For Honor We Stand (Man of War Book 2)

by H. Paul Honsinger

  “A reasonable interpretation.”

  “But what would be the ‘matter of highest possible importance’?’ ”

  “I have no idea, but as you could tell from my report regarding my negotiations with him, this gentleman is wealthy, exceptionally well-connected, and possesses impressive intellectual gifts. If he wants to meet with me in an ambassadorial capacity and says that the subject matter of that meeting is something of the highest possible importance to the Navy, I am inclined to believe him.”

  “So am I.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  06:42Z Hours, 19 March 2315

  The doctor wasn’t the only person who seemed to believe the veracity of the coded message. The admiral also seemed to be convinced it was legitimate. Max pulled up his most recently issued orders:

  09:55Z 17 March 2315

  TOP SECRET

  URGENT: FOR IMMEDIATE IMPLEMENTATION

  FROM: HORNMEYER, L.G., VADM USN CDR TF TD

  TO: ROBICHAUX, MAXIME T., LCDR USN

  1. USS CUMBERLAND, DPA 0004, IS ORDERED TO RAIPUR II AT BEST PRUDENT SPEED TO RENDEZVOUS WITH ROTTERDAM CLASS TENDER, USS NEWPORT NEWS, TMA 1968, TO UNDERGO REPAIRS AND REFIT CONSISTENT WITH SEPARATE ORDERS ISSUED THIS DATE.

  2. YOU AND DOCTOR SAHIN ARE TEMPORARILY DETACHED FROM VESSEL AND DIRECTED TO PROCEED TO RASHID IV, TRANSPORT VIA SHETLAND MICROFREIGHTER PREVIOUSLY ISSUED. WHEN IN RASHID SYSTEM, AS WELL AS EN ROUTE TO AND FROM, YOU AND DOCTOR SAHIN ARE AUTHORIZED TO WITHHOLD DISCLOSURE OF NAVAL AFFILIATION AS YOU DEEM APPROPRIATE TO COMPLETION OF MISSION. UNIFORM REGULATIONS ARE WAIVED FOR THESE PERSONNEL FOR DURATION OF THIS MISSION.

  3. DOCTOR SAHIN IS HEREBY APPOINTED ACTING UNION AMBASSADOR AND MINISTER PLENIPOTENTIARY TO THE UNIFIED KINGDOM OF RASHID, ALLIED EMIRATES, AND PROTECTED ISLAMIC WORLDS FOR THE PURPOSE OF CONDUCTING ANY NEGOTIATIONS AND CONCLUDING ANY AGREEMENTS WITHIN THE SCOPE OF THE INSTRUCTIONS ISSUED TO HIM UNDER SEPARATE COVER. IN THIS REGARD, HIS AUTHORITY SHALL BE DEEMED TO SUPERCEDE THAT OF THE REGULARLY APPOINTED UNION RESIDENT MINISTER NOW IN PLACE. SIGNED AND SEALED COMMISSION TO THAT EFFECT ALREADY IN POSSESSION OF LCDR ROBICHAUX.

  4. DURATION OF DIPLOMATIC MISSION TO BE AT DISCRETION OF DOCTOR SAHIN BUT SHALL NOT EXCEED FIFTEEN DAYS ABSENT EXPLICIT ORDERS FROM THIS COMMAND.

  5. LCDR ROBICHAUX IS REMINDED THAT WARSHIP HULL MATERIAL, NOT TO MENTION JUMP DRIVE COMPONENTS AND COMPRESSION DRIVE PRIMARY PHASE REGULATORS, DO NOT CONDENSE FROM NEBULAE, NOR ARE THEY EASY TO REQUISITION WHEN THE FLEET IS 1000 LIGHT YEARS AWAY FROM THE CORE SYSTEMS. EXERCISE GREATER CARE IN THE FUTURE.

  6. GIVEN THAT CUMBERLAND IS IN FOR REPAIRS, I MIGHT AS WELL AUTHORIZE THE REPAIR CREW TO ATTACH A SECOND BRONZE BATTLE STAR TO THE VESSEL IN RECOGNITION OF RECENT COMBAT VICTORY OVER TWO CRUISER ENEMY FORCE AT MENGIS VI. THIS CREW HAS COME A LONG WAY.

  7. I HAVE REVIEWED REPORT RE ENGAGEMENT AT MENGIS VI. WHILE I HESITATE TO ENDORSE SUCH AN IMPROBABLE SEQUENCE OF HARE-BRAINED STUNTS AS ACCEPTABLE NAVAL COMBAT MANEUVERS, MAGNITUDE OF LOSSES INFLICTED UPON THE ENEMY COMPELS ME AGAINST MY BETTER JUDGMENT TO RECOMMEND YOU FOR THE ORDER OF TACTICAL MERIT. IF THE COMMENDATIONS BOARD HAS ANY SENSE, THEY WILL DENY MY REQUEST.

  8. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE, ROBICHAUX. IF YOU DO ANYTHING STUPID, I WILL KICK YOUR ASS.

  At least, Max thought, there is no doubt that the admiral wrote these orders himself. He loved the warm, secure feeling he got from knowing that he was on Admiral Hornmeyer’s good side.

  Given the microfreighter’s speed limitations, it was a two-day trip from Raipur II to Rashid IV, a journey that the two men spent mostly catching up on things. Max worked on what was still referred to as “paperwork,” notwithstanding the almost complete absence of paper employed in its completion. Running a warship, even a warship as small as the Cumberland, required that her commander generate, read, review, comment upon, complete, fill out, check off, authenticate, sign, verify, forward, and reply to a staggering volume of documents and communications, a process that consumed several hours a day.

  The doctor was reading various medical journals, treatment bulletins, and other newly available information on advances in medical science. This process as well was quite time-consuming, particularly given the number of fields in which the doctor was interested and tried to keep up his expertise.

  They also caught up on sleep. Neither man had gotten much rest since the two had reported aboard the Cumberland on 21 January 2315. The microfreighter’s automated cabin monitoring system recorded many, many hours of deep, vigorous, bulkhead-rattling, manly snoring during the journey.

  Both men were well rested and relaxed when they jumped into the Rashid system on 19 March and made contact with Rashidian System Traffic Control. Having completed the standard electronic identification, interrogation, and response process, the microfreighter, known only by the prosaic registry number GPGC 72114, had been waiting about five minutes to receive instructions from the traffic controllers. The doctor was getting impatient.

  “Do you think that something is amiss? I cannot imagine why anything would take this long.”

  “Relax, Bram. Traffic controllers are just another species of government bureaucrat.” He smiled and turned toward his friend. “You are familiar with the three imperatives of bureaucratic behavior, right?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Other than ‘cause as much frustration as possible to Ibrahim Sahin,’ I’m sure I have no idea.”

  “Well, then, it’s a good thing you have me in your life to impart these nuggets of pure, triple-distilled wisdom to you. I am tasked with the completion of your already considerable education. Attend closely, my friend. Here are the Three Rules of Bureaucratic Behavior that Commodore Middleton taught to me years ago.

  “One: Never, ever hurry. If you do something fast once, people will expect you to do it that fast every other time. Two: Never be the first person to do anything. To err is human, but to err in a way no one has erred before makes people question your judgment. Three: There is no mistake that cannot be papered over by enough of the right kind of documentation. Once the dust settles, it’s not what you do, but what you say about what you did, that matters.”

  The doctor chuckled. “There is more truth to those statements than I really care to admit. There is a surprising amount of bureaucracy in a military hospital, you know. I was truly surprised because I thought that the objective external constraints of the life and death of patients would limit the development of bureaucratic tendencies. Unfortunately, however…”

  The doctor’s exposition on the subject of medical bureaucracy was interrupted by the three quick beeps of an attention signal from the comm panel indicating that traffic control was about to issue instructions. Twenty seconds later, the speaker came to life.

  “Union Microfreighter Galaxy Papa Galaxy Charlie seven-two-one-one-four, this is Rashidian jump point traffic control. We are prepared to transmit navigational instructions. Are you ready to copy? Over.”

  Max hit the transmit key. “This is one-one-four, acknowledging. Ready to copy instructions. Over.”

  “One-one-four, you are cleared to enter system immediately. Safety, cargo inspection, and customs clearance have been waived. Entry visas are conferred upon both vessel occupants without personal interview. Standard traffic pattern approach requirement is waived. You are being given a direct approach to Rashid IV and direct clearance to land on Victor India Papa Pad zero-zero-two at Amman Spaceport. Set your transponder to squawk Kilo Papa Lima Charlie, and that will get you all the way to the surface. Trajectory being downloaded to your navcomp right now. Please acknowledge receipt. Over.”

  Max keyed the navcomp and saw that a nearly straight line trajectory from the ship’s current position to the surface of Rashid IV had been plotted without any of the usual weaving about to avoid other traffic, curving to avoid communications beam corridors, or oblique angles designed to bring the ship through traff
ic control points. Usually, the only time a ship got to follow so straight a path was when it was a warship going into combat and was more interested in nuking the traffic control center than in following any instructions it might happen to issue.

  “This is one-one-four. Thank you, control. Trajectory received, instructions acknowledged. Initiating approach. One-one-four out.” He killed the pickup, set the course, and engaged the drive. Then he turned to his companion. “Son. Of. A. Bitch.”

  “Clearly, you are astonished.”

  “Astonished? I’m flabbergasted. In the twenty years since I went to space, I’ve never heard of a dinky little banged-up foreign-flag microfreighter jumping into one of these independent systems and being given priority clearance all the way from the jump point to the ground, on a VIP landing pad, and on a nearly perfect direct trajectory at that. Normally, jump point control would have handed us off to system control, who would have handed us off to Rashid IV planetary zone control, then a hand-off to low orbit and proximity control, hand-off to approach control, hand-off to descent control, hand-off to spaceport and landing control.

  “Plus, in a trading center like Rashid, we would normally have to follow an approach pattern in line behind a dozen or two other ships, go through four or five traffic control points, at any one of which we could be held for hours awaiting other traffic and clearances. It would all take at least twenty hours and probably closer to thirty-six. As it stands, we’ll be on the ground in about eight hours or so, almost all of which is just the time it takes at our cruising speed to go from point A to point B. Didn’t you have to go through all of those stages when you came here in the microfreighter back in January?”

  Sahin’s eyes took on a faraway expression. “I suppose that we did, but Spacer Fahad was piloting the ship, and I wasn’t paying very close attention. As I recall, I was reading an amazing journal article on Krag molecular biology and the relationship between the genetic sequences that they evolved for the creation of large, powerful brains to those evolved by humans. What made the article so intriguing is that, although we share many DNA sequences with the Krag, when you consider that we have forty-six chromosomes and they have forty-two, the allocation of particular base sequences to certain chromosomes doesn’t correspond with the similar allocation in humans. The instances of correspondence versus the instances of difference…

  “I see your eyes glazing over, my friend. I am certain that I am boring you. In any event, you may take my word that the article was fascinating in the extreme and was more than sufficient cause for my lack of attention to the mundane details of how Spacer Fahad and I were routed from the jump point to the surface.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Max said, hoping that the semblance of sincerity with which he invested the statement was convincing. “Anyway, clearly we’re being given the VIP treatment. Your friend Mr. Wortham-Biggs must be expecting us and apparently has the clout to see that we hit on the ground as fast as that can be made to happen. He must have something very important in mind.”

  “I think that we were able to surmise that already from the contents of his message. Incidentally, why do all of the Rashidians calling this ship call it by a series of letters and numbers instead of its name? It would seem much more efficient to call us the Bosporus or the Lemur or whatever our name is instead of GCPP and a bunch of numbers.”

  “That’s GPGC.”

  “Whatever. Who can remember something like ‘GPGC,’ anyway? So, why not use our name?”

  “We don’t have one.”

  “Don’t have one? I thought there was some sort of interstellar navigational treaty or other that requires all ships to have names.”

  “There is. But only ships displacing more than ten thousand metric tons get names. Anything smaller just gets a registry number.”

  “Can’t we give it an informal name then, just between us? It would be so much more convenient than always having to say ‘the microfreighter is going here’ or ‘the microfreighter just came from there,’ or ‘let’s hop in the microfreighter and go to Asimov III B ii 4 g—I hear the Hariseldonfish are running this time of year.’ ”

  Max found himself grinning at the doctor’s fictitious world with its fictitious fish. “What kind of name, then?”

  “Something easy and logically related to ‘Cumberland.’ I am not from Earth and my forbears are not from North America, so North American Earth geography is not a strength for me, so I ask this to you. Isn’t ‘Cumberland’ the name of both a mountain pass and a river as well?”

  “Sure. The river was named first, and then several features in the area were given the same name—the Cumberland Gap, the Cumberland Valley, and so on. A creek that flows into the Cumberland River is what created the Gap.”

  “In addition to this creek, does the Cumberland have other tributaries?”

  “I believe it does. Why?”

  “What are the names of the tributaries of the Cumberland River? One of those might do.”

  “Let’s look.” Max pulled up the proper database. “Two main tributaries. They are called ‘forks’ of the river; that’s just how people named things in those days, but they do have specific names: the Poor and the Clover. There we go, then. Between us, we’ll call her the Clover, because she serves, or is tributary to the Cumberland. It’s something of a pun, you see, on both meanings of ‘tributary.’ ”

  “I get it. Surprisingly, though, I actually like it.”

  “Clover it is,” said Max. “I’ll cut the order when we get back to the Cumberland. Among our crew, she will be known as the Clover.”

  A noise from the pilot’s console demanded Max’s attention. He turned from his friend to the main console, which had automatically pulled up the Vessel Intercepts and Collisions display.

  “Looks like we’re about to get some company,” he said. “Two incoming vessels, small and fast. They’re scanning us with powerful and reasonably sophisticated, but not state-of-the art, sensors. Constant bearing, decreasing range. Look like fighters. The last intelligence report I read said that the Rashidians weren’t maintaining fighter patrols near either of the inhabited worlds in this system. I wonder what’s up.”

  “Do you suppose that they are sent to destroy us?”

  “Not likely, Bram. After all, they have a major battle station covering the jump point. That monster could have easily blown us to flaming atoms two seconds after we jumped in. Besides, I don’t think it likely that they would roll out the red carpet with one hand and stab us in the back with the other. That doesn’t sound like the Rashidians who, after all, are renowned throughout Known Space for their honor and hospitality. You’ve been there. You know them better than I do. Does that sound like them?”

  “No. You are correct. What do you think the fighters are doing?”

  “Escort. They’re here to make sure we get on the ground safely, which worries me.…It worries me a lot.”

  He advanced his pilot’s seat all the way up to the console and began flipping switches, pulling up displays, and configuring soft key panels. From his own somewhat limited expertise as a pilot, Dr. Sahin could see that Max was enabling the targeting scanners for the ship’s weapons systems, bringing the auxiliary fusion reactor and its cooling system on line to provide the Clover with speed and maneuverability that no opponent would suspect she had, and powering up its full array of active sensor equipment.

  The doctor’s face showed his confusion. He started to open his mouth, but Max, still working his console very quickly but without any trace of haste, articulated his question for him and offered an answer.

  “Why am I worried because the Rashidians are sending an escort to make sure we get to the surface safely? Because, my friend, the Rashidians would not be providing an escort to make sure we get on the ground safely unless they believe there might be someone else out there somewhere trying to make sure that we don’t.”

 
An ominous silence followed, broken only by the sound of Max pulling up several different screens on the main comm console and then typing furiously. He had also suddenly decided to get some message traffic out. Just as he sent the last message, the comm panel gave two quick beeps indicating that the Clover was being hailed by another ship. Twenty seconds passed. “Union microfreighter Galaxy Papa Galaxy Charlie seven-two-one-one-four, this is a Royal Rashidian Naval Fighter; my call sign for this mission is Escort One. My counterpart is Escort Two. Please acknowledge. Over.”

  “Escort One, this is one-one-four, reading you five by five. Do you have any special instructions for me? Over.”

  “Negative one-one-four. Maintain course and speed as previously instructed by jump point control, without reference to our maneuvers. We will maintain formation with you. If any unauthorized ship approaches, simply maintain your course and speed, do not attempt any evasive maneuvers, and we will take care of the situation. Over.”

  “Affirmative, Escort One. We will steer a lubber line and leave any Richthofens to you. By the way, are you expecting any ‘unauthorized ships’ in particular? Over.”

  A few seconds passed. Max knew why: the pilot was not authorized to tell Max what he knew but had probably been told who he was escorting and therefore knew that even though Max did not fly a fighter, he was a pilot, and a bona fide military pilot with extensive combat experience at that. And all space pilots obeyed one rule, a rule that went double for combat fliers: No pilot ever lies to another pilot about the condition of his craft or what he will meet in space. Ever. Even if they are from different planets. Even if they fly different flags. Even if they are of different species. They are all Brothers of the Black Sky, facing alike the eternal, deadly perils of the endless void. Max knew that Escort One would find a way to let him know what he would meet.

  A minute passed with nothing but digitally scrubbed silence over the comm. Then, the slight hum of a carrier signal. “One-one-four, this is Escort One. You sound as though you might be a scholar of military history. Is that true? Over.”