Bartoli returned the ball, albeit a little more slowly than Max would have liked. “Ships are fighters, sir, in finger-four formation; they are Charlie Bravo Delta Romeo.” Tactical read that the fighters were arrayed in the classic fighter formation invented by the Luftwaffe over France and Poland centuries ago, with the ships arrayed like the tips of the fingers of an outstretched hand: one in front, one on each side of and a little behind the leader, and a fourth trailing a little behind one of the flankers. And they were at CBDR, which stood for “constant bearing, decreasing range,” meaning that they were headed straight for the Cumberland.
“IFF?” Identification, friend or foe. Max was asking the question of the day: Were the ships transmitting the correct electronic recognition signal?
“Not yet, sir.” Then the sound of a relieved breath. “IFF received. Fighters are confirmed friendlies. Banshee B fighters, squadron CFS two-six-three-two assigned to the escort carrier Lake Baikal. I think their nickname is ‘The Krag Baggers.’”
Max snorted derisively. Garcia turned to him. “Heard of these guys, Skipper?”
Kasparov interrupted. “Changing designation of targets to Charlie one through four.” He shrugged apologetically. He was supposed to say that. As soon as the targets were identified as friendly, they ceased to be Uniforms, which stood for “Unidentified,” and became Charlies, which stood for “chicks,” meaning “friendlies.”
“Everyone in this theater has heard of them,” Max responded. “They’re famous, in a way. They used to be hot sticks assigned to the Constellation in the Forward Battle Area. About nine or ten months ago, the whole Task Force was conducting a huge exercise—three carriers, seven battlewagons, twenty-five cruisers—you know, a really big deal—under EMCON, with ships dispersed over half a sector, no IFF, no voice comms, no nav beacons—just like a real attack. Well, the Krag Baggers were coming back from a simulated sortie, and somehow the squadron leader got a few digits transposed in the rendezvous coordinates. Squadron XO with the check set had turned back with engine trouble, so there was no backup record of the coordinates and no carrier even close to where they thought it should be. Huge, huge FUBAR: the whole fighter squadron in the middle of nowhere on comm silence, near the end of their fuel and wondering if they were going to have to call for help and totally tank the whole exercise. Then, some sharp-eyed stud fighter jock saves the day when he spots a carrier with the Mark One Eyeball, pretty as you please, all lit up and about twenty-seven hundred kills away. He does a ‘follow me’ signal with his running lights and leads them home. Everybody relaxes because their bacon has just been saved, right? Squadron lines itself up in a perfect approach formation, does the standard visual recognition pass, and then blinkers in their request to land. Then, every signal light on the carrier starts flashing like a Christmas tree on stims, frantically giving them the wave-off and telling them to assume a holding formation, null their drives, and put their thrusters on station keeping.”
“Why the wave-off?”
“Because, XO, these fighters from the Constellation were trying to land on the Eugene F. Kranz. They did a visual recognition pass and didn’t even notice it wasn’t their own carrier. The Kranz had to launch two tankers to refuel the fighters and then feed them the correct rendezvous coordinates by blinker. And you can just bet that along with those coordinates, Admiral Turgenov put in a few choice words in his inimitable way. Now, our friends the Krag Baggers are relegated to flying combat-area patrol off a third-rate escort carrier back here in the Tertiary Defensive Perimeter until they can convince Admiral Turgenov that they can find their butts with both hands tied behind their backs.”
“Shouldn’t we activate our IFF transponder?” Bartoli interrupted, concerned about being fired upon by the Krag Baggers. Just because they couldn’t navigate didn’t mean that they couldn’t shoot.
“Negative. Maintain EMCON. They’re expecting us. Kasparov, have someone in your support room put the Krag Baggers on visual and route it to Comms for a recognition signal by lights.”
“By lights, sir?” Everyone knew the protocols for visual recognition by flashing lights, but they were rarely used. It was like something out of the Battle of Jutland.
“Yes, Mr. Kasparov, by lights. It’s in our orders. The Krag have all these systems seeded with stealthed EM probes. The idea is for us to come through here without being heard or heard of. Those fighters have orders not to hail us or talk about us by radio, and if we keep our transmitters shut down, no one will ever know we were in the neighborhood. So, have your man on the optical scanners train one on the fighters and send the feed to Comms.”
“Aye, sir.” Kasparov was no dummy. He understood the logic behind the procedure and started speaking softly over his headset, giving instructions to the correct man in the Sensor Station’s staff support room. Like most watch standers in CIC, Kasparov was backed up by a team of men in a compartment nearby, called a staff support room or back room; there was one for each major CIC station, in a system that went back to NASA’s Mission Control in the earliest days of space flight. As the man in CIC could watch only a few displays at a time, there were several—sometimes as many as two dozen—other men in another compartment looking at all the relevant displays with voice, text, video, and data links to the man in CIC. Each of those men, in turn, could pull up additional displays, access computer databases, make inquiries by voice or data link to anyone, anywhere in the ship, and otherwise do whatever was necessary to provide the man in CIC with the information he needed.
That system made the CIC the center of a web of information whose strands extended to every corner of the ship. It had worked well for the people who ran the moon landings, and it had worked very well for the Navy. Apollo Mission Control’s legacy of achievement and excellence lived on, three and half centuries later, in the fighting CICs of the Union Space Navy.
Max noted that one of the screens at the Comms Station changed from a transceiver array status grid to a camera feed from outside the ship. Four of the tiny lights against the black background were moving slowly relative to the background of stars. One of the lights blinked blue twice, red twice, green three times, and white once. Comms was already punching up today’s visual recognition codes. “Captain, the fighter element has transmitted the correct recognition code for today’s date. Shall I transmit the response?”
“Affirmative, Mr. Chin.”
Chin then pulled up the little-used touch screen that allowed him to control the ship’s running lights, now extinguished except for the collision lamps, directly from his station. He keyed in the sequence, checked it against the code displayed on another screen, and hit EXECUTE. The Cumberland’s running lights then flashed one green, one red, four blue, and one white, and the tiny dot on the screen flashed two red. “Recognition code response transmitted and accepted,” said Chin. The Krag Baggers recognized the Cumberland as a friendly and would not fire on her. Then the spot started flashing again, a series of rapid white flashes, some short, some longer. Nearly five hundred years after its invention, Morse code was just too useful to die. Chin watched the flashes carefully and typed letters into the keyboard at his station. He grunted, then pasted a smile on his face and turned to Max.
“Skipper,” Chin said, “signal by Morse from the fighter element. Basically, they wish us luck.” Something in Chin’s voice told Max that he had not said everything. At that moment the red “MESSAGE” light on Max’s console, cleverly set behind a set of bevels that made it impossible for anyone but him to see, started blinking. Max hit DISPLAY, causing one of his screens to read: “To CO from COMMS—actual text of message: ‘GOOD LUCK STOP YOU WILL NEED IT CUMBERLAND GAP STOP MESSAGE ENDS.’”
That insulting name. Max had never liked it, even when he was serving on the Emeka Moro, but it especially rubbed him the wrong way now that those fighter jocks were applying it to his ship when he was in the Big Chair. Well, two can play that game. Max started typing: “CO to COMMS—send this by lights: THANKS FOR SINCERE
GOOD WISHES STOP GOOD LUCK ON RETURNING TO CARRIER STOP THERE IS ONLY ONE IN THIS SECTOR SO YOU ARE CERTAIN TO GET IT RIGHT THIS TIME STOP CO SENDS PERSONALLY STOP MESSAGE ENDS.” There. That’ll throttle back their thrusters for a little while. He hit SEND.
Max turned to Chin. “Comms, I’ve prepared a suitable reply to our friends. Kindly send it by lights.” When the text came up on Chin’s console, a short yip escaped him, quickly cut off. He input and sent the message with a barely visible smile.
Bartoli turned to Max, doing his best not to smile broadly. Max remembered that the Tactical console could monitor most message traffic. His little put-down to the fighters would be known to every man and boy on board, by change of watch—one small blow struck for morale on the Cumberland. “Skipper, those fighters have come about and are running back to their normal patrol station. I don’t think they want to talk to us any more.”
“I can’t imagine why, Mr. Bartoli.” He turned to his sensor man and inquired amiably, “Mr. Kasparov, have we located their carrier yet? She is, after all, the size of a small planet. If she’s been in system long enough, maybe she’s got some captured asteroids orbiting her as natural satellites that you can use to help localize her.” Kasparov smiled and a few people chuckled, while others stared at their feet, not knowing what to make of the remarks. Having a skipper with a sense of humor took a little getting used to. Max’s comments were, after all, slight exaggerations. The ship in question was a Lake Victoria class escort carrier, one of the smaller ones. If Max remembered correctly, she was only 1295 meters long and massed something over a hundred thousand tons, which would have made for a very, very small planet.
“Affirmative, sir.” His people had detected the carrier a few moments before, and it was being plotted now, a fact that everyone in CIC could see from the tactical plot. “USS Lake Baikal is at the L4 for the fourth planet, a gas giant with about one and a half Jupiter masses. Just sitting there for now. She’s got four elements of Banshees out flying combat area patrol and three Mongoose SWACS ships out there pounding the system with sensor sweeps. Our projected course takes us nowhere near any of them.”
It was hard to hide something that big, but the Lake Baikal’s captain was doing his best not to stick out like a sore thumb. The L4 and L5 Lagrange points, also called Trojan points, were nice little gravity wells, one of which was sixty degrees ahead of the planet in its orbit and one sixty degrees behind, that tended to collect small bodies and debris, known as Trojan Asteroids. A ship at L4 or L5 not only conserves fuel by staying in a stable orbit, but it is difficult for enemy sensors to pick it out from all the other objects put there already by Mother Nature. Or Isaac Newton. Or Joseph Lagrange.
“Maneuvering, do you have my ETA to the Bravo jump point yet?”
“Affirmative, sir, coming up now. Jump point Bravo is just over sixty-four AU from our current position. If we top out at our highest stealthy speed of point-five-four c, with standard acceleration and deceleration at each end, our transit time is eighteen hours, fifty-seven minutes.”
Even at half the speed of light, a star system covered a lot of real estate. “CIC to Engineering.”
“Engineering. Brown here.”
“Wernher, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Allow me to hazard a guess. You want to know whether I trust the compression drive on this ship at low c factors.”
Max was floored. “I didn’t know mind reading was one of your many abilities.”
“It is not. But down here in Engineering we do keep a weather eye on the tactical repeater and the status monitors. It’s an obvious question, really. A typical skipper on a typical mission would cross each of these systems at about half lightspeed and get to our destination in a few weeks. That same typical skipper would not consider crossing these systems on the compression drive because superluminal travel is illegal in most systems and dangerous at low c multiples because of compression shear. How am I doing so far?”
“Obviously, you’re doing pretty damn well, Wernher. But you also know that these particular systems are uninhabited and unclaimed, so there’s no law for us to break. And you know that this ship’s got an additional set of compression phase modulators to increase control at lower multiples just so it can do this kind of thing. That lets us zip around at low superluminal velocities inside a star system, a capability that no one in Known Space has except for maybe the Vaaach.” And getting there faster would give Max and the doctor more time to figure out what the Krag were buying, where they were buying it, and where their ships were, not to mention more time on station before he ran out of food and fuel. “That makes it a realistic option for us. So, what’s your answer?”
“Captain, I have every confidence in the stability and safety of this drive at anything over six c. My recommendation, though, is that you do this at ten c. Ten will give you a good compromise between minimizing shear and not packing on so much velocity that it would be easy to overrun the jump point. And even with the extra phase modulators, you need to understand that although velocity is going to be stable, there will be some unpredictability about the precise equilibrium point. Ten c might turn out to be anywhere between nine point three and ten point five.”
“Not a problem. Make whatever preparations you need, and notify the XO when you’re ready.”
“Aye, Captain,” Brown replied. Max closed the circuit.
“XO, make preparations to traverse this system using the compression drive at ten c.”
“Aye, sir,” responded the XO. “Preparing to make intrasystem traverse from present location to jump point Bravo at one-zero-point-zero c.” The XO started giving orders to Maneuvering, the CIC engineering officer, and Deflector Control.
Max turned to the sensor officer. “Mr. Kasparov, you’re authorized to break EMCON to the extent, and only to the extent, of conducting a narrow beam active scan at high power along our path to the jump point. We want to make damn sure nothing’s in our way.” Kasparov acknowledged the order and started talking into his headset. He was going to let his back room set up and execute the scan, rather than trying to do it from the more limited set of controls on his console. Smart move.
It took about a minute. “Captain, scan along our route to the Bravo jump point is clear. No ships or obstructions.”
“Very well. XO, you may take the ship superluminal when ready.”
Garcia sat up straighter in his seat. “Thank you, sir. Deflector control, forward deflectors to full, lateral and rear deflectors to cruise.”
“Forward deflectors to full, lateral and rear to cruise, aye.”
“Maneuvering, null main sublight drive and take it to standby. Take maneuvering thrusters to standby.”
“Null the main sublight and take to standby, maneuvering thrusters to standby, aye,” confirmed the chief. He gave the orders to the men at the station in front of him and watched the status lights on his console. “Main sublight nulled and at standby. Ship is coasting. Maneuvering thrusters at standby. Attitude control by inertial systems only.”
“Prepare to engage compression drive, set c factor for one zero point zero.”
“Aye, sir,” Maneuvering responded. “C factor one zero point zero.” Ten times the speed of light. About three million kilometers per second. “Green light from Engineering—compression drive is ready for superluminal propulsion.”
“Engage.”
“Engaging. Compression field forming. Field is going propulsive. Speed is zero point seven. Zero point nine.” There was a brief, shrill screech as the ship passed through the lightspeed barrier. As the barrier was known as “Einstein’s Wall,” the sound was unavoidably named “Einstein’s Wail.”
“Ship is now superluminal. One point five. Three. Five. Eight. Field reaching equilibrium. Equilibrium achieved. Field is propulsive and stable at ten point zero seven c. Our ETA at jump point Bravo is… one hour and forty-nine minutes from now.”
Not bad. First chance Max got, he would see that Wernher got a promotion.
>
“Steady as she goes,” said the XO.
“Good job, XO, everyone,” said Max. Then, to Garcia, “I’ll be in the Sensor back room.”
The XO said, “Understood, sir.” The expression on his face, though, said, “Outstanding idea, sir.”
The Sensor back room was around a few corners and down a corridor about ten meters. Max hit the door control and stepped quietly inside. No one noticed him in the darkened room because everyone’s attention was focused on two men on the far side of the compartment, their faces lit by sensor displays. One was screaming and one was cringing.
The screamer, a lieutenant JG who looked just a little too old for his rank, also looked a little too red in the face for his own good. “The drive emissions are totally distinctive,” he screeched in a voice like fingernails on slate. “Look at the Doppler on the absorption lines. When you correct for relative velocity of the two ships, a greenie could see that the exhaust gas velocity perfectly matches a Banshee. And look at the emission lines themselves. Not there, fuckhead. THERE. THERE. AND THERE. What are those?”
The cringer, an ordinary spacer third class, croaked out “Potassium and cesium?”
“No, dipshit. Sodium and cesium. Standard additives to Union Fighter fuel, not used by most other powers. This Doppler plus these additives give you a solid specident on this contact as Union Fighter. If another sensor can identify him by another means, we’ve got a dual phenomenology posident, and our man in CIC can tell the skipper what the target is. Got that, or do I need to repeat myself?”
The information was correct, but the way it was being delivered required correction.
“NO. YOU. DON’T!” thundered Max. “Don’t repeat a goddamn word. You have said quite enough,” he continued in a voice that was low but hard and cold and sharp as a boarding cutlass. “What is your name, mister?” Mister was a correct but less than complimentary way to address a junior officer.
To Honor You Call Us (Man of War Book 1) Page 8