“Son, listen to me. I’m a Krag, just like the one who killed most of the women in your family. I’m the reason you never got to meet your grandmother and your great-grandmother. I’m the reason all the old men in your hometown live out their lives in loneliness and sadness. Me and my rat-faced kinfolk have killed or enslaved billions of human beings. What’s more, I’m going to shoot you right between the eyes in about two seconds. And after that, I’m going to go over there and I’m going to shoot Chief Amborsky too. And once I’m done with him, I’m going to shoot all your bunkmates here, one by one, in the belly and watch them die. Slowly. You and your dirk are the only thing between your friends and certain death. Are you just going to stand there?”
Max’s harangue finally jarred the boy from immobility. He gritted his teeth and letting go an inarticulate shriek of rage, ran at Max full tilt and stabbed him in the groin with the mock blade, the thick SCU preventing any injury. After that blow, the boy kept on stabbing: first at the inside of Max’s thigh right over the femoral artery, then at the back of Max’s knee, then the other thigh, then the other knee, and finally he made repeated hacking motions at Max’s hamstrings. Abruptly, the boy stopped, stood up straight, and smiled. “Like that?”
“Poo yai, son,” Max said. “I think you’ve got the makings of an admiral.”
After having most of his lower body perforated in simulated fashion by the diminutive Midshipman Park, Max turned the combat training back over to Chief Amborsky and started to make his way forward. He was tired. Brutally tired. He had barely slept since taking command, but there was still so much to do in order to get this poor, warped, and misused excuse for a ship ready to do battle with the Krag. And that was leaving aside everything that would have to be done when Lieutenant Brown managed to find the miniature drug factory on board. Dr. Sahin was already making surreptitious preparations to detoxify up to fifty crew members, but Max doubted that it was possible to be truly ready for something of that magnitude.
He came to an airtight hatch in the corridor, one of dozens throughout the ship present to provide airtight compartmentalization in the event of a hull breach or toxic gas leak. It was an oval steel door just wide enough for a large man to pass through, set in a metal frame that ran around it and filled the roughly square shape of the corridor. Max did what tired men often do when stepping over the raised edge of the hatch, known as the hatch coaming—he didn’t raise his foot high enough and he tripped, falling on his face right onto the deck. Thankfully, no one was there to see it. Lying face down on the deck, Max discovered that his eyes were scant centimeters from a deck gun socket—a deck gun socket that had been worn into brilliant but useless smoothness by pathologically assiduous polishing.
Deck gun sockets allow the crew to deploy and securely mount various heavy antipersonnel weapons directly to the deck without having to lug around a large, cumbersome tripod in the confined quarters of a starship. These weapons, including various machine guns, high-capacity fully automatic shotguns, and light cannon for penetrating Krag armored fighting suits, were fitted to swivel mounts, each set on top of a roughly one-meter-tall pole with a base consisting of a probe-and-latch mechanism that fit into sockets set flush into the deck.
These sockets were found every few meters along every corridor and in every large interior space on board, such as the cargo holds and the hangar bay. The probe slipped into the socket and was rigidly locked into place by the latch, with the socket, in turn, firmly secured under the deck to the supporting members of the ship’s frame, forming a rock-solid mount to support a heavy weapon, a mount that could stand up to the recoil of even a heavy machine gun. There were more than a hundred deck gun sockets all over the ship, each a prospective site for a heavy defensive weapons position to stiffen the ship’s defense against boarders.
And this one had been shined within a millimeter of its life. Or maybe past that. It had been polished so much, in fact, with so abrasive a polishing agent, that the array of metal lips and ridges engaged by the latch mechanism to hold the weapons mount in place was worn nearly smooth. Max would bet his last credit that the latch would not engage or that, if it did, the socket would not hold the base securely enough to withstand the weapon’s recoil.
He got up from the deck, no bones broken, but sore in several places. At least he still bounced well. A few steps brought him to the next socket. Same thing. And the next. And the next. After eight sockets he stopped looking and went straight to his day cabin damning Commander Allen Kent Oscar, USN, every step of the way.
He dropped into the chair of the day cabin workstation and logged in. He was about to ask the computer to tell him exactly how many deck gun sockets were on the ship, so he could start writing a memo to order that they be swapped out, when he saw a text message received from the XO about fifteen minutes earlier and marked “URGENT.” Anything from the XO with an “urgent” stamp took precedence. It was in the format used for written naval communications of this type at least since the time of Admiral Chester Nimitz, if not the time of Admiral Horatio Nelson. None of those men, however, wrote memos the way Roger Garcia did.
To:
Robichaux, M.T., LCDR USN, Commanding USS Cumberland
From:
Garcia, R.T., LT USN, XO USS Cumberland
cc:
MAJ G. A. Kraft, Marine Detachment Commander LT V. J. Brown, Chief Engineer
Date:
23 January 2315
Priority:
URGENT
Re:
Heavy Weapons Proficiency and Deck Mounts
Pursuant to your order of 21 January 2315, I have reviewed this crew’s training history in detail and identified several areas of deficiency. Of the three million and two areas requiring immediate and intensive training, the worst, by far, is repelling boarders with heavy weapons. Review of the training logs reveals that this skill had not been drilled for so much as a minute since the ship was put into service. When I attempted to conduct a training exercise involving the mounting of an M-22 HASG, we discovered that the mount would not secure to the deck socket. The latch lever goes down and appears to engage and lock, but when you let go of the weapon, its weight just pulls the mechanism out of the socket, and the whole assembly falls over and hits the deck. Examination of the deck socket showed that it had been polished repeatedly to the point where it was too worn for the locking mechanism to engage it.
Some experienced chief must have told Captain Oscar that he was going to wear out the sockets. It won’t be hard to figure out who it was because I am sure he was still in the brig when you took command.
A spot check of the sockets around the ship indicates that all or virtually all are in the same condition—brilliantly polished but absolutely useless. Immediate fabrication and replacement of every bracket on the ship is recommended. It is further recommended that we begin by replacing every fifth socket so that there are working sockets in every part of the ship ASAP. In that way, if we are boarded six hours after we start work, we won’t have all of the sockets replaced on A Deck Frames 1–4, but no sockets anywhere else. That would be very bad.
Smart man, that XO, thought Max. It was a relief to Max to see that the problem would have been spotted and addressed even if he had not tripped going through that hatch. Max hit the comm switch.
“Engineering, Brown here.”
“Wernher, this is the skipper.”
“Ah, yes, Captain. I’ve been awaiting your call with bated breath ever since I received this sparkling prose missive from the XO scant moments ago.”
“I need this done ASAP.”
“Of course you do. If you were to request a task that did not have to be completed for a fortnight, I am quite certain that I should expire on the spot. In any event, I anticipated your order and have already started fabricating the parts. I loaded the specifications into a FabriFax as soon as I got the memo, and the first socket came out of the machine three or four minutes ago. We are testing it right now to be sure it actually works�
�sometimes ‘built to spec’ doesn’t mean ‘built to work,’ you know. If it is satisfactory, we’ll start turning them out and installing them.
“We should have all 117 of them replaced in about twenty hours, depending on how long it takes to cut the old ones out. No one in living memory has ever had to replace one of these things without having to replace the deck plate as well, so we don’t really know how long it takes.”
“Wernher, you’re the best.”
“Perhaps not, but I am the best you’ll ever get.”
“You do know, Wernher, that sometimes you border on insubordination.”
“Only border, sir? That calls for greater effort.”
“I look forward to it. Speaking of borders, what if we are boarded between now and then?”
“Doing my best to ignore the leaden rapier of your purported witticism, I respectfully suggest, sir, that you endeavor to avoid that eventuality.”
“Wernher, one of your great virtues as an officer is that you’re always ready with an idea I could never have come up with myself.”
“We do so aim to please, sir. And by the by, we’ve not had a peep on that other matter.”
“Thanks, Wernher. Please keep me apprised regarding both these items. Skipper out.” Between Garcia and Brown, Max didn’t know who was the best officer on the ship. But they were both damn good.
At 16:00 hours, the Afternoon Watch gave way to the First Dog Watch, one of the two short (two-rather than four-hour) watches slipped into the rotation, to throw the schedule “out of step” so that it repeated only every third day rather than being the same one day to the next. Long ago, some wit remarked that these were called “dog” watches because they are “cur tailed.” The joke remained fresh for each new generation of midshipmen and would likely continue to be repeated so long as there were ships to be manned and watches to be stood.
As this was the third day of the cycle, the Blue Watch came off duty and would not be going back on for four hours, at 20:00. This four-hour gap was both too short and at the wrong time of day for most men to be able to sleep, so the majority of this watch was in the enlisted mess, taking their evening meal, which many of them washed down with a fair amount of beer, wine, or stout.
The Navy allowed enlisted men to drink alcoholic beverages on a daily basis, so long as all drinking took place in the mess, with careful records of each man’s consumption so that it could be regulated if necessary, and so long as an excessive amount was not consumed too close to going on watch. Men risking their lives and spending months or even years in space, away from not only their families and sweethearts but also from sunlight and fresh air and the feel of sky over their heads and grass under their feet, were owed the opportunity to seek a little liquid comfort in reasonable quantities from time to time.
At a table in the corner, four men who had seen more than their share of black sky out the viewport were partaking of liquid comfort in its amber, frothy variety. They were: Amborsky; two other chief petty officers, each with more than fifteen years service; and Heinz Wendt, the Chief of the Boat, the most senior enlisted man on board. Wendt, more commonly known by his job title as COB (pronounced “Cobb”), was doing far more listening than talking, as was his habit.
One of other CPOs was a man from planet Highlandia, named Voss, who was holding forth on the subject of the ship’s new CO. Many of that world’s natives, known as Highlanders, sounded more Scottish than their kin in Aberdeen and Edinburgh on Earth.
“I dinna ken what to make of this laddie. On one hand, you can look around and see that the man has some sense, not like that craicte bastard, Oscar. Och, what a doo-lally he was!” Then, when he turned to practical matters, the chief’s accent faded almost into nonexistence, something that always amused his shipmates.
“Putting back the coffee pots, putting back the weapons lockers, replacing the deck gun mounts. At least the men are going to be awake when they stand watch, and if we’re boarded, we’ll be ready to give yon wee squeakie the welcome he deserves. I mean, you’ve got to be pure gud for that, right?” The other men nodded sagely.
“But the rest? Playin’ Stare Me Down with the Vaaach? The Queen’s bloomers, boys! They’ve got to be five hundred years ahead of us technologically, not to mention bein’ foul tempered and blood thirsty to boot. I know destroyer captains are supposed to be aggressive, but there’s a difference between courtin’ danger and tyin’ it to your bedposts and havin’ your way with it.” He finished with his burr in full bloom again.
Another chief petty officer was shaking his head. He was a small man, but seemed to be made of tougher material than most, as though he had been put together from bone, sinew, and gristle rather than the mere flesh from which most men were assembled. He brought nineteen years of service to the table. His name was Tanaka. He began in a very good approximation of Voss’s accent.
“The bagpipes are loud, laddie, but ya’ don’t know the tune.” He then switched to his normal, extremely precise Standard. “You weren’t in CIC then, Vossie; I was. The skipper did all right in my book. The last two times that Captain Oscar faced anything that smelled like a threat, he ran. This time, not only did we not run, but the skipper also deliberately subjected the ship to a calculated risk; we handled the situation, and we’re alive to tell the tale.
“Vossie, most of these men aren’t like you and me and Mother Goose and the COB here. They’ve never seen the elephant. You get men ready to face danger by facing danger. He’s toughening them up for the real thing. He handled that Vaaach skipper all right. Stood up; told him how he’d killed seventeen Krag with a blade up close, nose to whiskers; and got treated with respect like a hunter instead of being laughed off like a little banana-eating monkey.”
The COB leaned back, took a long pull of his brew, and then fixed his knowing gaze on Mother Goose. “I heard one of the squeakers say a little while ago that the skipper gave them instruction in edged weapons. So, Goose, you got a good look at the cut of his jib today. What’s the brief on this guy? After Captain Oscar, this crew is due for a good skipper.”
Mother Goose drained his mug and returned it to the table with a loud thump. He looked up and met the COB’s eyes. “The skipper? I think he’ll do, COB. I think he’ll do.”
* * *
CHAPTER 11
* * *
07:08Z Hours, 24 January 2315
Max was having breakfast this morning with the four officers whom he had begun to think of as his “brain trust.” Seeing that every man had finished eating and was sipping his coffee, Max opened the meeting. “I asked all of you here to breakfast because I thought it was a convenient way for all of us to get caught up on what’s going on without having to put a senior officer’s meeting on the schedule. First, Lieutenant Brown, any sign of our little drug factory being put to use?”
“None so far, Skipper, but the doctor has done some complicated statistical and epidemiological analysis and has concluded that some person with an existing stockpile is going to need to make another purchase within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-one hours,” corrected Sahin.
“So, we need to be ready to put the bag on this bastard sometime in the next day,” Max said. “Doc, are you ready for the fallout?”
“As ready as can be reasonably expected. I’ve been making extensive use of the ship’s pharmaceutical synthesizer—the official one—to create a significant stockpile of the various medications I will need to help control the withdrawal symptoms associated with these specific drugs. I’ve also quietly prepared to sling hammocks for the junior midshipmen in the senior midshipmen’s quarters to open up the former’s space to use as additional in-patient beds for the worst withdrawal cases, and have drawn the necessary equipment from stores so that patients in that room can be monitored from the Casualty Station. My staff has reviewed the treatment protocols for treating these people, and I’ve refreshed my recollection of how to counsel them.”
“Very good.” Max continued to
be puzzled by the doctor. The man was so clueless in some ways and so brilliant and accomplished in others that Max could never figure out from one moment to the next whether the next thing he did or said would reveal shocking ignorance or astonishing adeptness. “Can anyone think of any other preparations we should be making at this point?” They all shook their heads.
“Next subject. Major Kraft, what’s going on with our three would-be saboteurs?”
“They have each stood at least one watch since we returned them to duty, and one of them has stood two. A Marine has been standing by each one of them, with no problems so far. Each of them has had his meeting with the doctor. They return to their quarters at the end of watch with no protest, take their meals in their quarters, and have been going along with the program. My sense is that they all understand that you could have easily put them out an airlock to go dancing with the stars and that you can still do so, which is certainly a meaningful incentive for cooperation.”
“I thought it might be. Thank you, Major. Wernher, how’re they doing in terms of job performance?”
“They were all reasonably proficient at their jobs before this happened, and they continue to be reasonably proficient. They all had a lot of room for improvement before, and they all still do. In other words, I’m not seeing any change. By the by, having a rifle-toting Marine standing around in Fire Control around the clock is something that I thought might put people off their game, but I have seen no sign of it thus far.”
“Doctor, they’ve each had a meeting with you. Have you learned anything?”
To Honor You Call Us (Man of War Book 1) Page 18
