For Honor We Stand (25 page)

4.  DEUTERIUM TANKER USS PATTILLO HIGGINS, TXA 1912, WILL BE AVAILABLE AT RENDEZVOUS POINT TO REFUEL YOUR VESSEL.  ACCORDINGLY, CONSERVATION OF FUEL EN ROUTE TO RENDEZVOUS NOT A FACTOR. 

5.  N2 EXPECTS KRAG ATTACK ON THIS FRIGDESGRU IN ATTEMPT TO PREVENT DOLAND FROM REACHING DESTINATION.  ADDITION OF YOUR VESSEL TO THIS GROUP NECESSARY TO INCREASE STRENGTH OF ESCORT TO MEET PROBABLE ATTACK.

6.  AS YOU WILL SEE FROM REVIEW OF HIS BIOSUM, DUFLOT IS NOT FAMILIAR WITH CONDITIONS THIS AREA.  I EXPECT YOU TO PROVIDE THIS EXPERTISE WITHOUT CHALLENGING HIS AUTHORITY.  IT IS CALLED BEING DIPLOMATIC, ROBICHAUX--A HANDY SKILL THAT IT IS ABOUT TIME YOU LEARN.

7.  GO TO THE RENDEZVOUS.  GO DIRECTLY TO THE RENDEZVOUS.  DO NOT PASS ‘GO’ AND DO NOT DETOUR FOR ANY OF YOUR ‘ADVENTURES.’   

“These orders came from the Admiral himself,” said DeCosta with awe.  To him Admiral Hornmeyer was more like an Olympian deity than a human being.  “There’s no way some staff drone wrote that.”

“It is
so
reassuring to know that the Admiral takes a personal interest in us,” Brown said with no more than the usual healthy helping of sarcasm. 

“Well, gang, we might as well look at that homework the Admiral just assigned to us,” Max said resignedly.

“Homework?”  The doctor looked perplexed.

“Sure, doctor, homework,” said DeCosta.  “One thing everyone knows about old Hit ‘em Hard is that he never wastes a single word in a signal.  Ever.  Every word means something.  If you think that something is just thrown in as filler or to sound good, you’re not reading it right.  Here, if the Admiral wanted only for us to know that this Duflot guy wasn’t familiar with conditions in the area, he would have just said so and not a word more.”

“But, that’s just what he did.”

“No, it’s not,” said the XO.  “He led in by saying ‘as you will see from review of his Biosum.’  With most Admirals, that might just be an offhand remark meaning that you can confirm his lack of relevant experience by looking him up.”

“But with Vice Admiral Louis G. Hornmeyer,” Max continued, “it’s a subtle but direct order that we do so because there is something in there that he wants us to see.  And we are to do it with
celerity.
”
 
Everyone smiled at the word “celerity.”  Back in January, when Hornmeyer had taken over command of the task force and of operations in the theater, he had issued a series of sharply-worded and highly specific standing orders, which he had directed be carried out “with celerity,” including an order that all future orders be effectuated in that manner.  Before the third week in January of 2315, few men in Task Force Tango Delta even knew what “celerity” meant, the now-tired joke being that most thought it was what one called a famous tridvid star or a crunchy vegetable frequently used in the Core Systems as garnish for a Bloody Mary.  Now, throughout the command,
celerity
had become a watch word that men used in jest almost constantly.  Yet, the constant use of the term also served to impress upon everyone’s mind, and to reinforce regularly, the importance in war of transmitting and following orders quickly, which is probably why the crafty old bastard chose the word in the first place.

Max worked his way through some menus on his work station to get to the right section of the database.  Since, at least in theory, no one else in the room was cleared for this information, Max called it up on the work station display instead of on the wall.  “OK, here we go.”  Just because they weren’t cleared for it didn’t mean he couldn’t share with them what he thought pertinent, right?  “Duflot, Gerard Michel, Commander, USN.  Assignment:  Commanding Officer, USS William Gorgas, registry number blah, blah, blah.  Usual time as Midshipman and Greenie, standard list of assignments as an Ensign and junior officer.  Basic Qualifications in Combat Logistics, Space Warfare, and Escort Vessel Command.”  Long pause.  “Only . . . just those three.  Date of posting:  October 5,
2309
.”   Doctor Sahin immediately felt a heavy cloak of dismay settle over the compartment.

“Why this sudden gloom?  Is 2309 a famously bad year for Commanders in much the same way that 2303 was for wine on Terroir?”

Max laughed, “No, doctor.  It’s not the vintage.  It’s that no one wants to drink the wine.  You see, Duflot has been commanding the same Frigate for six years.  That’s a bad sign.  Think about it.  The Navy has suffered millions of casualties.  Thousands of officers are killed every year, sometimes every month.  And, we have
thirty
shipyards devoted one hundred percent to building warships and another forty or so that have at least some warship production.  They’re churning out ships by the hundreds every year.  The demand for manpower is always critical and competent skippers often go up the chain of command like rockets.  Charles Middleton went from being a Lieutenant Commander skippering a broken down old Picket Destroyer to a Rear Admiral commanding one of the two primary attack groups at the Battle of Mullinex V in just six years.  Until they get to the top of the ladder where there isn’t much elsewhere to go, officers with ability don’t stay in the same command doing the same thing for more than two or two and a half years at most.  If they prove themselves at one level of responsibility, they are left there only long enough to get some seasoning and experience, produce results for a little while, then are moved up to a higher rank, a posting of greater responsibility or—more likely—both.  If I am still commanding the
Cumberland
three years from now, it means that someone has made a decision that I am not worthy of promotion and, more than that, it probably means I’m not very good at the job I’ve got.  It’s one of the most reliable principles in the whole Navy.  I’ve heard it called the Peter Principle:  every officer gets promoted rapidly to his level of incompetence, and there he stays.  I suppose there’s some Admiral Peter back there somewhere who thought it up. 

“Anyway, it gets worse, apparently almost that whole time, this Duflot character has been on convoy duty, part of the escort package attached to those huge convoys that move supplies, personnel, and new ships up to Admiral Middleton’s Primary Staging Area from the Core Systems.  You know, those eighty and ninety ship monstrosities commanded by a Rear Admiral that take three months each way because of how long it takes to run all those ships through each jump?  Years ago, those convoys always got pounced on by Krag Destroyers that would slip through the sensor nets along the frontier—they managed the range with huge drop tanks.  But, eventually, they got enough escort protection on those convoys that it’s become impossible for the Krag to hurt them.  There hasn’t been a serious run at any of those convoys for four years now.  So, not only is Duflot not in the promotion pool, neither he nor his crew has seen any combat in years. 

“On top of that, he doesn’t have a qualification badge in weapons, sensors, tactics, or in multi-vessel command.  I have all those qualifications, all the ones he has, and three others besides, and he is my senior.  Either he doesn’t have the ambition to seek those credentials, or he has sought them and been denied because the brass think the training would be wasted on him.  He lacks the practical experience, too.  I don’t see anything in the summary that indicates that he has ever commanded a multi-ship force before, so he has no practice giving orders to other Captains.  None of that fills me with a rosy glow of confidence.  Of course, you never know.  He might be one of those guys who is completely squared away but just doesn’t get along with one of those convoy Admirals or someone in Norfolk and is getting held back unfairly.  I’ve seen that sort of thing happen before.  It doesn’t happen that much any more, though—the human race doesn’t have the luxury of failing to make the best possible use of good officer material just because someone has a personality conflict.”

“But, skipper, I worked with some guys in tactical on the
Hidalgo
who came out of Frigates and Destroyers on convoy duty, and they seemed like they were on the way up,” the XO said.

“
They
probably were,” replied Max.  “But, you need to remember, XO, all of these men were promoted
out
of escort duty and
in
to duty on a capital ship to get some departmental experience in a big, well worked up Back Room so they could learn how things are done by a really proficient team.  And, once they have that, then they get moved up to somewhere they can get some command training.  Someplace like . . . oh, I don’t know . . . a berth as XO of a Destroyer.”  DeCosta smiled and nodded his understanding.  “But, Duflot isn’t someone who has just come out of a Frigate on escort duty.  He’s still there, right where he has been for six years.  He may surprise me, and I’m going to keep an open mind about him, but this isn’t giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling.  Let’s just hope being stuck in a dead end hasn’t made this guy bitter or cynical or lazy.”

“While that might be a normal psychological reaction to those kinds of circumstances,” the doctor said in that airy tone of voice that he tended to use when he was even more disconnected from reality than usual, “I would think that a naval officer would understand the military necessity of these kinds of decisions and understand his duty to acquiesce in them cheerfully and without negativity for the greater good, not just of the service, but for the very survival of mankind.”

Most of the men in the room tried to suppress snickers at the doctor’s comment but Kraft burst into raucous laughter, a hearty effusion of mirth that filled the room.  Soon everyone in the room, except for Sahin, was laughing uncontrollably.  Initially, Bram scowled with irritation but, after a few seconds, began to smile, recognizing how naïve his statement was.  The Captain was the first to be able to speak.  “Doctor, if you’re surprised that there are men in the Navy who can’t rein in their egos merely because something as trivial as the survival of the human race is at stake, then I am afraid you have a great many rude, hard lessons to learn about life in the fleet.”

“I do suspect that I have many such lessons in my future, Captain.”  He lifted his coffee mug in salute, “But, I cannot imagine a better set of men in whose company to learn them.” 

The other men raised their mugs to return the gesture.

 “Escort duty,” Max said with disgust.  “Been there.  Done that.  Paid for the memory wipe.  I spent the dullest year of my life doing it one month.  Seriously, it’s the dullest duty in Known Space.  I wish we could get a more interesting assignment.”

The doctor looked genuinely horrified.  “Perish the thought,” he said hurriedly.

“What’s wrong with wanting more interesting duty?”

“The problem, Captain, with wishing for more interesting duty, is that—based on the history of your association with this vessel—you are very likely to get your wish.”  He paused.  “And then wish to God that you had not.” 

***

Max interpreted the Admiral’s remark about not conserving fuel as an implicit directive to head for the rendezvous point in a straight line on compression drive at the
Cumberland
’s
maximum safe sustained speed of 1960 c.  The system in which the rendezvous was to take place lay roughly in the direction of the Core Systems, the fifty or so star systems at the heart of the Union that were home to 42% of its population and 67% if its heavy industrial capacity.  Roughly thirty light years separated the
Cumberland
’s
current position in the Rashid system and the rendezvous point, six days’ travel at 1960 c.  A quiet six day high c run would be nice.  Max would see that the crew got in some much-needed training, finished repairing some of the battle damage that the Rashidian shipyard did not get to, and generally tended to the mundane but important business of keeping a warship in fighting trim or, in the case of the
Cumberland
, trying to get it there in all respects after having been so badly, abusively, and incompetently commanded for so long by Max’s predecessor, the thrice damned Commander Allen K. Oscar. 

After getting a bit of sleep, checking on Park and the injured men in the Casualty Station, all of whom were expected to make a full recovery, and grabbing a sandwich (the last two of the “exploding ham” variety), Max followed a nagging hunch by going to Engineering to check how the compression drive was holding up under the stress of a long high c run.  The first place Max went was MECC (pronounced “meck”), the Master Engineering Control Center, a compact compartment equipped with consoles from which all key Engineering systems could be controlled and monitored.  Unless there was a problem, Lieutenant Brown could usually be found here.  Every console was manned, but not by Brown. 

Not a good sign.

If Brown wasn’t in MECC then there was likely a problem, probably with the compression drive.  Max knew:  find the problem and you find Brown.  Accordingly, Max headed for the Compression Drive Equipment Room.  He palmed the scanner, punched in his code, and entered.  Brown was at the Compression Drive Main Control Console with two men assisting him, both on his right.  All three men were frantically busy:  making adjustments, reconfiguring systems, talking to one another apparently to determine what to do next.  Max wasn’t sure exactly what they were doing or why, but he was certain that they should not need to be doing it.  Under normal operation the compression drive unit was supposed to be autonomously regulated, with computer monitoring and adjustment routines that kept it functioning smoothly for hours at a time without a single human control input, except for speed changes commanded by the Drives man in CIC. 

Max hesitated.  On one hand, he needed to know what was happening.  Something was obviously wrong that might require a command decision from the vessel’s skipper.  On the other, the Chief Engineer’s attention seemed to be fully engaged and what he was doing seemed important.  Max didn’t want to force the man to take his mind off of what he was doing.  Fortunately, a timely arrival solved Max’s dilemma.