by R. M. Meluch
This was going too slowly. The Valerius was going toxic. “Bring over the rest of them,” Farragut urged haste.
“I’m advised that is all of them,” the displacement tech reported.
Farragut hailed the Roman commodore. “You running a light crew over there?”
The decurion’s tight silence told Farragut he had not been running the Valerius light. Silva spoke at last, “If you could scan for survivors, I would be personally obliged. I am told you are a compassionate man when not being ferocious.”
Hell, when he wasn’t shooting at you, John Farragut was the Easter Bunny.
“I can do that. Get on your disk, Commodore.”
The decurion allowed himself to be displaced from his crippled ship to the enemy battleship Merrimack.
The thundercrack brought to Merrimack’s displacement chamber a broad man, weary, older. Silva had twenty years on Farragut. He wore a sidearm so he would have something to hand over to his adversary.
A Colt .45. Antique weapons were often used for ceremony. Farragut turned it over appraisingly. “My Daddy has one of these.”
Marines escorted the captives to Merrimack’s detention compartments. Honor dictated they not attempt escape until they made landfall, but it would not do to tempt them.
There were terribly few of them from Valerius. Valerius was built like a chambered nautilus, its chambers locked and segregated in battle to save the crew from total annihilation in case of a breach. As it was, the annihilation was only eighty-five percent.
Com open, Farragut overheard his decontamination team’s exchanges as they surveyed the interior, searching for trapped survivors. A specialist breathed in his suit, “Good God, we gutted her.”
TR Steele stayed clear of the prisoners. He was a bad winner and a bad loser. To TR Steele’s mind, the good Romans were back in the Valerius.
Steele proceeded down to the hangars to receive his returning fighter pilots, those who had survived this debacle.
He was descending the ladder as Cowboy Carver jumped down from the cockpit of Alpha Seven and slung his helmet at the little intelligence officer who waited there. “Hey! Oh! Why didn’t Intelligence have a clue here?”
Colonel Oh caught the helmet. Let it drop. “You will report to Ops for debriefing, soldier.”
Still on the ladder, Steele shouted, pointing at Cowboy way on the other side of the hangar deck. “I get that man first!” Steele jumped down the last rungs of the ladder and started across the deck with great strides.
But another Marine pilot got to Cowboy first. Kerry Blue. Cowboy, seeing her coming at him, opened his arms for her, tilted his pelvis forward, and gave a bedroom grin. “Hey, you, beautiful bitch babe, come to your hot dog!”
Kerry folded him on the deck with a hard kick in the balls. She spun away and blundered straight into Colonel Steele. She backed her face off the wall of Steele’s chest, looked up at his marble frown. She anticipated his next orders and acknowledged, “I’m walking the down decks for two weeks. Yes, sir. Aye, sir.”
Steele’s pale blue eyes flicked toward the groaning figure on the deck, back to Kerry Blue. With a very quiet growl he said, “One week if you do it again.”
Not one to question orders, Kerry immediately stomped on Cowboy. Then lifted a salute to Colonel Steele. “Thank you, sir.”
“Get out of here.”
“Debriefing, soldier!” Colonel Oh barked. In Oh’s reedy grating voice, the bark was closer to a yap.
“Not her!” Steele bellowed, more forcefully than he meant to.
Lu Oh, not terribly observant for an intelligence officer, didn’t seem to notice anything odd about it. Must have thought Steele was merely giving his punishment order precedence over Intelligence’s interrogation.
And, if challenged, Steele would be hard pressed to explain to himself why he was shielding Kerry Blue. He didn’t have a good reason. He just didn’t want that spider woman near his Kerry Blue.
Once she was safely out of sight, Steele caught himself shaking. Shaking.
What Antarean grughole ever let women serve on a battleship anyway?
Captain Farragut invited Commodore Silva to dine with him.
A detached sort of man, Silva. The true enormity of his loss seemed to have bounced off his weathered hull.
Typical Roman, he hadn’t the same notion of the sanctity of human life as most Americans. The planet Palatine had no state religion. Not that the practice of religion was forbidden, but most Romans prided themselves on their rationality. The saying went, “Adam was a Roman.” Meaning that Rome, like Adam, had chosen the apple of knowledge, science, law, and order over blind obedience to a shepherd god long ago.
“They told me you were brave, Captain Farragut,” said Silva, sampling the captain’s Kentucky bourbon after dinner, before returning to confinement. “They did not tell me you were especially cagey.”
Farragut agreed he was not very sneaky.
“Then why did you not turn off your IFF?” Silva asked.
Farragut gave a sideways nod. Could not exactly say why. “Got the feeling you wanted me to.”
“I did,” said Silva. “Quite counting on it, I was. You were tipped off?”
“No, sir,” Farragut chuckled a bit at how wrong that guess was. “No, sir.”
“How many moves ahead do you play the game, Captain Farragut?”
John Farragut creased his brow, not sure. “Depends on your batting order.”
“Chess, captain. I was speaking of chess.”
“I don’t play chess.”
“You don’t say.” Silva set aside his glass. Surprised, interested. “I had taken it for granted that expertise in chess was a prerequisite of the strategist.”
“Baseball. I play baseball. You were expecting heat. I got you to swing at a change up. You going to tell me how you got our recognition codes?”
“Are you being coy with me, sir?”
“No,” said Farragut, perplexed. As if he had just asked the Roman something obvious. He had discovered the hard way that Rome had his codes. He certainly did not know how Rome got them. “I told you I’m not sneaky.”
Hidden things smoothed Silva’s haggard features. He indicated the MPs, “I think I shall have these young men show me back to my quarters now.”
There was still another play left in the game.
A message from the Joint Chiefs sat on top in the com queue, coded within codes. It said Palatine was calling for pickup of prisoners of war; can you respond?
The time of the message predated Merrimack’s battle with Valerius’ flotilla, so John Farragut was puzzled. “They wouldn’t even have known we have prisoners to exchange.”
“The Roman message is not an exchange offer,” the com spec said. “It’s just a ‘Here they are. Come get ’em.’ ”
Farragut read the message for himself. Palatine had given the Pentagon coordinates of a space buoy, which purportedly contained a small number of U.S. prisoners. The buoy was equipped with life support for five days beginning yesterday. The message said, in effect: Come get them or let them die.
“Is this addressed to the Mack?” Farragut scanned the header.
“No, sir. Palatine sent it to the Pentagon. The JC relayed it on the common band to any U.S. ship. We’re in the neighborhood.”
“I don’t like it,” said Farragut.
“It’s a bad neighborhood,” his exec agreed.
“Can this be a false message?” Farragut asked the com tech. “We know Rome has our harmonic and our IFF sequence. Do they have our encryption codes, too?”
“I guess that’s always possible, Captain. But it squares with all the cross-checks, and the message doesn’t ask for us. Anyone could respond,” said the tech. Then, “It still smells like bait.”
“Given that we’re one of the few ships in the neighborhood, yeah.” Farragut checked the chron. Four days. The prisoners—if there really were prisoners—had four days. “But you can’t bait with a Red Cross. Calli, respond t
o the JC on the LRS Marine harmonic.”
The Long-Range Shuttle had brought relief soldiers to the Merrimack. Its recognition system operated on its own discrete harmonic. “Accept the mission on behalf of Lieutenant Popovich.” Popovich was an accepted code name when you had reason not to identify yourself.
“You’re going to walk into another trap?” said Colonel Oh, more accusation than question.
“No,” said Farragut. “I’m going to send the LRS into the trap.”
“And whom are you sending on the shuttle?” Oh’s voice made it clear it would not be her.
“I’ll go,” Hamster volunteered. Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton was a young officer eager to make her bones with something dramatic and maybe shake off that too-cute nickname.
“Not you,” said Farragut, not even considering it. And to Lieutenant Colonel Steele, who had lifted a hand as if making a bid, “TR. You’re in.”
Lu Oh, dumbfounded at the eagerness of these fish to snap at another hook, did not even try to speak again.
Prisoners. Where had Rome taken prisoners from out here? Farragut reread the message for clues. “Wonder who they’ve got.”
Call-ins were infrequent. The Merrimack was isolated in her secrecy. The crew was never sure what was happening across the stars. The Long-Range Shuttle had just made the difficult rendezvous to bring replacements, but even the replacements’ news was two months old.
The LRS wore U.S. Marines colors. Nothing about the shuttle connected it to the Mack. It was a generic transport, the kind that regularly ferried troops between Earth and the Deep End. It would serve perfectly for this mission.
And Lieutenant Colonel Steele was the perfect man for the job. Trust TR Steele not to trust a Roman. He would make sure to have the prisoners deloused of any Roman motes and other surveillance devices before delivering them to the Mack.
But it was going to kill TR Steele to obey the rules of exchange. Steele hated wearing a Red Cross almost as much as he hated wearing League of Earth Nations’ green. Under either flag he was obliged to take no offensive action. The directions to the space buoy were specific. Variation from the approach route would not be tolerated.
Steele kept his fists clenched as if physical bonds were biting into his stout wrists. Yet he would not have sent any of his Marines on this mission without going himself.
His LRS obediently entered Roman space on the specified vector. The shuttle’s scanners picked up the Roman spotter ships hanging back at a lawful distance. The Romans could not buzz an invited rescue craft. Steele could tell they wanted to. As much as he wanted to lob a few rounds at them.
Against all natural impulse, Steele stayed on the beacon. Ready for any trick. Ready for any treachery. Ready for anything.
Anything but this.
The nature of the trap became clear as soon as the air lock opened between the buoy and the LRS, and Steele saw the prisoners.
The gift itself was the trap. It was a strike at U.S. morale.
His Marines’ morale went straight to their toes and kept on going to down decks.
“Oh, Jesus. Jesus God. Oh, Jesus.”
“Shut up.”
“Sir.”
Steele raised a wooden, mortified salute to the ranking prisoner of the three.
The man seized Colonel Steele’s sleeve, the insignia on it. “Marines,” he croaked at the mastiff badge of the 89th Battalion. Meant Steele would be attached to the Third Fleet. The officer asked in horror, “What ship?”
Steele, already very fair, turned stark white. He could not answer the man. He motioned toward the shuttle’s hatch. “This way, sir.”
The displacement tech on board Merrimack who was logging in the displacement collars and LDs confiscated from the Valerius discovered that the equipment was not of Roman make. This equipment was U.S. issue. No wonder it worked so perfectly with Merrimack’s displacement chamber.
“So who were you stolen from,” the tech murmured to a collar, checking its serial number. “Who’s your mama?”
Serial number began with P29ZG. The tech did not need to read any further. He dropped the collar and ran to find Captain Farragut. Findings this explosive had to be reported in person.
The captain was on the port hangar deck awaiting the arrival of the LRS which carried the freed POWs. The displacement tech hesitated, afraid to approach him. Too many people on deck. The shuttle was already on its way down the elevator from the landing dock.
The information burned sour in the displacement tech’s throat. He held back, shifting foot to foot, mentally willing the LRS to hurry.
Clamped down, the shuttle opened its hatch. Colonel Steele was first down the ramp. He threw up a salute without meeting the captain’s eyes. Then stepped aside to make way for the three rescued POWs.
Gasps sounded all around the hangar.
The displacement tech withdrew. Captain Farragut just found out where the stolen collars and LDs came from.
The men filing down the ramp were well known here. Captain Matthew Forshaw, Commander Napoleon Bright, and Lieutenant Commander Jorge Medina.
Command staff of a battleship.
There was no one on deck who did not want that deck to open up and swallow them.
“God Almighty, Rome has the Monitor!”
PART TWO
Turnabout
5
GAVE THEM BACK. Just gave them back. High offi cers, thrown out like space bilge. The tactic was outrageous, insulting.
And in arrogance beyond arrogance, they had given Captain Forshaw a medal—the crimson-and-cobalt Caesar Cross, for great service to the Empire. As if Matthew Forshaw had willingly handed the Monitor over to Palatine.
The medal remained where the Romans had pinned it to Matthew Forshaw’s uniform. It hung like an albatross he could not take off. For even if he physically removed it, it would still be there. It would never ever be gone.
It took a whole lot to make Captain Farragut angry. He was spitting mad. He grabbed the damned thing, tore it from Matty’s tunic, stuffed it in the annihilator, kicked the container shut, and mashed the control button with his fist.
He breathed, terribly softly, “No excuse for that.” Straightened up, clasped Captain Forshaw’s right hand and hauled him in for a fierce hug and a hearty thump on the back. “Good to see you, Matty. They have made a mistake!”
Some color returned to the faces on the hangar deck. Good to see John Farragut on the offensive again.
Farragut released Captain Forshaw and grasped the hand of the Monitor’s XO, Napoleon Bright—a tall man, standing woodenly, his face all the more pale for the blue-blackness of his hair. “Brighty! How are you?”
“Been a whole lot better, sir.”
Farragut’s left hand joined their clasped right hands, warmth and strength in his grip. “Get up, Brighty. Get up so we can kick their nuts in.”
Brighty nodded. “I’ll be there.”
Then Farragut welcomed Jorge Medina. The lieutenant commander’s normally olive skin was a cadaverous gray.
Farragut looked round for the fourth, who ought to complete this set. “Where’s Sophie?” The senior engineer Sophia Soteriadis was not here. “Is she alive?”
Commander Bright said, “They kept her.”
John Farragut had some foul words to that.
Rome had kept those who made the battleship run—its techs, its engineers—further negating its commanders to inconsequential.
More pressing than the insult was the danger. Sooner or later, Rome was going to figure out that they could use Monitor to operate Merrimack’s systems by remote.
Farragut turned to his chief, Ogden Bannerman, “Chief, pull the plug on any system that can be accessed by remote command.”
The Og grunted, “Aye.”
And to his senior engineer, Ariel “Kit” Kittering, “I need a full assessment of our exposure in two hours. Include a report on any messages our captive ships got off when we bagged them.”
“Two hours? I can’t po
ssibly—”
“One hour.”
“Two hours, aye.”
Farragut opened his direct link to the command deck. “Calli, prep a courier missile to apprise the JC of our situation. Get it off to Fort Ike best speed. And move us.”
“Course, sir?”
“Don’t give a rip. Anywhere but here.”
“Aye, sir.”
Farragut told the quartermaster to find some compartments appropriate for his guests. Then turned to the freed prisoners, “Matty, Brighty, Mr. Medina, y’all free for dinner?”
Waiting for Captain Forshaw in the Mess, John Farragut chatted with Brighty—or rather chatted at Brighty, who was understandably reserved.
Lieutenant Commander Medina showed up at the captain’s table, his face and white shirt spattered with red. “I, uh, regret to inform you that Captain Forshaw will not be joining us.” He listed a bit as if he would faint.
Napoleon Bright frowned. “Are you okay?”
Medina’s eyes were in outer space. “No. I don’t think so, sir.”
Farragut came round the table. “I don’t think so either. Stay here. Don’t touch anything explosive or pointy.” He grabbed a fistful of curly black hair on the back of Medina’s head, as a big animal might grab a cub. “You’ll be okay. That’s an order.”
And ran to meet the medics in Captain Forshaw’s quarters.
Calli Carmel, overseeing a refit of the Merrimack’s control systems with Kit Kittering, was startled to see Captain Farragut in his dress trousers, jacket abandoned somewhere, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and him hunkered down in a maintenance pit with the techs.
In motion was Captain Farragut’s natural state. However, hands-on grunt labor was a little outside the norm.
Calli stood at the edge of the pit. “What happened to dinner?”
“Not hungry,” said Farragut doing battle with a stubborn bolt. “Matty went good Roman and Lieutenant Commander Medina is half in the tub.”
“Good Roman” meant suicide. Romans used the term because a good Roman would rather die than live in dishonor. Marines used it because, as far as they were concerned, the only good Roman was a dead Roman.
