Marshall shot a nervous glance at Chief Garver. “We keep the two ASAT interceptors already in their tubes and offload the rest,” he said. “We strip the magazines for the point-defense guns down by half. We can remove the small-arms locker but their mass ends up being so far inside the margin of error, Chief Garver convinced me it wasn’t worth the hassle.”
Poole nodded. “He’s right. It’s not. The fuel farm has racks for the big stuff so we can park it all in orbit until we get back. Side arms and carbines have to be signed for individually, packed away in a locked container, sent back to Earth on the shuttle, and secured in the armory at Vandenberg. Biggest pain in the ass over absolutely nothing . . .” he trailed off. They were meant for potential survival or escape situations in the event of an emergency return to Earth, which now was beside the point. “So yeah, those stay aboard. Never know when we might run into space pirates,” he deadpanned.
“We didn’t think you’d want to head out completely unarmed, sir.” Marshall drew his fingers across the plotting board, zooming out to their destination. “We’re concerned about uncatalogued NEOs in the vicinity, and as fast as we’ll be going—”
“If we detect one in our path, our only choice will be to blast it,” Poole agreed. “Instead of flying headlong into one big rock, we fly into a bunch of little rocks.”
“Our recommended tactical plan is to keep one of the ASATs hot at all times,” Marshall said, “with a continuous radar and lidar sweep along our vector. If we detect a collision threat, we destroy it with one of the interceptors and clean up any remains with the PDCs.”
“Creating even more little rocks,” the XO noted dryly. “We’d be trading one big hit for hundreds of little hits.” He turned to Poole.
Poole rubbed the bridge of his nose as he studied the images of asteroid RQ39. Could there be more like it nearby which just hadn’t been spotted yet? Hitting even a small one at over forty thousand kilometers an hour would be disastrous. “If it comes to that, it’ll be good gunnery practice.”
“That it will, sir,” Garver said with a grin.
Poole drew a breath. “Very well. Half magazines on the PDCs,” he said, “if you can make up the mass budget elsewhere.”
As Garver adjusted the mass estimate, it began to reach the threshold they needed. “That puts our C3 just over forty-six kps. It gets us there and back, sir, just barely.”
Poole frowned. “Yeah, I don’t like these margins. What else can you give me?”
Marshall searched his mind. He wasn’t sure how to answer that. What else could they possibly lose and still remain effective? “Maybe one or two more crewmembers, sir, but that only saves about three hundred kilos each. Offload one more ASAT, maybe strip one more belt of point-defense ammo . . .”
“Unacceptable,” Wicklund said. “We can’t break orbit with that thin of a loadout. The inertia reels feeding the cannons become unreliable if there’s not enough mass behind them to counterbalance. Even an empty belt on the other side is better than nothing.”
“Aye, sir,” was all Marshall could say, and made a mental note of it—one more example of exactly how much he still had to learn about this ship.
Poole swiped at the plotting board, his eyes following their elliptical orbit to intercept Prospector. “Where’s the Moon in this scenario?”
“Sir?”
“You raced gliders cross-country, right?” It was a subtle reminder to the others that young Ensign Hunter wasn’t exactly an unknown quantity to the CO. “You learned a lot about where to look for lift, I’ll bet.”
“Yes sir,” Marshall said warily, wondering where Poole was going with this. “Sometimes you have to be creative to get where you’re going.” It was better to ride a column of warm air as high as possible before getting in a hurry to cover distance with unknown sources of lift.
Poole tapped the plot of their orbit and began dragging it in a different direction. “And a sailboat captain learns how to read the seas and tack into the wind, so he can get where he’s going even if the wind’s against him. We both use the environment to our advantage. If there’s a gravity well anywhere on our way out, we can exploit that. And we’ve got two right here.” He tapped on the Earth and the Moon.
“You mean a slingshot—er, gravity assist, sir?”
The XO corrected him. “He means an Oberth maneuver. Similar, but different.”
Poole arched an eyebrow in Marshall’s direction. “Your old man showed me what a good spacecraft driver does a long time ago, Mr. Hunter. Took us around the Moon hell-for-leather, he did. By the time we reached periapsis he had me closing my eyes and hoping we didn’t scrape lunar dirt.”
He did? “Begging your pardon, sir. I knew you were with him at the Gateway incident.” Marshall swallowed. “He just never shared any of the details.” He grew quiet. He didn’t notice the looks Poole exchanged with the XO and chief, patting the air with his hand to dissuade their concern.
Poole laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Maybe later, when we’re back on the beach.” He looked up at the XO and chief. “It’s a hell of a story, gents.” He decided it was time to take the pressure off their newest officer. “Good work, Mr. Hunter. Not perfect, but a good start.” He pointed at the plotting board. “The trick with a gravity assist is the gravity part. The deeper the well, the bigger the multiple. And the closer you can get to the bottom of that well, the greater your mass effect.”
Their path was an ellipse beginning at Earth and curving tightly around RQ39, with arrows at numerous points along the way to mark critical events. “Sometimes when nature doesn’t cooperate, the fastest route to your destination is to start in the wrong direction.” He pulled the ellipse out toward the Moon, then back to Earth. “We climb up the well to the edge of Earth’s Hill sphere, then let ourselves fall back. We’re picking up velocity on the way down. We do a gravity-assist burn at the bottom and whip around Earth’s backside, outbound to RQ39.” The path from there grew straighter, reflecting their increased speed. “The other thing we can do is burn one hydrogen tank at a time instead of drawing from all three equally.”
The XO leaned in. “I think I see where you’re going, sir. Punching empty tanks will create some trim problems.”
Poole waved it away. “Nothing we can’t handle. You guys are smart enough, I think.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m not following,” Marshall said.
Poole explained. “We have too much mass to move quickly without having to expend just as much energy when we arrive. The lighter we are, the less we have to expend. So we’re going to burn the outboard tanks first and jettison them when they’re empty.”
“The bean counters will scream bloody murder,” the XO warned. “That’s a heavy-lift launcher to replace each tank.”
“Good thing Logistics isn’t running this op,” Poole said. “If we don’t reach Prospector before the first critical event, Ops will be pissed. Either way, some staff officer’s going to be pissed which means we’re doing something right.” Poole eyed the chief. “Garver, just make sure we don’t do anything stupid like bomb rural Nebraska with an empty hydrogen tank.”
“I’m from North Platte, sir. It’s all rural,” the chief reminded him. “I’ll make sure we time it just right, Skipper.”
Poole adjusted for their new mass estimate, which now landed squarely within their energy budget. “We’ll drop the other outboard tank after our braking burn.” They had too much mass to move so quickly without needing to expend just as much energy when they arrived on station—they wouldn’t be doing the Jiangs any good if they shot past without slowing down enough to match orbits. “Not like we can tie a life preserver to a line and throw it out there.”
“Would that it was true, sir,” Garver said.
“And since tractor beams don’t exist yet . . .” Poole mused, cheerful and satisfied that the pieces had come together. “Very well, gentlemen. This is a solid plan.” He turned to Wicklund and Garver. “XO, put it into action.
Give me sitreps every four hours. Chief, I’m assuming you already have a roster for me?”
“Affirmative, sir,” he said, and swiped at his tablet to send the crew manifest to Poole’s.
He studied it silently, his face a mask of impartiality. The CO was not giving up any clues as to whether the chief’s recommendations made him feel anything. After a minute of contemplation, he looked up at them. “I’d only change one thing: take your own name off the cut list. You’re going, Chief.”
Before Garver could offer an alternative, Poole cut him off. “Spare me any bromides about avoiding the appearance of self-dealing. The only swinging Richard with more time on this tub than you, is me.” He stabbed at the tablet. “If we’re drawing down crew by half, then the remaining half had better be locked on.”
That led him to Marshall. “I’m sorry, son. That means you’re on the cut list.”
15
Knowing he was the newest crewman aboard, officer or not, did not make being cut from the mission any easier. Marshall’s fellow officers and the spacers under him were consumed with preparing for their ship’s first voyage beyond Earth’s influence and a first-of-its-kind rescue. It was analogous to the Coast Guard having only one cutter at sea, always within a day or two from shore, and suddenly sending it clear out to answer a mayday call in the middle of the North Atlantic with no resupply or refueling. Everything they needed to get there and back would have to be brought with them.
He understood it, yet the disappointment still stung. In addition to packing up his own gear to take with him, he’d been made responsible for offloading all the other nonessential gear. After only a couple of weeks aboard, he was working himself out of a job.
It was only temporary, he kept assuring himself. Probably. “Needs of the service” were constantly changing. In the end, they could send him wherever they needed and there were any number of officers who would jump at the chance to replace him.
He and the five others going Earthside with him would be assigned temporary duty probably doing something menial, as they wouldn’t be around long enough to become useful to anyone. Yet he’d be expected to do his best at whatever he was assigned. It would be a balancing act of doing just enough to not get noticed, either good or ill. Do too good of a job and whoever was in charge down there just might want to keep him around. Screw up and they’d keep him from coming back out of spite.
He wondered how long he’d been staring into space like a moron when the XO appeared in his doorway. “Away Team meeting in twenty minutes, P-1 module. Bring your latest manifest and mass estimates. We’ve still got to find three hundred kilos to trim.”
“Is that exact, sir?” he asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t.
“You’ve been here long enough to know that I don’t speak in round numbers unless they’re actual round numbers, Mister Hunter.”
“Aye, sir.” Marshall made a note on his tablet to find precisely three hundred kilos their shipmates could live without.
Wicklund remained hovering in Marshall’s doorway. “You’re pissed.”
“Sir?”
The XO had been unsparing in his critiques before, as he was in apparently every other regard. “No need to try and hide it. Skipper’s taking our ship out on its first trip into interplanetary space. Might as well be going to Mars if you ask me. You figured out how to get us there, and now you’re being kicked to the curb.”
Marshall lifted his chin. “I understood that as soon as I realized we needed to cut head count, sir. Captain Poole needs experienced crew.”
“Just doing your job, then?”
“Yes sir. That’s how I see it. Doesn’t mean I have to like the results.”
A grin crept across Wicklund’s face, ending at his eyes. “Sure you do. At least in front of the crew.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t follow.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Wicklund came inside and pulled the privacy curtain behind him. “You’ve been dog-faced ever since leaving that meeting. You feel like the universe has dealt you a bad hand and you’re the guy who shuffled the deck. The proverbial turd rolled downhill and landed on you. Whatever metaphor you prefer, I’m telling you to get over it.”
“I didn’t realize I’d said anything, sir.”
“Did I say you had?” Wicklund leaned in. “It’s all over your face, son. You look like somebody just ran over your favorite puppy with a dump truck. These spacers are smart people, Hunter. They pick up on body language and tics like you wouldn’t believe.”
He was right: Marshall didn’t believe it. How could people so constantly busy even want to take the time to read him? What did they even care if he was about to be sent back down the well anyway?
“You grabbed a fiercely competitive billet and now that you’re leaving, you think the knives are coming out for you.”
Marshall looked up to meet his eyes. “Someone is bound to try and take advantage of the situation, sir.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t forget, the skipper has final say in who comes aboard his ship. How do you think you got here?”
At last, there it was. He felt his face flush with heat. “I listed this ship as my first preference for duty, sir, just like everyone else in my class. None of us thought we’d get it. I didn’t ask for any favors and I didn’t pull any strings.” He laughed at himself. “I don’t have any strings to pull. My family’s not military.”
Wicklund’s cold eyes pierced him. “Sure you do. Maybe not blood, but they might as well be. You don’t go through what your old man went through with the skipper without having ties that can’t be broken. Signing your name to that request was pulling a string whether you think so or not. And you’d already strong-armed our check pilot into passing you.”
Now the anger boiled up. “Just one minute, sir.” He practically spat the word. “You can’t tell me that was a normal check ride! Wylie was sent to evaluate me for duty here. I get it. But all I knew at the time was some IP I’d never met was about to bust me after setting me up for failure in the first place. I worked my ass off for that flight rating and he was in my way. I didn’t give a damn why.”
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”
“And you’ve been busting them since I arrived. Sir.” Should’ve kept that to myself, he thought.
Another cold smile from the XO. “That’s my job, Mister Hunter. If the captain played hard-ass every time it was needed, crew morale would be shot to hell. That’s what executive officers are for. Haven’t you watched any war movies?”
Marshall struggled with the question before finally spitting it out. “Why did you bring me aboard, sir?”
Wicklund studied him, considering his words. “You’re a guinea pig.”
Marshall cocked his head. “How?”
“Don’t be dense, son. You’re smarter than that. Right now the Orbit Guard fleet has exactly one ship and it’s treated like a career-pinnacle assignment,” he said. “Which it is. But as they build more, we have to start grooming junior officers for duty up here.” He tapped his chest. “That falls on us to make it happen. Skipper figured it’s better to take that chance with a known quantity than some kid fresh out of the training squadron.”
“I am a kid fresh out of the training squadron,” Marshall reminded him. “Sir.”
“Maybe to the rest of the crew, but not to the skipper. That’s why he had Wylie put you through the ringer. He told us you could hack it, but you had to prove yourself.”
Marshall did a silent double take. A part of him knew that, remembered it from the academy. But being in the middle of the barely controlled bedlam of adjusting to life in orbit, he’d never realized it.
Wicklund’s cool demeanor warmed, if only a little. “It’s my job to push the crew and make them worthy of being here. You did good, Hunter. But I’m telling you there’s always one more step you can take, one more mile to go. We are expected to always do the right thing, particularly when it’s not in our personal interest.
”
“I thought that’s what I did, sir.”
A hoarse laugh. “I’m not talking about you, numbnuts. Have you looked at the manifest lately?”
He hadn’t. Marshall pulled up the cut roster and was shocked at the latest name atop the list. Master Chief Garver’s name had been removed, and replaced with: CDR WICKLUND, JONAH B.
“See you at the meeting. And don’t forget that manifest.”
Moving down the cut roster from its senior (and only) officer meant that a lot of responsibility had just been lifted from his shoulders. He’d convinced himself to embrace the chance to be in charge of a ship’s detachment, even if for temporary duty back on Earth.
The responsibility might be gone, but the work remained. With all the work just delegated to him by Wicklund, he was sure that none of the departure prep had simply been removed from the XO’s purview. Poole would use him to ride herd on the crew right up until the moment they undocked to make their way downhill.
Being the detachment’s junior officer, a twenty-minute warning from the XO meant he actually had ten minutes to make everything ready.
He sailed down the connecting corridor and pulled himself to a stop at the multi-mod hatch. When he floated inside, he found two crewmen sweating over the resistance machines. “Workout’s over, guys. Sorry but the XO needs the space in ten.”
One of the men, who hid an impressive physique beneath his usual coveralls, sent a glob of moisture flying from his shaved head when he looked up. “We know, sir. We’re on the roster.”
Marshall’s eyes widened and he checked the roster again. Powers and Jefferson—of course they were. “Sorry fellas. I’ve got too much stuff competing for space in my brain.”
“No need to keep apologizing, sir.”
“Sorry, didn’t know I—”
They both laughed. “There you go again, sir.” Each moved to dry themselves off and stow the workout machines. “No worries, we’ll help you set up. We were already down here when we got the notice.”
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