He had heard something about their prospective ship being a brand new one called the Doc Travis but it hadn't been formally announced yet so he couldn't say anything. However ..."I believe all you young heroes would be well served if you prepare for a long mission and a ship that has plenty of room. That's about all I know at present."
"How about environment? Any data there?" A private piped up.
Watkins thought momentarily of chewing him out for such a stupid-ass question but quickly stifled the urge. The boy might not be coming back. Instead he said: "You're all volunteers so you should know this may be a hairy sonofabitch. You also should be aware if you'd bother using a few brain cells that we won't know what kind of climate we'll be operating in until we fucking get there, so there's no specific environment for us to prepare for-except I suspect it'll be raining bullets, grenades, and bombs on any assholes that get in our way. That right Marines?"
"Oorah!" yelled out the unit.
"But what you should do is make damn certain all your equipment is in shape and then find some way to sneak an extra ammo load or two on board. I don't have to tell you old salts how, so you be sure and instruct our young comrades properly. Clear?"
"Oorah!" the NCOs shouted in unison.
"All right, then. Get to it." Watkins turned and walked from the room, shoulders back and body as ramrod straight as it had been at eighteen, thirty years ago when he'd kicked that Seal's ass.
Chapter Five: Nice to know I'm wanted
I didn't mean to say that the Enterprise should be hauling garbage. I meant to say that it should be hauled away as garbage" - Korax (The Trouble With Tribbles)
Brian climbed out of the golf cart and paused long enough to stare up at the huge bulk of the starship. Even though he had been around them all his life this was the first time he had seen the new C class by itself, away from the factory. It was even more impressive seeing it this way, he decided. He was proud of the part he had played in its design, giving it more power and thrust and a much more finely tuned gravitic regulator despite its greater size. He wondered what had been done internally since it left the Wannstead assembly building. He hoped any improvements DARPA had come up with would be enough to overcome whatever enigma that made ships in the Bolt Cluster disappear. He also wondered if the Navy knew that there wasn't a clue as to whether the ships were destroyed going into the cluster, trying to land on Xanadu, or even whether they were held captive by some unknown force and not hurt at all.
Whatever, he figured it wouldn't be too long until he found out. He made some minor adjustments to his new uniform and climbed the ramp up into the bowels of the Doc Travis. He traveled down a passageway while thinking what an apt name Doc Travis was. The scientist and science fiction writer it was named after was the co-author of one particular science fiction series that caused hair to stand up on the neck of anyone reading it, and the spaceship used in the series for battling aliens was also new and powerful, if only imaginary. He just hoped they came out as well in the end, although he thought he would settle for a few less casualties. He took an elevator to a higher deck and began traipsing along still another passageway toward the bridge, more commonly known in the Space Navy as the Control Room.
"Sir?" Brian said tentatively to the back of the man sitting in the captain's chair. He supposed it was Captain Keane but wasn't certain. The man turned around and Brian's eyes flicked to the eagles on the collar of his uniform.
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, I'm Lieutenant Brian Wannstead. I've been recalled and assigned to the Doc Travis."
The Captain looked nonplussed for a moment as he stared at the well built young officer with blond hair and startlingly blue eyes. Then his face brightened. " Wannstead, you say? From Wannstead Industries?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, by God, welcome aboard!" He got up and strode forward, holding out his hand. "I'm Captain Trent Keane, commanding."
Nice to know I'm wanted, Brian thought. "Thank you sir," he said. "I'm glad to meet you."
"How much do you know about this class of ship, Lieutenant?"
Brian grinned. "I was the engineering officer in charge of bringing it on line, sir. I was with it from concept to carpeting. Anything about the basic specs you need to know I can probably help you with, although some of the specialized technical matters are a little out of my line. However, if I don't know, I'm sure I can find the answer pretty quickly for you." He had a PhD in engineering and knew more about most technical aspects of the ship than most of the development team who'd worked for him.
Before reporting aboard he had obtained a confidential biography of the Captain. Keane was known for being somewhat intense on ship matters, probably why he was chosen for the job. A super detailed, hard working and brilliantly creative captain was what his father's confidential report had said. He also matched the photo that came with the report. A big man in his early forties, with dark brown hair graying at the temples and a square jaw. The report also said that given the chance, the man was willing to talk for hours about ship systems in order to improve his knowledge of them.
Captain Keane smiled. "I'm sure you'll work out fine, Lieutenant. Come on over here and have a seat. I'll put you to work right now. Umm, no, I guess you'd like to see your quarters first, wouldn't you?"
"Whatever suits you, sir."
"Good. Let me ask you just a few questions, then we'll get you squared away."
"My pleasure, sir. Shoot," Brian responded.
The "few questions" lasted a good three hours before Keane suddenly realized how much time had passed.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to keep you this long. You know more about this ship than I imagined. Hang loose for a moment and I'll get Chief Mura to escort you to your stateroom. You can take tomorrow to get yourself squared away and learn your way around the ship and ...wait! You should already know it better than anyone aboard or else you've been bullshitting me." He grinned. "Just take the morning off to get situated and then report here to the control room at 1130 hours. We'll go to lunch and you can meet some of the other officers."
"That will be fine, sir. Thank you."
Keane nodded abstractedly. His attention was already buried in another three dimensional diagram of the bow of the ship where most of the weapons were fired from. Brian could see that he was fixated on having all the ship's weapons system fully operational, properly manned, and knowing as much as possible about them.
Brian wasn't unhappy. Keane seemed to be a good sort and even more enthusiastic about the ship than he had been while working it up. He would have been almost glad to have been called back to active duty if it hadn't been for the specter of Xanadu and the missing ships looming over the coming mission.
***
Keane scrubbed his burning eyes with his knuckles. He'd been studying hard, practically living in the great ship concealed beneath the hanger at the Skunk Works. He wandered purposely through the passageways, living quarters, cargo bays, fighting stations, engineering sections and every other space that could be accessed until he could visualize practically every square meter of the starship. He examined the new weapons systems and the machinery and instrumentation that powered them, then studied the specs until he knew them practically by heart. He went on to look at the four marine assault shuttles with their own weapons systems. Always, though, he returned to the control room where he would become the living embodiment of Doc Travis.
He was enormously pleased that someone in the crew assignment department had the sagacity to recall Wannstead to duty. He would certainly be a great help. Just because Keane had memorized so much of the inside of the ship didn't mean he knew everything about it, and there were countless places where access hatches had to be opened to get at the real bowels, the wiring, plumbing and electrical network that meshed the physical parts together into a working whole. Brian had to understand more about this than anyone. The Wannsteads were known for their technical brilliance and if there was a battle Keane wa
nted someone like Wannstead around.
He always thought of their mission when visiting the control room, trying to visualize a shadowy menace that lurked on Xanadu, a menace with interstellar star ships as its prey. Each time he vowed to himself that whatever it was, it would never get his ship nor harm its crew. He had room for optimism. The engineers and theorists had put a great deal of time and effort into turning a regular interstellar ship into a thing of lethal beauty. It was as different from its predecessors in armament and electronic assets as a lady's automatic pistol was from a machine gun.
If this baby can't crack the mystery, nothing we have in the pipeline I know of can, he thought. And there was always the risk of bringing back home whatever was possibly destroying the ships. That would not be allowed. The Space Navy had a contingency plan for everything, and the confidential self-destruct that was secretly installed on the Doc Travis reminded him of not only the responsibly and obligation he had for the ship and its crew, but for humanity too. Alien contact was not defined by the Space Navy as something safe. It was a risk humanity took in order to expand into the Galaxy.
He looked at his watch and decided to call it a day, or night, rather. Doc Travis was powered up to idle so that the basic operating systems were workable. Such as hot water for a shower, he thought. Too bad there wouldn't be anyone waiting in the bed afterwards, though. When he returned from the last cruise he found that Mary had reneged on her promise to wait on him. Not even the courtesy to tell me in person, he thought with dismay, remembering how he'd felt then. Later he thought that loneliness was probably a factor in her decision. Navy life had always been hard on those left behind but it was even worse now. An interstellar voyage seldom lasted much less than a year and sometimes the ships were gone two years or more before returning to their home port.
This meant that a lot of the time, shipboard alliances became a more suitable solution to maintaining a romance than trying to do it long distance, especially when there wasn't even a means of communication as had been the case in the past. The only thing wrong with onboard relationships was that captains had to be very careful or someone was sure to accuse them of favoritism. And there was also the problem of chain of command, which stated that pairings between superior and subordinate were forbidden. Hell, he might be retired before ever bonding with a woman and having the relationship last, he thought moodily.
He locked his office and headed back to the captain's cabin, where he stripped off his working fatigues and was soon immersed in a soothing flow of hot water beating on tired muscles. He let it go on for long minutes before lathering his hair and rinsing it. He had just flushed the last of the suds from his body when his wrist tingled. Damn! Now who could that be this time of night?
He shut off the water so he could hear. "Captain Keane."
"Captain, you have a message from Admiral Mullins," the voice of Chief Petty Officer Wanna Mura, his enlisted aide came from his wrist comp. "It's marked urgent."
"Got it, Chief. Thanks. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
He dried off and dressed quickly in a working uniform before sitting down in front of the com console in his quarters. He tapped the screen to bring it on line then punched for urgent mail. Instead of a recording he got Admiral Mullins in person. Startled, the weariness left his body and he sat up straighter.
"Yes, sir?"
"Trent, I'm sorry to get you out of bed this time of night, but we've just received some new intelligence. It seems that there's been a leak. Somehow the media has learned that there's something important going on in the Bolt Cluster. Goddamn politicians, even the President can't keep a fucking secret. He probably mentioned it to one of his staff or told his wife in bed or some goddamned thing."
Keane reflected a moment. The Admiral was plainly unhappy. "What does that mean to us, sir?"
Mullins shrugged as he smiled mirthlessly. "We don't know. What it means to you personally is that you're going to be leaving sooner than we thought. While the spooks don't know yet how other space-faring nations might react, it doesn't bode well. They think you should get cracking now."
"Are any of the intelligence agencies willing to speculate on how well armed our competition might be?"
"Yes. They say not nearly as well as the Doc Travis by a wide margin. I don't think that's what has their panties twisted, though. The last advisory I received from group intelligence concerning the missing ships still gives a five per cent possibility that humans are involved. And if that's the case, China's a suspect, along with the military of several other nations."
Keane frowned. Again the Chinese? But this did not make sense. "Still, I don't see ..."
The admiral held up his hand to interrupt him. "What I really think is that someone at the top is afraid that whatever the enigma is causing ships to be lost, some other nation might solve it before we get there and then claim the city. The administration is hoping the Doc Travis can solve the puzzle quickly and put our stamp on it. It doesn't make sense to Naval Intelligence, though. Anything less than Doc Travis is liable to fall prey to the Boojum and they also have doubts about anyone else being willing to risk losing a three hundred billion dollar starship." He spread his hands in a disgusted manner.
"I suppose asking us to hurry up makes some kind of addled, left-handed sense but they can forget about us rushing," replied Keane, bluntly. "None of the weapons systems aboard have been tested, nor have the major operating systems been cleared for action. If we are ordered to go now then of course we'll obey, but I won't risk my ship by jacking around with safety parameters unless I see a direct threat, or a very good reason to. As is, we'll have to get our training on the way and that's bad enough."
Mullins laughed. "I told Jeff that's what you'd say. Nevertheless, your orders have you leaving as soon as safely possible. I know you haven't had your space trials yet but every system that's been added has been worked to a fare-thee-well. You'll have several months en route to go over them, but I don't expect you to have many mechanical problems. Even if you do, you have a shitload of spares in your cargo and a machine ship that can repair anything short of being broken in two. At any rate, we're issuing alerts to your crew and your marines. As soon as they're all aboard and you're loaded, you're free to go."
"Yes, sir. I'm glad I put in all that time studying the new goodies. I ought to be able to understand at least every third word of what Lieutenants Jergens and Wannstead tell me when they're explaining something now. We'll get it done, sir."
"Good man. Get your ship organized and provisioned. I'll expect you to give me a tentative departure date within three days."
"Yes, sir," Keane said.
"Right. I'll say good night, then. We'll talk again before you leave. Oh, wait! One more thing. The Santa Cruz has been diverted from her mission and sent toward the Bolt Cluster. You're to catch up and rendezvous with them. The specific system where you'll meet will be in your departure orders."
"Do you think I'll need help, sir? From the Santa Cruz?"
"It's just a precaution. As you're well aware the Santa Cruz is first generation, an A Class, and will be little more than a chase ship there to record and scoot back home if you run into trouble. Its sole function is as backup and to record what happens. Doc Travis will do the initial investigation while Santa Cruz hangs back. If your ship is captured, destroyed or otherwise incapacitated, their orders will be to disengage from the system immediately and return to Earth with whatever intelligence they have. That way we'll get at least an inkling of what the fuck's going on out there. Now, good night, Captain."
"Good night, sir." But Mullins had already cut contact.
Keane got very little sleep that night, nor much for several nights to come. He was able to tell his admiral two days later that the Doc Travis could leave Earth in ten days, perhaps nine. It reflected well on the crew and absolved him of a few fears, but there was no getting away from the fact that very shortly his ship would be going in harm's way, and it hadn't even been tested!
***
Marine Captain Cindy Cantrell, Executive Officer of the Marine Expeditionary Unit aboard Doc Travis, thought it fortunate that she would not be interacting much with Captain Keane or Commander Dunaway. Her courtesy rank - she had to follow the silly custom of no more than one "captain" aboard a navy ship - would be "Major", the same rank as Major Rambling, the commander of the marine detachment. But she knew she was in good company. Major Steel Rambling was a straight, no bullshit, get-the-job-done leader. People said he never smiled and that he worked out at the gym two hours each day religiously.
He wasn't unattractive despite his ears and nose being bit overlarge but Cindy felt that anyone who didn't smile much, even on the off hours, was a little strange. But he did have good instincts. He requested Cindy and others to sneak aboard more ammo than the marines normally smuggled into their ships. He said he suspected 'the excrement was going to hit the rotary impellor' once they arrived at their destination. Shit, if this was a boat, the damned thing would probably sink from all the stores beyond what the specs called for. But she was assured that the new class ship with its modified quantum drives could fly with twice the weight. A good thing since it seemed like every damned person on the ship was trying to find ways to smuggle extra weapons and ammo on board. What was the captain hiding? What had the top sergeant told the troops to get them so stirred up? Where the hell were they going?
Cindy tried to curb those questions and perform her job. She felt nearly overwhelmed with the manifold duties of getting the rump battalion of marines supplied, armed and berthed in Doc Travis in preparation for a mission that might last as long as two years. It involved many factors not ordinarily necessary for the fighting force if deployed on Earth. Fortunately, some of the problems had long been taken into account with the small platoon-sized forces that normally accompanied starships. Others hadn't been, in particular the assault shuttles.
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