by David Weber
The senior chief reached out and made a small adjustment on his panel, and his brow furrowed as his own display showed him a duplicate of the imagery on Alcott’s. He saw immediately what had drawn her attention, although he wasn’t at all certain that he would have spotted it himself without the enhancement she had already applied. Even now, the impeller signature was little more than a ghost, and the computers apparently did not share Alcott’s own confidence that what she was seeing was really there. They insisted on marking the icon with the rapidly strobing amber circle which indicated a merely possible contact, and that was usually a bad sign. But Alcott possessed the trained instinct which the computers lacked, and Del Conte was privately certain that what she had was a genuine contact.
Part of the problem was the unknown’s angle of approach. Whatever it was, it was overtaking from astern and very high—so high, in fact, that the upper band of War Maiden’s impeller wedge was between the contact and Alcott’s gravitic sensors. In theory, CIC’s computers knew the exact strength of the heavy cruiser’s wedge and, equipped with that knowledge, could compensate for the wedge’s distorting effect. In theory. In real life, however, the wedge injected a high degree of uncertainty into any direct observation through it, which was why warships tended to rely so much more heavily on the sensor arrays mounted on their fore and aft hammerheads and on their broadsides, where their wedges did not interfere. They also carried ventral and dorsal arrays, of course, but those systems were universally regarded—with reason—as little more than precautionary afterthoughts under most circumstances. In this case, however, the dorsal arrays were the only ones that could possibly see Alcott’s possible contact. The known unreliability of those arrays, coupled with the extreme faintness of the signature that had leaked through the wedge, meant that the contact (if that was what it actually was) had not yet crossed the threshold of CIC’s automatic filters, so no one in CIC was so far even aware of it.
But Alcott was, and now—for his sins—Del Conte was, as well. Standing orders for such a contingency were clear, and Alcott, unfortunately, had followed them… mostly. She had, in fact, done precisely what she would have been expected to do if she had still been part of Lieutenant Commander Hirake’s watch section, for the lieutenant commander trusted her people’s abilities and expected them to routinely route their observations directly to her own plot if they picked up anything they thought she should know about. Standard operating procedure required a verbal announcement, as well, but Hirake preferred for her sensor techs to get on with refining questionable data rather than waste time reporting that they didn’t yet know what it was they didn’t know.
Del Conte’s problem was that the lieutenant commander’s attitude was that of a confident, competent officer who respected her people and their own skills. Which would have been fine, had anyone but Elvis Santino had the watch. Because what Alcott had done was exactly what Lieutenant Commander Hirake would have wanted; she had thrown her own imagery directly onto Santino’s Number Two Plot… and the self-absorbed jackass hadn’t even noticed!
Had the contact been strong enough for CIC to consider it reliable, they would already have reported it, and Santino would have known it was there. Had Alcott made a verbal report, he would have known. Had he bothered to spend just a little more effort on watching his own displays and a little less effort on projecting the proper HD-image of the Complete Naval Officer, he would have known. But none of those things had happened, and so he didn’t have a clue. But when CIC did get around to upgrading their classification from sensor ghost to possible real contact, even Santino was likely to notice from the time chop on the imagery blinking unnoticed (at the moment) on his plot that Alcott had identified it as such several minutes earlier. More to the point, he would realize that when Captain Bachfisch and Commander Layson got around to reviewing the bridge log, they would realize that he ought to have been aware of the contact long before he actually got around to reporting it to them. Given Santino’s nature, the consequences for Alcott would be totally predictable, and wasn’t it a hell of a note that a senior chief in His Majesty’s Navy found himself sitting here sweating bullets trying to figure out how to protect a highly talented and capable rating from the spiteful retaliation of a completely untalented and remarkably stupid officer?
None of which did anything to lessen Del Conte’s dilemma. Whatever else happened, he couldn’t let the delay drag out any further without making things still worse, and so he drew a deep breath.
“Sir,” he announced in his most respectful voice, “we have a possible unidentified impeller contact closing from one-six-five by one-one-five.”
“What?” Santino shook himself. For an instant, he looked completely blank, and then his eyes dropped to the repeater plot deployed from the base of his command chair and he stiffened.
“Why didn’t CIC report this?” he snapped, and Del Conte suppressed an almost overwhelming urge to answer in terms which would leave even Santino in no doubt of the senior chief’s opinion of him.
“It’s still very faint, Sir,” he said instead. “If not for Alcott’s enhancement, we’d never have noticed it. I’m sure it’s just lost in CIC’s filters until it gains a little more signal strength.”
He made his voice as crisp and professional as possible, praying all the while that Santino would be too preoccupied with the potential contact to notice the time chop on his plot and realize how long had passed before its existence had been drawn to his attention.
For the moment, at least, God appeared to be listening. Santino was too busy glaring at the strobing contact to worry about anything else, and Del Conte breathed a sigh of relief.
Of premature relief, as it turned out.
Elvis Santino looked down at the plot icon in something very like panic. He was only too well aware that the Captain and that asshole Layson were both out to get him. Had he been even a little less well connected within the aristocratic cliques of the Navy, Layson’s no doubt scathing endorsement of his personnel file which had almost certainly accompanied the notation that he had been relieved as OCTO for cause would have been the kiss of death. As it was, he and his family were owed sufficient favors that his career would probably survive without serious damage. But there were limits even to the powers of patronage, and he dared not give the bastards any additional ammunition.
As it happened, he had noticed the plot time chop. Which meant that he knew that he—or at least his bridge crew, and for that matter, his own tactical personnel—had picked up the possible contact almost six full minutes before anyone had drawn it to his attention. He could already imagine the coldly formal, impeccably correct, and brutally blistering fashion in which Bachfisch (or, even worse, that ass-kisser Layson) would ream him out for not reacting sooner. The mental picture of that… discussion was the only thing which prevented him from ripping out Alcott’s and Del Conte’s lungs for having deliberately withheld the information. But Layson had already demonstrated his taste for using noncoms and ratings as spies and informants, and Santino had no doubt that the Exec would take gleeful pleasure in adding Del Conte’s ass-covering version of what had happened to his own report. So instead of kicking their insolent and disloyal asses as they so richly deserved, he forced himself to remain outwardly oblivious to what they had conspired to do to him. The time would come eventually for the debt to be paid, yet for now it was one more thing he dared not attend to.
In the meantime, he had to decide how to handle the situation, and he gnawed on his lower lip while he thought hard. Del Conte—the disloyal bastard—was undoubtedly correct about the reason for CIC’s silence. But if Alcott’s enhancement was solid (and it looked as if it were) then the contact was bound to burn through CIC’s filters in no more than another five to ten minutes, even with only the dorsal gravitics. When that happened, he would have no option but to report it to the Captain… at which point the fact that Alcott and Del Conte had officially fed him the data so much earlier would also become part of the official
record. And the fact that they had deliberately concealed the report by failing to announce it verbally would be completely ignored while Bachfisch and Layson concentrated on the way in which he had “wasted” so much “valuable time” before reporting it to them. And Layson, in particular, was too vindictive for Santino to doubt for a moment that he would point out the fashion in which Santino had squandered the potential advantage which his own brilliantly competent Tactical Department subordinates had won him by making such an early identification of the contact.
Frustration, fury, resentment, and fear boiled back and forth behind his eyes while he tried to decide what to do, and every second that ticked away with no decision added its own weight to the chaos rippling within him. It was such a little thing! So what if Alcott and Del Conte had picked up the contact six minutes, or even fifteen minutes—hell, half an hour!—before CIC did? The contact was over two and a half light-minutes behind War Maiden. That was a good fifty million klicks, and Alcott’s best guess on its acceleration was only around five hundred gravities. With an initial overtake velocity of less than a thousand kilometers per second, it would take whatever it was over five hours to overtake War Maiden, so how could the “lost time” possibly matter? But it would. He knew it would, because Bachfisch and Layson would never pass up the opportunity to hammer his efficiency report all over again and—
His churning thoughts suddenly paused. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He felt his lips twitch and managed somehow to suppress the need to grin triumphantly as he realized the solution to his dilemma. His “brilliant” subordinates had reported the contact even before CIC, had they? Well, good for them! And as the officer of the watch, wasn’t it his job to confirm whether or not the contact was valid as quickly as possible—even before the computers and the highly trained plotting crews in CIC could do so? Of course it was! And that was the sole reason he had delayed in reporting to the Captain: to confirm that the possible contact was a real one.
He caught himself just before he actually rubbed his hands together in satisfaction and then turned to the helmsman.
“Prepare to roll ship seventy degrees to port and come to new heading of two-two-three,” he said crisply.
Del Conte spun his chair to face the center of the bridge before he could stop himself. He knew exactly what the lieutenant intended to do, but he couldn’t quite believe that even Elvis Santino could be that stupid. The preparatory order he’d just given was a classic maneuver. Naval officers called it “clearing the wedge,” because that was exactly what it did as the simultaneous roll and turn swept the more sensitive broadside sensor arrays across the zone which had been obstructed by the wedge before the maneuver. But it was the sort of maneuver which only warships made, and War Maiden had gone to enormous lengths to masquerade as a fat, helpless, unarmed freighter expressly to lure raiders into engagement range. If this asshole—
“Sir, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” the senior chief said.
“Fortunately, I am,” Santino said sharply, unable to refrain from smacking down the disloyal noncom.
“But, Sir, we’re supposed to be a merchie, and if—”
“I’m quite aware of what we’re supposed to be, Senior Chief! But if in fact this is a genuine contact and not simply a figment of someone’s overheated imagination, clearing the wedge should confirm it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Sir, but—”
“They’re only pirates, Senior Chief,” Santino said scathingly. “We can turn to clear the wedge, lock them in for CIC, and be back on our original heading before they even notice!”
Del Conte opened his mouth to continue the argument, and then shut it with a click. There was obviously no point, and it was even remotely possible that Santino was right and that the contact would never notice such a brief course change. But if the contact had them on a gravitic sensor which wasn’t obstructed by a wedge, then War Maiden was at least nine or ten light-minutes inside its sensor range. At that range, even a brief change in heading would be glaringly obvious to any regular warship’s tactical crew. Of course, if these were your typical run-of-the-mill pirates, then Santino could just possibly get away with it without anyone’s noticing. It was unlikely, but it was possible.
And if the asshole blows it, at least my hands will be clean. I did my level best to keep him from screwing up by the numbers, and the voice logs will show it. So screw you, Lieutenant!
The senior chief gazed into the lieutenant’s eyes for five more endless seconds while he fought with himself. His stubborn sense of duty pulled one way, urging him to make one more try to salvage the situation, but everything else pushed him the other way, and in the end, he turned his chair back to face his own panel without another word.
Santino grunted in satisfaction, and returned his own attention to the helmsman.
“Execute the helm order, Coxswain!” he said crisply.
The helmsman acknowledged the order, War Maiden rolled up on her side and swung ever so briefly off her original track, and her broadside sensor arrays nailed the contact instantly.
Just in time to see it execute a sharp course change of its own and accelerate madly away from the “freighter” which had just cleared its wedge.
“I cannot believe this… this… this…”
Commander Abner Layson shook his head, uncertain whether he was more stunned or furious, and Captain Bachfisch grunted in irate agreement. The two of them sat in the captain’s day cabin, the hatch firmly closed behind them, and the display on the captain’s desk held a duplicate of Francine Alcott’s plot imagery, frozen at the moment the pirate which the entire ship’s company had worked so long and so hard to lure into a trap went streaking away.
“I knew he was an idiot,” the commander went on after a moment in a marginally less disgusted voice, “but I figured he had to at least be able to carry out standing orders that had been explained in detail to every officer aboard.”
“I agree,” Bachfisch said, but then he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I agree,” he repeated more wearily, “but I can also see exactly what happened.”
“Excuse me, Sir, but what happened was that the officer of the watch completely failed to obey your standing order to inform you immediately upon the detection of a potential hostile unit. Worse, on his own authority, he undertook to execute a maneuver which was a dead giveaway of the fact that we’re a warship, with predictable results!”
“Agreed, but you know as well as I do that he did it because he knows both of us are just waiting for him to step far enough out of line that we can cut him right off at the knees.”
“Well, he just gave us all the ammunition we need to do just that,” Layson pointed out grimly.
“I suppose he did,” Bachfisch said, massaging his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. “Of course, I also suppose it’s possible his career will survive even this, depending on who his patrons are back home. And I hate to admit it, but if I were one of those patrons, I might just argue to BuPers that his actions, however regrettable, were the predictable result of the climate of hostility which you and I created for Lieutenant Santino when we arbitrarily relieved him of his duties as OCTO.”
“With all due respect, Sir, that’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Of course I know it. At the same time, there’s a tiny element of truth in it, since you and I certainly are hostile to him. You are hostile towards him, aren’t you, Abner?”
“Damn right I am,” Layson said, then snorted as the captain grinned at him. “All right, all right, Sir. I take your point. All we can do is write it up the way we saw it and hope that The Powers That Be back home agree with us. But in the meantime, we have to decide what we’re going to do about him. I certainly don’t want him standing any more watches unsupervised!”
“Neither do I. For that matter, I don’t want him at Tactical, even if he’s just backing up Janice. Bad enough that the man is a fool, but now his own people are helping him cut his own throat!”
“Noticed that, did you, Sir?”
“Please, Abner! I’m still a few years shy of senile. Del Conte knew exactly what would happen.”
“I think that may be putting it just a bit strongly, Sir,” Layson said cautiously. He’d hoped without much confidence that the captain might not have noticed the senior chief’s obvious decision to shut his mouth and stop arguing with his superior. “I mean,” the exec went on, “Santino specifically ordered him to—”
“Oh, come on, Abner! Del Conte is an experienced man, and he damned well shouldn’t have let the fact that his superior officer is an unmitigated ass push him into letting that officer blow the tactical situation all to hell, no matter how pissed off he might’ve been or how justified he was to be that way. You know it, I know it, and I expect you to make very certain that Senior Chief Del Conte knows that we do and that if he ever lets something like this happen again I will personally tear him a new asshole. I trust that I’ve made my feelings on this matter clear?”
“I think you might say that, Sir.”
“Good,” Bachfisch grunted, but then he waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “But once you’ve made that clear to him—and once you’re sure that you have—that’s the end of it.” He pretended not to notice the very slight relaxation of Layson’s shoulders. “He shouldn’t have let it happen, but you’re right; he did exactly what his superior officer ordered him to do. Which is the problem. When a noncom of Del Conte’s seniority deliberately lets his officer shoot his own foot off that spectacularly, that officer’s usefulness is exactly nil. And it’s also the most damning condemnation possible. Even if I weren’t afraid that something like this might happen again, I don’t want any King’s officer who can drive his own personnel to a reaction like that in my ship or anywhere near her.”
