Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1 (2 page)

He lets go, we exchange a quick salute, turn to our respective rights, and move away at high speed.
Yorktown
is suspended in a cradle with her hatch 10 feet above the deck, an easy jump when weightless, just center under the white nylon tunnel, bend at the knee, and rocket skyward. After making sure to detach your velcro, or you just might blow out a knee.
The tunnel deposits me on deck six, the lowest, right by the boat deck. My cabin is on deck three, so is my ready room. To make the ship harder to board, structurally stronger, and less likely to be engulfed in a fire, the hatches connecting each level are always at opposite ends of the space. I cruise forward on six, back to the top half of the boat deck on five, back to the bow on four and then up to three, dodging construction workers and random uninstalled equipment pieces as I go. The between decks hatch is just behind the bridge, I give myself a hard push off the bulkhead and fly the 75 plus feet toward the stern and my cabin, where the hatch recognizes my hand and opens to the touch.
Dress blue uniform comes off, I leave it to float around my cabin, no time to deal with it. Pretty sure that 15 minutes did not mean that long, I grab a flight casual one piece uniform and slide into it. I love my parents very much, but my mom, besides giving me amazing hair and much of her truly unique brain, gave me too many curves, and every flight suit ever built has to be pulled, yanked, tugged, and generally stretched to fit. Not that I want to be a skinny little waif thing, particularly since dad forgot to give me his height, but still how many centuries will it take for the Navy to realize that men and women are built differently?
I eventually win the battle with the last of many velcro zippers, put a
Yorktown
baseball cap on my head with the hair cleverly diverted through the hole in the back, and set out into the hall. Every corridor on the ship is covered in thick padding on all six sides, with handles that are also part of a ladder system used when the ship is at acceleration.
My right hand grips the nearest handle, I spin and flick, making myself fly feet first toward the bow, faster than I should, but (a) this deck is mostly deserted and (b) I
am
the captain. My feet hit the wall, and with practiced ease I grab for two handles, swing down and through the open hatch onto the bridge.
It's only been 10 minutes, I'm positive, but the two admirals are already floating impatiently at the locked door to my ready room, still in their dress uniforms, their aides floating in front of one of the bridge displays, chatting. I gather myself, try to look captainly, and float to the door.
"I'm sorry sir," I say not picking out either one of them as the recipient or my words or my salute, "I should have put your biometrics in the security system."
I know that's not really their problem with me. It's not my fault that I graduated from the Academy at 19, that I managed to save
Ayacucho
from a sneak attack during an assault on a pirate base and made commander of a destroyer at 25, or that I got lucky a second time and happened to be commanding the only ship in position to save the Marines headed into a trap on Kentucky 3. That last bit of luck earned me
Yorktown
. Despite my successes, they wish I was taller, older than 30, and quieter. And, from the quick look I got from ChiNO, more willing to wear my badges of rank. The dark blue rated seaman's uniform I have on is nearly a dozen steps below my paygrade.
The hatch pops open to my palm, and I move back, letting the two bosses into my shipboard office first, then following them in, locking the hatch behind us. No chairs on a starship, we float around the center pedestal.
"Can I offer either of you sirs a drink?," I ask, hoping the answer is no since there is nothing but water and my dwindling store of iced tea on board yet. I'm still bunking on the station.
Admiral Benson doesn't answer my question, looks at me with the same hard expression any decent commander has when sending his crew into a deadly situation, and starts right in.
"
Bainbridge
and the commercial ship she was escorting are missing.
Yorktown
is to proceed at all possible speed to investigate. Details," he looks at the small pad in his hand, then presses the screen, "are available on your pad now. They were headed home from an automated mining operation in the Gamma Omicron system."
Stunned would be a good word for my reaction. Speechless as well.
Admiral Everingham takes over for me. "I know what you're thinking, you haven't even had the simplest flight trials yet, and we're sending you into a possible combat situation months ahead of schedule."
I nod, mouth still unconnected to brain, which is spinning. We have four cruiser battle groups, and they're sending a ship that's never been out of dry dock? ChiNO shakes his head, reading my mind.
"Unfortunately, the frigate program was not always the most popular with our administration. If there hadn't been a rash of attacks on commercial shipping just as the reduction in force for the Navy was announced, it wouldn't exist at all. We got a tradeoff. Retire our last two battleships and half the destroyer force, build six frigates. Now they want to embarrass the frigates out of existence." He manages to look commanding, embarrassed, and pissed off, all at the same time while laying out the facts.
The message was clear. Politicians forcing
Yorktown
out too soon, hoping for an excuse to ground her and her unlaunched sisters.
"I will not let anything embarrass the service, sir." I hadn't intended to say that with as much emotion as came out, but I wouldn't take it back either. Bastards.
"We know you won't." ChiNO does not sound entirely convinced, but I wouldn't be either if I were him. A mind I will change.
"You have 24 hours," Admiral Benson almost sighs, "to outfit and arm your ship. You will also get any four corvettes within range that you want. It's 1400 now. I want all your requisitions on my pad by 1600. Any questions?"
I look at him, not sure what to say. The things I want to say will get me court martialed or shot. Or both. He raises his hand and makes a knowing face.
"OK, you have hours of questions, bad question on my part. We ordered your crew to assemble while we were waiting for you, they all know the ship is leaving dock this time tomorrow and they are expected on board within the hour. Lt. Palmer is getting his briefing from the Marine commandant as we speak, they'll take responsibility for ensuring your detachment has all their equipment before you sail."
He turns in air, reaches out to shake my hand. "We'll leave you to get to work."
I shake the hand, then salute them both as they float out to the bridge. With a quick and somewhat nervous hand, I reach down to the pedestal, flip up the center panel, and turn on the two large displays built into the wall across from me. My pad plugs in easily, the pedestal designed around it like much of the equipment aboard.
Gamma Omicron is a red dwarf, 210.3 light years from Earth, seven planets and lots of big rocks, none easily habitable, but lots of good hiding places for bad guys. A set of fully automated ops, iron and titanium on planet one, gold, diamonds, and platinum on planet two, heavy metals on asteroids, and uranium on planet six.
Bainbridge, an 800 ton corvette, had been escorting the 240,000 ton
Trump
, both unheard from since they jumped in. Jump capable corvettes mount eight 18-inch laser cannons, and a cluster of very short range missiles, enough firepower to scare off most single pirates and privateers. If they were taken out, it would have been a small fleet action.
Her commander was Lieutenant Jeff Dempsey, with five on his crew. I scan the pictures FRIGCOM provided which reveal a normal looking man, my age roughly, big smile, big blond hair, big muscles. The five crew are your basic stuff, one just out of the Academy ensign, four enlisted, all veterans of numerous cruises with Dempsey. That alone tells me he's a competent commander, it's easy to get off a corvette, such a small space requires meshing personalities and the corvette office will transfer crew at will with no repercussions. The enlisted all stayed with him a long time.
The door whistles at me, I talk back to it. "Come."
A captain leaving a ship to take another post has by tradition the right to transfer four of their crew with them. I stole four of
Ayacucho
's best, although not the most experienced. Ryan Conner, my former first officer, was stepping into the captain's seat, and not wanting to make him too mad at me, I took Lt. Maria Garcia, the best young pilot (but only fifth most senior out of six), Lt. Emily Powell from engineering, like Garcia four years out of the Academy, and Ensign Courtney McAdams, just out of her first year, but the most natural RISTA I have ever met (that's Reconnaissance, Intelligence, Surveillance, and Target Acquisition if you have a question). The two lieutenants got promotions to full lieutenant two years or so early out of the deal, McAdams will certainly go up early, but she'll need a cruise or two to earn it.
Lastly, I took my second officer, Shelby Perez, and made her my new First, with a snazzy two step promotion to Commander. Conner gave me lots of crap for taking the girls and leaving him the boys, but then thanked me for keeping his top team intact, and questioned my sanity for filling
Yorktown
with a bunch of young officers.
The voice recognition sensor unlocked the door at my word, and Shelby floated in. She's six foot three, allegedly, since that is the height limit for Naval officers, perfect ebony skin, played middle blocker on the Academy volleyball team, and is able to make any man fear instantly for his life with only a glance from those deep brown eyes, including, fortunately, an entire squad of Marines at a bar on Illinois 2 who had taken offense to something her captain had said. I haven't gotten drunk since. Okay, I haven't gotten that drunk since.
She closes the door behind her, making sure our conversation will be unheard.
"We're starting trials tomorrow? We won't even have all the equipment installed, and the only food on board is a couple of Twinkies." Her voice is deep and light hearted. Something I am about to change.
I snort, or something to that effect, and shake my head, the hair doing it's best to get loose.
"Worse, Shel, we're going to Gamma Omicron to find
Bainbridge
. She's gone missing with her convoy."
If it weren't weightless in my ready room, I think her jaw would actually have hit the floor. She doesn't say anything, so I keep going.
"You and I have until 1600 to figure out what we want loaded on board, and they have 22 hours to give it to us."
Shelby reaches up, brushes her hand over the surface of her very regulation half inch of curly black hair, puts the orange ear bud that had been hanging off her uniform into her left ear, and pushes the transmit button by the microphone at her collar.
"Ayala, Powell, Garcia, and McAdams to the Captain's Ready Room on the double. Ayala, Garcia, Powell and McAdams report immediately."
Lt. Commander Matt Ayala, the Second officer, was the First on a corvette in the
Andrew Jackson
's battle group. Came looking for me the day I got this job, and offered to take the lateral move (Second on a frigate equals First on a corvette) in exchange for what he hoped would be more interesting duty. He also got a two step jump from j.g., can't have him outranked by officers he had to command.
While we wait for them, I have Shel message our Marine commander to join us when he's done with his boss, then let her thumb through the data on my pad. McAdams must have already been on the bridge, she's there in less than 30 seconds, knife thin on a barely five foot frame, not onto her neck length blonde hair, the shiniest blue eyes in history.
Garcia makes us wait two minutes, but not bad, Powell two minutes more. Those two show wearing blindingly new officer light blue flight casual uniforms with enough rank insignia that no one from any angle could possibly mistake them for ensigns. They are both my height, five seven or so, both with lean athletic frames. Garcia has the same hair cut as McAdams, except dark hair almost the same color and as shiny as
Yorktown
, Powell is essentially hairless. Ayala is a few seconds behind.
Shelby fills them in. After we scrape their jaws off the deck, we get to work.
Food first. Two month's rations go down as mandatory, three months as what we really want. Make sure the water tanks are full. Make sure that I get all the tea out of my quarters on the station before we go, though we don't write that one down.
Weapons are a bigger issue, the first combat on
Yorktown
is between the Second and the RISTA, but it's not going in the log. To save money, all the new frigates are built on destroyer platforms,
Yorktown
is identical on the outside (and lots of her insides) to
Ayacucho
, but destroyers operate as part of battle groups, frigates are supposed to be independent. So while a destroyer mounts 44 18-inch laser cannons and a close in missile system,
Yorktown
has 18 24-inchers, a close in system, a Marine detachment, and, 24 full on offensive ballistic missiles.
The problem is missiles come in multiple varieties. Nuclear ground strike, single and multiple warhead, ship to ship, nuclear and pure ballistic, also single and multiple warheads, and mine layers of various types. Cruisers carry them in triple digit quantities, so choice is less an issue. Our 24 tubes require thought, and no one in the fleet has even done this before (though some academics at the Academy have written papers on the subject in the
Journal of I Don't Know Anything, But I'll Pretend I Do to Get Tenure)
.
The Second wants all ship to ship, single nuke, pure hammers in our hands, the RISTA wants every flavor of multiple warhead nuke and nothing else, all flexibility and daggers. In a fist fight, it's his six foot, 185 pound dark hair covered frame against her 90 pounds, not fair, but in this war, I wonder if the Chihuahua isn't going to make the Rottweiler wish he'd gone the other way.
"We're going after pirates, lots of ships, their land bases are full of women and children. Optimal strategy is lots of killing power on air bandits, ground attack is a waste of time." Ayala is emphasizing every point with substantial hand maneuvers, his legs braced against the center consol to prevent his body from spinning off in the zero gravity.