by Rob Buckman
One section of the ship that hadn’t been tried, except in simulations, was the main batteries, and although they looked like WWII main guns off a battleship, it turned out they were giant mass-driver cannons, particle beam projectors, and pulse laser cannons all in one. Each barrel could independently target and fire, both up and down, and swivel from side to side like the old battleships, and were mainly intended for long-range engagements, in this case, out to half a light second. Scott’s misgivings concerning the lower hull were put to rest when he discovered the underside was a mass of point defense weapons emplacements, both medium and short range. These were intended to protect the ship from any fighter or bomber attack, should they penetrate, or manage to bypass the shield. With all the activity going on aboard the ship, launching and retrieving fighters, bombers, and ships up to the size of small, fast attack destroyers for repair, it was impossible to surround the whole ship with a defense system. By its very nature, it would hamper fighting ability, so a carefully arranged shield system had been installed, which could open and close to cover vulnerable sections of the ship, and critical areas such as the bridge. This left holes in some parts of the shield, answering the reasoning behind the point defense system.
“Can we find something to use as a target?” Scott asked, thinking that a nice fat asteroid would do nicely.
“Nav, do we have anything out there?” Captain Bingham asked.
“Checking, sir!” the navigation officer replied. “The bombing range at the polar ice cap on Mars would be the closest we have at this time, sir.”
“Will that do?” Bingham asked.
“Bit big, isn’t it? I was thinking of something along the lines of an asteroid.”
“I don’t think I’d like to mess around with one of those, skipper, we might blow it off course and send it plunging toward Earth.”
“You have a point there, Mars is it. I don’t think we can move that, do you, Jack?”
“Not much chance of that Admiral,” Bingham answered with a laugh.
“All right, nav, plot us a course and relay it to the fleet.”
“Aye-aye sir, plotting course to Mars,” he repeated.
“Comm. Make a message to all ships. Well done. Stand down to yellow alert. There will be no more combat alert for two watch cycles.” He could almost hear the sighs of relief. “That should give them time for a break, and a chance to catch up on their sleep.”
“I’d say so, Admiral,” Bingham agreed, smiling slightly.
“Comm. Also send a message to all officers on the ship. There will be a dinner in the admiral’s quarters at,” he eyed the ship’s clock, “1900.” That was three hours from now, and it would give him a chance to catch up on some “paperwork.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral, sending messages now.”
Scott turned to Bingham. “Captain. The ship is yours. I’m off to do the three S’s and catch a nap,” he lied.
“Aye, aye, Admiral. The ship is mine,” Bingham answered.
“Admiral off the bridge!” the marine guard intoned the traditional words, and cycled the hatch open for him.
He did manage to catch a short nap, plow through a pile of message slates and reports and take a shower, shave, and sh … shampoo as they say. It did help to have CPO Hardwick and two stewards to help him, and he was a little surprised to see Hiro as one of the stewards. The other he didn’t recognize, but since he was Hiro’s brother, so to speak, Scott didn’t question the choice. They chatted in Japanese while he dressed, and listening, he discovered that being his steward was their secondary function. Their main duty was to be his personal security detail, and they would rotate each shift so the others could also fulfill their duty to him. Scott thought about it, understanding that it would do little good protesting, and possibly insult them if he tried to change it. He did have a word with CPO Hardwick and explained the situation to him. The old CPO nodded in understanding, yet Scott was curious as to why they should show such deference to him. But Scott figured it was because they liked him and respected not only his rank but also him.
The dinner went off without a hitch, with toasts to the respective governing bodies and the traditional sit-down toast to the King. Scott found that one a bit amusing, but kept his thoughts to himself. The junior officers were suitably intimidated at being in such exalted company, even if most looked as if they were of the same age as them, but even sitting down at the same table with legends such as Admiral Drake and some of the other “Immortals” was something only a few had ever dreamed of. Most of the midshipmen and ensigns were all FNG’s and a few years ago were fat, dumb and happy living in “la la land,” as one marine put it.
They’d all lost someone, or knew of a child or friend taken by the aliens. They also knew what their so-called government was doing about it … nothing! Scott Drake and his people, who they were now part of, were the only defense Earth had. They also knew as most soldiers do, that they could never go home again. For one, the government would never let them, and two, they could never live in that dream world again. Most were still, nominally at least, Muslim, yet few practiced, especially the praying five times a day part. One recruit had done that in training, right in the barracks, even after being told they had to do it in private, just like the rest of the religions had to. That didn’t make sense to him, since there was only one religion, Islam, or so he thought.
That was until people started arriving from Japan and England and they discovered there was a religion called the Church of England, and Judaism, and Shinto, Buddhist, Catholic, Mormon, and others. An instructor walked in just as the recruit was kneeling to pray, and the look of fury on the petite corporal’s face turned them instantly to stone. She hadn’t said a word, just walked up behind the unfortunate man, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him into the toilet. Whatever she said to him in there they never knew, the young man refused to say, but he never again prayed where anyone could see him. They understood very quickly about religious tolerance, as they did about color and gender, and for some it was a hard lesson. Marine instructors had no patience with the trainees when it came to the subject of color and gender and had about as much tolerance and compassion as an exploding volcano.
After dinner, the party moved to another room, Scott ordered the smoking lamp lit, and his steward passed out cigars and brandy. Thankfully, they found a few secret cigar smokers in Cuba of all places.
“How’s the rest of the ship, Jack?” Scott asked as he lit up, savoring the taste of a real Cuban cigar again.
“Good, sir,” Jack Bingham answered with a smile. “Everyone is breathing a sigh of relief and all the messes are having a party of one sort or another.”
“Probably having more fun than we are, I bet.”
“Yes, sir. I hear the marines in particular are, umm … partying hard.”
“I bloody well hope so.” Scott motioned CPO Hardwick over.
“Yes, sir,” he murmured in a soft voice.
“I hope my show of appreciation found its way into the right hands?”
“That it did, sir. And welcome it was.”
“Good.”
Over in one corner, the ship builders had added a simulated piano, and it wasn’t long before someone was tinkering with the keyboard. A quick look showed it was Devon Hawking, his ship designer. Scott invited Devon and his people to attend the after-dinner party. It wasn’t out of disrespect, but there just wasn’t sufficient places for everyone, plus Devon and his crew were still working a few bugs out of the system. Scott walked over and shook hands all around.
“She’s a great ship, Devon.”
“Yes, she’s not bad for a first effort, considering the time restraints.”
“Think you can do better?”
“Oh yes. We haven’t even started to delve into the technology available. Who knows, next week we’ll find something new and build you a ship twice as powerful.”
“I won’t say we don’t need it, since I know in the near future we will.”
>
“Yes, especially when you take the fight to the enemy.”
“By the way, what’s that you’re playing? It sounds familiar.”
“An old song, at least by my count it is. Heard it while I was looking through your new database.” He chuckled. “You do have a wide assortment of material in there. Never saw a Bugs Bunny cartoon before. My god I thought I was going to have a heart attack laughing so much.”
“Yeah, he does have that effect on people.” Scott felt a momentary stab of nostalgia, and Saturday morning cartoons with his children flashed across his mind.
“I downloaded a copy of the song, want to hear it?”
“By all means.” Devon launched into a version of “The Last Farewell,” and Scott remembered. In some way the song was sad, especially for someone who understood the real meaning, and he stood staring into his drink while Devon played.
After that, he quickly launched into a very funny song about the London Double Decker Omnibus, and even if many people didn’t understand the references, it still made them laugh the way he sang it. Scott circled around as the music played, bumping into Kat on more than one occasion. She used the close quarters to rub up against him, looking innocent when he gave her a sharp look.
“Something you need, Admiral?” she asked in a sweet voice as she moved away.
“My hand and your backside!” he murmured in her ear when she came back around. She looked at him wide-eyed and bit her lower lip to suppress a giggle.
As the evening wore on, the music got livelier, and a few people started dancing. Scott used the excuse to snuggle up to Kat for a while. Gradually, the party wound down and Devon started playing the more nostalgic tunes. Some of the older people knew them and joined their voices to others. It was the last tune that got Scott, and even he joined in.
The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of dead you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
“Land of Song!” cried the warrior bard,
“Tho’ all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy right shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”
The Minstrel fell! But the foeman’s chain
Could not bring that proud soul under;
The harp he lov’d ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said no chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and brav’ry!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!
As sad as it was, Scott felt better after hearing the last verse, one he’d never heard before.
The minstrel boy will return one day,
When we hear the news, we will cheer it.
The minstrel boy will return we pray,
Torn in body, perhaps, but not in spirit.
Then may he play his harp in peace,
In a world such as Heaven intended,
For every quarrel of Man must cease,
And every battle shall be ended.
“Damn!” Scott muttered. “Thomas Moore wrote that in 1852, and I hope like hell that’s true.”
He and Kat didn’t manage to get a few hours sleep, and he didn’t get to spank her delicious bottom, citing the lack of energy as his excuse.
“I’ll have to see what I can do about that oversight, my admiral,” Kat whispered.
* * * * * *
“Incoming message from picket ship Christchurch sir,” the communications officer sang out. Everyone on the bridge held his breath, including Scott.
“What’s the message?” Captain Bingham asked.
“Enemy vessels sighted, I repeat, enemy vessels sighted.”
“Captain. Execute Alpha One,” Scott ordered.
“Aye, skipper, executing Alpha One.”
“Time stamp on the message, comm?” Bingham asked.
“It’s thirty-two minutes old, sir.”
“Not good, but not bad either. We can still intercept before they reach Earth orbit, Admiral.”
“Jack, let’s see if we can get into position a little sooner.” The captain looked a bit puzzled for a moment, then smiled and nodded to the Operations Officer, Gary Stuart.
“Aye-aye, sir,” Stuart said. Scott sat back after that and let the captain do his job, his stomach tightening. This was going to be their first real test.
“Comm, relay same message to all units. Enemy sighted, execute Alpha One,” Bingham ordered
“Relaying message sir!”
“Yeoman, signal the crew to come to yellow alert, I repeat, yellow alert.”
“Aye-aye sir. Yellow alert.”
“Have the heading, sir,” Dan Foster on navigation called out.
“Relay to all ships: helm come to new course.”
“Helm, bring her round to new course and come up to full power on the drives.”
“Aye sir, setting new course and bring her up to full ahead,” the chief helmsman sang out. As this was going on, Bingham reached over and activated a unit on the arm of his chair.
“You awake, Charlotte?” he asked.
“I’m always awake, my captain,” a cultured female voice answered.
“Interlink with all units, enemy sighted and moving to intercept, Admiral,” Bingham said.
“Thank you, Captain,” Scott said.
“All units responding and interlinked.”
“Thank you, Charlotte,” Bingham said.
“So you have one as well,” Scott commented, admiring the captain’s cool efficiency.
“Yes, Charlotte’s the best idea anyone had, it’s the only way we can act as a combined unit.”
“I’m glad somebody thought of it.”
“The old man who designed this ship got the idea from one of the destroyer captains after the first battle.”
“Well fancy that,” Scott said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Comm: has the full report been downloaded yet?” Bingham asked.
“Yes sir, it will show up on your side screens any moment now,” comm replied. Scott looked down at his screen, seeing the full report.
The alien mother ship, five cruiser-size warships, and ten smaller ships had appeared out of the warp point, and set a course directly for Earth. What appeared to be a fighter force had launched the moment they were clear of the warp point, breaking up into fifteen smaller units, and attacked the picket ships. As ordered, the pickets ran as far and as fast as they could in whatever direction they were pointed. As luck would have it, Christchurch was running in the general direction of Mars, so she had the honor of relaying the message.
“Send a message, comm,” Scott ordered. “Signal: Well done Christchurch, the drinks are on me, signed Admiral of the Fleet, Drake.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” the comm officer answered with relish.
“Thanks, Admiral,” Bingham said, “should have thought of that myself.”
“Don’t sweat it, Jack, and for Christ sake stop calling me Admiral. Call me Scott, Boss, or skipper. We haven’t got time for all that in battle,” he added, smiling.
“Thanks, skipper, I’ll remember in the future to send a thank-you.”
“Took me a while to remember,” Scott commented offhandedly, so Bingham wouldn’t feel so bad about forgetting.
“ETA to intercept?” Bingham asked.
“At this speed, seven hours six and a half minutes, sir,” Bill replied.
“Position at intercept?”
“On the board now, sir,” Bill answered, and the captain and Scott looked at the tactical display on the screen behind the holotank. It showed the relative position of the fleet, and the estimated position of the alien group, showing them descending from solar north in a long spiral toward Earth. They would intercept the alien fleet at 46,435,000 miles, or half an astronomical unit (AU) from Earth at their present speed.
“That’s still a li
ttle close for my liking, Captain,” Scott said. “Ask engineering if they can goose the squirrels and give us a few more knots. I’d like a little more maneuvering room, Jack.”
“Aye-aye, Admiral. Comm, relay the order, helm, bring us up to flank ahead and tell engineering to red line it.” Bingham looked at him a moment, puzzled. “Goose the squirrels?”
