For Honor We Stand

by Harvey G. Phillips

  Admiral Vladimir Nickolai Litvinoff, “the Fighting Czar,” was shown in a two dimensional capture from the famous tridvid documentary shot in the CIC of the Battleship Actium at the Battle of Rackham III on November 2, 2305. Litvinoff, then a Rear Admiral, was in the Working Uniform with Arms, the simple blue jumpsuit worn day to day on most warships, carrying his M-1911 sidearm and boarding cutlass, the latter looking more like a broadsword on his diminutive frame. The image was taken at the pivotal moment of that crucial battle. Thanks to the documentary, those few minutes were engraved indelibly in the collective memory of virtually the entire human race: the task force under Litvinoff’s command seemed on the verge of being wiped out by a numerically superior Krag force. The Fleet Carrier James A. Lovell had just jumped in and could not launch its fighters until its systems were restored from the jump, a process which would require five critical minutes. The four officers seen in the image staring grimly into the 3D tactical plot with Litvinoff had just unanimously advised the Admiral that his task force faced almost certain destruction unless he withdrew it immediately, abandoning the Lovell and its four squadrons of Valkyrie fighters to certain annihilation. The senior of them, Captain Fouché, had just said “Admiral, we must preserve this fleet. We must withdraw.”

  Of all the men in that CIC, only Litvinoff believed that he could hold off the Krag until the fighters launched, and that he could then concentrate them and his reserve against the two Battleships anchoring the Krag line, break the enemy formation, and turn defeat into victory. The image froze history at that moment: the Admiral’s chin jutting out defiantly, his right hand pointing to where his force was plotted, as he said, “Withdraw? Not today. Not one meter. We will hold this line.” And, as everyone knows, it went just as the Admiral envisioned: line held, fighters deployed, forces concentrated, and Krag formation broken. A famous victory won. Litvinoff, whose reputation as a great fighting commander was secured on that day, was now a Grand Admiral, in overall command of all the Navy’s forces fielded against the Krag.

  Max saluted first the Admiral, and then the General. It was the custom. Navy men saluted heroes even if, as in Patton’s case, they had been dead for centuries and were part of a totally different service.

  At that moment, the lock on the hatch cycled and Midshipman Hewlett burst into the compartment, flew across the room (running was allowed in the Lounge), and emphatically slapped the STOP button on the large timer mounted on the far bulkhead, halting the clock at 1:32:17. The boy then turned around and, for the first time, noticed that both Chief Tanaka and Max were in the room. Hewlett knew he was supposed to salute and report, but he didn’t know the rule to apply in this situation. Salute and report to the senior officer present? Salute and report to the person whose orders he was executing? Salute them both and then give his report? He froze.

  Tanaka instantly deduced what the problem was. “Mr. Hewlett,” he said, his pronunciation exceptionally precise, his tone patient, “while the Captain is the senior officer present, you have just executed my order. In that case, military courtesy dictates that you salute and report to me, then salute the senior officer.”

  “Aye, aye, Chief.” The boy turned to face straight at Tanaka, pulled himself up to his full barely over a meter height, raised his hand to a salute, and rattled out, “Midshipman Hewlett, reporting all eighteen eggs retrieved. No problems to report.”

  Tanaka returned the salute. “Very well, Midshipman.” Hewlett snapped his hand back down, pivoted to face Max, and raised his hand to another salute, just as smart as the first.

  “Captain,” he said simply.

  Max returned the salute. “Midshipman. Carry on.”

  The boy turned back to Tanaka who said, “At ease, Midshipman. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Hewlett then emptied the contents of his web belt into a plastic bin sitting on one of the tables and then stood beside the table at Parade Rest. Tanaka quickly sorted the ping pong balls, each of which bore a tiny numeral, written with a marker in Tanaka’s own handwriting. After verifying that all eighteen “eggs” were present and genuine, Tanaka turned to Hewlett. “That’s all eighteen. As for the time, Mr. Hewlett, I’ve seen better. I’ve seen a lot better.” And then, just as bitter disappointment started to write itself across the boy’s miniature features, the Chief let just a hint of a smile show as he added, “But, on a first hunt, I have also seen much, much worse. The official ship’s record is four hours, twenty-three minutes, and two seconds. But that’s not all. Every now and then I run into some poor, bedraggled boy who got sent out last year. He’s still crawling through the ship somewhere looking for that last egg. He hasn’t a clue where the Port EM Sensor Array Signal Accumulation and Initial Processing Unit is located.” Hewlett’s face brightened.

  “I know where. It’s on B Deck, amidships, starboard side, in that little equipment bay just aft of CIC. It has ‘port’ in the name, not because it’s on the port side of the ship but because it takes in sensor inputs from the port side arrays.”

  Damn. Max bet that the XO hadn’t learned the location of that unit yet.

  “Correct. Now I know not to put any eggs there until the next batch of squeakers arrives. Now, Mr. Hewlett,” Tanaka continued, “as you are the first of this group to complete a hunt, and as each of your classmates will embark on one either today or tomorrow, please review for us the Rules of the Easter Egg Hunt, as they have been handed down from time immemorial without change to the present day.”

  “Yes sir. Rules of the Easter Egg Hunt. One. Each midshipman will be issued a padcomp with the precise locations of the eighteen eggs located throughout the ship. All eggs are placed in locations to which Midshipmen have authorized access, are not hidden in any way, and are painted in colors chosen to stand out on a warship. If the Midshipman can find the location, he will have found the egg. Locations are stated by their Unique Ship Location Designator only. Two. The Midshipman is to retrieve the eggs in the precise order listed on the padcomp. He may not skip an egg. Three. The Midshipman may not run in any corridor or any crew working area. He may not ask for any assistance of any kind from any person, unless he is in genuine distress, in which case he may summon aid by any means necessary and the Hunt will be aborted. Four. The Midshipman may access the ship’s computer or other data source to assist him in finding the stated location of, but not the route to, any egg. All such access will be automatically logged and a thirty second penalty assessed for each access. Any Midshipman accessing route information will spend twenty-four hours in the brig. Those are the rules, sir, as they have been handed down from time immemorial without change to the present day. Let no one change them so long as the Navy values honor and while we shall still wear the Blue.”

  The boy’s recitation was letter perfect. The kid had a good memory.

  “Very good,” said Tanaka. “And, now, Mr. Hewlett, since you know what you were supposed to do, do you know why you did it?”

  That seemed to stump him. “Because I was ordered to do it by Chief Petty Officer First Class Tanaka?” he said lamely.

  “That is a literally correct and responsive answer, but not what I was looking for, Mr. Hewlett.” The Chief’s voice sounded infinitely patient and understanding, yet, somehow, managed to convey the slightest flavor of disappointment. “What I want to know is if you can tell me the purpose of the exercise. And, make no mistake, my little tadpoles, although we may call it an Easter Egg Hunt and treat it like a game, it is absolutely not a game. Not in the slightest. Does anyone else have an idea?”

  One boy stood up. He was a few millimeters taller than Hewlett, but probably weighed half again as much. Hewlett, with his blond hair, fair skin, blue eyes, and pink ears blushing from the attention, looked like a tiny Norse elf who should be making toys in Santa’s workshop, not being trained to be a deadly warrior in a desperate battle for the survival of his species. This other boy was just as fair as Hewlett, but much stockier. He looked as though he would be a natural wrestler or weigh lifter. He was going to
grow into a big man.

  “Yes, Mr. Gunderson?”

  “To teach us the ship, sir.”

  “What about the ship?”

  “Where things are. How to find places.”

  “Very good. That is the primary reason, the most important one. There are others. Can you tell me what they are?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “I think I do, sir.” It was Hewlett again. Now that he knew the kind of answer the Chief was looking for, maybe he could look back at what he had just done and see what it had taught him.

  “Go ahead,” said Tanaka.

  “It’s more than just where things are, sir. You also learn . . . you learn the fastest way to get from one part of the ship to another.” He stopped talking. Obviously he thought he had hit upon the complete answer. But, Tanaka kept looking at him expectantly, silently urging him to dig deeper. Hewlett’s face became scrunched with concentration, and then suddenly lit up. “Oh, oh, I see now. I get it. There’s a lot more. It makes you see all of the access crawlways and cable conduits and pipes and tunnels from the inside, so you get to know them just as well as you get to know the parts of the ship you see every day.” He started talking faster. “And . . . and . . . you learn how to get into things, the crawlways and lockers and storage bins--how to work the locks and the latches and open the access panels and covers and remove the safety grills and work loose the vent bezels. How to get into them in a hurry, when you’re nervous and in a rush. And you have to do it over and over for all the different kinds so that, I’m betting after you’ve done several of these Hunts it will be like, you know, automatic. You won’t have to think about how to get into something. Your hands and fingers will just know how and go ahead and do it.”

  “That’s called ‘muscle memory,’ Mr. Hewlett and, yes, that’s very good. It is a refreshing surprise for a still wet squeaker to spend an hour and a half doing something and to actually get the point of why he was doing it. Don’t worry. I will not expect it to happen again any time soon.” Then, he smiled. A brief, reserved, smile that said that he really didn’t expect it to happen any time soon, but that he wasn’t angry about it. “We do many things to teach you about the ship when you are a Midshipman. That is one reason you are given so many assignments in so many parts of the ship on such a rapidly changing basis, so you get to see every part of the ship and get an introduction to what every department does, how it works, who is in it, and what they do. And that is why each of you is assigned to one of the repair and maintenance teams for two watches a week, not just to hand them tools and shine a hand torch where they are working and retrieve dropped screws, but so you follow them around and crawl through the cable conduits and burrow into the nooks and crannies of this vessel. You see what’s beneath the surface, deep under the skin.

  “So, we want you to know the ship like the back of your hand and we do many things to make that happen. Which of you gentlemen can tell me why? Why do we want you to know every little hole and burrow, every locker and latch, every panel and console?”

  Another boy stood up. Tanaka motioned for Hewlett and Gunderson to sit down. The new boy was a handsome lad, a head taller than the others, with the darkest skin Max had ever seen on a human. “Mr. Koyamba, do you have some light to shed on this subject?”

  “Sir, my father is a Marine, and he always talks about how a Marine knows everything about his rifle. He can take it apart, clean it, oil it, and put it back together in the dark really, really fast. He also used to talk about how important it is for a fighting man to know the ground he is fighting over. Isn’t the ship kind of both, sir? It’s what we fight with, but it can also be where we fight.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Koyamba. That is truly a perceptive observation. There are many full-fledged Spacers who don’t have that figured out. You are absolutely right. This ship, for all practical purposes, is your entire universe. Right now, you could go ten billion kilometers from here in any direction and not find a rock bigger than Mr. Hewlett, much less something with water and an atmosphere to keep you alive. Your ship and your shipmates are everything to you. The ship is your world that sustains you with air and water and shelter. Your shipmates are your family that provides you with care and support and companionship and even love. Together, ship and crew are your hometown that contains your restaurants and entertainment and school and even your hospital as well as the people who make all those places work. When we encounter the Krag, it is your weapon. If we are ever boarded, it is your battleground. In order to do your jobs you will be required to have intimate knowledge of this ship. Intimate knowledge of this ship, or of any other ship on which you serve, may save your life and the lives of your shipmates. In a boarding action, knowing all the hidden places and paths can give you ways to outflank your enemy, to sneak up on him from behind, to surround him, to escape him and, if things go badly for you, to hide out, perhaps for days at a time.”

  “Chief?” It was Mr. Hewlett, again. He always seemed to be asking questions.

  “Yes, Mr. Hewlett.”

  “I heard a story from one of the senior Mids that once a Midshipman hid out from the Krag for weeks and weeks on a ship that got taken, out smarting them day after day. That’s just a legend, isn’t it? No one could hide for that long, right?”

  Tanaka was in a difficult spot. On one hand, he didn’t know his Captain well enough to know whether his experience on the San Jacinto was a proper subject for discussion with the squeakers. On the other, there was the near sacred naval tradition that a Midshipman Trainer must always be truthful with his Mids. Not just that he not affirmatively lie to them, but that he must be truthful: he must not mislead them, in any way, ever. He could choose to be silent on a subject, as one might expect in a military organization where much information was distributed on a need to know basis, but if he spoke, every word, every implication, every nuance had to be as perfectly truthful as he knew how to make it. Young people need to have at least one adult authority figure in their lives in whom they can have unqualified trust. The Navy understood that, and provided them with one. The Mids knew that, from their Trainer, they would hear only Truth.

  There was only one thing to do in this situation. American Football was still played on several dozen worlds; hence, mankind had not forgotten the meaning of the word “punt.”

  “Captain, this might be something that you can answer better than I.”

  Well, Bram did say that he was supposed to talk about his experiences, right? He mentally sprayed a few gallons of insecticide on the butterflies in his stomach and stepped carefully into the breach. “It’s no rumor, Mr. Hewlett.” Deep breath. Do this the Navy way. Just the facts, man. “The Cruiser USS San Jacinto was boarded and taken by the Krag. The logs record that active resistance ceased at thirteen forty-two hours on September 10, 2296. She had a compliment of four hundred and forty-six. Four hundred and twenty-one gave their lives defending the ship. Twenty-four were taken captive. Most of those were killed later. All of them were tortured. That leaves one, a Midshipman Second Class who, on the orders of his Mother Goose, hid himself as the ship was being taken. After that, he continued to evade capture, eluding the Krag in the access crawlways, the cable conduits, the spaces between the false ceilings and the pressure bulkheads, empty food lockers, voids left by equipment upgrades, and all the other nooks and crannies and hidden ways inside a ship that you learn about as a Midshipman but that a Krag wouldn’t know about. He got water from the water reclamation condensers. He stole food, even going so far as to trigger alerts that would send the Krag running out of the mess to action stations so he could grab the rations off their plates. For twenty-six days. On October 6, at seventeen fifty-seven hours, San Jacinto was lured into a trap by a small task force under the command of Commodore, now Fleet Admiral, Charles L. Middleton. The Midshipman and two other survivors—the Chief Medical Officer and the Communications Officer--were rescued. Oh, and the ship’s cat, wily old Sam Houston. The Krag never caught him, either. He lived for
several more years without once leaving the ship.”

  “But sir,” it was Hewlett again. He asked enough questions for a whole class of hatch hangers. “What about the Midshipman? Almost all his shipmates were killed. All his friends. His bunkies. His Mother Goose. His CO. And then he had the rat-faces chasing him for almost a whole month. Wouldn’t he still feel guilty for living when they died? Wouldn’t he still feel afraid? What happened to him? How’s he doing? Is he OK?”

  From the mouths of babes. That’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it? How is he doing? Is he OK?

  Max looked at those faces, all etched with concern, anxiety, and worry for a little boy whom, as far as they knew, they had never met. Yet, to these Midshipmen, this boy was a brother—someone like them who Wore the Blue, slung his hammock in a small compartment with his six bunkies, went on Easter Egg Hunts, surreptitiously turned off the artificial gravity generators in the cargo holds and played Zero-G Tag, breakfasted on “spam, spam, eggs, and spam,” and was drilled by Mother Goose on how to use his dirk and put out fires and patch hull breaches and operate an Escape Pod. And, Max remembered the utter horror that had galloped across those young faces when he had described what he had been through, even though he had done it in the most clinical and bloodless terms. Those Mids had taken a brief glimpse at what he had endured for twenty-six days, and found it unimaginably terrifying.