by Peter Grant
~ ~ ~
Steve went to Senior Chief Luculle’s office right away. It was across the ship’s main passage, in the Admin section. He knocked on her door and introduced himself.
“Glad to meet you, Sir. Welcome aboard.” She rose from the chair behind her desk, braced smartly to attention, then accepted his outstretched hand. She was a tall, rangy woman, firm–faced, deep blue eyes firm and direct. She glanced at the ribbons on his chest, and her eyebrows rose. “The Good Conduct Medal means you must have served more than one term of enlisted service, Sir?”
“Yes. I served almost five years before going to OCS, and held PO2 rank.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Sir. That, plus the rest of your fruit salad, shows you’re more experienced than the average young officer. It’ll stand you in good stead aboard Achilles, with so much to learn in so little time.”
“I hope so; but this is still my first operational assignment after being commissioned. I’ve just graduated as an entry–level Navigator. I’ve got a great deal to learn, and I know it. I also know that the Fleet expects Senior NCO’s to help train and form junior officers, and I wanted to emphasize that right from the start. Please take me aside and correct me if you see me making a mistake, or about to make one. I won’t be offended. If you’ll please ask your other Senior and Staff NCO’s to do the same, I’ll be grateful. I’d rather be respectfully chewed out by someone who knows more than I do, than look like a fool in front of the ship’s company.”
Her eyes warmed. “I’ll pass the word, Sir. You’re right, educating junior officers is part of our job, but some of them get on their high horse and don’t want to listen. It’s good to know you understand our role.”
Steve grinned. “High horses are dangerous. It’s a longer drop when you fall off!” They both chuckled. “Lieutenant–Commander Kilian’s given me a job where I’ll need your help.” He explained about the need to assign Spacers to boarding and search parties.
She frowned. “That’ll be a problem, Sir. We’ve got several Spacers who know their way around a merchant freighter, but most have important jobs on board. It’ll be hard to free up so many of them, particularly if both search parties leave the ship at the same time.” She thought for a moment. “How about this, Sir? We could take four experienced, competent Spacers per shuttle team, and pair them with up to eight less experienced juniors. They can help the seniors by doing the donkey work while they’re learning from them. After a few months they’ll be pretty much up to speed. At that point we can release most of the experienced personnel and draft more juniors to replace them. After a year, we’ll have a solid core of trained Spacers to draw upon.”
Steve nodded. “Good idea! I like it, Senior Chief.”
“I’ll prepare a list of potential search team members, Sir. When do you need them?”
“If we can have them by the time we leave for Midrash, that’ll be great, thanks. We can begin training them alongside their Marine counterparts during the voyage.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
~ ~ ~
That night, as Steve lay in his bunk, he found it hard to fall asleep. The seeming immensity of his new responsibilities weighed heavily on him.
I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to cope with it all, he thought to himself. On the other hand, plenty of other junior officers before me must have thought the same. If others can get through this, and go on to high rank, so can I!
His mind went back to the day he’d joined his first merchant freighter at Old Home Earth, almost a decade earlier. Tomkins, the Bosun’s Mate who’d supervised his training, had warned him before they reached the ship, “The reputation you establish over the next few months will stay with you for the rest of your career, so it’s best to make sure it’s one you’ll want to keep.”
He was right about that, Steve thought, and I’ll bet the same thing applies here. No matter how well I did in the merchant service, or the medals or promotions I won in enlisted service in the Fleet, this is my first deployment as an officer. I’ve got it all to prove, all over again, as quickly as possible, to a different audience, who’ll judge my performance according to different and much higher standards.
He mentally shrugged, then turned over, settling himself beneath the covers. He’d done it before… so he’d just have to do it again. Dammit, I’ll make my first few weeks aboard hum! Right from the start, I’ll do my best to show the skipper and Exec they can rely on me. That’ll set the tone for the rest of the deployment.
~ ~ ~
Steve didn’t have to present himself to Commander Mars the following day — she came looking for him. He was on his back beneath an assault shuttle in its pod, along with its pilot and a tech from Engineering, examining a landing gear strut. Through the steel deck, he heard multiple footsteps drawing nearer. Lieutenant–Commander Ergal called, “Ensign, come on out of there, please. Captain Hutchinson and Commander Mars have returned.”
Steve was wearing coveralls with rolled–up sleeves, and had grease smears on his face, hands and forearms. He felt anything but clean enough to meet the people whose opinion of him over the next two years would help to decide his future in the Fleet; but there was no avoiding it. He glanced at the others. “Stay here and carry on working, please.”
He slid himself out from under the shuttle, the wheels of the creeper on which he was lying rumbling over the deck’s diamond–tread plaspolymer protective coating, then levered himself upright, snapping to attention. Before him stood the Engineer Officer, also coverall–clad, and two other people. A tall, burly man wore the three ringed planets of Captain’s rank on the epaulettes of his Number Two uniform. His face was craggy, austere, but the twinkle in his eyes suggested intelligence and humor. Beside him stood a dark–haired Commander, her face olive–skinned, two ringed planets on each of her epaulettes. She was short, almost petite. Her eyes gleamed intensely.
“Good afternoon, Ensign,” she said. “I’m Commander Mars, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, and this is Captain Hutchinson, our Division skipper. We decided to come straight here from the docking bay to meet you, rather than make you go back to your cabin, shower, change, and present yourself in Number Ones. That would chop at least half an hour out of your working day, and right now we can’t spare that much time.” She held out her hand.
“Er… please excuse me for not shaking hands, Ma’am, but…” he gestured helplessly with his grease–stained fingers.
She smiled. “I’m pleased to see you’ve gotten stuck in to your job right away. No need to apologize. Lieutenant–Commander Ergal says you’ve already taken a load off his shoulders.”
“That he has, Ma’am,” the Engineer Officer confirmed. “It’s great to be able to hand over our small craft to someone who has more experience with them than I do! He’s been hard at work, going over them all to make sure they’re up to standard. I guess he’ll be tackling your gig next, now that you’re back aboard.”
Captain Hutchinson grimaced. “Just don’t take it apart until I’ve had a chance to visit a couple of our other ships this evening. I don’t want to call on them in an assault shuttle. Their Commanding Officers might get the wrong idea about why I’m there!” His listeners grinned.
“I’ll leave it be for now, Sir,” Steve agreed. “I’m just making sure there’s nothing on any of our small craft that requires depot–level maintenance before we depart.” He shifted his eyes to Lieutenant–Commander Ergal. “One of the suspension units on this shuttle looks like it needs replacing, Sir. We don’t carry them as spares, and even if we did, we don’t have a full–size service bay to let us get at them. With your permission, Sir, I’ll send her over to the dockyard tomorrow morning. They can do the work in four hours, if we make arrangements in advance.”
“Go ahead, Ensign. Keep me informed.”
“I’m glad to see you’re taking a round turn on your responsibilities so quickly,” Commander Mars said with an approving nod. “That’s something I look for in my officers. It’
s been my experience that attention to detail in small things usually carries over to success in more important matters.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I want to make just two points, Ensign, then I’ll let you get back to your work. This is your first operational assignment as an officer. We’ll make allowances for your inexperience, and we know you’ll make mistakes, just as we all did when we were in your shoes. What’s essential is that you tell us about those mistakes. Don’t try to hide them. We don’t want to be taken by surprise if an error you made blows up into a major problem. Tell us about them, let us counsel you where necessary, and give us an opportunity to fix them.
“We won’t hold it against you if you make an honest mistake while doing your best. We will hold it against you if you screw up because you’re too proud to ask for advice or assistance; or botch a job because you don’t understand it, or haven’t thought through it; or if you don’t tell us about a mistake, so we can fix it; or if you make the same mistake twice. Read me?”
“Loud and clear, Ma’am!”
“Good. The Fleet officially tasks its Senior NCO’s with the responsibility to help train junior officers. We’ve learned the hard way that the experience they have to offer can’t be found anywhere else. I met Senior Chief Luculle in the docking bay, and she told me you appear to have the right attitude about that. I’m very glad to hear it. We’re going to rely on her and our other Senior NCO’s to help you even more than usual, given our shortage of officers. They’ve got more practical experience than any of us, and they’ll steer you straight. I expect you to use their help as much as possible, just as the Exec and I do every day.”
“Aye aye, Ma’am.”
“Very good. We’ll leave you to get on with your work. I’m glad to have you aboard, Ensign.”
~ ~ ~
Steve’s first major headache arose the same afternoon, when he visited Senior Lieutenant Fulghum, who was currently the officer in charge of the ship’s commissary.
“The Exec’s assigned me to take over the commissary from you, Sir,” Steve advised him.
“Oh, bloody marvelous! I’ve never been able to give it enough of my time and attention — I’ve got too many more important things on my plate.” He rummaged through the clutter on his desk, selected an electronic clipboard, and downloaded a file to it from his terminal with a few swift keystrokes. “Here’s the stock list. Sign here to accept custody of it all, and I’ll hand over my keys. PO2 O’Grady has the other set — he looks after the store.” He handed the clipboard to Steve, along with a stylus.
Steve scanned the list quickly, and frowned. “Sir, this shows the stock position two months ago, when the commissary was activated. There’s no record of sales or resupply since then.”
“I haven’t got time to waste on that nonsense, man! I’m swamped with last–minute software updates for our electronic warfare systems. They’re going to keep me busy for days yet, and they’re much more important than this administrative bumph! Sign the form, take over the commissary, and let’s get on with more important things, for Heaven’s sake!”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Steve insisted awkwardly. “I can’t accept responsibility for the commissary without an up–to–date inventory and financial audit.”
Fulghum slammed his fist on his desk. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those hide–bound sticklers for Regulations? Dammit, Ensign, you’re straight out of Navigation School! You’ve no experience of how these things are done in the real world! We don’t have time for this crap! Sign the damn thing! That’s an order!”
Steve stiffened. He knew the order was illegal, and Fulghum had to know it too. He took up the clipboard and stylus, scribbled for a few moments, and handed them back.
Fulghum took it, glanced at Steve’s signature, did a double–take, and read more carefully. Above his signature, Steve had written: ‘Signed under protest, by direct order of Senior Lieutenant Fulghum. Handover formalities have not been completed.’
Fulghum threw down the clipboard on his desk and thrust himself to his feet, face suffused with blood. “You bloody fool! What the hell d’you you think you’re playing at?”
“I’m not ‘playing’ at anything, Sir,” Steve replied as calmly as possible, standing rigidly to attention. “I’ve merely stated the facts for the record.” The Senior Lieutenant glared at him in silence. After a moment, Steve continued, “May I make a suggestion, Sir? I know how busy you are. I’ve got the same problem. We can ask Petty Officer O’Grady to begin inventorying the commissary, with the assistance of another NCO. Let’s ask Senior Chief Luculle to designate someone she trusts to help him, so there’ll be an independent observer keeping an eye on things. If we’re both satisfied with the stock–take, we can jointly approve it. We can postpone an audit of the books until we’ve dealt with more important operational matters. That’s permitted by Regulations, after all. We can delay the formal handover of responsibility for the commissary until it’s completed. That’ll take the pressure of time off both of us.”
Fulghum glared at him, but slowly sat down. “Oh, very well! Tell O’Grady I said to get started on the inventory.” He picked up the clipboard and tapped the ‘Erase’ button, deleting both the downloaded document and Steve’s signature with its damning qualification. “We’ll do the paperwork in a few days, once we’ve complied with all the requirements of the Regulations.” He laid heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the last word.
“Aye aye, Sir. Thank you.”
Steve turned and left the office without another word, determined to keep things on as professional a footing as possible. Fulghum might end up as his Commanding Officer one day. There’d be no sense in making things more difficult between them than they already were!
He found O’Grady busy with his primary duties as a stores administration NCO. The Petty Officer Second Class was taken aback to learn of the stock–take and audit.
“But we’ve only been in commission for three months, Sir! I’m used to doing a stock reconciliation every six months, and an audit of the books once per year. I’m afraid my records aren’t even close to ready for an accounting, Sir.”
Steve frowned. “They’re supposed to be, PO! You know as well as I do that Regulations require them to be ready for inspection at any time. You’ve also been in the Service long enough to know that an an audit and stock–take are required whenever any department or function is handed over to a new supervising officer.”
“Er… yes, Sir.”
“You’ll have to prepare your books for audit as soon as possible. I’ll ask Senior Chief Luculle to assign another NCO to assist you with stock–taking, and act as an independent auditor, for everyone’s protection.”
“Er… aye aye, Sir. It’s going to be difficult to fit it in right now, though, Sir, what with all the preparations for departure.”
“I understand, PO. Start the stock–take immediately, but we’ll delay the audit of the books until we’re under way. Operational requirements take precedence right now.”
~ ~ ~
The two assault shuttle pods fascinated Steve. They crammed a great deal into relatively little space. The assault shuttle itself was a little larger than a cutter, capable of carrying up to twenty–five armored Marines or double that number of unarmored personnel. It was a tight fit in the vertical–access docking bay, having to be shoehorned into place by tractor and pressor beams using very precise tolerances. The shuttle’s rear ramp opened through an airlock onto a stairway, which led down to a magazine for its weapons and a maintenance area. Below them was the pod’s berthing compartment, which connected to the ship’s main passageway and could accommodate up to thirty people. Lowest of all were a personal weapons magazine, an armor storage area, a capacitor bank, and connections to the ship for the pod’s power and utilities.
The capacitors provided power to the shuttle when its fusion micro–reactor was powered down. They were designed to trickle–charge from ship’s power, and make their stored charge available to
the shuttles when required, thereby avoiding an overload on the parent ship’s reactors and wiring harness. That was the theory, anyway.
Unfortunately, theory didn’t translate into practice for Shuttle Pod Two. Within a day after the ship departed for Midrash, its circuit–breakers began to trip ten to fifteen minutes after the capacitors were placed on charge. The technicians stripped down every circuit, checked the wiring, installed new breakers, tried different combinations of settings… all to no avail. By the afternoon of the third day, the entire Engineering Department was frustrated.
Lieutenant–Commander Ergal buttonholed Steve. “We’re tearing our bloody hair out trying to figure out what’s wrong with that damned pod! Drop anything else you’re doing with your small craft, and see whether you can help my techs trace the problem.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
He arrived in the base of the pod, where the techs were assembled, to find an air of frustration so palpable it could almost be tasted. He helped them check its circuits for the seventh time. It took almost two hours to test every connection, make sure there were no flaws in the wiring, and start the charge once more; but all their hard work made no difference. The circuit–breakers tripped again after the same time interval.
Wails of profane protest rose from the technicians, some of whom looked almost ready to mutiny. PO2 Suleiman threw his tool belt to the deck in disgust. “Just what the hell did those monkey–brained, ham–fisted, addle–pated, cross–eyed, squat–assed, cloven–hoofed, cloth–eared clowns in the dockyard do to this damned pod? It’s jinxed, I tell you!”
“Enough of that!” Chief Petty Officer Raimundo snapped. “We’re all tired and frustrated, but that’s no reason to blame others for our problems. It’s up to us to fix them.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost sixteen. Let’s clean up, then those of you on day watch can stow your tools. We’ll tackle this again first thing tomorrow.” He turned to Steve. “I guess we’ll have to keep the shuttle’s micro–reactor running for now, Sir. At least it’s not much of a fuel drain, because its systems don’t draw much power when it’s docked.”