To Honor You Call Us

by Harvey G. Phillips

  “Further, the men, not just these three but the patients I have been seeing in general, have been very forthright in discussing with me the shortcomings of their previous commander and executive. There are two that appear to be the most problematic. The first was the totally capricious nature of the senior officers’ leadership. At zero nine hundred a given discipline lapse might result only in a gentle suggestion to do the thing differently in the future while at thirteen thirty the same lapse under the same circumstances provokes paroxysms of shrieking anger and the malefactor serving forty days in the Brig. So, if I may offer a medical suggestion regarding how to command these men, it would be to show them consistency. A steady hand. Predictability and stability.”

  “Doctor,” Max said, nodding his acceptance, “that’s been at the top of my list since the first minute. You said there are two main problems. What’s the second.”

  “Incompetence. Every man wants to be good at his job, to succeed in his calling. The men on this ship feel that they are not good at their jobs and that they are failures at their calling. No man with an inkling of self respect can abide for a moment the feeling that he is a failure. It is extremely destructive of self esteem and, as we all know, self esteem is the foundation of mental health.”

  “And the cornerstone of good morale,” Max said, completing the old naval maxim. “But they’ve got to know that the failings were those of their leadership and not themselves.”

  “No, sir, they do not. At least, they do not in the way that matters. Oh, most of them know that they had an incompetent, even mentally ill, Captain and understand that their vessel has performed poorly because they were inadequately trained and poorly led, but even those who recognize this fact on an intellectual level may not have completely internalized it emotionally. Irrespective of the cause, they characterize themselves as failures. ‘Failure’ is part of their definition of themselves as men. They have met the enemy twice and run away both times. They have been ritually killed many times over in fleet exercises. Their vessel is known and reviled throughout the fleet as the ‘Cumberland Gap.’ And, perhaps most important, they believe that, if they are forced to do battle with the Krag, they will prove unequal to the challenge and they will die as a result. This state of affairs is inherently stressful, intolerably so, and is highly destructive of morale.”

  “I see a lot of the same things,” said Brown, “although I don’t have the psychological training to view it in the same way. I’ve always looked at it as pride. Pride in your ship. Pride in yourself. This is the fifth ship on which I have served as an officer and my eighth since I went to space. On every one of those ships, there were obvious, visible signs that the men took pride in her, pride in her skipper, pride in their vessel’s achievements. There’s none of that here. Not a trace of it. Sure, there are some of the NCOs who take a twisted pride in the Mad Hatter manner in which the ship was buffed and polished, but I think that they do so out of the need that men have to be proud of something, anything—and that was the only thing at which this vessel excelled. These men are on this ship but they are not of her, if you take my meaning.” Max, Garcia, and Kraft were all nodding their heads in recognition of this truth.

  “What signs?” Alone, the doctor did not know what the Engineer was talking about, his naval cluelessness once again manifesting itself.

  The other officers turned to Max. By tacit agreement among them, filling in the gaps in the doctor’s understanding of the naval universe fell to the Captain. “There are dozens, but here are the most obvious. What do you see sewn on the right sleeve, right below the shoulder, of every SCU and Working Uniform of every man on this ship?”

  “Captain, I am extremely observant and I can tell you with near absolute certainty that I have seen nothing sewn in that location on any uniform.”

  “Exactly, Doctor. On most ships, early in the first commission, someone on the crew designs what we call the ‘Ship’s Emblem.’ It’s much like a family’s coat of arms—a kind of crest or seal for the ship, generally with its name, registry number, some kind of artwork symbolizing the ship, and usually a motto on it. The emblem gets turned into a patch that gets fabricated on board and that the men sew onto their uniforms. A Ship’s Patch is specifically provided for and allowed in the uniform regulations. So, the uniform of every man not only shows that they are Navy, their rank, their specialization, their years in service, what certifications they have, and their battle honors, it also proclaims to everyone who sees them what ship they are a part of. No one on the Cumberland cared enough about her to design an emblem. No one on the Cumberland has enough pride in her to want people to see that they serve on her. It’s almost like having a baby and not loving it enough to give it a name.

  “That’s sign enough, but where are the slogans? The men usually come up with clever slogans to paint on the walls of the Mess, in the Missile Rooms, and other places around the ship. I remember the missile room on the Emeka Moro had painted on one wall a parody of a business motto: ‘Delivering to our Krag customers the very best in fine fusion munitions since 2295.’ I served on the old Cato for nearly a year as an Ensign before I understood the allusion on the wall of her recreation deck, ‘Delenda est Krag.’”

  The doctor smiled. “Oh, yes. Cato the Elder. Very clever. Admirable sentiment, as well.”

  “The men on most ships even write slogans in marker on the missiles themselves,” Kraft added. “They say things like, ‘take that, rat face,’ or ‘with love from the infesting vermin,’ a dig at that last lovely message from our Krag friends before they cut off contact. The only things written on our missiles are inspection markings. The men serve this ship, but they do not love her.”

  “I don’t see how to turn that around overnight,” Max observed. “In the long run, though, we’re going to have to do two things. First, make these men competent in their jobs. That’s going to be hard enough.”

  “What would the second be?” asked Doctor Sahin.

  “We’re going to have to kick come Krag ass.”

  Chapter 11

  10:42Z Hours 24 January 2315

  Breakfast was still sitting heavily in Max’s stomach when he made his way to the first of the ship’s classrooms (counting from the bow), all of which were located on A deck, amidships, on the port side. This was the classroom where the older Mids, mostly between fifteen and seventeen standard years, took their instruction. By the time they got to this age, Midshipmen were not little boys any more, but were clearly and obviously young men, Spacers and Officers in the making. They had all been in space for several years and most of them had been on board a ship that had been in some kind of engagement with the enemy. A few of these boys had an even closer acquaintance with the enemy, having been involved in boarding actions. One boy by the name of Shepherd had shot a Krag with a shotgun. Eight times. When asked by an officer why he had shot the enemy warrior eight times, his response was: “But, sir, that’s all the shells I had in the weapon.”

  That’s the spirit.

  When Max stepped into the classroom, the instructor, Lieutenant JG Alexei Siluanov, was obviously covering a unit in Tactics. If Max had come at a different time, it might have been Spherical Geometry, Calculus, Astronomy, Navigation, Physics, History, Government, or one of the other subjects covered in the Midshipmen’s eclectic curriculum. At this moment, however, the class was discussing defense against boarders. From the illustrations on the graphics projector, Max could tell they were talking about Mobile Defense in Depth, which had been at the center of Union boarder defense doctrine since the third year of the war. Siluanov’s back had been to the door and he was so engrossed in talking about the crux of the concept, creating killing zones and enticing the enemy to enter them, that he did not see Max enter. One of the Mids did, however, and snapped out a fairly Spacer-like “Captain on deck.”

  All seven of the Midshipmen in the room came immediately to attention while Siluanov snapped to perfect attention and gave Max a textbook salute. “Lieutenant J
G Siluanov, reporting seven Senior Midshipmen receiving instruction in Advanced Tactics for Midshipmen, Unit Nineteen, Module Twenty-nine.”

  Max returned the salute just as briskly. “As you were, gentlemen. Please carry on, Lieutenant. Don’t mind me. I am merely observing.” The boys all sat down. Max knew that the “don’t mind me” was a pure and complete waste of oxygen, as neither a Lieutenant JG nor a room full of Mids was capable of ignoring the borderline divine presence of their Commanding Officer. But, still, Max could learn a lot from how these young men handled the stress of personal contact with their exalted Captain.

  “Actually, Captain, one of these gentlemen raised a question a few minutes ago the answer to which I deferred until later but that you can probably answer better than I.” It seemed that the Lieutenant, as well, wanted to take the measure of his new CO.

  “Go ahead.”

  The Lieutenant gestured to one of the Mids who came to rigid attention, facing Max. He seemed to be scared stiff. Captain Oscar must have been some piece of work to have inspired this kind of universal fear. Based on what Max had seen so far, he certainly terrorized the Midshipmen as much as he had the officers and men. Sorry bastard.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Shepard, sir.” Aha, it’s Mr. Shoot the Krag Eight Times With a Shotgun to Make Damn Sure He’s Dead Shepard. And now he’s the One with a Question that the Instructor wants the Captain to Answer. Even though he is paralyzed with terror right now, this kid might bear watching.

  “Wait just a minute. There’s seven of you, you’re in space, and the one named Shepard went first.” He chuckled and, pointing in turn to each of the other six, Max said, “Then I suppose you’re Grissom, you’re Glenn, you’re Carpenter, you’re Schirra, you’re Cooper, and you’re Slayton. Don’t worry about being last, Slayton, you get to boss the other guys around for years.” Only the teacher smiled. “Never mind. A little humor. Very little. Anyway, ask your question, son.”

  “Captain, sir, uh, I was, uh, just, like, you know —”

  “All right, Shepard, I’m going to stop you right there. Stand at ease.” The boy changed his stance to Parade Rest, again done with perfect correctness. “And, relax a little. I’ve never sent anyone to the brig for asking a question.” That seemed to blunt the sharp edge of fear somewhat. “Now, son, you’re in training, not just to be a Recruit Spacer in a year or two, but as the years go by after that, to be a leader on a warship in combat. It may be as a Commissioned Officer and it may be as an NCO but, in either case, your objective is one day to be a man to whom others look for leadership, for guidance, and as an example. That means you have to communicate with them. And, in the Service, a big part of communicating is just talking—giving orders and asking questions. No one’s going to follow you or believe you know polecats from pulsars unless you sound like you know what you’re talking about. That means you compose your thoughts, put them in complete sentences, and organize those sentences into a complete sequence of ideas in your own mind before you open your mouth. So, Shepard, I want you to take a moment and form your question in your mind, word for word, organize the words into a sentence, and then ask the question, without saying ‘um’ or ‘you know’ or ‘like’ or anything of that sort. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.” He almost had Max convinced.

  “All right, then. You may fire when ready, Gridley.” The brief blank expression on the boy’s face told Max that he had no idea who Gridley was, but that was of no importance.

  Shepard stood silent for about five seconds, his face a mask of concentration. Then, his face relaxed, and he spoke. “Sir, I was wondering why the Navy puts so much emphasis on defending against boarders to keep the Krag from taking our ships but does not take the obvious step of installing self-destruct mechanisms so that none of our ships could ever fall into Krag hands.”

  The boy didn’t do half bad. But Max felt as though he had just been dropped through a trap door. His stomach took a sickening lurch and his bowels contorted themselves uncomfortably. He hoped that the color wasn’t leaving his face or that, if it was, none of these boys would notice. Still, there was nothing to do but put a brave face on it and go forward.

  Max smiled broadly, resolved to give the boy the praise he deserved no matter how bad the question made him feel. “Shepherd, not only is that a truly excellent and intelligent question, but you presented it well. Now, the answer: Union warships, and the warships of our predecessor navies back almost to the beginnings of space forces, have had destruct mechanisms to prevent them from falling into enemy hands. So, at the outset of this war, all of our ships were equipped both with a stand-alone nuclear self destruct mechanism, known as the SDMF, and also with a command sequence built into the Main Reactor control software that could be used to blow the reactor if the SDMF failed. All of that changed after the Battle of Han VII. Does anyone here know the brief on that engagement?” Shepherd shook his head.

  Another boy raised his hand, a painfully skinny young man with reddish hair and an almost comically prominent Adam’s apple. Max pointed to him and he came to attention, prompting Shepard, quite correctly, to sit. The students in this class appeared to be very proficient in Naval Courtesy, at least.

  “At ease, son.” The boy changed his stance to Parade Rest. “Your name?”

  “McConnell, sir.” McConnell?

  “Go ahead Mr. McConnell.”

  “Sir, the Battle of Han VII was a Major Fleet Action that took place on October 18, 2298 between Union Task Force Bravo Victor, under the command of Rear Admiral Ian McConnell and Krag Task Force Iota Sigma, believed to be under the command of Admiral Grouper.” Union Task forces were designated by letters of the Union Forces Voicecom Alphabet, so they had names like Delta Sierra or Echo X-Ray. Navy Intelligence designated Krag task forces by letters of the Greek alphabet, so they always sounded like evil college fraternities like Sigma Tau or Omega Lambda; Krag flag officers, when Intel thought it had identified them from their tactics or other clues, were designated by code names specifically selected to sound non-intimidating. At the time of the Battle of Han VII, Intel was naming them after fish.

  “Was Admiral McConnell a relative of yours?”

  “He was my Grandfather’s youngest brother, sir.” Max nodded solemnly. So many losses. No family was untouched by this hideous, bloody war.

  “Continue, Mr. McConnell.”

  “Han VII was a strategic target because of the large deuterium separation complex on one of its moons, designated as Han VII D, which has an ice-covered ocean similar to that on Europa, critical to fleet operations in that sector. Intel believed that the Krag were planning to destroy the complex by means of a direct attack across open space by a force consisting of Corvettes, Destroyers, and Frigates, crossing from Kleidung-Huber C on compression drive at high c multiples. Task Force Bravo Victor, consisting of the Battlecruiser Nairobi and—I’m sorry, sir, I can’t remember the names of the other ships.”

  “Don’t worry, Son, you’re doing fine. What Types were they?”

  “There were four Cruisers, and several Frigates and Destroyers.”

  “Very good. What was the task force’s tactical objective?”

  “The primary tactical objective was to prevent the enemy from taking or destroying the plant. There were also a secondary tactical objectives of inflicting maximum attrition on the enemy forces and causing them to withdraw from the system.” Max nodded, indicating that the boy should continue his recitation. “Taking into account the firepower of the Battlecruiser and four Cruisers alone, the force was thought more than sufficient to repel however many Corvettes, Destroyers, and Frigates the Krag were capable of sending. The incoming Krag task force was detected at just over 100 AU and consisted, as expected, of an assortment of smaller vessels. Admiral McConnell deployed his force in a properly structured Zhou Matrix in precisely the right location and correctly oriented to the threat axis. But then, and here’s what I don’t understand, sir, somehow, the curriculum data
base is silent on this point, all but one Frigate and two Destroyers of Task Force Bravo Victor were destroyed and the three surviving ships had to withdraw. The Krag took the deuterium complex intact and it is still being used to produce fuel for their fleet.” He added, almost apologetically, “The reason I know so much about it is that I tried to find out exactly what happened to the task force and never could. Because it was my Great Uncle. Sir.”

  “Be seated, Mr. McConnell. Good recitation. Gentlemen, as you rise through the ranks, you will be learning many things along the way that someone has decided should not be widely known. What happened to Task Force Bravo Victor is one of those things.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Task Force Bravo Victor blew itself up.”

  Seven young faces regarded Max in stunned silence for several seconds. They just couldn’t wrap their brains around it. Max felt an echo of their shock within himself. He didn’t like talking about Han VII. He didn’t like thinking about Han VII. He preferred to keep Han VII locked in a lead-lined, triple reinforced vault just as the Admiralty did. But, it was time that these young men learned this particular truth and it was best that they learned it from him.

  “That is not to say,” Max continued, “that they self destructed voluntarily. Our best evidence is that the Krag figured out some way to remote trigger the SDMFs in the ships. Fortunately, whatever they used to do it, they could use it on only one ship at a time. So, when they saw the other ships in the task force exploding one after the other without being hit by weapons fire, three ships out of the whole task force managed to guess what was happening fast enough and jettison their SDMFs. Being outnumbered and outgunned about fifteen to one, they made a hasty exit from the system leaving everything behind. And everyone.”