Against All Enemies
( Paul Sinclair - 4 )
John G. Hemry
John G. Hemry
Against All Enemies
Chapter One
Article 106a-Espionage
(a) That the accused communicated, delivered, or transmitted any document, writing, code book, signal book, sketch, photograph, photographic negative, blueprint, plan, map, model, note, instrument, appliance, or information relating to the national defense;
(b) That this matter was communicated, delivered, or transmitted to any foreign government, or to any faction or party or military or naval force within a foreign country, whether recognized or unrecognized by the United States, or to any representative, officer, agent, employee, subject, or citizen thereof, either directly or indirectly; and
(c) That the accused did so with intent or reason to believe that such matter would be used to the injury of the United States or to the advantage of a foreign nation.
— Rules for Courts-Martial, Manual for Courts-Martial, United States
There were times when the bridge of the USS Michaelson became a nerve-wracking maelstrom of activity, with orders being hurled at the watch standers and emergencies from every quarter demanding their immediate attention. Most other times, the bridge simply held the tension of watchful waiting as the crew members there kept alert for internal surprises and external threats.
But then there were times like this. Late at night, the lights on the bridge lowered to accommodate the day/night cycle the Michaelson 's crew had carried with them from Earth, the infinite stars glowing with amazing brilliance on the viewscreens and dimming the soft green status lights on the control panels. No tension, no special activity, just quiet and boredom on top of too many long days with too little sleep.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Paul Sinclair felt his eyes drooping. He couldn't seem to stop the wave of fatigue settling over him, couldn't seem to force his eyes open. He felt a surge of fear which somehow didn't penetrate the fog falling across his vision. Falling asleep on watch had to be one of the worst things an officer could do. It would disgrace him, place the entire ship in danger if something happened when he was supposed to be alert and watching for the unexpected, and doubtless deal a deathblow to his career.
Paul's eyes fell further. He couldn't keep them open. With a titanic effort born of anger and fear, he wrenched himself fully awake.
And found himself staring at the nearby, dim patterns of the ducts, cables and wiring which ran across the overhead just above his bunk in his darkened stateroom. The moment's disorientation passed, then Paul clenched his eyes shut again. A nightmare. I had a nightmare I was falling asleep on watch so I woke myself up for real. Great. He opened his eyes again long enough to check on the time. And in less than forty minutes I need to get out of this bunk and actually stand watch. I can't believe I just woke myself up when I'm only going to get about four hours sleep tonight as it is. He tried to calm down from the stress induced by the nightmare, breathing slowly, hoping to get back to sleep quickly. What a dumb thing to do. I guess as nightmares go that one's pretty harmless, though.
Much better than the ones he sometimes had about something happening to Jen.
About an hour later, Paul pulled himself onto the bridge, wishing that he was still asleep and dreaming this watch away. The time counters in the corner of each bridge display screen all provided the same annoying information — 0345 on the twenty-four hour military clock. 'Dawn' on the Michaelson wouldn't take place for more than another two hours, but Paul's work day had begun.
"Howdy." Lieutenant Junior Grade Brad Pullman yawned even as he greeted Paul. He waved one hand toward the screen facing the junior officer of the deck watch station. "It's still there. They're still there. We're still here."
"I know. I checked the situation out in Combat on my way up here." Paul studied the screen, even though it held nothing new or unexpected. A fairly large asteroid filled most of the screen, slowly tumbling over and over just as it had for however many millions of years it had wandered through space. As the asteroid's surface turned, the Michaelson 's fire control systems painted a constantly changing set of aim points and firing solutions on temporary structures scattered across the bare rock.
The next screen showed a much larger view, in which the asteroid occupied only a small section. Scattered around it were the highlighted symbols which announced the presence of an even dozen warships and hired merchant ships. All the other ships carried temporary "friendly" identifiers, but they, too, had firing solutions pasted over their symbols.
Pullman followed Paul's gaze. "Is it true this is the biggest gathering of warships in space? Ever?"
"Yeah," Paul confirmed. "My chief checked."
"So this is what making history feels like."
"Do you mean boring but tense, or just tedious?"
Pullman grinned and stretched. "Both. Any other questions?"
"Is anything scheduled for this morning? I didn't have anything listed in Combat."
"If we had anything, the Combat Information Center would have it, too. And I guess they'd tell you, Mr. Combat Information Center Officer." Pullman smiled again.
Paul snorted. "Yes, they would, but sometimes different orders get passed to the bridge and somebody forgets to tell Combat. It never hurts to make sure that didn't happen."
Pullman yawned once more. "To answer your question formally, no, there's nothing new laid on this morning. Unscheduled events can occur at any time, of course."
Like somebody starting to shoot at somebody else, Paul thought bleakly. "Otherwise just hold position and monitor events."
"Otherwise just hold position and monitor events," Pullman agreed. "Same old."
Paul scanned the status panels one more time, noting what equipment was ready to go and what rested in standby. "Okay, I got it." Paul saluted. "I relieve you, sir."
"I stand relieved." Pullman returned the salute. "On the bridge, this is Lieutenant JG Pullman. Lieutenant JG Sinclair has the conn."
"This is Lieutenant JG Sinclair. I have the conn." Paul kept his hand locked on the nearest hold while Pullman unstrapped and swung himself out of the watch stander's seat, then pulled himself down and refastened the straps without having to look at them. The gesture had been repeated so many times by now, on so many watches, that Paul was sure he could fasten those straps in his sleep if he needed to. "I'll try to keep things quiet so you can catch up on your beauty sleep, Brad."
Pullman rolled his eyes. "Wow. A couple of hours until reveille. Isn't there some regulation about letting us get enough sleep?"
"Yeah. Every officer is supposed to get at least the necessary minimum hours of sleep in each twenty-four hour period."
"So what's the necessary minimum?"
"The regulation doesn't say. It leaves that up to the individual ship. Which of course means the XO." Which meant the ship's Executive Officer, the second in command. Which on the Michaelson still meant Commander Kwan, who still didn't particularly like Paul. But in any case XOs had never been known for their kindly and casual ways.
"The XO sets the minimum," Pullman mused. "Which I guess means the minimum is whatever you manage to get."
"Bingo. But cheer up. If the minimum wasn't good enough…"
"It wouldn't be the minimum." Pullman waved a farewell with his free hand as the other grasped a nearby handhold to propel him toward the hatch leading off the bridge.
Paul grinned, turning to offer his own farewell to Lieutenant Kris Denaldo as she finished turning over officer of the deck duties to Lieutenant Val Isakov. Kris nodded back, then raised one hand with the thumb and forefinger held out parallel to each other and only a short distance apart. Paul grinned wider at t
he hand gesture signifying that Kris was "short," as in not long left before she transferred off the ship. "You're not gone, yet," he reminded her.
"No. But another day's gone. I'm very, very short." She smiled. "Soon I'll be short enough to walk under the lines painted on the deck. And soon after that I'll actually get to sleep every night instead of standing watches."
"I thought you intended doing other things during your free nights."
"Depends if I find the right guy. Has Jen told you to take a hike, yet?"
"Nope."
"Fine. I'm tired of waiting. You're off my list. I'd love to stay and chat the rest of the night away, but my bunk is calling."
Paul waved again in farewell, then noticed Lieutenant Val Isakov giving him a sour look as she strapped in at the officer of the deck watchstation. Uh oh. Now what's she up to? "Something wrong?"
Isakov shrugged elaborately. "Of course not. You have your little cliques and old friends. I'm just the newcomer."
"Val, you've been on the ship for about six months."
"And you and her," Isakov noted with a jerk of her head toward the hatch where Denaldo had left, "have been onboard for about three years. But that's okay. I don't expect to be allowed to feel part of your group."
Paul kept his expression noncommittal, carefully avoiding nodding or otherwise seeming to agree with her. He thought of Isakov as sort of a reptile, not bad to look at but not something he wanted to get close to, either. He also suspected that Isakov knew that Kris Denaldo usually referred to her as "Crazy Ivana," a name Paul also thought fit Val Isakov perfectly.
"But then your old Academy pal shows up," Isakov continued, "and you go through all that ring-knocker bonding nonsense. It's a bit much."
"What ring-knocker nonsense?" Paul had never been bothered by the standard nickname for Naval Academy graduates, which mocked their alleged tendency to knock their class rings on objects as a way of drawing attention to themselves.
"'If the minimum wasn't good enough…'"
This time Paul shrugged. "It's sort of an unofficial motto. That's all. Brad Pullman wasn't a big friend of mine at the Academy. We're classmates, and we shared a few courses over the years, so I know him and he knows me. No big deal."
"Sure." Isakov subsided into sulky silence.
Paul pretended to be concentrating on his display. He never knew whether Isakov would try to aim a heavy-handed come-on his way or try to bite his head off or just ignore him. Personally, I much prefer being ignored by her.
"Mr. Sinclair, sir?"
Paul twisted his chair so he could look at the bosun mate of the watch. "What's up?"
The bosun tilted his head toward the messenger of the watch. "I've been tryin' to explain what we're doin' here to Valejo, and damned if I can."
"That's okay, boats. It's not in your job description."
Val Isakov bent another sour look toward Paul. "Keep it professional."
Paul followed an old piece of advice and just smiled back at her. "Yes, ma'am." Then he addressed the messenger. "Seaman Apprentice Valejo, you just came aboard, right?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. I came on with Mr. Pullman and Ms., uh…"
"Commander Moraine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay, then." Paul hooked a thumb toward the display dominated by the craggy surface of the asteroid. "There's a rule, one of the few rules everybody's agreed to up here, that nobody gets to set themselves up on an asteroid without international approval, supervision and inspection." Valejo nodded again, but her face was puzzled. "Do you know what killed the dinosaurs?"
"Oh, yeah. I mean, yes, sir! Some big rock hit the planet."
"Right." Paul indicated the asteroid again. "A big rock like that. We don't really want any more big rocks hitting Earth anytime soon, but if somebody was allowed to just settle on one, they could maybe set up a propulsion method to kick that rock toward Earth. Hopefully, we could intercept and divert it. Hopefully. No one wants it to get to that point."
The bosun spoke again. "That's what I don't understand, Mr. Sinclair. Why'd anybody do something like that?"
"I don't understand it either, boats, but every once in a while some group of people does something that's really scary for the rest of us." Paul indicated the structures on the asteroid's surface. "This particular group calls itself the Church of One. 'One' as in the only one they think should exist, apparently. They received approval to set up a remote settlement on Mars. No big deal. That sort of thing's been done before. It makes a small group of people happy, helps pay for stuff on Mars for everybody else, and pretty much renders any anti-social types harmless since they're out in the Martian equivalent of east nowhere."
"But they didn't go to Mars," the bosun noted.
"No. They hijacked the ship carrying them. They did a good job of it, too. No alarms. No alerts. They diverted the ship here and did it so quietly that no one realized what was happening in time to stop them. That ship, there. It's just a regular merchant named the Jedidiah Smith." Paul pointed with one finger at the symbol representing a ship hanging perilously close to the asteroid. The Michaelson 's combat systems had a half dozen aim points fixed upon the ship's hull, ready to blow holes through critical areas if need be. "Then they offloaded their stuff, which seems to have included a lot of gear for living on an asteroid and not all that much for living on Mars, and pretty much dared everybody to do anything about it."
"And we're goin' to take 'em off, right, sir?"
"Right. Not you and me, but those modified cargo carriers loaded up with cops."
"Cops? Not Marines or SEALS?"
"No. This isn't a combat mission. Nobody's supposed to get shot. Combat troops like Marines are trained to shoot. Cops are trained to try to avoid shooting."
Valejo nodded again but the bosun looked perplexed. "Then why are we here? And all them other guys?" He made a gesture encompassing all the other ships shown in the displays.
Paul pondered the question for a moment. Do I really want to get into all the politics here? The fact that everyone is here to keep an eye on everyone else as well as the illegal settlers and the cops? That these Church of One types not only have made hostages of the crew of that ship they hijacked but are also threatening to kill all of their own kids if force is used against their "settlement?" I can't go into any of that. The rules of engagement that tell us under what conditions we're allowed to fire, and who we're allowed to fire at, are classified pretty high and the bosun doesn't have a need to know. "Everybody's here to keep an eye on things." The bosun let his skepticism show. "Boats, that really does sum it up. And that's as detailed as I can get."
Paul became aware that Lieutenant Isakov was watching him narrowly. Just waiting for me to spill something I shouldn't? I wonder what Crazy Ivana would do with knowledge I'd broken security regulations? Not keep it to herself, I'm sure.
The bosun nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand you officers can't tell us everything. Thank you, sir."
"No problem." Paul noticed Isakov going back into a solitary sulk. He relaxed against his own seat, eyes on the surface of the asteroid, watching as it completed rotations and the same structures and aim points came into view time and again. At some point he realized the repetitive motion was becoming hypnotic and began cycling through other views to remain alert.
An external communications circuit chirped for attention, breaking the silence on the bridge and startling everyone; then it spoke in the clear, unaccented English which meant whoever was sending the message was speaking or typing it into a verbal translator that rendered the words into another language. "This is South Asian Alliance Ship Gilgamesh. I am altering my position two kilometers along a bearing of one three five degrees relative, down angle two zero degrees relative. Over."
Paul tapped his own communications controls to acknowledge the Gilgamesh 's message, letting the other ship know the message had been received and understood.. "This is the USS Michaelson. Roger, out."
He glanced over at Isakov, or
who looked back at him and nodded toward the general area of the captain's cabin as she answered his unspoken question. "You go ahead and call him."
"Okay." Paul reached for the comm switch, then hesitated and went to his display controls instead. He manually moved the Gilgamesh 's position along the track it had announced, then told the combat systems to update their readings and studied the results for a moment before finally calling the captain. "Sir, this is the junior officer of the deck. The Gilgamesh has informed us they're changing position slightly."
"Slightly?" Captain Hayes sounded grumpy, but then he hadn't had much sleep lately.
Probably less than any of the other officers had, Paul realized when he thought about it. And Paul hadn't been getting very much. "Yes, sir. Two kilometers along a track one three five relative and two zero down from his current position. Our combat systems don't reveal any change in the tactical situation as a result."
"Hmmm. No reason given for the shift?"
"No, si-" Paul's answer was cut off by another call to the bridge.
"Bridge, this is Combat. We've analyzed the Gilgamesh 's position change. In his previous location the asteroid's tumble would produce an occasional momentary line of sight blockage between the Gilgamesh and the Saladin. This change will make sure they have continuous line of sight."
"Thanks, Combat. Captain, Combat reports the Gilgamesh probably moved to ensure a continuous line of the sight to the other SASAL warship present, the Saladin."
"Hmmm. Okay. Thanks. Keep me informed."
"Yes, sir." Paul listened to the circuit click off, feeling a tight knot in his guts. I should've gotten that analysis from Combat before I called the Captain. But what if Combat had taken a while to figure out that line of sight thing and something had happened before then so that I'd have had to tell the Captain I hadn't informed him of the Gilgamesh shifting position when it took place? I would've lost a piece of my hind end if that'd happened. I got lucky. Or maybe I helped make my luck. After all, I've been leading those operations specialists in Combat for a long time, now. He pressed the comm switch again. "Combat, this is Mr. Sinclair on the bridge. Who ran that analysis on the Gilgamesh?"
Against All Enemies ps-4 Page 1