by John Ringo
“Those boats are your life, Engineer’s Mate,” Granadica said. “What if the Rangora come through today? We’re going to need them up and running!”
“Granadica,” Dana said dangerously. “We have mandated crew rest for the remainder of the duty day. I am not going to have tired engineers who have been living out of their suits for the last four days pulling maintenance on my boats. I run a tight ship in my division, Granadica. Unless you can find some area where I am not performing to designated standard and condition, and good luck on that one, keep your sticky fingers off my division. We clear?”
“Yes, Dana,” Granadica said meekly.
“Just so we’re clear,” Dana said. “I’m glad to see you. It’s good to have another friend around. And sometime I want to talk about the grapnels. I don’t think we came up with the right hypothesis at the talks. I think there’s something theoretically wrong with the design.”
“I was part of the design team,” Granadica pointed out.
“I know,” Dana said, hastily. “But I think it’s something... funky.”
“How funky?” Granadica said. “Hold that thought. I’ve got a tricky maneuver here.”
The fabber was a kilometer long and three hundred meters wide. The main bay doors of the Thermopylae were three kilometers wide on the exterior but only a kilometer on the interior. That wasn’t a tight squeeze, but the fabber wasn’t exactly maneuverable. It wasn’t really designed to move around a lot. The drive systems and maneuvering thrusters were more to keep it in a nonorbital position in deep space. There were tugs to help it move through the opening but from Granadica’s scathing monologue they were, in her opinion, less help than hindrance.
“I’ve got it, Leo!” Granadica sent over the open channel. “Have Tug Nine stop thrusting. I’ve got it!”
“You are approaching unsafe position on your aft, Granadica,” Leonidas replied.
“Watch your own butt, you pervert! See! Got through fine.”
“Internal safety is my responsibility,” Leonidas commed. “You shall allow the tugs and support ships to move you into position.”
“They’re gonna scratch my brand-new shell!”
“The grapnels have been covered in rubber, Granadica,” Leonidas replied. “And it was not a request.”
“It’s like listening to an old married couple,” Angelito said.
“And they barely know each other,” Dana pointed out. “This is going to be... interesting.”
* * * *
TWENTY-THREE
“I checked the four-nine-eight,” Velasquez said in an exasperated tone.
Dana was doing her usual ghostly “walk” through the division, ensuring that all her little lambs were attending to their proper tasks. She paused by Twenty-Three, though, when she heard Velasquez apparently talking to himself. She could hear him talking to himself because, unlike the conditions before she left for Wolf, the Squadron Docking Area was remarkably quiet.
Not, as had been the case for most of her tenure with the 143rd, because all the engineers except those in her division were ghosting in their rooms or the food court, but because they were all very busy performing actual maintenance. In their suits. Mostly with their helmets on. Per regulation.
If the squadron had experienced some shock at the arrival of the new “Norté” command contingent, not to mention Commander Echeverría and the clear and unmistakable threat of being removed from the Alliance “for cause,” the arrival of Granadica had been more along the lines of being hit by lightning. Repeatedly.
As Dana had suspected, Granadica took much the same approach as she had upon arrival. The difference being that Granny could “see” every action of every member of the unit whenever they were in monitored areas, find them when they were in unmonitored areas and nag them, constantly, about what they were doing wrong. Through their implants.
Two engineers had had to be sedated and returned to Earth because “the voices in their heads” wouldn’t stop. The rest had discovered that if they just did the tasks to standard, Granadica generally left them alone. If they didn’t, she was going to keep nagging them and nagging them and nagging them until...
“AIEEEEE! THE VOICES!”
Which was another reason Dana was mildly concerned that Vel had his helmet off and was talking to himself.
“You saw me check it,” Vel said. “It was a good check and it met specs... Why? It does? O-kay... Damnit. I just checked it. Why? How?”
“Vel?” Dana said, flipping through the hatch. The cargo bay was under gravity but she was used to that. “Everything okay?”
“Did you know that sometimes these things got out of spec because you’d adjusted one of the other plates?” Vel asked.
“Yep,” Dana said. “Rarely, but it happens.”
“It’s like chasing your own tail!”
“Not if you do it in the right sequence,” Dana said. “Unfortunately, the sequence depends upon which set of plates you’re working on. And I don’t know that there’s an SOP for it. Who were you talking to?”
“Granadica,” Vel said, blushing. “I... didn’t want to ask you if you were busy and...”
“And I didn’t have that much to do right now,” Granadica said. “I was not interfering, as I understand your meaning, in your Division, Engineer’s Mate.”
“No issues, Granadica,” Dana said. “Thank you for your assistance. Can I ask a question?”
“Any time, Dana, you know that,” Granny said.
“There isn’t a standard operating procedure on that evolution,” Dana said. “I’m not even sure why it occurs and it seems to be something you just run across from time to time.”
“It has to do with the specific gravitic frequency adjustment,” Granadica said. “The math is obviously complex but it occurs under predictable conditions. And there’s a straightforward adjustment series for it.”
“Which means there should be an SOP,” Dana said. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how you do an SOP.”
“You write it and submit it to your chain of command,” Granadica said. “You’ve seen them. You just follow the same outline. Who then, if it passes their review, submits it to BuShips through channels. BuShips reviews it and decides whether to make it a fleet-wide SOP or not. The issue is applicable to more than just the Myrmidons. I’ve had the same issue crop up in the Constellation we just received. Frankly, I don’t think much of the work that BAE did on it. Just terribly sloppy. They talk about my quality control?”
“The problem being, I don’t know why it occurs,” Dana pointed out. “You just run into it.”
“Well, obviously you’d need help with the math,” Granadica said. “No offense intended, Dana. I can’t think of more than three humans on Earth who wouldn’t. And they’d need to run it through an AI for the simulations. But it’s old hat to me.”
“So you could write the SOP,” Dana said.
“Yes,” Granadica said. “But I don’t want to get promoted. And you brought up the fact that there needs to be one. Velasquez...”
“I understand the need for some discretion, Granadica,” the engineer said.
“In fact...” Granadica said. “Here’s how we’ll do it. EA Velasquez will actually write the SOP, supervised by EM2 Parker who will assure it is to standard outline. EM2 Parker will review it then submit it to me. I’ll fill in the math and how to anticipate the issue and rectify it based upon an equation that’s simple enough to run through an engineering board. The paper will be submitted as Parker as primary, Velasquez as primary writer with technical assistance by, well, me. Really, we’ll have to work together on it.”
“Works for me,” Parker said.
“When are we going to work on it?” Velasquez asked.
“You’ve got all those free hours after duty,” Parker replied.
“Oh, gee, homework,” Velasquez said. “Thanks!”
* * * *
“I think we’re to the point of just moving commas around,” Parker said, looking at the
completed SOP.
The Standard Operating Procedure, “Anticipation, Analysis and Rectification of Interactive Gravitic Faults in Inertial Compensation Systems, Draft,” had taken three weeks to write with input not only from Granadica but Chief Barnett who, it turned out, had been the “lead” author on four hundred and twenty-three Standard Operating Procedures and “associate” on over a thousand more.
There had been some very frustrating portions. Granadica did not seem to have the concept of “keep it simple” and the SOP very much had to have her input and assistance. Barnett had kicked it back four times based on giving it “the sort of wording the weenies in BuShips like.” And the procedure itself was not a simple evolution, no matter how hard Dana tried to make it one.
But in the end, she found she’d enjoyed it. She’d never been much of a student. Good enough that she could survive the math and physics portion of A school but not a natural scholar. This, though, was applicable to real life. Somehow that made it... better.
“I agree,” Granadica said. “I still say that we should include the Theta factor analysis procedure, though.”
“You yourself said that it’s so rare you’ve only seen it twice in eight hundred years,” Dana said, trying not to sigh. “And we noted that in the event of failure of this procedure, Theta Factor Analysis Procedures must be undertaken. We’ll write that up as a separate SOP and it will probably be classed as a depot level repair. Which means you get to do it,” she added with a malicious grin.
“What’s this ‘we’ll’ write it up?” Velasquez said. “You mean “Velasquez will write it up and we’ll tell him everything he did wrong!’”
“Think of it as preparing for your job as an officer,” Dana said. “It’s what officers do, right? Paperwork?”
“I was under the impression that it was swanking around the Officers’ Clubs,” Velasquez said, looking puzzled. “I mean, we officer class sign paperwork, but it’s enlisteds that do the writing. Right? We would not be so crass as to wield a pen for something as mundane as actual writing? Except to write to our families for more money because we lost on the horses again.”
“Did he just make a joke?” Granadica asked.
“I think he’s learning dry humor,” Dana said, her eyes wide. “That was almost... Midwestern!”
“I was trying for British, actually,” Velasquez said, grinning.
“Close,” Granadica said. “Close. Okay, I’d say we’re done. Save, attach the cover letter and send.”
“And we shall see what we shall see,” Dana said, comming the command. “Off to the Gods of Confusion it goes.” She’d been warned by Chief Barnett that BuShips would probably rewrite it, just to show that they were necessary, and since the SOP was about as clear as the task could be written they were bound to make it more complicated.
“Officers,” Velasquez scoffed. “Can’t live with ‘em and they get all upset when you space ‘em.”
* * * *
“And last items,” Megadeath said. The beaten down Megdanoff Dana met when shed first arrived was quickly on the mend. He hadn’t been selected for the first group of “Gringos” to “assist” the 143 because he was a slacker. Quite the opposite. But she still was constantly amazed he could be brisk and efficient. He’d even managed to get the Suds to understand that a “one hour weekly engineering meeting” was, in fact, supposed to last an hour.
“We have some good news and bad news. Or good news and good news depending upon how you view it. Good news: Promotions. The 144, 145 and 146 are all standing up. That means that they’re going to require trained personnel in leadership positions. I don’t think that we’re going to be losing any people, but it means that NCO slots are opening up quickly. And since they all have to be filled, we need to find people to promote. Specifically, the flight has been tasked with slots for three EM2s and all qualified EAs are open for promotion to EN, all EN to EM3. I’ll need your written recommendations on which of your EM3s is ready for EM2 in my inbox by oh-eight hundred tomorrow as well as qualification certifications of all qualified EAs and ENs. Questions?”
One point that Megadeath made that Megdanoff never would have was that while there were no stupid questions, there was such a thing as inquisitive idiots. Diaz kept his mouth shut.
“Last item. I suppose it’s inevitable we’d get a colonoscopy at some point,” Megdanoff said. “Or something like it, anyway. We are going to be receiving some DPs. Specifically, the South American Delegation to the E Eridani talks is going to be stopping by. They have specifically requested, and been granted, private interviews with ‘select members of the South American contingent assigned to the Thermopylae battle-station.’”
“If I may interject,” Diaz said. “I was told about this. The person who contacted me said that they are not visiting to...” He paused not sure how to go on.
“Restart the whole ‘reply by endorsement’ thing?” Dana asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Diaz said. “To not do so. They are... diplomats. There remain areas of cultural... ‘issues’ is the term you would probably use. One of their purposes is to find those issues and see what can be done... within the parameters of maintaining our current standard of effect.” It was pretty clear he was quoting.
Megdanoff’s mouth worked for a moment, his lips pursing and popping.
“Mmmm... yeah,” he said. “Anyway, they’re going to be here the beginning of next week. So in keeping with having some warning this time, we’re going to be treating this like an IG inspection. Which means twice as much work on the birds. The CO wants every single surface swabbed within an inch of its life, all the quarters GI’d, and the boarding corridor is starting to look pretty nasty so we’re going to be cleaning that. He also noted that some of the bird exteriors are starting to look pretty rough so we all get the pleasure of EVA painting. Don’t figure on any free time this weekend. It’s not just us, that’s the whole squadron. And the coxswains will be joining us.”
Dana couldn’t quite stop the snort from exiting her nose. If the Suds wanted to start playing games again, Commander Borunda was clearly prepared to show them the results.
“Sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “Cough.”
“Very well,” Diaz said, gritting his teeth.
“And that concludes our meeting, campers,” Megdanoff said. “Questions?”
“Do we know which personnel have been selected?” Dana asked.
“Not at this time. More questions? Then we’re done. I’ll send you the additional duty roster. We’re going to be very busy.”
* * * *
“Parker, Megdanoff.”
Dana was barely out of the meeting and on her way back to the docking bays. Couldn’t it wait?
“Parker.”
“I’m not sure if you’re going to recommend or not, but absent strenuous objections, I’m submitting Palencia. I know you guys have history.”
“Not in the normal meaning,” Dana commed. Diaz was ahead of her in the hallway and she now understood not bringing this up in the meeting. “But, yes. Problem is, I’m not going to strongly object, but I don’t concur. He doesn’t have the actual skills and knowledge to be an EM2.”
“Which is what an old-fashioned chief would say about every EM2 in the One-Four-Two including you. The new kids never know what they’re doing. Truth is, we need EM2s. We’re scheduled to get the 146 and it’s going to be a ‘Sud’ force as of current thought. Which means we need Sud NCOs. Which means we need Palencia.”
“Understood. No strenuous objection. Just think it’s a bad idea. Give him another six months and I’d probably concur.”
“It actually would help to have a recommendation.”
“I’m trying to remember something I read one time. Oh, yeah: This enlisted man works well when under constant supervision and cornered like a rat in a trap”
“There you go. See. Was that hard?”
* * * *
Dana looked at the ping from Megadeath and nodded to herself in
side her suit.
“‘Bout damned time,” she muttered.
“Velasquez,” she commed, looking over at the engineer. “Following all standards, discontinue painting evolution.”
The division was “spot painting” nicks and buffs on their shuttles. Since the shuttles weren’t subject to rust in space, the old Navy hands had had to do without their usual lives of making sure every surface was painted, sanded, derusted, repainted, sanded, derusted... by the lowly engineers and bosuns, of course. However, between the visit of the “Distinguished Persons” and the fact that, finally, the One-Four-Three was actually spaceworthy, the U.S. Navy chiefs and officers got to go to town with space paint.