"I am not pleased but I have become resigned to that fact, Utbah, we must think beyond that now, tell me, what of the future of this ship?"
Utbah appeared lost in thought for a long moment, finally he said, "I have a suggestion, Sire, but I do not think you are going to like it."
"What is it?"
"I implore you to think about it before rejecting it out of hand, Sire."
"At this point I am open to most any suggestion, Utbah. Pray, tell us your plan."
"Perhaps we should contact your Christian friend?" suggested Utbah, gingerly.
"Ezra Brimstone? That fool is no friend of mine! He squandered a golden opportunity to rid the Galaxy of that son of a dog Ambassador Saladin. I will kill that idiot Christian with my bare hands if I ever see him again! He took ten thousand of our credits and what do we have to show for it? Nothing! He will die for his failure!"
"Your pardon, my Sheik, but under the circumstances, one could make a compelling case that this Brimstone owes us a favor. He knew someone who could mount those old pulse beams on his cargo ships and get them to function. Perhaps this same person could repair our guns, No? In return we offer to spare his worthless life."
The Sheik still looked like he'd swallowed something unpleasant but seemed to cool a little as he thought through his Lieutenant's proposal, his manner transitioning from anger to truculent acceptance.
"You are correct," replied the Sheik, "I do not like it! However, it may be the best chance we have of continuing with our plan. Good thinking, Utbah. Perhaps something useful can come out of our connections with that fool yet!"
The Sheik made use of the stage II Whitney communications console on the Carpathia. Like everything on board the old ship, it was far from the latest design but this minor detail did not make the equipment any less effective. He also contacted the Captain of the Minotaur, another destroyer that had defected from the Meridian Navy, to inform him that two dozen of their men had been trapped on the Piedmont Mining Station and would require relief as soon as it could be provided.
Chapter 11.
New Ceylon Orbital Station, November 29, 2598.
Oscar Kresge turned away from the com unit which he had just used to contact Helen Murdock and focused his attention on Chief Petty Officer Perry Allen who, in spite of the early hour, had been with Kresge in the Commander's temporary office for the last forty-five minutes. Allen was a fifteen-year Navy veteran and about as competent as any CPO that Kresge had ever met during his own eighteen years in the service.
"What have you got for me, Chief?"
"I have the list you requested of the military personnel currently at our disposal, Commander."
"...and?" asked Kresge.
"There aren't many, Sir, but the situation is actually a little better than we'd hoped. Besides the Scrapyard survivors which includes you and I, Lieutenant Harris, Chief Jenkins and Tech Hawkins, there was a small contingent of seven marines that managed to escape the destruction of the Boise by virtue of piling into one of her shuttles when the attack came. Their commander is a Sergeant Hannibal Kelly."
"Any indication of why they didn't try to help us out with the terrorists?"
"Absolutely, Commander, the shuttle suffered a direct hit from one of the raider pulse beams during the attack on the Boise and was badly damaged. They lost power and communications. They secured the shuttle as fast as they could and managed to survive the attack but they didn't have a single space suit among them. To tell you the truth, Commander, they were lucky to have survived."
"I suppose that represents an adequate excuse," said Kresge, once again succumbing to his penchant for understatement. "Can you have all of the military personnel assembled for me in ...," Kresge glanced at his wrist chrono, "... an hour and a half?"
"Absolutely, Commander."
"That's all for now, Chief. Why don't you grab a bite to eat?"
Kresge returned the Chief's smart salute and watched him as he left the room, closing the door behind him. Kresge then turned back to the growing list of things that would need to be addressed in the next few days, starting with the Greyhound. The Greyhound was small as freighters went but that didn't mean that she was, by any means, a small starship. Though she didn't mass nearly as much as a Federation light cruiser, she was almost as large. Unlike military craft, which were densely packed with weaponry, communications gear, provisions and accommodations for a large crew and all the other equipment and material necessary for a fighting ship, the Greyhound was mostly empty space inside which befitted her intended purpose as a hauler of freight.
As a replacement for the recently destroyed main personnel facility out at the Scrapyard, she was going to be adequate but only barely. Maybe the Brass could get some kind of replacement facility for Kresge before too long but the Greyhound was what he was going to have to make do with in the meantime. He'd have to get Murdock's information on just how much of the ship was inhabitable and how much more of it could be made that way on pretty short notice.
The remote location of the New Ceylon system meant that Kresge and his meager forces were probably not considered an immediate threat to the opposition. Admiral Kingston, back at the Federation outpost on the Santana Nexus Station, had indicated that she would be sending a contingent of ships to protect the New Ceylon system which mainly consisted of the planet itself, the orbital station which Kresge was currently on, and the Federation Reclamation Center -- New Ceylon's famous orbiting "Scrapyard," located in the L5 point of the planet's orbit.
Kresge didn't have high hopes regarding any kind of reinforcements. Even though he would freely admit that he wasn't all that high on the Navy's food chain, Kresge also knew that the supply of competent warships in the Federation's arsenal was currently woefully inadequate. The Federation had only been able to assemble a small fleet when Kresge had requested assistance during the terrorist attack only a month and a half earlier. They would be lucky to get a light cruiser or, more likely, a single destroyer.
What a hell of a time to think about going to war, he thought, thank God most of the opposition isn't in much better shape! He worked steadily for a little over an hour before he finished an entry on his computer, gathered together a few items he would need for the briefing and left for the meeting room.
Kresge entered the meeting room through one of the two doors in the back wall of the room. A gradual reduction in the noise level ensued as word of his arrival spread rapidly through the small crowd. The Commander took his place behind a temporary podium in the front of the now nearly silent room. As he scanned the assembly he was reassured to see a number of familiar faces and gratified to see a fair number of people he didn't know. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was going to need all the able-bodied personnel he could get. More than a few of them were going to have a great deal more responsibility then they had ever had before. Kresge took stock.
He spotted Angus Hawkins, a short, wiry, sixtyish engineering tech who wore his steel grey hair in a classic flattop crewcut. A crack engineer, Hawkins was a native of New Scotia and his heritage was quite obvious as soon as he spoke. He and Helen Murdock had taken seats next to one another in the back row. Kresge made a mental note to reinstate Hawkins to his former rank of Chief Petty Officer. Having heard the story from Lieutenant Harris about the raw deal Hawkins had received that had resulted in him being busted several steps down in rank, Kresge vowed to make things right. Besides, he was going to need all of the competent noncoms he could lay his hands on. Next to Hawkins was Marvin Jenkins, another of the Chief Petty Officers who had survived the initial Scrapyard incident by virtue of having been onboard the orbital station with Oskar Kresge.
With the meeting scheduled to start in just a few more minutes, a sizeable contingent of additional personnel began streaming into the room. Several of the people who had been vital to the defense of the orbital station a month or so earlier, including Orville Steuben, his wife, Allison and temporary station security Chief, Kathy Haines were among the
last to arrive before Jenkins closed the door behind them. As Kresge called the meeting to order, the relatively small room was all but overflowing with people.
"Thank you all for coming," Kresge began. "First off, and this is probably not much of a secret anymore, all Federation forces in the Santana Quadrant have been ordered to begin mobilizing." Seeing the concerned looks that showed up simultaneously on the faces of several of the people in his audience he immediately attempted to clarify the situation. "Don't worry, we are not actively at war with anyone. At least not yet, anyway. If you want my frank opinion, this mobilization order couldn't have been delayed much longer. Federation forces are spread dangerously thin everywhere and are all but nonexistent out in this part of the Quadrant. We are meeting here today to see what we can do to change that."
He paused for a moment before continuing.
"With that in mind, I have been ordered to get the Reclamation Center facility -- the Scrapyard -- back up and running. It appears that all the used parts out here have suddenly become a lot more valuable. What I am sadly short of, however, are experienced personnel. A number of you will be receiving promotions. In fact I would like to take this opportunity to announce that Technician Angus Hawkins has been restored to his former rank of Chief Petty Officer. Congratulations, Chief Hawkins! You can get your insignia and other items of rank after the meeting is adjourned."
Hawkins sat in stunned shock as he was treated to a round of genuine applause from the group. Kresge waited for the accolade to subside and continued. "Several of you in this room are former Navy and I have been granted permission to invite you back into the service at whatever rank you were holding when you were discharged. If that is unworkable, I am also authorized to retain a few of you, especially in some of the more vital areas, as consultants. See me afterward if you're interested. That's all well and good, but I'll still be requiring at least another two dozen people or more to even approach a semblance of a working facility. Many of you were invited to this meeting because I believe you have skills that we can make use of."
Kresge paused again and looked around at his audience. Everyone there was looking intently back at him. The room was now totally silent.
"My plan, and I will be asking for your badly needed feedback as soon as I get it outlined, is to use Helen Murdock's ship, the Greyhound, as a temporary replacement for the destroyed main living facility out at the Scrapyard. There are hundreds of things that we'll have to do in the coming weeks but living facilities are probably our most immediate need. Helen, as owner of the Greyhound, tell me why this plan isn't going to work."
Murdock thought for a moment before replying. "My ship was originally designed for a crew of fifteen, including the captain, and the quarters are actually pretty generous as such things go. I've been operating with only six crew members so there are lots of empty slots in the crew quarters. These aren't overly luxurious, and like I said, they haven't been used in a while but they'll do. There are some small, private quarters for the second in command but I haven't used those in that capacity for several voyages now. I also have four staterooms for paying passengers which can accommodate another two people apiece, three if they get along pretty well. That makes for a total of about 30 people or so that could be accommodated without any major modifications to the ship as she currently stands."
"What about pressurized holds?" asked Kresge."Any of those that we might be able to outfit with sleeping accommodations?"
"There are four pressurized holds but they aren't particularly well heated, Commander. Some kind of supplemental heating will be required. How many people are we talkin' here anyway?"
"As many as we can get, Helen. I'd like to take at least fifty people."
Murdock shook her head. "That'll severely strain the sanitary facilities, Commander, we've had enough trouble in that area with less than a dozen people on board."
"There are at least five scrap freighters out in the Scrapyard that are very similar to your ship, Captain Murdock. One of our first orders of business would have to be increasing the number of sanitary facilities on board the Greyhound."
"With all kinds of spare parts available, Commander, I suppose we could do just about anything we want."
"That's the spirit, Helen!"
Kresge went back to addressing the entire assembly. "Now that you have some idea why I called you all together, anyone who knows right up front that they aren't interested is welcome to leave. There will be no negative repercussions." To Kresge's surprise, not a single person got up to head for the door. Kresge smiled and looked over his pool of potential workers with a new respect.
"Helen, you were an electrician's mate while you were in the navy, I can definitely use your skills. Anyone else have electrical skills?"
Several people raised their hands, including the red-headed Orville Steuben, one of several station personnel who had been so helpful to the Commander during the recent standoff with the terrorists who had temporarily taken over the station just a month and a half earlier. CPO Jenkins asked for and wrote down names.
"Good, Steuben, I figured I could count on you. Now how about anyone who might have had some experience with heavy equipment and weightless environments or weightless cargo handling?"
Surprisingly, a good ten hands went up. Then again, the orbital station was a place where freight changed hands on a regular basis, so perhaps a few experienced people should have been expected. Again, Jenkins wrote down their names. After requesting, and getting, volunteers for several other skills, Kresge was ready to bring the meeting to a close.
"Thank you all for coming. Please leave your contact information with Chief Jenkins if he doesn't already have it. Listen up! I'd like to be ready to leave for the Scrapyard in three days. I'll be perfectly honest with all of you. I don't know for sure when we'll be coming back. Any questions?"
After several questions, mostly dealing with minor details, Kresge dismissed the main group.
"There are refreshments outside in the corridor, help yourselves," the Commander announced. "All Naval personnel are to come back in here for further briefing. Steuben, Murdock and Haines, I'd like you all to remain as well."
The room broke out into at least a dozen separate conversations as the larger group filed out and the remaining Naval personnel left their seats and took a place in the line out in the corridor to pick up some coffee or other refreshment.
Kresge, was looking over his notes, making sure he hadn't missed anything when he was approached by the leader of the Marine contingent.
"Sergeant Kelly?"
"Yes, Sir," replied the burly, dark-haired marine as he and his entire contingent came smartly to attention. All seven of the marines bore distinct Spacer clan tattoos on the left side of their faces. Kelly and one other marine sported the same markings, the other five bore markings that were different from Kelly's and different from each other.
Most branches of the Federation Military attracted only a few Spacers. The Marine Corps was the most outstanding exception with perhaps half of their numbers coming from Spacer colonies. Such men and women were perfectly suited for the role, with lifetimes spent in environments that spanned the range between weightlessness to gravities that greatly exceeded 1 G. In fact many Spacers, especially Marines, spent a portion of their time training in 1.5 to 2 G environments to strengthen muscle and bone for the rigors of their profession.
"At ease, men," said Kresge, though the show of discipline had mildly impressed him. "I heard you boys had a close call during our troubles out here?'
"That would be an understatement, Sir," replied Kelly. "We had maybe an hour of air left when that merchant ship with the terrorists on board left. It was the cutter from the Istanbul that rescued us."
"Is everyone okay?" asked Kresge; the Sergeant nodded.
"We're doin' just fine, Commander. If I say so myself, Sir, these men are in top condition. 'though everybody was damned hungry by the time we got rescued."
"It was a near thing for all
of us, Sergeant. Glad to have you with us." Kresge looked the marines over another time. "What have you got for weapons?"
"We each got a sidearm and an M-74 pulse rifle/grenade launcher, Sir."
"Anything heavier?" asked Kresge.
"Yes, Sir," Kelly replied. "The Marine Master Sergeant from the Valiant left us a couple o' Skarpov light duty assault pulse cannons."
"Those would be 5 gigajoule single pulse units?"
Yes, Sir!"
"Do you and your men know how to use them?"
"We sure as hell do, Sir! And I guarantee that we're gonna get even better with 'em as soon as we can shoot 'em some more!"
"Anything else?"
"Actually yes, Commander. He also left us each a set of the latest Mark VIII battle armor." The Sergeant paused for a moment. "Beggin' your pardon, Commander, but if you could be puttin' in a good word for that Sergeant, we'd be much obliged. He might have brought some trouble upon 'imself for bein' so generous."
"I'll be sure and do that," answered Kresge. "Jenkins? Make a note so I don't forget. Anything you and your men need, Sergeant?"
"I don't like to speak ill of the dead, Sir, but Captain Dortmunder didn't seem to have any idea of what to do with us. We were scrapin' paint in the shuttle bay when the Boise was attacked. To tell you the truth, we'd like nothin' better than to help you folks out with this Scrapyard project, Commander. These are some damned good men, Sir. Put us to work!"
"Very good, Sergeant, that'll save me ordering you. I like your attitude! All of you! I can't tell you how glad I am to have you with us. Go with Lieutenant Harris here," he motioned to the Lieutenant. "He'll get you squared away for transport to the Scrapyard. Hope your men don't mind doing some heavy lifting, we have a lot of stuff to load up before we head out."
"Bring it on, Commander," replied the Sergeant.
"Thanks, Kelly. You and your men are dismissed."
The Veritian Derelict (Junkyard Dogs) Page 7