It's only been 10 minutes, I'm positive, but the two admirals are already floating impatiently at the locked door to my ready room, still in their dress uniforms, their aides floating in front of one of the bridge displays, chatting. I gather myself, try to look captainly, and float to the door.
"I'm sorry sir," I say not picking out either one of them as the recipient or my words or my salute, "I should have put your biometrics in the security system."
I know that's not really their problem with me. It's not my fault that I graduated from the Academy at 19, that I managed to save Ayacucho from a sneak attack during an assault on a pirate base and made commander of a destroyer at 25, or that I got lucky a second time and happened to be commanding the only ship in position to save the Marines headed into a trap on Kentucky 3. That last bit of luck earned me Yorktown. Despite my successes, they wish I was taller, older than 30, and quieter. And, from the quick look I got from ChiNO, more willing to wear my badges of rank. The dark blue rated seaman's uniform I have on is nearly a dozen steps below my paygrade.
The hatch pops open to my palm, and I move back, letting the two bosses into my shipboard office first, then following them in, locking the hatch behind us. No chairs on a starship, we float around the center pedestal.
"Can I offer either of you sirs a drink?," I ask, hoping the answer is no since there is nothing but water and my dwindling store of iced tea on board yet. I'm still bunking on the station.
Admiral Benson doesn't answer my question, looks at me with the same hard expression any decent commander has when sending his crew into a deadly situation, and starts right in.
"Bainbridge and the commercial ship she was escorting are missing. Yorktown is to proceed at all possible speed to investigate. Details," he looks at the small pad in his hand, then presses the screen, "are available on your pad now. They were headed home from an automated mining operation in the Gamma Omicron system."
Stunned would be a good word for my reaction. Speechless as well.
Admiral Everingham takes over for me. "I know what you're thinking, you haven't even had the simplest flight trials yet, and we're sending you into a possible combat situation months ahead of schedule."
I nod, mouth still unconnected to brain, which is spinning. We have four cruiser battle groups, and they're sending a ship that's never been out of dry dock? ChiNO shakes his head, reading my mind.
"Unfortunately, the frigate program was not always the most popular with our administration. If there hadn't been a rash of attacks on commercial shipping just as the reduction in force for the Navy was announced, it wouldn't exist at all. We got a tradeoff. Retire our last two battleships and half the destroyer force, build six frigates. Now they want to embarrass the frigates out of existence." He manages to look commanding, embarrassed, and pissed off, all at the same time while laying out the facts.
The message was clear. Politicians forcing Yorktown out too soon, hoping for an excuse to ground her and her unlaunched sisters.
"I will not let anything embarrass the service, sir." I hadn't intended to say that with as much emotion as came out, but I wouldn't take it back either. Bastards.
"We know you won't." ChiNO does not sound entirely convinced, but I wouldn't be either if I were him. A mind I will change.
"You have 24 hours," Admiral Benson almost sighs, "to outfit and arm your ship. You will also get any four corvettes within range that you want. It's 1400 now. I want all your requisitions on my pad by 1600. Any questions?"
I look at him, not sure what to say. The things I want to say will get me court martialed or shot. Or both. He raises his hand and makes a knowing face.
"OK, you have hours of questions, bad question on my part. We ordered your crew to assemble while we were waiting for you, they all know the ship is leaving dock this time tomorrow and they are expected on board within the hour. Lt. Palmer is getting his briefing from the Marine commandant as we speak, they'll take responsibility for ensuring your detachment has all their equipment before you sail."
He turns in air, reaches out to shake my hand. "We'll leave you to get to work."
I shake the hand, then salute them both as they float out to the bridge. With a quick and somewhat nervous hand, I reach down to the pedestal, flip up the center panel, and turn on the two large displays built into the wall across from me. My pad plugs in easily, the pedestal designed around it like much of the equipment aboard.
Gamma Omicron is a red dwarf, 210.3 light years from Earth, seven planets and lots of big rocks, none easily habitable, but lots of good hiding places for bad guys. A set of fully automated ops, iron and titanium on planet one, gold, diamonds, and platinum on planet two, heavy metals on asteroids, and uranium on planet six.
Bainbridge, an 800 ton corvette, had been escorting the 240,000 ton Trump, both unheard from since they jumped in. Jump capable corvettes mount eight 18-inch laser cannons, and a cluster of very short range missiles, enough firepower to scare off most single pirates and privateers. If they were taken out, it would have been a small fleet action.
Her commander was Lieutenant Jeff Dempsey, with five on his crew. I scan the pictures FRIGCOM provided which reveal a normal looking man, my age roughly, big smile, big blond hair, big muscles. The five crew are your basic stuff, one just out of the Academy ensign, four enlisted, all veterans of numerous cruises with Dempsey. That alone tells me he's a competent commander, it's easy to get off a corvette, such a small space requires meshing personalities and the corvette office will transfer crew at will with no repercussions. The enlisted all stayed with him a long time.
The door whistles at me, I talk back to it. "Come."
A captain leaving a ship to take another post has by tradition the right to transfer four of their crew with them. I stole four of Ayacucho's best, although not the most experienced. Ryan Conner, my former first officer, was stepping into the captain's seat, and not wanting to make him too mad at me, I took Lt. Maria Garcia, the best young pilot (but only fifth most senior out of six), Lt. Emily Powell from engineering, like Garcia four years out of the Academy, and Ensign Courtney McAdams, just out of her first year, but the most natural RISTA I have ever met (that's Reconnaissance, Intelligence, Surveillance, and Target Acquisition if you have a question). The two lieutenants got promotions to full lieutenant two years or so early out of the deal, McAdams will certainly go up early, but she'll need a cruise or two to earn it.
Lastly, I took my second officer, Shelby Perez, and made her my new First, with a snazzy two step promotion to Commander. Conner gave me lots of crap for taking the girls and leaving him the boys, but then thanked me for keeping his top team intact, and questioned my sanity for filling Yorktown with a bunch of young officers.
The voice recognition sensor unlocked the door at my word, and Shelby floated in. She's six foot three, allegedly, since that is the height limit for Naval officers, perfect ebony skin, played middle blocker on the Academy volleyball team, and is able to make any man fear instantly for his life with only a glance from those deep brown eyes, including, fortunately, an entire squad of Marines at a bar on Illinois 2 who had taken offense to something her captain had said. I haven't gotten drunk since. Okay, I haven't gotten that drunk since.
She closes the door behind her, making sure our conversation will be unheard.
"We're starting trials tomorrow? We won't even have all the equipment installed, and the only food on board is a couple of Twinkies." Her voice is deep and light hearted. Something I am about to change.
I snort, or something to that effect, and shake my head, the hair doing it's best to get loose.
"Worse, Shel, we're going to Gamma Omicron to find Bainbridge. She's gone missing with her convoy."
If it weren't weightless in my ready room, I think her jaw would actually have hit the floor. She doesn't say anything, so I keep going.
"You and I have until 1600 to figure out what we want loaded on board, and they have 22 hours to give it to us."
Shelby r
eaches up, brushes her hand over the surface of her very regulation half inch of curly black hair, puts the orange ear bud that had been hanging off her uniform into her left ear, and pushes the transmit button by the microphone at her collar.
"Ayala, Powell, Garcia, and McAdams to the Captain's Ready Room on the double. Ayala, Garcia, Powell and McAdams report immediately."
Lt. Commander Matt Ayala, the Second officer, was the First on a corvette in the Andrew Jackson's battle group. Came looking for me the day I got this job, and offered to take the lateral move (Second on a frigate equals First on a corvette) in exchange for what he hoped would be more interesting duty. He also got a two step jump from j.g., can't have him outranked by officers he had to command.
While we wait for them, I have Shel message our Marine commander to join us when he's done with his boss, then let her thumb through the data on my pad. McAdams must have already been on the bridge, she's there in less than 30 seconds, knife thin on a barely five foot frame, not onto her neck length blonde hair, the shiniest blue eyes in history.
Garcia makes us wait two minutes, but not bad, Powell two minutes more. Those two show wearing blindingly new officer light blue flight casual uniforms with enough rank insignia that no one from any angle could possibly mistake them for ensigns. They are both my height, five seven or so, both with lean athletic frames. Garcia has the same hair cut as McAdams, except dark hair almost the same color and as shiny as Yorktown, Powell is essentially hairless. Ayala is a few seconds behind.
Shelby fills them in. After we scrape their jaws off the deck, we get to work.
Food first. Two month's rations go down as mandatory, three months as what we really want. Make sure the water tanks are full. Make sure that I get all the tea out of my quarters on the station before we go, though we don't write that one down.
Weapons are a bigger issue, the first combat on Yorktown is between the Second and the RISTA, but it's not going in the log. To save money, all the new frigates are built on destroyer platforms, Yorktown is identical on the outside (and lots of her insides) to Ayacucho, but destroyers operate as part of battle groups, frigates are supposed to be independent. So while a destroyer mounts 44 18-inch laser cannons and a close in missile system, Yorktown has 18 24-inchers, a close in system, a Marine detachment, and, 24 full on offensive ballistic missiles.
The problem is missiles come in multiple varieties. Nuclear ground strike, single and multiple warhead, ship to ship, nuclear and pure ballistic, also single and multiple warheads, and mine layers of various types. Cruisers carry them in triple digit quantities, so choice is less an issue. Our 24 tubes require thought, and no one in the fleet has even done this before (though some academics at the Academy have written papers on the subject in the Journal of I Don't Know Anything, But I'll Pretend I Do to Get Tenure).
The Second wants all ship to ship, single nuke, pure hammers in our hands, the RISTA wants every flavor of multiple warhead nuke and nothing else, all flexibility and daggers. In a fist fight, it's his six foot, 185 pound dark hair covered frame against her 90 pounds, not fair, but in this war, I wonder if the Chihuahua isn't going to make the Rottweiler wish he'd gone the other way.
"We're going after pirates, lots of ships, their land bases are full of women and children. Optimal strategy is lots of killing power on air bandits, ground attack is a waste of time." Ayala is emphasizing every point with substantial hand maneuvers, his legs braced against the center consol to prevent his body from spinning off in the zero gravity.
The 22 year old is the calm, quiet one, her hand scratching her chin. "We don't know what happened. What if someone's established a secret forward base? It's not far from the Hwang boundary. What if there's a large group of small ships? We need to maximize our flexibility."
"How many...," he was probably about to say something about her inexperience, or age, but smartly caught himself. I get the credit, but everyone knows her brain is half the luck behind my victory on Kentucky. I may have been the one who spotted the trap, but she suggested the irrational course that put us in the perfect slot. I get the credit because I was the one who said go.
"How many forward bases are better suited to attack by a MIRV than a big warhead? If there is one, it's likely to be a single, hard point. If we come across a ship our lasers can't handle, would one 30 megaton hit be better than a bunch of little warheads?"
I let them argue for another five minutes, watch the First try unsuccessfully to eek out a compromise, then decide to be the captain.
"I think I have everyone's opinion. Let's move on. Mr. Ayala get into every Minimum Equipment List and make sure we have a lot more than the MEL on board. Grab all the help you need, get back to me by 1530 with our deficiencies. Mr. McAdams, find your team, I want a system search plan and your most likely scenarios on pad by 0700. Meet me here at 0800 to go over them. Dismissed."
They salute and shoot for the exit. I think for a second there's going to be a rumble, but McAdams timed her move better and beat him to the hatch. I turn back to my remaining staff.
"Emily, are we ready?" I try to sound like I am genuinely asking a question.
"You know the answer to that, Skipper. Not one major system on board has been through a live test outside of dry dock. Everything's pretty standard, except for the missile launchers and the upgrades on the engines, but there's literally a million things that can go wrong." No hint of nervousness in her voice, but a lot of frustration.
"I know, I just had to hear it again. I need a test plan from you. Assume no coast and probably 4G's to the first jump, but then intermittent coast time once we arrive. Let me know what you need in a systematic way that RISTA and the pilots can work around"
"Skipper, we're really going to drive an untested ship 140 million kilometers at four gees, then jump into potentially hostile space?" She's scratching her shaved head as she speaks. No engineer floats through that crowded equipment space with exposed body parts like long hair that might get sucked into the works and get them killed, so it's almost automatic that they visit the flight surgeon and get themselves made permanently bald. Shaved on a career officer means she has upwardly mobile plans. Part of why I picked her.
I give her my best laughing voice. "Adventure, Lieutenant, that's what we signed up for. On your way now, keep me informed."
While Emily flies off to get to work, I float over to the facilities and get rid of all the accumulated tea in my system, then grab my bottle out of its wall holder and put some fresh iced tea into me. Given how the systems on ship work, what's in my bottle is likely something I gave back in the relief tube yesterday, and tomorrow's bottle is probably floating down the pipes into recycle right now, but better not to think about such things.
Also, if I'm making this sound like there's a lot of room in my room, ignore that thought. My entire ready room is barely 10 by 10 feet, and the "bathroom" is another three foot square. On a warship, that's golf course sized space.
Shel has been working while I was relieving, and I get back to find her examining the list of all available local corvettes. A corvette in our fleet is a 50 foot diameter sphere (crew of 2 to 8 depending on mission), a couple windows marking the bow, and four engine outputs the stern. They come in four varieties, convoy escorts like Bainbridge which are both armed and jump capable, planetary defense (armed, no jump engines), assault (lightly armed, not jump capable), and landing (neither armed, nor jumpable).
The sphere is the most effective platform for a warship (but don't tell an officer of the Royal Navy that, all of their ships are old school designs like Yorktown), in large part because jump engines generate a spherical field, so a spherical ship maximizes the cubic volume of ship that fits within the field. The spherical 190,000 ton Jackson class cruisers we fly use the same jump engines as our 8,000 ton Yorktown.
For Yorktown, and the other frigates and destroyers, keeping the old shape means empty pockets within the field which we take advantage of by having attachment points for corvettes, destroyers ha
ve two, the new frigates have four. We can add four corvettes and create our own little battle group once we're on scene.
"Suggestions?" I ask Shel, more to see if she agrees with me than because I am unsure what I want to do.
"Two landers and probably one assault, but I'd dearly love to take a couple escorts as well. Can we figure out some way to hang five off her?"
"We've got the sloop," I say, "can we substitute that for a lander?" Unlike the destroyers, Yorktown has a 12 person lifting body on its boat deck, in addition to two two-person ships and a couple short range pods that are standard for a destroyer. We sacrifice a lot of guns on that side of the ship to make it happen.
She thinks for a minute.
"LS-3-boat-252 is a brand new third generation landing craft. Richard and Congress," she points at the screen, "are due in at 1900, good captains, plenty of time to rearm and refuel if they are willing, and there's six ZR-1's to choose from for the assault ship."
"Done. I'll requisition the 252 boat, Richard and Congress. We'll have Palmer pick the ZR-1 he wants when he gets back from his CO, if he hasn't lined it up already. " Then I give instructions.
Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1 Page 2