by Chris Hechtl
He frowned thoughtfully.
“What is he playing at? I know he doesn't want us loose in Protodon. This is the perfect place to fight … did we hurt them worse than I'd thought?”
“Or there is a delay getting reinforcements to him, sir,” Catherine suggested.
“It could be,” Sedrick said cautiously. “They might have scraped everything together to assemble the force he currently has. And losing so many ships … you know, it might not have been up to him at all.”
“What are you saying?” Catherine asked, eying the intelligence officer.
“I'm saying Irons is ultimately in charge. He's an engineer, not a Battle Fleet officer. He's known for building. Losing ships would hurt. I wonder if he's turtling? They have fixed defenses including orbital forts in Protodon. Did he order the chimp to fall back there and regroup thinking he'd have more support?”
“It is possible I suppose,” Catherine said cautiously, looking at the admiral.
“We haven't completely ruled out this star system yet, folks. I don't want us to let our guard down,” the admiral said.
The senior officers nodded. “Aye aye, sir.”
:::{)(}:::
When the Horathian fleet was halfway across the star system, UFDV-010S was ordered to jump by Shepard.
“We've still got time. We can sit here and wait another day or two easily,” Captain Okonkwo said hopefully. She so wanted to wait and see how effective Shell Game was. It was important to do it, but with the approaching fleet there was a danger to her ship. The fleet might be drawn off, but they might also send a ship or even a fighter to her under stealth. One good shot and she'd be stranded.
So, their secondary orders were coming into play. And she didn't like it. Not that she had any choice.
“I appreciate your willingness to risk your neck. But our orders are clear. We need to confuse them,” Captain Song stated over the long range laser link. “So get going,” he said a moment later.
“Aye aye, sir,” Monica replied five minutes later. “We've begun our final countdown. Good luck, Goddess bless,” she said.
“You too,” Captain Song replied. He knew Monica wanted to prove herself, to rebuild her reputation. He sympathized with her efforts, but their orders were clear.
“You'll need it more,” was Monica's final reply before her ship's link was dissolved in snow as her hyperdrive began its final countdown to jump.
“Now it's our turn,” Captain Song said to Daisy over their whisker laser link. “Are you ready?”
“You know it,” the Neodog said over their tactical link. “Let's give some people the willies and some sleepless nights,” she growled.
:::{)(}:::
“Sir, CIC reports a ship was at the Protodon jump point as you expected. She's initiating jump now,” Catherine stated.
Admiral De Gaulte looked up from where he'd been reading a report on his desktop screen. “So, he did leave a spy.” He got up, stretched, and then headed to the flag bridge.
When he stepped on it, he nodded to Catherine who was standing with Myron and Sedick in front of the star system plot.
“Yes, sir. Possibly more than one,” Catherine said, picking up the thread of their conversation as if it hadn't stopped. “Space is dark and vast, there is no telling how many are out there. If they have spy sats too, we could run out of fuel before we found any.”
“To be fair I'm betting most are around the Protodon jump point,” the admiral said. “That way they have a fast exit. They are ballsy but still learning. I'm willing to bet they won't want to be deeper in the system in case they get caught. And off to one side or on the Z axis serves little purpose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But as you said, they are a moot point. Our real problem is that ship. It's going to carry a warning to White of our arrival. To be expected but he'll have a time table in mind based on how long it took for us to get here from B-97A.”
“Aye, sir. A rough approximation,” Jeremy allowed from where he was stationed on the flag bridge. “We can change that though.”
“Indeed we can and we will. We'll move on the jump point now,” the admiral ordered. The navigational officer nodded and turned back to his station. After a moment he began to issue soft orders to his people.
“Sir? What about the scouts we are planning to send to Nuevo Madrid?” Catherine asked. “Should we still detach them? And what about any reinforcements coming our way from Dead Drop?”
“Leave a buoy telling them what we're doing with orders to report to Dead Drop if we don't arrive within three months,” the admiral ordered.
Catherine frowned. “That's fine for the reinforcements, but I'm not sure about the tin cans, sir. It might cut their fuel supply low, sir.”
“We'll risk it. Besides, I haven't detached them yet.”
“Are we going to jump with the fleet train or have it trail behind, sir?”
“I think this time we'll leave them tucked away in hyperspace,” the admiral mused. His staff stared at him. “We've made hyperspace rendezvouses before. We can't transfer between ships, but we can communicate if we're close enough. And we will do that.”
“Aye, sir. Laying in hyperspace is another risk. If we had them drop out behind us, then trailed in or stayed put …,” Jeremy suggested.
“A noble suggestion in theory but fool hardy. We'd have to leave a force to cover them. I'm not willing to split my forces, not with what we know we're up against.”
“And the big question mark of what else they have up their sleeves,” Catherine said.
The admiral eyed her and then nodded. “Exactly.”
“Sir, we're getting faint signatures of movement behind the innermost planet,” a CIC rating reported.
“A picket?” Myron demanded as he pulled up the signatures on the main plot. He frowned thoughtfully.
“Or a hiding fleet?” Jeremy suggested.
“Hold off on the jump. We need to be sure,” the admiral stated. “Slow our speed. I want to know what is going on,” he said.
“Aye aye, sir.”
:::{)(}:::
Shepard and Almirante Grau played their part with Shell Game. The two ships were separated, one in the inner system, the other in the outer star system. They used decoys to draw the Horathians towards one of them. For days the phantoms made Admiral De Gaulte's staff think that Admiral White was waiting in stealth, stalking them.
Captain Song had set it up to play it like Admiral White had split his force into two pincers, one inside the inner system, the other in the outer reaches. Eventually Admiral De Gaulte got enough recon drones and recon planes to saturate each of the areas from different angles to realize his people were chasing and reacting to phantom fleets. That let him catch on to the ploy.
“All one big diversion. How disappointing,” Myron stated in disgust, eying the admiral warily. If anyone was to blame for the wasted effort, it was his department. Though, to be fair, CIC should shoulder some of the blame. “They did a damn good job of it though. Too good if you ask me.”
“Yes, yes, they did,” the admiral replied. He wondered how much time he'd wasted chasing the phantoms—obviously too much. CIC had reported that the largest ion trail around the Protodon jump point hadn't been that old. Their isotope readings were far from federation standard, but they'd narrowed it down to within a week of the fleet's arrival.
Which meant he wasn't that far behind White, not far behind at all.
“Put us back on course for the Protodon jump point. I'm done chasing phantoms and jumping at shadows,” he growled.
“Aye aye, sir,” Jeremy replied with a dutiful nod.
:::{)(}:::
Commander Zakhan, CAG of the carrier Nimitz was well past the point of hitting something, so everyone knew to steer well clear of him if they could help it. Unfortunately, those who had to give him news had no choice.
They tended to save such information for after the CAG's meal or when he had his first cup of coffee. Over the past two day
s, he'd noted the ratings and even some of his squadron commanders had started to lay in wait by the squadron coffee pot in the outer office. Which meant he had to deal with it instead of avoid the ambushes, though he'd been tempted to turn it into a game of cat and mouse.
Unfortunately for him, he had learned a long time ago not to avoid such problems. Little problems nipped in the bud were the best problems. Problems that were left to rot and fester … they tended to grow and grow and then blow up in your face.
“Now what?” he drawled, eying the deck boss.
“The one thousand hour tear down is coming up faster than we'd like. On a few of the birds we’re within a couple hours of it,” the deck boss said, waving a tablet.
“Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately, yes. All this recon time has pushed the numbers up.”
“Frack,” the commander growled as he pulled out his gold encrusted mug. It was a legacy piece, something kept on the ship for generations. It was actual gold, which was surprising. You could tell where someone had welded it together and not quite gotten it right from a couple scores on the handle. It had a dent too, most likely from someone dropping it, or more likely, throwing the thing against a bulkhead in a fit of rage.
Not that anyone could accuse the current holder of doing anything like that. Not in the past shift at any rate, he thought as he finished the pour. He glanced over his shoulder and noted a medic there. “And let me guess, you're going to remind me that some of my pilots are past their mandatory allotted flight time for the week?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” the medic replied.
“Joy,” the CAG growled as he poured some powdered creamer into the cup and then stirred in some sugar substitute. Some chemist back home had concocted it in order to replace sugar and reduce diabetes and other problems. He would have much preferred the real thing to the artificial crap.
“What else,” he sighed, shaking his head as he took a sip.
“Well, the ships are undergoing sensor recalibrations since we realized we've been chasing ghosts. The bridge wants to take the deck sensors down. They've taken the long range ones off line, and we're relying on the fleet feed as well as the eyes and ears craft. They were supposed to get it back up by end of last shift. We're now taking bets on how much longer.”
“Wait, you said the deck sensors? The ones we need to land craft?” the CAG demanded, taking the tablet.
“Yes, sir. Which is a problem since we've got birds in flight and can't land them with the sensors down. Engineering promises they'll get them back up, but I've heard that one before. Their track record isn't so hot.”
“Right,” the CAG drawled in annoyance. He turned to see another person coming slowly up behind the medic as if to stand in line. He too had a tablet, this one tucked under his arm. The CAG made a show of slumping. “Oh, frack me. Frack me sideways why don't you! Why can't you people let me have one fracking moment to enjoy something before you piss me off??!?” he demanded.
“Sorry, boss, it is what it is,” the deck boss stated with a shrug.
The CAG growled as he eyed the deck boss in disgust. “I'll talk to engineering. They need to finish one project before they get into another. I damn well know the admiral doesn't want us off line and our birds grounded, though I bet you and you,” he glanced at the medic, “wouldn't mind it.”
“No, sir.”
“Not going to happen,” he warned.
“We're burning through a lot of fuel, sir,” the third officer said, holding up his tablet from where he was standing. The medic stepped aside so he could be out of the line of fire. “Which is why I was sent here,” he said.
“Frack,” the CAG growled. He fought the urge to shake and toss his cup. Instead he took another sip and then waved them to his small office.
:::{)(}:::
Commander Riker knew the various CIC watches had a lot of egg on their face. Pointing a finger at engineering and the sensors only got some of it off; everyone knew they'd been well and truly snookered. Spooked and pissy … and of course shit ran down hill, which was the reason for his present occupation. For the past three days, he'd been up to his elbows in making what repairs he could while also overseeing the day-to-day running of the ship to keep it functioning smoothly. Now he'd had to scrap together a group of engineers and techs to tear into the ship's hardware, while software techs went through the software.
Star Mauler had apparently been behind in her software patches too. They'd found that out when the techs had thought to compare her code to Executioner's, which had been more egg on someone's face.
He shook his head slightly. “Someone please tell me we've gotten this sorted out,” he said.
“Trying, sir. I honestly don't think we can get any better range or resolution from what we've got. The equipment isn't federation level, sir, not quite close,” a sensor tech said.
“Tell me something I don't know. Any faults?”
“No red lights, sir,” the tech replied.
“Any yellow lights? Anything hinky?” he demanded.
“Well, now that you mention it …”
The chief engineer wanted to slap his forehead, but he couldn't since he was in a suit. Instead he tapped his boot until he started to drift. “Well, it seems we've got some sticky servos on the port Lidar Array. We're not sure how to fix it, and unfortunately we, had to trade the spare to Potemkin for that grav emitter for the bow.”
The chief sighed heavily. “Okay. I'm guessing a complete tear down, thorough cleaning, and then rebuild is in order?”
“Looks that way, sir, sorry.”
“Not your fault, get it done.”
“There is another team on that. I've got a problem here with the bow sensors. Something keeps causing an intermittent short here in the bus, and we've got some impedance we shouldn't here,” the tech said pointing to two problems on his tablet. “And the ODN cable is frayed; I think it rubbed somewhere.”
“But it's not broken?” the chief engineer pressed.
“No, sir.”
“Tape it, log the repair, and then move on. We're soaking up the rads and we're not getting paid nearly enough as it is,” he growled.
“Aye aye, sir.” The tech said, turning back to his work in the open panel.
“Right,” the chief growled. He turned and then slowly moved along the safety line hand over hand until he got to his anchor point, then he turned his mag boots on. He was safely outside the sensitive electronics range so the boots shouldn't throw their calibration off. But he heard a soft curse over the radio net so he unhooked himself and then moved out of the area to visit the next work party.
:::{)(}:::
Catherine shook her head as she scanned the daily reports. Admiral De Gaulte might have CIC chasing its tail over the crap they'd fallen for, but she knew who was really paying for it just from the litany of repair logs. Engineers across the fleet were already tired and overworked; they were now out in the black or tearing into the code to find nonexistent or minor problems. Problems that weren't at the root of the snafu.
It wasn't anyone's fault; they'd been played—over, done with, move on. But even the admiral was human. He like other people needed someone to blame, needed people to feel the pain, and needed them to learn to pay more attention in the future.
Hopefully, they'd learn the right lessons from what they were going through. Heaven forbid they actually see a ghost and fail to report it in the future! That might bite them soundly in the ass if it was deliberately ignored.
:::{)(}:::
Prince Adam ground his teeth as he settled himself into the captain's chair. His people had been on constant alert. There had been something of a competition in the various ships' CIC departments on who could get the notice of a hit off into the tactical net before anyone else, but until they started to realize something was hinky, accuracy hadn't been something they'd been shooting for.
Refining that mess had been a pain in the ass. He knew the sensor techs were jumpy and havin
g their chiefs, and hell, the skipper snarling didn't help their mindsets.
His own snarling probably didn't squeeze any efficiency out of them either. Quite the contrary he thought. He'd learned a lot about things in the past few days. Things he hadn't thought he'd needed to know. Lessons on being out of control of the situation. He didn't like the feeling, didn't like it at all.
Unfortunately, he had to resign himself to continue feeling that way, at least as long as he was in the navy. Even as a ship's captain, he'd still have someone above him in the chain of the command to answer to.
But eventually, some day, he'd skip over them all, he reminded himself. Someday, he'd look back on the frustration and put it all behind him.
“Commander, we're still working on recalibrating the sensors. Engineering reported they got a few more bugs out of the repairs done last watch,” Lieutenant Chico Ravirez, the JATO, said as he came on the bridge.
“Sleeping in, Lieutenant?” the XO asked mildly.
Chico flushed. “Sorry, sir. I was covering another shift. Commander Lobenski cleared it.”
“Buzz didn't tell me anything about that,” the XO said, rising from the chair. “I'll let it slide though.”
“Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant said, wide eyed in earnest appeal to get on his boss's good side. “I passed through the radio room on my way here. There are some eyes-only packets there.” He held up a tablet.
“I'll take a look. Most likely more crap about getting the logistics sorted out,” the prince said, taking the tablet as he passed the man. “Your watch,” he growled.
“Aye aye, sir. I have the bridge,” the lieutenant said formally. He waited until the XO had departed the bridge before he took a seat and logged it however.
:::{)(}:::
Lieutenant Flora Tabernaky noted the lack of PT scores again and tut tutted. She'd tried sending memos, she'd tried calling the chief, now she had to resort to sterner measures to get his attention it seemed. He had a bad habit of slacking off on PT and his diet, and that set a bad example for his department and eventually the ship. She couldn't and wouldn't have that.