Chapter 16
TFS Navajo, Herrera Mining Facility
(Combat Information Center - 87.2 light years from Damara)
“Please ask Captain Davis to begin coordinating rescue operations for the Theseus,” Admiral Patterson said wearily as he leaned with both hands against the side of the holo table.
“Aye, sir, right away,” the newly minted Lieutenant Katy Fletcher replied from her nearby Communications console.
In spite of the never-ending series of items requiring his attention, the quick conclusion of the battle for Herrera left the CNO feeling drained and keenly aware that he was nearing his mental and physical limits. Have I even been back to my quarters since we departed Yucca? he thought distractedly. Was that yesterday, or the day before, he wondered, then quickly dismissed the line of thought as unproductive and clearly not getting him any closer to the shower, food, and rack time he so desperately needed.
“When he’s able to do so safely, I’d like to speak with Captain Prescott,” he continued.
“Their comm officer just sent the same message for you, sir. Stand by one.”
Shortly thereafter, Patterson heard the customary chime indicating that he had an incoming vidcon standing by.
“View screen four, Admiral,” Fletcher said, directing his attention to one of the screens mounted on the bulkhead to his right.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said with a wan smile as an equally exhausted-looking Tom Prescott appeared on the view screen. “Good morning, Captain,” he greeted. “What can we do to help you?”
“Good morning to you, sir,” Prescott replied with a weary smile of his own. “All things considered, it could be a lot worse, Admiral. I’m sure you saw that we lost three Marines in the mining facility. We also had three others injured, but Doctor Chen’s first impression was that all three will be fine. Otherwise, we just had some minor injuries during the forced landing … that’s it.”
Patterson simply nodded in response. No officer ever felt comfortable with the idea of an “acceptable” number of casualties, but both men were also well-aware of the magnitude of their victory as well as the mass casualties that had been inflicted upon the Krayleck forces. “How’s your ship?” he asked without further comment.
“The hull’s a mess … again, but we didn’t end up with a single breach in spite of the beating we took. We are going to need to do some EVA work to replace a number of grav emitters, however. Even with Herrera’s relatively weak gravity well, we don’t currently have enough lift to break orbit. We just lost too many emitters in too small of an area.”
“That shouldn’t be too big of a problem, and we can get you some additional manpower to get it done quickly.”
“Commander Logan is suiting up as we speak, and I’m sure he would welcome the help.”
“And your hyperdrive?”
“Fully functional, sir. As soon as we can get her off this rock, we can be on our way. I assume you’ll want us to head back to Yucca.”
“At the moment, I’ll say yes, since that’s where I was planning to send you before all this happened. But we’ll have to do some checking to see which shipyard can accommodate the Theseus first. With all the new construction underway at the moment, she may have to wait her turn for a while.”
“Sir,” Prescott said with a chuckle, “I don’t think there’s a single member of this crew who would mind a little downtime.”
“That’s understandable, and we may well be able to authorize some extended leave for most of your crew,” Patterson replied, raising his eyebrows and peering at Prescott over his glasses. “You and your senior staff, on the other hand, have other important work to do. As I alluded to in our earlier conversation, the inquiry into your actions at Damara will take you ‘off the grid’ so to speak for a couple of weeks. Under the circumstances, we can’t afford to waste this opportunity.”
“And what circumstances are those, sir?”
“I’ll have your orders for you by the time you’ve completed your repairs,” the old admiral replied cryptically. “I’ll give you a general overview of what I have in mind, but you’ll be meeting up with Admiral White in a couple of days. She’ll be able to fill you in on all the details and answer whatever questions you may have. Be sure all of you get some rest between now and then — and, yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I’m telling you to make it a priority. You and your people have been through the wringer, Tom, but I need you back to one hundred percent before you see Admiral White.”
“Aye, sir. By the way, as you can imagine, I have never been happier to see anyone in my life than I was when you arrived, but, frankly, I wasn’t expecting you. Did the Leadership Council have a change of heart?”
“Humph,” the older man replied, his fatigue prompting him to express his personal opinion more readily than usual, “no, the political battle lines seem to have been drawn on the subject of our intention to remain some sort of ‘innocent bystander,’ if possible. As you have repeatedly experienced firsthand, that argument is much easier to make within the comfort and safety of the Council meeting chamber than it is out here.”
“Sir, I regret if I inadvertently placed you in a position where you felt obliged to defy the orders of the Leadership Council. I will be more than happy to take responsibility for doing so, in addition to the situation at Damara.”
“Nonsense,” Patterson said flatly. “You didn’t do anything either here or at Damara other than exactly what your orders and professional obligation required of you. In both cases, you executed your duties conscientiously and professionally, which is all we can ask of any officer. As to defying the Council, it’s perfectly reasonable for them to order us to avoid confrontations with enemy forces and limit how forcefully we respond in order to avoid the appearance of escalating a conflict. That is a political, not a military decision, and one that we are duty bound to carry out. What they cannot lawfully do, however, is issue an order that prevents us from coming to the assistance of one of our own ships that has come under attack or is otherwise in need of assistance. Such an order would be neither reasonable, legal, or in keeping with the traditions of our world’s military services. I sincerely hope that’s not what they intended, but if it is, to hell with them. Mrs. Patterson says it’s high time I retired anyway.”
“Well,” Prescott laughed, a little taken aback by the typically reserved admiral’s candor, “I couldn’t agree more, sir. In any event, thank you for coming when you did. I don’t think we would have held out much longer. Regardless of what the Council had in mind, I suppose they’ll be forced to come to grips with the implications of what happened here. Trying to stay neutral is all well and good, but I suspect the Krayleck will think twice about confronting us in this region anytime soon.”
“Hah,” Patterson laughed, “they won’t have much choice in the matter since we just decimated nearly half of their forces within a month’s flight time of here. I don’t know about you, son, but I’ve been on both sides of one-sided battles. All things considered, I much prefer to be on the side that issues the shellacking rather than the side that receives one. If they head this way again, we’ll be ready and waiting when they arrive.”
Dassault Spacecraft Final Assembly Facility
(3 days later - Bordeaux - Mérignac Spaceport, Bordeaux, France)
Vice Admiral Tonya White stood atop a large yellow set of portable maintenance stairs, stretching out her arm to run her fingertips along the ventral fuselage of what would soon become Terran Fleet Command’s newest operational spacecraft. Although her sleek, predatory lines were reminiscent of an F-373 Reaper — examples of which were being manufactured just a few hundred meters from where she now stood — this ship was far larger than any fighter. Like Fleet’s capital ships, she was equipped with a bridge (albeit a somewhat smaller one) with space for five crewmembers as well as engineering and mission-related spaces located aft that brought the ship’s regular complement to ninety-nine. But unlike TFC’s other ships, which, i
n spite of the organization’s ostensible mission, were primarily equipped for combat operations, this vessel had been envisioned to take on a variety of other roles. In fact, a “civilian” version of the same vessel was also being manufactured nearby for use in long-range exploration and colonization support. In keeping with this concept of operational flexibility, both vessels had been assigned the entirely new designation of “MMSV,” for Multi-Mission Space Vehicle. Other than the name, however, TFS Fugitive had little in common with her civilian counterpart, and everyone who laid eyes on her knew immediately that nothing quite like her had ever been constructed before.
“You seem uncharacteristically quiet, Admiral White. She is a beautiful ship, no?” Commander Troy Crispin called up to her nervously, unable to cope with the Chief of Naval Intelligence’s typically reserved demeanor any longer. “I hope you are pleased with what you see.”
“She’s beautiful, Commander Crispin. How did yesterday’s max range test go?”
“Just under five hundred light years, precisely as expected,” he said proudly.
“Congratulations to you and your team. It’s a truly staggering achievement.”
“Thank you, Madame. She has roughly five times the power generation and handling capability per metric ton of any other Fleet vessel in service. We are very pleased with her performance thus far.”
“As well you should be,” she said offhandedly while continuing her close examination of the ship’s matte black hull. “I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but the pictures I saw certainly did not do her justice. I’ve been briefed on the ship’s stealth characteristics, of course, but I didn’t expect the surface of her hull to look quite like this. It’s not nearly as … smooth as I would have expected.”
Crispin glanced up at the ship with an expression of open admiration, perhaps bordering on reverence, gracing his rather animated face. “Ah, yes, Madame, she is designed to go places and do things that none of our other ships can — and we sincerely hope no one else’s ships can either. We do not generally use the term ‘stealth’ when referring to the various low-observable technologies employed in her design, but the material comprising the outermost layer of her hull is a key component of the most advanced radiation-management system ever produced. The texture you see is a series of closed cells. When in operation, each individual cell contains a form of matter called a Bose-Einstein condensate.”
“I have a little familiarity with the technology,” she replied as she made her way back down to floor level. “My doctoral thesis involved a specific application for superfluidity in the design of improved reactor vessel containment units.”
“I see,” he replied, with a look of surprise and admiration on his face. “Then you almost certainly know more about the specifics of how the system works than I. Suffice it to say that the ship’s AI continuously adjusts the temperature and various other properties of the material within the cells in order to actively manage its thermal, radar, acoustic, and even visual signatures. Not only can it match the surface temperature of the hull to the environment in which the ship is operating, but it can also slow, redirect, or even stop most forms of radiation that strike its surface. Although I always hesitate to use the term, under the right circumstances, the system can render the ship all but invisible … at least to the types of sensors with which we are currently familiar.”
“Forgive me for sounding skeptical, Commander, but isn’t the concept of ‘stealth,’ or ‘LO,’ or whatever we would like to call it, largely unworkable in space? The background temperature you refer to is just a couple of kelvins above absolute zero, right? Everything we do out there generates substantial heat that is all too easy to detect … even over vast distances.”
“That is certainly true, Admiral … for most ships, that is … particularly those that use more traditional means of providing thrust by expelling propellant of some sort via externally mounted engine nozzles. Our ships’ Cannae thrusters also produce some heat, but it is a small amount by comparison. And since our engines’ reaction chambers are mounted inside the ship’s hull, we can utilize other means to sequester this energy and prevent it from being radiated away into space.”
“So, rather than the heat exchangers our warships typically use —”
“That is correct, here we simply ‘capture’ our excess thermal energy internally. Pardon me, Admiral,” he chuckled, stopping himself in mid-explanation, “it is foolish of me to characterize thermal sequestration as a simple process when it is, in fact, complex in the extreme. In spite of our best efforts to the contrary, I can assure you that the laws of thermodynamics are still very much in force. Although these energy management techniques do work quite well at minimizing the ship’s thermal signature for a short time, ultimately, they are nothing more than a temporary solution. After a couple of hours — perhaps less, depending largely on the vessel’s power consumption during this period — the sequestered heat energy must be allowed to discharge.”
“Commander Crispin,” a Marine guard in full combat armor called as he materialized like a wraith from the darkness surrounding the well-lit ship, “your other guests are here, sir.”
“Excellent, please show them in, Sergeant,” he replied before turning back to Admiral White. “I suppose that will be the first of her crew. Let us hope that she fares better in their care than the previous vessels they have been assigned,” he added with a lopsided grin.
“Merely an occupational hazard, Commander, I assure you,” she replied, choosing to see the humor in the officer’s remark rather than feeling insulted on behalf of Captain Prescott and crew. “Besides, they’ve only had two other ships, and both are still operational in spite of having seen combat on a number of occasions. I wish we could say the same for all of our captains and crews.”
“My apologies, Admiral, I meant no disrespect. In my defense, however, I must tell you that I have become surprisingly attached to this ship after all of the time I have spent working in her development program.”
“I know exactly what you mean, and no apologies are necessary,” White said with a casual wave of her hand. “Now,” she said, nodding to the sound of approaching footsteps behind him, “Please allow me to introduce Commander Sally Reynolds and Captain —”
“Tom Prescott,” Crispin said, finishing the admiral’s sentence in a tone that conveyed something approaching a sense of awe. “It is truly an honor to meet you both,” he said, shaking their hands vigorously.
“Did the two of you have any problems getting in here?” White asked.
Dassault had competed for nearly a decade (placing itself at tremendous financial risk) to ultimately become the first civilian company to produce a military spacecraft for Terran Fleet Command. While much of the corporation’s manufacturing facility was located just off the northeastern end of Bordeaux-Mérignac’s runway zero five, the ultra-secure building in which the four officers now stood was located nearly two hundred meters below ground. And, in spite of being located in France’s eighth largest city, security here was in many ways just as formidable as that of TFC’s three primary shipyards.
“It took us a while, but we managed just fine,” Prescott said, finally freeing himself from Crispin’s vice-like grip and offering his hand to Admiral White.
“Well, your timing couldn’t be better. Commander Crispin here was just beginning to show me around your new command.”
“We appreciate any specific insights you can give us,” Prescott said. “Frankly, I think all of our heads are still swimming a bit from this sudden change, but we’re apparently the only crew available for this mission … whatever that may be,” he added, smiling politely at Admiral White.
“We’ll get to that shortly, Captain. I assure you that you’re both the only crew available and the best crew available. No one has any flight time to speak of in an MMSV, so type experience isn’t really a factor, and your team has the added advantage of having switched ships once before.”
“I’m sure we�
�ll be fine, ma’am,” Reynolds said. “After having gone through the specs, however, I’m interested in hearing Commander Crispin’s perspective on what makes her different from our first ship. My first impression is that she’s largely a cross between an Ingenuity-class frigate and one of our Reaper fighters.”
Crispin cast a fleeting glance at the ship, frowned briefly, then looked back at Commander Reynolds wearing a pained expression she assumed would have been much the same if she had referred to his newborn child as a cross between a snapping turtle and a naked mole rat. “Please, Commander,” he said, softening his expression and motioning her towards the ship’s bow, “come this way and I will show you how very much more she is than that.”
“Thank you, I’d love to,” she said pleasantly, walking briskly forward while trying to think of a way she could undo her apparently grievous, but unintentional faux pas. “For a vessel that’s technically not considered a warship, it seems like she’s pretty heavily armed. I understand she carries all of her weapons internally.”
“That is correct. In this way, at least, she does share quite a few design features with our fighters … and, I suppose, with our frigates as well,” he said, smiling now as he chided himself for feeling the need to defend his team’s work as if the ship itself were a member of his own family. “Although she retains the capability to carry externally mounted weapons and other stores, all of her primary armaments are concealed during normal operations … with the exception of this one, that is,” he said, nodding to a single, rather inconspicuous muzzle tucked into a recessed area just beneath the ship’s bow.
“That’s the fire lance?” Reynolds asked, a bit underwhelmed by the weapon’s appearance after the buildup it had received in the ship’s “Dash 1” flight manual.
“One of the many innovations in her design, yes. The engineers referred to it as the ‘lance de feu’ during the weapon’s development program. Like most things, the name loses something in the translation to English, don’t you think?” Crispin said with a wink.
Terran Fleet Command Saga 4: TFS Fugitive Page 23
