For Honor We Stand (22 page)

Even with Park’s limited training and experience on board a warship, the situation was absolutely clear to him:  if he didn’t patch the hull breach, everyone in the compartment would die.  In just a few minutes.  Six lives now depended on him:  his own and those of the five men. 

Unbidden, the voice of the now-dead Chief Amborsky, his old Mother Goose, spoke from his memory.  “You never know when some of your shipmates’ lives, maybe all of them, will depend on you.  Maybe never.  Maybe next week.  Maybe this afternoon.  But, when that moment comes, you had better be ready.”

That moment was now.

He had been trained for this:  patch the breach.  He knew how to do that.  Problem.  The breach was near the ceiling, over two and a half meters from the deck and he was less than a meter tall.  He would have to climb.  On what?  He had to be fast.  He was starting to feel the hypoxia.  He knew what it felt like from training in the hypobaric chamber.  He knew to watch for--the euphoria, like being drunk.  He had never been drunk.  Maybe now, he would never be drunk.  How sad.  Think.  Get back on track.

Get going Park.  You don’t have much time.  First, he located the patch kit.  It was where it was supposed to be, in the Emergency Locker for this compartment.  There were six portable oxygen units, each consisting of a mask and a small tank.  He grabbed one and put it on.  It wouldn’t save his life if the air pressure in the compartment got too low but it would buy him a little more time by enriching the thinning air around his nose and mouth with a higher proportion of oxygen molecules.  He’d get an extra minute.  Maybe two.  It might make a difference.  

There were also six emergency pressure suits.  Far too large for him.  He could get into one and it would keep him alive until rescue came, but he was so small and the suits were so large there was no way he could wear one and get the hull breach patched.  He could save his own life, but only by letting five men die.  No.  Park would either save his shipmates, or he would pay for his failure by dying with them. 

Too bad the Navy didn’t make a Space Combat Uniform small enough to fit him.  If he had been in an SCU like the rest of the crew, he could have just reached in the thigh pockets, pulled out his gloves and soft helmet, zipped them on, activated the oxygen generator in one of the breast pockets, and he would be enclosed in a flimsy but serviceable emergency pressure suit that would keep him alive for hours.  He wouldn’t have to worry about passing out from hypoxia while he was trying to keep everyone else from dying.  If he lived through this, there would be a nasty memo.  Maybe not.  His hands were already so cold that, even if he had been wearing an SCU, he probably couldn’t have manipulated the zippers well enough to make them seal.  He was certain he couldn’t get SCU gloves and helmets on five unconscious men in time.

The only way anyone in the compartment was going to live was if he managed to get to the breach and seal it.  First, he shoved a chair under the opening.  Then he started piling on the chair whatever he could find.  Ration boxes from the Emergency Locker, equipment and tool drawers, even two rectangular light fixtures that had been knocked loose by the shock.  It looked like it might be enough. 

He slung the patch kit over his shoulder using the strap it had for that purpose and started to climb.  Already suffering from moderate hypoxia, he grew dizzy from the small exertion and fell to the deck.  He lay on his back for a few moments staring at the ceiling wondering why he was so dizzy and so cold.  The skin under his fingernails was noticeably blue.  There was a name for that.  Cyano-something.  Cyano de Bergerac.  He giggled. 

Then it all came back to him.  He stood up and saw the five men on the deck.  He had only been rotated into this station a few days ago, but these men had been nothing but kindly and fatherly to him.  They had taught him the ropes of the systems in that room, told him interesting stories about Navy life (many of which were wildly improbable), and gave him some sensible advice about how to approach his duties and his training.  They amiably referred to him as “Admiral Park,” smilingly saluting him when he came into the compartment at the beginning of watch.  He always returned the salute, put on a haughty expression, and said, “As you were, gentlemen, despite my high rank, you know I don’t stand on ceremony.” 

He gritted his teeth with fierce determination.  He was not going to let the icy vacuum of space claim their lives.

Not today.

With an effort of will, he stood up and slowly climbed his makeshift ziggurat.  When he reached the top, he was still several centimeters short of the hole.  And he knew he had already piled on every thing that he could move and lift and that could be stacked on the chair with any kind of reasonable stability.  Think.  He opened the patch kit anyway and sorted through the various sized patches.  Some of them were a meter square, and some were only a few millimeters in size.  Then he came up with one the right size for that breach, one about the size of a sheet of paper.  But, he couldn’t get it to the hole. 

Something was nagging at him.  He knew he had the solution in his hand.  It was getting so cold.  Ice was forming on the inside of his oxygen mask.  He had only a minute, maybe two, and that would be it.  When they found his body it would be frozen solid, like a tiny Korean icicle.  No it wouldn’t.  When the DC people got into the compartment he would still be warm and breathing.  He had the solution in his hand.  Yes!  He had the solution in his hand.  Literally. 

He unrolled the largest patch, a patch large enough that its top portion would reach and cover the hole while he held the bottom from the height he could reach.  Park held it flat against the hull by placing his hands to the left and the right of the center.  Then he slid it upward toward the breach.  It was fairly stiff so it held its shape well enough not to flop back down as he edged it further upwards, shifting his hands closer to the bottom of the patch as he inched it higher and higher.  Soon part of the patch was over the breach and started to be held in place by the compartment’s diminishing air pressure.  A few more shoves managed to get the breach completely covered.  The whistling stopped. 

Then, he pulled out the aerosol can of patch sealant and sprayed it over the edges of the patch to hold it in place.  His arm was wobbly and his aim was bad.  He got some of the sealant on his uniform sleeve.  He hoped it didn’t stain.  He so liked looking squared away and shipshape.  Chief Tanaka would make him run an extra mile on the treadmill for having a soiled uniform.  He hated that treadmill.  Park tumbled to the deck, the impact of his tiny body barely making a sound in the thin air.  He couldn’t remember how to get back up.  The compartment seemed to be getting dark again.  And cold.  So cold.  He needed to go to sleep.  Just as he closed his eyes, he heard the whistling of air rushing into the compartment.

***

“Why are they not firing their cannon?”

“Because, doctor, they fired missiles and they don’t want to interfere with them.”  Max kept himself from shaking his head.  Sometimes talking with the doctor was like talking to one of the Great Minds of the Age and sometimes it was like talking to the newest hatch hanger.  “You use only one weapons system at a time to keep one from damaging or disrupting the other.  It’s called the fratricide effect.  But, now that the missiles have run their course and the Krag can’t generate a new firing solution for them, I’m certain they will resume firing their pulse cannon any moment now.  They just need their optical scanners to recover from the flash of that nuclear explosion so that they can aim accurately.  Speaking of which, Mister Levy, can we modify our pulse cannon to increase our range the way the Krag did theirs?” 

“Affirmative, skipper.  In fact, I put Pavelka and Healy on it a few minutes ago and they tell me that the software modifications should be ready to be loaded in a minute or so from now.  It’s a simple matter of reducing the plasma volume and changing the timer on the field generator.  Of course, it really cuts into the weapon’s explosive yield, which is why we don’t do this all the time.  I wasn’t going to implement it without your approval, sir, but I didn’t see the need to bother you with getting a few men started on working the problem.”

“Levy, I might just have to put you in for a citation.  I’d put you in for a promotion, too, but we have a rule in the Destroyer service that you can’t be made Lieutenant until you’re old enough to shave.”  Max smiled at the very young officer.  “Good job, Levy.  Tell me when it’s ready.  Maneuvering, I’m not in a mood to be shot at any more.  Let’s open up the range to . . . .”  He looked at Levy.

“Twelve thousand kills, sir.”

“You heard the man.  Twelve thousand.”

“Aye, sir.”  LeBlanc’s relief was distinctly audible. 

About a minute and a half passed.  “We’re ready, sir,” said Levy.

“Resume firing.”  From a greater range, the even weaker pulse cannon bolts from the Stinger flew toward the Krag, posing even less of a threat, but accomplishing exactly what Max set out to accomplish. 

He looked at the tactical display, at which he had been glancing every thirty seconds or so, and at the large CIC chrono.  “Now, it’s about time for a little payback.  Mr. Levy, Mr. Sauvé, have we confirmed the computer’s sequencing and timing of the next act of this drama?”

“Aye, sir,” they replied in unison, and then looked at each other.  Levy, being slightly junior to Sauvé, made a subtle “go ahead” gesture.

“Countermeasures timing is in place, sir.  I’ve consulted with Mr. Bhattacharyya who informs me that Krag reaction time on average is a bit faster than ours.  Intelligence has subjected this problem to intense study based on combat data over the course of the war, and has concluded that mean time from the appearance of an unexpected situation, counting sensor detection, recognition and comprehension, issuance of the appropriate order, execution of the order, and physical response of the ship’s systems to that order, is thirteen point four seconds, with a standard deviation of two point one seconds.  So, we plan to give Mr. Krag a ten second look.  That should allow ample time for him to see and understand what’s about to happen to him while not being long enough for even the most adept Krag crew or a particularly speedy and decisive Krag Captain to do anything about it.”

“Outstanding.”

“Mr. Levy?”

“We have been continually cross-decking our sensor readings and position data on the Krag vessels to our friends.  Comms confirms receipt of the data and that the Rashidians have been putting out the Welcome mat and turning down the sheets in the spare bedroom for our guests.  We’ve confirmed a clear corridor for our own exit vector three ways—digital file transfer, voice, and text.  Mr. LeBlanc has it.  We’ve got an egg scrambler loaded in the number three missile tube.  Launch is set to go—synchronized with Mr. Sauvé’s play.  When Mr. Krag sees what’s going on, he won’t be able to tell a soul.”  The egg scrambler was a Talon missile modified to carry a metaspacial disruptor pulse warhead, the detonation of which prevented FTL communications and operation of a compression drive within a radius of about 4 AU for roughly two hours. 

“Outstanding.”

“Mister LeBlanc.  You ready to walk that tightrope?  One false step and we’re going to be
cochon de lait.”
  Max and Mr. LeBlanc were both born on planet Nouvelle Acadiana, a world settled mostly by Louisiana Cajuns, for whom a suckling pig communally roasted over a pit of hot coals, known as a
cochon de lait
, is a delicacy.

“
Mais oui, mon capitain
,” he responded.

“
Ca c’est bon
.  Mr. Chin, are our friends ready?”

“Affirmative, sir.  They signal ready.”  Pause.  “I have a signal from Admiral Jassir.”

“Read it.”

“I’m not sure I understand it all, sir.  It says, ‘Thank you, Captain, for conceiving this inspired course of action.  I look forward to drawing swords with you again.’  Now, here’s the part I don’t understand.  Next it says, ‘Al-Baqarah two,’ then there’s a colon, then ‘eighty-two.’” 

Sahin and the Minister looked at each other.  The doctor gave the Minister a short, deferential nod.

“It is a citation to the Holy Quran,” Wortham-Biggs said, reverently. 

“What does it mean?  I can’t even spell it well enough to look it up.” 

“Captain, although it is preferable that the Quran be read and recited only in the original Arabic, I think that providing a translation would be acceptable under the current unusual, non-theological circumstances.  The doctor here is far more the linguistic scholar than I, but I believe an approximation in Standard would be, ‘whoever does evil and surrounds himself with sin, those are the inmates of the fire, and there they shall abide forever.’”

A sharp nod from Max.  “Doctor, do you people say ‘Amen?’”

“Almost.  It is a Hebrew word.  Hebrew and Arabic are closely related, both being Semitic languages.  The word in Arabic is ‘amin.’”

“Outstanding.  Mr. Chin, send ‘amin’ in reply. . . . Belay that.  Just a second.”  He turned to his console, pulled up a reference menu, and quickly typed a query.  “OK.  Chin, send ‘Amin’ and then ‘Psalm 106, verse 18.’”

“Aye, sir.”  He prepared the message and transmitted it.

Max sat up straighter and squared his shoulders.  “Mister Chin,” said Max, “One MC.”

“Aye, sir, One MC.” 

Chin flipped two switches.  Max saw the light come on.  Every man on board would hear him.  Deep breath.  You’re on.  “Men, this is the skipper.  My counter shows we’re just over a minute from execution.  The Krag have rattled us around a bit, but they haven’t put us out of action.  We’ll still run this according to plan.  I have complete and absolute confidence in your abilities, and in each of you.  Stay focused, stay alert, and we’ll make this a day to remember.  What we are about to do together will be something you can look back on with pride every day for the rest of your life.  When your children and your grandchildren sit at your feet and ask about your time in the Navy during the Great Krag War, I want you to look them square in the eye and tell them with everlasting pride what you and your shipmates of the USS
Cumberland
did at the Battle of Rashid V B on March 20, 2315.  I guarantee, you will forever be a hero to them, as you have been heroes in my eyes from the day we met.  Now, let’s get the job done.”