For Honor We Stand (44 page)

Max shrugged.  The comm buzzed.  “Skipper.”

“Skipper, this is Marconi on comms.”  Chin had gone off watch.  Marconi was the number two man in that department, an eager and conscientious Recruit Spacer 1
^st
who in a few weeks was likely to be minted as an Ensign, the
Cumberland’s
first
“home grown nugget” since Max assumed command.  He had chosen to specialize in Communications, notwithstanding that any “Marconi” in the Communications Section was going to be ribbed mercilessly for the rest of his career and, most likely, well into retirement.  “We just got a signal by lights from the
Broadsword
.  It’s for you and the doctor from Captain Kim.  It’s in your box.”

“Thank you, Marconi.  Skipper out.”  Max got up from the table, walked over to his work station, accessed the message, and put it up on the display wall.

It read:  “BE ADVISED THAT WHILE VISITING THIS VESSEL ENVOY SUFFERED OPEN MULTIPLE FRACTURE OF TIBIA AND FIBULA REQUIRING SURGICAL IMMOBILIZATION STOP HE WANTED TO SHOW THAT HE COULD STILL SLIDE DOWN ACCESS LADDER QUOTE JUST LIKE A MID UNQUOTE STOP ON ORDERS OF DOCTOR SINGH AND WITH CONCURRENCE OF CMO ON PENNANT ENVOY IS NOT TO BE MOVED AND WILL REMAIN ON THIS VESSEL FOR REMAINDER OF PASSAGE STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

“I suppose that this is part of your little scheme, right?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.  I’m certain that Captain Kim would never make a false communication of that sort.”

“Of course.  But why, would you and Kim do such a thing?”

The comm buzzed.  It was Marconi again notifying Max of another signal by lights, this one from the pennant.  Max displayed it as he had the other.  “AS ENVOY IS ABOARD BROADSWORD THAT VESSEL IS DESIGNATED PIGEON AND PENNANT WILL ASSUME THE LEAD IN FORMATION TO BE ASSUMED AFTER JUMP STOP ALL OTHER ORDERS UNCHANGED STOP DUFLOT SENDS STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

The doctor smiled knowingly.  “Aha.  It now becomes clearer.  You wanted to get the Envoy on the
Broadsword
and get her put in the middle of the formation.  Again, I do not understand the reasons, and I know better than to ask you about them because you will only deny that anything is afoot or, if you admit that you are up to something, you won’t tell me either to keep me out of trouble or to heighten the suspense.  One day you will learn that I do not care to be kept out of trouble and that I do care very much about avoiding suspense, but our friendship is not yet sufficiently mature for you to have derived those lessons.”

“Maybe, I will.  Or maybe, I enjoy hearing your theories and speculation too much to replace them with specific information.  In any event, we’re jumping in a few minutes and I want to be in CIC for some things I plan to do immediately thereafter.  Feel free to join me.  My steward has told me that there will be Wortham-Biggs Four Planet Coffee in CIC for the next few hours.”

“That’s all the incentive I need.  I’ll meet you there.”

Chapter
11

10:02Z Hours, 26 March 2315

“Initiating standard acceleration profile.”  Chief LeBlanc was not entirely successful in eliminating from his voice all signs of his disapproval of the idea of following a standard acceleration profile under the current circumstances.  The
Cumberland
had just jumped into the Kalkaz system after the pennant ship and the
Broadsword
.  The other two ships had begun their acceleration through the system along the mathematically perfect arc prescribed by Commander Duflot’s orders and the
Cumberland
fell into its place at the end of the line ahead formation, exactly 250 kilometers behind
Broadsword
, its sensors nearly blinded by proximity to the other ship’s drive emissions even if “behind” meant offset just enough so that the ship was not actually swimming in the gases emitted from the other Destroyer. 

“Sensor efficiency down across the board,” noted Kasparov. 

“Well, we know what to do about that, now, don’t we,” said Max.  “Deploy the towed array.  Let’s start off with a hundred kilometers.” 

“Deploy the towed array, aye, 100 kills.”  Kasparov activated the sequence and one of his displays that had been showing an overly noisy output from an EM detector switched over a screen entitled “TOWED ARRAY STATUS” and immediately began to show a grid of numbers.

After a few minutes of pulling up various displays on his console with increasing frustration, Doctor Sahin, who had wandered into CIC with Clouseau at his heels, leaned over toward Max and said confidentially, “Max, I took your advice and was doing some reading on this ship’s systems and I distinctly remember reading something to the effect that the
Khyber
class vessels are equipped with the stowage spool and the deployment arm for the towed array as contingency equipage but are not provided with the array itself or the dedicated processor for interpreting the towed array’s output because a ship with a deployed array gives up a great deal of maneuverability which is one of the class’s assets.   Did I read that incorrectly?”

“No, you got it right,” Max said blandly.

“What am I missing, then?”

“Towed array deployed to 100 kills,” interrupted Kasparov.  “Moving it forty kills plus z.  Mister Chin and I have convinced the computers to reroute the data as we discussed.  Implementing reroute now.”  About ten seconds later, a new display popped up on Kasparov’s console, this one labeled “TOWED ARRAY CONTACTS OVERVIEW.”  “Receiving data from the towed array, sir.  It looks like we’re getting a clean read, too.  Only issue is that having to route the data through the laserlink two ways cuts into the refresh rate, but thirty times a minute is plenty for what we’re doing.”

“Very well, Mister Kasparov.  Have your people keep a close watch on the data stream.  They’re not used to the way the data from a tail looks, so it’s probably a good idea to bring in a few extra men from off watch to back up the ones you’ve got in case they miss something.”

“
Outstanding
idea, sir.  I’ll do that.”  Kasparov spoke into his headset, suppressing a smile while giving orders to Ensign Harbaugh to implement the Captain’s suggestion. 

Max turned his attention back to the doctor and spoke softly.  “What you’re missing is that it’s not
our
towed array.  We borrowed
it.”

“
Borrowed
it?”

“Yep.  From the
Broadsword
.  She can’t use it in this formation without creating a risk that the trailing vessel—which is us—might collide with it.  So, Kim brought it with him in his Launch when he came over yesterday.  Actually, he brought his spare.  His main is still installed, just not deployed.  We’re putting the raw data on the laserlink, running it through his towed array signal processor, and he is sending us back the processed data for tactical resolution and display on our consoles.”

“And, pray tell, dues Commander Duflot know about this?”

Max stared into his coffee mug.  “It’s such a minor matter that we just handled it between the skippers.  We saw no need to trouble him with something so unimportant with all the weighty things the man has on his mind right now.”  While he was talking, Max had pulled up the readouts from the array and was squinting at them with an eye honed by years as a Sensor Officer.  “Mister Kasparov, kindly extend the array to two hundred fifty kills and stabilize the terminus forty kills minus z.”

While Kasparov was acknowledging and implementing the order, Bram thought about what Max had done and it made sense.  Contrary to Max’s constant snide comments, the doctor had been diligently plowing through the enormous volume of study materials that Max had recommended to him.  From these studies, he knew that a towed array, an idea borrowed from the Salt Water Navy, was a heavily stealthed passive sensor receiver towed behind the ship at the end of an almost microscopically thin carbon nanotube filament.  A guidance package at the end contained an inertial stabilization system, a fuel supply, and thrusters to keep the cable taut and to allow the operator to control the location of the array relative to the drive stream, usually offset from it by about 40 kilometers in one direction or another.  The towed array allowed the
Cumberland
to have clear sensor reception notwithstanding that it was in
Broadsword’s
wake, particularly given that all three ships were blasting the area with active sensor sweeps, the returns from which were received with exquisite sensitivity by the array’s kilometer and a half long sensor filaments.

“Oh, Mister Kasparov, you did tell your people what I said about those contacts we talked about, right?”

“Yes, sir.  Absolutely.  It’s all taken care of.”

“Outstanding.”  Max didn’t catch the slight smirk that wriggled its way across many of the faces in CIC at the word “outstanding.”  “And, Mister Chin, you and the Comms man on the Broadsword . . . you’ve set up that direct comms override right to the skipper’s console over there?”

“Affirmative, sir,” Chin answered.  “The ‘SUMMON STEWARD—COFFEE’ button on your console has been reprogrammed to tie you into the override.  We thought it best to use a hard key, you know, a physical button instead of a soft key.  More positive.  Just hit that button and everything you say will come straight out of the comm on the skipper’s console over on the
Broadsword
.”

“But, what if I want coffee?”

“The Control Input Logs show that you’ve never touched that button since you’ve come on board, sir.  You always have a Mid pour you some from the CIC coffeepot.”

“I guess that is what I do, isn’t it.  Outstanding job, Mister Chin.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

Once again, Max missed the general amusement at his “outstanding.”  He was too busy conducting an experiment.  Max had managed to get through Admiral Middleton’s famous
Advice to a New Warship Commander
.  “Managed” was the right word, too, because—much to the dismay of those who had to read his General Orders, After Action Reports, and other writings--Uncle Middy’s great intellectual, inspirational, and tactical gifts did not include a gift for writing clear, concise prose.  In fact, Admiral Charles L. Middleton was infamously wordy. 
Advice
was 185,222 words long and, with a good editor, could easily have been trimmed to about 95,000.  Further, it was full of convoluted sentences, complex and multi-branched lines of logic, wandering streams of reasoning, and impenetrably obscure references.  It was also, however, equally stuffed with brilliant observations, stunningly perceptive insights into human nature, unprecedented revelations about the psychology of command, and abundantly useful practical advice.  One piece of that advice was that a skipper of a small vessel without much in the way of administrative staff should learn to do as much as possible of his paperwork and managerial tasks from his station in CIC.  That way, he can get through the mountain of work he has to do while still keeping an eye on what’s going on aboard his ship and being visible to his command crew.  Max was attempting to implement that piece of advice right now by seeing if he could do useful work while surrounded by all of the activity that went on in the ship’s command center.

He was discovering that he could.  He was able to follow the activities going on around him with almost no attention while most of his mind focused on his task.  At this moment, the task was something he thought of as “quality control.”  The issue with the SIN inputs and the REFSTAMAT was just one symptom of a larger and more pervasive problem.  These men had been part of a dysfunctional ship for so long, and had been for so long been run ragged doing useless chores and writing useless reports that they had lost the reflex of regarding everything done on board as being critical and every task as being one on which the lives of every man on board could depend.  While the men generally worked hard, there was still a dangerous tendency to let minor things slide, to put off fixing difficult problems, and to try to shove unpleasant duties downstream to the next man.  Max knew that he had to do something more than just issue orders to be more careful and to do better work.  He needed to change ship’s culture to its very foundation.  He needed to change the way men thought about their work.  He needed to help them understand on a visceral level that everything they did could have ultimate consequences.

“Ultimate consequences.”  Hmm.  That phrase seemed somehow very familiar in some kind of military context.  No, not military.  Space.  Early space. 
Jurassic
space.  He ran a few inquiries through the database and found what he was looking for and saw why some part of his mind had been directing him to this very document.  The original was so good that it took no great wordsmith to adapt it to the present circumstances.

USS
Cumberland
   DPA-0004:  Ship’s Standing Order #15-15

26 March 2315

Effective immediately:

1.  Every man will print and sign a copy of the attached document, entitled “The
Cumberland
Creed,” and post it as near as possible to his primary duty station.  If doing so is not practical, the document is to be posted on the inside of the door of the crew member’s quarters or some other location where he will see it every day before reporting to duty. 

2.  Every man will memorize the Creed, word for word and may expect to be called upon to recite it at any time.

3.  Officers will no longer spot check maintenance and repair work.  It is the responsibility of every man who does this kind of work to certify to his superiors—in person, face to face--at the end of each watch, on his honor as a member of this crew, that the work was done
and done right
.  If you can’t make that certification in good faith, go back and keep at it until you can.  It is no longer anyone else’s responsibility to catch your mistakes.  That’s your job.