Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga)

by Peter Grant

  “Sounds like they kept you busy!”

  Steve grinned. “You might say that. The Fleet Achievement Medal was for an earlier incident involving a mold infestation aboard a transport, and the Good Conduct Medal was an automatic award for completing a four–year term of enlistment without disciplinary issues.”

  “Those medals will give you a lot of credibility as a junior officer.”

  “Hey, don’t count my chickens before they’re hatched! I’ve got to pass OCS first! Besides, I was just lucky to have been in the right places at the right times.”

  “Ha! You can get lucky once or twice, but not that often.”

  Embarrassed, Steve tried to shift the spotlight. “What about your medals? Where are they from?”

  “All three of mine, and my combat star, are from a year with the United Planets peacekeeping mission to Al–Aqurt.”

  “Sounds like things were no more peaceful there than they were on Radetski.”

  “Yeah. Funny how often so–called ‘peace’–keeping missions end up like that, isn’t it?” They shared a rueful grin. “The Star’s from a fight with insurgents, the Achievement Medal’s for helping to develop a training regime for local forces, and the Expeditionary Service Medal’s for being there in the first place.”

  “Looks like we’ve both had moments of excitement here and there. I’m glad you’re a combat veteran. I’ve found it adds a whole new perspective to Fleet service.”

  “You’re not kidding! It should give us both the right perspective on OCS, too. Theory’s all very well, but when the proverbial brown substance hits the rotary air impeller, an awful lot of theory goes to hell in a handbasket.”

  “You can say that again!”

  ~ ~ ~

  The Senior NCO Instructor, Master Chief Petty Officer Dumisane, laid it out for the candidates that evening. He was an enormous ebony–black man standing over two meters tall, muscular, ramrod–straight in his immaculate uniform, broad chest ablaze with awards that included the rare hat–trick of the Lancastrian Star in Gold, Silver and Bronze, both of the latter with a bronze rosette on their ribbons denoting second awards. His agate–hard eyes surveyed the candidates from beneath a close–cropped fuzz of black hair. Steve wasn’t in the least surprised to learn later that he was descended from the Zulu warrior tribe on Old Home Earth. He looked every inch the fighter that his medals proved he was.

  He didn’t mince his words. “You’re here because you’re the best potential leadership material the Fleet’s been able to find. It’s our job to test whether you’ve got what it takes to be a leader. It’s your job to demonstrate to us, under high–stress conditions, that you do.

  “In particular, OCS evaluates whether you’ve got what it takes to become a commissioned leader. Please note that qualifying word, commissioned. I’m a leader, but not a commissioned leader, and I’m not in the least ashamed to acknowledge that. To be an officer requires a different perspective, a different mindset. Let me try to explain by analogy. It’s not perfect — no analogy ever is — but it’s the best I’ve been able to figure out in over two decades of service.”

  He reached down and took a heavy–bladed saber from behind the podium. He drew it from its sheath and raised it in his right hand. “I want you to take a good look at this saber. In its day it was a deadly front–line combat weapon, standard issue for cavalry units. That day passed many centuries ago, of course, but it can still protect or take life if necessary. Swordsmanship is still practiced by many of us in the profession of arms. I’ve personally found it an interesting martial art and a valuable discipline, and I recommend it to you as worthy of study.

  “What does it take to make a saber into a deadly weapon? There are three elements. The first is the material from which it’s made. Cheap pot metal will break under stress. Only the best ores, blended and smelted correctly, will produce the steel necessary to make a superior blade. The second element is the craftsmanship with which the weapon is made. The metal must be melted, alloyed, shaped, tempered, balanced and sharpened. Each step requires expert attention. The third element is the person who wields it. He or she must be fit, strong, trained to use the blade swiftly and skilfully in defense or on attack, with ruthless determination to win the fight.”

  He paused, and looked around the room very deliberately before he spoke slowly and with great emphasis. “All. Three. Elements. Are. Essential. If any one or more of them are deficient, defeat will usually follow.

  “I submit to you, candidates, that the Fleet — or, more specifically, that part of the Fleet under his command — is like a saber in an officer’s hand. The personnel of the Fleet and its equipment are the materials from which his weapon is made. They’re the best we can find. The NCO’s under his command — and, when he becomes more senior, the junior officers too — are the craftsmen; forgers, shapers, sharpeners. It’s their job to take the materials and forge them into the finest possible weapon. It’s an officer’s job to guide his subordinates in doing that, and then to take up that weapon and wield it with skill and efficiency to win the fight.”

  He slid the saber back into its scabbard and returned it to its place against the podium as he continued, “I said the analogy wasn’t perfect, and I can see some of you frowning as you think about it. Yes, there are NCO’s who lead more like officers, particularly in specialized units such as the Fleet Recon Brigade. Yes, there are positions, particularly in training units, that require officers to function more like NCO’s. Nevertheless, on the whole I submit that the analogy generally holds true.

  “We already know you’re good raw material. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. More than a few of you have also demonstrated craftsmanship as NCO’s, shaping and forming more junior personnel. OCS is where we try to find out whether you have what it takes to wield the weapon of the Fleet, before we place it in your hands. It’s up to you to demonstrate to us that you have it. If you do, you’ll graduate and be commissioned. If you don’t, you won’t — at least, not if we have any say in the matter. It’s that simple.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Breakfast next morning was a subdued affair. The hundreds of candidates were simultaneously excited to be there, apprehensive about what awaited them, and unsure what would happen next. They helped themselves to food from the buffet lines and sat quietly eating.

  A Senior NCO from Administration went to the podium at the head of the mess hall and called for attention. “I’m Chief Petty Officer Mubarak. We’ll handle your in–processing today, before the course proper commences tomorrow. You’ve all got copies of your records and administrative files with you.” Nods from the candidates. “Good. Bring them with you, in case there are errors in the information that was sent to us. It happens more often than you might think.” Several of the candidates rolled their eyes in exasperated agreement.

  “We’re going to divide you into four groups. Group One comprises candidates whose surnames begin with the letters A through F; Group Two, G through M; Group Three, N through S; and Group Four, T through Z. At zero–eight–hundred Group One will report to the Paymaster’s office, Two to Medical, Three to Personnel and Four to Records. Each group will rotate to the next department at ten, after lunch, and at fifteen. Proceed in alphabetical order within your groups, to avoid confusion. In your free time between appointments, go to the gymnasium to enroll in your two mandatory sporting disciplines.”

  As they headed back to their building, Steve muttered to Brooks, “We’re both at the tail end of our groups in alphabetical order. What say we hit the gymnasium right away, even before going to Admin? I’d like to make sure I get the sports I want, rather than find all the slots taken by others who got in ahead of me.”

  “Good idea.”

  The gymnasium had been set up with tables, each staffed by a representative of a particular sport to explain it to inquirers and sell them on its virtues. Offerings included sailboat handling, kayaking, swimming, diving with snorkel and gill unit, various racquet sports, rock–climbing,
parachuting, swordsmanship and several martial arts. A sign at the entrance warned candidates that they could select at most one sport with which they were familiar; the other, or both, had to be new to them, in order to pose an added challenge as part of their training. They were expected to pass a basic qualification in each sport before graduation.

  “Notice something?” Brooks said softly as they looked around. “They’re all individual sports, rather than team–oriented.”

  “Yeah. That ties in with something my Chief Flying Instructor said before I came here. At Boot Camp everything revolved around teamwork and the group, but at OCS it all revolves around the individual. They must want to put each of us under the microscope to see how we cope, in sports as much as anything else.”

  “Makes sense. Heaven knows, our officers and NCO’s emphasized teamwork and co–operating with others all through our enlisted service. If we hadn’t already got that right, I guess they’d never have selected us for OCS. Which two are you going to pick?”

  “I did a gill unit sport diving course on Bedford the year before I enlisted. My civilian qualification expired long ago, so I think I’ll join the diving club here and renew it to Fleet standards. For the other, you heard Master Chief Dumisane last night. If he recommends swordsmanship as worthy of study, who am I to argue?”

  “I’ll join you in that, and take parachuting for my other discipline. I’ve always wanted to learn. Sure you don’t want to give it a try too?”

  Steve shook his head violently. “No way! I fly small craft for a living — or, at least, I used to until I came here. Why the hell would I want to throw myself out of one when it’s in perfectly good working order?”

  A Petty Officer First Class took their names for basic swordsmanship training. “The Armati Society has branches on every Commonwealth planet and in every major Fleet establishment,” he explained. “Our name dates back to the eleventh century, when Saint Anselm of Canterbury referred to the ‘Armati’ or ‘heavily armed ones’. We study weaponcraft from every era of history and every culture on Old Home Earth. It’s not just blades, either. Many cultures developed martial arts that also used axes, shields, poles or staffs, as well as common tools and implements — whatever came to hand in a tight spot. Our roster always fills up fast, so it’s a good thing you came in early.”

  “Master Chief Dumisane recommended swordsmanship to everyone last night,” Brooks explained. “We wanted to make sure we got in before the rush.”

  The Petty Officer grinned. “He’s the Society’s senior instructor in Western military swordcraft. He’ll be too busy with his duties to spend much time at our classes, but he’ll be one of the judges for your proficiency rating at the end of the course.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The candidates were dumped straight into the deep end in terms of physical fitness and calisthenics. From the very first day of the course, they were expected to perform at the levels they’d achieved only after eleven hard weeks’ training during Boot Camp. Those who hadn’t taken the time and trouble to regain or improve their fitness before arriving at OCS received scant sympathy from the instructors. Students who’d been assigned to ships before coming planetside to attend the course weren’t exempt. As Steve’s Platoon Instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Evelyn Dixon, observed acidly to an exhausted candidate, “Every Fleet vessel has a fully equipped gymnasium, and Fleet Regulations require everyone aboard to spend at least one hour per day exercising. Clearly, you weren’t doing so long enough or hard enough!”

  Her tough attitude was matched by that of the other instructors. The unfortunate candidate didn’t last even the first week of the course before being removed for cause.

  Steve was surprised to find that close order drill didn’t receive as much emphasis as he’d expected — only one daily session of one hour’s duration. He said as much to Brooks as they hurried between classes one day.

  “I suppose it’s because we’re already trained,” his roommate observed thoughtfully. “In Boot Camp we needed the discipline and team–building aspects of close order drill, as part of knocking the civilian stuffing out of us and making us military. That doesn’t apply here.”

  “I guess not.”

  It soon became clear that the drill sessions existed primarily to provide opportunities for each candidate to take charge of progressively larger formations, from squads, through platoons, to companies. The instructors looked for what they called ‘power of command’, a clear understanding of the complex evolutions involved, and the ability to teach them to others when necessary. However, many of the students possessed lively senses of humor, and weren’t above a little creative interpretation of the orders given by whichever candidate was in command at the moment. This could — and did — lead to complications.

  Steve discovered this to his cost when he took command of his training platoon one morning to execute a complex series of maneuvers. He’d been up most of the night preparing a report for another class, and as a result was muzzy through lack of sleep. He set the platoon in motion, marching away from his position, and prepared to call commands for a series of counter–marches and oblique maneuvers; but he was distracted by the approach of another group of candidates, one of more than a dozen marching to and fro on the parade ground. For a vital few seconds, he lost concentration — only to be jolted out of his tired reverie by a sarcastic inquiry from Marine Staff Sergeant Nolens, one of the platoon’s assistant instructors, who was in charge that morning.

  “Where are you sending them, Candidate?”

  “Wha — oh!”

  Chagrined, Steve collected himself and transferred his gaze to his platoon, only to realize that it was heading further to the right than he’d expected. He opened his mouth to call a command, but it was too late. He watched dumbfounded as the platoon disappeared down the stairs at the rear of the parade–ground, which led to a sports oval below.

  “Now you’ve done it, Candidate! They’ve dropped off the edge of the bloody world! If you don’t do something quickly, they’ll go on marching in that general direction until the Last Trump! You’d better get them back in time for graduation. It’s only eleven weeks from now!”

  They hurried over to the stairs, and looked down to see the platoon marching across the oval, still in perfect formation, to the dumbfounded amazement of other candidates engaged in athletic training. From the shaking shoulders of his platoon–mates, Steve could tell they were thoroughly enjoying the situation.

  Nolens took charge with a few bellowed commands, turning the platoon around, marching it back up the steps, then returning it to the position from which it had started. Steve trailed disconsolately behind him, knowing he’d earned a demerit for his incompetence.

  The Staff Sergeant halted the platoon, then marched stiffly up to the right marker, a candidate named Aswegen. He stared straight into his face as Aswegen tried desperately to keep his eyes focused on the distant horizon. Nolens said, softly but clearly, “I saw you make that little dog–leg to the right, to take the platoon down those stairs. Tell me, funny man, how are you going to feel when you’re in charge of the platoon, and someone does the same thing to you?”

  “Er… I… ah…”

  The instructor leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to the candidate’s ear, and bellowed, “DON’T DO IT AGAIN!”

  Aswegen jumped, then recovered himself. “Aye aye, Staff Sergeant!”

  “Candidate Maxwell will pick up a demerit for this; but to keep things fair, I’m going to give you one as well. Any objections?”

  “N–no, Staff Sergeant!”

  “Good.” He turned to Steve. “Now’s your chance to redeem yourself, Candidate. Think you can get it right this time?”

  “I’ll do my best, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Then let’s see how good your best is. Over to you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Candidates were required to rate the other members of their eight–person teams informally every week, and formally during the third and sixth week of OCS.
They would have to rate everyone in their entire platoon during the ninth week. The formal evaluations were comprehensive and detailed, seeking numeric ratings of many aspects of professional conduct, leadership skills, and related areas. Space was provided for comments to justify the ratings — and they were expected. Any candidate providing only a numeric rating would have the evaluation returned with a demand for supporting information.

  Gunnery Sergeant Dixon warned her students about the importance of proper assessments. “Part of an officer’s job is to evaluate the performance of others, honestly and objectively,” she pointed out. “We know most people don’t like to be negative about colleagues. That’s a normal human reaction, but combat leaders can’t afford it. What if you fail to honestly evaluate an under–performing subordinate? If they’re not corrected now, they may screw up monumentally further down the line. They may even get someone killed — and that someone may be you!

  “There’s no room for sentimentality in an evaluation. It’s vital that you assess your people honestly, rationally and completely. You’ll start with your peers on this course. If someone doesn’t have what it takes to make a good officer, you won’t fix that by covering up for them. You’ll simply inflict their problems on others, and on the Fleet as a whole.

  “We’ll assess your evaluation by comparing it, first to other candidates’ evaluations of that person, then to the instructors’ evaluations of them. If yours differs too greatly from the others, it will demonstrate one or more of three things. You may have identified something all the rest of us have missed, which is unlikely. Much more likely is that you aren’t taking this seriously — in which case, why are you wasting your time and ours at OCS? Finally, you may genuinely be unable to conduct an objective evaluation. Both of the latter cases will call into question your fitness for a commission — so be honest in your evaluations, for your own sake.”

  Steve initially found it difficult to submit detailed evaluations of his peers, particularly when they were negative. It felt almost as if he was stabbing them in the back. However, he knew others were evaluating him in the same way, so he tried to be as objective as possible. He was unsure about two of his fellow students in particular, and submitted negative assessments of them with some trepidation. Nevertheless, he was confident he had good reasons for his rating of them. He was therefore not surprised when, over time, one withdrew from the course and the other was dropped.