“Back to my ship,” Kris answered; then, because she couldn’t suppress the question, she said what every spacer in the fleet was asking anyone handy. “Is there going to be war?”
“Your dad has me and Ray and a hell of a lot of good people doing our damnedest to see that there isn’t,” he said. They stood there, each measuring the hopes and fears in that statement; then Trouble started gnawing on his lower lip.
“Listen, Kris, we’re putting together a staff here. They’re also recommissioning anything that can hold air. I understand they’re even trying to haul out my old ship, the Patton. You hang around the staff here for a week or so, we might be able to get you an XO slot on a destroyer or something. Same for Tom.”
Kris forced her breathing to stay even. Was Grampa trying to get her and Tom out of harm’s way? Was it that bad?
“Is the Earth fleet really an invasion fleet?”
The old general gave her one of his patented shrugs. “God only knows, and she ain’t talking, at least to the likes of me. No, we don’t know any more about which Earth faction is calling the shots than you hear from the news’ talking heads.” He scowled at the lack of real information in all the noise.
Kris took a deep breath and shook her head. “General Grampa, the Typhoon may be small, but she’s the best you have. When you send her where you need her most, you’re going to need her the best she can be. I may be green, but I’m a hell of a lot better prepared than any shiny new nugget would be.” Then she shrugged. “Besides, it’s my turn in the barrel.”
“Be careful, kid.”
“You mean don’t do anything you’d do?”
Grampa Trouble swallowed hard on that. “Don’t do anything stupid. Our families have all the medals gathering dust that we need. Remember, half of what you read about us in the history books were lies.”
“Maybe poorly researched,” Kris answered, “but not lies. Next time I’m home, why don’t you and Grampa Ray walk me through a few of the more interesting stories?”
“It’s a deal, Ensign. You come home, we’ll have a long talk.” And Kris discovered that ensigns could hug generals, and if the marines standing guard or anyone passing through thought different of it, well, they could just drop and give the old general fifty push-ups.
Kris got to the elevator to High Wardhaven on time.
Only military traffic was going up or down; still, it was standing room only on the ride up. Kris was early enough to get the last seat. Then she gave it up when Commodore Sampson came through the door at the very last moment. Standing in the aisle, Kris remembered reading that it was illegal to have more people on an elevator pod than there were seats; the rule was forgotten today. That was when it hit her. The safe bets were off; someone really expected a war…and soon.
The Happy Wanderer had been hastily converted from a cruise liner to a troopship. Kris was lucky; she drew a one-person room with a single bed. The two ensigns across the hall were none too happy to be sharing one bed. Still, there was a cot in the corner of Kris’s room; she waited to see who her travel mate was and couldn’t suppress a grin when Chief Bo showed up at her door.
“Didn’t know they were putting chiefs on the beach.”
“Weren’t,” Bo said, dropping her duffel. “I was on leave, visiting my sister and her family.” The chief glanced around, her nose twitching like she was smelling something foul. “Didn’t anyone tell these people that chiefs and officers don’t mix?”
“I suspect they’re happy if they keep boys and girls out of the same staterooms. This is a kind of rush job.”
“Yeah,” the chief frowned at the cot. “Which bed you want, ma’am?”
“I’ll take the cot. At two g’s, a younger back can handle the cot better.”
The chief gave Kris a canted scowl but didn’t argue. As she stowed her gear, the chief asked over her shoulder, “What you hearing about the war, ma’am?”
“Some good people are doing their best to see it doesn’t happen. What are you hearing?”
“I didn’t have to pay for my beers last night. Lots of loudmouths saying it’s time we show those Earthy flakes a thing or two. Course, none of them are on this transport.”
“They flocking to the recruiters?”
“Doubt many would pass. Not tall enough for their tonnage,” Bo chuckled, then got serious. “Saw where Ray Longknife and General Trouble were back on Wardhaven. They some of the good people you were talking about?”
“Wouldn’t deny it to a friend, but wouldn’t say it to a stranger,” Kris dodged. She also didn’t mention the staff offer.
“Your old man is doing the political two-step. I listened to him for five minutes last night. Couldn’t tell if he was for or against us blasting that battle fleet out of space. Politicians,” the chief spat.
“He’s just trying to build a consensus,” Kris explained.
“He better do it quick, ‘cause I hear the Earth Battle Fleet is on its way.”
Kris collapsed on her cot. “This is crazy. Yeah, Earth has a lot of big ships with big guns, but none of them have been up to speed since the Iteeche War, what, seventy years ago. In college, I knew this kid from Earth. His dad runs a steel mill in orbit. Once a year he and his mill workers man a squadron of old battleships, them and a thousand welfare types doing their annual active duty. As my friend described it, they go aboard, make sure there’s still oxygen, then see if the boards show green lights on all the gear. God only knows what they’d do if they got a red one. Chief, this kid’s dad gets to be a reserve vice admiral. Most of his plant foremen are captains. It’s all a big show. If it came to a fight, the Typhoon could probably slag three or four of those battlewagons without breaking a sweat.”
“But battlewagons like those slagged whole planets in the Iteeche War. I don’t want them over Wardhaven, not with my sister and her kids on the ground under them.”
“Prepare for two g’s in five minutes,” echoed down the former liner’s halls from the public address system.
“I’ll help you get that cot made up,” Bo offered. “Not a hell of a lot to do for the next two days. Think I’ll sleep. No use risking my back, not when the first live shoot of my too damn long career may be coming up. Besides, if I know Captain Thorpe, he’s going to have all kinds of hairs up his ass. Doubt if we’ll get an hour’s sleep in twenty-five between reporting aboard and…whatever.”
Kris followed the chief’s lead, catching up on her sleep, following the news, and reviewing the manuals on her battle station. It had been a four-day trip, Cambria to Wardhaven. It took two days to get back. Still, it wasn’t fast enough for the skipper.
“What took you so long?” was the captain’s greeting as Kris and Tommy reported to the Typhoon’s bridge five minutes after coming aboard.
“Damn luxury liner didn’t want to do more than two g’s,” Kris offered, while taking her place at defensive systems. “You know how civilians are, sir.”
“How come you two didn’t get out and push?” the XO asked. Kris suppressed a shake of the head. There were hard cases, and then there were very hard cases.
Captain Thorpe eyed Kris as she brought up her station. “I’m surprised you bothered to join us, Ensign Longknife. I figured you for a cushy staff job.”
Kris turned. “I was offered one, sir. I turned it down.”
The skipper raised an eyebrow a fraction and glanced at the XO. “So, you wanted to be on the best ship in the fleet when the shooting starts.”
“I told a general that he’d want the best ship to be the best it could be when he needed it, sir.”
“Okay,” the captain said and actually seemed to be enjoying himself in Kris’s presence for a change. “I liked the fitness report I got from Olympia.”
“Colonel Hancock sends his compliments, sir.”
“Good man. Got a bad rap. He says you handled yourself very well in some tough firefights.”
“I did my best, sir.”
“Ready to smash Earth battleships headed f
or Wardhaven?”
Kris took a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” she said, giving the short, crisp answer the skipper wanted. Any prayer to avoid war was out of place on a fighting ship’s bridge.
“Good. I want you and Ensign Lien to trade stations.”
“I’m not trained on weapons, sir.”
“No one on this ship is combat trained on any station as far as I’m concerned,” the captain growled. “But you will be. Lien, out of there. Let’s see how good Longknife is at a shoot.”
So Kris moved forward to the offensive weapons station just in front of the skipper and beside the helm. Tommy didn’t actually show relief as he moved to the defensive station behind and to Kris’s right. Kris had never told Hancock about Tommy’s problem with his weapon, but she doubted anything got past that Marine Colonel. And nothing got by the captain.
Thorpe synced weapons, helm, and defense together into a simulation; hostiles appeared just at the limit of the Typhoon’s sensor range. When Kris asked how they got there, the captain snapped, “It’s my job to get you targets. It’s your job to smash them.” So Kris and Tommy and a new ensign with lightning reactions, Addison, went through the simulation, twisting and turning, dodging and charging, until the hostiles were dust in space and Kris’s hands were knotted on the controls.
“Now do it again.”
So they did. Off the bridge, Kris could hear the crew going through every possible drill, from hull breach to reactor containment failure. Only once did she hear abandon ship; that one must not be very popular with the skipper. On the bridge Kris went through problem after problem, gauging targets with hostile intentions and getting lasers out there to thwart them.
It was very late by the ship’s clock when Kris went looking for her bunk.
And reveille was at oh five early the next morning. Kris showered, dressed, gulped down breakfast, and was on the bridge by 0600. And the simulations began again. “You’re taking too long to blast those bogies. I want them dust in fifteen minutes from first contact. Addison, be more aggressive. Longknife, you’re using too many ranging shots. Don’t waste energy bracketing the target. Hit it.”
Easier said than done, Kris could have said. Was the bogie closing or opening the range? But she kept her mouth shut and spent a bit more time evaluating the targets’ behavior next sim. Yep, the skipper had them just as gung ho as he was. The next two sims all had the enemy closing fast. Kris was right on with her first shot the next time.
“Good going, Ensign. Think like they do.”
“If you assume they’re going for your throat, sir,” Kris risked.
“If they aren’t, Ensign, it’s their funeral. There’s only one rule in war. Hit them first. Hit them hard. Anything else just makes for more widows on our side.”
“Yes, sir,” Kris answered, the only answer he’d accept.
“When are we going after that Earthy battle fleet?” Addison asked.
“As soon as they give us orders, Ensign,” the skipper assured him.
“Those old Earth tubs are taking long enough.”
“I hear their engineering is lousy.” The XO grinned. “Had to cut to half a g to keep all those clunkers together.”
“But let one or two of them shoot their way into orbit, and there won’t be any High Wardhaven, any space elevator, or many people left below,” the captain pointed out.
Of course, Kris thought, Earth could have slowed her ships to half a g to give the politicians more time to sort this whole mess out. She kept that thought to herself; she was on a warship, and its job was to defend Wardhaven. The skipper was making this tip of the spear just as sharp as he could. Kris wasn’t about to do anything to dull it.
****
At noon, while the crew was at mess, Thorpe ordered Tom to convert the Typhoon to battle configuration.
“Longknife, look over his shoulder. I don’t want to spend the next week finding the mop closet.” The skipper eyed the XO when he said it, so Tommy didn’t lose his usual grin. Still, he worked slowly and methodically as Kris joined him at his station. He went down the check sheet without a word from Kris. This was a standard reconfiguration; it had been done often enough that it should go flawlessly. Prework done, Tom reported, “We are ready, sir.”
The skipper nodded to the yeoman of the watch. “All hands, stand by for reconfiguration,” she announced. “Watch standers take your places.”
“Make it so, Ensign,” the captain ordered, and Tommy started tapping keys on his workstation. With most personnel at chow, the mess facilities were locked in place. Next, Engineering shrank. Then the outer berthing areas pulled in as spacers’ double staterooms became berthing areas of eight, and the ship’s diameter began to fall by half. All through the ship, spacious hallways became much more cramped passageways. Storage rooms with wide aisles became smaller. Lastly, the radiation bulkhead between the rest of the ship and engineering thickened, and the ship lost a good twenty meters in length.
“Now the Typhoon’s a real warship and a damn small target,” the captain growled happily. “Yeoman, have all hands check for missing spaces and report them immediately to Ensign Lien. Ensign, don’t waste time trying to get it right a second time. I like Longknife’s solution. Empty any wayward spaces, delete them, then re-create them in the right place.”
“Yes, sir.” Tommy said with a wink for Kris. Maybe she’d already been headed for the captain’s good graces even before Hancock’s fit rep.
Thorpe stood. “Bridge team, take thirty minutes for chow. You’ve handled those easy problems fairly well. Now let’s see how you do on a few moderately complicated ones.”
Wondering how the sims could get worse, Kris went to check her quarters. She quickly passed down narrow passageways to find her room was where it should be. Once she and Chief Bo were sure their own gear was straight, they took a quick walk through the enlisted women’s quarters. There were no problems; even the usual complaints about being shoved back eight to a room were subdued. “They’re scared it’s for real this time,” Bo muttered as they left.
So Kris arrived late for lunch. The shrunken ship had no wardroom; the officers now shared their meals with all personnel in the cafeteria. Most of the crew had already eaten, the exceptions being the bridge crew and, apparently, the engineering watch standers. The XO commanded one table far from the door and well away from the steam tables. Lieutenant Commander Paulus, the ship’s engineering officer, was surrounded by his officers and crew at a table about as far from the XO as was possible. Tommy had joined the engineering staff and probably was deep into a discussion of nano or some other techno delight. Suppressing a sigh, Kris headed for an empty place next to the executive officer. This put her elbow to elbow with the communications officer and the ship’s lieutenant, who, with the XO, stood eight-hour watches, seven days a week as officers of the deck or OOD.
Kris and the other two ensigns should also be standing watches, one each, at their elbows as junior officers of the deck. That was what would have happened if the Typhoon had fifteen officers aboard. But it was peacetime. Right! On the last cruise, Kris had stood watches as the OOD and been relieved by chiefs and first-class petty officers. She wondered how things would change this cruise.
“So, things got exciting on Olympia,” the XO started as Kris sat down.
“They had a bandit problem,” Kris said simply.
“And don’t have one anymore?” the communications officer added.
Kris measured her response carefully as she sampled the meat loaf, potatoes, and green beans. “We took out a few of the bad elements. Fed a lot of hungry elements. Problem solved.”
“That’s putting a fine twist on what I hear was a major firefight,” the executive officer insisted.
“It got plenty hot for a while there,” Kris agreed.
“So, looking forward to things getting plenty hot here?” The ship’s lieutenant leered.
In the miniature chain of command on the Typhoon, he was the division chief of all the junior o
fficers not in Engineering, and thus, Kris’s boss. “I’d like to hope cooler heads prevail,” she said to her string beans.
“God save us from cooler heads,” the comm. officer snapped.
“This has been coming for years,” the XO said. “Earth bureaucrats have been leading us around on a chain. Telling us this. Telling us that. It’s time we do what we want to do, not what those overpaid chair warmers back there say.”
Kris didn’t need to answer that, so she concentrated on eating. The XO filled the silence with every familiar argument for war. Rationally, to Kris, they added up to nothing. But hadn’t Doc Meade warned her class that it was a rare war that had a solid basis in reality? “Emotions. Watch for the emotions that inflame,” he’d said. Kris had dutifully taken notes, but she hadn’t been one of his believers that day. Just now, it was starting to look like Doc knew what he was talking about, at least in this mess. Finished, she stood and picked up her tray.
“Ready to shoot Earthy antiques?” the XO demanded.
“I’ll shoot whatever the skipper puts in range,” Kris said.
“Good, Ensign. Very good,” the XO said with a broad grin.
****
Captain Thorpe was on the bridge when Kris returned, having taken his meal in his cabin. And he had sims waiting that made this morning’s seem easy. The afternoon went long. When the captain finally released her, Kris quickly found her stateroom. Chief Bo was already snoring, giving Kris a reminder she didn’t need that a warship was a cramped ship.
At 0600 the next day, Kris was back at her board. The skipper was hunched over his own, apparently oblivious to his bridge team as they arrived, checked their stations, and awaited his pleasure.
Thorpe punched his own commlink without looking up. “This is the captain speaking. Fast Attack Squadron Six and the Typhoon have been ordered to the Paris system. There we will rendezvous with the rest of Wardhaven’s fleet and ships from other planets that are ready to meet this threat from Earth. As of now, I consider this ship to be on a war footing.”
“Nelly,” Kris whispered subvocally.
Kris Longknife: Mutineer Page 34