Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  “What if I let the matter be?” My voice was unsteady.

  “Your word that you’ll take no action on my beloved nephew, in return for mine that I won’t leak the story. Don’t give me that look, Commandant. I’m a politician; if my promise wasn’t good, nobody would ever deal.”

  I could hardly hear myself speak. “All right.”

  “It’s arranged, then?” He knew better than to offer his hand.

  “Yes.” Soon, Annie. The moment I reached groundside, I would resign. Then Wyvern would have no reason to destroy my wife. I doubted he’d do it out of spite; he was too clever a politician to waste his power. I felt a strange relief, now that my course was decided.

  I’d been concerned it would be a slight on the Navy to resign so soon after I’d been appointed Commandant. Now, if I stayed, I’d be nothing but a liability. I’ll come home, love. At long last.

  Almost light-headed, I headed for the bar seeking refreshment, anything that would remove the taste of our conversation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, your attention, please.” A lieutenant in crisp whites at the hatch, his every word recorded by two mediamen with holocameras. The cabin quieted. “On behalf of Captain Pritcher, we welcome you to U.N.S. Wellington. The commissioning will take place on the bridge, but first we invite you to observe several Naval exercises.”

  He paused. “The first will be a Battle Stations drill. You may observe from the engine room or from Level 1, near the bridge. The crew has not been told the order or timing of these maneuvers.”

  I corraled my cadets, shepherded them with the other guests to the ladder. Robert Boland’s expression was strained. I leaned close, caught the acrid whiff of vomit. “Are you all right, boy?” The last thing we needed was for him to make a spectacle of himself.

  He grimaced. “Yes, sir, I think that was the last of it. I’m sorry for the trouble. I’ll take the pills next time.” He looked away.

  I said gruffly, “It’s all right, boy. I’ve been sick too.”

  He hesitated. “Do I get demerits, sir?”

  “One, for even asking.” The boy should know better, and if he didn’t—

  We climbed the ladder, filed along the Level 1 corridor behind the Deputy SecGen. I cleared my throat. “Canceled, Mr. Boland. But mind your manners.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Alarms shrieked. “Battle Stations!” Captain Pritcher, on ship’s speakers. “All hands to Battle Stations!” I blanched, even knowing it was just the anticipated drill. Mediamen aimed their holocameras at midshipmen sprinting to their assigned posts at gunnery, in the comm room, on the bridge. Scant seconds later the first ratings raced up the ladder to the laser control compartment.

  A middy dived through the bridge hatchway seconds before the hatch slammed shut. Wellington’s bridge was now an impenetrable fortress. Captain Pritcher silenced the alarms, put his caller on shipwide frequency.

  “Aft lock reporting secure, sir!”

  “Engine room secure, sir! Full power available!”

  “Hydroponics secure, sir! Compartment is sealed from ship’s air.”

  Throughout the great warship, emergency hatches slid shut, isolating each section of the vessel for the safety of all. If a sector were penetrated, it alone would decompress.

  “Lasers up and ready, sir!” Now, the ship could fight back.

  “Comm room fully manned.” We could call for help.

  One by one the remaining compartments called in: recycling, damage control, galley, sickbay. When the last confirmation came I stole a surreptitious glance at my watch. Not bad, for a new crew. And response times would improve as she settled in to duty, if Pritcher was worth his salt.

  “What do you think, Mr. Duhaney?” Deputy SecGen Franjee looked to the Admiral.

  “Very smartly done, sir.” Duhaney sounded confident. “Twenty seconds faster than last week.” Odd; I’d been standing just across from the Admiral and hadn’t seen him check the time.

  A few moments passed, then Captain Pritcher’s dry voice. “All hands stand down, except laser control.” He cleared his throat. “Our next demonstration will take place in the laser control compartment on Level 1.”

  Dutifully, we crowded into the laser room. It bristled with consoles and screens. Two rows of alert ratings, uniforms gleaming, waited at their places. An officer stepped forward. “Good afternoon, Mr. Franjee and other distinguished guests. We’re about to conduct a laser firing drill, held regularly on any ship of the line. Today we will fire at real, not simulated, targets. They’ll be released by ship’s officers from our two launches.”

  Perhaps the boats would be manned by middies, overjoyed at the rare opportunity to command. Or perhaps, with the brass watching, Captain Pritcher had put more seasoned lieutenants in charge.

  The officer keyed his caller. “Laser compartment to bridge. Ready, sir.”

  “Very well, lasers are activated.” A green light flashed at the laser console; the Captain had released the safeties that normally prohibited ship’s lasers from firing. “Mr. Johanski, Sanders, begin, please!”

  I peered over the tech’s shoulder. Live fire drills were a nuisance to set up, and the vessels releasing targets always risked a laser tech misreading them for a target in the heat of competition. On the other hand, a real hit was more satisfying to the gunner than a simulated one, thereby raising his learning curve.

  The first target accelerated toward Wellington. The tech in front of me dialed up his magnification, graphed the trajectory on his trackball.

  With only two launchers releasing targets, the crews knew there would be only two points of origin, and therefore the approximate trajectories. That meant—

  “Commence fire!”

  All was still except for the sporadic slap of hands on the fire pads. Because of the watching brass the techs were unusually restrained. No muttered curses, cries of satisfaction, calls of encouragement, broke the silence.

  From time to time an alarm blared as a missile cleared the ship’s defenses. The puter’s impersonal voice announced simulated damage. “Penetration amidships, Level 2! Hull damage to hold, port side!”

  The incoming salvos became more ragged, degenerating into sporadic individual fire, much harder for Wellington’s defenders to track. I nodded my approval; Captain Pritcher had made it a fair test. Many Captains would have set up an easy drill with the Admiral and the media watching. But the exercise simulated missile and laser fire, not attacks by the fish that were our most likely enemy.

  “Port bow lasers destroyed!” An unlucky hit. The port bow laser console went black as the ship’s puter disabled it.

  “Two are on me, Charlie, get the son of a bitch!”

  The gunnery officer hurried across the aisle to stand behind the anxious young tech. I grinned. This was more like it. Laser fire was a cooperative effort; two consoles working together could get a crossfire on an incoming, and take it out while protecting each other’s flanks. It was tense work, and the tech’s cry for help was artlessly natural. Had I been his gunnie, though, I’d have stood back. A lieutenant staring over his shoulder would only make the sailor more nervous.

  The perspiring tech’s fingers danced across his console. The electronic circuitry under his hands was of awesome complexity, yet all boiled down to human, not putronic intelligence.

  Puters were intelligent, puters were faster, but only a human could make a good decision on insufficient data while a possibly lethal object streaked across his screen. We could program puters to recognize any known threat, but what about the unknown? What would Darla, Hibernia’s puter, have made of the fish that emerged from behind the derelict Telstar? Would Hibernia have survived to make her way home with the news?

  Speed wasn’t everything.

  Judgment was.

  Five bells chimed; the lights dimmed momentarily and brightened. The tech I was watching slapped his firing button on a target in the crosshairs, let out his breath in a long sigh of satisfaction.
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  “All consoles cease fire!” The gunnery lieutenant turned to the politicians and officers crowded in the laser compartment. “In the exercise you just witnessed, the intensity of incoming fire approximated a full fleet engagement. Wellington took only eleven hits, while destroying two hundred twelve incoming missiles.” A patter of applause interrupted his speech.

  As the visitors filed out of the cabin I focused on the silent consoles. Simulated or no, it was the last time I would see a ship under fire.

  Secretary Franjee beamed. “What do you think, Commandant? You’ve seen more action than most.”

  Caught off guard, I stammered some meaningless words of praise. The Secretary stepped into the corridor. I hesitated at the hatch, stole one more look at the techs and their consoles. True, there’d been over two hundred incoming. But eleven hits would have crippled Wellington, perhaps destroyed her.

  Though I wouldn’t tell the SecGen, our transpop crewmen on Challenger had performed better, after our endless simulation drills. Captain Pritcher’s dry voice echoed in the speakers. “The final exercise will take place in the engine room.” Senator Boland sighed, grinned ruefully at Franjee. Captain Pritcher had the dignitaries trooping about from stern to aft. I beckoned to my waiting cadets.

  We followed the others down to Level 2, waited for the civilians to proceed.

  Alarms shrieked. “General Quarters! All hands to General Quarters!”

  Once again, the thud of running feet. We pressed to the side of the ladder; a rating grinned as he hurtled past, two steps at a time. General Quarters was but one stage of readiness below Battle Stations; emergency hatches remained open and the Captain didn’t release the laser safeties, but all crewmen dashed to their duty stations forthwith, and remained there for the duration.

  “Just part of the program,” Admiral Duhaney told the Deputy SecGen. His tone was reassuring.

  “How can you know?” demanded Senator Wyvern. A good question. A General Quarters drill was no different from the real thing. The call must be instantly obeyed; only the Captain knew why he sounded the signal.

  “I’ll check, if you’d like.” Duhaney was eager to pacify his constituents. “If it isn’t a drill, I’ll have Pritcher announce it on the caller immediately. You gentlemen go on down to Level 3.” He trotted back up the ladder like an obliging middy.

  He couldn’t have reached the bridge before the speaker came to life. “All hands stand down!” Wyvern sighed, muttered under his breath. I grinned maliciously; maybe Pritcher would give the Senator a heart attack. We reached Level 3, trudged past the recycling chambers to the engine room.

  “FIRE IN THE RECYCLERS! ALL HANDS TO FIRE STATIONS!” The Captain’s tone was taut. “Break out Level 3 hoses!”

  I shoved Kyle Drew out of the way as fire crews raced past, their faces grim. Corridor hatches slid shut, isolating the endangered section. A whir and a click indicated the overhead air vents had closed, isolating each section to its own air. Automatically I scanned the bulkheads for canned air storage bins.

  Senator Boland nudged me in the ribs. “Isn’t Pritcher overdoing it a bit?”

  My voice was tense. “If it’s a drill.” A mediaman shouldered me aside for a better shot of a crewman dragging the bulkhead hose along the corridor. Adam Tenere sucked in his breath, drew back a fist. I managed to snag his arm. “Easy, boy.”

  “He shoved you, sir!”

  I found Adam’s outrage reassuring. “He needed to film and I was in his way.”

  “But you’re Captain!”

  The hose buckled, sprang to life as Wellington’s puter opened the valves. I patted Adam’s shoulder, smiled. “The contact rules apply to Naval personnel, not groundsiders.”

  “I know, sir.” The middy took a deep breath, forced himself to relax. Then he stepped forward casually, as if to watch the crewmen at work. He planted his back squarely in front of the mediaman’s holocamera.

  I frowned, but held my peace. In a day or so none of this would matter; I’d be home with Annie.

  A middy appeared at the hatch, thumbed the ship’s caller. “Recycling chamber to bridge. No sign of fire, sir.”

  The Captain’s voice was dry. “Very well, stand down.”

  The corridor hatches slid open. Our party of politicians paused to watch the crewmen fold their hoses. One crewman muttered to his mate, “Why don’t he just pipe Abandon Ship and get us outa here?” I pretended not to hear.

  Ten minutes later we gathered in the outer chamber of the engine room for the last exercise.

  The Captain’s dry voice came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, here on the bridge our officers will calculate a Fuse to Vega. We’ll copy the data to your engine-room screens. When calculations are confirmed, we will ready Wellington for Fusion.” He paused. “Those of you with commitments at home will be relieved to know we will not actually complete the Fuse.”

  The politicians laughed dutifully. A trip to Vega would involve a Fuse of months, with only occasional stops for nav checks.

  “Engine Room, prepare to Fuse.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The Chief Engineer’s response was immediate. “Bring Three on-line, reduce all auxiliary output.” Engine-room ratings worked their consoles while sailors below watched the drive for signs of trouble.

  Secretary Franjee broke off a conversation with a man from Holoworld. “What’s happening, Mr. Seafort?”

  I pointed to the console. “Right now the Chief is bringing full power on-line to prepare for Fuse. On the bridge they’re running nav coordinates.”

  The mediaman asked, “How do you know what they’re doing?”

  “For one thing, the calculations show on that screen.” I pointed.

  “Why can’t they run the calculations down here?” the Secretary asked.

  “I suppose they could, sir.” It would save middies hours of dread under the Captain’s stern eye. But calculations were done from the bridge; that was the Navy way. After all, the Pilot’s place was on the bridge and he was responsible for the accuracy of the Fuse.

  Figures flashed across the screen. Two levels above, a midshipman sweated at his console, no doubt aware of the watching brass.

  The puter could run all our calculations faster than any human hand. But the Navy’s first rule was: never trust the machinery. All nav calculations, all safety readouts, were confirmed by the officers on watch. Too many lives were at stake to risk the vagaries of malfunctioning circuits. Even massive built-in redundancy couldn’t protect a ship against glitches in programming, such as we’d found on Hibernia.

  “I have coordinates, ma’am.” In the speaker, the young middy’s voice sounded confident.

  Mr. Franjee checked his watch. “Now what, Mr. Seafort?”

  “He’s passing them to the Pilot. They’ll be done in a moment, sir.” I tried to sympathize with the Secretary’s frustration. All he saw was flashing lights, figures that meant nothing. The Captain would have been wiser to eliminate this drill.

  “Pilot?” The Captain’s dry tone.

  “Confirmed to four decimal places, sir.”

  “Very well. Harlan?”

  The puter. “A match to five decimal places, Captain.”

  “Very well.”

  I said, “Now, they’ll feed the coor—”

  The figures flashed onto our consoles. Captain Pritcher rasped, “All hands, prepare to Fuse!”

  “It’s just a simulated Fuse, so they won’t actually—”

  The Chief Engineer roared, “Prepare for Fuse!” He punched in a code on his console. A green light flashed, indicating the Fusion safeties were disabled. He entered Fusion codes.

  I pictured the actions on Wellington’s unseen bridge. The Captain would check the coordinates one final time. His hand would hover over the screen. Then, were we actually to Fuse, his. hand would trace a line down his screen to the BEGIN FUSE position.

  A bell chimed. “Engine room, Fuse!”

  Secretary Franjee looked alarmed. “I thought you said
they wouldn’t—”

  As the Chief slapped the go-pad, machinery hummed and the lights dimmed slightly. “Engine room to bridge. Fusion drive is ignited!”

  “It’s just a simulation, sir. Though a very realistic one.”

  N-waves danced on the small screen, next to lines showing expected output. Techs at the nearby consoles struggled to match the two lines exactly. Such simulations were used routinely in training.

  “Stations, report!”

  “N-wave generation within parameters!”

  “Main turbine, no overheat.”

  “Pumping, normal and no overheat.”

  Mr. Franjee shifted from foot to foot. “All very well, but how long does it go on?”

  “I’m sure they’ll stop in a moment.”

  “Temperature beginning to climb, Chief.”

  “What’s your wave at?”

  “Fifty-five percent.”

  “Get me a match at sixty.”

  The Secretary looked mystified. I said quietly, “He’s matching output to intended coordinates. The simulation’s set at sixty percent generation, that is, sixty percent of the N-wave strength necessary to Fuse.”

  The Chief’s eyes never left his console. “That’s correct, sir, except that it’s not a simulation. We’re generating real waves.”

  I staggered as if struck. “You’re what?”

  “All today’s exercises are real, no simulations. We’re holding the wave output down to sixty percent. Don’t worry, if we overheat I can shut—”

  “Real waves?”

  The Secretary cleared his throat. “Captain Seafort, what does—”

  I waved him silent. “Chief, disengage your engines, flank! You’re caterwauling!”

  “Sorry, I have no idea what that means.”

  “Broadcasting N-waves. You’ll attract fish!”

  His tone was soothing. “It’s only for a few minutes, sir. Ships Fuse all the time, I’m sure it won’t—”

  “Give me your caller!”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, I can’t just now. We’re engaged.”

  Senator Wyvern watched with amusement. “Problems, Seafort?”

  “Yes, I—” No point in explaining, especially to him.