small role an insult, she normally wouldn’t have been given any role at all. “Thank you, sir. Can I ask for some specifics?”
“She’s about a hundred and twenty years old, and the last survivor of her class even in mothballs. Regularly crewed by about two hundred and fifteen men, twenty of whom are Marines, she was armed with fourteen single-barrel broadside-mount rail guns, two turreted particle cannons, and a bow chaser armament of two missile tubes and three particle cannons.” That caug
ht Morrison by surprise – particle cannons were incredibly powerful (if only usable for a very limited duration before they needed to be recharged), and that kind of chase armament sounded like it belonged on a frigate, not a corvette. Her disbelief must of showed, because the Admiral gave her a rueful grin. “She was a converted gunboat.”
The naval philosophy of building “gunboats,” or small warships with powerful chase armaments and no broadsides, had been prevalent for a brief period. The theory was that, when attacking en masse, small, relatively inexpensive gunboats could be more powerful than frigates on a per-ship basis. What it actually proved to be was a quantity-over-quality plan of construction on the cheap.
In their first major war, most of the gunboats had been demolished in a single horrific battle. Even so, post-combat analysis showed that the philosophy had proven relatively sound... up to a point. When the action had started, Alliance gunboats and their enemy’s frigates had matching losses. Once a few of the small ships were gone, though, and the initial charges for the particle cannon capacitor were drained, the philosophy failed. Every gunboat lost had exponentially weakened the one hundred and twenty gunboat squadron, and the tide turned quickly. As the action continued they scattered, many of them destroyed. The surviving gunboats were recalled, refitted with light broadside armaments, and re-commissioned as corvettes.
Morrison had thought the last of them had been destroyed in the years that followed, but apparently she was mistaken. “Who is she, sir? And what is her crew manifest breakdown?”
Mumford chuckled. “She was named the Chihuahua when she was first commissioned as a gunboat – they gave those converted gunboats some pretty silly names – and my staff found no record of that having been changed after her conversion. As far as a crew breakdown, it’s a bit unusual. You’ll need weapons techs, engineers, environmental engineers, navigation specialists, and roughly thirty officers for command and control. You don’t need to worry about a captain – the Wargame administrators will assign you a commanding officer, a chief engineer with the appropriate background to refit this ship, and possibly one or two other officers if you need them. Due to the Chihuahua’s size, however, you’ll be on your own for most of the bridge crew, execs, and tactical officers. You’ll need to identify an equal number of alternates for each officer’s position – if someone responsible for a bigger ship wants an officer you’ve listed, you’ll likely lose out unless you can come up with a damned good justification for why that person belongs on a corvette instead of one of the battleships.”
Morrison hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m very well placed for this, sir. I don’t teach any classes open to enlisted personnel or non-command line officers, so I’ll likely be even worse off than a regular personnel officer.”
“I doubt it. After all, Captain, there’s a reason we decided to have our officer candidates share their dormitories, specialized classes, and common rooms with enlisted during training.” He grinned. “I’m sure some of your students will be able to recommend the other officers and enlisted you’ll need. And you’re better off than any of the twenty teachers I assigned to find crews for the Sirius class battleships we intend to use. They have to find eleven hundred men each!”
“Sirius class? Those are even older than you say the Chihuahua is supposed to be!” Morrison gasped. “They’ll hardly be a match for our newer heavy cruisers, much less any modern battleships. I take it you aren’t exactly planning on an Academy victory this year?”
Mumford shrugged apologetically. “I hate to admit it, but the Wargame scenario is driven more by politics and computer recommendations than common sense. And it’s even worse than you think – we’ll probably wind up using several of the new Argus-class battleships on the Fleet side.”
Morrison shook her head. “I understand the political realities, I’m just not sure what the students are going to learn from an exercise that’s so completely stacked against them.” She stopped as another thought struck her. “I hope you’re putting someone good in overall command of the Academy fleet.”
Mumford smirked sourly. “Well, you’re in luck – all bad. As usual, the Academy force is being placed in the charge of a captain up for flag rank. Captain John Green is an arrogant asshole, and truthfully is a poor officer. But he’s lucky, and luck is frequently valued as being more important than skill.”
“The Academy would be better off under Cadet Katz’s command,” Morrison muttered almost to herself.
“Cadet Katz?” Mumford says. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”
“Her,” Morrison corrected, and then realized she’d have to explain. Mentioning her had been a mistake. She prayed he wouldn’t ask too many questions. “She and Cadet Desaix, Admiral McCaffrey’s newest protégé, presented me with a winning plan to one of the Mission Improbable scenarios today.”
Mumford looked intrigued. “What probability?”
“Virtual certainty, according to their sims. I haven’t had a chance to look through it as well as I would have liked, myself.” She paused, then thought of something that might keep him from asking for details. “I was planning on talking to Sanchez about using the macrosim to see how it ran.”
Mumford frowned. “So who was the brainstormer? Katz or Desaix?”
“I... don’t know yet, sir. Cadet Desaix is just a freshman, but he did win a grade jump in the tactical scenario contest Admiral McCaffrey sponsored last semester. They both have an extremely high aptitude for tactics, though, and while they may have an adversarial relationship they work well together. Mr. Desaix, however, is only minoring in tactics, so I’d guess Cadet Katz. But that’s just a guess.”
Mumford stroked his chin. “What is Cadet Desaix’s major?”
“Engineering.”
“Then, may I make a suggestion, Captain?”
“Of course!” Morrison replied.
“Don’t bother with running the sim – you’ll need the time for this new assignment. Instead, go along on the Chihuahua as an observer. You aren’t a command line officer, so it won’t disrupt the chain of command, but it will give you an excellent opportunity to evaluate both of those cadets – we’ll be sure to assign Katz to be your senior tactical officer and Desaix your Executive Engineering officer. Gather the best command crew you can find – you’ve made me curious enough to back up your personnel decisions, so you’ll have a free hand to see what sort of force you can make out of this little corvette. And see if these cadets are as good in action as they are in sims. If we can build a team of superior officers using your little corvette, perhaps the big political farce governing the Wargame won’t render it completely worthless to the Navy.”
Morrison saluted. “Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER III
Earth Alliance Naval Academy, Earth Campus
A roguish young man with short, dark hair shut off the connection from his end of the comm line and sat down on his Academy bunk. His name was Joel Farmburg… or Brent Fornello, depending on where he was at the time. A girl dressed in nothing but a terrycloth robe came out of his bathroom and walked over to him. Seeing his distress, she walked over and started massaging his naked shoulders.
“What’s wrong, baby?” she cooed.
“Take a hike, love. I need to deal with this one alone.”
“Are you sure?” she whispered, rubbing her body up against his back. “I could help you relax, you know.”
“Yeah,” he said, grabbing her grasping hands and pulling them away. “I’m sure. I don’t particularly feel up to... relaxing... right now, Suze.”
“Humph!” the girl puffed, retrieving her arms and stepping away. “Well, in that case, I guess I’d better go. Call me?”
“Yeah, whatever,” he said, waving her off impatiently. “Go, I need to think.”
Sighing, she said, “I’ll just get dressed, then.”
He waited until she had gone before he pulled his hand comp out of its hiding place. Calling up a special decryption program, he started reading the message agai
n.
It had been his job to identify the best and the brightest in the Academy, finding those people that were worth watching. His first deep cover assignment, he didn’t yet know how his superiors planned to extract him without arousing suspicion. However, he’d entered the Academy as planned, trusting his superiors to help him find a way out.
Then, a year into the task, his mission had suddenly changed. In addition to identifying and reporting on the best and the brightest, he was supposed to disrupt their education and careers as best as he could. So far, his biggest coup had been forcing one of the Academy’s better teachers to retire by maneuvering him into an affair with a student. His superiors now wanted reports on anything significant the Earth Alliance might know regarding Pleiades, and they wanted it yesterday.
Frustrated with his orders, his thoughts turned to the girl who had just left his room. That was another case of where his mission had expanded after he had arrived. Suze had been an excellent find, a marvelous body attached to a passionate woman. His superiors had targeted her for elimination based on his reports, and gave him the job of doing it. He figured the best way to ‘eliminate’ her was to ruin her career... by getting her into bed so often she couldn’t study any more, sabotaging any chance of hers to study, and possibly altering her grades somewhere down the line so that she flunked out. He figured at least this way he wouldn’t have to kill her.
Farmburg stewed awhile, wondering what was driving the urgency of his latest orders. Arriving at no conclusions, he decided to clear his mind of any questions. He would need his wits to step up his pace without giving himself away.
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