The Belt Loop_Book Two_Revenge of the Varson

by Robert B. Jones

  He settled into the command chair. The combination of odors hit him at once. A mixture of smells somewhere between new leather, ozone, oily metal and synthetic fabric gently assaulted his nose. He loved it. Lieutenant Hansen was at the communications console over his right shoulder instead of his left. Science Officer Lieutenant Cain Washoe was at his console at Haad’s nine o’clock. Mister Diggs was at the weapons console and the reliable Noname Gant was at the helm looking at the huge graphic displays on his control stack. Lieutenant Commander Bill Mason served as his XO. There were several navigation techs and sonarmen behind him at his five, but they were part of the integrated CIC — Combat Information Center — that was collocated with the other systems on this larger bridge. He was sure he’d get to know them on the trip out. A small group of men and women in utility overalls were knelt down behind the low partition to his left and they must have been civilian contractors looking at some last-minute operational aspect of the new ship. He had neither the time nor the interest to engage them in conversation now.

  The clearances were broadcast by direct link to Hansen and after getting the “ready” responses from all departments, the CNS Hudson River was set for push-back on her maiden voyage. No photographs, no press releases, no fanfare. Strictly business, and that’s just the way Haad preferred.

  “Sir, we await your orders,” Nono Gant said.

  A bright light flashed behind him. Haad looked for the source and the damn thing flashed again. “Mister Mason, what is that flash?”

  “Sorry, sir. The imbeds are going to take a few pictures of our maiden voyage. Orders from Admiral Paine. For the archives.”

  Haad started to protest, but thought better of it. No need to mar his first destroyer command with an argument with a bunch of holo-vid journalists. “Very well. Have them switch to available light if you will. Those bright flashes are somewhat distracting.”

  When the spots cleared from his eyes he was about to say something else to the journalists when the woman in the dark blue coveralls lowered her camera and smiled. Haad was taken aback. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his entire life! He watched her reach down into her equipment bag and retrieve another camera, her long blonde locks cascading over her back like a golden waterfall.

  Haad snapped his head back to the front. “Give us port thrusters at ten percent, Mister Gant. Ease us out.”

  Aye, aye, sir. Lateral thrust at ten. Umbilicals away, sir.”

  “Steady as she goes.”

  Haad wanted to say something to Mister Washoe to give him an excuse to look back to his left again, back at the journalists. He could think of nothing to query science about at this early stage of the voyage.

  “Forward AM impulse as soon as we clear, Mister Gant.”

  The 635,000 metric ton ship started to pulse as the sound of enormous electrical energy surged throughout the boat. With a crew of 319 souls she was headed into battle. Haad hoped the ship had been swept for stowaways this time. Once the big ship was approaching the limits of the Higgs Field supplied by the Port Authority, Haad looked toward Cain Washoe. “Give us our Higgs, Mister Washoe. Keep it at ninety percent.” Before he turned his head back to the forward blister he caught a glimpse of the lady photographer again. She was talking to Bill Mason and her profile was plainly outlined by the graphic displays behind her on the curved bulkhead of the bridge, making her animated face seem surreal and casting a multi-colored nimbus around her head.

  Haad was perplexed. What was this? He hadn’t shown any interest in a woman in so many years that the surge of emotion he was feeling for this photographer was generating more adrenaline that the launching of his new ship.

  The lights dimmed for a split second and the Higgs on the Hudson River kicked in with its accompanying high-pitched electrical whine that stepped up through the audible frequencies until it disappeared, leaving only a razor-thin vibration behind.

  “Higgs at nine zero, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Washoe said.

  “Mister Gant, set your course at two five seven and make her nose plus six.”

  “Aye, sir. Coming left two five seven, up six.”

  “Engineering reporting maximum efficiency from the AM drive, captain,” Commander Mason said.

  “Two-thirds impulse power, Mister Gant. Get us there,” Haad ordered.

  Gant acknowledged and ran his hand down the control stack. Hansen reported clearance from Bayliss Port Authority at 0526 hours. Haad noted the time in his log and swept his bridge with his knowing stare. All systems were go, all departments reported ready. Somewhere out there, some 400,000 kilometers away, toward the star known as Brophy-21, his future awaited.

  Before settling back in his command chair he sneaked another peek at the imbeds. The pretty blonde photographer smiled at him and twirled her fingers.

  This was going to be an interesting voyage, Haad thought.

  * * *

  With the taste of her lips still fresh in his mind, Ken Royal waited for a return shuttle to Weyring, his rather obscure mission completed. Trying to get a hop to Elber was now out of the question. Travel restrictions between the seven planets of the Colonial Alliance of Planets would probably remain in force until this new conflict wound its way down.

  No matter. He was sure he could make himself useful doing something here on Bayliss. He mulled the possibilities. He could always put in paperwork to transfer to the Weyring Police Department. They would certainly need replacements for the officers and men that were called up to satisfy their reservist enlistments with the Navy. He could perhaps look for a teaching job somewhere but that was low on the priority list. Criminal law wouldn’t make the top ten career choices of students out here in the Fringes. Something would turn up, he was sure of it.

  In the meantime, he would just wait it out. Would wait for Maxine Hansen to return to port. Her captain had allowed him to ride up to the Port Authority dock and say goodbye. It had been an awkward moment at first, him not really knowing what to do at first, her expressing a variety of concerns for her son. Finally when the shuttle was almost empty, when it was time to part, he had impulsively reached for her and she’d fallen into his arms. The quick embrace turned into a passionate kiss and only the impatience of some of her fellow passengers had forced them to pull apart and unblock the small aisle.

  Ken looked at the departing flights screen and calculated when the next ship would be departing. He had twenty minutes to kill. He sauntered over to the observation deck view port and looked up at the hulking Navy ships on the upper tier. Walking clockwise, he found himself staring at the underside of the Hudson River. The cargo tubes were being withdrawn and the huge hatches were silently easing downward, awash in strobing yellow lights. He adjusted his view so he could look forward, toward the front of the ship, toward Max. She was there somewhere, on the bridge, almost a kilometer away from his longing stare.

  Umbilicals snapped back, and small ventings of carbon dioxide coalesced around the seals. Now that the cargo tubes and the umbilicals were retracted, he could just barely make out the main gangway as it was being accordianed back into the hub. One minute later he heard the distant sirens and squawks from the top of the dock. She was moving! Watching the small city-sized warship being nudged away from the dock was awe-inspiring. Her blast-shields were down, all of her observation ports covered, her sally ports and weapon blisters sealed against the unpredictable harshness of space.

  As the destroyer moved away from the dock he could finally see the small puffs of vented gasses from the vernier thrusters along her flank, making small critical pushes at timed intervals. When he heard his flight announced he moved away from the observation window and the memories of Lieutenant Maxine Hansen.

  He silently wished her a safe voyage and a speedy return.

  That was all he could do.

  * * *

  This was not going to be easy, Rear Admiral Coni Berger thought for the hundredth time. She had managed to elude capture thus far and now all she ha
d to do was hope and pray her forged documents would pass scrutiny at this last checkpoint. She had abandoned her proper uniform for one of a chief warrant officer, counting on her dyed hair and and carefully applied make-up to get her past screening at the departure gate.

  She heaved her seabag over her shoulder as the line inched forward. Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw what was ahead. Admiral Geoff had wasted no time getting the FRS — Facial Recognition Software — screeners in place. And each person in the line ahead of her was subjected to the scans. She looked behind her and the queue was thick and boisterous with rankings and ratings of every description. She would have tried to make a run for it, vault the stanchions and rails if she were ten years younger. The six marines waiting behind her also negated that response.

  “Please remove your cover, ma’am,” the SP lieutenant instructed her as she approached the checkpoint. She did as she was told and handed him her forged exit orders. She was trying to get on a Navy transport ship headed for Canno.

  The lieutenant looked at her orders, then looked at her face. “Place your toes on the white line and look directly into the screen, please,” he said.

  The moment of truth. Without making a show of it, she squared her shoulders and looked at the machine. Her heart rate was over 150 and she made an attempt to narrow her brow and lower her chin with subtle, almost undetectable muscle movements.

  The alarm sounded almost at once. Two SP chiefs were at her side immediately and she was hustled out of the line. “Come this way, ma’am, one of the chiefs said as he clamped a rugged hand around her upper arm.

  Berger didn’t struggle, didn’t resist.

  As she was led away she heard a voice behind her say, “Keep the line moving, let’s go, keep moving.”

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours after the departure of the Hudson River Milli Gertz looked in on Davi Yorn. He was out of immediate danger but was still heavily sedated. His recuperative powers were pretty strong, she remembered, and she hoped he would rejoin the people on the conscious side of the veil soon.

  He was stretched out on a medical console with only his head and his lower body supported by standard cushions. The adjustable console opened beneath his upper back and allowed for him to recline with pressureless worries about the damage to his back and allowed the healing tubes and drainage devices to do their work. The thin light blue sheet covering his body rose and fell in a comforting rhythm.

  Gertz looked at his monitors and was satisfied with what she saw. He was one strong man, she thought. Silently she reached out and caressed his left hand with her good hand. She knew that sooner or later he would find out about her unorthodox healing methods. She didn’t care. She had applied her strange technique almost a dozen times in the last thirty-six hours, not really understanding how she was able to do it. Only after a couple of fits and starts did she come to realize that in order for her to work her miracles, she had to have two things: emotional involvement was the first and an operating medical magnetic imaging scanner was the other. She knew that she would probably be stuck at the Weyring Base Hospital for the forseeable future; Doctor Jamison would see to that. They would study her later, but, right now, she was the resident angel of mercy for the seriously wounded Navy men and women.

  Yorn’s hand moved under her palm. She looked up at his monitors and saw his blood pressure creep up a few notches. His eyelids fluttered. He was waking up!

  She leaned in and kissed him lightly on his parched lips. His eyes opened.

  “Am I in heaven?” Yorn croaked.

  Chapter 47

  Vice Admiral Stanley Geoff sat at his desk and studied the latest reports from his Fleet Admirals. The reports did not augur well. Unless the humans could find a way to run the Bayliss blockade the future was dismal. Since the war with the Varson Empire had rekindled, his Second and Third Fleets had suffered tremendous casualties and had lost many ships. Now the Varsons had posted so many ships around Bayliss that it was hard to maneuver without running into trouble. All Admiral Geoff could think of was revenge.

  Now these reports. Admiral Teals reported that it would take an additional two weeks to have the First ready to help in any significant kind of way. Admiral Paine reporting that until the rest of the ships returned from the Belt Loop, there was no effective way to run the Varson blockade. And Admiral Standi was on his last leg. His men were facing difficult times he realized. Their spirit and will to fight was diminished by their lack of equipment and leaders. The shake up of the Second and Third Fleets was something that had moved that item to the top of his priorities list.

  Change was coming. He had only to settle this matter with the Varson Empire and then he would assume the command of the entire armed forces in the colonies, something that he desperately wanted to do before he retired and passed the baton to a younger man. In his heart and mind he knew that his replacement had to be someone from the front-line list of officers. No Admiralty could exist without men trained and experienced in combat, especially combat out in the Belt Loop or the Fringes. Administrative types need not apply. Those clowns over in admin, those men who had the hands of the corporatists in their pockets at all times, should not even look to ascend to the top posts. They were the “wine and dine” members of the Secretary of the Navy’s personal staff and only sought to enrich the industrialists they help make rich. Lucrative no-bid contracts, hush-hush back room deals. All of the things he detested. But his fight was not with them. They supplied the oil that kept his Fleets operating smoothly.

  Sometimes you just had to remind them what the Navy was really all about. Keeping the colonies safe and keeping the human race ever expanding, ever learning.

  Geoff pushed away the report reader and stood. He crossed the hard wood floor and gazed from the ornate window overlooking the meandering campus of the War College. Just barely visible in the shimmering reflection from the inside of the mirrored glass he saw his grizzled countenance. Tall and thin, pale tan flesh, hardened eyes and a thin stubble of gray hair covering his wizened head. From his viewing angle he seemed to shimmer above the great school below him. His gaze wandered to the southwest and in the distance he saw hundreds of criss-crossed contrails made by ships and flyers shuttling back and forth from orbit. Closer in, he glanced down at the manicured lawns and empty streets surrounding the school complex. Operating continuously for over three hundred years, this War College had never been shut down before and it was his intention to get it back up and running soonest. Once the conflict with the Varson Empire started up again, most of his senior instructors had been called back into active service leaving only a handful of officers to man the classrooms. With the end of the term so near, Geoff had decided to send everyone home but the basic administrative staff.

  The vice admiral turned from the window and made his way back to his desk, his leather heels beating out a sharp cadence of determination on the polished floor. He reached for his comm stack and punched it to life. “Send in Admiral Berger,” he said.

  One knock at the door and slowly a trembling hand pushed it open.

  Coni Berger walked in followed by two armed SP Lieutenant Commanders.

  “Rear Admiral Constance Berger reporting as ordered, sir.” She did not offer him a salute.

  He told her to be seated. Her escorts remained at the door at parade rest. She had at least managed to get herself in a proper uniform, Geoff noticed.

  “I have read the reports from the arresting officer, Coni. And the declaration of charges forwarded to me from Vinny Paine. These allegations are quite disturbing,” he said as he adjusted his weight in his chair.

  “Disturbing, how?”

  Geoff took a minute to glance at his reader again. Surely she wasn’t going to try to deny her complicity in this matter and try to weasel her way out of the punishment she so deserved. He had unlimited authority in these matters under the War Powers Act. The simplest thing to do would be to take her outside and shoot her.

  “You not knowing wha
t disturbs me is one of the reasons I can’t help you, Coni.”

  “Well, sir, to be honest, I really don’t give a shit anymore. The Navy has pretty much ruined my life and I have no regrets about anything I’ve done.”

  “So, you willingly admit to aiding and abetting an enemy of the Colonial Navy? You make that statement of your own volition?”

  “I do. You pompous pricks have taken the only thing I had in this world away from me. Camille was my heart and that monster Davi Yorn killed her.”

  “You must know what happened on the Mobile Bay was instrumental in saving tens of thousands of lives. Sometimes the welfare of the many has to outweigh the pain of the few.”

  Berger stood and kicked her chair away. “You can say that, Stan, but I don’t have to believe it, I don’t have to accept it!”

  One of the SP guards took a step forward but Geoff waved him back. “For heaven’s sake, Coni! That was war and you can’t take war personally. I have had the burden of sending thousands of men and women to their deaths. I have commanded more ships and men than you could even imagine and all the time I knew that many of them would not be coming back. That’s the chance we all take when we sign up, so you can just take your whining, sniveling, nonsensical denial and shove it right up your traitorous ass!”

  She still stood her ground and was as defiant as ever. “Typical male response. Cover your misdeeds with tales of bravado and machismo. It’s all a lie. It’s all a lie.”

  He stood and walked around the desk. When he raised his hand she cowered instinctively. Instead of striking her he ripped her shoulder boards off one at a time.

  “Get this piece of shit out of my sight, commander,” he said to one of the door guards.

  Then he turned back to Coni Berger and said, “You’re not fit to wear these, Coni, not even in disgrace.”