For Honor We Stand (52 page)

“And, sir,” Bartoli started to add.

“You don’t need to tell me, Bartoli.  A good Captain always has his bearings.  That’s straight into Vaaach space.”

Chapter
13

17:44Z Hours, 30 March 2315

“No response on any of the Vaaach channels, skipper,” Chin reported for at least the twentieth time.  The
Cumberland
, back on Condition Blue, had crossed through the several light years of disputed space that might be Vaaach or might be Union and had for the last four hours or so been in space that undoubtedly belonged to the Vaaach.

The Vaaach.  The Vaaach who possessed technology centuries in advance of the best that Humanity could field, were highly aggressive carnivores, and had a tendency of dealing with territorial incursions by vaporizing the interloper first and asking questions later, if at all.  But, Max consoled himself, if they were powerful and dangerous, the Vaaach were also scrupulously honorable, applied their code of honor to other species to the same degree as they applied it to themselves (a Vaaach would rather slit his throat with his own claws than apply a double standard or engage in the slightest hypocrisy), and honored Customary Interstellar Law including, Max hoped fervently, the Right of Hot Pursuit.

To preserve the
Cumberland’s
claim that it was in hot pursuit of the Krag Cruiser and to preclude any conclusion by the Vaaach that it was entering their space covertly, the Destroyer had been broadcasting a message on the standard interspecies attention channels stating that the ship was entering Vaaach space without any effort at concealment in pursuit of a Krag vessel that had fled from honorable combat.  That should mollify the Vaaach.  Under Customary Interstellar Law, a warship of one power had the right to enter the space of another when it was in hot pursuit of an enemy warship and to continue that pursuit for a reasonable time, reasonableness being a highly elastic concept depending on the kind and quality of the most recent sensor detection, whether the enemy vessel was leaving some kind of trail, and other factors.  The Hot Pursuit Doctrine denied to combatants the ability to avoid destruction through the cowardly expedient of slipping just over a neutral border.  Surely, the Vaaach would respect such a reasonable and honorable principle.  Right?

“We’re still on their trail, sir,” Kasparov announced.  “And I think we’re gaining on them slightly.”  The ship had dropped into normal space to scan for the aftereffects of the passage of a ship under compression drive.  The Krag ship was relying on speed rather than stealth, and was taking the shortest route across Vaaach space toward home.  Having verified that the Krag were still ahead of them, Max ordered the
Cumberland
back to 1960 c, which was as fast as he dared maintain for what might be a chase of several days. 

Max was deep into a ham sandwich just the way he liked them, which he could now specify simply by telling the galley that he wanted an “exploding ham sandwich,” when he felt the deck tilt unexpectedly, sloshing hot coffee onto his console and his lap.  Max tossed his mug and what was left of the coffee into the one of the lidded receptacles provided for that purpose scattered around CIC, ignored the coffee on the console (every console on the ship was sealed against liquids), and turned to Maneuvering because that particular sensation could be caused by only one thing—sudden rupture of the ship’s compression field.

LeBlanc, ignoring coffee splashed on his chest and even in his hair, was already in deep conversation with his console and with the handful of people in his Back Room who monitored and tweaked the ship’s attitude control systems and the systems that linked the controllers in CIC with the equipment in the ship that effectuated the control inputs.  No more enlightened than when he started, he still had to say something, which came out, “Compression field rupture, sir, cause unknown.”

Max then turned to the man Engineering had posted in CIC, one of the least beloved of all duties in that department because it involved little or no actual engineering.  During this watch, that odious duty fell to Able Spacer 2
^nd
Bjarne Haekkerup.  Since his first day as a Midshipman on the USS
Aboukir Bay
he had been known as “Hiccup.”  As Max looked at him expectantly, Hiccup was busily talking with Lieutenant Brown himself and, apparently, not getting anything useful to pass on.  He was listening to the Chief Engineer while shaking his head slowly at his skipper. 

He would address that issue in a moment.  First things first.  Am I being paranoid enough?  “Mister Kasparov, Yankee Search Omni.  Three sweeps.  Let’s find out if we stepped in a sinkhole or a pit trap.”  Without waiting for the order to be acknowledged, Max then punched into the voice channel between Hiccup and Brown.  “Werner, sorry to break in, but all I’m getting up here is a lot of head shaking.  You got any idea what the hell just happened to us?”

“I’m certain, sir, that you are seeking something besides the profoundly obvious conclusion that our compression field dissipated without our having commanded the drive to make it do so.”

“I could have gotten that much information from asking Midshipman Gilbertson here.”  Gilbertson looked at the skipper and smiled at the small recognition after which he returned to busily cleaning up coffee, juice, water, and other fluids spilled around CIC when the compression field ruptured, after which he would start chasing down the sandwich fragments, chips, and other solid debris.  “So, yes, Werner, I would like to know a little bit more, if you don’t mind.”

“Stand by, sir, just getting a bit more data.”  A conversation ensued with someone in the background.  Only Brown’s half was intelligible.  “All right . . . thank you . . . are you certain?  Yes, that would be conclusive.”  To the Captain, “Sir, Mendoza has just shown me data from our internal monitoring that, to my mind is virtually conclusive, that there is some kind of external anti-compression field being applied to this area of space that disrupts any existing compression field and prevents any new one from being formed.  As it responds to our efforts to create a field by applying a counteracting force, it would be a reasonable conclusion that this phenomenon is artificially created.  The tactical implications are obvious.  It’s a spring trap, sir.

“I was thinking more along the lines of fly paper, Werner.”

“I’ve never heard of it, sir, but if it is what I think it is, I emphatically recommend that we not stick around.”

“Agreed.  See what you can do to get us unstuck.  If you need to borrow any of the physics brainiacs from Sensors, you have my authorization.  Skipper out.”  He punched the channel closed.  “Maneuvering, main sublight ahead flank, maintain former course.”

LeBlanc acknowledged and implemented the order.  “Yankee search omni completed,” Kasparov announced.  “Three sweeps.  No contacts.” 

“Very well.”  Max stood up and walked casually, almost a saunter, over to the Sensors station.  He stood behind Kasparov and Goldman, put his hand on their shoulders in a sort of fatherly way, and spoke to them quietly, deliberately keeping his tone light, knowing that his words would not be overheard by others in CIC but that his tone would.  “OK, guys, we’re hip deep in Vaaach space and you know what we just hit.  I’d bet the farm and both cows that the Vaaach have these things set up like walls or thick hedges across areas of their space to stop trespassers, and can turn them on and off at will.  I’m also going to bet that they’re like spider’s webs.  Not only is there a trap, but the spider has his leg on the web feeling for when he’s caught a fly.  We can expect visitors any time now, and I need as much warning as possible.  So, give me as hard a look as you can on passive—assume that the contact is going to be a Vaaach ship.  We spent hours tailing one a few months ago, so you’ve got reams of data to tell you what to look for.  You good to go on that?”  They both nodded.  Max put his hands behind his back.  “Good.  I have every confidence in you.”  Goldman looked at Max questioningly.  Max clamped his hand firmly on the man’s shoulder and looked him squarely in the eyes.  “Goldman, I want you right where you are.  You’re doing penance for being a jerk to an enlisted man, not for being incompetent.  You’ve got one of the best sensor analysis brains on the ship and you’re probably in the top quarter in the fleet.  Get your act together and you might make the top ten percent.”  Max pointed to Goldman’s head, using the hand that had been on the man’s shoulder.  “I want that brain on the case until further notice.” 

Then, making certain to make it appear that he was not in any particular hurry, Max moved deliberately over to the Stealth station.  Standing behind and to one side of the man on that console, Nelson, Max rested his hand on the man’s shoulder.  Again, the same light tone and low volume.  “Mister Nelson, without moving hurriedly or showing any signs of rushing, I want you to put this ship in Maximum Stealth, thermal, EM, graviton, neutrino, visible light, the whole nine yards.  And, I want visual verification—send the Mids around to check shutters, vents, and the like with the Mark One Eyeball.  You know the drill.  But tell the Mids to do it efficiently; no running or rushing.  I want crew to see mids Mids going about their normal business.  Got that?”

“Aye, sir.  Right away.”  Nelson started talking to his Back Room, making it look as normal as possible, while reconfiguring some controls.  People who were paying close attention and whose consoles showed that kind of information could see the status of the stealth systems changing, but most people in CIC were none the wiser. 

Then, with calm deliberation, he took the few steps back to his own station and sat down.  After nonchalantly punching a few of his displays into different data channels, he sat back and said in a bland voice, “Maneuvering, reduce to Full, and let’s come right fifty-three degrees and pitch up seventy-seven degrees.  Make the maneuver pretty sharp.”  As LeBlanc made it happen, Max put his hands in his lap, caught Gilbertson’s eye and looked significantly at the coffeepot.  The boy immediately put his cleaning supplies down and went to get his skipper some coffee. 

A few moments later, while he was drinking the flavorful brew, the doctor leaned over and said quietly, “So, Max, you’ve got Kasparov and Goldman looking for the Vaaach to show up, Nelson stealthing us as much as possible, and you’ve made a radical course change in two dimensions to throw them off our trail.  Anything else I’m missing about what you just did?”  Not only was the doctor keenly observant as always, he was starting to learn the ropes about what went on in CIC.  “Do you think that will do any good given their level of technology?”

“Probably not, but with the Vaaach you gain credibility by playing the game well.  If we just blunder along through the forest not bothering to cover our tracks we won’t be competent hunters worthy of their respect and they’re likely to just swat us down like a mosquito.  And, besides, you never know.  If we’re lucky, we can stealth our way though the ‘thou shalt not compress’ zone, without having to get roared at by the Vaaach, then be on our merry way.  Stranger things have happened.”

The doctor shook his head and said, “Not recently.”  Max harrumphed and went back to his coffee.

An hour passed and Max secured from General Quarters.  Then two.  Max put the ship back on its old course, so it was now paralleling its former path.  No sign of the Krag.  No sign of the Vaaach.  No sign of an end to the ‘thou shalt not compress’ zone.  No sign of a way to engage the compression drive.  The watch changed.  Max was in his cabin, on the bed, sleeping in his uniform.  He had been like that for nearly three hours, a small saliva puddle having formed on his pillow near his half open mouth when, suddenly, he was standing bolt upright with his boarding cutlass, which he had laid on the bedside table, drawn and in his hand.  It took him a second to realize why he was standing.

Klaxons and every speaker in his cabin announcing the same thing.  The ship had gone to General Quarters.

One minute and forty-four seconds later, Max’s butt made contact with the bottom cushion of the Big Chair and the con was transferred from the Officer of the Deck, in this case Mister Hobbs, to the CO.  Max snapped out the one word that was so universally used in the current situation he often wondered why he couldn’t just look at the OOD, tilt his head meaningfully, and get the appropriate answer.  It seemed almost absurd to say it.  He said it, anyway.  “Status?”

Hobbs rattled off the required answer.  “Unidentified sensor contact, designated as Uniform one, bearing three-four-six mark two-five-five, range zero-point-five-two AU.  Contact is at constant bearing decreasing range, speed point niner-four.  Depending on his decel profile, he’ll be on us in about five minutes.  Contact is based on Uniform one’s active sensor emissions only.  No other readings, mass, EM, or otherwise.  It’s looking as though they have an incredibly effective stealth suite and they just decided to turn on an active scan so that we could detect them.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say that it was almost like they were giving us a buzz on voicecom before dropping in for a visit.  Being polite by letting us know they were coming, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Mister Hobbs, and I think that is exactly what they are doing.  The Vaaach have very strict rules of conduct and honor, and they always follow them.  Thank you, Mister Hobbs.  You may take your station.”  Hobbs left for Engineering where, when the ship was at General Quarters, he manned an auxiliary sensor station ready to take over for Kasparov if his station were destroyed or the data links to it compromised.  As Hobbs was leaving, the doctor came in, Clouseau once more at his feet.  The doctor sat in his accustomed place at the Commodore’s Station and Clouseau went back to the signal condition equipment box beside Finnegan.  The ever larger black cat looked longingly at the second Sensors position which had been occupied by Goldman a few hours before.  Petty Officer 2
^nd
Class Lo was in the chair at the moment.  The only mammals for which Lo had any affection were freakishly tall, blond, long-legged human females with enormous blue eyes and chests that looked like a pair of high capacity deuterium tanks.  At least there was the boisterous Finnegan on the other side, who occasionally reached over to give the cat an ear scratch or two.