For Honor We Stand (42 page)

Max bristled.  “Hold it right there, XO.  It’s one thing to question the competence of a brother officer.  It’s quite another to question his loyalty.  I have no doubt that this man is as loyal to the Union and the Navy as you or I.  He’s simply the prisoner of rather limited abilities and of his experience.  He’s spent so long attached to those great convoys that are so easy to locate that he has no practical understanding at all of the tactical benefits of remaining undetected.  His idea of how to defend something is to surround it with a net of sensors and layers of firepower, not by hide it in the immensity of interstellar space and then cross the void so quickly that even if the enemy localizes you he has to run flat out to catch you, giving himself away in the process.  I’ll have no more of that kind of talk on my ship, even in the privacy of these meetings.  Understood?”

“Understood, sir.  Sorry, Captain.”

“No harm done.  Think no further about it.  Anyway, I made all of these tactical points to Duflot.  Almost the exact words.  Hell, I might as well have been trying to teach compression drive field dynamics to a gerbil.  Each of those systems has a comprehensive sensor grid, he told me.  Even if an enemy vessel gets in, we will have plenty of time to take defensive measures.  It’s the safest and most prudent course of action.”  He shook his head.  “Idiot.  The only thing that I can think to do is follow orders and then take a hard look to see of there is anything we can do within the scope of those orders that will make the failure of this mission a little less than perfectly inevitable.  I’ve done one thing that might do some good and I was wondering if . . . .”  He was interrupted by the buzz of the comm.”

He hit the button.  “Skipper.”

“We just had a request by lights from the
Broadsword
, sir.  Her skipper wants to come aboard to see the doctor.  Says he needs a shot of Vanchiere-Unkel serum for his Lavoy’s Syndrome and that his Casualty Station’s batch of the serum is no longer usable.  It got accidentally put in the ambient temperature pharmaceuticals locker instead of the refrigerated one.”  Max looked at the doctor who nodded.

“Reply that we await the honor of his visit at his convenience.  Skipper out.  Anyway, we’ve got a few more hours in this system and, with the fighter squadron from the
Wasp
flying escort, we don’t have anything to worry about until we jump.  In that time, maybe we can figure something that will increase the chances of the Envoy meeting with the other Envoys instead of with a thermonuclear warhead.  Anything further?  Then, we’re adjourned.”

They all stood and left the compartment.  In the corridor, Brown pulled the XO aside and spoke in a confidential tone, too low, he knew, to be recorded by the monitoring system.  “XO, I know that things are a bit different on Battleships, but out here in the Destroyer and Frigate Navy, we take a dim view of any affront to the honor of our ship, or to that of our Captain.  A very dim view, indeed.”

“Battleships are the same.  As far as I know, that’s a universal.  Been that way in the whole Navy for centuries.”

“So, tell me then.  On a Battleship, would Commander Duflot’s treatment of Captain Robichaux call for the taking of corrective measures?”

“Absolutely.  Serious ones.”

“Jolly good, because it does on a Destroyer, as well.  I would do something right now, but . . . .”

DeCosta nodded his understanding.  “But, the job of vindicating the ship’s honor in such a case falls to the XO, doesn’t it?”  Brown nodded.  A quick bob of the head. 

Max, Sahin, and Kraft had vanished down the corridor to their various destinations.  Other than Brown and DeCosta, and the Marines mutely guarding the entrance to CIC several meters ahead, the corridor was deserted.  The only sounds were those of the living ship:  the myriad electronic sounds and the constant comm chatter its nerve and brain activity, the air handling system its life’s breath, the throb of the engines its heartbeat.

They were a kind of sonic environment, consciously perceived by neither man from years of habituation, but the absence of which they would notice instantly, a subliminal reminder that they were not standing in a hallway in an office building on Earth or Sagan V, but on a metal deck mounted in a metal tube surrounded by light years of emptiness, their survival dependant upon the machines that provided them with air and water and heat and that carried them between the stars.  And not just the machines, but also on the men whose constant duty it was to control the machines, repair the machines, maintain the machines.  Bound with him in a cocoon of metal suspended in the dark and endless deep, you are your brother’s keeper.  And he is yours.

DeCosta stood in the corridor for a moment.  What to do?  On one hand, there was the possible damage to his career from taking retribution in some unknown form against Commander Duflot, a man who must have some sort of powerful connections or he would not have been given this important mission notwithstanding his obviously limited abilities.  On the other, there were the eternal and immutable naval laws.  Stand for the honor of your shipmates.  Stand for the honor of your Captain.  Stand for the honor of your ship.  What to do?

It wasn’t even close.

“Well, ‘Werner,’ if I may be so bold as to call you that, I would like very much to even the score, and am open to any suggestions you might have.”

“You may, any time, ‘Number One,’ any time at all.  Now, my friend, I do have an idea that might do very nicely.  Very nicely, indeed.  We just need to enlist the help of a few more co-conspirators.”

“Whoever you need.  But, remember, the fewer the better.”

“Oh, yes.  ‘A slip of the lip will nuke a ship,’ and all that.  Just Sparks and Gates.  With the four of us, we’ll have everything we need to refresh Commander Duflot’s understanding of historical military nomenclature.”

“Historical military nomenclature?” 

The Engineer gave the XO a solid thump on the shoulder.  “Vocabulary, my good man, vocabulary.  We’re going give the Commander an unforgettable lesson on what it means to be ‘hoist on one’s own petard.’”

***

As Commander Kim Yong-Soo, skipper of the USS
Broadsword
, was piped aboard and rendered honors, Max had time to get a good look at his counterpart.  Like most humans of Korean descent, Captain Kim (the Korean custom is for the surname to come first) was of smallish stature and lightly built.  Max had checked his Biosum and knew Kim to be four years his senior and roughly his equal in combat experience, with a reputation for being a tenacious and resourceful commander.  The “fruit salad” on his Dress Blue uniform (Duflot had decreed that Dress Blues were the Uniform of the Day throughout the group) had half a row more than Max’s and included a Navy Cross and several decorations that reflected achievements in combat.  He moved with the fluid efficiency of an athlete, had the beginnings of smile lines around his mouth and his dark, intelligent eyes, and looked like he was born wearing the uniform and walking the deck of a warship.  Max very much liked the cut of his jib.

Honors rendered and senior officers introduced, Max caught the subtle jerk of Kim’s head that indicated he wished Max, rather than the Mid whom Max would ordinarily detail for the task, to walk him to the Casualty Station.  During the short walk, they exchanged small talk, mainly inquiries about men with whom they had both served.  Although the two men had never met, they had both been serving in combat commands in the same theater of operations for years, and so had a store of mutual friends, acquaintances, and shipmates.  Kim seemed amiable enough, but studiously avoided saying anything of consequence and gave no hint why he wanted Max with him.

The two men entered the Casualty Station and were shown into one of the small treatment rooms by Doctor Sahin’s Head Nurse, a large, burly man named Chapel with perfectly immense biceps and incongruously soft hands.  Kim inclined his head almost invisibly in the direction of the tiny black dome in the ceiling that held the camera for that compartment’s surveillance system.  Chapel, a fourteen year veteran who had served eleven and a half of those years on warships in or near the FEBA, caught the motion and its significance.  “No monitoring in here, sir.  Doctor Sahin hadn’t been on board two hours before he asked me where ‘all the bloody, damned, contemptible spy eyes’ were.  I showed him, and he started snipping wires himself.  Naturally, that brought Major Kraft and Lieutenant Brown down here practically at a run, and there was something of a row, with the Doctor yelling about patient confidentiality and the Hippocratic Oath with the other two men going on about safety of the vessel, security of its personnel, tracking enemy boarders, and all that.  They compromised—the doctor can be a very stubborn man as you may know—there is no monitoring in any patient area, but there is in the doctor’s administrative office, my office, the pharmacy, and all the storage areas.  If we yell “help” in here, it will get picked up by one of those and we’ll have Marines in here in less than a minute.  But, otherwise, whatever goes on in this room is neither seen nor heard by anyone other than the people present.”

“Thank you, Nurse Chapel,” said Max.  Chapel reached for the topical disinfectant applicator to prep the injection site.

“Nurse, that won’t be necessary,” said Kim.  “I don’t need the injection.  It was just an excuse to get me over here to see Captain Robichaux for an informal conference.  Now, I’d be grateful if you’d excuse us, but remain in a non-monitored area so it won’t look as though you left us alone.”  Chapel looked at Max to see if the request was to be honored.  Max nodded his approval and Chapel left.

“Sorry for all the cloak and dagger bullshit, Max.  May I call you Max?”  Max nodded.  “Great.  My friends call me Sue.”  In response to Max’s questioning expression he added.  “Long story.  Involves a very old American Country-Western song.  Anyway, my friends do call me Sue and I’d be grateful if you would, as well”

“It would be my pleasure, Sue.”  The two shook hands.  “Now, what can I do for you?”

Despite what was apparently a highly direct nature, Kim seemed to be having a hard time getting started.  Apparently, he was uncomfortable with what he came here to say.  So, he attacked the subject from the flank.  “Thank you for the honors when I came aboard.  Not every skipper has shown me that level of courtesy.”

“As in when you went on board the pennant?”

“You might say that,” said Kim.

“Let me guess, you came aboard on the port side, through the servants’ entrance, and found yourself saluting the auxiliary shit pump?”

“Exactly.  We watched him do the same thing to you, although we couldn’t see what happened when you went aboard.”

“And when you met with him, I suppose he treated you like deck grunge from one of the Enlisted Head Areas he just scraped off the sole of his shoe, right?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Kim agreed.  “I couldn’t believe it.  He and I are the same rank.  Of course, he’s still my senior by virtue of time in grade and being appointed commander of the group, but that just means I have to follow his orders, not that he can treat me like an inferior.  I wouldn’t even talk to a Mid the way he talked to me.  It was beyond outrageous.  Of course, I know why.”

“I wish you’d clue me in.”

“Jealousy.  Pure, bitter jealousy.  The man has been stuck on convoy duty almost his entire career, hasn’t been within ten AU of a Krag, and feels that he’s been unfairly robbed of his opportunity for glory, honor, and promotion.  He resents officers like us with combat records who are on the promotion ladder.  He knows that, unless something very improbable happens, he’ll die a Commander at the con of a Frigate or behind a desk, either at the grade he holds today or with a courtesy promotion to Captain on the eve of retirement so he can draw a higher pension and spend the rest of his life being introduced as ‘Captain Duflot’ at cocktail parties.  Between you and me, having him con a
Compaq-MAC
class work station would be a favor to everyone because the man’s a menace in a CIC.  What he doesn’t get is that it’s not lack of combat experience that is giving the brass the false sense that he can’t cut it in battle; it’s the absolute certainty on the part of the brass that he can’t cut it in battle that has prevented him from accumulating combat experience.  I was in his CIC when he was working a contact.  Took him and his people more than half an hour to get it localized and classified.  Turns out it was a merchie with a malfunctioning squawk box.  No big deal.  Thing is, though, she was at intermediate range, no stealth, no tricks, following a lubber line course.  Your people or mine would have had her localized and classified with a firing solution computed, have run the registration, and known the size of her skipper’s pecker to millimeter precision in six or seven minutes.”

Well, on the
Cumberland
, maybe twelve or thirteen.  Max nodded slowly.  Based on what he had seen and on what he knew about human nature, it made sense.  He understood it.  He had even seen it before.  But he had no clue what could be done about it.  He met Kim’s eyes.  Kim shook his head.

“Nope.  Knowing why doesn’t help, except to let you know that you, personally, didn’t do anything to earn all the crap the man is shoving in your direction.”

“That is good to know, but getting shit on by Commander Duflot is the least of my worries.”

“I know,” said Kim.  “We’ve got some big ones.  One you know about.  One you don’t.  The one you don’t know about is that Duflot doesn’t believe that the flag stops at the hull.”

Max looked at Kim incredulously.  “Where does the flag stop, then?”