Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga)

by Peter Grant

  The NCO smothered a chuckle, turning it into a discreet cough instead, and turned back to the battalion commander. “He’s right, Sir. Sure, it’s unusual, but it’s not prohibited by the exercise rules.”

  “Then we’d better tighten up the bloody rules before the next exercise!”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Attention on deck!” The half–shouted, half–screamed alert braced everyone to rigid attention, even the last few in the showers and those still drying themselves.

  PO Robinson and Corporal Shabab entered. Robinson called, “As you were. Get some clothes on, or wrap a towel around yourselves, then gather round.” He waited while the platoon assembled.

  “Recruits, I’m proud of you. You weren’t told this ahead of time, but over the last year only two training platoons successfully completed all aspects of Exercise Grindstone. You’ve just become the third, and in record time — not to mention being the only platoon I’ve ever heard of to reach your target aboard a stolen — I mean, captured transporter!” He couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

  Corporal Shabab was also smiling. “Yeah, I’m gonna have to steer clear of that battalion for a while. They’re my old outfit, and they’re gonna be royally pissed at me for helping to train you so well you were able to put one over on them!” A roar of laughter greeted his sally.

  Robinson added, “Your top score on Exercise Grindstone has put you well out in front in the Honor Platoon competition. I don’t see any way another platoon can catch you now, even though the Unarmed Combat Competition’s still to come. I reckon our team’s sure to do well enough to at least maintain our lead, even if you don’t win it — which I fully expect you to do, of course!” More cheers. “Congratulations to all of you. That was a hell of a performance.”

  Corporal Shabab nodded. “Yeah, you’ve all done real well.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s just after midnight. The mess hall has mid–rats for anyone who’s hungry — the only time you’ll get them during Boot Camp, so make the most of them!” Laughter. “Since you’ve made us look good — and since none of the other platoons have made it in yet — we’ll give you a break. You can lie in until zero–six–hundred. That’s a whole extra half–hour’s sleep!” Groans. “Oh, you don’t want it?” Hurried cheers. “Okay, just kidding. Fall in for breakfast at zero–six–thirty.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The last week of Boot Camp was physically easy compared to the first eleven. It was occupied with final exams, which gave many recruits a few bad moments, but which they all passed. The instructors went over their postings with the recruits, to make sure each knew where he was going and what he’d be doing for the next few months.

  PO Robinson dealt with Steve’s immediate future. “You don’t have to do the full four–month Basic Spacer Training course, because you’re a qualified merchant spacer according to the standards and regulations of the Lancastrian Commonwealth. We recognize them, of course — after all, we helped write them! After you get back from your graduation leave, you’ll enter a three–week conversion course to teach you the differences between the way we do things and what you’re used to, then do two weeks at Damage Control School. After that, they’ll use you on short–term local tasks for a few weeks until the start of the next pilot’s course at Small Craft School. After you graduate from that, you’ll almost certainly get a two–year assignment to a Fleet auxiliary — a transport or depot ship. They’re similar to merchant freighters in some ways, so a posting to one will make the best use of your background and experience.”

  “Sir, this recruit understands, Sir.”

  “Good. On to other matters. Fifteen recruits from this intake will be promoted to Second or First Class Spacers due to prior experience and qualifications, as arranged by their recruiters. That includes you, of course, thanks to your merchant spacer background and pilot rating. The Honor Graduates of each platoon will receive their meritorious promotions first, then those fifteen will be called in alphabetical order. Listen out for your name and respond promptly.”

  “Sir, aye aye, Sir!”

  “Next, I know you were notified not to wear your Lancastrian Cross in Silver or Superior Unit Award ribbon when you reported here, or during training; but for graduation and thereafter, you’ll wear them, of course. Since the Fleet awarded them, we recognize both of them, even though you were a civilian when they were conferred. If you’re not sure how to mount them on your Number One uniform, ask me or one of the other instructors to show you how to do that.”

  “Sir, aye aye, Sir.”

  “We asked the Senior Unarmed Combat Instructor whether you could be examined for a Fleet black belt. We went through the Regulations with him looking for a way, but we couldn’t find one. They specify that a minimum of thirty hours’ instruction are required for each level, and make no allowance for prior training in other martial arts. However, he’s agreed that your leadership and training of the platoon team can be taken into account, over and above helping us with general instruction. That effectively doubles your hours of instruction, either receiving it or giving it; so while the other recruits have been awarded entry–level gray belts, you’ve been awarded a second–level blue belt. It’s already been logged in your file.”

  “Sir, thank you, Sir! This recruit appreciates the trouble you took on his behalf, Sir.”

  “You’ve helped us look good as instructors. This is one way we can thank you for that. Another thirty hours of instruction will make you eligible to qualify for the green belt. That allows you to teach and award the lower two levels. Thirty more hours for the brown belt; then another thirty before you can try for the first–level black belt. That carries with it an ‘Expert’ badge for unarmed combat, to add to those you’ve already earned for carbine and pistol. I encourage you to work towards your black belt, even during shipboard assignments. If you’re aboard a warship, I suggest you ask permission to train with its resident Marine unit — they do so more frequently and more regularly than most Spacers.”

  “Sir, this recruit will do his best, Sir.”

  “I understand you hope to be selected for a commission in due course?”

  “Sir, yes, Sir, as soon as this recruit has earned Commonwealth citizenship.”

  “Your recruiter put a note in your file to that effect. That being the case, I have some advice for you. First, strive to do more than the minimum. Seek to excel in everything! The Fleet expects its officers and NCO’s to lead by example, not by wielding their badges of rank like a club. Our people should want to follow their leaders, because they’ve demonstrated that they know what they’re doing and care about their subordinates.”

  He paused, and Steve hastened to assure him, “Sir, understood, Sir!”

  “Good. As part of that, observe the officers placed in command over you. Many will be good people, worth following, but unfortunately some won’t be so good. Learn from all of them! Some will show you what to do and how to do it, while others will show you what not to do. Remember the second category in particular. If you earn a commission, think about how those under you will respond to the way you conduct yourself, and don’t make the same mistakes that rubbed you the wrong way when you were an enlisted Spacer.

  “Next, follow the Fleet Reading Program diligently. It recommends books for every enlisted, NCO, warrant and commissioned officer grade. You should read those for your own grade and at least the next two or three grades above yours — unit library databases contain all of them. Don’t just skim them; read them carefully, and ask yourself what the Fleet wants you to learn from them. After all, they weren’t put on the list by accident! In particular, if you want to be an officer, read the books recommended for grades O–1 through O–3. If you demonstrate by example that you understand and can apply what’s taught in them, even as an enlisted or NCO spacer, it’ll count very strongly in your favor when your application is being considered.”

  “Sir, understood, Sir.”

  “Finally, the best way to learn a subject is to teach it. Th
at’s why every Senior NCO in the Fleet, Spacer or Marine, is also qualified as an instructor, either for general training like this or for specialist training in their particular field. No officer can be promoted beyond O–3 grade — Senior Lieutenant for us Spacers, or Captain for the Marines — unless and until they’ve had at least six months experience in a formal training assignment. That shows how seriously the Fleet takes this issue. Therefore, don’t try to avoid instructor training or duties: instead, seek them out.

  “Petty Officers Third Class and above are eligible to take the entry–level Instructor course. I strongly suggest you apply to attend it as soon as you reach that rank. As a bonus, it covers more than half the prerequisites for Officer Candidate School. It’ll give you a head start during the selection process for OCS, and while attending it. The intermediate and advanced Instructor courses aren’t so useful for that purpose, but if you’re selected for a commission and pass OCS, you may not be in enlisted ranks long enough to take them anyway.”

  “Sir, understood, Sir. This recruit will do as you suggest, Sir.”

  “Then I wish you the best of luck.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The announcement that evening that Alonzo Mendez would be the platoon’s Honor Graduate, and that their unit had been confirmed as the Honor Platoon for the course, was greeted with cheers. However, the loudest celebrations came when PO Kilrain produced a bottle of clear liquid and a lighter from his pocket. “No one’s going to fail now, so there’s a little ceremony performed by all platoons at the end of Boot Camp. How would you like to burn your white armbands?”

  The entire platoon yelped in joyful unison, “Sir, yes, SIR!”

  “Right. We’ll do that in a fire bucket.”

  Of the eighty members of the platoon at the start of Boot Camp, twenty–three had used their armbands; eight others had been dismissed as unsuitable for Fleet service in one way or another; and three recruits had gone to the hospital, to restart Boot Camp with a subsequent training cycle after their injuries had healed. The forty–six survivors gathered around the fire bucket in a happy, jostling mob, reaching into their pockets for the hated armbands. Their immolation would celebrate their imminent triumph.

  ~ ~ ~

  Steve stood rigidly at attention before Captain Mainyard as the Adjutant read his promotion orders, her voice echoing through the public address system. The Captain took the single chevron of Spacer Second Class rank from a cushion held by an aide and pressed it firmly, point upward, onto the hook–and–loop patch on his left sleeve.

  “Congratulations, Spacer Maxwell.” He shook his hand.

  “Thank you, Sir.” Steve stepped back, saluted, turned, and marched across the dais and down the steps to rejoin his platoon. He heard muttered whispers of congratulation from his fellow recruits — no, fellow Spacers and Marines now, he mentally reminded himself — as he took his position in the front rank.

  He cast his mind back over the past two and a half years. He’d gone from being a penniless hanger–on aboard an Elevator terminal, searching desperately for a break that would give him a fresh start, to being a qualified merchant spacer and pilot, to being a brand–newly–qualified military spacer. He was on his way to earning a citizenship that would offer him the opportunity to rise as high as his talents could take him, without the stifling hand of bureaucracy keeping him down. On the downside, he’d gone from being an orphan, to having the best surrogate father he could ever imagine, to losing him. He didn’t know if anything or anyone would ever be able to fill the yawning, painful gap in his soul left by Vince Cardle’s death.

  Well, I guess I’ll find out in due course, he thought to himself. I’m in the best place to take on pirates wherever I find them. That’ll be my memorial to you, Vince. I’ll do my best to make all of them pay for killing you. I hope you’ll know about that, wherever you are now. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to tell you about it. I hope so, anyway.

  Decontam

  April–July 2840, Galactic Standard Calendar

  Steve walked through the airlock, stepping to one side to clear the way for those following him. He turned to face the ship’s crest above the Commonwealth flag on the rear wall of the docking bay, came to attention and saluted smartly, then examined the outsize painting curiously. It portrayed an attractive, buxom young woman stepping down barefoot from a rock, clad from the neck down in a flowing ankle–length dress. Her right hand and arm were raised, carrying a pitcher, and in her left hand she bore a goblet. Her hair was tied back in a tight knot. The picture was surrounded by a circle of golden rope, with the name ‘LCS Hebe’ in a scroll at the top and the ship’s motto in another at the bottom.

  “Pretty–looking thing, isn’t she?” a spacer said behind him.

  “I guess so, if your tastes run that way,” he replied thoughtfully. “Trouble is, most of those Greek goddesses were pretty fickle creatures. Any man messing with them often bit off more than he could chew!”

  “You don’t say? I guess my ex must have taken lessons from them!”

  Chuckling, Steve looked around the cavernous docking bay. It was almost empty, with only half a dozen spacers having disembarked from the cutter on which he’d just arrived. They were moving purposefully towards the exit to the bay, logging themselves aboard at the duty desk on the way.

  He waited at the airlock until his trunks, toolkit and carryall were passed through by the baggage handling equipment. He lifted the smaller trunk into the depression sized to fit it in the lid of the larger, wheeled trunk, and the toolkit into a similar depression on the lid of the second trunk. He picked up the carryall, then activated the tracking unit clipped to his belt. The trunk tower obediently followed its signal as he turned towards the duty counter, the base trunk’s electric motor humming gently.

  He stopped at the counter, dropping his carryall and fishing in his pocket for the order chip. As he took it out, he came to attention. “Spacer First Class Steve Maxwell, come aboard to join, PO,” he announced himself to the Petty Officer Second Class seated behind the desk, whose nametag read ‘Higgins’. He handed over his orders.

  “Welcome aboard. We’ve been expecting you since yesterday. What kept you?” The NCO slotted his chip into the console and scanned its contents briefly.

  “I was supposed to come up to orbit on the Elevator yesterday morning, but they had a problem with our personnel pod. Wouldn’t latch to the cable. Their traffic queue was pretty full, so they couldn’t fit in a replacement pod for the next eighteen hours. They put us in transient barracks overnight and lifted us early this morning. I caught the shuttle from the Elevator terminus to the Cargo Terminal in Lagrange–2 orbit, and got there just in time to catch your liberty cutter. I’ve got my date– and time–stamped tickets, in case I need to prove any of that.”

  “Fair enough. Keep them until your Divisional Officer says you’re OK, but I don’t see how they can hold you responsible for delays like that. You’ll be tired and hungry. Mid–rats are in the mess hall — but of course, you’ve only just come aboard. You won’t know where to find it. I’ll get hold of PO1 Garza from Engineering and ask him to send someone to take you there, and to your quarters.” He tapped commands into his console.

  “Thanks, PO. Engineering Department, you said? Why would he be looking after a small craft pilot?”

  “Only bigger auxiliaries have dedicated Flight Operations Departments. The Goddess class are the smallest general–purpose transports in the Fleet, at half a million tons. We’ve got only a hundred crew, so functions are consolidated into half a dozen larger departments rather than a bunch of small ones. It’s more economical in terms of supervision and admin overhead, I suppose. Anyway, Flight Ops is part of Engineering. PO1 Garza supervises the pilots.”

  “Makes sense — although a hundred crew is still two and a half times more than a merchant freighter this size would have.”

  “Yeah, but a merchie relies on shuttles and robots from a Cargo Terminal for a lot of its freight–handling, and uses outs
ide maintenance. We have to transship supplies to and from Fleet bases and vessels using our own resources, maintain our own small craft, and handle things like damage control. That’s why we need the extra personnel.” The NCO returned the order chip to Steve. “I’ve copied your orders to Engineering, the Executive Officer and the Chief of the Ship, so you’re officially registered on board.”

  “Thanks, PO. If I’ll be under Engineering, who’s the Engineer Officer? What’s he like?”

  “That’s Lieutenant–Commander Wollaston. He’s pretty good at his job. Trouble is, he’s convinced any spacer ever born can walk on water, if only they faithfully obey his orders to do so.” He sighed. “All we need to succeed is The. Right. Attitude.”

  “I hear you. Some of the instructors at Small Craft School were like that.”

  “Yeah, but Wollaston’s hard–nosed about it. If things don’t happen as fast as he wants, or as well as he thinks they should be done, he gets real unhappy — and he’s got ways and means of making everyone else even more unhappy until they get fixed! You might want to keep that in mind. To be fair, though, if you do your job well, he’ll give you credit for that and back you up all the way.”

  As he spoke, the NCO entered a code into an intercom handset. He waited, then said, “Hey, Nick, Bill here. I’m on duty in the docking bay tonight. Your new pilot just got in — a Spacer First Class named Maxwell. D’you have anyone available to take him to his quarters?… OK, I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

  He replaced the handset. “PO Garza’s coming down himself. Take a seat over there.” He indicated a row of chairs against the bulkhead behind his counter. “He’ll be about five minutes.”

  “OK, thanks, PO.”

  Petty Officer First Class Garza proved to be a short, thick–set man, looking as if he were all muscle. He entered the docking bay wearing utility coveralls that he’d obviously thrown on hastily over off–duty garb.