by Cheryl Angst
“You were at the top of your class,” Cmdr. Santiago said. “You have the background and training to fill the position.”
He knew he should have taken the medical posting on the farming colony. This “talk” was really only a courtesy. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. If the captain wanted to move him to engineering, Simon’s duty was to pack up his stuff, salute smartly, and become an engineer.
He pondered the situation. Being a shift leader couldn’t be all bad. The hours would be more regular than in the MIR.
He wondered if he might be offered a promotion to petty officer, or at least a pay raise, for making the switch.
“All right, sir. I’m your man. Where do you want me to step in?”
* * * *
“I think he took the news rather well,” John said as they waited for the last of the crew to fall in for the ceremony.
“After he regained consciousness,” Santiago chuckled.
“I should have tried to prepare him for the change instead of just blurting the details out.” He grinned. “I guess I’m a little rusty.”
Rebeccah smiled. “I doubt any amount of preparation would have helped. You’re about to promote a master seaman to lieutenant commander and make him the deputy chief engineer. I think preparing someone for such a significant move is impossible.” She paused. “I’m just glad he didn’t hit his head when he slipped out of the chair.”
John raised an eyebrow and said, “At least we were in the MIR.”
Chapter 27
For the first time in nearly a decade, Nate cursed himself for retiring from the UESF to pursue a political career. In a span of less than twelve hours, he had received reports on the explosion aboard the Firestorm, the list of casualties, and a report filed by the diplomatic officer written in an obvious attempt to delay appointing a new commanding officer.
Now people were dead and Nate still had no idea who the conspirators were. For all he knew, they could be among those killed.
He decided not to trouble John with the details. He figured John already had enough to worry about after an accident like that. He hoped the added stress hadn’t triggered his psychosis again.
Nate wondered how close the diplomatic officer was to uncovering the identities of those who were spreading the rumors. And why the hell was she trying to delay the change of command? Asking HQ to consider unqualified officers was ludicrous. He worried about his decision to send her John’s sealed records. His logic had been sound at the time. She was interested in John’s past, and he needed information on the rumors circulating aboard the ship. Now, he wasn’t so sure. No one wanted to be in a damaged vessel in avian space without a captain; no one, it seemed, except Lt. Santiago.
* * * *
“Sir?”
Nate didn’t respond.
“Sir?” Jenkins asked, a little louder.
Nate still didn’t react.
“Sir?” Jenkins voice carried a note of concern.
“Jenkins?”
“Sir, are you all right?” He moved closer to the desk. “You’ve been sitting here without moving for almost an hour. When you didn’t respond, I--”
“He took it,” Nate said, incredulously.
“Who, sir? Took what, sir?”
“Command.” He shook his head. “He’s the bloody captain of the ship.”
“Sir?”
“I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but John Thompson is now the commanding officer aboard the Firestorm.”
“Is that bad, sir?”
“Bad?” Nate laughed. “I have no clue.”
“Surely placing one of the most decorated war heroes in command can’t be too awful,” Jenkins offered.
“My concern is why this particular war hero? A man who’s been running from his past for twenty years, suddenly decided not only to embrace the UESF again, but take over command of a warship. Something’s not sitting right with me.”
Damn. He slammed his fist into the top of his desk. He needed more information,
* * * *
Meredith entered the bar, blinking to adjust her eyes to the darkness. As soon as she could make out more than blobs of blue superimposed on black, she searched the room for Patrick. Her misgivings increased when he waved to her from a table near the back.
She took in his gaunt face, pale skin, and grey stubble. He looked like hell, and her stomach churned in response. Whatever he had to say wouldn’t be good.
Meredith slipped into the chair opposite his and waited. Patrick tossed the remnants of his whiskey back and gestured to the waitress for another. Given the fumes lingering around the table and the red in his eyes, Meredith suspected the glass hadn’t been his first, nor would the next be his last.
“I’ve got a contract for you. Small--mostly spare parts--but the quantity should be enough to keep you solvent for another month or so.”
Relief washed through Meredith and her shoulders sagged from the release of tension. “Patrick, that’s excellent news.” She scanned the room and frowned. “But why tell me here, why not come by my office?”
The waitress set Patrick’s drink on the table and Meredith waved her away. This was not a social visit, and she made a point of never drinking during negotiations. She’d buy wine for her clients over dinner, but she wasn’t dumb enough to touch any herself when money was on the table.
“My department will be sending your company a notice with the contract later today.” Patrick remained glum. He gulped the drink, leaving only the ice behind. “Someone sabotaged one of my ships.”
“What?”
He nodded. “The news gets worse. Banks managed to sneak a retired fleet officer on board and now he’s in command.”
“Patrick, I understand the concern about the sabotage, but why are you--”
“My contact is dead.”
Meredith waited.
“I sent a message to my avian counterpart, informing him of their breach of security, and my loss. I recommended we scrap the plan until I can put another operative in place.”
Dread filled her. “The peace talks will continue uninterrupted.” Her anger flared. “I sacrificed my mother for this scheme.”
He shook his head. “The avians wouldn’t agree. Their corporations are far more desperate than ours. They proposed an alternate scenario.”
Meredith’s heart stopped.
“Are we going to war?”
“My eyes and ears on the ship are gone. I can’t alter the course of events.”
“Patrick...”
He stared at her, anguish written across his face. “If they succeed, the talks will end.” He fingered his glass. “I doubt hostilities will break out--at least, not immediately.”
“Oh, my God. What did you get me into?”
“Don’t be so quick to blame.” He grimaced. “When the shit hits, you’ll be the wealthiest arms magnate on the planet.”
Chapter 28
“That attack pattern is decades out of date,” said Lt. Cmdr. Targersson.
John slowed his breathing, trying to hide his frustration.
“We haven’t fought the avians in twenty years,” he replied. “The pattern worked then, and it’ll work now.”
“Technology changes. The flyers are better,” argued Targersson. “They’re faster, more maneuverable, and have better weapons.”
“I don’t care how many loop-the-loops a flyer can do before engaging the enemy ship, I want to know our pilots can hit the target as efficiently as possible.” John sighed. “These new patterns waste far too much time ‘distracting’ the enemy and not enough time trying to disable the enemy’s ship.”
“I’m telling you these old tactical plans won’t work with these new flyers.”
“And I’m telling you these new plans won’t last a second against a real enemy ship.” John ran a hand over his head in an attempt to distract himself from saying something he’d regret to his tactical officer. They’d been working together every shift, for three hours at a time, go
ing through all the procedures and protocols. Not only did it serve to bring John up to speed on current UESF strategy, it gave the pilots and troops something to do during the voyage as they demonstrated the various plans in real-time simulations.
For the most part, John found the sessions with Targersson productive and informative, if not exactly genial. The tactical officer never said or did anything disrespectful, but something about his manner led John to believe the man harbored ill will toward him.
“We’re going to be outgunned by anything we encounter. How do you expect us to hold our own if we don’t distract the enemy?” asked Targersson.
“I expect us to ‘hold our own’ by taking out those extra guns and the communications relays as quickly as possible.” John shook his head as he stared at the read out. “This whole flying in pairs is ludicrous. You’re sending one pilot out to be sacrificed while the other dodges around wasting time before hitting its intended target.”
“All our battle histories show single pilots working on their own are easily picked off.”
“But single pilots working in coordinated patterns with others must be more effective than this decoy-pairs crap you’ve got going now,” replied John.
“Your patterns are for slower, less maneuverable flyers.”
“Then let’s alter them.”
“Sir?”
“I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that my ‘old’ tactical plans are going to be more effective in a real fight than what you’ve shown me. However, I agree that they’re based on inferior flyer models. So, let’s take the advances in technology and figure out a way to enhance these patterns.”
“But the current tactics work.” Targersson was adamant.
“They work on what? Did I miss a war?”
“All the simulations show that paired flight increases our chances of hitting enemy targets.”
“Of course it does,” John said. “But the strategy also increases the casualty rate and loss of flyers for further sorties.” John held Targersson’s gaze. “I don’t know about you, but I want to keep as many of our pilots alive as possible, and a tactical plan that estimates a fifty percent troop loss seems to go against that goal.”
“I’m trying to preserve life too,” Targersson retorted. “The lives of the remaining nine hundred and fifty people on board this ship. What are ten, or even forty, lives compared to those?”
Ten lives too many--when there’s a better way.
“Run the simulation again; this time, give the flight the old attack pattern.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Targersson. John frowned at the doubt in his subordinate’s voice, but Targersson did as told and programmed the flyers’ computers to “see” an avian cruiser one hundred kilometers off the port side.
* * * *
Rebeccah yawned and stretched as she signed off on her last report for the day. Her shift had ended almost three hours earlier, but she’d needed to add further details to several documents and time had gotten away from her--again. How was she supposed to make sure all her reports were completed on top of all her other duties each day? Maybe if she started arriving for duty an hour and a half before the start of her shift…
She puzzled over her work schedule as she made her way through the corridors back to her cabin. “It’s just not possible,” she muttered.
“What’s not possible?”
Rebeccah started at the voice behind her. She’d been so absorbed in her own thoughts, she hadn’t heard him approach.
“Uh, nothing, sir,” she replied.
Thompson slowed to keep step with her. He wore a set of UESF training sweats and she assumed he had been running. She caught herself appraising his physique, blushed, and redirected her gaze to the corridor in front of them.
“You haven’t just left the bridge, have you?”
She blushed deeper and looked away. She didn’t want to tell him about struggling with her duties as XO. “I had some reports--”
“You’re spending too much time on those,” he said.
“I’m spending as much time as necessary to ensure they’re accurate and complete,” she replied. “I’ll get faster as time goes on, I promise.”
“Dear God,” he moaned, “don’t get faster. Just stop being so damn detailed.”
“But--”
John stopped walking and turned to face her. “Yes, I need accurate and complete reports.” She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off before she could speak. “But, I also need reports I can read.
“You’re reports are so detailed I don’t have time to read them all. And if I can’t get through your documents in a timely manner then I can’t make informed decisions about the Firestorm and her crew. Your efforts to ensure I have the best information possible are hampering my ability to command this ship.”
Rebeccah stared at him then shook her head. She understood the cost of having too little information.
“Take your latest supply report as an example. The damn thing was over fifty pages long.” Thompson wiped his face with his towel. “I don’t need a precise count and location for every piece of ration cutlery on the ship. I just need to know whether or not we should bring more on board at the next spacedock.”
“But--”
“Look,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “your level of thoroughness is perfect for reports on crew status, accident investigations, diplomatic dossiers, and such, but it’s out of place in the routine requirements for standard ship reports.”
She wanted to crawl into an access tunnel and die, but he held her gaze.
“Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring pat and took off down the corridor at a steady jog.
She waited to move until he disappeared around the corner. Her heart sank as she trudged to her quarters.
Whatever led her to believe she could be a successful XO?
She couldn’t even write a proper report.
* * * *
Rebeccah arrived on the bridge forty-five minutes early for her shift, determined to get caught up on her reports. She froze in mid-step as she recognized the officer in the captain’s chair. Instead of the gamma shift’s usual Officer of the Watch, she found Thompson. Intent on the readout on his console, he didn’t react to her entry.
“Damn.” He slammed his hand against the console. “The apex of the trajectory is still too high,” he muttered under his breath.
She slipped into her seat and pulled up her pile of reports from the previous day. She had to find a solution other than cutting out massive amounts of critical information. She opened the first file and stared at the data, wondering when she’d lost the knack for effective summarizing.
“Yes,” John yelled as he clapped his hands together.
He keyed in a series of commands and then sat back to watch the read out. As the simulation progressed, he inched closer and closer to the console until all she could see was the glow reflecting off the side of his face.
Targersson and the rest of the alpha shift arrived on the bridge just as the captain called out, “I think we’ve got a winner.”
Targersson nodded to her in greeting as he took his position at the tactical station. “What have we won, sir?”
“Here,” John said as he tapped his control panel, presumably forwarding files to Targersson’s console. “Take a look at simulations Tango-Alpha-zero-one-nine through Tango-Alpha-zero-two-one.”
The head of tactical called up the first file and sat back, arms across his chest to watch, skepticism plain on his face. “Aye, sir.”
The simulation drew to a close and his look shifted from doubt to curiosity. Running the second and subsequent simulations, Targersson moved to the edge of his seat, his fingers twitching on the arms of his chair. “Sir,” he said, “I think you might be onto something here. I recommend we try Tango-Alpha-zero-one-nine with the flyers and see how the sim plays out in real life.”
&nbs
p; “Yes,” replied John. “Program the simulation into their databanks, and let’s get a flight out there.”
“Aye, sir.”
Within moments the main viewscreen displayed a dozen flyers zooming and arcing around an invisible enemy vessel. They flew and dodged in a manner Rebeccah had never seen before. Two minutes later, the flyers headed back to the hangar and the words “Target Incapacitated” appeared on the screen. Targersson raised an eyebrow at the result, and Thompson grinned when the next line proclaimed: Estimated Losses Twelve Percent.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Sir?” asked Targersson. “How’d you manage to prevent the flyers from firing on the same target?”
John smiled. “I wrote a program to link their auto-targeting systems with the on-board sensors and the Firestorm’s real-time, three-dimensional spatial mapping capabilities.”
Targersson frowned. “But the level of processing power required to do so should cripple a small craft’s navigational controls.”
“I discovered that,” replied Thompson, “and I thought the power issue would be the death of my plan until the solution hit me--the flyers don’t need to do the processing. By streaming the information back to the Firestorm, the flyers aren’t bogged down with target acquisition and prioritization.”
Rebeccah listened to John’s explanation, buoyed along by his excitement.
“The program orders each flyer to demand a new target from the Firestorm within a nano-second of firing on the previous target. Our computers are programmed to prioritize attacks on the flyers, thus maintaining an emphasis on protecting one another’s backs while the main targets on the enemy ship are destroyed.
“The computers take each flyer’s trajectory and position into account when selecting targets--reducing the frequency of the pilot’s wasting time getting into position--and ensure all the targets are being focused on simultaneously.”
Targersson nodded as the captain finished explaining the nuances of his new program. “Sir, I think this linking program has potential.”
