“I don’t honestly know. That’s something I doubt if anyone who wasn’t there will ever know for sure. But it certainly clarified the chain of command,” he said with a shake of the head.
“It’s early days, and these things happen early in conflicts. Peacetime lapses in command choices can no longer be tolerated. I know of a dozen admirals who shouldn’t command a rowboat, much less a fleet. They are going to be gone here in short order. The trick will be, to keep the good officers under them from getting killed before that happens.”
“And what sort of an officer do you think I’ll be?”
He sighed. “Bethany, you’re a fine young woman. You do amazingly well at Kriegspiel. But you are an absolute screw up when it actually comes to commanding real people.”
“I did well enough on City of Manhattan!” she retorted.
He laughed nastily. “As soon as you decently could, you made an excuse and gave the job to David Zinder. Yes, I know what he told you about your relative leadership abilities -- but we both know the truth of it, don’t we? You’re a staff wienie at heart. You do adequately in a sim, where you can’t see your people -- but face-to-face you fall apart. You can’t bear the thought of one of your mistakes getting someone killed.”
“Have I been so obvious?”
He chuckled. “It’s like one of those psychological tests. You don’t think you’re saying anything significant about yourself, when you say an ink blot looks like a horse, but you do. You make the same choice often enough and it’s like a glaring neon sign over your head.”
“Is it such a bad thing to want to be a staff officer?”
“No. Like father, like daughter.”
“You?”
“Of course. I’ve had staff positions most of my career. The only time I command is on a project or in a sim -- and neither of those is combat.”
“Oh.”
“Bethany, no matter what, that bridge watchkeeping certificate is critical. Staff or command track -- you just don’t go anywhere in the Fleet without it.”
“I won’t have any trouble,” she said. After a moment, she sighed. “I’m not completely like you, you know.”
“No, I get to stand when I pee,” he told her.
Bethany made a face. “Whatever. On my comp is a spreadsheet of data, battle by battle. It’s clear that they can track ships on High Fan, but don’t have much luck chasing after them. I think I know why.”
“Why?”
“Vectors. Unless you have the same vector as the ship you’re trying to chase, it’s futile. They must have some solid intelligence, because they keep dropping from fans in their initial attacks right on top of their targets. But once a battle gets going and ships are going every which way, they can drop close, but they are invariably skew, and if they try to pursue, they have to hope that their target comes off fans soon, because they know they’ll come out someplace else.”
He nodded. “That makes sense. Look, you and I both know that you’ve done the work for all of those certificates -- but until you were in the Fleet, you couldn’t do anything about obtaining them. Now, you’re an ensign in the Fleet. Go forth, my daughter and conquer them!”
She nodded, turned and went into her cabin started going over more data.
* * *
Bob Shannon was surprised when Captain Travers asked him to visit him in his quarters. He was a little worried that it was about Sarah Grant, but he didn’t care. Things were different on the Rim, as Captain Travers should very well know!
The meeting wasn’t at all like he thought. Captain Travers and his wife were both present.
Captain Travers held up an HDD, showing it to him. “Ensign, these are your records. I am sorry to say, I gave most of what’s in here, aside from your professional qualifications, only cursory attention. I was going back over them and saw something that was a serious oversight. I wish to say to you, Ensign, that I’m sorry about the oversight and I apologize. If there’s anything you ever need that Naomi or I can provide -- let us know. I stand in your debt.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Captain Travers,” Bob said warily. He had no idea what this was about, none.
“Son, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Fleet ship Nihon, leaving Gandalf for its Paul Revere duties, stopped first at Shackelton. Son, Shackelton had been destroyed.”
Bob swallowed. “He’d have been aloft...”
Captain Travers shook his head. “They kill the aloft ships first, Ensign. If he was there, he’s dead.”
“I’m so sorry,” Naomi added.
Bob swallowed again, and then faced the captain, lifting his chin a little. “It’s not as though thousands, hundreds of thousands of people aren’t in the same boat as I’m in. We fought a few wars over the years that were very nasty. This is just the nastiest. As you said earlier, it means we have to do our very best, sir. And I will.”
“You mother is on a survey mission?”
“Yes, sir. Out of Fleet World.”
Captain Travers nodded, and made a note on his comp. “I’ll see that word is passed to her, when she shows up there, about what has happened to her husband and to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mr. Shannon, to be truthful, of all of those in that room this morning, you’re probably the least prepared. You are a pilot and not very much more. But, for all of that, it’s clear that you are a leader. The ability to make a laser out of spare parts is obviously useful -- but most of the time it won’t be needed. The ability to handle yourself in a fatal malf is important, obviously; as is the ability to keep focused on your duties as the environment slowly bakes you. But it doesn’t make you a leader.
“The other two ensigns have prepared for duty with the Fleet most of their lives. You haven’t. Even Lieutenant Wolf, who is the youngest of you, is better prepared than you are, Ensign Shannon. You are going to have to work twice as hard as the others. But you have an advantage that not all of them have -- you’re a Rim Runner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ensign Shannon, of all of the other four, you’re the shortest, while Lieutenant Wolf is the tallest. Tomorrow at 1300 hours Zulu, you and the others will report to compartment JKL-42. There you will find a basketball court, balls, and the like. Each day, between 1300 and 1400, you five will be there. I am going to organize a few other teams, and within a week, you’ll start playing them. You are, Ensign, the captain of junior officer's basketball team.”
Bob looked at the captain as if he were an apparition. “Captain?”
“It’s too easy to get fat and sloppy aboard ship, Ensign. That won’t happen on my ship! Take care of it!”
* * *
Willow Wolf stood quietly, watching Captain Travers dealing with a number of small ship issues, until finally he turned to her.
“Lieutenant Wolf, an officer is not to play favorites. It’s right there in the Fleet regulations.”
“Yes, sir,” she said neutrally.
“Fleet regs are a load of BS, for the most part -- at least when they interfere with the mission. They inform a commander of what has worked in the past. They aren’t particularly useful in novel situations.
“So, starting in three hours, you will stand provisional bridge watches, on the weapons board. This is nothing you haven’t done before, although from now on you should pay more attention to what the rest of us are doing.”
That had to be for the record, Willow thought. The bridge crew of Starfarer’s Dream ran like a well-oiled machine. People kept each other informed of anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary. She’d been aware all along that she didn’t have the proper certificates to stand bridge watches, but on the Rim there had always been provisions made for people who could do the job, but didn’t have time to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Not, mind you, that they weren’t expected to correct that, the first chance they got.
She held up one arm of her shipsuit, the one with a ring and a half. “Is this going to be a problem?”
&nbs
p; “I can’t say it won’t be; it almost certainly will be a problem with dirty-feet in particular. So what? When I needed you, you were there. When I needed a pot to piss in, you brought me a pot and then some. Sure, you didn’t do it alone, but everyone on Starfarer’s Dream knows that they were spear carriers and you were the conductor.
“People, Willow, are people. You have to understand that some of them aren’t very nice. Most are, and Rim Runners have selected out most of those who aren’t. Your job, Lieutenant, is to turn that awesome weapon you built on our enemies and turn them into gas... nothing more, nothing less. The more the merrier. I don’t care at all if this upsets rules, regulations, or gives Porties or BuPers gas.
“One last thing. I’ve already advised Ensign Shannon of this. At 1300 hours each and every day until we reach Earth, you will report to the basketball gym. There, for an hour each day, you will play. I have assigned Ensign Shannon to be team captain.”
Willow almost laughed, one of the first instances of a smile Bill had ever seen on his face. “And I can’t complain about his height, can I?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Tell Zinder, Booth and Morrison within the hour. I’ll supply competition. This is not a negotiable activity, unless you’re more crippled than you are now.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Willow repeated.
* * *
“Lieutenant Booth -- how was our exit from fans?” Starfarer’s Dream’s captain asked.
Bethany Booth looked at the captain. “On the tick, sir. Firming up our location. We are definitely down at Earth, sir.”
“That’s always good to hear. Congratulations, Lieutenant Shannon! You found our way home!
“Threats, Lieutenant Wolf?” Bill Travers asked.
“There appear to be no hostiles in the sky, Captain,” Willow told him. “I am, however, tracking the closest ships in acquisition mode.”
“Don’t shoot anyone!”
He pressed a button. “Lieutenant Morrison! The engines still there?”
“So far, Captain.”
“Excellent! Are we good to go for Earth?”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
“Lieutenant Booth will give you the course, Lieutenant Shannon, make for Grissom Station.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Bethany told him and Bob Shannon echoed her.
Bill Travers turned to his wife and spoke in an audible aside. “I’ve forgotten what it was like to be a captain and to have others to take care of all the details!”
* * *
Four hours later, Starfarer’s Dream slid into her parking slot at Grissom Station. Two hours later, the captain called them all into the conference room again.
“Everything is on hold. Admiral Booth and I have been ordered to report downstairs. I assure you, that this is a formality. It’s late afternoon, local time, so don’t expect anything until the morning, the day after tomorrow. You will each send me an email confirmation of your desire to take the bridge watchkeeping certificate exam as soon as practical. No later than the day after tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”
He waved a salute and was gone a few seconds later.
II
Lieutenant Johnny Montezuma checked the clock on the menu bar of the desk comp: 0950. Once again he lifted his eyes to the front of the room to meet the calm, steady gaze of the Fleet captain there. She had no trace of emotion on her face.
How very, very odd, Johnny thought.
In civilian life, this sort of delay would have caused someone to comment -- probably snidely. Instead, like the others in the room, he sat quietly waiting for whatever it was they were waiting for -- and not at all sure that this wasn’t part of the test.
He was a reserve full lieutenant, and he was sure that some of the regular Fleet officers were going to be quick to put him in his place, war or not. This though, wasn’t the method he’d expected. He’d gotten to the exam room a good forty-five minutes before 0900, when the exam was supposed to start, and at that, had been the second officer to report to the captain, who was already present.
By ten minutes before the hour, three more officers, all ensigns, were seated, waiting to take the bridge watchkeeping certificate exam. A Fleet lieutenant entered the room, walked up to the captain, saluted her, and then handed the captain a folded sheet of paper. The captain had read it, nodded, and the other saluted and left. The captain had sat down at her desk and started typing on the comp there.
Johnny had been a little surprised when nothing happened at 0900. Nothing had happened by 0915, and at 0920 he’d reached the conclusion that the note had been to inform the captain that the test was delayed. Why? Johnny hadn’t had much experience with Fleet captains, but he’d been in space four and a half years as a civilian and another year as a civilian contractor on a survey mission. Captains of any stripe did not, as a rule, tolerate gratuitous delays with equanimity. And the clock was ticking and ticking.
And he himself -- supposing he had duty later? He reached down, tapped out his password on the desk comp and pulled up his calendar. This morning he’d had a block, “0800-1200 Certificate Exam.” Now his calendar showed “0800-1800 Certificate Exam, per PSO 24450828-7.” That wasn’t the original order authority. What was PSO? The comp beeped and abruptly he was logged off.
He’d lifted his eyes up and the captain met his gaze. Her words were said firmly and stiltedly formal. “You are here, Lieutenant Montezuma, to demonstrate your knowledge. You are not here to be distracted by side issues.” She was, he was certain, not angry. Not only was she not angry at him, but she wasn’t upset about the delay. How very odd!
At 0930 the door to the room opened, and four more officers entered and went to seats and sat down, without a word. Johnny raised a mental eyebrow. Obviously they were late, and just as obvious, they'd waited for them. If what he'd heard about the bridge watchkeeping certificate was true, they should have been rescheduled a year from now.
Johnny was a full lieutenant, which he was sure, bugged a lot of regular Fleet Aloft officers. He’d been a civilian a week ago, and had expected a harder time. So far, that hadn’t happened. He was a little older than most Fleet first lieutenants. There wasn’t anything surprising about Fleet first lieutenants sitting for the bridge watchkeeping certificate -- it was the normal state of affairs. The ensigns, though, they were a surprise. Only a really hot shot ensign would be allowed to even try.
These four were all first lieutenants, like himself. Except that they weren’t.
Two of the newcomers were very young. One male, one female; he doubted if either of them were eighteen. Another young fellow was older, perhaps twenty. The last was older still, but looked like a new graduate from the Academy. Yet all four wore the same stripe-and-a-half that Johnny did.
Moreover, all of them wore decorations, over their right pockets, and the oldest had two over his left pocket as well. Johnny focused. Unless he was wrong, one of those on the left was the Legion of Merit, which, until the war had started, had been Fleet Aloft’s highest award for bravery. The other on the left was a heart-shaped medal which had to be the one for being injured on duty.
All four wore single medals over their right pockets. According to the book Johnny had read, the only medal on the right side in the last ten years was the Tenebra Rescue, and it was solid black. These were all the same, black, but with blue and white cross-hatching. He had no idea what the award was for. He laughed inwardly, sarcastically. There was a war on and the odds were that those pertained to it.
The captain stood up. “It is now 0935. The exam is held over until 1300, by personal order of the President of the Federation, Emil van de Veere. Whatever you do, now isn’t the time to get lost. You have between now and 1300 to stand down.”
Johnny swallowed. Exams had always come easily for him, and he was more eager than not to take one. Quite a few people were only too happy to put them off, if they could. Was this a test?
The lieutenant commander who c
ommanded the replacement depot had been blunt. “You’re welcome to take the exam if you wish; you have to understand that a bad grade is a fatal ding, wartime or not. One thing you will never, ever, want to do is discuss the exam with anyone beyond the day you took it and the result for yourself, if you are so inclined. In normal times, talking about it in any other fashion is a court-martial offense. Now, you get a Special Board. You can -- in fact, you will be -- shot if you talk about it. Period. So don’t.”
Johnny had been angry at the way his intelligence had been insulted, but he finally realized that the warning was rote and required. What was so secret about the exam? He laughed at that. Training! The Fleet was famous when it came to training! No one messed with it!
The others were getting up to leave, but Johnny sat still. The Fleet captain looked at him, mildly curious. “This isn’t a trick, Lieutenant. You are dismissed until 1300.”
“Captain, aye, aye. Why the delay, Captain?”
She looked at him, and then cocked her head to one side. “Lieutenant, there is a war on. At Gandalf, Turbine Jensen called the mid-watch to battle stations for a drill. They weren’t happy with that; worse, they knew he normally would keep them a few minutes after watch change just to show them that war doesn’t always fit a comfortable schedule and that the exigencies of war ignore watch changes.
“They were at combat stations for eighty-two hours, Lieutenant. Not one subsequently voiced a complaint; some, in fact, remained at their duty stations anyway, even when told they could stand down.”
Johnny nodded. No, he doubted if anyone would complain about that. Turbine Jensen had kept them alive after the worst disaster in human history.
“War, Lieutenant, rarely follows pre-approved Fleet scheduling. Thirteen hundred hours, Lieutenant.”
He spoke cautiously, knowing it wasn’t entirely safe to speculate. “Is there a threat?”
The captain regarded him soberly. “Threats, Lieutenant, came in all directions, and in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes, Lieutenant, you need to watch your back. That’s all for now. Be here at the appointed time.”
Starfarer's Dream (Kinsella Universe Book 4) Page 23
