A Call to Duty

by David Weber

  But finally, with a minimum of stuttering, he made it to the end. Bracing himself, he waited for the TO’s inevitable scorn.

  To his slightly confused disbelief, the scorn didn’t come.

  “Interesting,” Metzger said instead. Her voice sounded distracted, as if she was only paying half attention to the conversation. Maybe that was why she hadn’t jumped down his throat yet. “A nice bit of outside-the-line thinking.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Travis managed.

  “I’ve done a quick feasibility check, Ma’am,” Donnelly put in, rescuing him from the need to say anything else. “The numbers and geometry look good.”

  “Yes, I’m doing my own right now,” Metzger said.

  So that was what was holding the rest of her attention. Travis held his breath, wondering if the TO would find some flaw that neither he nor Donnelly had spotted.

  “Looks good,” Metzger said. “Looks very good. Excellent work, both of you. Stand by while I com the bridge.”

  There was a click—“Bridge; Metzger,” Metzger said. “I need to talk to the captain.”

  Travis frowned. Stand by in com conversations usually meant being put on hold or muted out of the connection while a side conversation took place. Clearly, Metzger had missed hitting the proper key.

  Fortunately, it could be done at either end. He reached for the switch—

  And stopped as Donnelly caught his hand.

  He started to speak, changed his mind as she flashed him a quick shake of her head. He nodded, and withdrew his hand. It was Metzger’s mistake, after all, not his or Donnelly’s.

  And actually, it would be gratifying to get to hear the captain’s reaction to his idea.

  “This is the Captain,” Davison’s brisk voice came. “I thought you’d been sent off-duty, TO.”

  “I was, Sir,” Metzger said. “But I’ve just been handed an idea on how to rescue both Rafe’s Scavenger and Phobos, and I wanted to bring it to your attention at once. If we—”

  “A moment, TO,” Davison interrupted. “You were handed an idea?”

  “Yes, Sir, by one of our gravitics techs, Spacer First Class Long. If we—”

  “That’s Spacer Travis Long?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Metzger said, her tone going a little odd.

  “I see,” Davison said with a grunt. “Very well. Continue.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Metzger said. “Of the two ships in danger, Phobos is the most critical. If she’s indeed suffered a hull harmonic catastrophe, there could be extensive damage and substantial continued danger to any remaining crew. Furthermore, even if we assume significant casualties, there are likely more survivors there than on Rafe’s Scavenger.”

  “Are you suggesting we give up on Rafe’s Scavenger and change course for Phobos?” Davison asked ominously. “Leaving Rafe’s Scavenger to die?”

  “Leaving Rafe’s Scavenger, yes, Sir,” Metzger said. “But not to die. Once we’re on our new course we take one of Vanguard’s practice missiles, clear out the warhead space, and fill it with super-compressed oxygen tanks from our shuttles. Then, at the proper time, we fire the missile at Rafe’s Scavenger, with a cutoff timer set to kill the missile’s wedge at just the right moment.”

  “You must be joking, TO,” cut in another voice—Commander Bertinelli. “That can’t possibly work.”

  “I believe it can, Sir,” Metzger said. “I’ve run the numbers and sent you the relevant plot. If we get the timing and vector right, the missile will end up at a zero-zero with them. All they need to do is go outside and bring in the tanks, and they’ll be able to hold out until we can collect Phobos’s crew and return to them.”

  For a long moment there was silence. Then, there was the sound of someone clearing his throat. “Ingenious,” Bertinelli said. “But it won’t work. The geometry and timing will be almost impossible to get right. Even if you’re lucky enough to get the missile there, it’s way too big for the miners to get in through their hatchways.”

  “They won’t have to bring in the whole missile,” Davison murmured, his own voice thoughtful. “Mining ships have external grapples, maneuvering packs, and EVA carts designed for moving large chunks of rock around. If the missile gets close enough, they can remove the tanks and bring them inside.” He gave a little snort. “If it gets close enough. The XO’s absolutely right on that score.”

  “I think we can do it, Sir,” Metzger said doggedly. “We’ve got timers that can be adjusted to the picosecond, and our positioning and velocity numbers are precise enough to drop it within a hundred meters of the ship. And we’ve got a ninety-minute window to prep the missile.”

  “It’s ingenious, I’ll give you that,” Davison said. “But it’s also completely impractical. The operation will continue as planned.”

  Travis felt his breath catch in his throat. That was it? A single glance at the plot, and the captain was going to simply reject the idea?

  Metzger was apparently thinking the same thing. “Sir, I strongly urge you to reconsider,” she said carefully. “Whatever’s happened to Phobos, her crew is almost certainly in serious trouble.”

  “Serious trouble is what we’re trained for, TO,” Davison said. “Rafe’s Scavenger, on the other hand, is in a life-or-death crisis situation. As the XO says, and your assurances notwithstanding, successfully getting a missile to a zero-zero with Rafe’s Scavenger would be borderline impossible. Worse, your plan depends on untrained miners’ ability to handle their end of the operation. We don’t even know if they’re still able to receive word that a package is on its way, let alone in shape to retrieve the oxygen and bring it inside.”

  “Sir—”

  “More importantly, our standing orders put civilian assistance above aid to other Navy or MPARS ships,” Davison continued. “Those orders do not allow for playing unreasonable games with civilian lives. If Phobos’s crew has to spend a few more hours in the cold and dark, they’ll just have to manage.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Metzger paused. “If I may, let me offer an alternate suggestion. If we change course to Phobos right now, as per Spacer Long’s plan—”

  “As per your plan, TO,” Davison interrupted.

  “Excuse me, Sir?”

  “I said as per your plan, TO,” the captain repeated.

  “Sir, I believe I mentioned this came from Spacer Long—”

  “And I’m telling you it’s your plan,” Davison said. “No one else’s. Now, you were saying?”

  There was a brief pause.

  “If we change course to Phobos right now, as per the plan,” Metzger said, her voice suddenly cautious, “there should be time to launch the missile, confirm it’s on the correct zero-zero vector, and also get an acknowledgment from Rafe’s Scavenger before it’s too late to reset course back to them.”

  “And after all that we’d still arrive before their air runs out?” Bertinelli countered. “I doubt that.”

  “It would work, Sir,” Metzger insisted stubbornly. “It would require us to run the wedge at eighty-nine percent for about thirteen minutes. But it would get us there only eight minutes later than our current projected time.”

  “We’re pushing our limits as it is,” Bertinelli reminded her. “And theirs. Another eight minutes could kill them all.”

  “Not necessarily, Sir,” Metzger said, her tone respectful but firm. “That deadline assumed they’d be running most of the time on their suits, without taking full account of the air left in the ship. They should have been able to get at least an extra hour before switching to suit air.”

  “Speculation,” Bertinelli countered. “We can’t afford to take the chance. Neither can they.”

  Travis felt a slow anger starting to burn his throat. It was one thing to consider a plan carefully and then make an informed decision. It was something else to dismiss that plan after barely a cursory glance. Especially when that hasty decision could mean death for dozens of men and women.

  That had to be said. And if Metzger couldn’t or wouldn’t s
ay it, he would have to. Bracing himself, he opened his mouth—

  “No,” Donnelly murmured in his ear.

  Travis looked at her. The lieutenant was watching him, a tightness around her eyes. “There’s no point,” she whispered. “He’s made his decision.”

  “Sir, I respectfully request you reconsider,” Metzger said. But Travis could hear in her voice that she, too, knew the decision had been made.

  “I appreciate your suggestion, Commander,” Davison said. “Now, as has already been pointed out, you’re off-duty. Get some sleep.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Metzger said.

  Travis looked at Donnelly, and for a moment their eyes met. Then, lowering her gaze, Donnelly tapped the intercom cut-off switch.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They were out of Donnelly’s quarters and the spin section and back to the zero-gee core of the ship before she spoke again. “Interesting,” she murmured. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the captain or the XO show that kind of fire.”

  “Fine time for it,” Travis muttered.

  And winced, wishing too late that he could call back the words. That wasn’t how a spacer was supposed to talk about superior officers. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he apologized.

  “As you should be,” Donnelly said severely. “Don’t ever complain or backtalk behind someone’s back, Long. You have a problem, you go to them, or you go up the chain of command, or you keep your mouth shut.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Because the next person you pull that on likely won’t be as forgiving as I am.” She paused. “That being said, it was a good idea. I wish we could have seen if it worked.”

  “I guess we’ll never know, Ma’am,” Travis said. “But they were probably right. It probably wouldn’t have.”

  “Don’t,” Donnelly snapped.

  Travis flinched at the sudden anger in her voice. “Ma’am?”

  “Never give up on an idea just because someone doesn’t like it,” she said, glaring at him. “Be persuaded by facts, or don’t be persuaded at all.”

  “Unless I’m ordered to do so?” He grimaced. Again, the words had gotten out before he’d had time to properly think about them. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

  “You need to learn to watch your mouth, Spacer,” Donnelly warned. “Military service is a game, with players and rules. Learn to play, or learn to hurt.”

  “I understand, Ma’am,” Travis said between clenched teeth.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “But you’d better start. And for the record, along with being snide, that statement was also wrong. No one can order you to give up on your ideas. All they can order you to do is not act on them. Big difference. If the idea’s good, people will eventually come around.”

  “Though not in this case.”

  Her lip twitched. “No, this one’s time is past,” she admitted. “The point I’m trying to make is not to give up on yourself.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Travis said, feeling fractionally better. “I’ll try.”

  “You do that.” She hesitated. “Phobos is in for more trouble, isn’t she?” she asked quietly.

  Travis sighed.

  “I’m hardly an expert, Ma’am. But everything I’ve read says hull harmonic damage goes deep. If anything dangerous is still active in there, it could go at any time.”

  Donnelly exhaled a tired-sounding breath. “Then I guess it’s time to start praying for miracles.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Travis said. “I hope they can find one.”

  “Well, it looks like Vanguard’s reached Rafe’s Scavenger,” Creutz said, peering at the single sensor monitor they’d managed to get up and running.

  “Good,” Ouvrard said. And well within the miners’ oxygen countdown. At least those survivors had made it through this ordeal alive. “Have you heard anything new from the impeller crew?”

  Creutz was opening his mouth to answer when the plasma still trapped in the impeller capacitors vented violently, slicing through the remaining bulkheads and exploding with blazing death through what was left of the ship.

  Ouvrard had just enough time before the bridge disintegrated around her to wonder what the Board of Inquiry would say about her failure.

  Three days later, after the Rafe’s Scavenger survivors had been delivered to Unicorn One, the official list of the Phobos dead was finally made available.

  It was only then that Travis learned to his horror that Gunner’s Mate Johnny Funk and Senior Chief Dierken, the two men responsible for saving his career from Lieutenant Cyrus, had been aboard the doomed sloop.

  He didn’t eat for a full day afterward. He didn’t sleep for two days after that.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “One hundred and thirty men and women,” Breakwater said, his voice rising in both volume and intensity. “One hundred and thirty!”

  Winterfall winced. The Chancellor had a flair for the dramatic, and he was certainly pulling out all the dampers today.

  Unfortunately, a volume that worked in the House of Lords assembly chamber was strikingly inappropriate here in the much smaller Cabinet meeting room. Even at the far end of the ornate table, seated in what Breakwater had described as the hot-seat chair, Winterfall found the Chancellor’s thundering roar to be borderline painful.

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one. “Please, My Lord,” Prime Minister Davis Harper, Duke Burgundy, said. His face was screwed up in distress, hardly surprising given how much closer he was to Breakwater’s auditory eruption.

  But even at that, there was no hint of anger or even confrontation in his voice. Burgundy, the perpetual conciliator, was as much on his normal game as Breakwater was on his. “Be gentle to an old man’s ears.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Breakwater said, notching back his volume as he inclined his head toward the other. He’d made his point, and was ready now to cut back on the histrionics. “But I make no apology for my passion. A hundred and thirty good MPARS officers and enlisted have died. I, for one, want to find out what happened.”

  “And I, for one, would appreciate it if the Chancellor would spare us his crocodile tears,” Minister of Defense Dapplelake said stiffly. “If he’ll recall, from the very beginning of his ridiculous Mars proposal First Lord Cazenestro and I told his so-called Sanity Committee—” he flashed a look down the table at Winterfall “—that the plan was insane. Well, it was, and those hogs have now come home to root.”

  “You and the Admiralty signed off on Ashkenazy’s certification that Phobos was ready for duty,” Breakwater countered.

  “You barely gave us enough time to examine his test results before insisting we do so,” Dapplelake shot back.

  “If you hadn’t finished your analysis, why did you release the ship?”

  “Because you’d been badgering us for weeks to do so.”

  “So you’re saying that a little political pressure is enough for you to ignore your jobs and put the lives of over a hundred men and women in danger?”

  “That’s a lie!” Dapplelake snarled, leaping to his feet. “The Defense Ministry does not bow to pressure. We would never have confirmed certification if we’d had any indication that there was a problem.”

  “Please, My Lords, please,” Burgundy said, holding out conciliatory hands toward both men, his voice and expression pained. “Men and women are lost. Can’t you for once put aside your political differences out of respect?”

  “I beg your pardon for my tone, Your Grace,” Dapplelake ground out, his eyes still on Breakwater. “But I will not sit by and have the integrity of my people impugned. From everything we were given, Phobos was fully fit for duty.”

  “Please, My Lord,” Burgundy repeated, fluttering the hand still stretched toward Dapplelake. “Let us be civil here.”

  Slowly, Dapplelake resumed his seat. “The fact of the matter, Your Grace, is that for the final two weeks my people were barred from certain areas of the ship, and denied access to some of the test documents. If any
one knew there was a problem, it was Ashkenazy and his people.” He looked at Breakwater. “And the Chancellor and his people.”

  “That’s a serious charge, My Lord,” First Lord of Law Deborah Scannabecchi, Duchess New Bern, spoke up. It was the first word any of the other Cabinet ministers had ventured since the Phobos debate began, Winterfall noted. Clearly, they were used to staying out of Breakwater’s and Dapplelake’s mutual lines of fire. “Have you any proof of this charge?”

  “I believe I do, Your Grace,” Dapplelake said. “That’s why I asked Baron Winterfall to come before this body to answer some questions. With the Prime Minister’s permission.”

  “Yes, of course,” Burgundy said, eyeing Winterfall apprehensively. “Baron Winterfall, if you have light to shed on this matter, please do so.”

  “Yes, let’s see what he has to say,” Dapplelake seconded, his voice dark with brooding anticipation. “And when his presentation is finished, I have a few questions of my own to ask.”

  Winterfall braced himself. He didn’t know exactly what Dapplelake was planning to ask, but he had little doubt as to what the nature of the questions was going to be. The seemingly never-ending game of political chess between the Chancellor and Defense Minister was heating up, and Dapplelake had determined it was time to clear some of the pawns off the board.

  The first of those pawns being Winterfall.

  He’d suspected something like this was on the horizon a few weeks ago when Dapplelake specifically invited him to attend Phobos’s commissioning ceremony. He’d known it for a certainty for the past month as he began to hear murmurs from others in the Lords that the Defense Minister was increasingly mentioning Winterfall’s name in connection with the doomed ship. If he could make Winterfall the face of the disaster, it would damage any influence or credibility the young baron might still have, while delivering a warning to Chillon and the others lords who’d allied themselves with Breakwater on his quest to cut back the military’s share of the Star Kingdom’s budget and shift those resources to his own MPARS.