by Rob Buckman
Mike brought up the Ag system and lifted the hull clear of the water before disconnecting the optical bollard. The warning alarm sound as he strained the anchoring beam, but ignored it. Some Skippers disconnected before lifting, but this added to the chance of hitting the dock if hit by a sudden water surge came across the bay. The Harbormaster took a dim view of people who damaged his dock, plus the hefty charges for repair. Mike tapped in the release code to the bollards and disconnected, letting the autopilot hold the craft in position. The ungainly looking craft hung like some ugly bulldog straining at the leash as Mike did a three-sixty sweep of the surrounding harbor. There was no telling what small craft managed to slip by Harbor Center. He didn’t want to plow some poor fisherman under the water with his Ag footprint. That would just ruin his day.
“All clear, Gramps.”
“Well?” The old man grumbled.
“I know, I know… ‘What are you waiting for’…” He muttered.
Mike backed the tug out of the slip, his fingers caressing the helm control with the delicacy of a butterfly. Again, he did a 360 before touching the lateral control to swing the stern and nose around. The touch was perfect, and the tug lined up with the channel before it lost momentum. Setting the search radar to its lowest setting he watched the sweep for a second to ensure he’d hadn’t missed anything. He hadn’t, and nudged the thrusters up a notch. The tug moved forward, barely making headway against the stiff breeze. It was enough for the moment as even in the commercial basin there were still a number of yachts and small craft scuttling and tacking about for him to keep a wary eye open. Once clear of the mooring docks, he opened her up a little, making sure he kept his over water speed down to the legal limit. The harbor patrol launch cut across his bow some distance in front and Mike waved back as they passed. At the outbound channel marker buoy, he turned three degrees to Starboard and opened her up a little more. Rather than sit there, he hit the autopilot button and sat back, pleased with himself. Flawless was his thought.
“Took you bloody long enough!” Gramps voice sounding from the intercom system. “I could have done it in half the time.” Mike made the motion of playing a violin, silently mimicking Gramps voice.
“When I was in the Navy, we were expected to…” Mike hit the Ag control button twice, off and on again. The tug bounced off the water and back into the air. “What the fu...”
“What was that Gramps? I didn’t hear you?”
“Did we just bounce?” Gramps came on the screen, rubbing the top of his head.
“Gee, we must have… Must be a hiccup in the Ag system. Will have to check that when we get home again.”
“You good for nothing space brat! You did that on purpose!” Gramps challenged.
“Who me?” Mike tried to sound outraged, but it didn’t quite come off as he intended.
“Yes, you!” Gramps barked. “I’ve a good mind to come up there and tan your hide for you.”
“No thanks, Gramps, already had that, more than once. My hide definitely doesn’t need any more tanning. Want to see?”
“Har!”
“Harbor Center - this is Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893, holding at point Tango.” Mike brought the Prometheus to a standstill at the marker buoy.
“Hold one - Sierra, Whisky Gulf 893 - have an inbound heavy at two-two eight degrees relative at thirty thousand feet, twenty two miles and closing.”
“Copy Harbor Center - will hold at point Tango until receiving clearance. Want me to put the coffee on, Gramps?”
“You mean you haven’t already? What the hell have you been doing up there all this time, jeez!”
“You want me to make it or not!” Mike snapped back.
“Oh, of course, dear boy,” all sweetness and light for the moment, “by all means make a pot of coffee. That is if you can spare the time away from your other pressing duties.”
“Grumpy old Ex-Admirals I can do without.” Mike muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Have an inbound heavy at twenty miles and closing.”
“Navy ship?”
“Don’t think so. Center didn’t say. Want me to check?”
“No, that’s ok. I’ll check later.” Mike punched the radar up to the twenty-mile range, and watched the inbound as it descended for a touchdown two miles from the entrance to the bay.
He watched the contrail as the starship came around on a curved vector, shedding forward velocity and altitude. At two miles, Mike saw the start of the rooster tail as the Ag footprint touched water, further slowing the giant ship. Pulling it up in his monitor, Mike keyed the zoom control, nodding as the picture cleared to show the, blunt, half-mile long shape of a Royal Avalon Navy heavy Cruiser. She was probable putting in for repairs or refit, and that wouldn’t make Gramps happy, and he’d be sure to stay indoors the whole time she was in Port. Mike felt sad for his Grandfather, usually a happy man, but one with a secret. Mike didn’t know what it was or why he left the Royal Navy. He suspected it was something less than a happy affair. Gramps, and his friend included were careful not to talk about it, or answer any questions. The only things Gramps would say was, ‘... I’ll tell you when you are old enough to understand...’ so Mike gave up trying to dig the answer out. He’d find out in the end, because either Gramps told him, or he stumbled on the answer accidentally. Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t change his opinion of the old man, nothing could. He’d been father and mother to him since he was old enough to remember and his parents were killed in a flying accident. That and taking care of an infant helped get Gramps out of the bottle and feeling sorry for himself. Here was someone who really had something to cry about, as he put it. Mike had cried, long and bitterly, soaking his grandfather's shoulder till he cried himself to sleep. That was a long time ago now and Mike no longer cried. The old wound was still there, sore to the touch, but healing, as all wounds must.
“Sierra Whisky, Gulf 893 - you are clear for takeoff on a heading of 270 degrees. Climb to one hundred thousand feet and orbit.”
“Switch to 31.3 megHz after liftoff for further instruction from Orbital Center.”
“Copy that - lifting off and climbing to one hundred thousand feet. Thanks, Harbor Center. You have a great day. See you in a while.” Mike scanned the harbor as he talked, eyes running down the status board and radar for a final check.
“Thanks Mike. You have a great day as well. See you when you get back.”
“Copy that - starting my run now.” Mike eased the yoke back as he increased thrust, lifting the tug higher off the water. “Full power Gramps - starting liftoff run.”
“Copy Mike - bringing her up to 80% of optimum power now.”
Smoothly the ungainly tug picked up speed. The Prometheus was about as aerodynamic as a rock, but thanks to anti-gravity and atmospheric shielding she flew. Within half a mile she was up to 480 mph accelerating and climbing. The hundred foot rooster tail behind her fell away as Mike added power to the Ag lift. Once free of the water and the outer marker Mike climbed quickly to one hundred thousand feet heading due West. Passing from daylight to darkness and back again to daylight as he orbited Avalon Prime.
“Orbital Center. This is Sierra Whisky Gulf 893 requesting an orbital insertion.”
“Sierra Whisky Gulf 893 copy that. Remain on your present heading and climb to one hundred and twenty miles.”
“Copy that Orbital Center - remaining on the current heading and climbing to one hundred and twenty miles.”
Mike’s hand danced across the panel, bringing up the sensor array. This presented a hologram in a spherical volume around the tug out to five hundred nautical miles. Like the radar it could be tuned out to one thousand nautical miles, but nothing compared with the military units. Those could ‘see’ out to one light minute. He set the proximity alarm for 300 nautical miles to be on the safe side, giving himself an added margin of error should anything-unsuspecting head his way. Even at that distance he would have to act quickly as with the speeds involved, it wouldn’t gi
ve him that much time to take evasive maneuvers. The old girl lifted as smooth as silk, climbing up through the invisible ceiling, the air around them thinning, the blue slowly becoming midnight black. Mike breathed a sigh, feeling as if he was coming home instead of the other way round. Like winding a ball of string, Mike orbited Avalon gaining altitude on each orbit. Around him other ships ascended and descended on different heading above and below him, and he kept careful watch for strays. There were always one or two hotshot pilots, usually in private craft that liked to fly a little closer to the edge. Coming in contact with Prometheus wouldn’t hurt the tug much, unless it was head on, but she had enough dents in her already. The old girl was built like the proverbial brick outhouse, so bumping a tin foil flier would only scratch her new paint job. Once he set the course and speed he switch on the autopilot and eased the helm seat back. Barring the unforeseen he had the time and the confidence to fill the coffee maker with water, and add the coffee. Strong and black, just like Gramps said he liked his woman. Not that Mike had ever seen him with a woman, black, white, red or pink or any other color for that matter.
“You got that coffee on yet, space brat?”
“Brewing now, Gramps.”
“Good.”
Mike went back to the helm seat and punched up the ‘Coast Pilots Manual (NS)’, near space and looked for any ‘NTM’, notices to Mariners as they were called. This gave the latest information on any near space occurrences such as solar flares, space debris, changes in marker buoys or anything the helmsman should know about. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and no updates from the last time he’d checked, so he sat back and waited for the coffee to perk, keeping an eye on the altimeter and sensor picture. Below, the citizens of Avalon went about their daily lives, unconcerned as to what was happening over their heads.
“Orbital Center, this is Sierra Whisky Gulf 893 - I am now at one hundred and twenty miles and holding.”
“I copy that, Sierra Whisky Gulf 893 - have your destination on scope. Am downloading your heading and orbital insertion, now.”
“Copy that Orbital Center. Receiving.”
“You are cleared to depart orbit in three point two minutes.”
“Copy that - cleared to depart orbit in three point two minutes. Mike watched the chronometer on the panel as he punched in the downloaded heading and vector to the barge farm. “Starting departures now Orbital Center.” He announced at the clock hit three point two minutes.
“Copy that, Sierra Whisky Gulf 893.” Hearing the clump-clump of space boots behind him, Mike knew that Gramps was coming up for his first cup of coffee of the day.
“We’ll arrive at the barge farm in about three hours on this heading Gramps.”
“Good. Should be an easy run, only three ships in port that need servicing.”
And so it proved. Mike picked up the garbage-cum-sewage barge and towed it out to the first ship and hooked up. Most of the transfer work was automatic, and all he had to do was stay on station until it was completed. They managed to clear out two ships before having to head to recycling center on the second moon of Avalon. This one was easy, as they didn’t have to chase the moon, just plot a course to intercept it as it came around the planet. Mike worked out the turnover time to perfection, switching the tug from pulling to braking as he switched ends. Mike dropped the tow and moved to Starboard of the barge, hitting the forward thrusters to slow and turn the Prometheus as he cleared the side marker. The flat topped, cylindrical barge drifted by, and it only took a few flicks of the wrist to bring her into position behind and slightly ‘above’ the barge. He keyed the ‘Samson’ post tractor beams, seeing them lock on to the bollard on the barge. It helped that the designer included a color bar in the energy beam, so he could ‘see’ the twin tractor beam were locked to the barge on the view screen. Setting the inertial damping field up to two gravitates; he kicked the engines into life.
Unlike fusion plants, the old Prometheus didn’t use hydrogen to fuel the power plant, so he didn’t have to worry about cost when slowing the barge down. In many ways, the Prometheus was perfect for this kind of work, as he could make a faster round trip than any of the newer tugs, simply by doubling his inbound towing speed. He compensated by simply increasing his rate of braking, reaching a zero/zero point relative to the recycling center in half the time. It was one reason they kept getting this contract, as none of the newer tugs could match their bid price. Mike didn’t mind the long hours on the bridge, as it gave him time to study and look at the stars. He chuckled, remembering the time Gramps switched off power to the Nav computer. He panicked, much the same as any 14 year old would have done in that situation, but Gramps simply came up to the bridge and asked what was wrong while he poured himself a cup of coffee as if nothing unusual had happened. Holding the yoke in a vice like death grip he’d stuttered out the story, thinking he’d done something to make the Nav-comp stop working. Gramps just chuckled and patted him on the shoulder and turn to go back to the engine room, or so Mike thought.
“Just keep going to the recycling center.”
“How!” He’d almost screamed in panic. “The Nav-comp is down!”
“So?”
“What am I supposed to do?” He cried.
“What do you think all those pretty lights are for, your personal enjoyment?”
“Wh-a-a-t? He’s stuttered.
“The stars boy. Use your brain and stars, that’s why God gave you both.”
At first, he’d simply stayed frozen where he was, unable to do anything. That wore off after the ship didn’t explode or run into anything and he began to relax a little. It was still scary, but his brain started to work again. He looked at the scope, then slowly rolled the ship to check his heading on another plane of reference. Everything was clear and he let out a shuddering sigh. Gradually he began to work out where he was in relation to the recycling center by using the star as a reference point. He’d done it often enough, while the Nav-comp was working as part of his education. The only difference now, he didn’t have the Nav-comp to check his results. In all, it took him an hour to relax and become sufficiently confident to pilot his way to a shaky zero/zero intercept. Gramps congratulated him by saying it had taken him to damn long, but smiled while he said it. Mike didn’t find out until much later that Gramps had stayed glued to the engine room repeater panel the whole time. How much blood Gramps sweated as Mike worked out the correct vector he never knew, but suspected a lot. It was typical of Gramps to set challenges like that. On the surface, they looked dangerous, but in fact, each time he’d been careful to make sure there were no immediate dangers to Mike, or the ship. Gramps philosophy was that a burned hand, teaches best, and ‘one hands on’ solution was worth a year in class. He was right. At 16, Mike handled the old girl like a pro, deftly steering around obstacles and problem that would have stumped a lesser Captain with and without the Nav-Comp.
The inbound trip to the recycling moon was long and boring, so Mike spent his time working on H.M.S. KISS, his perfect warship. Gramps chucked the first time he’d show him the results, pointing out its many faults, not unkindly, but that didn’t do much for Mike’s self-esteem and pride. In recompense, he’d taken the time to explain why, before setting Mike a task he found totally absorbing. Gramps draw a simple canoe on the CADD machine, and challenged Mike to improve it, taking into consideration all the variable uses the canoe could be used for. It didn’t take long for Mike to search the database and discover how many different types and kinds of canoes there were. He was astonished at the ingenuity of the builders, from the fifty-foot dugout canoes on the Amazon River, to the hide covered Kayaks of the North Pole natives of old Earth. Each had created something that worked for his particular application, yet each couldn’t really be used in the others habitat. He looked at the deep-sea canoes of the Polynesians, seeing the genesis of an idea. His pride finally admitted that Gramps was right.
His ship was a disaster waiting to happen. That’s when he realized that the old
man was right when he said ‘kiss’, ‘... keep it simple – son...’ Well that’s what he used instead of the usual ending. A dugout canoe is the simplest boat ever built. Everything after that was only bigger, faster and fitted for a particular application. His perfect warship was doomed from the start, and he knew it. Technology alone would make it obsolete within a short period of time, not to mention the enemy coming up with a counter for whatever he designed. That didn’t mean to say that he could come up with something ten times better than the Avalon and Royal Navy had now. His reading led him down odd paths and side turning as he found obscure references to long forgotten design project. Some he laughed at some while others made him think. This didn’t distract him from his other duties, and almost without thinking he switched ends and started breaking the garbage barge for a zero/zero intercept with the last starship. Lining up the flat ‘top deck’ with the ship, he let the automatic grappling system align and mate the barge with the ships garbage chutes. Absently, he punched up some music on the side band radio, smiling as he heard the engine room hatch clang shut, cutting off Gramps “... bloody horrible noise!...” Unlike merchant ships, a warship is a specialty built ship by nature of its activity. A merchant ship has only one purpose, to carry as much cargo as possible the longest distance at the least cost.