* * *
Paul sat in Combat on the Michaelson the next morning, watching his display report every detail as the Maury undocked and headed away from Franklin Naval Station. The symbol representing the Maury stayed bright as she accelerated outward, the distance between her and Franklin opening with dizzying speed. I wish I could at least send Jen a letter, and maybe get some back. But ships on patrol don't send or receive anything but important operational messages. Mail receipt and sending would pose too big a risk of betraying the ship's location. So, farewell for now, Jen. For the next three months, I'll only be talking to you in my mind.
Two hours later, Paul and the other junior officers gathered on the quarterdeck for Carl Meadows' final departure from the ship. The officers lined up as sideboys as Carl entered the quarterdeck with a seabag of personal belongings draped over one shoulder. Carl insisted on shaking everyone's hands, then stepped back, looked around for a moment at the ship, faced the officer of the deck inport and saluted. "Request permission to leave the ship."
"Permission granted."
As Carl started through the ranks of his fellow junior officers, Lieutenant Sindh called out, "Hand salute!" They all saluted in unison, holding the gesture as Carl brought his own hand up, maintaining his return salute as he walked past their ranks. The bosun mate of the watch trilled attention on his pipe, bonged the ship's bell twice, then announced, "Lieutenant, United States Navy, departing."
Carl pivoted after he'd cleared the Michaelson's brow so he could face aft and salute the flag. Then he turned, smiling a bit wistfully. "See you guys around. Take it easy."
Lieutenant Sindh called out, "Two!" Everyone dropped their salute and waved to Carl as he walked away. Within a few moments, most of the junior officers had hastened off to work, leaving Paul and Kris Denaldo watching the dwindling form of Carl until it disappeared around a turn.
Kris slapped Paul on the back. "Come on. You and I've got work to do."
"I going to miss that guy, Kris."
"Yeah. It's hard when a friend leaves. I hated to see Jen go, but at least she's nearby and I still see her every once in a while."
"I guess I'd better get used to it."
"You won't. You saw how torn up Gonzalez was to leave."
"It's a screwy way to live, Kris."
"You volunteered for it."
"You sound like Jen. Reminding me of my mistakes."
Kris laughed and headed back into the ship. Paul took one more look toward where Carl had disappeared, then followed her. Two goodbye's in one morning. At least Jen's coming back. Unless an accident happened, unless Jen fell prey to the many ways a sailor could die in the course of "routine" duties. Paul's mind shied away from the possibility, though not before he realized Jen would have the same fears for him. We understand each other's work. That's a good thing. It can also be a bad thing, I guess.
Four days later, the Michaelson herself prepared to get underway again. The contractors were aboard, the pulse-phased laser appeared to be working properly, and this time two range safety ships would accompany the Michaelson to ensure another Greenspace trick didn't interrupt the test firing.
Paul twisted around from his chair on the bridge, looking for Lieutenant Silver. Where's Scott? He should already be up here and helping get through the checklist for getting underway. Paul focused back on the checklist, reviewing the next item.
Barely twenty minutes prior to the scheduled time for getting underway, Scott Silver came onto the bridge and strapped into his chair. "Hey, Paul. Sorry I'm late. Really sorry. Had some engineering issues, you know?"
"Uh, yeah." It's not his fault if something tied him down until now. And engineering problems are the sort of thing that might keep us from getting underway at all.
"How's the checklist coming?" Silver took a look at it, nodded and smiled. "Great. Really good work. It's almost done. I can see why Carl Meadows said you were a great partner on a watch team."
"Thanks. There's a couple more items -"
"Right. Can you handle them while I get up to speed on your bridge arrangement?"
Paul nodded back, trying not to reveal any reluctance since the request seemed reasonable. Unused to handling all the checklist items by himself, Paul went through the last few items as fast as he could and still be certain they'd been done properly.
He'd just finished when Commander Kwan arrived on the bridge, looked around carefully, then focused on Scott Silver. "How's preparations for getting underway going?"
Silver smiled confidently. "The checklist's just been completed, sir. We're ready to go."
"Good work, Scott. Notify the captain. He should up here any moment now."
Silver gestured to Paul. "Let the captain know, okay?"
Paul bit back his first reply. You could've let Kwan know I did the checklist instead of taking credit for it yourself. And why can't you call the captain? But Silver was the officer of the deck, which meant he had every right to delegate tasks to Paul. "Captain, this is Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, the junior officer of the deck. All departments report readiness for getting underway."
"Thanks. I'll be right there."
A few moments later the bosun mate of the watch called out, "Captain's on the bridge!"
Scott Silver pivoted his chair to face Captain Hayes. "Sir, the ship is ready to get underway."
"Thank you." Hayes eyed Silver carefully. "Do you feel familiar enough with the ship to get her underway?"
Silver looked regretful. "I think so, sir, but in a close maneuvering situation like this . . ."
Captain Hayes switched his gaze to Paul. "Lieutenant Sinclair, why don't you get the ship underway today?"
"Aye, aye, sir." Am I going to do everything up here this watch? It makes sense, I guess. Scott hasn't been underway on the Michaelson, yet, which makes me the better-qualified one for conning her away from the station. Paul took a couple of deep, calming breaths, exhaling slowly, as he studied the close-in maneuvering display and ran through the procedure for getting underway. It's basically simple. I release the ship from the station, pushing her up and away, while the centrifugal force inherited from the station's rotation also pushes her up. I have to make sure the Michaelson doesn't drift too far to the side and smash into another dock before I get her clear of the station. And I have to avoid running into anything else.
The status panel for the ship's automated maneuvering system glowed a happy green at every point. Paul saw Scott Silver's eyes were focused there. Sensing his gaze, Scott looked at Paul, then nodded at the automated system panel. "That'll do it for you."
"No, it won't. We never take the ship out on automatic. That system isn't foolproof. No system is. And if it fails, we need to know how to do the job ourselves."
Silver shrugged. "Okay."
Easy for you to say. They let the Rickover leave port on auto? Never mind. Can't think about that now. "Captain, all departments report they are ready for getting underway. We have received clearance from station control to get underway."
Captain Hayes nodded, his eyes on his own display. "Very well, Mr. Sinclair. Get the ship underway."
"Aye, aye, sir." Paul licked his lips and swallowed, trying to ensure his voice would sound smooth and confident. "Bosun, pass the word to all hands to prepare to get underway. Quarterdeck, seal quarterdeck access and retract the brow."
"Seal quarterdeck and retract brow, aye," the petty officer of watch echoed in a routine designed to ensure he had heard the order correctly. "Quarterdeck reports it is sealed. Station has retracted brow. All seals confirmed tight."
Paul checked his display, mentally lining up his commands and surreptitiously using his fingers to remember numbers and sequences. "Take in Lines Two and Three. Take in Line Four."
"Take in Lines Two, Three, and Four, aye." Some of the grapples holding the Michaelson tight against the station let go, allowing the Michaelson's lines to float free. The ship reeled in the lines smoothly, ensuring they wouldn't flail about and damage either t
he ship or the station. "Lines Two, Three, and Four secure."
Paul checked his display again, rehearsing the next order in his head, acutely aware that Captain Hayes was monitoring every step of the process. "Port thrusters all ahead one third. Let out Lines . . . One and Five."
"Port thrusters all ahead one third, aye," the helmsman echoed the command. Paul felt a kick as the thrusters began shoving at the Michaelson's mass. Combined with the gradual loosening of her ties to the station, the fluctuating forces made the feeling of gravity onboard shift as well, causing Paul's stomach to react as if they were on a thrill ride, and introducing a dangerous distraction.
"Let out Lines One and Five, aye," the petty officer of the watch responded.
Michaelson's mass accelerated ponderously away from the station, the two lines still tethering her to Franklin paying out slowly, the computers controlling their tension compensating for the acceleration as well as the inherited centrifugal force pushing the Michaelson out and to the side. Paul glanced at the emergency jettison panel. If one of the line computers failed, he'd have to hit the right switch as quickly as possible to cut the line and keep it from pulling on the ship and the station in a potentially disastrous way. The authorities on Franklin didn't like having to retrieve drifting lines, but they really hated mistightened lines pulling a ship and the station back into uncontrolled contact.
Paul watched, trying to follow the advice of his first officer of the deck and feel the ship's movement instead of just watching the displays. He stole another glance to the side, where Captain Hayes was watching his display with every appearance of calm interest. "Standby to let go all lines."
"Standing by."
Another moment. Feel the ship. Watch the displays. Factor in the delay between giving an order and when it's carried out. "Let go all lines."
"Let go all lines, aye, sir. All lines let go."
The bosun mate of the watch sounded his pipe. "Underway! Shift colors!" Instead of physically lowering the bow and stern flags, and then raising a flag to the main mast as seagoing ships did, the bosun on the Michaelson pressed a control to change her broadcast identity code to show the ship was no longer tethered to another object with a fixed orbit.
Paul sat rigid, barely aware of a pain in his lower back from tense muscles held tight so he could watch his displays closely. The maneuvering screen showed the Michaelson moving at a gradually increasing pace out and away from the station, her projected course a flattened curve. Up ahead, no other ships or objects were visible, leaving the Michaelson's intended course clear.
"Say again, sir?"
Damn! I said that too softly. I know better. Project command presence and say your orders loud and clear, dammit! "Port thrusters all ahead two thirds. Main drive all ahead one third."
"Port thrusters all ahead two thirds, aye. Main drive all ahead one third, aye."
Paul tried not to look toward Captain Hayes again, wondering how he'd reacted to Paul's miscommunicated command. A moment later, the Michaelson's main drive kicked in, slamming Paul back against his seat. As the maneuvering thrusters pushed the Michaelson farther away from the station, the main drive shoved her forward, creating a new projected course leading over and away from the station. He briefly flashed on another training memory, when he'd wondered why the ships didn't just use their thrusters to pivot around so they could accelerate directly away from the station. Carl had given him an I-can't-believe-you-asked-me-that look, and then pointed out that doing such a maneuver would direct the main drive's exhaust straight at the station. That'd be a bad thing, Carl had added with a grin. Man, I wish Carl was still up here.
On the maneuvering display, the Michaelson's course rose toward a projected path set by the station traffic monitors. Feel the ship. Feel the ship. "Secure port thrusters. Main drive all ahead two thirds."
"Port thrusters secure, aye, main drive all ahead two thirds, aye."
Smooth. Not exact. But smooth. "Quartermaster. What's your recommendation?"
"Recommend course two zero zero degrees absolute, up two zero degrees, sir."
Paul looked toward the captain. Hayes nodded judiciously without being asked. "Very well," Paul acknowledged. "Helm, come to course two zero zero degrees absolute, up two zero degrees."
"Come to course two zero zero degrees absolute, up two zero degrees, aye, sir."
Paul let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Something else. Oh, yeah. "Captain, request permission to secure from getting underway."
Hayes nodded again. "Permission granted."
Paul called back to the petty officer of the watch. "Pass the word to secure from getting underway."
"Aye, sir." Keying the all-hands circuit, the petty officer called out the announcement. "All hands, secure from getting underway. The ship remains in maneuvering status. All hands exercise caution in moving about."
USS Michaelson shuddered as the helm orders caused thrusters around her hull to fire, killing drift in one direction, then bringing her bow around toward the desired course before firing again. Her mass responding to the thrust, the Michaelson ponderously steadied onto the planned trajectory. The desired course and the actual course displayed on the maneuvering screens merged into one curving path, then as the thrusters shut off their absence made itself felt as all sense of gravity disappeared. Paul's stomach lurched in an all-too-familiar fashion, but he fought it down with the ease of long practice.
Scott Silver tapped his controls. "I guess you trust the automated maneuvering system when you're clear of the station."
"That's right." Paul pointed at the display. "There's a lot more room for error if something goes wrong out here."
"Whatever."
Captain Hayes unstrapped, pulling himself from his chair gingerly in the new zero-gravity conditions. "Good job, Mr. Sinclair."
"Thank you, sir."
Hayes cupped one hand to his ear as if straining to hear Paul's reply.
"Thank you, sir!"
Hayes nodded, then headed for the hatch.
"Captain's off the bridge!"
Paul smiled to himself. Captain Hayes chewed me out for not speaking loud enough when I gave that one order, but he did it without chewing me out. He just made his point. Paul heard a chuckle and looked over at Scott Silver, who was laughing at him. What right do you have to laugh about that? You were just baggage up here this time.
Apparently oblivious to Paul's soured mood, Silver chatted through the rest of the watch, telling sea stories about being at the Academy and his experiences since then. If Paul hadn't been so ticked off at Silver, he might have found the stories charming. Instead, he found himself questioning some of what he was hearing.
The arrival of Lieutenant Diem and Ensign Gabriel to assume the watch was a bigger relief than usual. Partway through the turnover, Paul realized that right after he discussed each important item with Gabriel, Silver would discuss the same item with Diem. The realization that Silver appeared to be depending on Paul to keep track of important details did nothing to improve Paul's mood. He rushed through the last stage of the turnover, then bolted the bridge as quickly as propriety would allow so he wouldn't have to leave along with Silver.
Once inside his own stateroom, Paul pulled up his division's training records. He knew from experience that Commander Garcia usually did checks of training records soon after an underway period started, though Paul had never figured out if Garcia did that because he was bored or because he expected his division officers to have neglected their duties amid the hassles of getting underway. Speaking of Garcia, he's the senior watch officer. Several months back he scrambled watch sections to keep us from "getting too comfortable." Commander, please, please, please scramble the watch sections again so I don't have to spend hour upon endless hour up on the bridge with Scott Silver!
Sam Yarrow came in, strapped into his seat, then eyed Paul. "What's eating you?"
"Who says anything's eating me?"
"The way your back's rigid and your ears
are red and you're pounding the keys on your data terminal."
Paul willed himself to relax, then tried to smile. "I guess I'm just tense. It was a rough morning. I conned the ship out of the dock."
"So? You've done that before."
"Yeah, but the new captain was watching me, and I had a new officer of the deck. It made things a bit more stressful."
"If you say so. What's that guy Silver like on the bridge anyway?"
Paul didn't have to fake his smile now. Sam, do you really think I haven't learned not to spill my guts to you? If I said one word remotely critical of Silver, you'd be telling Silver and half the rest of the ship about it within the hour, and making me sound like I'd labeled Silver a hopeless incompetent. "I can't tell, yet."
"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement."
"Because I don't have enough experience with Silver. That's all. I'm not going to evaluate someone based on a single time standing watch with them."
"It sounds like he didn't do too good."
Stop fishing, Sam. "I didn't hear any complaints." Which was true. Paul closed out his files. "Sorry, I've got a meeting."
Garcia didn't scramble the watch teams. Lieutenant Sindh began to develop a deepening frown as she waited for Scott Silver to arrive, always late, on the bridge to relieve her. Acting unaware of Sindh's disapproval, Silver always had an apology and an explanation for his lateness. Paul found himself begrudging duties on the bridge as Silver routinely assumed everything would be done by Paul as his assistant.
The test-firing went smoothly this time. Either the Michaelson's two escorts or the inability to replace the ship Greenspace had used last time meant no one interfered with the test. Paul, not on watch on the bridge, sat in Combat watching the Michaelson's combat systems track the target, then engage it with the new weapon. The phased-pulse laser scored direct hits on the target, as it should've since the target had a beacon attached and was traveling on a fixed trajectory. The contractors smiled and pronounced the weapon a success. Whether it would work in a real combat situation was another matter altogether, of course.
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