by Unknown
The marine turned, and began walking up the non-skid plated ramp that led into the Belleau Wood. The kids stumbled to a halt when he abruptly stopped, donned his cap, and pivoted toward the forward part of the ship. A huge set of flags, one of the U.E., the other the ship’s flag. It seemed that everything around there was over-sized. He snapped off a sharp salute, then turned back toward the entry, and continued up. The kids followed.
He stopped again before a sailor in that white uniform, this
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one with an officer’s cap, and thin, gold bars on his shoulder boards. He also, Minerva noticed, wore a sidearm.
“Marine Corporal Mark Corbin, requesting permission to come aboard with a recruit detachment, Sir!”
The lieutenant returned the salute, “Permission granted. Stand fast while your orders are confirmed.”
One of the kids in front of Minerva tried to be funny, joking with the kid in front of him.
“How the hell do you stand fast?”
There were some nervous chuckles.
The officer took the receiver from a squarish, bulky phone set that was mounted to the bulkhead next to the podium where he stood his watch, and punched in a three-digit number. He spoke briefly to someone, then replaced the receiver. To Minerva, the whole thing appeared to be well-practiced, as if it happened all of the time.
The lieutenant snapped his fingers at a passing sailor in dungarees, “Take this detachment to the transient berthing.”
The sailor saluted, and motioned for the kids to follow. The corporal remained where he stood, waiting. As Minerva passed, he winked at her again. Being nearer, she noticed how alike the lieutenant looked to the corporal. They could have been brothers.
She smiled sweetly, and followed her troop into the bowels of the ship.
Mark watched her go, and once they turned the corner, turned to the officer. They then hugged, clapping one another on the back.
“Damn, little brother,” the lieutenant said, stepping back for a better look, “you’re almost old enough to shave!”
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“Bite me, Squid,” Mark returned.
“Jarhead.”
The corporal let out a breath, as if he’d been holding it, “How’s dad been, Tim?”
The lieutenant thumbed upward, “Walking on broken glass since he heard you’d be riding this trip out. He wants to see you up on the Bridge.”
“Right now?”
“Right freaking now,” Tim emphasized. “You just made it. We’re due to depart in less than a half-hour. I thought maybe you were going to miss ship’s movement.”
Mark yawned, “Gimme a break. It’s the middle of the night by my clock.”
His older brother’s face softened some, “You do look tired, Bro. How many herds does this make for you?”
“My fifth in two weeks.”
The officer was openly shocked, “Christ! Where are they putting them all?”
Mark laughed, “The recruit depot is so full, that the latest groups are being housed in the old storage shacks out by the confidence course. They’re making everyone and their brother a drill instructor.”
Tim became serious, “It’s this crap that Storia is pulling out by the frontier. Rumors are that we might go to war.”
Mark slowly shook his head, “I don’t want to believe that, but it sure as hell looks that way. No other good reason for the sudden build-up of the battalions.”
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The lieutenant looked at his wristwatch, “You’d better get your leathery neck up to the Bridge, Bro. We’ll be pulling out any time, and dad wants you up there.”
“You know I get lost in this steel maze. Call me an escort.”
“Pansy.”
“Skirt-chaser.”
Mark’s brother flagged down another passing sailor, and he was on his way, happy for the impromptu reunion with his family.
He had no idea that it would be his last.
The sailor, a blonde-haired guy about Mark’s own age, flitted through the narrow corridors with the least of effort, having memorized them over time. Mark was turned-around almost right away.
Intersecting passageways, up one stairwell after another, each area tagged with designation numbers and letters in luminescent paint. The equivalent of a shipboard address that only a sailor would understand.
They passed a football field-sized hangar bay, currently empty save for a couple of Huey-shuttles that were being maintenanced. Outside to one of the catwalks, up more stairs to the open flight deck. It was always surprising at how wide and long that deck appeared to be. Mark tried to imagine how much more a full carrier would look.
A few guys, and an Attayan female wearing purple jerseys and camo pants had a fueling station taken partially apart, working on something inside. The sailor led Mark across the deck towards
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the island structure. A big number three was lit on the side of it. The island’s exterior was a mass of antenna, radar cupolas, and weapons platforms. His eyes rested on one particular gun that had always fascinated him. It was affectionately known as The Reaper, identified so by that stencil hand-painted along its barrel housing. Officially, it was classified as a rail gun. Six four-inch barrels that spun like a Gatling. The system, once activated, was capable of tracking, locking on to, and destroying a target per half-second. It fired a thousand plasma rounds per full second. It was intended for close-in defense against in-coming missiles, or enemy aircraft. He’d seen one in action during exercises once, and the display of firepower was something to behold.
Into an open hatch in the side of the island, and on through another series of turns and climbs. The corridors were divided every so often by oval hatchways, with the bottom portion just high enough to really wreck one’s ankles if you forgot to lift your foot high enough when passing through. These were to seal one compartment from another in the event of a fire, explosive decompression, or a security alert.
Upon reaching the third deck up, they entered what was known as ‘Officer’s Country.’ Only those who held the rank of lieutenant and above were quartered there, and an enlisted man had better have a good reason just for passing through. They encountered several khaki-clad officers, and had to salute while moving aside to allow them to pass by. Most seemed occupied with other things; only one bothered to ask them what their business was.
The seventh deck was separated by a hatch that was labeled ‘Secured Area.’
A pair of shipboard marine sentries were posted there, each holding a rifle at port arms.
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“Delivering this guy to the Bridge,” the seaman told the sergeant.
The sergeant gave Mark a nod, giving him a cursory hello while ignoring the sailor. The tension between the two services was a long-standing one that spanned centuries, yet both branches depended on the other. It was a love-hate relationship to be sure.
They passed a compartment identified as the CIC, or Combat Information Center. Mark knew from talking to his brother that the CIC was essentially a warship’s brains. Communications, tracking, navigation, and all combat operations primarily were performed from there. The Bridge was more of a symbolic throw-back to the olden days, where the more standard tasks took place. If anything, air operations depended on the Bridge itself. The Primary Flight Control, or Pri-Fly was stationed there. The Air Boss directed take offs and landings, where to spot parked planes, and cussed out anyone who crossed his path from the Bridge. He had a pool table-looking thing with toy planes on it, each marker representing a real aircraft’s location. When things were quiet, Mark imagined the watch standers secretly playing with those things.
At last arriving to the Bridge, they had to get past another pair of armed marines, and the sailor gladly dropped Mark off.
He had been on his father’s ship a handful of times, and always met him on the Bridge to say hello. Each time, he experienced a flash of claustrophobia. It was like stepping foot inside the heart of a giant computer. There were countless banks of c
ontrols and lights, some even mounted overhead. It was a true requirement that an operations tech could not be over five-foot-ten, for risk of getting brained by walking into some piece of equipment.
Situated in a semi-circle in the forward-most area of the space were the more vital stations that pertained to all of the things that were carried out in the CIC. This was for the chance of one being disabled; the other could take over, and keep the ship fighting.
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In the center of it all was an elevated platform with a slightly taller ceiling, known as the command dias. From there, the ship’s commanding officers could oversee everything that went on. It also provided an excellent view of the flight deck from stern to aft, which was why the Pri-Fly table was also set there, just behind the captain’s chair, and the plotting wall.
Standing at the dias steps, Mark saw his father going over a checklist with his X.O. The X.O., or Executive Officer, was next in command under his father the captain. Neither man had taken notice of him waiting there.
“If your booze count is coming up short,” Mark joked, “it was probably me.”
His father turned with an expression of pleasant surprise. They had not seen one another for several months. Each of Mark’s recruit deliveries had been on different ships, this time was an unexpected chance to catch up on things.
Captain Robert Corbin handed the clipboard off to his XO, and went to embrace his son.
“I missed you, damn it!”
Mark hugged him tight, “Same here, dad. How’ve you been?”
“Tired,” Robert admitted. “Things are really getting hectic around here.”
“I know what you mean,” Mark agreed.
The elder Corbin glanced at the time readout on the over-monitor before his chair, “Just in time, young man. We have to get this ball rolling.”
Mark had been present during a ship’s movement once
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before, and remembered how practiced, and precise each procedure had been. It had felt awkward just standing there while all of those well-rehearsed actions were taking place around him.
“Will I be in the way if I stand over by the forward view port while you pull out?”
“Not at all,” his dad replied, already ticking things off in his head.
Mark started over, weaving around seated technicians.
The operations officer, a broad-shouldered guy by the name of Bull, had been talking to someone on his handset. He leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest. If the thing wasn’t bolted to the deck, he would have tipped over backwards.
“Sir, Lunar Traffic Control has cleared us for departure.”
Robert leaned on the dias rail, facing his Bridge staff. A look of pleasure set on his face. Space was his ocean, and he loved sailing her.
“Thank you, Bull. Chief of the Watch, are we ready for getting underway?”
The C.W., a serious-looking woman with a short haircut, was also busy on a handset. She held the receiver to her chest, “That’s affirmative. All departments report ready for getting underway.”
“Very well.”
The captain picked up the handset from the comm-box mounted on the overhead above the over-monitoring station. He dialed a three-digit number, and heard only a single buzz before it was picked up on the other end.
“Chief Engineer.”
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“CHENG,” Robert said, “secure from shore power, switch to ship’s power.”
“Aye, sir.”
From where Mark stood, he was able to peer down onto, and partially beyond the flight deck. Three mammoth power cables connected to robotic struts unclamped, and detached themselves from umbilical ports in the side of the ship’s hull. There was a shower of sparks, and the cables began retracting into housings within the dock. The lights on-board subtly flickered for an instant as the generators ramped up, easing systems into full internal power. He could just barely hear, and even feel a very faint thrum from somewhere deep within the vessel.
The chief engineer’s voice could be heard over Robert’s handset, the man speaking loud to be heard over the background noise in the power plant.
“The Anderson generators are putting out at full capacity, Captain. Green across the board.”
“Thank you, CHENG.”
Robert hung the receiver back into its cradle, and returned to the rail.
“Chief of the Watch, seal us up.”
“Secure and seal, aye!” She acknowledged, and passed the order on down the line.
Outside, a loud, shrill whistle sounded over exterior speakers that echoed across the pier. Sailors and longshoremen rushed to complete their tasks while others stole last-minute kisses from husbands, wives, or children. The deck officer standing watch at the main ramp---Mark’s brother, waved and yelled for them to hurry up. The stragglers ran, and once finally inside, Timothy was able to
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activate the controls that would close the hull door. The non-skid ramp slowly pulled inward, at the same time the big blast door was rolling shut, a warning bell rattling the entire time. When the door clanged shut, the bang and hiss of the hull sealing reverberated through the hanger bay.
On the Bridge and CIC, indicators lit on the Operations consoles. The C.W. had been watching for those.
“We are sealed, and pressurized, Captain. Anderson atmosphere engaged over the flight deck.”
Sure enough, the violet glow eased into view outside, barely perceptible, like a faint fog bank appearing.
“Severe all moorings,” Robert ordered.
She relayed that as well.
Again, Mark watched as the enormous grapples popped open, and pulled away from the Belleau Wood, while hands from the Deck Department worked frantically to reel in the five-inch diameter coiled ropes that fed into spools within compartments just beneath the flight deck. The ship was then floating untethered in the air, weightless on the Anderson field below it that acted as a sort of waterline.
The short-haired woman turned back to the dias, “We are free and clear to navigate.”
Robert looked at another operator, “Helm, take us out. Indicate reverse thrust, five knots.”
“Reverse thrust, five knots, aye!” The young man responded,
Movement was nearly perceptible as they backed away. A pair of tugboat shuttles arrived, and nestled against the hull, helping to push the vessel toward open space.
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There was a grace to that slowness, though. Something to Mark that struck him as something so large being able to move at all. The pier, and the families there waving goodbye grew ever smaller.
“Sound ship’s colors,” Robert said.
The XO touched a control, and both inside and out, the U.E. anthem began to play. It was a combination of all national anthems rolled into one. When that finished, the crew was given a glimpse of their commanding officer’s sense of humor. Surprising to most everyone who knew him, he was a fan of old-school rock and roll from the 21st century. A group by the name of AC/DC began to tear a gripping rhythm, its beat catchy, and appropriate for the thrill of setting out for the stars.
Once the song stopped, Mark’s father continued through the departure sequence that was followed to the letter every time they left port.
“Conduct the alarms test.”
The XO picked up the command handset, and flipped a different switch, bringing the speakers under his control.
“On the 1MC! The following is a test of the General Quarters, Collision, Impact, and Fire alarms! All hands disregard the following!”
The various alarms began to bray in sequence, each of a different tone and warble. It was imperative for a ship’s crew to identify each one just by its sound.
“Alarms test successful,” the C.W. announced when the set had completed running.
“Very well.” Robert left the rail, and sat in his chair at the over-monitor. “Helm, bring us about.”
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“Come about, aye!” The tech called out. That sail
or manipulated a yoke that resembled one from an airplane. The ship responded with fluid ease, beginning an easy turn so that they would be facing outward, away from the harbor.
“Indicate All Ahead, fifteen celestial knots.”
“All Ahead, fifteen, aye!”
Now moving forward, the Belleau Wood pierced the atmospheric dome, and slid out into cold space. They were several miles out, and clear of any obstructions. The tugs pulled away, and returned to the docks.
“Take us into the traffic lanes.”
“Aye, Sir!”
On the navigation monitor, a display appeared that mimicked the lines and lanes of a freeway, complete with on and off ramps. These were courtesy of the Lunar Array, which provided traffic control all around the harbor, and the approaches from Earth, and the points where ships exited Anderson Drive from the Attayan system. There were so many vessels in close proximity to one another, moving at different speeds, of different sizes, and varying celestial altitudes, that it was a necessary service.
“Entering the outbound lanes, Sir!”
The over-monitor spat out the ship’s operational orders. They all already knew where they were going, but it was yet another procedure that was carried out nonetheless. After all, there were occasions, however rare, when last-minute orders came through.
Robert read them over before sharing them.
“Our orders are to set course for the Attayan System.”
From behind, the XO had already run the numbers through
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the plotting wall. The clear device displayed a colorful star field with complicated calculations producing a dotted line from their present position to their destination.
“Course plotted and set,” the XO announced.
Robert read the numbers that were relayed to his monitor.
“Helm, indicate turns to port, eight-two-five, true.”
The helmsman repeated the order quickly. All such orders were repeated to prevent mistakes.
