While Max was speaking, Dr. Sahin had been watching Wendt’s face closely. “You already know who did this, don’t you?”
The other men leaned forward with interest and surprise. “I am almost certain that I do,” he said. Five seconds of silence. “Chief Edwin.” In response to the looks of frank astonishment he received from the officers, he added, “You officers don’t know him the way I do. Yes, he is extremely efficient. Yes, he salutes briskly, shows up for every watch on time, and seems eager to jump to anything any officer ever asks of him. Yes, his trouser creases are knife sharp, his brass shiny, and his boots gleaming black. But he is also the most greedy, mercenary, unscrupulously money-grubbing man ever to go to space.
“He always has some kind of racket going—gambling, hard-core porn vids, semilegal energy drinks—it’s always something. Never anything so far over the line that there is ever an official investigation and discipline, but enough so that every several months I have to dial him back and shut down whatever his game is at the time. And not a drop of loyal blood flows through his veins. He’d sell his own mother for the price of a couple of beers.
“He’s got shady connections in every station and port, so he would be the man on board most likely to have a partner on the beach somewhere with whom he could conduct this transaction. Add to that he’s been an angel these past few months. None of his usual scams. And even though he has always spent his money like water, the absence of a racket doesn’t seem to have made him any more frugal. There seems to be no end to his money lately.
“The change was right after we spent a week at T-Gloon III for scheduled compression drive maintenance. Edwin had unrestricted access to the compression drive spares then, and several people saw him rolling a large box out of that area on a dolly one night when no one was supposed to be around. We inventoried the stores and found nothing missing. Now I know why—he substituted the civilian part. Selling out shipmates for money.”
“All of that is circumstantial,” said Major Kraft. “We need better evidence than that to convict.”
“Major, I may not be a lawyer or an officer,” said Wendt, “but I’ve been in this man’s Navy for longer than anyone else at this table and I know you don’t need any kind of formal evidence to discipline this man. It just takes a ‘reasonable basis’ for the captain to find him guilty of misconduct, bust him to greenie, and put him on the beach the next chance he gets, based on what we know today.”
Kraft smiled slowly. “Chief, my plan is that this man not ever see the beach again. His actions resulted in ‘damage or interference with the operation of a naval vessel in a war zone.’ Resulting in death. A man died. No enemy within twenty light years. Unless the captain has something different to say,”—he looked at Max, who gave no sign of opposition—“I aim to see this man shot.”
“Where are you going to get evidence of the kind necessary to put a man before a firing squad?” Wendt’s question was more curious than accusatory. “I don’t think that you’ll find Edwin cooperative at all, given that he may be facing a bullet. Are you going to talk to his friends, find out who his connections are, and then find the man with whom he did the deal and get him to give you a sworn statement? You won’t find his friends very talkative either. And it might be months before we can get back to T-Gloon III. Even sending a message to their planetary law enforcement and getting them to bring the guy in and question him might take weeks.”
“To the contrary,” said Kraft. “Before I confront Edwin, there is only one man with whom I need to speak, and I expect him to be the very soul of cooperation.”
Less than an hour later, PFCs Zamora and Ulmer, who were not only the two largest Marines on the Cumberland but also two of the largest examples of Homo sapiens Max had ever seen, hustled Chief Petty Officer Third Class Ferrell K. Edwin into the destroyer’s wardroom, the ship’s tiny interrogation room being too small for the number of people assembled for the questioning. After shoving their charge none too gently into the chair at the foot of the wardroom table, the two Marines stood menacingly on either side of the hatch, right hands resting on the butts of their sidearms, looking for all the worlds like pissed-off Sequoias.
Edwin quickly scanned the room, looking for allies, but saw that every chair around the table was occupied by an officer appointed to the ship since the change in command: Max, DeCosta, Brown, Sahin, and Kraft. Every chair but one. His eyes lighted on the COB, Chief Petty Officer First Class Heinz Wendt. The two men had served together through the purgatory of being under Captain Oscar’s command and had shared thousands of bull sessions in the Goat Locker, as well as untold gallons of beer and other strong drink in the Enlisted Mess and various ports all around the Union. His eyes took on a pleading quality. “Heinz? What…?”
The crusty old COB cut him off before he could get the third word out. “Shut up, Edwin.” His voice was low and cold. Like a beautiful rose dipped in liquid helium and flung to the floor, those treasured shipmate memories were now shattered forever. “I’m not ‘Heinz’ to you any more.”
The COB pointedly turned away from Edwin and focused on Ulmer’s immaculately maintained 11.43-millimeter (some still said .45-caliber) Model 1911 sidearm. He imagined using it to blow Edwin’s head off. He imagined it in every detail: the weight of the pistol in his hands, the resistance of the recoil spring as he pulled back the slide, the distinctive clack as he released the slide and it slid forward to chamber the round, the pressure of the trigger under his index finger, the blang of the weapon firing, the sharp upward and backward pressure of the recoil, the explosion of living tissue from the back of Edwin’s head. But no. It would be enough to watch him stand before the firing squad.
Maybe not.
“Skipper,” Wendt said, “when we shoot this bastard, I want to be one of the men holding a rifle. For Archer. For every man in Engineering he could have killed.”
Max nodded. The request was unusual, but within his power to grant. “Okay, COB. If we shoot him.”
Edwin turned white. Even his lips lost all color. Dr. Sahin opened a briefcase-sized medical bag, took out what looked to be a largish wallet, set it on the table, and unzipped it to reveal an array of preloaded pressure syringes, each a different color and each carefully labeled. He pulled out the white one and set it on the table to the right of the rest. To Max he said, “Vasodilator. We don’t want the bastard passing out, do we?”
“Quite right,” grunted Brown.
Max turned to Kraft. “Major?”
There was a distinct slap as Kraft dropped a thick folder on the table. He slowly opened it and looked in Edwin’s eyes. “Chief Edwin. Since 29 September 2314, you have made a series of transfers to your ship’s cash account from your shore account on Alphacen, in amounts ranging from five hundred to three thousand credits, isn’t that correct?”
Edwin smiled slightly. A That’s all this is about smile. “Yep. That’s right. Nuttin’ wrong with that. For incidentals, like.” He used the word “incidentals” like it was a recent acquisition, a new piece of verbal furniture to be showed off to company.
“Incidentals. Right.” Kraft’s tone said he didn’t believe a word of it. “The account on Alphacen is in your name, correct?”
“Yep. That’s right. I got nuttin’ to hide.”
“Of course, you don’t,” said Kraft. “That’s why there are dozens of other transfers out of that account, ordered by you, each in excess of 150,000 credits, and totaling more than three million credits, apparently to purchase beachfront property and negotiable securities on New Polynesia.”
“Why not?” Edwin was starting to squirm a little. “It’s my money. I’ve been saving my salary since I was a mid so I could retire in style.”
“I’m sure you have,” Kraft said, like an good attorney on cross examination, his tone becoming more sarcastic by almost imperceptible increments. “And Edwin, it appears you’ve been saving your money in the most
interesting of places. Including a very large account at Credit Suisse in Zurich, from which you have transferred 5.43 million credits to your shore account.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Edwin became more indignant than terrified. “Bank accounts in Switzerland are secret. There isn’t supposed to even be a name on that account, just a number. And everywhere else in the Union, my bank records are private by law. You can’t see them without a court order. And no matter how you played this scenario,” he pronounced it skenario, “you haven’t had time to get one.”
Kraft smiled indulgently. “Edwin, you are absolutely right. Your bank records are absolutely private. And the communications that any of your banks send to you are also strictly confidential. Your communications to the bank, however, are a particle with a different polarity. When your funds transfer order is transmitted from a Union warship, in a war zone, in time of war, it is recorded in the ship’s database and may be retrieved on order of the captain if he reasonably believes it affects the safety of the ship.”
“And I’ve got a dead crewman that says it is,” said Max.
“D-d-d-dead?” Without a full corpse to roll through the corridors, the transfer of Archer’s pitifully meager remains to the Casualty Station in a discrete cargo container had not alerted the ship’s brilliantly efficient rumor mill.
“That’s right, Edwin.” Dr. Sahin surprised everyone by speaking. “Ordinary Spacer Second Class D. L. Archer. Quite dead. Everything from a centimeter above the knees up is gone. The rest is what you people like to call strawberry jam. I’ve collected it in two specimen containers. When we’re done here, you can see them in the Casualty Station. And the legs.”
Kraft continued, “Once I got the captain’s okay, it took Ensign Bales only about twenty minutes to access the records, find the relevant transactions, and pull together the sequence. We’ve got you dead to rights. Emphasis on dead. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Edwin got pale again and swayed in his seat. Dr. Sahin administered the vasodilator injection, the syringe making a quiet hiss in the otherwise silent room. The accused chief managed to gather his thoughts, put his palms on the table, and opened his mouth to speak.
“Shut it.” Max barked, making everyone in the room jump. “Not a fucking word. I don’t want to pollute my memory of the valuable service you gave to this vessel with any disgusting justifications you might offer for your actions, or any greasy, nauseating pleas for mercy. Your guilt is there.” He pointed to Kraft’s folder. “And there.” He pointed to Edwin’s face. “So. Just shut the fuck up. I don’t need to hear another word.” His voice became formal. “Major Kraft?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Draw up the necessary documents immediately. Time of execution is three hours from now.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have them for your signature in less than two.”
“And Major?”
“Sir?”
“No firing squad. He betrayed every man on this ship. Naval tradition tells us what to do with his kind.”
“Aye, sir. My pleasure.”
A loud thump at the foot of the table caused heads to turn in that direction as Chief Edwin landed unconscious on the deck.
Two hours and fifty-eight minutes later, the group from the wardroom, as well as a few more senior officers and enlisted men were gathered at the main boarding hatch—the hatch through which every man boards the ship from any station or other space facility. Every new midshipman is first brought aboard through the hatch, even if it means docking a shuttlepod or launch there rather than landing it on the hangar deck. Traditions die hard in the Navy.
Held up by Zamora and Ulmer, and fortified by pharmaceuticals injected but not described to anyone by Dr. Sahin, Edwin listened to the charges against him, the formal finding of guilt, and the recitations of various certifications by various officers that he was, in fact, ready to die and that it was, in fact, legal to kill him. He was wearing a plain jane—a version of the Working Uniform that had no name tag, no rank or seniority insignia, no specialty or certification badges, no ship’s patches, nor anything else to identify its wearer by name, rank, ship, skill, or specialization. A man wearing a plain jane was already stripped of his identity. There was, however, a small aluminum plate in one of the pockets, inscribed with his name, rank, and serial number.
Then came the part of the procedure that was contained in none of the execution documents, was printed in no regulation, and could not be found in any book. Yet, it was known to every man who made the black sky his home and was as much the law of deep space as any regulation from Norfolk.
“Ferrell Kent Edwin,” said Max, “it was through this hatch or one very like it that you were brought into the brotherhood of the men who serve this ship and the others like her. With them, you have breathed the same air, drunk the same water, shared their joys and sorrows, endured the same hardships, and faced the same dangers. You owe your life to them many times over. Yet, you betrayed them. You. Betrayed. Them. There is no more base treachery than this. So, it is fitting that, in front of your former brothers, you be cast out of their sight, out of their fellowship, and out of their lives, into the eternal darkness from which, for you, there shall be no return until the end of days.”
At Max’s gesture, Zamora and Ulmer shoved an openly weeping Edwin through a hatch into a small enclosure that had a similar hatch on the other side. Ulmer hit a switch and the inner door closed. Max walked up to the door and keyed a few controls on the panel. A chime sounded. “Airlock pressurization is at 150 percent of standard. It is recommended that excess pressure be relieved immediately.” The computer warning purred in its cybernetic sex-kitten voice.
Max dug his fingernail under a protective switch cover and flipped the cover up. He pressed the button.
Another chime sounded. “Warning!” the computer intoned. “Airlock pressure safety override engaged. It is now possible to open outer airlock door when airlock is under pressure.”
Max dug his fingernail under a second cover and flipped it up. He pressed the button.
“Warning!” the computer interjected. “Airlock personnel safety override engaged. It is now possible to open outer airlock door with non-pressure-suited personnel in airlock. This procedure is not recommended. Warning! Sensors indicate non-pressure-suited personnel inside airlock. Opening outer airlock under present conditions is a violation of Union Naval Safety Regulations and is likely to result in severe injury or death.”
He flipped open a third protective cover, exposing an innocuous, square black button simply labeled OPEN. Max reached for it. A strong hand, fingers cold as ice, suddenly gripped his wrist. Max turned to glare at the man who had dared to lay hands on him.
It was Wendt. Eyes as gray as the North Sea in winter met Max’s. “Skipper. He was an enlisted man. A chief. He was my responsibility.”
Max nodded and stood aside. Wendt stepped up to the control and looked through the window in the hatch at Edwin, beating on the hatch with his fists. His voice was inaudible, but his lips were moving quickly, obviously begging that his life be spared. Wendt looked the condemned man in the eyes and, seeing nothing worth saving, pressed the button.
The outer door snapped open revealing a rectangle—the depths of interstellar space as framed by the outer bulkhead. In the brightly lit compartment, the men’s eyes could not see any stars. The overpressure in the airlock quickly and efficiently shoved Edwin out into the void where he rapidly shrank to a white dot that drifted out of view. Max closed the hatch, put the safety covers back in place, and turned to face the men.
“Dismissed.”
* * *
CHAPTER 7
* * *
18:11Z Hours, 20 March 2315
Max was looking at one of the training schedules prepared by the XO. The frantic edge needed to go, and there was too much time spent on taking the people who were already competent and getting them up
to a higher level, and not enough on reaching down to the people who were at the lowest levels of proficiency and bringing them up to competency. Where one arm was strong and the other weak, the strong arm does the hard work. Max needed to find a way to strengthen the weak arm. Tie the strong arm behind the man’s back? How do you do that on a destroyer?
The coffee in his mug had gone cold. Max didn’t mind cold coffee so much. He had pulled many hundreds of Middle Watches in forgotten corners of large warships, where at 02:53 the only coffee that could be had without committing the unpardonable (not to mention court martial–worthy) offense of abandoning one’s station was burned, stale, and cold. Drinking coffee that was merely cold was scarcely an inconvenience, much less a hardship.
He tossed the dregs of the cup down the hatch like a shot of cheap liquor and was reaching for the comm button to call for some more when the panel buzzed, making him drop the mug. It shattered into hundreds of pieces on the metal bezel that marked the boundary between the comm panel and the captain’s desk. “Crap,” he muttered as he punched to answer. “Skipper.”
“Captain, this is Dr. Sahin. I was wondering if you might be available to meet with me. A matter of some importance relative to the welfare of the crew has arisen, and I would like to discuss it with you.”
“Absolutely.” No questions asked. Well, there was one question. “Doctor, is there anyone else whose presence might be beneficial?”
“Not initially. Ordinarily, I would think that having the XO sit in would be advisable. Given what he is doing at the moment, though, I would be reluctant to interrupt him.” The XO, Brown, and Chief Wendt were trying to work out some way to determine whether Chief Edwin had sold any other valuable matériel out of the ship.
For Honor We Stand (Man of War Book 2) Page 20
