Court-Martial (Horatio Logan Chronicles Book 2)

by Chris Hechtl

  He wasn't impressed with the use of barcodes and barcode scanners over RF tags to keep track of the inventory. The information in the barcode database was limited too; there was little about the object's mass and center of gravity for the crew to use, though many knew from experience what the numbers and position were.

  One of the biggest things was to balance the ship's load. They had to factor in the fuel, the ship's center of gravity, and thrust angle while loading. Objects with a lot of mass were closest to the centerline and the exact angle of thrust. They were heavily secured as well. Usually they went in closest to the sublight drive he was told.

  The crew had to adapt the holds to the size and shape of the cargo they were loading. Everything was about balance too, in all three dimensions, which made it tricky.

  Straps and chains secured each load. He initially thought it was overkill, but they didn't want to allow any shifting of the loads once the ship was underway.

  Stevedores moved the cargo onto the ship. The supervisors directed traffic, and the crew lashed it down once it was in place. There were constant issues with labor and time. He could see some of the games being played; some wanted to cut corners and get in a shift early to look good and save money, while some of the drivers dragged their feet in order to get overtime.

  Everyone wore utility uniforms with no zippers. They didn't want any of the cargo getting damaged in transit. Some of the cargo was covered in tarps to protect the packaging against being rubbed by something.

  “Where is all this going?”

  “Oh, Bek B. Diego moon I believe. We're shipping some civilian cargo with it since it comes from the same civilian contractor and they are paying for it,” the Neogorilla cargo supervisor replied absently. “She'll make a stop there, then on to New Brussels and then on to West Hampton and then Cheshire City before she goes on to New Baltimore and then goes on the next leg of her journey.”

  Lieutenant Thistle nodded sagely as he watched the lines being lashed to keep the cargo down. “It's like a puzzle. Like an ancient game, Tetris?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “And you've got to be organized and a few steps ahead, so a little like chess,” the super replied as he continued to scan the paperwork.

  “You secure everything to keep it from moving about?”

  “Yes. Lighter stuff is near the outer hull. Trust me, you don't want an emergency burn to shift something about and have it knock into something else, then cause a chain reaction. These vehicles too, they don't have fuel, but they've got power. One spark in an oxygen rich atmosphere and you could have a fire.”

  “Fire in space is no joke. Yeah, got it,” the commander replied with a dutiful nod.

  “Yeah. I've got training in fighting fire. It's not fun,” the super said absently as he turned away. He pulled out his microphone and radioed in some orders and then ordered a check on some of the cargo.

  The commander nodded. He'd trained in fire suppression as part of being a chief engineer.

  He realized every nook and cranny was being filled. That made sense. Space was at a premium on board; it paid to use it to the max. But the crew still had to get around, and they had to have easy access to some areas, so there was some arguing and give and take going on. Security was good too; they had MPs checking the cargo plus doing random inspections as well. Safety officers were on hand to keep a stern eye on things too. No one was taking chances, either with the cargo or with the safety of the ship.

  He could see why the ship's interior was so scarred up. She took a beating, but there was little time to patch her up or repaint some of the scars. Some said the ship bore them with pride. What he'd thought was slop was nothing of the sort. They just didn't have the time to deal with it.

  When the ship was finished loading, some of the crew left carrying their gear. It was like a well-oiled machine; they kept things moving all the time. While he'd been mostly with the cargo loaders, he'd heard and seen some of the maintenance going on around the ship. There had even been robots and EVA techs out on the hull scouring it for problems. That was the best way to handle such things, to catch them when they were minor before they became major.

  “So that's it? The crew just sits around and does maintenance until they get to port?” he asked the supervisor. His own perceptions colored his question. He'd always seen the engineers and bridge watch as the true crew. They busted their ass every day to keep the ship functioning and going where she was supposed to go.

  “Hardly,” the supervisor snorted in derision at the thought. “The cargo crew have to check each lashing twice daily to make sure nothing got shifted about during a maneuver.”

  “Oh,” he said as a tech adjusted a ratchet strap. It seemed like backbreaking labor. Just turning a turnbuckle with a cheater bar looked like hard work. That was just one among many on just one piece of cargo too. No wonder many of the cargo people looked like heavy worlders. “Yeah,” he said softly.

  “Yeah.”

  “The next port of call is Zembruga?” Zembruga was one of the lunar space colony habitats in Bek B.

  “Yes. Thinking of tagging along?”

  “No, I've got my duties here. Tempting though,” he said with a soft chuckle.

  Once the ship was buttoned up, he watched from the station view port. The mooring lines cast off, and then the robotic arms pushed her clear of the hull of the station. Tugs moved in to nuzzle up to the massive ship. They were specifically built to handle such big ships. The OMS on the ship was too much for the hull of the station, so the tugs used their positions to direct their own OMS burns out to space and away from the station.

  “So, learn anything?” Admiral Bolt asked mildly as he came up behind the chimera commander.

  The commander came to attention, but the diminutive Neodog admiral waved a dismissive hand and then indicated they should keep watching the show. Weaver turned back to the view. “Yes, sir, lashings, plus you need to have the cargo in a certain order.”

  “And on time,” the admiral replied, flicking his long white ears. “That's critical. We can't exactly slow a ship down in space. They can take a holding pattern in an orbit sometimes, but that wastes time and time is money. They can't sit in port since the slips are needed by other ships.”

  “Question, if everything is being slowed down, why the hurry?” Weaver asked, turning to the admiral.

  Admiral Bolt flicked his ears. “Who said anything is running slow?” the supervisor asked with a sniff. “No one told me! We run full tilt. We never know when we'll need something somewhere in a hurry. Besides,” he cracked a smile. “The sooner we get it done the sooner we're on to the next project.”

  “Ah. Well, I can't fault you there, sir,” Weaver replied with a dutiful nod.

  “Good to know,” the admiral said dryly, flicking his ears to let the commander know he was okay with the observation. “Besides, it's my hope that we'll be doing this with starships sometime. And then there is the professional in me who can't see it done sloppy—right way, wrong way, navy way. Some may have forgotten that, I haven't.”

  Weaver stored that nugget of information away internally. It was good to know at least someone was on board with Admiral Irons’ plan for Bek. He nodded once though. “Yes, sir. Good to know.”

  “Then I guess the time was well spent. Back to your duties tomorrow.”

  “Aye aye, Admiral.” He cocked his head slightly. His lips quivered as a burning question about what the hell was going on hovered on his lips. He didn't want to spoil the fragile truce they seemed to be sharing.

  The admiral saw it coming and snorted as he looked away. From his reflection, Weaver could see the pensive expression there.

  “And no, you don't get to ask what is going on with the brass or with Admiral Logan. It's … chaos, I will admit that. But just keep your head down and do your job, Weaver.” Weaver blinked. He hadn't known the admiral had known his first name. “Hopefully, it will blow over soon.”

  “Yes, sir,” Weaver replied dutifully,
amused tone deserting him. “It's just … I know Admiral Logan. He wouldn't make this shit up. Ever,” he stressed. “I never had the honor to meet Admiral Irons in person, but I know what he's like from his reputation and actions. He'll go out of his way to cut people slack most of the time. For the wheels to come off like they have …,” he waved a hand in dismay.

  “Stow it. Just do your duty,” the admiral said firmly. “I know what you're feeling though. Just … keep it contained. Remember, the navy needs us.”

  Weaver nodded once. He felt eyes on him and turned to see a nondescript Neochimp in a utility outfit pretending to clean a wall. “Yeah,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “No, you don't get to ask what I'm planning to do since I don't know myself. I'm going to do my duty, that's all I can tell you,” the Neodog replied gruffly.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for having confidence in me.”

  “Don't get a swelled head,” the Neodog growled in amusement. He saw the admiral's right ear twitch and then swivel towards the Neochimp. The commander watched as impassively as he could as the Neochimp spoke softly into what he assumed was a microphone attached to the front of his outfit.

  The Neodog admiral turned, following his gaze. His lips puckered in a sour expression for a long moment. Finally, he shook himself. “What's this star system coming to when the spies get that sloppy? Obviously, someone's too green to do the job properly,” he growled in disgust as he stormed off.

  @^@

  Just before they were scheduled to debark, the NCIS and JAG team got fresh orders from cyber security and ONI. George Ahuja, the lead investigator scanned the orders and groaned in despair. “See what you started?” he said, giving Valentine a sour disgusted look. “A ton more work for us!”

  “Yeah, my own headache,” Commander Lockyear growled back. “Okay, so, I was erring on the side of caution. Bite me.”

  George bared his sharp canine teeth. “Don't tempt me,” he growled with only slightly mocking menace in his tone of voice.

  “Funny. So, what do we do now?” the JAG asked, changing the subject.

  “We follow the rules, orders, and procedure, that's what they are there for. This is going to screwup the investigation though, since every piece of electronic evidence is going to have to be screened thoroughly. Not fun. It is going to take time.”

  “Well, that we may have plenty of. He's certainly not going anywhere at any rate,” the commander said in disdain.

  George flicked his ears. “True.”

  “And once we wrap up our reports, it is someone else's problem. We'll wash our hands of it and just be called in for any interviews or testimony. But I doubt it.”

  “We'll see. I'm not getting my hopes up.”

  “Hey, the good news is, we're back in the inner system, not out on the pimple ass cold corner watching from afar! Imagine what we can do with the liberty we've got?”

  “If they let us take it. My money is on us getting a one-way trip back to the sticks as soon as they can to get us out of their hair.” the commander said sourly.

  “You are just full of fun and sunshine, aren't you?”

  “It comes from being a hatchet man,” Valentine said with a shrug. “I don't have to like it, but I like doing the job right.”

  “Hatchet man, huh,” George said, looking up to the ceiling panels. “And here I was thinking executioner or ax man.”

  “We're not quite there. Yet. Besides, I think that is someone else's job. We're just the ones doing the digging. Gravediggers?” Valentine asked rhetorically as she went back to work.

  The Indian Neodog turned to her in surprise, apparently just realizing that the rear admiral's life and not just his career really was on the line. Silently he whistled slightly, then turned back to his own work. He kept shooting Valentine sidelong looks until she poked him and nodded her head to his own terminal for him to pay attention and get back to work. After that, he settled down and did his best to focus on the job at hand.

  Chapter 6

  Once they were out of the ship, Horatio was marched through the station, taking several internal lifts and walking through cleared decks in chains until they got to their destination.

  It was clearly a brig; he knew that much just from the stern MPs and the series of airlocks leading into it. Within the outermost layers, he was scanned. There was some consternation about his implants, but he remained mute as they figured it out on their own. Eventually, a human lieutenant came out and impatiently ordered the process along.

  He was handscanned, and then sent to a holding cell in what he assumed was the court section of the great space station. He was surprised when he was given a fresh uniform, one bereft of his fruit salad, rank, medals or hash marks. “Change into this quickly,” the Neogorilla MP ordered gruffly as he handed the uniform over.

  A quick look showed the jacket had no hash marks on the sleeves. It was pretty basic. Either someone was in a hurry or subtly on his side. Or, they weren't and this was a way of showing him as an outsider he thought as he examined the outfit.

  “Be quick about it. We don't have all day,” the ape growled.

  He wasn't given any privacy, even when he went into the head. When he came out, a new person was there, a human commander judging from his rank insignia on his uniform.

  “We've only got a minute or two here. My name is Commander Trent Cord; I will be representing you. For the record, I was assigned to your case by the Judge Advocate General. It's not my first rodeo, so don't worry about that,” the human counselor said as Horatio sized him up.

  Commander Cord was a stock human with brown hair, brown eyes, and a generic complexion that had seen too much indoor lighting and too little natural lighting lately. He was of average height, average everything Horatio thought. And he had little on his fruit salad, most likely due to his chosen profession.

  There was something else that occurred to him. Obviously, respect and some courtesy due an officer of higher rank, no matter what cloud they were under wasn't something JAG or the guards offered. They weren't quite contemptuous, but it was still grating in some ways.

  “You can refer to me as commander or counselor,” the counselor said as he dug through his attaché case. Chips, a tablet, and paper folders with actual paper and plastic files were partially strewn out of it.

  “Understood. You can give me the courtesy of my rank,” Horatio replied mildly. The commander looked up sharply, pursed his lips, but said nothing and continued on the hunt for whatever he was after. Finally, he came up with a pen and then clicked the button on the end as he fished out a pad of yellow paper.

  “Okay, as I said, this is going to be brief; we're due in court in a moment. Unfortunately, I was rushed in at the last moment so I haven't been given the time to review your file. This is going to be simple. Have you ever been in court before?”

  “A few times,” Horatio answered as he watched the counselor scribble notes. Finally, he stopped.

  “On what charges?” the counselor asked, pen hovering a centimeter over the pad of paper.

  “As a judge.”

  The counselor blinked and then frowned. “Oh.”

  “My personal legal entanglements never got beyond a captain's mast and an NJP.”

  “Non-Judicial Punishment,” Trent noted on his tablet. “Okay.”

  “Captain's mast for a few minor infractions during my first deployment. The worst …” The commander held up a hand.

  “That's good. Okay, so,” he looked up, “we're going into a basic arraignment hearing. We'll be on one side; the prosecution will be on the other. They'll list the initial list of charges. The judge will ask you if you wish to plead guilty. Are you guilty?”

  “I haven't even heard the charges or specifications. I was arrested and repeatedly interviewed. Do you have the final tally from the Article 32 hearing?” He didn't mention that he had been improperly read his rights. He kept that bit in reserve.

  “I think so,” the counselor said slowly. The fact t
hat the admiral knew something of military law was not lost on him. “At least, the ones they have listed so far,” he said, checking the list. The tip of his pen ticked them off. As he went down, his eyes widened. When he got to the end, he silently whistled. “Damn. They are really throwing the book at you,” he said in sympathy.

  “Can I see that?” Horatio asked, holding his hand out expectantly to the paper.

  “You are due in court in five minutes, Counselor,” an MP said as the lawyer went to hand the paper over to Horatio. The lawyer paused and then put the paper away. Horatio dropped his extended hand.

  “Don't worry; you'll hear them in court in a moment. By the way, what are you pleading?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “On all the charges?” the counselor asked dubiously as Horatio rose from his seat. The guard cuffed his hands together in front of him. Horatio saw the counselor grimace and then look away.

  “On all the charges, not guilty. Period.”

  The counselor hastily packed his things up. “Just out of curiosity, what is your defense?”

  “I can safely say I was following orders for some of it. The rest I don't know since I haven't seen the charges.”

  “Well, we'll see about that,” the lawyer said as he left ahead of Horatio and the guard. “Since I don't have your file and I'm not up to speed on the case, I would have advised you to file not guilty anyway. We can change that later,” he said as they left the room.

  “Don't bet on it,” Horatio muttered as his counselor made a pit stop in the head first.

  @^@

  The commander caught up with him a few minutes later. “This is theater. Remember that. You are on stage. Keep your poker face and keep your mouth shut until the judge talks to you. Keep your answers short and don't get cute,” the commander said in a tight aside as they were assembled on one side of the courtroom.

  “Trent,” a voice said from across the row.