Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Wachter, Luke Sky

  “Yes, Sir,” acknowledged the Ensign in Command of the Sensor Pit.

  “Com’s, do you have anything,” LeGodat demanded.

  “Still nothing, Commodore,” the Com Officer—also an Ensign—said, shaking his head.

  “Too bad they’re on the other side of the System from us, even if they are most likely just pirates,” Lieutenant Commander Natasha Stravinsky said, clearly frustrated.

  “You’re most likely right that they’re pirates, and I doubt anything will come of it, but even still I like them exactly where they are, XO,” LeGodat said, placing a finger over his upper lip.

  “If they’d come into the system nearer our location, instead of all the way around on the other side of the system, we might have had a chance to catch them on sensors and snap them up, Sir,” the Stravinsky disagreed respectfully.

  “Still not on board with our mission, Natasha?” he said, rather than asked, with a slight tilt of his head.

  “Our ‘official’ mission is unachievable, at least with the forces available to us. The Intel Department still doesn’t have anything new to report—at least as it comes to getting the Admiral—so until and unless something new enters the mix, the best thing we can hope to accomplish…” she trailed off suggestively.

  “Is pick up a few extra ships, and potentially increase our combat power for later on,” LeGodat grudgingly finished for her. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I’m not about to throw in the towel just yet,” the Commodore said pointedly.

  “Going in now would be suicide, Sir,” she exclaimed.

  “I said I wasn’t ready to give up on the Admiral, just yet. Neither will I throw away the lives of my men,” he rebuked, as his eyes and tone hardened.

  “As long as that continues to be the case, then in a few hours it’ll all be academic,” she stated matter-of-factly, squaring her shoulders as she clasped her hands behind her back.

  “He was supposed to get his last meal four days ago,” he quirked his lips ironically, “I won’t count the man out until it’s all over but the crying over spilt milk,” the Commodore said rhetorically.

  He could see his Executive Officer and Chief of Staff suppress the desire to roll her eyes. He admitted it was a long shot; he had known it was a long shot the moment he ordered his ships readied back at Wolf-9. The odds had only grown larger since then, but that most certainly did not mean that if he saw a chance—a real chance—to break the young Admiral out, that he would fail to take it.

  Unfortunately, while a pair of pirate Corvettes trapping themselves inside the hyper-limit with two SDF Warships the exact same class hot on their heels was interesting, he could not suppress a frown. It did not appear to be anything he could take advantage of, but at least it helped break up the tedium.

  “And now a third warship lying doggo has appeared on a heading deep within the system…no it’s definitely heading for Praxis IV, just like the others!” declared one of the Sensor Operators.

  LeGodat stiffened in his chair. Once was stupidity, twice was coincidence, and three times was enemy action! It just remained to be seen what kind of enemy had decided now was the time to tug on Praxis IV’s cape.

  “They only have four Corvettes in their Border Guard; the others are too large to match their rate of acceleration from a cold start,” Natasha said, cocking an eyebrow.

  “They’ll have to intercept it with ships from another Squadron,” LeGodat agreed.

  “Point transfer,” exclaimed another Sensor Tech.

  “Get me a class and size,” the Ensign in charge of the Sensor Pit ordered with alacrity. There ensued a tense few minutes of silence, while fingers flew over their consoles.

  “It’s a Light Cruiser, matching the same make and model as the four Light Cruisers assigned the Border Squadron,” the Ensign reported a moment later.

  His First Officer stepped up next to his Command Chair. “From its profile, it’s definitely an SDF Border Guard unit, Commodore,” Lieutenant Commander Stravinsky said in a low voice.

  “They’re making sure to close the barn door, after the last of the rascals have obligingly run inside,” Commodore LeGodat agreed mildly.

  Natasha Stravinsky looked at him sharply. “I take it you disagree with some part of that assessment, Sir,” she said formally.

  “Praxis and the Sector Guard both have enough units in System to deal with a trio of Corvettes,” he said, brushing the matter aside lightly.

  “Right,” replied the Lieutenant Commander, not looking convinced.

  “You sound as if you doubt me? I’m wounded, XO,” LeGodat said tightly, leaning back in his Captain’s Chair.

  “You really look that way, Sir,” she said with a straight face, causing him to frown at her disapprovingly.

  “I’m just saying, Sir,” she said in answer to his frown.

  He leaned forward in his chair to reply, and then leaned back, replacing his finger on his upper lip. “I think perhaps it’s time we started creeping a little closer to hyper-limit ourselves,” he mused.

  “What kind of answer is that,” she scowled.

  “The only one you’re going to get,” he retorted, turning to glare at her. Under the weight of his stare, she stiffened and then strode over to the Helmsman.

  “Continue with Silent Running, Lieutenant Weatherbee, but start taking us in slowly,” she instructed in a firm, no-nonsense voice.

  LeGodat observed the way shoulders stiffened around the Bridge, but his bridge crew was too well-trained to say anything openly. That particular observation amused him enough to draw a smirk from his lips. However, their posture alone told him precisely what they thinking. Fortunately, the warships within the Confederation Fleet were still commanded by their Captain, or—in his unusual case, their Commodore—and not by committee or popular consensus.

  Stravinsky returned to her station at his side and stood there, watching the activity on the main screen. Several minutes of mutual silence were finally broken by a sigh. “I take it you think this is more than just some stupid pirate action,” she said her voice heavy with resignation.

  “Let’s just say I’m not fully convinced as to the ‘stupidity’ of these particular ‘pirates,’ and regardless of whatever they are—be them fish, or fowl—I plan to be ready if, and when, an opportunity comes knocking on my door,” he explained.

  “You’re the Commodore,” she said without a trace of emotion in her voice.

  “That, I am,” he agreed. What he failed to point out was that while everyone, even most of his original officers and crew, might think of him as a real Commodore, that promotion rested squarely on an officer who many—Stravinsky, for one—were still a little skeptical of fighting to rescue. Despite the fact that twice now, he had swooped in like an avenging angel and rescued them from a tight spot. Privately, LeGodat saw no way he could do any less, if a real opportunity presented itself.

  “I’m picking up another contact; it looks like it’s still trying for silent running, but an emissions leak through is putting up a Sensor ghost, Commodore,” a Sensor Operator reported excitedly, jumping to his feet.

  LeGodat winced. The operator was clearly one of the transferees, judging by his lack of professionalism. Apparently, they had a different way of operating in the MSP.

  “Take your seat, Operator,” the Ensign in command of the Sensor Pit growled, causing the man to stiffen. Looking self-conscious, the Operator sat back down in his chair.

  “They still need more discipline, Sir,” Stravinsky scowled.

  “Three-Quarters trained,” LeGodat agreed, “they’ve got the skills, but…” he trailed off.

  “We’ll whip them into shape, Commodore,” she said, with a promise in her voice that said at least one new crewman was not going to enjoy her idea of how to rectify the situation.

  “Let’s hold off on any whipping, at least until after we’re out of this system, Lieutenant Commander. Yes?” he said, rather than asked.

  “Of course, Sir,” she replied rel
uctantly.

  “It looks like the SDF’s spotted her too, Commodore,” the Sensor Ensign reported stiffly from where he was standing over the shoulder of his hapless sensor operator.

  LeGodat looked up at the main screen, where what looked like another Light Cruiser had appeared, apparently to backstop this latest arrival. This was confirmed a few seconds later.

  “Looks like it knows it’s been spotted; she’s going active now and…” the Sensor Ensign broke off incredulously.

  LeGodat looked over mildly, his own total lack of urgency a sharp rebuke.

  The Sensor Ensign stiffened. “Sorry, Commodore,” said the officer repentantly.

  “We all make mistakes, son; carry on,” he said easily, his eyes making it clear that this particular mistake had better not happen again. He could all but feel Natasha Stravinsky ready to tear into the Ensign, under the guise of an Executive Officer’s solemn duty.

  “It’s a Hydra Class, Sir,” the Ensign reported, all emotion leached out of his voice.

  Stravinsky and LeGodat exchanged a brief, incredulous look.

  “Those things are slower than mud,” Stravinsky said, pointing at the screen. “What are they thinking?” All four contacts on the screen—including the new Medium Cruiser—were running for their lives, being chased by the rapid response units of the Border Guard.

  “And twice as old as anything we’ve pulled out of mothballs,” LeGodat agreed, his eyes narrowing.

  Seeing the smile growing on his face, his XO looked at him with growing alarm. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,” she demanded, and he merely looked at her innocently. “Don’t give me that look,” she said strictly.

  “I suspect this Medium Cruiser is about to give that—” there was a flash on the screen as another Light Cruiser appeared, quickly followed by another flash, indicating a Heavy Cruiser appearing beside it, “I mean ‘those’ Cruisers a run for their money,” he corrected.

  “Molasses could move faster than a Hydra,” she objected with a cough. Commodore LeGodat never even tried to hide his amusement at her incredulity as she continued, “It’s almost heavily-armored enough up front to stand in the wall, but one of those more modern light cruisers is packing the same amount of firepower!”

  “Would you care to put a few, purely hypothetical, credits on that, Lieutenant Commander?” he asked with a grin.

  “Speaking hypothetically, Sir,” she said arching a brow, “you’re on! Those things are tough up front, but only have one main drive, are slower than dirt, and are critically vulnerable from astern!”

  “We shall see,” LeGodat said evenly, and see they did.

  As soon as it was clear the pair of SDF Light Cruisers were rapidly outstripping their much slower Heavy Cruiser counterpart, the Hydra slewed from side to side, before settling down and the acceleration curve of the Medium Cruiser suddenly shot through the roof.

  “I’m reading multiple new secondary drive fields, Commodore,” the Ensign at Sensors reported with excitement.

  Stravinsky stared at the screen in shocked surprise, and then turned to glare at her commander. “You suckered me! How did you know?” she demanded.

  “Call it a hunch,” he said coldly, his eyes locked on the screen as he considered his next move.

  “That’s one smug man, if ever I’ve seen one,” his Executive Officer muttered under her voice, and glowered at him out of the corner of her eye.

  Chapter 40: A Royal Ruckus

  “That Heavy Cruiser is still coming on strong, but the Light Cruisers are taking off, like something lit their tails on fire, Chief Engineer. They’ll catch us in no time, at this rate!” cried the sensor operator.

  Spalding paused to tug on his hair, and once again realized he still had no hair to speak of.

  “Engage the Afterburners,” Spalding said with an irritable stomp of his left foot.

  There was a deafening silence and Brence glared around the room, but the Helmsman gulped and pressed a series of buttons.

  “Here goes nothing,” muttered one of the Sensor Techs, sharing a significant look with a rating over in Tactical.

  Suddenly, the sensation of the floor being down—where it was supposed to be—began to change.

  “Grav Plates are fluctuating; automatic stabilizers unable to compensate,” yelped the man at damage control, as the rear wall of the Bridge started to feel like the new floor of the ship.

  “Sweet Murphy, in your mechanical wisdom, spare us from this unsightly end,” mumbled the woman at the shield controls.

  Ignoring the pull that had members of the Bridge crew buckling themselves into their seats (which they should have done already!), the wily old Chief Engineer stumped over to the damage control station and stared over the shoulder of the Engineering rating, as grav-plates around the ship showed major fluctuations.

  Frowning, he made a few adjustments, and entered them into the ship’s distributed intelligence. It took several seconds for the new orders to propagate through the system. Spalding scowled, as it was just another way in which this mechanical dump of a warship could never hold a candle to his Clover.

  Suddenly, the gravity stabilized and pressed everyone down to the deck with crushing force; everyone except a certain Chief Engineer, who had finally gotten his strength back.

  “Something’s wrong,” panted the head of Tactical.

  “Ye Space Gods, this is worse,” cried a woman at sensors.

  “It’s just a wee bit over two gees,” Spalding admonished with a scowl. “This ship type was never designed to handle this kind of acceleration, but she’ll hold together,” explained Spalding irritably. Was he the only member of the blasted crew who had read the tech manuals for this deathtrap?!

  The Damage Control Tech looked down at his screen. “2.25…2.34 gravities, and leveling out,” he said tightly.

  “See? Nothing to worry about; we can handle this kind of load for days, before we find the limits of the human body,” Lieutenant Spalding said confidently, and the Bridge crew groaned in unison.

  “It’s only going to be for a shift or so,” Brence cut in, clearly trying to sound reassuring. But with the extra weight pressing on all of them, it came out more tightly than before.

  “The Cutters welded to the hull are holding strong, and continuing to operate their drives at half power,” reported the Helmsman.

  “Are we accelerating faster than those Praxis Light Cruisers hot on our trail?” Spalding demanded, stumping over to the Helm.

  The Helmsman paused and looked over at the Hydra’s Navigator. “They’ve still got the edge in acceleration; they’ll catch us long before we reach Praxis IV, Sir,” the Navigator reported, sounding disheartened.

  “Inform the afterburners that they are to increase their normal space drive to full military power,” Spalding said curtly.

  The Helmsman’s hands tightened on the old-fashioned steering sticks on either side of his console, and then tapped in the orders. Behind him, Spalding could hear the Com-Tech relaying the instructions.

  “And they’re not welded,” he said forcefully, upset at the clear lack of mechanical and engineering knowledge among the staff, as clearly shown by this last idiotic comment.

  “What, Sir?” asked the Helmsman

  “The Cutters are attached to the backside of this ship, nose first, through the use of carefully constructed docking hard points,” he growled.

  “Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” he said, his head bobbling up and down like an old-style, collectible doll.

  Spalding had to suppress the urge to snarl at him. Forcibly, he reminded himself that he was operating with the dregs of the service here. Men with so little mechanical knowledge they had no choice but to strike for a cushy bridge assignment on one of the most run down ships in the fleet.

  “Even a ship’s gunner would have more common sense than you bottom-heavy lot,” he scowled, turning away from the other man.

  “Why, I never,” the woman in the sensor pit said with
rising outrage. She started to stand, but the force of gravity pinned her down in her seat more effectively than any order ever could. Still, she made the attempt a few more times, giving the appearance of an aerobic exercise.

  “Work on your cardio some other time, lass,” Spalding rebuked off-handedly, and the woman gave an incoherent noise of outrage.

  “What this ship needs, is a crewman at her post who knows that manning her station and checking for signs of enemy warships, is more important than getting a little exercise,” he grumbled in her direction, unimpressed with the manner in which this bridge was handling its duties.

  Then the afterburners kicked hard, as the five cutters strapped point first into their hull simultaneously went to full power.

  The Bridge crew started making wheezing sounds, and after only a few seconds, someone fainted.

  “Acceleration is holding steady at maximum thrust,” the Helmsman reported grimly, holding onto his console for dear life.

  The Navigator turned his head to the Chief Engineer, and then passed-out, hitting the floor with enough force that blood started squirting out his nose.

  “Three gees and holding,” gasped the Engineering watch stander at the damage control station.

  “Medical team to the Bridge; we’ve got fainters, bleeders, and combinations of the two,” Spalding barked.

  The Com-Tech relayed his message in a halting voice.

  “Medical says they’re not sure if they can get a team all the way up here in this kind of gravity, without incurring additional injuries,” grunted the Technician.

  “Send one of those overgrown Tracto-an boys—or better yet, just the grav-cart. I’ll load these lightweights onto the cart me-self,” he grumbled, stomping over with his big droid legs and bending over to pick up the first one. The gravity was rough, but was barely enough to do more than slow him down. However, from the looks of the rest of the bridge crew, it was doing more than slowing everyone else.

  “Are we outrunning those Praxis boys, now,” he demanded, loading the blushing violets onto the grav-cart for transfer to Medical.