The Cumberland was on her own. Too far from Union forces for reliable communications, she hadn’t been able to get a message through to the fleet requesting assistance before Krag jamming had blocked all long-range signals.
Max caught the eye of Midshipman George R. Hewlett, assigned to CIC for this watch to render whatever assistance a nine-year-old boy could give, from fetching coffee to blowing off a Krag’s head with the sawed-off M-92 shotgun he had slung over his shoulder. By tilting his head in the direction of the coffeepot, Max indicated that he needed the boy in his coffee-fetching rather than Krag-decapitating capacity. Max noticed that, as the young man carried over the steaming, black, fragrant brain fuel, his brows were furrowed, and his eyes kept straying to the tactical display.
Max knew that look. The born teacher inside Max could tell that Hewlett saw something that he didn’t understand and that today—this very moment, in fact—was the perfect time for Hewlett to learn it. Every bone in Max’s body wanted to seize that moment to further the midshipman’s naval education.
Not the best time. With eight hostiles trying to generate a valid firing solution on his ship, Max could certainly find something of more obvious importance to do with his energy. If he was going to be dead in a matter of hours, why waste the time giving a tactical lesson to Midshipman Hewlett?
Why? Because we’re not dead yet.
“Thank you, Mr. Hewlett,” Max said. “Oh, Mr. Hewlett, take a look here, if you would.” Max gestured to the tactical display. “Tell me what you see.”
The almost impossibly fair-skinned boy, who needed only a dirty face and patched nineteenth-century clothes to be able to pass for Oliver Twist, blushed with the attention, his ears turning a distinct shade of pink. He gulped and turned his pale blue eyes to the Main Tactical Display, a shimmering column of light containing a three-dimensional plot of the Cumberland and the ships hunting her. “Well, sir, the blue dot is us. The eight red dots forming the corners of a cube around us are the Krag warships in the containment group. The display is projecting a transparent pink sphere around each Krag ship—that’s the PDR—the Probable Detection Range for each ship. Even with our stealth systems engaged, we have to stay outside of those spheres, or the Krag will pick us up on their sensors . . . because stealth makes us difficult to detect, not impossible.” Max smiled at the boy’s accurate recitation of one of his own favorite space combat maxims.
Blushing even more deeply at his skipper’s subtle but evident approval, Hewlett continued. “The yellow and orange areas are zones that the Krag have eliminated by high-intensity multistatic scanning or with their missiles.”
“Okay, Hewlett, let me stop you for a minute. One of the things that slows down learning is people using memorized terms that they don’t understand, and then telling themselves that they know what they are talking about. Tell me about multistatic scanning.”
“Oh, sir, that’s not hard at all,” the boy said, smiling. “One thing that stealth technology does is to redirect active sensor pulses so that they are not reflected back toward the transmitter that sent them, like putting a mirror at a forty-five-degree angle when someone is shining a hand torch at it. Multistatic sensor deployments try to defeat that by sending the pulse from one location and trying to pick up a return from another. So, the Krag just have several ships coordinate their sensor scans: each ship sends on its own set of frequencies that all the others in different locations listen for. You saturate an area of space with enough sensor beams from enough directions on enough frequencies with enough ships listening in enough different locations, you’ll pick up even the most heavily stealthed ship.”
“Exactly right, Midshipman. Continue.”
“Anyway, sir, the Krag think that they know we aren’t in any of the orange or yellow parts. But we’re right in the middle of that yellow zone right there, so we’re safe for now.”
“Very good, Hewlett.” The boy was shaping up to be something of a budding genius—from all reports he fit in on a warship far better than he did in primary school back on Archopin. “You looked as though you had a question.”
“Yes, sir. The PDR spheres don’t touch each other. There are gaps between them.”
“That’s right, son.”
“Then why don’t we just scoot out through one of those gaps and make a run for it?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” added Dr. Sahin.
Max shot Sahin his reproachful I can’t believe you don’t know that look, resulting in Sahin shooting Max his I’m a doctor, not a sensor specialist look. “Mr. Nelson, would you enlighten the doctor and the midshipman?”
“Gladly, sir. The Krag ships have generated a LeLo Hex.”
“Which is?” asked Sahin.
“A Lehrer-Lobachevsky Hexahedron.”
“Which is?” The doctor shook his head with frustration. “Why is getting useful information from the personnel on this vessel like pulling teeth? How many times do I have to ask a question before I get an answer that doesn’t assume I’ve been continuously on warships since I was Hewlett’s age?”
“I’m doing my best, sir, but it’s more difficult than you might think,” Nelson said patiently. Sahin tilted his head, inviting further explanation. “You see, I have been continuously on warships since I was Hewlett’s age, and that means that since I was Hewlett’s age, almost every person I’ve ever talked to has been another man who has been on warships since he was Hewlett’s age. I don’t have a lot of experience communicating with people who don’t share that background.”
Sahin spent a moment digesting what he had just heard, nodded slowly, and then exhaled loudly, as though by releasing the air he was holding in his lungs, he was letting go of months of pent-up frustration. “I understand, Mr. Nelson. And I thank you for that explanation. Please continue.”
“Thank you, sir. Anyway, four ships that are in precisely the same plane in space and less than about 10 AU apart can produce a Lehrer-Lobachevsky Discontinuity. That’s a microscopically thin, artificially generated disruption in the space-time continuum. It is so thin that any vessel can cross it easily with no harm, but as an object passes through the discontinuity, it generates a detectable flux of Cherenkov-Heaviside radiation where the field intersects its surface. Eight ships properly arranged can create six contiguous planes, known as a Lehrer-Lobachevsky Hexahedron, or Le-Lo Hex for short. Usually a Le-Lo Hex is a fairly close approximation of a cube. A ship that’s inside one of these things can’t leave without giving away its position when it crosses the discontinuity—you’re giving them a good, solid datum point, you know? Then the bad guys illuminate that area with high-intensity multistatic sensor scans, and in thirty seconds or so, Mr. Rat-Face has a firing solution. So, inside the hex, we’re pinned down, essentially negating our normal advantages in speed and stealth.”
Hewlett turned to Max, his elfin face creased with almost teary concern. “But, sir, the third law of destroyer and frigate combat is: A destroyer or frigate’s primary strengths and, accordingly, its most significant advantages over most adversaries, are speed and stealth. If either or both of these attributes is compromised, the ship is in grave peril. Sir, we’ve lost our only advantages over the enemy!”
Max smiled warmly. “Everything you’ve said in the last few minutes, Midshipman, has been correct. Except for that last sentence.”
“Sir?”
“We’ve got one other advantage.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Motivation. As far as the Krag are concerned, this battle is about whether they get the kill. For us it’s about whether we are the kill. Survival is a more powerful motivator than duty or glory or hatred or the thrill of the hunt or whatever it is that drives the Krag.” He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do you want to live, Hewlett?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Into the sudden dead silence that followed his breach of protocol, the boy almost whispered, “Sir. I mean, yes, sir. Very sorry, sir. But, yes, sir. I
do want to live.”
“So do I, son. Thank you, Mr. Hewlett. That will be all.” The boy returned to his post.
Max sipped his coffee and stared at the tactical display, his practiced ear taking in and interpreting without conscious attention the chatter from the stations around CIC. Slowly he stood and walked around the display, hands behind his back, viewing it from every angle, again and again, unconscious of the eyes of the men following him (to the extent their duties allowed). These same men watched Max’s face for any sign that he had found an escape from their mutual predicament. For nearly fifteen minutes, they watched him: taking a few steps, squinting at the positions of the ships and the progress of their search as projected in three-dimensional space, taking a few sips from the coffee mug he carried, alternately resting his right hand on the hilt of his boarding cutlass and on the grip of his M-62 10 mm sidearm, and then repeating the process with some variation in the order of the steps.
To one man after another, the same thought occurred: Nothing’s coming to him. He’s out of ideas. And they all knew what that meant.
Then, after his twenty-seventh orbit of the Main Tactical Display, Max stopped suddenly, drained his coffee mug, and waved it absently in Hewlett’s general direction. The boy leaped to his feet and scampered over to take the mug from the skipper’s hands. By the time Hewlett had gotten to the coffeepot, Max was at the CO’s station rapidly pulling up data on his displays.
Max performed a few minutes of research and calculation, punctuated by occasional sips of coffee, still unaware that every nuance of expression that crossed his face was the subject of the most intense scrutiny by every man within line of sight. Another gesture at Hewlett with the mug. Another refill. Another few sips. Finally, at long last, a crooked smile slowly wrote itself across his face.
Knowing what the smile meant, the men who could see it smiled, too, and elbowed the men at their sides to be sure they saw it. And they passed the word on the loops: “the skipper has another trick up his sleeve,” or “the Swamp Fox has got something cooking.” Soon men in the farthest recesses of the ship were exchanging smiles and knowing nods. Maybe, just maybe, they would live to see another day.
Oblivious for now to the sudden change in mood throughout the ship, Max quickly swiveled his chair 120 degrees to his right so that he faced the Computers console.
“Mr. Bales.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You do remember our little present from our friends the Vaaach, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Bales did his best to keep from sounding hurt. He did not entirely succeed. On a recent escort mission, the Cumberland had damaged a Krag Crayfish class cruiser and chased it into Vaaach space, where she had found it engaged in a running battle with a badly outgunned and outmatched Vaaach scout vessel. Max had persuaded the young Vaaach pilot to participate with him in a typically Robichauvian deceptive maneuver, in which the two ships managed to destroy the Krag vessel. That outcome presented a dilemma to the senior Vaaach commander who showed up after the battle. The strict Vaaach rules of Hunter’s Honor required them under the particular circumstances of that engagement to share the “meat” of the kill with Max. But as the Cumberland had vaporized the Krag vessel with a pair of thermonuclear weapons, the Vaaach found themselves without any physical meat to share. The Vaaach scout ship had, however, used that race’s staggeringly advanced technology to copy all the data from the Krag computer core immediately upon encountering it; accordingly, the Vaaach were able to fulfill their obligation in the form of a Vaaach data storage device containing all of the data from the Krag cruiser’s computer, accompanied by an apparently custom-fabricated and programmed Vaaach module allowing Union computers to interface with the storage device. It was, quite literally, the greatest intelligence haul of all time. Mr. Bales was more likely to forget his own name than forget having access to the Krag cruiser’s database. “You bet, I remember.”
“I thought you might,” said Max. “When we had our little present from the Vaaach plugged in down in Captured Hardware, I know that you copied as much of the Krag data into your quarantined servers as you had room for in case the Vaaach device stopped working for some reason. I also know when he took the Vaaach data module with him, Admiral Hornmeyer told you he wanted your files purged for security reasons. But, Mr. Bales,” Max continued innocently, “knowing how new you are to actual combat service, not to mention your career-long history of creatively interpreting orders from senior officers, I was wondering if in all the excitement, and with the stress of being in the presence of an actual, real live, holy and exalted vice admiral, especially one as loud as old ‘Hit ’em Hard’ Hornmeyer, some of that data might have, well, been missed, if you catch my meaning.”
Christopher Bales, whose seemingly boundless brilliance about computer systems did not extend very far into the realm of human nature, spent a few seconds pondering why the skipper asked such an odd question in such a peculiar manner. Then he considered the question in light of Max’s personality and began to play along. He stared at his boots in mock embarrassment. “Now that you mention it, sir, it was a rather confusing time, and I really didn’t have a clear protocol to follow when it comes to having an alien data core plugged into my processors down there. So, sir, it is, I think, entirely possible that some . . . er . . . mistakes in that regard may have been made.”
“Shameful, Mr. Bales, truly, truly shameful,” Max scolded. “And is it possible that, in the gravely negligent performance of your duties, some of the Krag sensor protocol data may have—quite accidentally, mind you—escaped being purged?”
“Skipper, I’m quite embarrassed to report that I think it’s conceivable that all of that data may still be stored somewhere in the quarantined servers.”
“I see,” Max said, smiling broadly. There was no way that the storage capacity of the computers in Captured Hardware would hold more than a twentieth of the Krag data. Leave it to Bales to know what would be useful and to keep copies. Max forced a serious expression. “I’m sure some sort of discipline will be forthcoming.” Eventually. “And, while we’re on the subject, I don’t suppose that the same kind of thoroughly deplorable dereliction of duty extends to the files on the Krag point-defense systems?”
Bales adopted an aspect of even more exaggerated contrition. “You’ve got me there, sir. It’s very possible that I missed those too. Not only that, but the sloppiness of my department may go so far as to cover most of the data for their combat systems as well as engineering and navigation.”
“You are an enormous embarrassment to the USS Cumberland, young man. I suppose, though, since we do have the data, we might as well put it to good use. So, until I get around to the matter of your punishment, which I assure you will be quite appropriately severe, I need you to make those files available to the Special Attack Tiger Team.”
“I’ve never heard of that team, sir.”
“That’s because I haven’t created it yet. Officer of the deck?”
“Here, sir,” answered Sauvé from Countermeasures.
“Log this order. The Special Attack Tiger Team is hereby constituted. It consists of the XO, plus the department heads from Computers, Tactical, Countermeasures, Weapons, and Stealth. Gentlemen, summon your reliefs. I need a detailed operations plan in one hour. You can work in the Fighter Control Back Room. It’s empty right now. XO, you know what I want?”
“A new variation on Cagle’s Corner Cutout?”
“Exactly.” Either a stunningly lucky guess or a brilliant deduction.
“But, sir,” DeCosta said quietly, “you know . . .”
“Yes, XO, I know,” Max replied just as quietly. “The book says that Cagle’s Corner Cutout was a bust. Cagle’s flagship, the Impala, destroyed. Cagle dead. Only three of the seventeen-ship attack group survived. But we’ve got one thing on our side that old ‘Big Chief’ Cagle didn’t have back then.”
“The data from the Krag computer core?”
“Exactly. Get back to me i
n an hour. We’ve got a few hours before the Krag figure out that we sneaked back into a spot they thought they cleared.” He turned in the direction of the coffeepot and drinks chiller. “Oh, Hewlett?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Summon your relief. I’m attaching you to the Tiger Team as an aide. Anything they need, you get it for them. Any help they ask for, you give it. Got that?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Hewlett knew that his skipper had assigned him to be a fetch-and-carry boy for a group of exhausted senior officers performing a highly technical task under enormous pressure who would have little or no patience for a wet-behind-the-ears hatch hanger. He could scarcely contain his glee.
* * *
CHAPTER 2
* * *
06:52 Zulu Hours, 9 May 2315
“All stations report ready to execute,” DeCosta announced. “Very well. We’ll go at 08:00 hours,” Max said.” DeCosta turned to his console and entered a series of commands, setting 08:00 as the starting point for the complex and intricately timed series of actions designed to save the ship from certain annihilation. When Max saw that DeCosta was finished, he got up, crossed the step and a half or so that separated his station from the XO’s, and laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Outstanding job, XO,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the compartment.
“Thank you, sir,” DeCosta replied, and then continued more quietly, “Sir, you know that it’s as much your plan as ours. We got stuck, and you got us over the hump. What you came up with . . . well, sir, there’s no way we could have gotten past those problems by ourselves.” He contemplated what the Cumberland was about to attempt and shook his head in wonder. “It’s an aggressive plan, sir—extremely aggressive, particularly given that our overall tactical objective isn’t offensive, but only to escape and get home.”
Brothers in Valor (Man of War Book 3) Page 3