"The Captain has left the bridge!"
Paul looked over at Tweed, sure his face still showed his emotions. "Why'd he do that? What was the point?"
Tweed looked like she'd eaten something bitter yet familiar. "He told us. 'Looking good.' Pushing the ship through that high-speed turn set off alerts on every ship in the area, and back at the station where they're still tracking us. He was showing off."
"That's it?"
"That's it. Get used to it."
The watch crawled to its end without further event. Carl Meadows was Paul's relief, listening to the turnover with jaded stoicism and checking the list of scheduled events for his watch. "Okay. I got it."
"Thanks. On the bridge, this is Mr. Sinclair. Mr. Meadows has the watch."
"This is Mr. Meadows. I have the watch and the conn. See ya, Paul."
He left the bridge, moving with caution under the unfamiliar conditions of being underway. The push of the Michaelson 's main drive provided an illusion of gravity, but not normal gravity. Paul fought down a quiver in his arms and legs brought on by relief and tension, still grasping a handhold just outside the bridge as Jan Tweed came through. "Uh, thanks, Jan."
"Don't mention it. You going to lunch?"
"I don't think my stomach can handle it."
"Oh, yeah. Don't worry, you'll get your space legs in a while. Remember, we've also got the second dog watch." Paul nodded numbly, recalling that the watches around the evening meal were 'dogged' in half so both watch sections could eat. "Be sure to eat dinner early if you're up for it by then."
"Thanks." Paul made his way to his ensign locker, trying not to notice the amusement his shaky progress and strained expression brought out in the crew he passed. He made it to his bunk, lay down, and stared at the already familiar pipes, wires and ducts running just above his nose.
At some point, he must have fallen asleep. The bang of the hatch opening startled Paul awake. "Hey, Sinclair. You in here?"
"Yeah, Sam." He'd followed Jen's advice, not letting on he knew about the trick Sam Yarrow had pulled on him. It had seemed to make Yarrow nervous in a manner Paul found gratifying.
"The XO said to remind you she wanted to see you."
"Right now?"
"I guess. What's up?"
"I don't know." The honest answer seemed to annoy Yarrow, bringing another spurt of satisfaction to Paul. He rolled out of his rack, very cautiously, and made his way to the XO's stateroom. "Commander? You wanted to see me?"
Herdez seemed unfazed by the effects of being underway. Except for the straps holding her to her seat, they might still have been moored to Franklin station. "Take a seat, Mr. Sinclair. Be sure to strap in."
"Yes, ma'am."
Herdez passed over a data cartridge. "I want you to take a look at this and give an evaluation. It's our patrol orders and rules of engagement. They're still not for general distribution, so share that card with no one."
"Ma'am?" Paul was sure his face reflected his bafflement. I'm an ensign who can barely find his way around the ship, and she's asking me for an evaluation of operational orders?
Herdez almost smiled at Paul's reaction. Almost. "I don't need an operational assessment, Mr. Sinclair. I want a legal assessment. These orders require us to do certain things in certain ways. I want to know how you would interpret them in legal terms based on the training you've received in that area."
"Yes, ma'am." Paul hesitated, turning the data cartridge in his hand. "Am I looking for anything in particular, XO?"
"Anything you don't understand, anything you can't pin down, anything that might need interpreting. Understand? If we're being sent out under orders crafted in legalese, I want to know what they might mean to someone who was seeing them for the first time. Thank you."
"Yes, ma'am." Sensing he'd been dismissed, Paul left the stateroom, pausing in the passageway to once again examine the data cartridge. She didn't say so, but the XO doesn't seem to trust these orders. What's in them that's got her worried? And if someone as good as the XO is worried, maybe I ought to be scared to death. Paul headed back to his stateroom, thankful he'd brought all his notes from the legal course.
"Sinclair!"
Paul stopped in his tracks at Commander Garcia's hail. "Yes, sir?"
"Where the hell is Lieutenant Tweed?"
I've got a feeling I'm going to get incredibly tired of hearing that question. "I don't know, sir."
"Find out. No, never mind. Get your division's training records and meet me in the Operations office."
"Yes, sir." Training records? Oh, man, I've hardly glanced at those. Paul glanced at the data cartridge. I could use this as an excuse. Tell Garcia the XO needs me to do this right away… but then Garcia might ask the XO. And doing that would set me down Jan Tweed's road right off the bat. I can't start out hiding. She didn't even start out that way, I bet. He stowed the cartridge in one pocket, pondering his next step.
"Make way." Kris Denaldo shot Paul a curious glance as he edged to the side of the passageway to let her past. "I've hardly seen you since you came aboard."
"It's been a busy few days, Kris."
"I bet. You're still trying to figure out which way is up, right? Jen told me to help keep an eye on you. Need anything?"
Paul nodded, thinking as he did so that Bull Ensign Sam Yarrow should have been the one telling other junior officers to help out the new guy. "Yes, but nothing you can help with. Garcia wants to see my division's training records."
"And…?"
"Well, I haven't even looked at those, yet."
"Oh. You ought to. It's a good way to learn your enlisted sailors' names and abilities."
Paul bit back a sarcastic reply. That's good advice, even though there's about a hundred things I ought to do within the next couple of days. "I will, but Garcia wants to see the records now, and I'm not even sure where they are."
"Then just ask… never mind."
"What?"
Kris Denaldo looked embarrassed. "I was going to say you should just ask your division officer, but that's Jan Tweed, so…"
"So I may not even be able to find her. What else can I do?"
Kris shrugged. "Get ahold of your chief."
"My chief?"
"Your senior enlisted. That's Chief Imari, right? I've heard she's a good chief, so she should be able to help you if anyone can."
Paul brightened. I've been thinking I'm alone in this job, but I do have people I can count on to at least show me the way. People like my chief, and people like some of my fellow junior officers. "Thanks, Kris. That's great advice."
She was already moving away from him, continuing on down the passageway. "No problem. Gotta run. See you around."
Locating Chief Imari didn't prove to be hard, as she was in the Combat Information Center working at one of the terminals.
"Divisional training records? No problem, Mr. Sinclair." Imari tapped in a couple of commands, popped out a data cartridge, then stood. "Let's go."
"Uh, Chief, Commander Garcia said he wanted to see me."
"Did he say he didn't want to see me, too?"
"No."
"Then let's go, sir."
When they reached the nearby Operations office, Commander Garcia glanced from Sinclair to Imari with a sour expression, snatched the proffered cartridge from Imari's hand, then scanned the data rapidly. "Sinclair, has Seaman Frost completed all the requirements for damage control training?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw Chief Imari incline her head in a surreptitious nod. "Yes, sir."
"Hmmm. What about Petty Officer Kaji? Is she done with her Passive Tracking qualifications?"
This time Chief Imari twitched her head ever-so-slightly to one side and back. "No, sir."
"She should have finished that training by now. Will she have it done by the time we return to the station?"
Another nod. "Yes, sir."
"Hmmm." Commander Garcia swiveled to view Chief Imari and Paul squarely. "These look okay. Keep on it,
Sinclair."
"Yes, sir."
"Did you need something, Chief?"
"No, sir. As the Divisional Training assistant, I figured I should accompany Mr. Sinclair."
Garcia looked from Imari to Sinclair, then pulled out the data cartridge and pointedly returned it to Paul before pivoting back to face his terminal. "That's all."
Paul nodded to the back of Garcia's head and followed Imari out and back to CIC. "Chief, you saved my butt in there."
"No, sir. I did my job, part of which is to help young naval officers through their learning process."
Paul grinned. "Thanks. But I ought to take over maintaining these training records. I'm being paid to do it, after all."
"Mr. Sinclair, how many jobs do you have right now?"
"Ummm, five."
"Yes, sir. So if I handle part of one of them, you got to figure the Navy is still getting its money's worth, right?"
"That's true, but-"
"But, nothing, sir. I'm the Division's Training assistant. That's official. There ain't anything wrong with me keeping these records up."
"Commander Garcia told me to do it."
"Yes, sir. And good officers don't try to handle every task they're responsible for themselves, do they? They delegate them." Imari reached and took the data cartridge from Paul. "Just like you're delegating this particular job to me. With all due respect, sir, you probably don't have the time to maintain these records right."
"Chief, I can't argue with that. But I do want to go over those records with you and be familiar with them."
"That's good, sir. Want to do it now?"
"Yes, I-" Paul stopped, remember the data cartridge he'd received from Commander Herdez. "I want to, Chief, but there's something the XO told me take a look at."
"The XO?" Chief Imari looked slightly disconcerted. "She's giving you tasking directly?"
"No, chief, not like that." If the Executive Officer had been directly giving Paul orders on what to do within his division officer's job, instead of routing such instructions through Commander Garcia, it would have been a gross breach of the chain-of-command and poor leadership as well. "It's something to do with my collateral duty as ship's legal officer."
"Oh." Imari didn't try to hide her relief. "That's okay, sir. You take care of the XO's stuff and we'll get together on the training records later."
"Thanks again, Chief. Hey, is Kaji going to get those passive tracking quals done?"
"Yes, sir. We had a little conversation about that and I think she's real motivated now."
Paul kept a straight face with some effort. "Sounds good. Later, chief."
Since his ensign locker was both empty and likely to be the best place for any degree of privacy, Paul loaded the XO's data cartridge into the terminal at his desk and began carefully picking his way through the convoluted official wording. The early sections were essentially boilerplate, standard wording with slight modifications to fit the exact circumstances of the Michaelson 's upcoming patrol.
Then he reached the section on operating instructions, and began bogging down. 'USS Michaelson is to conduct a thorough patrol of the U.S. space sovereignty zone, ensuring through her actions that all violations are countered in such a fashion that US sovereignty is unchallenged.' What does that mean exactly? A challenge to sovereignty can be as subtle as somebody sticking their toe into our claimed area of space. But these orders say we have to counter every violation. If the captain lets a single incident go unchallenged, we wouldn't be carrying out our orders. But 'countered in such a fashion that US sovereignty is unchallenged' implies that we've got to really got to hammer anyone trying anything. Or does it? The lawyers who taught me this legal stuff could have taken a phrase like that and made it mean anything.
Paul read on, a headache growing as he tried to nail down meanings in phrases which seemed to grow increasingly vague. 'Actions are to be tailored to reflect requirements of the operational situation as well as tactical considerations… swift and effective response to emerging opportunities is expected… care should be exercised in avoiding unnecessarily provocative situations… nothing in these orders should be construed as limiting the captain's ability to respond appropriately to any situation.'
The Rules of Engagement proved even more twisted than the operating instructions. 'USS Michaelson shall ensure that any violations of U.S. space sovereignty are countered with all appropriate and necessary actions.' "Shall" means the captain has to do it, but do what? "Appropriate" and "necessary" are both situational words. What one person thinks is appropriate in a certain case, someone else might declare inappropriate. So the captain has to do something, but they won't tell him what he can or should do. It's up to him to figure it out. Wait. 'USS Michaelson should refrain from any and all action(s) likely to generate activity resulting in adverse consequences for national policy objectives.' So we "shall" do everything "appropriate" but "shouldn't" do anything inappropriate, I guess.
On one level, the instructions made sense. After all, captains of ships, by long tradition and legal precedent, were given great powers and expected to exercise a tremendous amount of discretion in using those powers. For Earth-bound or near-orbit operations, that old rule no longer really applied thanks to virtually instant communications networks which gave higher authority the ability to monitor and direct any action by a captain. But out in deeper space, the light-speed limit on communications meant that long periods could still elapse between the need for a decision and whatever direction came back from home. Captains had to be trusted to make decisions without precise instructions.
But these orders are still too vague. There's no upper or lower limit on them. "Appropriate and necessary"? That could be nothing. That could be opening fire and destroying another ship. Or anything in between.
Paul read on. 'The safety and security of USS Michaelson shall be safeguarded against hostile activity by taking all actions required in accordance with the tactical and operational environment.' How does that "shall" rank compared to the "shall" that directs the Michaelson do whatever it takes to prevent US sovereignty from being challenged? What if someone after the fact decides certain actions taken were or weren't "required"? Heck, it says "all actions required." "All"? We could be nailed if they think we didn't do one thing that someone could judge "required."
He skipped down a ways, suddenly eager to see the accompanying intelligence assessment. 'Aggressive challenges to our sovereign claimed areas may materialize… foreign forces encountered may be operating under unknown rules of engagement… composition or nature of foreign spacecraft likely to be encountered remains unknown… possible hostile action cannot be ruled out but cannot be predicted at this time… unconventional threats remain possible… warning of hostile action may not be timely…'
Paul rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes but still seeing in his mind the words of the orders he'd been reading. So, if my assessment of the legal meaning of these orders is right, we're being ordered to do everything we should do, but nothing we shouldn't do, against an unknown level and degree of threat, and do all that without making anybody mad that the US doesn't want to make mad. He thought of Captain Wakeman, happily hurling his ship through extreme maneuvers in the hope it might impress anyone who might be watching, without much thought to where the ship was actually going and planning on doing. And the paragon of good judgment and careful analysis who is supposed to decide what's "appropriate," "necessary," and "required" in every circumstance is Cap'n Pete Wakeman. Good grief.
Paul began writing a report to the XO, working through it word by word to avoid implying anything about his opinion of Wakeman's judgment or ability to execute the orders. Just lay out the contradictions I see, and the areas in which guidance is vague enough to create potential problems. The XO doesn't need me telling her how to operate a ship. And I've got a feeling that if anybody on this ship can read between the lines and see trouble ahead, it's Herdez. He wasn't thrilled with the end result, but couldn't think how to impro
ve upon it, so he sent it to the XO's inbox and hoped it would at least come close to meeting her standards.
Chapter Four
Lieutenant Jan Tweed slowly reached forward, gently tapping a few controls on her watch station console. In the dim lighting of the bridge, the gentle radiance of the illuminated control panels seemed to glow like small candles behind colored glass. On the screen displaying an image of the outside, nothing could be seen but endless dark spotted with countless stars, each bright and hard as a diamond. Somehow that vision of emptiness sucked the warmth from the bridge, leaving Paul shivering slightly, even though he knew the temperature inside the ship was comfortable for both humans and their machines.
The ship's night had been in effect for hours now, with reddened, minimal internal lighting which helped keep human sleep cycles on track. When sunrise officially arrived in a few more hours, the internal lights would brighten to mimic daylight on Earth. But for now, darkness ruled both inside and outside the ship, as did a quiet aimed at aiding the sleep of those crew members fortunate enough not to be on watch.
One month out of Franklin Station, weeks away from routes frequented by humans (though frequented often meant little in the vast spaces of the solar system) the Michaelson proceeded on a patrol marked so far by isolation and emptiness. Paul glanced at the time as Tweed worked at the casual pace of someone who knew they had hours of boredom yet to endure. The midwatch had started at midnight, ship's time, even though Paul had actually been on the bridge a half-hour earlier for turn-over with the officer he was relieving on watch. It would run until four in the morning, or 0400 on the twenty-four hour military clocks. Paul's thoughts idly wandered back to the days when he'd called that time 4 A.M., back before the Academy had rearranged the way he thought about time and a lot of other things. Back then, the eerie quiet of a world where almost everyone and everything else was asleep had been foreign to him. Now, the low lighting, the hushed silence aboard the Michaelson and the cold-beyond-cold outside the ship's hull combined to leave him chilled and subdued.
Tweed leaned back again. From the speaker near her position, odd sounds began issuing. Something like whale song, veering wordlessly up and down the scale, snatches of almost-words growing to near-audibility then fading away, bursts of random static that somehow seemed to formed patterns just beyond his grasp, and beneath it all a low hiss of background noise.
A Just Determination ps-1 Page 6
