They walked outside, with the spectacular lake to their right, turned slightly, and the party walked up a long series of steps. Willow couldn’t really see much else until she reached the top of a long flight of very wide marble steps.
And by then, it was too late. Only the forward momentum of the group of people around her kept her moving forward. She couldn’t decide then if she should try to run, or perhaps simply faint.
Directly in front of her, filling a broad avenue were serried ranks of men and women, thousands of them, wearing Fleet dress uniforms. To one side, a much smaller block of men in Marine field dress stood. Throngs of civilians were in blocks here and there. She was looking at more people than she’d ever seen at once through her own eyes; they filled the spaces on either side of the men and women who faced Willow and the admiral’s group.
The crowd was silent; hardly a sound or rustle came from them. The throng was standing still and motionless, watching those around Willow. Willow decided that flight wouldn’t work. Her eyes scanned the crowd -- there were too many people, entirely too many people to have any hope of escaping them. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to faint.
A woman standing to one side of the review platform saw them approach and spoke into a throat mike. “Pah-Rade! Ten Hut!” Her voice boomed parade ground loud over loud speakers. Thousands of men and women came to attention with a crisp burst of sound.
Admiral Greer walked directly to a microphone, took it, and starting speaking without hesitation. “We are gathered here together to celebrate something remarkable.
“Sixteen hours ago, I was gnawed with worry -- could we defend New Helgoland? Did we have what it would take to do the job?
“I believed so; I prayed that we were ready and able to do what had to be done. We had stout ships and those ships had brave crews. I prayed to God that we wouldn’t need them. I prayed to God that if we did, that they would be sufficient unto the task.”
He looked up at the audience, pausing a moment. “We did need them.” He fell silent again. “God in heaven, how we needed them!” He looked up, his gaze steady. “Please, a minute of silence, for the sixteen hundred and twelve men and women of the Fleet who died aboard Kursk, Sheffield, Poughkeepsie and Catskill, at our need and the sixty-two civilians who died aloft, those we could not succor.”
The crowd had been silent before, but now, if anything, the silence grew even more profound. Willow bowed her head, when the admiral did, thinking of the tall commander from Catskill. She glanced furtively around, but she didn’t see him.
It had been exciting to be kissed by a grown man; more so than she’d ever admit to her mother or father. Of course, she had to temper that with the awareness that a few seconds later that he’d fainted dead away. Willow and three other people had helped carry him to sick bay.
Admiral Greer lifted his head again. “With me on this platform are a few of the officers who did their duty as well as those who died; in some cases, honestly, better. Captain Gladys Tovar commands cruiser Babylon and remains aloft. Her exec, Commander Dei Ramath, is here. Commander.” One of the officers on the other side of the admiral moved to stand in front of the admiral, his back to the onlookers.
“The Fleet has been quick to react; not only in defense, but in other areas. One thing that Fleet Admiral Nagoya stressed in his message to me was the importance of communicating to each and every person alive that Fleet can defend us -- that it will defend us. And that we must recognize that, publicly, loudly, as often as we can.
“Commander Ramath is from Earth; normally Rim Runners like myself would make a joke about that. The time for joking is past; the time for unity is here. Even so, Rim Runners are going to have to adjust the most -- the Fleet has introduced a raft of new medals.
“The Federation Star heads the list and is to be awarded to those who have been of the utmost service to the Human Race. Commander, now Captain, Thomas “Turbine” Jensen has been awarded the Star twice -- once for Gandalf, and once for Fleet World.
“Another medal was created, called the Federation Battle Medal. Nicknamed, I’m told by the courier who brought the communiqués from Fleet, ‘Battle Stars.’ Meeting our enemies and surviving. Commander Jensen has won that award twice. You, Commander Ramoth, once. I present this award to you, as a representative of the crew of the Babylon. You shall deliver the others to Captain Tovar on your return to your ship.” The admiral pinned a black star with a blue and white ribbon on the man’s shipsuit. The commander from Babylon saluted and the admiral returned it. The commander turned and retraced his steps, returning to where he’d been before.
“In its wisdom the Federation has ordained another medal, called the Victory Medal. It is to be awarded to those officers personally responsible for destroying an enemy capital ship or the ship’s captain, who commanded in the action. Lieutenant Sandy Foraker, Liverpool.”
A sandy-haired young woman stepped forward, and the admiral pinned two medals to her ship suit. “Lieutenant Foraker was assistant weapons officer of the Liverpool, commanding the vessel’s missile batteries. Please note the silver leaf on the medal. This officer's missiles destroyed two of the enemy vessels.”
The admiral gestured at the female officer in front of him. “I might add, I was told that this particular medal is now being called the ‘Death Star.’” He smiled grimly. “Good for us, bad for them.” The admiral handed the lieutenant a long box. “These, lieutenant are the Battle Stars for your captain and your crewmates.” The other nodded, saluted and returned to her place.
Another lieutenant from another Fleet ship was awarded the Battle Medal in absentia for the rest of his crew and a fourth officer was also awarded the Battle Medal for his ship and her crew.
“I had hoped,” Admiral Greer intoned, “that another officer could be here in order to accept the medals for his ship. You all know of the gallant fight Catskill fought and the catastrophic damage she took in that fight. Her senior surviving officer is in the hospital, as are most of the rest of Catskill’s surviving crew.
“The Federation policy is, currently, to reward the living. To celebrate and honor those who died, but not with medals. I’m not entirely comfortable with that; I hope the policy changes.
“But, there is a fundamental truth about those who died aboard the three Fleet ships we lost in this battle. We have no idea what they did; all of their acts of individual bravery, sacrifice and devotion were subsequently lost in instantaneous glares of nuclear fire.
“However, that was not so with Catskill. Catskill took severe, crippling damage. Nearly 98% of the ship was vented to space. One compartment so damaged was the Combat Bridge. All but three people therein died instantly. Catskill’s executive officer survived, as did her assistant navigator -- and Marine Gunnery Sergeant Tom Rogers. All of these individuals were wounded -- their compartment depressurized, I’m told, in mere seconds.
“Gunnery Sergeant Tom Rogers grabbed the executive officer of Catskill and her assistant navigator and hurled them through a pressure door into a safe compartment and then sealed the hatch in front of himself. That action cost Gunnery Sergeant Rogers his life, but saved the lives of his fellows.”
Admiral Greer nodded at one of the officers standing a few feet away, the Marine.
“General Kuznetsov.”
The Marine general marched and stood as the others had, but with one difference. He carried a black pillow, held flat and level, in front of him.
“Gunnery Sergeant Rogers is awarded the Legion of Merit, and on my own initiative, against policy, the Battle Medal.” The admiral pinned two ribbons on the pillow, saluted the general, who simply stood stock still.
Willow realized what was being symbolized. The admiral was saluting the pillow, not the person holding it.
The general returned to his position and Admiral Greer stood silent for a moment, his head bowed. He lifted his head up and spoke flatly, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Thomas Fredrick Trent, Works Director for the Glendale habitat.”
The man in the most casual clothes of the assembled dignitaries Willow could see, walked forward.
“I’m a Runner, pure and simple,” the man said, speaking directly. “When Glendale got word of the attacks, we debated what to do with our dependents. I came here to meet with Admiral Greer, to discuss our options.
“We were actually meeting, when the attack came in.” The other looked out at the audience. “The admiral was kind enough to allow me to stand with him in the Operations Room during the battle.
“I’m not into long speeches; I’m not into anything but making my habitat work. One of the first things that was said, as we came into Operations, was that one of the alien bastards had jumped against Glendale.” The man gestured at Admiral Greer. “Admiral Greer looked me right in the eye and told me that the Fleet would be unable to defend Glendale.
“He meaning was clear. The fifty two thousand one hundred and forty-seven people, including two children only hours old, were going to die.” The man looked out over the crowd. “I was still debating whether or not I was going to pound the admiral into jelly, or rip his living guts out, when the report came in that another ship had jumped close to Glendale and that the alien ship about to attack Glendale no longer registered on the sensors.
“I was just beginning to understand that my people weren’t dead, when Admiral Greer turned to me and said, ‘Fleet couldn’t defend Glendale but Fleet Reserve could.’” The man from the habitat gave a half wave to the admiral. “I was glad I didn’t have to mess up his floor.
“Later, though, after the battle, some useless puke of a Portie said that they’d failed; that they’d made a mistake. I had no idea what the moron was talking about. Something about someone not being properly assigned into a ship.”
He looked out over the vast crowd. “When I finally figured out what they were talking about, I decided I was going to make it right, personally.” He held out his hand, Willow saw the admiral put something small into it. Willow was unprepared when the habitat manager walked down the line of people to stand in front of her.
“One thing about Rim Runners, Ensign; we don’t care this,” he snapped his fingers loudly, “about stupid, idiotic Fleet regulations.” He laughed harshly. “You don’t even want to know what we think about Port rules -- much less BuPers. Here.” He reached out and clipped the small trinket on Willow’s shipsuit. The shooting star with the rays streaming behind it; the Starfarer’s Dream ship pin. “You forgot this someplace along the line,” the habitat manager told her.
He shambled back to his place, and Admiral Greer spoke again. “Normally, precedence in an awards ceremony is that the unit senior officer is presented awards first, then juniors, then enlisted. Captain Travers asked me, as a personal favor, if I would award one of his officers anything he or the rest of his crew might have earned. Ensign Wolf, front and center.”
The quiet use of her name belied the enormous heave in Willow’s world. No! She didn’t want this! She hadn’t done it for this! It wasn’t for her, it was for the dead!
She felt Captain Travers’ hand on her shoulder and heard him whisper. “Please, Willow. For the ship.”
Put like that, how could she not? She walked forward, turned and faced the admiral.
The admiral regarded her gravely for ten or fifteen seconds. “You are how old, Ensign?”
Willow swallowed. This wasn’t relevant! Captain Travers hadn’t made an issue of it! Please, not this either! Please! She managed to strangle out, “Seventeen, sir.” Just a few weeks past seventeen, but still true.
“I was a weapons officer once,” the admiral said, once again addressing those gathered. “Actually, I was a weapons officer a whole lot more than once -- for twelve years I served in that capacity. I took a survey, Ensign Wolf, of the weapons officers I have here at New Helgoland. There aren’t many still on the ground -- most of the survivors are aloft, protecting us still.
“I polled six officers, asking the same questions of each. How long would it take to rig a weapons laser from scratch, aboard a freighter?” His eyes met hers. “Six officers ranging from a senior lieutenant, up to and including myself, a rear admiral, with a total of more than a century in the field. Myself, I said a month under wartime priorities. If push came to shove, if I had all the hands I needed, perhaps we could do it in three weeks in dock. Of the others, only one said less; when I told him that the ship was on High Fan, he simply laughed and shook his head. It wasn’t possible, he told me. It couldn’t be done.
“Not possible -- that was my conclusion as well.” He waved at Willow. “Except, you did it in three days. Not three weeks, but just three days. Not in a dock, but aloft. Not with hundreds of extra hands, special tools and special equipment. You performed that task with a half dozen Marines, a junior engineer and what you had available to use for tools.
“None of the officers I polled felt that the task could be handled by anyone less than a full commander -- no one else would have the experience.” His eyes suddenly sparkled. “So, Ensign, the very least symbol of my regard.”
He reached out and detached the single pips on her shipsuit collar point and replaced them with two pips. “Congratulations, Lieutenant Wolf.”
He stepped back and saluted and perforce Willow returned it. There was pain in her wrists, but she was too pumped up to care. Thinking she was done, she started to step back.
“Stay,” Admiral Greer’s command was quiet, but firm.
The admiral continued, “Lieutenant Wolf was at Agincourt, when the aliens attacked that system. She and her family were aloft, but yet they survived. There are no other known survivors from Agincourt. She was at Gandalf, where the ship she was aboard actually came under attack. She and her ship survived.
“Then she arrived at Tannenbaum and her ship was at Tannenbaum when the attack came in there. Lieutenant, then Ensign, Wolf was the weapons officer aboard Starfarer’s Dream, the only operational Fleet combatant in system when Tannenbaum was attacked. The weapon built with Lieutenant Wolf’s own hands destroyed two of the enemy ships; her ship forced the remaining attackers from the field and saved Tannenbaum. Then they came here, after rescuing thousands of women and children from a habitat at Tannenbaum -- a habitat not unlike Glendale. She has earned four awards of the Federation Battle Star.”
He pinned the medal to Willow’s ship suit, over her right pocket.
“At Agincourt their only defense was to hide; at Gandalf their defense was to run. At Tannenbaum, three weeks later, they neither ran nor hid -- they stood and faced our enemies. Lieutenant Wolf built and directed the weapon that destroyed two enemy vessels. Lieutenant Wolf destroyed two enemy vessels here as well. Yes, others aided and assisted.
“Lieutenant Wolf’s captain, William Travers, has my utmost respect and regard. Four awards of the Federation Victory Medal to both.” He pinned another ribbon next to the first.
“Further, cruiser Catskill was severely damaged in combat with the enemy. In the midst of the battle, Captain Travers and his crew rendezvoused with the stricken vessel and rescued twenty-eight officers and crew. This, while a malf had rendered their ship weaponless, and with a major fire in the engineering spaces. I award the Federation Legion of Merit to Captain William Travers, his executive officer Naomi Travers, his chief Engineer Jacob Warren and Lieutenant Wolf.” He pinned another medal on Willow’s chest, this time on the left side.
He once again faced the crowd.
“We face dark days; nightmare days of horror and loss. We have to lift our heads and face these terrors and then we must defeat those who wish to inflict this pain upon us.
“Horrible as our enemies are, they can be defeated. Good officers and crews have met them and vanquished them. We’ve destroyed their ships and foiled their designs. Captain Travers was a reserve officer who, on his own initiative, recalled himself to active duty. Lieutenant Wolf was a civilian, scheduled, I might add, for the Gagarin School in a few months. Captain Travers needed a weapons officer and did what he
had to do. It is initiative like this, by officers and crew like his, that will be our deliverance.”
Admiral Greer shook his fist at the heavens.
“I don’t know who these bastards are, but they’ve made the biggest mistake any race has ever made! We didn’t seek this fight; we didn’t want a fight! But if fight we must, why then, we’ll be standing long after history has forgotten our enemies, long after their planets are cosmic dust scattered to the boundaries of the universe!”
He raised his hand in salute to Willow. She started to lift hers in reply, but the pain was beyond words. She sagged to her knees, trying her utmost to keep the winds that were buffeting her at bay.
Captain Travers knelt next to her, reached out and tenderly touched her arm. “Are you okay, Willow?”
The touch felt like someone had ripped her arm from its socket. As the commander from the Catskill had done, Willow fainted dead away, utterly helpless before the freshet of pain and agony that pushed her every which way.
Captain Travers caught her as she fell and eased her down. “Her arm, I think,” he murmured to Admiral Greer, who looked pale himself. A moment later, a medic appeared, bent over her and slid up her ship suit sleeve.
Captain Travers saw the hanging flaps of skin, the raw angry burns. “Good God, Willow, why didn’t you say something?” Bill Traver’s voice was an agonized whisper.
The medic looked critically at the burns on both arms, then back up at the senior officers.
“Captain, a mild second degree burn is the same as a bad sunburn -- it hurts, but it’s not serious. A serious second degree burn -- well, you know you’ve been hurt. Right down the middle though...” The medic shook his head and asked, “Captain, this happened how long ago?”
Starfarer's Dream (Kinsella Universe Book 4) Page 20
