“I understand,” the doctor said, turning to Max. “Killing them in that manner was a necessity, but it is a shame that they did not have even a moment to prepare themselves for the journey into the next life.”
“I suppose,” Max said without much conviction. Mentally he had already moved on to the next tactical problem. “Mr. Kasparov, is there any possibility that our friends guarding the jump points know what just happened?”
“Not a chance, Skipper,” he answered. “Those jump points are more than 30 AU from the primary. That far away they can’t read anything this deep in the corona. They probably couldn’t pick up a thermonuclear warhead detonation at that distance, much less something happening inside the star.”
“Outstanding,” Max responded.
“How are we going to do it this time, Skipper?” DeCosta asked, eagerness in his eyes. “What’s the plan for taking that cruiser at the jump point?”
“We don’t,” Max replied.
“We don’t?” His disappointment was evident.
“No. We don’t. We use the captured Krag codes and comms protocols to identify ourselves as Hotel eight, tell the cruisers that we just bested the blaspheming humans in battle, and advise them that we are lingering near the primary to repair some battle damage. We wait for them to leave, and then we just quietly slip away.”
“But, sir,” asked DeCosta, “don’t you want to get that cruiser? Wouldn’t that be a nice trophy to hang on your wall?”
“It would. But,” Max said, shaking his head gently, “don’t forget, our objective right now is to return to the fleet so that this ship can be sent on further missions. Destruction of that cruiser isn’t in our orders. It’s one thing to take on ships of superior force when necessary to save the ship. It’s quite another to do so once the ship has already been saved. Besides, Lady Luck has been very, very generous with us, so let’s not ask any more of her today.” He sighed heavily. The adrenalin was wearing off. “I intend to convince the enemy that we’re dead and then leave.”
Max noticed a look of disappointment on DeCosta’s face. “I know that look, XO. You’re wired like me—you’re aggressive. Your first instinct is to go after the enemy and keep going until every Krag within your reach is dead. But if a commander wants his ship to survive, he has to know when to go looking for trouble and when to avoid it. So, for now, we’re going to avoid trouble.
“But don’t be too disappointed. If I know Admiral Hornmeyer, our next orders are likely to send us looking for trouble in a very big way.”
* * *
CHAPTER 3
* * *
22:59 Zulu Hours, 10 May 2315
The Cumberland never made it back to the fleet, but not in the way that Max was worried about. Immediately upon reestablishing comms with the task force, she received orders to rendezvous at the edge of Union-held space with the tender USS Bartlett Roth Gurtler for replenishment of her fuel, ordnance, and consumables, as well as repair of the minor damage she sustained at Monroe-Tucker B.
She also received, delivered directly into Max’s hands from the hands of the tender’s captain, new orders. Very unusual orders. In two parts. The first part was a standard set of operational orders printed on the standard form and sealed in the standard envelope, ordering the Cumberland to impose EMCON (EMissions CONtrol: no outgoing messages, no electronic transmissions of any kind), travel to an unremarkable set of coordinates in deep space, and upon arrival, access the second part of its orders. That second part was stored on a triple-encoded, time-locked data chip designed to erase completely and irretrievably every bit of data if anyone attempted to access its contents before the programmed date and time: 23:00 Zulu Hours, 10 May 2315.
In one minute.
The Cumberland was at the ordered coordinates. Max’s regular Kitchen Cabinet was assembled in the Wardroom to review the orders. He knew that those assembled were allowed to see what was on the chip because, if it had been classified Captain’s Eyes Only, the chip’s plastic case would have been orange. This one was blue, meaning it was merely Top Secret. Around the Wardroom table, in addition to Max, were: Executive Officer Lieutenant Eduardo M. DeCosta, Chief Medical Officer Dr. Ibrahim Sahin, Marine Detachment Commander Major Gustav Kraft, and Chief Engineer Lieutenant “Wernher” Vaughn Brown. And one addition, Chief Petty Officer Heinz Wendt.
After the stewards had served coffee and sweet rolls, then been excused from the compartment, Max brought the meeting to order. “Good evening, gentlemen. Before we start, I want to congratulate the COB on his promotion to Command Master Chief Petty Officer.”
There was a general approving murmur of “Hear, hear” and rapping of knuckles on the table. Every officer present raised his coffee mug in salute. Master Chief Petty Officer Heinz Wendt, the senior noncommissioned officer on board, referred to as the Chief of the Boat or COB (pronounced “cob”) was both highly regarded and well liked by virtually all the officers and crew. At age fifty-four, he was also, with the exception of a few “ancient mariners” in the galley, the oldest man on the ship.
“I understand that the wingding the other chiefs put on for you last night was one for the books,” Max added. The chief could only smile. The less said about that celebration, the better. “I am also pleased to welcome the COB to this meeting and to future meetings of this type. As more than one of the officers here has tactfully pointed out, under long-standing naval custom, Chief Wendt has always belonged at these meetings. You all know, I am usually a great respecter of naval custom. In this case, however, I made the mistake of following the example of one of my former commanders who, I have just learned, had a long-standing personal disagreement with the COB on his ship. My mistake, Chief, not a deliberate snub. I hope you won’t take it personally.”
“Of course not, Skipper,” Wendt replied reasonably. Naturally the exclusion had rankled. Had it gone on much longer, it was entirely possible he would have resented it. But there was no point of making an issue of it now. “I’m just glad I’m here today and hope I can make a contribution.”
“Outstanding,” said Max. If the grizzled old chief had decided to hold a grudge, the belated invitation to the Kitchen Cabinet meetings would have been worse than no invitation at all. Max knew, however, that Wendt was nothing if not professional. He was going to do what was best for the ship and his men. Which was as it should be.
Max watched the chrono on the Wardroom table computer terminal tick down to 23:00 hours. After letting fifteen more seconds go by, more out of a semisuperstitious desire to avoid blanking the chip by accident than anything else, he inserted the chip into the terminal’s reader and keyed it to show the orders on the compartment’s display wall. An area of a bulkhead that had been an ordinary military gray turned flat black and then displayed text.
They all read together:
21:29 ZULU 9 MAY 2315
TOP SECRET
URGENT:
FOR IMMEDIATE IMPLEMENTATION
FROM:
HORNMEYER, L. G. VADM USN, CDR TF TD
TO:
ROBICHAUX, MAXIME T., LCDR USN, CDR USS CUMBERLAND
1. PROCEED AT BEST PRUDENT SPEED TO ANGELOS VI C. THERE YOU WILL RENDEZVOUS WITH FLEET TENDER USS NICOLAS APPERT, TRF 0034, LCDR SIGMUND ANDERSSEN URSF, COMMANDING.
2. USS NICOLAS APPERT IS HEREBY ATTACHED TO YOUR VESSEL FOR THE PERIOD DESCRIBED BELOW.
3. UNDER YOUR OVERALL COMMAND, USS CUMBERLAND, DPA 0004, AND THE AFOREMENTIONED TENDER ARE TO:
A. AVOIDING ALL CONTACT WITH THE ENEMY AND EMPLOYING CAPTURED IFF CODES PROVIDED HEREWITH, COVERTLY ENTER KRAG-HELD SPACE AT THE POINT OF YOUR CHOOSING.
B. PROCEED TO COORDINATES LISTED IN ATTACHMENT HERETO, THERE TO RENDEZVOUS WITH JOINT OPERATIONAL GROUP HOTEL PAPA AT 01:30 ZULU 14 MAY 2315. IF JOG IS NOT AT RENDEZVOUS AT THE STATED TIME, YOU ARE DIRECTED TO LOITER IN VICINITY OF RENDEZVOUS COORDINATES FOR FIFTEEN (15) HOURS. IF JOG DOES NOT ARRIVE BEFORE THIS TIME EXPIRES, EXECUTE THE INDIVIDUAL VESSEL OBJECTIVE DESCRIBED IN PARAGRAPH 5 ET SEQ. HEREIN. DO NOT
, REPEAT DO NOT, ATTEMPT TO ATTACK GROUP OBJECTIVE ON YOUR OWN. I MEAN IT, ROBICHAUX. IF THE KRAG DON’T KILL YOU, I WILL. SLOWLY.
C. RENDEZVOUS OF CUMBERLAND AND NICHOLAS APPERT WITH JOG HOTEL PAPA CREATES NEW JOG DESIGNATED AS HOTEL INDIA.
4. ORDERS FOR JOG HOTEL INDIA ARE AS FOLLOWS:
A. ONCE JOG HOTEL INDIA IS FORMED YOU ARE TO ASSUME CHARGE AND COMMAND THEREOF WITH ALL THE HURRAH HURRAH HAPPY HORSESHIT APPERTAINING THERETO AND FOR THE SAME LET THIS BE YOUR WARRANT.
B. THE JOG UNDER YOUR COMMAND IS TO ATTACK AND, IF POSSIBLE, DESTROY CRITICAL KRAG FUELING AND LOGISTICS FACILITY BELIEVED TO BE LOCATED IN THE EHMKE 17-MARBLOCK D-CHAMBERS 343-HYNDMAN A PASSAGE. ESTIMATED COORDINATES AND INTEL REGARDING THIS FACILITY ARE PROVIDED IN THE ATTACHMENT.
5. UPON COMPLETION OF THIS OBJECTIVE, FAILURE OF AN ATTEMPT TO COMPLETE THE OBJECTIVE, OR YOUR DETERMINATION THAT THE OBJECTIVE CANNOT BE ACHIEVED WITH THE FORCES UNDER YOUR COMMAND WITHOUT UNREASONABLE RISK, CUMBERLAND IS TO BE DETACHED FROM THE JOG, WITH NICHOLAS APPERT TO REMAIN WITH JOG. JOG WILL PURSUE UNDISCLOSED OBJECTIVE(S) UNDER PRIOR COMMAND.
6. BEFORE PARTING COMPANY FROM JOG, CUMBERLAND WILL REFUEL AND REPLENISH STORES/CONSUMABLES FROM NICHOLAS APPERT TO MAXIMUM EXTENT POSSIBLE UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES IN PREPARATION FOR EXTENDED DETACHED SERVICE.
7. ORDERS FOR CUMBERLAND AFTER PARTING COMPANY FROM TASK FORCE ARE AS FOLLOWS:
A. NORFOLK N2 CLAIMS TO HAVE OBTAINED ITINERARY FOR PERIOD 17 MAY THROUGH 19 JUNE 2315 FOR LEGENDARY KRAG COMMANDER CODENAME ADMIRAL BIRCH [WE’RE NAMING THEM AFTER KINDS OF WOOD NOW—I SUPPOSE THAT’S BETTER THAN MINERALS OR FISH LIKE WE’VE DONE IN THE PAST]. ACCORDING TO NORFOLK, BIRCH WILL BE TRAVELING IN TRIBUNE CLASS VIP TRANSPORT IN COMPANY WITH ONE OF THEIR FAST FLEET TANKERS, ALL WITH LIGHT ESCORT. ITINERARY IS CONTAINED IN ATTACHMENT HERETO.
B. INTERCEPT BIRCH’S TRANSPORT AND KILL THE ADMIRAL.
8. LCDR ANDERSSEN WILL BRIEF YOU REGARDING ADDITIONAL INTEL NECESSARY TO MISSION COMPLETION.
9. YOU HAVE MADE IT KNOWN THAT YOU AND YOUR CREW ARE “LOOKING FOR ACTION.” WELL, YOUNG MAN, HERE IT IS.
10. KICK ASS AND GODSPEED.
When Max and DeCosta came to the part about going looking for action, their eyes met. Max gave the XO his best “I told you so” smile.
There was dead silence in the Wardroom as everyone digested the orders. Max noticed that, as Wendt reread the orders, he was shaking his head, slowly and almost imperceptibly. Max keyed the comm panel.
“Maneuvering. LeBlanc here.”
“Chief LeBlanc, this is the skipper. Plot a best prudent-speed course and velocity profile to Angelos VI C. Who’s Officer of the Deck right now?”
“Hobbs, sir.”
“Hobbs. Good. He knows his navigation. Let Hobbs look at it, and if he says it’s okay, then go ahead and implement it. Any problem, contact me immediately.”
“Aye, sir.”
LeBlanc repeated the order back to Max, who then broke the circuit. Max turned his attention to Wendt. “All right, Chief, let’s have it.”
“It’s that obvious, Skipper?” replied Chief Wendt.
“It is to me. Or didn’t you know that mind-reading abilities came with the skipper’s job?”
“I thought that was only a story that Mother Goose tells to scare the squeakers,” the old chief said, smiling. “Sir, don’t get me wrong. I think that these are great orders. We’ll have a chance to make everyone forget that ‘Cumberland Gap’ bullshit for good. It’s the big picture I’m worried about.”
“What about it?” Max grew serious as everyone in the Wardroom could feel the ship come to a new course and increase its speed, hurrying toward the rendezvous. When a noncommissioned officer of Wendt’s experience was worried, Max worried along with him.
“Skipper, as you know, I served under Admiral Hornmeyer for more than ten years, starting out when he was Lieutenant Commander ‘Bighorn’ Hornmeyer, master and commander of a beat-up old destroyer named the Harfleur, and then when he commanded frigates, cruisers, battlecruisers, battleships, and various attack groups.”
In response to the unspoken questions from the officers, he added, “I’ve always had a flair for structural damage control—figuring out ways to patch holes in the hull and the gaps in the space frame’s interior supports so the ship will hold together after she’s been pounded. The old man got himself into a lot of bad scrapes back when he was a warship commander, so he always liked to have me along. Then I was injured at the Battle of Reid 39, spent several months in the hospital, and when I was returned to duty got assigned to the Cumberland.”
Having satisfied the others on this point, Wendt continued. “Anyway, Hornmeyer is a born gambler. He’s smart. He’s lucky. He’s got balls the size of gas giant planets. And he plays to win. Hell, he may be the best gambler in Known Space. He’s certainly the best gambler I’ve ever seen. If you ever want to make some money, go to a racetrack with him and bet just like he does. Anyway, one of his favorite sayings is an old horse-racing maxim: when the track’s muddy, bet on the long shot. And Skipper, with all due respect, you are a long shot, in spades. Think about it: a twenty-eight-year-old Lieutenant Commander with less than four months in the Big Chair sent after what I’m betting is a major logistics node in what, if I remember right, is one of the main transit corridors through that area, all behind enemy lines. Follow that up with an Operation Vengeance—Kill Yamamoto-type mission against one of the Krag’s top admirals. So I’m wondering . . .”
“Why Hornmeyer believes the track is muddy,” Max finished.
“Exactly,” said Wendt. “What’s going on that makes a gambler like Hornmeyer willing to bet so heavily on the dark horse?”
“Maybe there’s a major enemy offensive under way, and he needs us to kill the rat-face who’s taking over command of it and to throw a spanner into the gears of their logistics,” suggested Brown.
DeCosta shook his head. “Sounds reasonable, but there’s been no significant change in the enemy’s tempo of operations. We get regular battle reports from all the combat groups, and today is not much different from yesterday, and this week is little different from last week. If Mr. Rat-Face is up to something, it hasn’t worked its way up to the FEBA yet.”
“That’s Forward Edge of Battle Area,” Brown whispered to the doctor, who was seated next to him.
Sahin graciously nodded his thanks, even though he was well aware what that particular acronym meant. He had, in fact, known since the day before yesterday.
“But,” DeCosta went on, “as far out as we are, all we’re getting right now is the major combat bulletins via metaspace plaintext. We aren’t getting the detailed Intel reports, much less the raw data backing them up. We’d have a better idea if we had access to that information.”
“Don’t the orders say that we’re to be briefed by this Anderssen fellow on all of these things?” asked Dr. Sahin.
“They do,” said Max. “But that doesn’t exactly fill me with warm, happy comfort. I don’t want to wait that long. I want time for my Intel Section and my Tactical Section to sift through the data with an eye toward what it all means to us. On top of that, there’s something in the wording of these orders that’s giving me heartburn. I haven’t had time to dissect the words yet, but I don’t like it. Furthermore, I don’t want my understanding of tactical background information essential for the operations of an attack group under my command to be dependent upon an intelligence briefing delivered by a reserve officer whom I have never met and never even heard of. Not to mention that this intel data—probably highly processed data at that—consists of whatever the naval bureaucracy has decided I need to know instead of what I have decided we want to know. We’re going to be a long way behind enemy lines, and data that may look trivial to some weenie wearing an ice cream suit and conning a mahogany desk back in Norfolk could be critical to us when we’re two or three dozen light-years deep in Krag-controlled space. I want couchon de lait, not SPAM, and I want to pick whether what I’m putting on my plate is ribs, loin, or
shoulder.”
“Couchon de lait?” whispered Wendt to the doctor.
“A sort of Cajun kalua pig,” he answered, suppressing his revulsion as an observant Muslim at the thought of being in the presence of a pig roasted whole.
Overhearing but ignoring this exchange, Max opened a voice circuit, pulling the circuit number from memory.
“CIC Navigation, Chief Silva here.”
“Silva, this is the skipper. Does our course take us close to any NAVCOMMNET relays?”
“Just a moment, sir.” He entered the query into his display. Max could have entered the same query from the Wardroom general-purpose terminal, but the Navigation console in CIC was designed for finding and displaying this kind of data, so it made sense for Max to ask the navigation officer. “Affirmative, Skipper. We’re going to have to jump through seven systems to get to the rendezvous, and there’s a relay—Number 7888—in the second one. It’s nowhere near our track between the two jump points, though. Not counting time actually spent at the relay, rendezvousing with it will add one hour and fifty-seven minutes to our ETA.”
“Very well. Thank you, Mr. Silva.”
He broke the circuit and punched up the CO’s station.
“CIC, Hobbs here.”
“Hobbs, prepare for a change in navigation orders.”
“Ready, Skipper. Do you want me to log an order to deviate from course to the rendezvous with the tender to rendezvous with NAVCOMMNET Relay 7888 so that we may . . . complete a highly critical database update?” Hobbs had obviously heard Max’s exchange with Silva.
“Yes, Mr. Hobbs, that’s exactly what I’d like you to do. Keep that up, and before long BUPERS will make you someone’s XO.”
Hobbs recited the order back to the skipper. “One moment, sir.” The circuit hung open for about half a minute. Max could hear Hobbs issuing orders in the background. “Order logged. ETA at the relay is in five hours and nineteen minutes. And as for the XO berth, I wouldn’t mind that a bit, sir, especially on your first cruiser command.”
Brothers in Valor (Man of War Book 3) Page 9
