A Call to Arms

by David Weber

“Okay, fine—don’t tell me,” Fornier said equably. “But seriously, take it from someone who did two years in retail before joining up. You keep track of every vendor, tradesman, bureaucrat, and official you meet during your two weeks groundside. I’ll bet you a hundred that you’ll find way more than seventeen percent who are jerks—”

  Abruptly, the heart-stopping wail of the ship’s klaxons erupted all around them. There were two seconds of full volume, and then the cacophony abruptly dropped to a relative whisper. “General Quarters, General Quarters!” the voice of Commander Sladek came sharply over the alarm. “Set Condition Two throughout the ship! Repeat: set Condition Two!”

  There was a thud as Fornier hopped off his bunk and landed on the deck. Travis was already at the emergency locker; pulling out the vac suits, he tossed Fornier’s to him and started climbing into his own. “Hell of a time for a drill,” Fornier said with a grunt.

  “If it is a drill,” Travis warned.

  “Sladek didn’t say it wasn’t.”

  “He also didn’t say it was,” Travis countered. “Either way, Bajek will skin us alive if we’re late, so move it.”

  Four of Travis’s eight men and women were ready at their combat stations when he arrived. Ensign Locatelli, he noted darkly, wasn’t one of them.

  “Diagnostics?” he asked, floating over to them in the zero-gee of the ship’s bow.

  “In progress,” Beam Weapon Tech Second Tomasello confirmed. “Number Two’s trackers are still coming up twitchy—”

  “Long!” Bajek’s voice boomed through the cramped space. “Lieutenant Long?”

  “Here, Ma’am,” Travis said, moving out from the partial concealment of a thick coolant pipe.

  “Captain wants you on the bridge,” Bajek said shortly.

  Travis felt his eyes widen. “The bridge, Ma’am?”

  “The bridge,” Bajek confirmed tartly. “I’m taking over here.”

  She fixed him with a dark look.

  “And move it,” she added. “The captain doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Travis said, his pulse suddenly pounding.

  Maneuvering past her, he pulled his way down the passageway and headed toward the bridge, a sinking feeling joining the resident tension already in his stomach. He had no idea what he’d done now, but for Castillo to be bothering with him at a time like this it must have been something big.

  Like the other officers aboard Phoenix, Travis had been part of the bridge watch rotation ever since the early days of his assignment. But he’d never seen it during combat conditions, and the first thing that struck him as he maneuvered through the hatch was how calm everyone seemed to be. The voices giving orders and reports were terse, but they were clear and well controlled. Captain Castillo was strapped into his station, his eyes moving methodically between the various displays, while Commander Sladek held position at his side, the two of them occasionally murmuring comments back and forth. All of the monitors were live, showing the ship’s position, vector, and acceleration, as well as the status of the two forward missile launchers, the spinal laser, and the three autocannon defense systems.

  In the center of the main tactical display was the approaching enemy.

  It was a warship, all right. The signature of the wedge made that clear right from the outset. It was pulling a hundred twenty gees, which didn’t tell Travis much—virtually any warship could handle that kind of acceleration, and most could do considerably better. The range marker put it just under four hundred thousand kilometers out, a little over twelve minutes away on their current closing vector.

  His first reaction was one of relief. There was no way a warship could sneak up that close without Phoenix’s sensors picking it up. Fornier had been right: this was indeed a drill.

  But what kind of drill required Travis to be hauled away from his station onto the bridge? Was Castillo testing Bajek’s ability to run Forward Weapons? That seemed ridiculous.

  “Analysis, Mr. Long?”

  Travis snapped his attention back. Castillo and Sladek had finished their quiet conversation, and both men were gazing straight at him.

  Travis swallowed hard. What were they asking him for? “It’s definitely a warship, Sir,” he said, trying frantically to unfreeze his brain as he looked around the multitude of displays. CIC should have spit out a data compilation and probably even an identification by now, but the screen was still showing nothing except the preliminary collection run-through. Probably another of Phoenix’s chronic sensor glitches. “But it’s not being overly aggressive,” he continued, trying to buy himself some time. “The hundred twenty gees it’s pulling is probably around seventy percent of its standard acceleration capability.”

  “So far, there’s been no response to our hail,” Sladek said. “How would you proceed?”

  And then, to Travis’s relief, the sensor ID screen finally came to life. The approaching ship was indeed one of theirs, a Triumph-class battlecruiser. Specifically, it was HMS Invincible, flagship of the Green One task force.

  He had a fraction of a second of fresh relief at the confirmation that this was, indeed, just a drill. An instant later, a violent wave of fresh tension flooded in on him.

  Green One was commanded by Admiral Carlton Locatelli. Uncle of Ensign Fenton Locatelli. The junior officer Travis was continually having to write up.

  And here Travis was on Phoenix’s bridge, being asked advice by his captain while Locatelli charged into simulated battle.

  What the hell was going on?

  “Mr. Long?” Castillo prompted.

  With a supreme effort, Travis forced his brain back to the situation. “Do we know if she’s alone?” he asked, again looking around the bridge. Everything he could see indicated Invincible was the only vessel out there, but he wasn’t quite ready to trust his reading of the relevant displays.

  “Confirmed,” Sladek said. “There’s nothing else within range—”

  “Missile trace!” someone barked.

  Travis snapped his gaze around to the tactical. Invincible was actually firing a missile?

  A practice missile, obviously, without a warhead. But even so, it was unprecedented to use one in an exercise.

  Or, for that matter, to use one at any time, for any reason. Captain Davison had refused to use one of Vanguard’s missiles even when lives were at stake. Commander Metzger had undergone hours of hearings after using one at Secour, and that situation had been just one step short of a full-on war footing. And rumor had it that Salamander’s captain had been relieved of command mainly because he’d used one in the Izbica Incident.

  But a new wedge had definitely appeared on the displays: the smaller, more compact wedge of a missile tracking straight toward Phoenix. Either Locatelli had some special dispensation, or he no longer gave a damn what Parliament thought.

  “Acceleration thirty-five-hundred gees; estimated impact, two minutes forty seconds,” the tactical officer called.

  “Stand by autocannon,” Castillo ordered calmly. “Fire will commence fifteen seconds before estimated impact.”

  Travis drew a hissing breath. That was, he knew, the prescribed response to a missile attack. With an effective range of one hundred fifty kilometers, the autocannon’s self-guided shells were designed to detonate in the path of an incoming missile, throwing up a wall of shrapnel that could take out anything that drove through its midst, especially something traveling at the five thousand kilometers per second that a missile carried at the end of its run.

  At least, that was the hoped-for outcome. Given that the missile would be entering the shrapnel zone barely two hundredths of a second before reaching its target, it was a tactic that either worked perfectly or failed catastrophically. Still, more often than not, it worked. Or at least it worked in simulations.

  Only this wasn’t a simulation. And Phoenix’s Number Two autocannon wasn’t tracking properly.

  “You have an objection, Mr. Long?” Castillo a
sked.

  Travis started. He hadn’t realized he’d said anything out loud. “We’ve been having trouble with the autocannon, Sir,” he said. “I’m thinking…” He stopped, suddenly aware of the utter presumption of this situation. He, a lowly lieutenant, was trying to tell a ship’s captain how to do his job?

  But if Castillo was offended, he didn’t show it. “Continue,” he merely said.

  Travis squared his shoulders. He had been asked, after all. “I’m thinking it might be better to interpose wedge,” he said, the words coming out in a rush lest he lose his nerve completely. “If the missile comes in ventral, there may not be enough autocannon coverage to stop it.”

  Castillo’s lip might have twitched. But his nod was firm enough. “Helm, pitch twenty-six degrees positive,” he ordered.

  “Pitch twenty-six degrees positive, aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman acknowledged. “Pitching twenty-six degrees positive, aye.”

  On the tactical, Phoenix’s angle began to shift, agonizingly slowly, as the ship’s nose pivoted upward. Travis watched the display tensely as the incoming missile closed the distance at ever-increasing speed, wondering if his proposed countermove had been too late.

  To his relief, it hadn’t. The missile was still nearly twenty seconds out when the leading edge of Phoenix’s floor rose high enough to cut across its vector.

  “Continue countdown to missile impact,” Castillo ordered. “Jink port one klick.”

  Travis frowned as the helmsman repeated the order. A ship had a certain range of motion within the wedge, particularly at the zero acceleration Phoenix was holding right now.

  But moving the ship that way was tricky and cost maneuverability. What was Castillo up to?

  “Missile has impacted the wedge,” the tactical officer announced. “Orders?”

  Castillo looked at Travis and raised his eyebrows. “Suggestions, Mr. Long?”

  Travis stared at the tac display, where Invincible was now rimmed in flashing red to show that her position was based on the foggy gravitic data Phoenix was able to glean through the disruptive effects of her own wedge. For the moment, at least, the two ships were at a standoff. Phoenix couldn’t fire at something she couldn’t see well enough to target, and with its wedge floor interposed between them the destroyer was likewise completely protected from any weapon Invincible cared to throw at her.

  But Phoenix was a ship of the Royal Manticoran Navy. Her job wasn’t to be safe. Her job was to protect the Star Kingdom’s people. Whatever this exercise was all about, and however Locatelli was grading them on it, that grade wouldn’t be very high if Phoenix continued to hide behind her wedge.

  “Recommend we reverse pitch and reestablish full sensor contact, Sir,” he said. He hesitated, the regulations against spending missiles pressing like fire-suppression foam against all of his tactical training. Still, if this was an all-out exercise, surely it worked both directions. “I’d also recommend we stand by to launch missiles.”

  This time Castillo’s lip definitely twitched. But he merely nodded. “Anything else?”

  Travis frowned. From the tone of Castillo’s question, he guessed there was indeed something else they should be doing. Wedge, sensor contact, missiles—

  Of course. “I’d also suggest the autocannon begin laying down fire as we approach reacquisition.”

  “Good.” Castillo gestured. “Pitch twenty-six degrees negative; prepare missiles and autocannon.”

  “Pitch twenty-six degrees negative, aye, aye, Sir.”

  “Prepare missiles and autocannon, aye, aye, Sir.”

  Once again, the tac display began to shift. Travis watched, his thumbs pressed hard against the sides of his forefingers. From somewhere forward came a muted rumble as the autocannon began firing. The flashing red rim around Invincible vanished as the sensors reacquired contact—

  “Missile!” the tac officer snapped.

  Travis blinked. The whole thing had happened way too fast for him to see, but the vector line on the tac display showed that the incoming missile had come in right along the edge of fire from the misaimed Number Two autocannon, shot past the wedge floor as it pitched back down, skimmed past Phoenix at a distance of eleven kilometers, then continued on to disintegrate against the wedge roof.

  He was staring at the line in confusion, wondering how in the world a second missile had sneaked past the sensors—wondering, too, how in hell Locatelli had gotten permission to spend not just one but two practice missiles—when the com display lit up and Admiral Locatelli himself appeared. “Well, Captain,” the admiral’s voice boomed from the speaker, “I believe that gives me the kill.”

  “Very nearly, Sir,” Castillo said calmly. “I think you’ll find your missile didn’t quite make it into full kill range.”

  Locatelli frowned, his eyes shifting off camera. His smile soured a little, and he gave a small grunt. “Clever,” he said reluctantly. “You’re still blind, though—your whole tracking radar system would have been destroyed. Telemetry system, too.”

  “I can still launch missiles,” Castillo pointed out.

  “Only if there was another ship nearby you could hand them off to,” Locatelli countered. “In this case, there isn’t.” He shook his head. “All in all, Captain, your response was a bit on the sloppy side. I suggest you consider upgrading your tactical officer’s training and drill schedule.”

  “This wasn’t my usual tac team, Sir,” Castillo said. “One of my other officers was handling the action.”

  Locatelli sniffed audibly. “Your other officer has a lot to learn.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Deliberately, it seemed to Travis, Castillo turned a studiously neutral look in his direction. “I believe he knows that.”

  Travis felt a swirl of disbelief corkscrew through his gut. He’d been prepared—almost—to believe that an admiral of the RMN might actually go out of his way to slap down a junior officer who had crossed him.

  But for Travis’s own captain to join in on the humiliation was beyond even Travis’s usual level of reflexive paranoia. For Castillo to single him out this way, in front of the entire Phoenix bridge crew…

  He swallowed, forcing back the stinging sense of betrayal. Castillo was still his commanding officer, and he was expecting a response. “Yes, Sir,” he managed.

  “Perfection is a noble goal,” Castillo continued, his eyes still on Travis. “We sometimes forget it’s a journey, not a destination.”

  I never claimed to be perfect. Travis left the automatic protest unsaid. Clearly, this was his payback for insisting that Ensign Locatelli do his job, and neither Castillo or the admiral would be interested in hearing logical arguments.

  Or pathetic excuses, which was what any comment would be taken as anyway. “I understand, Sir,” he said instead. “I’ll make it a point to remember today’s lessons.”

  “I’m certain you will.” Castillo turned back to the com display. “Any further orders, Admiral?”

  “Not at this time,” Locatelli said, a quiet but definite note of satisfaction in his voice. “Resume your course for Manticore. I’ll want a full analysis of your crew’s response to this unscheduled exercise a.s.a.p.”

  “It’ll be ready by the time you return from your training run, Sir,” Castillo promised.

  “Good,” Locatelli said briskly. “Carry on.” He reached somewhere off-camera, and his image vanished.

  * * *

  And with Locatelli’s tap on the com switch, the image of Phoenix’s bridge vanished from the display.

  “Excellent,” the admiral said with clear satisfaction. “We’ll want to look closely at the post-action data, but from the looks of it the exercise went quite well.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Metzger said, keeping her voice neutral and making sure her face was turned away from him.

  A complete waste of effort. As always, the admiral knew exactly what she was thinking. “You disapprove?” he suggested.

  She hesitated. But Locatelli always encouraged his senior officers to spe
ak their minds. “I just think the exercise was flawed, Sir. Captain Castillo’s tactical team should have been calling the orders, not some random junior officer.”

  “In other words, you disapprove of Castillo dealing out an object lesson to Lieutenant Long?”

  Metzger winced. Was she really that transparent? “I disapprove of his choice of time and place,” she hedged. “This was an expensive exercise. It should have remained focused on its main purpose.”

  “The purpose of all exercises is to make a better Navy,” Locatelli said. “Sometimes they shock officers and crews out of routine and complacency. Sometimes they demonstrate flaws in equipment and tactics. And sometimes they teach valuable lessons.” He paused. “Or don’t you think your shining Lieutenant Long needs to occasionally learn a lesson?”

  Metzger clenched her teeth. Long was smart and innovative, and in her opinion was one of the rising stars of the new generation of Naval officers.

  But damn it all, the admiral was right. Long did have a few serious blind spots, and those gaps definitely needed to be filled in.

  “Long has enough trouble with human interactions and contacts as it is,” she said. “Making him look like a fool in front of his ship’s bridge crew won’t help with that.”

  “I disagree that it made him look like a fool,” Locatelli said. “But if I assume you’re right, it still leaves him with a choice. The same choice one we all have to make on occasion. Sink, or swim.”

  He gestured toward her board. “And while Lieutenant Long contemplates that decision, you can start collating data on the exercise. I want to know how well Invincible performed, preferably before we hear Phoenix’s results.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Metzger said.

  She watched out of the corner of her eye until he was gone. Then, she turned back forward, indecision gnawing at her gut.

  In some ways, Locatelli was right. Long needed some real-world experience, and this was as close to real combat as he would ever actually get.

  But for his captain to deliver that experience this way…

  Metzger scowled. It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself firmly. Humiliation was something that happened all the time in the Navy. Long had certainly had his share of verbal dressings-down, and he would live through this one, too.