by PJ Strebor
“Well you should. You were right. I failed to show correct respect for your rank. For that I owe you an apology, sir.”
“Again with the sir? Is this another of your so-called jokes, Telford?”
“No sir. You were right and I was wrong. It’s that simple.”
Tivendale eyed him skeptically for a time before slumping into his chair, his rage spent. Lost for words he brushed a dismissive hand through the air.
“May I ask what my duties are?”
“Duties?” he said dully, “Oh, I do not care. Do whatever you want.”
“I was born and raised on a freighter. Perhaps I could make some small suggestions that might, with your approval, increase efficiency?”
“So now you want to take over the supply department?”
Nathan pushed down a flash of anger. “That's not what I meant.”
“Oh, I no longer care what you do. Do whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”
“May I have access to the inventory and manifests?”
“I said you can do whatever you want, Telford.” The anger had left his voice along with any sense of self-respect. “Just leave me in peace.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Nathan spent the first two hours of his watch laboring over the manifests. Even without the requisite organizational courses he had undertaken at the academy he recognized a deranged mess when he saw one. Friends in high places or not, this idiot should never have been commissioned. A first-year plebe could organize the distribution of supplies better. He examined the prescribed routines for onloading containers as detailed on the computer readout. Tivendale couldn’t have done a worse job if he were a saboteur. No wonder the department heads were baying for Tivendale’s blood.
For the rest of his watch Nathan inspected the cargo holds, checking the manifests against the container numbers and making regular corrections as needed. The stink in the holds came back to haunt him. At the end of the shift he reported back to Tivendale who told him not to bother doing so in the future. Nathan lingered in a nearby drop shaft until Argento relieved Tivendale. When the supply officer stepped into the stern lift, Nathan entered the office.
Argento leapt half out of her chair before recognizing Nathan. He dropped into the chair opposite hers, tapped his left shoulder and laid his hands flat on the desk.
“What's your name, Argento?”
A smile touched her lips. “Heather, sir.”
“Nathan,” he said, offering his hand. She's been around long enough to know the drill.
“Very well, Nathan.”
“This isn't a date Heather, we have work to do.”
She blinked in surprise. “Work? I don't understand, sir … ah, Nathan.”
“Work, Heather. It's what we do for six hours, twice per shipboard day. Remember?”
The chief snorted.“Nathan, I am under orders from the supply officer to do nothing other than my usual requisition duties unless otherwise ordered.”
“Ah, but the supply officer has given me permission to, and I quote, do whatever I want. Therefore, if I wish to work your tail off until we get this department into some kind of order, I will.” Grinning wolfishly he added, “And Heather, I do indeed wish to work your tail off. Professionally speaking of course.”
“That would make a damn fine change. What have you got in mind?”
CHAPTER 38
Date: 5th August, 320 ASC.
Position: Monitor Truculent.
Status: Downtime.
Nathan fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The double shifts were starting to get to him. It felt as if mere minutes had passed when the alert alarm blared. He sprung from his rack and crashed into the overhead.
The internal gravity was off and the room was in complete darkness. Nathan pushed against the overhead to regain his footing. In the absolute darkness he kept bumping into Leo and Allan but could not tell them apart.
The hatch slid open allowing dim green light from the corridor's overhead to spill into the room. Somehow Leo had found his way to the hatch and activated the override.
“What are you waiting for, Nathan?” Leo said.
Allan was already half into his flight suit, pressing himself to the deck by pushing his head against the overhead. Nathan donned his flight suit and slipped on his shoes. Leo and Allan had far more experience than he and beat him out the hatch by half a minute.
Nathan stepped into the corridor and made his way forward. Within the zero G environment he kept his feet planted to the deck by sliding his hands along the overhead. Reaching the forward drop shaft he made a quick check to ensure no one blocked his passage then hauled himself inside.
He reached his destination and swung from the shaft, onto the deck. The starboard torpedo bay was his assigned alert station. CPO Veivers noted his arrival with a short nod. Nathan remained where he was to allow the professionals do their jobs. In the time it had taken him to struggle into his flight suit, the pros had done the same, got to their duty station and loaded all three tubes. Yes young man, you still have a lot to learn.
Nathan strapped into the jump seat to observe how real experts conducted themselves. Such calm proficiency is what he expected on a boat commanded by Waugh. As he plucked a ball of sleep from the corner of his eye he absently checked the time: 0412 hours. At least he had gotten three hours sleep.
The gravity returned with a jolt and full illumination flooded the bay. Nathan blinked rapidly to adjust to the change. The weapons engineering officer stepped into the bay.
“Well done everyone,” Lt Cmdr Matrakas said. “Secure from alert. The drill is over.” He noticed Nathan. “So Mister Telford, you made it to the party?”
“Not as rapidly as I would have liked to, sir.”
“Never mind, it all comes with time. And I think the crew could manage without you for a while.”
“I dare say they'd struggle by.”
“You have another six days with us so perhaps you might pick up a few tips?”
“I'm sure I will.”
“Good. Now you may as well get back to your quarters. I will see you back here at 0600 hours on the dot.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Nathan retraced his path down the drop shafts, but at deck two he kept going. With the residual adrenaline in his system he was unlikely to get back to sleep. It had been a drill but he didn’t know it at the time. At any time of the day or night he may need to react to a genuine threat.
When he stepped into the supply office, he noted CPO Argento’s absence. She must still be at her combat post in Damage Control. He slid behind the desk, activated the computer and examined the records. Heather had far more experience in supply than he, but had patiently listened to his suggestions, accepting some rejecting others and making her own practical recommendations. Between them they had devised a plan to tackle Tivendale’s disaster. Although it entailed many hours of hard work the benefits were beginning to show.
Heather stepped into the office. “Checking on me, Nathan?”
“You bet. Since I was already up I thought I would see how things were progressing.”
“What do you think?”
“It's coming along nicely. I hope Moe isn't getting under your feet?”
“Moe’s been great. She was happy to pick up where you left off.”
“Sounds like Moe,” Nathan said, rising from the chair. “Have you heard anything from your esteemed leader?”
“Surprisingly not. Tivendale has lost all interest in his department. Hasn't even tried to put me on report this week.”
Again, the odd stirring of guilt. “Very well, Heather, I will leave you to it."
“Call in any time, Nathan.” The return of her sultry smile had Nathan wagging his finger at her.
The hatch opened and Moe stuck her head in. “What's happening?”
“Midshipwoman Okuma. I was about to pay you a visit.”
CHAPTER 39
>
Two months on station without enemy contact had Waugh pacing the briefing room like a caged tigress. Her wretched mood had gotten the better of her and she caught herself nearly snapping at her crew. This would not do. It had been years since she walked the boat but perhaps it would help to clear her mind.
Waugh began her walk in the Maneuvering Department. The senior engineer, Cmdr Chanderpaul, was still on duty.
“Good morning, Jocelyn.”
“Good morning, skipper,” Chanderpaul said. “Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?”
“How’s everything going?”
Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed for a moment.“Are you walking the boat, skip?”
Waugh cleared her throat.
“You haven’t done that in years.”
“Hmm.”
Chanderpaul leaned in close. “Truculent’s luck has to change soon,” she whispered. “Why, right now there could be a big juicy headhunter on her way to us.”
“Nice thought. All right, Jocelyn, I’ll leave you in peace.”
“Enjoy your walk, skipper.”
Half a minute later Waugh slipped from the drop shaft into the boat bay. She froze at the sight before her. Half an hour after stand down Telford and Okuma were still up, which surprised her far less than what they were doing.
Telford drew back on the bowstring and as soon as the weapon reached eye level, he fired. The arrow flew the full length of the boat bay striking the holo target dead center of the bull’s-eye.
Okuma took the next shot, her fast firing technique identical to Telford’s. Her arrow landed fractionally off center. Telford slapped her on the back. He noticed the commodore approaching. Before they snapped to attention she waved them down.
“Good morning, middies.”
“Good morning, captain,” they responded. They make an odd couple these two. Waugh found it odd how lifelong friends stood out from the crowd. All of the middies were friends but these two displayed a deeper, more profound familiarity.
“Don't you two ever sleep?” she said cheerfully. “I do not recall seeing two more hard-working middies. What do you do for fun?”
They exchanged wry smiles before transforming back into respectful young middies. Waugh sighed internally. Surely I was never this young?
“We like going to the movies, ma’am,” Okuma volunteered.
“So do I. Did you catch last night's flick?”
“No, ma’am,” Telford said. “We had a gouge session.”
“Academy gouge sessions.” Waugh felt a reminiscent warmth. “I am pleased to see you are not ignoring your studies.”
“No ma’am,” Telford answered.
“What's your favorite movie, Mister Telford?”
His forehead creased. “It's hard to say, ma’am.”
“Try.”
He rubbed at his right eyebrow. “Well, The Sea Hawk comes to mind.”
“Ah yes, Errol Flynn. Great fun.”
“And the good guys always win.”
“Unlike real life?”
“As you say, ma’am, great fun.”
“And you, Miss Okuma?"
“Anything with Laurel and Hardy. They break me up, ma’am.”
“Yes, I have always found them to be dryly amusing.”
“I can’t believe the vids are more than five hundred years old,” Okuma said.
“Quite amazing isn’t it? They only came back into vogue thirty-odd years ago and the effect they’ve had on the idiom has been remarkable. Subtle but remarkable.” She thought of explaining to the young officers just how much the movies had changed the speech patterns within Tunguska since she was their age, but assumed that another lecture from the old lady would put them to sleep.
Waugh extended her hand to Telford. “May I?” Holding the bow in her left hand she pulled on the draw string. It took all of her effort to pull it all the way back. Light glanced off the smooth polished wood. She returned the bow, noticing for the first time the calluses on his index and middle fingers. No fancy shooting gloves for these colonials.
“Keeping your eye in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Telford said. “We get in what practice we can manage.”
“I have seen archery contests during the Olympics. Those archers raise the bow the way you two do but hold, aim carefully and fire. I have never seen your technique before.”
Telford glanced at his friend.
“Well, ma’am,” Okuma said, “when you've chased your quarry through the rain forest for two hours and are ready to drop from exhaustion you don't have time to consider Olympic etiquette. You usually have only one shot at your prey.” She appeared pleased at the commodore's interest. “A bull's eye won't see you coming and go to ground.”
“I see. So were you two sports hunters on Kastoria?”
Okuma glanced at Telford. “No, ma’am, when we hunt we do so either for food or to rid ourselves of a rogue animal. Usually a plains buffalo or wild boar that’s wandered onto our plantation. They can do a lot of damage if left unchecked. Of course these are target bows and not the type we use back home. We had to save our pennies for two years to afford these babies.” A smile formed as she examined the bow. “Apart from loving archery we are hoping to be considered for Kastoria in the Olympic team trials in twenty-three. Nathan has won a number of archery contests but I’m starting to catch up with him so we think we might have a chance. And by then we will be representing the Corps as well as the Republic.”
“Outstanding.” Waugh was relieved to see such fine young people were the real future of the Corps. Whether they could counter the other more negative influences infecting the Service would be decided by their future endeavors. “Well, I shall leave you to it for now.”
“Aye-aye, ma’am.” They successfully fought the urge to snap to attention.
CHAPTER 40
Date: 11th August, 320 ASC.
Position: Pruessen Headhunter Picaroon. Within League space.
Status: Operation ongoing.
Orson followed Bannister onto the bridge.
“Very well, lieutenant,” Bannister said, “you say everything’s ready, so let’s run one final test.”
“Aye-aye, commander.”
Orson sat before the EDF console and prepared to dazzle his superior. “Initializing EDF test field, now.” He flipped the switch. Nothing happened. Orson flipped the switch again, then once more to be certain. No lights registered on his panel. “Fucker,” he whispered. “Everything was in the green when I checked it yesterday.” From over his shoulder Orson heard the barest sigh from Bannister. “We will need to overhaul the entire system and do a complete diagnostic.”
“Not so fast, Saxon,” Bannister snapped. “You know how touchy this technology is. We’ll first check out the hardware in the EDF transmitter compartment.”
“Sir, I guarantee it isn’t a hardware problem,” Orson said defensively.
“We’ll see about that.” He stroked his chin, his eyes revealing genuine concern. “If we can't get this buttoned down quickly we may have to abort the mission."
“A problem gentlemen?” Captain Foss asked.
“A glitch, captain,” Bannister said.
“Should we return to Imperial space while you fix your glitch? I don't like the idea of running into an enemy patrol if this thing is going to blow up in our faces.”
“Yes, captain,” Bannister said, his voice laced with a poisonous inflection, “that wouldn't look good on your record would it?” Orson followed him from the bridge.
Two bored guards waved them through the hatch. The ship's crowded engineering deck stank worse than the rest of the ship. If that were possible.
Bannister strode to the stern of the reactor room and into the compartment assigned to the EDF transmitter. For a few minutes Orson checked the external leads and relays.
“Lieutenant?”
Bannister had an unusually dangerous lilt to his tone. The Advocate m
otioned him to the transmitter. Orson followed his pointing finger. Behind the recently removed cover plate a small feeder conduit hung loosely from its fitting. This single conduit threatened to terminate their glorious mission.
His jaw tightened. He stared at Bannister.
“Well?” Bannister asked.
Orson's mind raced. Could he have missed it? He had run exacting checks of the systems to ensure something like this never happened. When he examined the locking clamp his heart raced. The scratch marks around the receiver had not been there yesterday.
“Someone's fucking with us!” Orson spat.
Bannister’s face hardened.
Orson breathed heavily to control his rising fury. “Some motherless piece of headhunter shit has sabotaged the transmitter. Why? Why would anyone do such a thing?” He shook his head. “I don't care who did it. And damn the clan mentality. When I find the fucker I will kill him with my bare hands.”
“Control yourself, lieutenant. Rank has its privileges. The kill is mine. Now pull yourself together. Remember who you are and who you serve.”
Orson sensed the presence of someone behind him. In four broad steps he marched to the hatch and dragged the crewman inside. If Orson’s anger had not gotten the better of him he would have sensed him earlier. Control, must have control. He pinned the crewman to the bulkhead locking a thumb and forefinger around his windpipe. The scum tried to knock his arm away so Orson kneed him in the crotch. All resistance drained from the headhunter. Orson loosened his grip to let him breathe.
“What are you doing here you piece of filth?”
“Nuttin’ sir, nuttin’.”
“You were listening to us, weren't you?”
“No sir, no sir,” he squeaked, “I didn't hear nuttin’.”
“You're lying to me you shit eater.” Orson hit the man squarely in the nose causing an immediate bloody response.
Through tear-soaked eyes the pathetic animal bleated for his life. “Honest sir, I was just passing by, that's all, sir.”
“Lying dog.” Orson knew he had to dial it down a notch. A dead suspect would do them no good. Control.