Chain of Command

by Frank Chadwick

  So—discounting Cruiser Four-Two-Nine, which could not jump and so could not join the other ships in their next attack maneuver—they had only two operational cruisers left, including the flagship. Two ships to face whatever remained of the Human fleet, which included at least two cruisers and three destroyers at K’tok, two cruisers at Mogo, and seven more destroyers unaccounted for. The First Fleet had had fewer ships destroyed, lost fewer lives, than had the enemy, but the balance of force had changed hardly at all. Nuvaash took a breath to steady his voice before speaking.

  “The new missiles performed well, Admiral.”

  e-Lapeela looked up sharply but Nuvaash met his gaze and after a moment the admiral cocked his head to the side in a shrug.

  “We expected to take out every starship. It worked well in testing but the test sequence, for reasons of secrecy, was limited. No weapon ever seems to perform as well in the field as in the tests. Still, we dealt them a shattering blow: eight ships destroyed versus only one of ours. It may not seem so here, surrounded by casualties and damage, but this was a great victory.”

  “But to what end?” Nuvaash said. “They still hold K’tok.”

  “To what end? I told you others waited in the shadows to join us. Victories steel their courage, quicken their blood, broaden their vision. Because of this victory—and that is exactly how it will be perceived, regardless of how much damage we sustained—others will join us. First a trickle, but like water cutting a sand bar, a trickle widens the passage and more water follows.

  “And I have just received word by jump courier. The government has released the cruiser division on Akaampta from Cottohazz duty to my command, and the Home Fleet is readying another squadron to join us. Our enterprise prospers.”

  “Not on the ground, I am afraid,” Nuvaash said. “We are stalemated. Human orbital bombardment has become less effective both in terms of volume and accuracy, and the Human ground forces have taken casualties which they seem unable to replace immediately. These are both fruits, in my opinion, of our earlier attack. All of our heavy ground force units took severe casualties in the aftermath of the invasion, however, and our three regular mobile cohorts have been rendered ineffective for offensive operations. If we are to resume the ground offensive we must reinforce out ground forces.”

  “Reinforce? How?”

  “We are receiving three transports from home, carrying between them a reinforced ground brigade. I believe we can land part of a lift cavalry squadron by reentry gliders.”

  “Reentry gliders?” the admiral demanded. “While the Humans hold orbital space? That would be suicidal for the transports.”

  “If we used the transports, that would be so. But out cruisers have the ability to carry a limited number of reentry gliders in place of external ordnance modules. The extent to which the detonation of Human nuclear warheads interfered with our sensors during the last attack suggests a way for a ship or two to make a high-speed approach and exit, dropping the reinforcements into the atmosphere as we pass.”

  “We?” the admiral said.

  Nuvaash shifted his position and let his earns fold back slightly in the position of respect.

  “As the attack profile I am outlining is hazardous and untested, I assumed the admiral would lead the first raid in the flagship.”

  e-Lappela leaned back in this chair and smiled. “I am surprised, Nuvaash. You strike me as cautious rather than aggressive, and yet now you recommend another audacious attack.”

  “I recommend nothing, admiral. I only point out the facts as I understand them.”

  And one of the facts he understood now was that the admiral was a murderer. But how many supposedly glorious triumphs throughout history, he wondered, were secretly purchased with murder?

  Sam glided through the hatch to the wardroom and clipped his tether to end of the main table. No other officers were present and so Sam ordered cheese enchiladas for lunch and prepared to eat alone. That was fine; he had a lot of reading to catch up on.

  Second Principle of Naval Leadership: Be technically and tactically proficient.

  He put on viewer glasses and started rereading TM-01 Deep Space Tactical Principles.

  After five minutes Lieutenant Rice, the boat’s beefy supply officer appeared, drew a bulb of coffee from the dispenser, and clipped his tether next to Sam’s.

  “How’s it going, Moe?” Sam asked, taking off his viewer glasses.

  “Not too good, Cap’n. I mean, we’re in good shape, but the grunts down in the dirt are in trouble. With most of the cruisers gone we’ve only got ground bombardment coverage about a third of the time. The uBakai are starting to close in with mobile troops whenever there’s no one in a firing position. For now they’re okay but that Limey battalion is going to run short of ammunition if things heat up much.”

  “Ammunition? Don’t they have their fabricators with them?”

  “No, sir. The cohort’s fabricator platoon never got down to planet surface. It was going to come down the needle with its gear but was still onboard HMS Furious when the uBakai attack came. That’s the British transport that got nailed.”

  “Aren’t there backup British fabricators in the fleet train?”

  “There were, sir. They were aboard FS Mistral, the French auxiliary vessel we lost.”

  That was a problem, but Sam didn’t see it as insurmountable. He’d spent enough years in the fabricator business to understand their versatility.

  “The other two cohorts down there have their own fabricators, right? There’s nothing the Brits need they can’t fabricate for them.”

  “Not quite, sir. Seems like no one has the software code to load the output specifications for the British munitions into the US or Indian fabricators. The British cohort HQ has the specs in their tactical database. They just can’t get the other cohort fabricators to accept it. I talked to the task force N-4 and he says they’re trying to get the go-codes from home by jump courier missile, but they’re still negotiating with the fabricator manufacturers.”

  “Who’s that?” Sam asked, but was suddenly reluctant to hear the answer.

  “SubcontininenTech made the Indian fabricators, Dynamic Paradigms made the US ones.”

  Of course, the company he worked for, squabbling over intellectual property while people’s lives were at stake.

  “Okay, keep me apprised, Moe. Any deterioration on the ground, let me know right away.”

  Moe raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise, but nodded. Of course, he was surprised. Why would a destroyer captain in orbit be this interested in whether or not fabricators were working on the ground?

  “Remember, I worked for Dynamic Paradigms until I got activated,” Sam explained. “Professional curiosity.”

  It wasn’t the truth, or at least not the entire truth, the important truth, but it satisfied Moe, and for now that was all that mattered. Still, this new wrinkle was one more thing for him to worry about, one more tough call he might have to make fairly soon.

  In his seven years at Dynamic Paradigms, he’d done a variety of jobs, but most of his time was spent in the Product Support Division, making sure installed fabricators worked as advertised. Sometimes all the different interfaces got scrambled, the processor locked up, and you had to just reset everything. Even when power was pulled from the unit, even when there was no available interface, the e-synaptic core of the processor was still alive, still barely powered by waste heat generators, waiting for the master cheat code which would reopen the system and let technicians reprogram it.

  The code was all but unbreakable, a precise series of signals of different intensities, durations, and at different radio frequencies. But a handful of product support supervisors knew the code, and Sam had eventually been one of them. He knew the code which would unlock the Dynamic Paradigms fabricators in the US Marine cohort’s support platoon and let it accept the production instructions for the British munitions.

  The problem was those codes were among the most closely guarded corporat
e proprietary secrets Dynamic Paradigms had. He had signed more nondisclosure agreements than he could remember. In addition, each code shared with an employee contained one signal sequence which was unique to that employee, so any use of it was immediately traceable. If he revealed that code now he was never going back to his old job, or any other job for any fabricator firm, or any corporate position anywhere that involved access to proprietary information. He would make himself unemployable, permanently, and in a pretty lousy job market to boot.

  But his old company still might come through, do the right thing, and turn over the cheat codes. If not . . . well, no point in dwelling on that now.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  29 December 2133

  (three days later) (eighth day in K’tok orbit)

  Larry Goldjune had already moved to the Maneuvering One chair by the time Sam got to the bridge.

  “Sir, the boat is at Readiness Condition Three, MatCon Bravo, in stationary planetary orbit above K’tok, in formation with DesDiv Four. Power ring is fully charged, reactor on standby, shroud secured, sensors active. We are on alert for a captain’s holoconference with task force command in six minutes,” Goldjune reported as Sam strapped himself into the command seat.

  “Thank you, I have the boat, Mister Goldjune. Did you say task force? I thought this was Captain Rivera’s meeting.”

  “Was sir,” Goldjune answered, “but Captain Kleindienst, task force chief of staff, wanted in. Guess she’s got some news.”

  Sam looked at him and Goldjune just shrugged, but the gesture had the look of resignation about it. The bridge crew didn’t look up, concentrated on their workstations more than this routine period in orbit would suggest. Sam sensed their anxiety and it make him nervous as well.

  He nodded a greeting to Chief Joe Burns in the Tac One seat. Unflappable Joe, he’d heard one of the crew call him, and it fit. He was a rock, the steadiness the tactical department needed after all the changes, after Jules’s death. Strange that he could think that phrase now and it didn’t leave him short of breath, although he felt the now-familiar flutter just out of his field of vision—watching what he’d do here, watching how he’d handle more wheels flying off this wreck.

  Chief Adelina Gambara sat in the comm chair. She’d taken over the communication division when Marina Filipenko moved over to Tac. She must have been in her late twenties but looked younger because of her slight physique. Her jet-black hair pulled back in a tight bun and her olive complexion complemented the lighter tone of her khaki shipsuit. Of course, he’d always known she was attractive, but Sam now realized she was strikingly beautiful. It had never occurred to him before.

  I only had eyes for you, he thought to the shadow in his mind.

  Ron Ramirez sat the Tac Two chair and Rachel Karlstein from engineering was at the boat systems station, two of the people who had been with Sam in the auxiliary bridge the day of the first attack. A petty officer first named Zimmer sat in the Maneuvering Two chair. All three of them were part of the nearly invisible—to most officers—rank layer called acey-deucies, petty officers first and second class, the people who actually made the boat work. Chiefs and officers, the folks above them, supervised. Those below, the petty officer thirds and the ordinary mariners, usually didn’t know quite enough to let near the really critical jobs. If damage got fixed, if something important got done, most of the time an acey-deucie turned the wrench, or recalibrated the thingamajig.

  Sam shook his head. Why was he thinking this way, almost sentimentally, as if taking stock of the crew before taking leave of them? None of them were going anywhere. Well, they were all going into the future, a fog-shrouded land which would take on a more distinct shape after this holoconference, but would probably look no more inviting.

  “I’ve got a preliminary ping from Pensacola, sir,” Chief Gambara said. “Setting up the conference network now.”

  “Thanks, Chief,” Sam said and plugged the life-support umbilical from the work station into the socket at the waist of his shipsuit. No telling how long the conference would last and if the air in his helmet started getting stale he didn’t want to have to fumble with it later. Once those were in place, he put his helmet on and clicked it into the neck ring, slid the faceplate down, and checked the diagnostics on life support and the holoptics: all green lights. He slid his faceplate up and leaned back against the acceleration rig.

  “Any time, Gambara.”

  After ten seconds she gave him a thumbs-up gesture. He slid his faceplate down and the manufactured environment of the holoconference replaced the bridge around him. Marietta Kleindienst hovered at a briefing station, ahead and slightly below him, with captains Mike Wu of Petersburg and and Junaita Rivera of Champion Hill on Sam’s right. To his surprise, Captain Bonaventure of Oaxaca, and commander of DesDiv Three, sat to his left.

  Bonaventure and the rest of DesDiv Three had missed the First Battle of K’Tok, but they were approaching, escorting the crippled Hornet, and in all the excitement and distraction Sam had momentarily forgotten. Three more destroyers wouldn’t hurt. Bonaventure hadn’t changed much: he was tall and large-framed without being very heavy, and he still had a vaguely greasy look, possibly from his shiny black hair, possibly from the fact that he tended to perspire more than most. Sam nodded to him and Bonaventure’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Where’s Captain Huhn?” he asked.

  “Relieved on medical grounds . . . his own call.”

  Bonaventure’s eyebrows rose even further.

  “Really? So, ‘Bow-on’ Bitka has the Puebla. Did you have command during the battle or did Huhn?”

  “Enough socializing,” Klelindienst said sharply from the briefing station. “You’ll have plenty of time to gossip and exchange war stories later. Now we have urgent task force business to go over and only so much time.”

  Bonaventure shrugged and turned to face the task force chief of staff. Sam did as well, but with an odd feeling. Before this he had hardly exchanged a dozen words with Bonaventure. Different boats, two pay grades difference in rank made even more pronounced by Bonaventure’s additional command responsibilities, and the still wider yawning chasm of regular versus reservist, had all meant they lived in separate worlds. Sam realized he didn’t even know Bonaventure’s first name, but suddenly those differences seemed not to matter, at least not to Bonaventure.

  Bonaventure displayed a familiarity toward him which Sam did not find exactly unwelcome so much as inexplicable. Was it because they were all in this together? Or was it because Sam had performed well? No, that couldn’t be it, as Bonaventure had not even known he was in command until just now. Perhaps it was simply that Sam had been part of this first terrible battle and Bonaventure had not, but wanted some sort of a claim on membership in that exclusive fraternity. Sam had the feeling membership would not stay exclusive for very long.

  And then there was the name: Bow-on’ Bitka. Is that what they called him in DesDiv Three now? It must have been from the holoconference when he had quoted from DSTP-01: A destroyer’s preferred angle of engagement is bow-on. No one in DesDiv Four called him that, but they hadn’t been plugged into that conference and Sam had all but forgotten. Obviously someone remembered.

  “I’ve asked Captain Bonaventure to join this briefing because his destroyer division will enter K’tok orbit tomorrow and reinforce the defense here,” Kleindienst began. “As he has seniority, he will assume overall command of all your destroyers as Task Group 1.2, with the acting rank of commodore.

  “His destroyers are currently escorting USS Hornet, which as you know is severely damaged. Although his destroyers will remain here, Hornet will not enter orbit. It will do a correcting burn and slingshot back to orbit the gas giant Mogo, beyond the asteroid belt. The surviving cruisers of Task Group 1.1 will take over escort duties for it. The transports and auxiliaries of Task Group 1.3 will accompany them. All ships vulnerable to the uBakai jump drive scrambler will move out to Mogo.”

  Jump drive scrambler.
It was as good a name as any, Sam thought. But all ships vulnerable to it meant every single starship in the task force. They were pulling out with everything except the three destroyers—well, six destroyers, once Bonaventure joined them.

  Navarro had seen this coming, and Sam had as well, perhaps with less certainty. Admiral Kayumati had hinted at it in his and Sam’s only holoconference. But the task force staff could have given them some warning. Were they that worried about how the destroyer crews would react? Or had they just not made a firm decision until now? Sam wasn’t sure which option sounded worse.

  “Captain Bonaventure, you will detach DDR-10, Tacambaro, to remain with Hornet as a close escort,” Kleindienst continued.

  Bonaventure’s face colored and his eyebrows rose.

  “Tacambaro? Ma’am, we lost the coil gun on Oaxaca, and Queretaro lost half its power ring. Taco’s my only fully operational boat. You can’t pull it and expect us to . . . what is it you expect?

  “I can pull it and I just did,” Kleindienst said. “The task force is only taking a single destroyer so it needs to be fully operational. Your mission is to hold the orbital space above K’tok until relieved by friendly forces, and support the ground troops to the extent of your ability.”

  “What friendly forces?” Bonaventure asked, his eyes still wide with exasperation.

  “Destroyer Division Five is inbound from Mogo orbit and should reach you within the week. In addition, reinforcements are being prepared for dispatch from Earth. They may already be on the way, we don’t know for sure.”

  “How are we supposed to support the ground troops?” Bonaventure demanded. “We don’t have orbital bombardment munitions, or any way to launch them if we did.”