CHAPTER 10
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19:52Z Hours, 25 March 2315
“CAPTAIN REPORT TO FLAG STOP MESSAGE ENDS.” This was the signal communicated by the near-ancient expedient of flashing lights and Morse code from the USS William Gorgas to the USS Cumberland. Commander Duflot’s orders from Norfolk required him to make every effort to avoid being detected by enemy forces, hence his use of lights rather than conventional radio.
He could have established a laserlink, but Duflot was apparently not interested in efficient two-way communication and information sharing with the destroyer; he just wanted to order Max to come on board, and to do so in the most imperious fashion possible. Accordingly, wearing dress blues and a sidearm (Chin blinkered his counterpart on the frigate and found out what the Uniform of the Day was on board the pennant ship), Max was on board his ship’s launch, making the 1800-meter crossing between the two vessels.
It was with some chagrin that Max saw that the docking director lights on the starboard side of the William Gorgas were blinking red, indicating that the launch was being directed to dock on the frigate’s port side. It was the third snub in just a few minutes. The first was in not establishing a laserlink between the two ships, as though the Cumberland were in possession of no information in which the William Gorgas could conceivably have any interest.
The second was in the wording of the signal. Although Duflot outranked Max by a single step, both men commanded rated warships. Accordingly, a communication from one captain to another was supposed to be more or less between equals. A senior captain possessed authority to give orders to the others, but was restrained by a measure of deference and recognition of the other captains’ independent authority.
Typically, the signal would have been worded something like, “CAPT DUFLOT SENDS REGARDS STOP REQUESTS HONOR OF CAPT ROBICHAUX ON BOARD THIS VESSEL AT HIS EARLIEST CONVENIENCE STOP MESSAGE ENDS.” Duflot was also, Max thought, overstepping a bit with “report to flag” when Duflot was not a commodore or an admiral and therefore not of “flag” rank. The lead ship of a group of vessels commanded by someone not of flag rank was technically the pennant ship of the group, not its flagship.
But the third, and worst of the snubs was being directed to dock on the port side. Starboard was the side of honor. Docking to port meant that the William Gorgas would receive him without ceremony: no boatswain would pipe him aboard with the announcement “Cumberland arriving”; no side boys would be present; the ship’s Marines and Officer of the Deck would not salute him or render him any other honors; and he would not be treated as a member of the never formally recognized, but still very real Brotherhood of Exalted Warship Captains, a status accorded him by Admiral Hornmeyer, who was a full-blown vice admiral with three gold stars on each shoulder and hundreds of ships under his command. Rather, Duflot’s whole attitude toward Max was that of a superior dealing with a subordinate, nothing more.
When the red lights started blinking on the frigate’s port side, the man piloting the launch, Ensign Mori, made an inarticulate snort of disgust and turned to Max. With an annoyed gesture at the docking director lights, he said, “I can still dock us on the starboard side, sir.”
“Thank you, Mister Mori. I’m sure you’re good enough to get snugged up there without the grappling field to slip us into place, but that doesn’t engage the docking clamps or open the airlock.”
“Well, sir, you’re not supposed to know this officially, but when the frigate didn’t initiate a laserlink, Sparks and Gates hacked their ENAP, so we could pull a download and do a one-way update on our database.”
Max sat up and took notice at that one. This statement was an interesting revelation in four ways. One, the Cumberland now had covert access to the frigate’s computers through the latter’s external network access portal, or ENAP, the same portal through which the ships would be communicating if Duflot had permitted a conventional laserlink. Two, hacking a warship’s ENAP was supposed to be well-nigh impossible, but these two men had accomplished it in a matter of minutes. Maybe they acquired a good nutcracker for that system from some of their friends in low places or even managed to crib the passwords from someone. The latter, in fact, was by far the more likely explanation given how popular a prick like Duflot was likely to be with his men. It was not as though Duflot had to be worried about the Krag pulling the same trick.
Three, at some point Chin and Bales had sufficiently impressed their shipmates to be awarded the traditional and honorific nicknames for their posts: Sparks, for communications officer and Gates, for the computer and information systems officer. Four, Chin and Bales, who had been at loggerheads going back to when they were midshipmen together on the battlecruiser Aeglos, apparently had worked together on what was likely an off-watch project, meaning that they had probably resolved their long-standing differences.
“So, if you want, I can let Sparks know by blinker and Gates can remote activate the grap field, pull us in, and open the airlock, with all the tell-tales and alarms deactivated. We could be drinking coffee and eating pound cake in the wardroom before anyone even knew we were there. It would be squeaker work, sir, as easy as kiss my hand.” Mori seemed eager to try it, especially given the obvious snub to his captain.
“Not today, Mr. Mori, not today. Those two Krag ships dropped off our tail as soon as we went subluminal, and they’re lurking out there somewhere, so I’m not really enthusiastic about hacking into the operating system of this group’s most powerful ship. Not to mention that I don’t think it would be a good idea for Commander Duflot to know that we hacked his systems. He seems the type who would take offense. I’m not eager to go before a court martial right now. I’d rather fight Krag, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I just wanted you to know that the option was available.”
“Thank you for that, Mori. As they used to say back in the Age of Sail, larboard side, Mr. Mori. Handsomely now, row dry.’ ”
Mori laughed, as much at the idea of rowing a spacecraft as at the skipper’s low-budget tridvid drama version of an English accent. Something of a buff about such things, Mori did, however, recognize that the skipper correctly used “larboard,” the term used for “port” in the British Royal Navy until 22 November 1844.
“Larboard side it is, sir,” he answered in an English accent considerably more authentic than Max’s. He had an ear for accents.
Max took a good look at the frigate through the front view port—one actually piloted a tiny auxiliary vessel such as a launch, at least in part, by looking out a window with the Mark One Eyeball. He smiled at the sight of her familiar lines. The William Gorgas was a frigate of the Edward Jenner class, of the same design and even from the same yard as Max’s last ship, the Emeka Moro, on which he served as weapons officer.
He found himself enviously contemplating her four forward missile tubes that allowed her to launch a far more effective salvo than he could fire from the Cumberland’s two forward launchers—her single rear tube being useless against forward targets. So many of the tactical situations in which Max had found himself since taking command of the destroyer would have been made simpler by the availability of another pair of missile tubes. For that matter, he sure wouldn’t turn his nose up at those big pulse cannon turrets that let the ship train her main batteries in any direction.
His wistful contemplation of augmented firepower was brought to an abrupt halt when he noticed that, although the green “Dock here” ring around the port main docking hatch was illuminated, another small vessel was only about twenty meters away from docking with it. Another green “Dock here” was signaling, this one around the number four port hatch, the opening into the Engineering spaces usually used for loading equipment and supplies bound for that part of the ship that were not so large that they had to come in through the hangar bay. Almost every rated warship had a hatch in roughly that location. It was generally called the “Servants’ Entrance.”
Make that four snubs.
As the launch headed to the designated hatch, it passed within a hundred meters of the other docking vessel—close enough for Max to read the registry number: GCRU-8481. Out of idle curiosity, Max punched the number into the SVR database. The vessel was attached to the Union Naval Logistics Service base in the system, a waste retrieval and disposal transport. But no one ever called the type by that name except when filling out official documents. In common conversation, those vessels had another name dating back to the Age of Sail. The commanding officer of the Cumberland was being compelled to yield docking precedence to what everyone called a garbage scow.
Make that five snubs.
Mori docked the launch at the Servant’s Entrance with his customary deftness. Within a few seconds, the larger ship’s artificial gravity took hold by induction through the deck plating, and the computer announced, “Initiating artificial gravity.” As if it took a computer announcement to be able to tell the difference between microgravity and being held in your seat by 1 G.
“This shouldn’t be long, Mori, and I’d like to be able to leave quickly when I’m done. Just wait right here, and leave everything powered up.” Max expected a short, unpleasant meeting with Duflot and didn’t want to be forced to endure an uncomfortable wait around a docking hatch.
“Aye, sir. No worries, I’ll be right here with the thrusters hot. We’ll be able to undock and be on our way five seconds from when you give the word.”
“Outstanding, Mori.”
Max heard the series of hisses, thumps, and clangs that told him that the hatches of the two craft were being precisely aligned, the docking clamps locking, and the inner doors on both vessels opening. He stood and stepped over to the hatch, waiting for the red light labeled STATUS: DO NOT OPERATE HATCH to go out and the green one labeled STATUS: HATCH MAY BE OPERATED to illuminate.
It took four seconds, giving Max four more seconds to contemplate how much fun he was about to have. The red light went out and the green one came on. Both sets of hatches opened, and Max stepped into a nondescript compartment usually used for unloading spare parts, barrels of coolant and lubricant, and buckets of paint. In fact, a few examples of each were present in the small space, looking as though they had just been carried in for the occasion to emphasize Max’s importance in the scheme of things.
He pivoted to the right, where the quarterdeck had been located on sailing ships and where the Union and naval flags would be standing if anyone had bothered to set them up, which they had not. Instead, Max found himself saluting a tall crate on which was stenciled: MODEL WPPCP-25878-11929-4 WASTE TREATMENT PLANT CIRCULATING PUMP, AUXILIARY.
Not only was Max saluting a replacement shit and piss pump, but he was also saluting a secondary replacement shit and piss pump. Snub number six. Hell, maybe six and a half.
Max then pivoted 90 degrees to face and salute the man Captain Duflot had sent to greet him. “Permission to come aboard, sir.”
“Permission granted,” replied the man who returned the salute. Well, not a man, actually. The person sent to meet Max and escort him to wherever he was meeting Duflot was a boy of about ten.
Snub number seven.
“This way, sir, if you please,” he piped in his child’s voice. “The captain is expecting you.”
“Thank you, Mister…” The boy said nothing but started to lead Max to the exit. He didn’t know what was wrong with the young man, but he was not going to be walking in the company of another Navy man without knowing his name, even if he was only 140 centimeters tall and would not be making the acquaintance of a razor for three years, if not four or five.
“Midshipman,” Max said gently, “when I said that, it was an implied request that you tell me your name.”
The boy stopped dead in his tracks and turned to Max, genuinely mortified. “Oh, sir! I didn’t know, sir! It’s Füchtenschnieder, sir, Midshipman Second Class.”
The boy seemed frightened by the minor miscommunication, a reaction similar in kind, if not in severity, to what Max had seen instilled in his own crew by his abusive and incompetent predecessor, Captain Oscar.
“Don’t worry, son, I’m not in your chain of command, and I wouldn’t dream of mentioning something so minor to anyone who is. So, what does everyone call you, Midshipman?”
Although he tried to cover it up, the boy seemed surprised and confused by the question. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “They call me Füchtenschnieder, sir.”
“No nickname?”
“Oh, no, sir,” he answered, as if the mere possibility of such a thing was unthinkable. “No nicknames on this ship, sir.”
No nicknames. Then Duflot was an idiot of galactic proportions. There were whole books written about the individual psychological and shipwide morale benefits of crewman nicknames. They helped spacers establish individual identity in a service that tended to reduce human beings to uniforms, grades, and ratings.
Spacers wore their Navy nicknames with pride and often carried them through retirement right into the grave. Max had known many a long-retired old space dog whose friends could not have told you the man’s given name for a million credits but who was well known to hundreds of men on forty ships and a dozen worlds by a nickname he had earned as a squeaker or a greenie half a century ago. Max managed to keep from shaking his head.
“Very well, then, Füchtenschnieder,” said Max, giving the “ch” the correct Germanic guttural and the “sch” the slightly different sound it had in German than in Standard. Just because he liked to use nicknames for long, difficult to pronounce surnames didn’t mean he actually needed to use them. “Take me to your leader.” The boy showed no signs that he was even tempted to smile at Max’s slight joke as he led Max out the hatch and toward the bow.
“Mister Füchtenschnieder?” said Max, looking down almost onto the top of the lad’s head.
“Yes, sir?”
“Is there any particular reason why you didn’t want to tell me your name a moment ago?”
“Oh, no, sir,” he replied with defensive abruptness. “I just didn’t think anyone who commanded a rated warship would want to know the name of a midshipman second class.”
“Füchtenschnieder, does Captain Duflot know your name?”
“Oh, no, sir. At least I hope not, sir.” Max, of course, knew the names of all of his midshipmen, as well as what planets they were from; what other ships they had served on, if any; how they were doing in their studies and training; and what their current duty assignments were. Max had never met Duflot, yet he was getting the distinct feeling that when he did, he wasn’t going to like the man. No, it was more than a feeling. Max was sure he wasn’t going to like Captain Duflot at all.
Max was surprised that the midshipman was not leading him to the wardroom where one captain typically met with another over a cup of coffee, generally with some of the other ship’s officers present so that they all could get acquainted. Instead, Max was shown to Duflot’s day cabin. After Max was kept standing in the corridor for more than ten minutes, the Marine guarding the hatch showed him in.
Assuming none of the customary informality between ship captains, Max marched in perfect regulation form to Duflot’s desk, brought his hand up into a perfect salute, and snapped out, “Lieutenant Commander Maxime Robichaux, USS Cumberland, reporting as ordered, sir.”
Duflot, who had been looking at his computer screen when Max entered, continued to do so for about ten seconds before slowly turning to face Max and scrutinizing every aspect of Max’s uniform and posture.
He still had not returned the salute, which Max continued to hold. Duflot finally met Max’s eyes. “You’re out of uniform. I will be forced to note that fact in my report to Admiral Hornmeyer, mister.” Not “Captain.” Not “Commander.” “Mister.” Max had lost count of the snubs.
“Begging the Commander’s pardon, sir, what is the precise natu
re of the uniform infraction?” Max’s tone of voice was the epitome of reasonableness and control, an astonishing feat given that he already wanted to break Duflot’s head open like an overripe melon.
“Sidearm. The Uniform of the day on this ship is dress blues. Not dress blues with arms. You are not permitted a sidearm, mister.”
Continuing to hold his salute, Max said, “With all due respect sir, if the Commander would examine my uniform more carefully, particularly the first citation ribbon on the top row, I suggest that he might come to a different conclusion.”
Duflot squinted at the ribbon in question and visibly deflated. “Very well.” He returned the salute, allowing Max to snap his hand back to his side. “Stand at ease, Robichaux.”
Stand at ease? Not, “Be seated?” This is beyond insulting.
“I see that you have had all manner of, shall we say, difficulties since taking command,” Duflot said. “Hornmeyer is known for promoting people whom he regards as promising young officers to posts that are above their heads, only for them to fail in spectacular fashion. Don’t be surprised to find yourself relieved of command at the end of this mission and reassigned as a weapons officer or XO of some well-run ship so that you can learn the art of command from someone who knows what he’s doing. Until then, do try not to wreck your vessel any further than you already have, and attend to orders from the flag. I will endeavor to make them simple enough for you to understand and carry out.”
Max took all of these insults, standing at parade rest, without so much as a twitch. He was certain that his face was red with anger, but there was no helping that. Duflot favored Max with a few more remarks about the deficiencies in Max’s command, including an observation that no one he knew of ever needed to replace even one set of Frasch-Freiburg capacitors in a ship that hadn’t been in commission long enough to need its thrusters realigned, much less two sets.
During all of this, Max carefully watched Duflot. He was of average height, slightly on the heavy side for a Navy man, with thinning, graying hair and a reddish complexion. His small, pointed nose seemed out of proportion with his large, round head and definitely did not match his thick, protruding lips, which looked rock hard from forming clipped, sarcastic sentences. Duflot moved his head a great deal when he spoke, while keeping the rest of his body uncannily immobile, as though he were one of those dolls with the large, heavy head that bobbled and rolled randomly on a spring.
For Honor We Stand (Man of War Book 2) Page 28