To Honor You Call Us (52 page)

Also received by the
Cumberland
was a one line message.  CDR AND CMO REPORT TO FLAG.  The “immediately” part was understood.  So, Max and the doctor, having both been wakened from deep slumber, fortified with coffee, and attired in Working Uniforms with Arms (the everyday uniform jumpsuit plus side arms, determined by Comms to be the Uniform of the Day on board the Flagship) were in the
Cumberland’s
five man launch crossing the few thousand meters that separated the Destroyer from the Carrier.  Max’s stomach was in knots.  This was going to be a skinning.  You rousted a Destroyer Captain out of bed between two and three in the morning because you wanted to rip him a new one, not because you wanted to sip coffee with him and hand him a medal.

Guided by the Carrier’s traffic controllers, the Launch maneuvered its way beneath the great ship’s underbelly to settle into one of its many landing decks on the starboard side.  A docking tube extended from a nearby hatch and sealed itself around the Launch’s hatch.  Max, the doctor, and the Able Spacer 1
^st
who had piloted the Launch crossed through the tube, through an airlock, and into a small compartment set up as a Salute Deck for lesser Captains.  The age old boatswain’s whistle sounded as Max stepped onto the deck, and six Marines came to Present Arms.  The Boatswain then barked out “
Cumberland
, arriving.”  Max turned to his left, saluted the Union and Admiralty flags, and then pivoted back to his right to salute the officer standing in front of him.  “Permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted,” said the Lieutenant Commander who greeted him, returning the salute.  The doctor and the launch pilot followed, similarly saluting the flags and the officer.  “Welcome aboard, Captain, Doctor.  I’m Jackson, part of the Admiral’s staff.  He’s expecting both of you.  Please follow me.  Spacer, follow the Chief here and he’ll show you to the Enlisted Pilot’s Lounge.”  Max had been on the
Halsey
before, but had never been into the sacred realm of the exalted Admiral, so he followed the other officer almost blindly for what seemed like hours, certain that he was walking toward an unpleasant fate.  The flagship seemed as big as a continent after the confined spaces aboard the
Cumberland
as the three men wound their way through several confusing twists and turns and finally arrived in the Admiral’s outer office, there to be greeted by the full Commander who served as the Admiral’s Flag Secretary, a very responsible job in its own right.  The officers exchanged salutes.  “Captain, Doctor, the Admiral is expecting you.  Go right in.” 

Max took a deep breath, stepped up to a real wooden door, turned the knob, and went in.  Max could see his comically distorted reflection in the brilliantly gleaming brass doorknob.  He could not help but think nonsensically of how in Gilbert and Sullivan’s
H.M.S. Pinafore,
that Admiral sang about polishing a doorknob so carefully that, through a convoluted series of promotions, he rose from Office Boy to became the First Lord of the Admiralty.  As Max closed the door behind him, he could see that this Admiral, who certainly did not reach his present position by serial occupancy of the posts of Office Boy, Junior Clerk, Articled Clerk, Junior Partner, and Member of Parliament, was hard at work despite the hour.  The Ruler of the President’s Navy, at least for this theater, was glowering at the comm panel on his desk.  While Max could not hear what the poor fellow on the other end of the circuit was saying, there was no mistaking a certain pleading, penitent tone.

The Admiral listened for about twenty seconds, then cut the other man off at the knees.  “Goddamn it, Captain, that sounds like a personal problem to me.  This is a forward area in wartime, son.  Do you fucking understand what it means to be one thousand light years from the Core Systems?  I don’t think that you do. 
Everyone
has personnel problems.  You have fewer than most.  Your ship has a full compliment, many do not, and I have provided you with the best roster of officers available given other requirements.  Now, Captain, if you can’t get your shit together, reach down to whatever level this crew is at, and pull them up by their fucking bootstraps to an acceptable level of training and performance, there are lots of Destroyer Captains hungry to command a Frigate like yours.  I’ll give the job to one of them and give you something to do more suited to your talents, maybe commanding a deuterium tanker on the Europa run.”  The Admiral listened for a few seconds to sounds of acquiescence.  “Good.  Now go train.  Hard.”  A few more words over the comm.  “No, dumbass.  Harder than that.”  Some pleading sounds emerged.  “No, absolutely not.  I don’t fucking have a week.  I need that ship on the line killing the Krag.  You have four days.  Get it done.  Flag out.”

He stabbed the comm button with brutal ferocity breaking the connection, if not the whole comm panel, then looked up at Max and the doctor, standing in front of his desk at painfully rigid attention.  As soon as his eyes met Max’s, the Admiral snapped, “And just who the fuck are you two?”

It was so nice to see that the Admiral was in such a good mood.  They both saluted.  Max snapped out, “Lieutenant Commander Maxime Robichaux and Lieutenant Doctor Ibrahim Sahin of the
Cumberland
reporting as ordered, sir.” 

The Admiral returned the salute so briskly that his fingernails were in danger of being flung off, and glanced at his Chrono.  “Sweet Jesus, Robichaux, you took your own Goddamn time getting here, didn’t you?  When I summon a commander to report to the flag I expect him to appear with celerity.”  Then, he moderated slightly.  “But, I suppose Jackson kept you held up with all those damn ritual theatrics on the Salute Deck.  Nothing gets past that man quickly.  I’m going to have to start calling him ‘Stonewall.’”  Max couldn’t help but smile at the joke.  “And it
is
about a two light year walk from the Salute Deck to here.

“Have a seat, gentlemen.”  He turned his head slightly in the approximate direction of a door in the bulkhead to the right of the one through which Max and the doctor had entered.  “Bushman!” he bellowed loud enough to fracture hull metal.

The door flew open and a sixty-ish Chief Petty Officer 3
^rd
stuck his gray hair and severe, lined face into the compartment.  “Yes, Admiral?”  The man managed somehow to sound both respectful and put out.

“Bushman, you old burned out thruster nozzle, it’s oh three fucking hundred hours and I’m meeting with these officers.  How the HELL are we supposed to get jack shit done at this Godforsaken hour without COFFEE?  That’s COFFEE, Bushman.  I’m sure you’ve heard of it.  How long have you been my steward, man?”

“Nineteen
wonderful
years, Admiral.”

“And, in that amount of time I’d have thought that a man of your worldly wisdom would have figured out some of the basics of the job.  Now what do I have to do to get something in here that’s hot and black and crammed to the fucking gunwales with caffeine?”

The man stepped all the way into the office.  Max could see that, even given the limited degree to which decorations were worn on the Working Uniform, Bushman had more awards for valor than most Cruiser Captains.  Maybe when Hornmeyer was a dashing young Captain, this man was at his side in some hard fought boarding actions.  He sure hadn’t earned all that fruit salad serving coffee.  “If the Admiral would just take a whiff, he would smell that I started a fresh pot as soon as Captain Robichaux was piped aboard.”  And then, after waiting just a split second too long, he added.  “Sir.” 

“Very well, then, Bushman.  When you bring it in, try not to slosh it all over these officers, will you.”

“I’ll do my best sir.”  He smiled briefly at Max and backed out of the room.

“Goddamn surly old Bushman.  One of these days I’m going to have to bust him back to Mid to show him who’s the fucking boss around here.  Now.  Robichaux.  Right.  I’ve read your reports.  God knows you’ve been a busy little fucker.  First thing, your prisoner roster.  Been locking them up left and right haven’t you?  First man—who’s that wormy little shit with the portable drug factory?  Green.  Right.  It seems that Spacer Green has signed a formal waiver of all right to appeal your Conviction by Order of him for Trafficking.  So, I get to sentence him on my own authority.  I’m sending him to a medium security penal facility for five years.  Then, he’ll serve out the rest of his enlistment.  Maybe he’ll go straight and maybe he won’t.  His choice, either way.  Maybe Daddy’s kicking him out the airlock will be the best thing that ever happened to the slimy little bastard.  He has a chance to turn his life into something, if he wants, and maybe someday he’ll amount to more than a puddle of poodle piss.  Or not.  His choice.

“OK, getting to your other prisoners, there’s those three snake shit sneaky chiefs of yours who tried to sabotage your Atmosphere Manifold.  If that isn’t a stab in the back I don’t fucking know what is.  Those dirty sons of bitches are going to get a straight up, full dress, formal fucking Court Martial.  The Judge Advocate has passed on outright Treason, I always knew he was a Goddamn pussy, and is prosecuting for Attempted Sabotage.  I’m betting on a conviction and that they’ll be sentenced to something like seven to ten years on a penal asteroid.  Then desk jobs for the rest of their terms of service—you and I know no skipper will ever let those cocksuckers serve on his ship.  It would likely be twenty-five on that asteroid instead of seven to ten, but I’m sure that the Court will put some of the blame on that one man squirrel convention of a CO these men used to have.” 

He shook his head grimly.  “Oscar.  One of these days I’d like to get my hands on that loopy son of a bitch and make him answer for what he’s done to some fine officers and men in this command.  He’s the worst thing since Philip Francis Queeg.  Ever heard of Philip Francis Queeg?”  Max and Ibrahim shook their heads.  “Fucking shame.  No one reads the Goddamn classics any more.  Every CO in the whole fucking Navy should take a few hours off from writing all those Goddamn reports that don’t amount to jack shit and read
The Caine Mutiny.
  If a few more people had known who Philip Francis Queeg was, it would have been plain as black sky that Captain Oscar and Captain Queeg bought their bloody ball bearings from the same gag and gift shop and someone would have sent Oscar off to the nut plantation where he belonged.

“Next subject.  I’ve also read a stack of communications from the Pfelung stating that they think you’re the best thing since indoor egg incubation.  They want to be sure that you’re one of the officers that they get to work with, since they say they like the way you swim or that you navigate the currents skillfully or some such fishy bullshit like that.  You know how they talk.  I told them not to worry—they’ll be seeing plenty of you, Robichaux.  Maybe after they get to know you, they may lose some of their enthusiasm.  They’ll start saying you Swim into Rocks or Shit Where the Eggs Are Laid or something like that. 

“You’ve always been something of a loose cannon, young man, but there’s no denying that you got results this time out, and that’s what counts in warfare, results.  Victory in combat against the enemy will obtain for you the remission of many sins, a great many sins indeed.  The Admiralty loves a winner.  Not real keen on losers, though.

“And, Robichaux, condolences for the loss of your XO and those men in the Cutter, by the way.  Damn good man, that Garcia.  Damn shame to lose him.  I had him pegged to have a command of his own in a year or two despite those damn screwball memos of his.  I’m pulling to get the Navy Cross for him, Amborsky, and the rest.”

“But you, young man,
you
are the only Destroyer skipper in this
whole fucking war
to take down a Krag Battlecruiser without assistance from another warship.  There’s gonna be some publicity from this, but I’m tempted to keep classified how you did it, just so it doesn’t tempt every half assed Destroyer skipper into bolting a brace of Raven missiles onto the side of his Cutter.  Very dangerous stunt.  Unless the pilot is a fucking genius, it’s a good way to destroy the Cutter and kill the pilot.  With all that mass near the bow, it must have taken a brilliant Goddamn pilot to manage the thing.”

“My man Mori is, I think, the best small craft pilot in the Navy,” Max said.

“Maybe he is.  At any rate, way to kick ass.  I wish I could have been there.  Goddamn!  I miss the real thing instead sitting on my fat ass two or three parsecs away from the battle moving little electronic icons around in a fucking tactical projection.  That’s not leadership, it’s a goddamn TriDeo Game. 

“All right, next.  On this Pfelung thing, half of my Intel people tell me that there is no way they would have seen through that stunt the Krag were pulling with those freighters the way you did.  Congratulations.  Of course, there’s the half that don’t say that and are telling me ‘oh, hell, yes, it was right there all the time and if we had known what Robichaux knew we would have seen it in a heartbeat.’  What a steaming crock of Grade ‘A’ bullshit.  It took a real genuine Black Sky Out the Viewport combat officer to see that plan, not some electron pushing Intel weenies—Goddamn sneaky little bastards.  

“And, speaking of sneaky, how’d you manage to get all those transfer requests pulled?  That was a neat trick.”

“What are you talking about, Admiral?”

“As of 21 January 2315 there were seventy-three pending requests for transfer from personnel assigned to the
Cumberland
.  As of today, there are none.  Somehow, they were all withdrawn.”

“But, sir,” Max asked, “can’t the men withdraw them on their own?”

“Of course they can, dumbass.  It’s the right of every man to request a transfer and his right to withdraw that request.  That’s a Sacred Spacer Right that goes back to the Salt Water Navy.  But, no one has ever had seventy-three transfer requests withdrawn at almost the same time.  It’s too much of a coincidence.  Just doesn’t Goddamn happen.”