To Honor You Call Us (Man of War)

by Honsinger, H. Paul

  Max casually walked over to an emergency equipment access panel and opened it, as if to check the readiness of the reserve oxygen cylinders. Even the inside of the access panel was polished. He removed one of the oxygen cylinders. It was polished too, and the rough edges of metal where the two halves of the cylinder were welded together had been ground even with the rest of the tank and brought to a high gloss. It was then that Max noticed that the chief manning the computer core status console was watching him out of the corner of his eye and smiling smugly, as if he were aware his new captain had seen the extraordinary level of spit and polish to which the ship had been brought and was very, very proud.

  Carefully maintaining a neutral expression, Max replaced the cylinder and closed the panel. He opened three other panels and found a similar borderline-psychotic level of polish behind each. To top it off, there was no wear of any kind on the deck tiles, even in places where there was a pair of watch stander’s feet every minute of every day the ship was not moored. That meant that someone was replacing the tiles at least every few months, which was certainly not the norm.

  “XO, ETA to the navbuoy?”

  “Two minutes, fifteen seconds, sir.”

  “Very well. I’ll be in my cabin. Notify me as we pass the buoy. I wish to see all department heads in the wardroom at ten hundred hours. You have the CIC.”

  “Aye, sir, I have the CIC.”

  With that, Max left CIC for his cabin. One of the perquisites of being the CO is having one’s cabin just a few steps away from CIC. It took him less than thirty seconds to get from the CIC hatch to his day cabin. He went directly to the captain’s safe, keyed in the combination, and opened the door. Inside, on top of the usual contents, were two envelopes. One was the large, blue, official Admiralty issue envelope with the red seal used for orders, and the other was a plain, cream-colored envelope addressed by hand to “Lt. Commander M. T. Robichaux—Personal and Confidential.”

  His heart was racing. These orders could be the key to the most exciting days of his life, or they could be the introduction to untold months of unbearable tedium. And in just a few seconds, he would know. He slipped his index finger under the seal but did not break it.

  The comm terminal on his desk beeped. “CO here.”

  “Skipper, this is the XO. We just passed the buoy.”

  “Very well. Impose full EMCON, all decks, all systems. Steady as she goes.” He broke the seal.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  09:59Z Hours, 21 January 2315

  Max sat at the head of the table, gazing at his department heads and taking his first good look at the wardroom of his new command. Of the group of twelve, four were in SCUs: the XO, the chief engineer, the weapons officer, and the Marine detachment commander. Of course, it was always possible that one or more of these men were already in their combat gear, but Max took it as a sign of support from these critical officers. On the other hand, he did not take the wearing of dress blues by the others as a sign of disloyalty. Not everyone would have heard about his appearance in CIC just over half an hour ago, and not everyone would have had time to change.

  As for the room itself, it was less than impressive. In the trid vids about the valiant naval heroes of the Krag War, the jut-jawed, clear-eyed, broad-shouldered protagonists always conducted their meetings in a beautifully appointed conference room complete with walls of computer displays and lavish arrays of high-definition, 3D projections to show the tactical situation from several angles and on multiple scales. Cumberland was too small to have a space set aside just for meetings, so the group was assembled in the wardroom, where the officers typically took their meals and coffee. The designers of Cumberland’s wardroom had made only two concessions to the compartment’s secondary function as a meeting room. First, it was somewhat larger than was strictly necessary to seat the eight or so officers who were the maximum number off duty at any given time. And second, there was only one flat-panel display on one wall, as well one standard-resolution, one-cubic-meter, 3D projector.

  It was 09:59, and there were fourteen chairs around the wardroom table, but only thirteen occupants, counting Max. Perhaps whoever set out the chairs had allowed for an extra or someone had counted wrong. Surely, no one would dare be late. At exactly 10:00 to the second by the wardroom clock, Max began the meeting. In the Navy, 10:00 means 10:00.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. For those of you who haven’t met me, I’m Lieutenant Commander Max Robichaux, your new commanding officer. I’ll chat briefly with each of you at the conclusion of this meeting. I’m going straight to the point. We’ve been given a difficult and important mission that could make a significant difference in the course of the war and, not incidentally, restore to this ship the respect and good name that she deserves. Unfortunately, gentlemen, it’s a mission for which this ship and her complement are no more ready than a newborn baby would be for a night at an Alnitakian whorehouse. I’ve been over the after action reports of your last two engagements and the evaluations from your last battle exercise. They can be described in six words.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Pitiful. Wretched. Em. Bar. Ass. Ing.

  “Your people can’t acquire targets, can’t track targets, can’t hit targets, can’t maneuver toward targets, can’t evade targets, can’t identify targets, and can’t evaluate targets. The only thing that this ship seems to be able to do well is be a target. Now the strange thing is that there isn’t one reason in this whole big, bright galaxy why this crew should perform like a bunch of fuck-ups. According to aptitude tests, this crew should be well over the naval average for ships of this type. In fact, most of the members of this crew were on the tech team that shook down the systems for the prototype vessel for this class. These people are not morons. You are not morons. So, the question of the day is why is everyone performing like morons?”

  Suddenly, the door to the wardroom door burst open, and—out of breath, bedraggled, and wearing a dirty lab coat over a mismatched assemblage of different grades of uniform—appeared Dr. Ibrahim Sahin.

  “Doctor,” Max said severely, “you are late.”

  He bowed. “Apologies. Please accept my profuse apologies. I had difficulty finding the location of this inappropriately named space in this most confusingly arranged vessel. I mean, when I was informed that this assemblage was to take place in the ‘wardroom,’ I assumed that we were meeting in a space associated with the ship’s medical facilities. After all, a ‘ward’ is part of a hospital or a clinic, is it not?” He gazed searchingly at his audience, expecting to receive a ringing affirmation. Hearing none, he forged on.

  “When I was able to find no such room in or near the Casualty Station, I looked around the ship for a sign or guidepost, such as we had at the Military Physicians Training Facility or at Travis Station, to steer me in the right direction. But I am amazed to report to you, sir—totally amazed—that there are no such directive signs of any kind anywhere on this entire battleship except those pointing to emergency hatches, firefighting equipment, and escape pods. How, sir—how, I ask you—are those uninitiated to the construction of this complex warship to find their way through the labyrinthine convolutions of her multibrachiated corridors? I ask you sir, how?”

  The doctor stopped talking, not so much because he ran out of indignation, but because he ran out of air.

  “Doctor, Doctor, please calm yourself and take a seat.” Max could not help but notice that a few of those assembled were actually smiling indulgently. If the doctor had intended to provide some much-needed comic relief to the proceedings, he could not have timed it better or delivered a more exquisitely crafted performance. “Doctor, this is a destroyer, not a battleship. A different kind of vessel entirely. There are no directive signs because such things would be an aid to enemy boarders. If you are ever lost again, simply ask the nearest crewman for directions, and he will be happy to assist you.”

  “My thanks to you, sir,” said the doctor, plopping into his seat,
apparently mollified that the lack of signs was due to some considered reasoning process rather than mere incompetence. “Pray, sir, return to whatever it was you were talking about. I shall review the recording to acquaint myself with what was said before my arrival.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. As I was saying, why does a crew comprised of men who on paper are so intelligent and able perform like morons? You know, or should know, the answers as well as I do. Three things: Training. Leadership. Fighting spirit.

  “First, training. The level of training on this vessel is abysmal. Why? I’ve looked through the crew activity reports. This crew spends twice the time on spit and polish and half the time on combat training than the standard for type. Priorities are wrong. Hell, someone has buffed, polished, and polymer sealed the washers on the bolts that hold my toilet to the deck. This isn’t cleanliness; this is insanity.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong; a warship must be clean. Scrupulously, thoroughly, immaculately, militarily clean. But there are limits, and this shining-the-insides-of-the-air-ducts crap goes out the airlock from this moment. This is a warship, not an admiral’s yacht. I don’t care if every metal surface gleams. I don’t care if the carpets are deep-cleaned daily. I have posted on the ship’s general database the cleaning schedule for the last destroyer I served on in a combat zone. I want it adapted to this ship and followed. From now on, training is the priority. I want as much training crammed into the schedule as humanly possible. XO, you’re now the training officer. I want a training schedule on my desk at 0600 hours that’ll bring this crew to a razor’s edge within twenty-one days.”

  “If I may, sir,” interrupted the XO, respectfully, “why twenty-one days?”

  “Because, XO, that’s all the time we have before we go into combat.”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “Second problem: leadership. The Admiralty got rid of part of the problem for us. Captain Allen K. Oscar and Lieutenant Pang, his XO, are gone. Good riddance. Based on the admiral’s opinion of them, they are probably counting comets somewhere in the Zubin Elgenubi Sector. But you can tell just from walking into CIC that those officers didn’t take the problem with them when they left. Now, the primary means by which those of us in this room exercise leadership is by naval discipline, and the discipline on this vessel defies explanation: greenies put on report for making mistakes in duties for which they haven’t had adequate training; able spacers confined to quarters and even put in the brig for misinterpretation of orders and honest oversights… good God, there’s a man in the brig right now who’s been there for forty-five days because he misidentified a sensor contact. Major Kraft, I want that man—hell, I want every man in the brig—released immediately upon the conclusion of this meeting.”

  The commander of the Marine detachment nodded. “Aye, sir. My pleasure.”

  Max noticed from some averted gazes and foot shuffling that not everyone at the table was equally enthusiastic about that last order. Tough shit.

  “And that’s going to be the order of the day, gentlemen. Simple mistakes, errors, and oversights are to be rectified by training, not by punishment. On this ship, punishment is reserved for neglect of duty, insubordination, and willful misconduct. And in the case of officers, add to that abuse of subordinates. Make no mistake about that. I will not have the men excessively shouted at, berated, or abused. I know that the Navy is fueled by profanity as much as by deuterium and that sometimes it takes a lot to get a spacer’s attention, but there is a line, gentlemen; there is a matter of degree between manly exhortation and abuse. That line will not be crossed on this ship. The Navy is a hard service, but it is not a cruel service.

  “And remember, these men need to be encouraged at least as much as they need to be criticized. You, the men in this room, are their leaders. They’ll be looking to you for guidance, for encouragement, for help. Give it to them. Show them how to be good spacers, good crewmen, good warriors. They can’t reach behind themselves and pull it out of their asses. They’ve got to learn it from you.

  “Third and last, we need to cultivate a warrior spirit on this ship. Too many of these men act as though they are getting ready for a fleet exercise or an admiral’s inspection instead of meeting the enemy in battle to take or destroy him. Until further notice, SCUs are the Uniform of the Day. Officers will carry sidearms and boarding cutlasses at all times. Enlisted personnel will train regularly to repel boarders and be thoroughly drilled in sidearms, shoulder arms, edged weapons, and hand-to-hand combat. Men will practice boarding and repelling boarders at least three times a week, watch against watch, with an extra beer or liquor ration to the winners.

  “I noticed that the corridor and CIC weapons lockers have been removed. I want all weapons lockers that were issued to this ship restored and stocked by 0600.

  “I reviewed the armorer’s log, and there is no record of any officer on this vessel having his sidearm serviced or his boarding cutlass sharpened in over a year. I’ll personally inspect the sidearms and boarding cutlasses of every officer when he goes on duty, starting at 0600 tomorrow. That’s for all three watches, and I pity any of you who fail. All of this goes for the senior noncommissioned officers as well. Ratings of petty officer first or higher will carry arms just like the commissioned officers.

  “Major, what about your Marines?”

  “Captain, we’re cocked, locked, and loaded for Krag. When on duty, every member of the Marine detachment, including myself, carries an M-88 pulse rifle or an M-72 COB shotgun, plus Model 62 or Model 1911 sidearms, boarding cutlass, eight M-304 grenades, and combat knife. Every man sleeps with weapons within easy reach. Plus—well, sir, being Marines, sir…”

  “Right. Every one of your men has one or two little personal surprises for any Krag that manages to get on the ship,” Max said, grinning. He always liked the Marine approach to warfare.

  “You got it, Captain. If they poke their little black noses onto the Cumberland, we want to welcome them properly.” The major produced a very wicked-looking, six-inch, double-edged dagger from his sleeve, twirled it deftly in his hand, and made it disappear back into his sleeve in less than two seconds.

  “We must never forget, gentlemen, that the purpose of this ship is to kill the enemy. Killing is what we’re about, and every man and boy on board must be ready and able to kill at any moment. Our entire crew, including the cooks and the youngest midshipman, needs to be reminded continually that they’re warriors, not stewards on a passenger liner.

  “Because, gentlemen, if we are not ready to kill the Krag, I assure you that the Krag are ready to kill us.”

  Max let that sink in for a few seconds. Then, he touched a control on the table in front of him, causing a three-dimensional display of the sector to appear over the wardroom table. “Now, our mission. Most of you know that we’re now on course for the Charlie jump point in this system”; a blinking circle appeared around one star. “That jump leads to Markeb B. From there, we will make our way, jump by jump, using an indirect route”—circles blinked around nineteen stars in sequence, tracing out a long, irregular arc—“through these uninhabited systems, to reach the Free Corridor unobserved.

  “Intel informs us that the Krag have been making up production shortfalls and resource shortages by obtaining substantial war matériel in the Free Corridor. They are buying raw materials, food, machine tools, and some premunition chemicals from neutral systems through human and neutral alien intermediaries, transferring them to their own freighters in deep space, and transporting them back to the Krag Hegemony. The initial sellers never know that this stuff is going to the Krag.

  “Our orders: While respecting all recognized territorial space claims and neutral shipping, we are to conduct a war patrol in the Free Corridor, where we are to attack and destroy any Krag vessels of any description or other vessels that we can positively determine to be carrying Krag cargo, as well as any other enemy targets of opportunity that may present themselves, provided that we can engage them with a reasonab
le probability of success.”

  Max noticed that a young ensign, a very young ensign, was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, as though he wanted to ask a question but was afraid to interrupt. Max turned to the young man. “If you have something to say, Ensign, say it. That’s why I called you together here in person, rather than just sending you written orders by email.”

  “What about resupply? Sir, I don’t know if you know this about this destroyer class, sir, but the Khybers have short legs. The book says that we have an unsupported endurance of seventy-five days, tops. With twenty-one days to get there, twenty-one days to get back—factor in a week for unexpected delays or if we have to come back by a longer route—that leaves only thirty-three days on station. If they don’t send a tender in after us, it’s going to be a mighty short cruise.”

  “You’re Ensign Thieu, the supply officer?” The young man nodded. “Good question. Keep asking them. It’s probably going to be shorter than that. That seventy-five-day endurance is a pretty optimistic figure, isn’t it?” The ensign nodded again. “I’ve looked at the your stores inventory, and it looks to me more like sixty days of consumption under intermittent combat conditions plus another five or six days of emergency rations. That about right, Thieu?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s about how I calculate it, sir.”

  “Fortunately, the Admiralty has thought about this problem. They’ve prepositioned supplies, including weapons reloads, fuel, spares, and provisions in three separate locations for us in our operational area. The locations are not in any Union database and are known only to me. With what we’ve got on board and what’s been squirreled away for us, we’ve got what we need for about 180 days of intensive operations. That’ll give us all the time we need to learn the lay of the land, scout out what the enemy is doing, find his ships, and blow them and their valuable war matériel to flaming atoms. This ship is going to be doing what she was designed to do, gentlemen: bring the war to the enemy and hurt him where he lives—war production. Questions? None? We’re adjourned.”