Heart of Steel: Book II of the Jonathan Pavel Series (16 page)

“A ship's Bosun must be fully versed in the duty of every crewman, and understand at least the most basic of function of each system.” To achieve the coveted rank of Bosun, an enlisted man first had to become a Master Chief Petty Officer, the highest rank an enlisted man in the Solarian Navy could achieve, but that didn't automatically make you a Bosun. In order to gain that classification, a Master Chief Petty Officer had to be certified in engineering, rigging, basic astrogation, weapons systems, ship handling, and small ship handling. The reasoning for this was that while an officer like Jonathan received a three year education in how to command a ship plus time in the grade, no officer would ever be able to get the same experience as a man or woman who spent half their life in space. It took 15 years of spacetime even to be considered for promotion to Master Chief Petty Officer. Once you added all the time it took to get the certifications, the average Bosun had been handling ships since their officers were bright spots in their father's eyes.  Knowles was currently sitting in Jonathan's chair on the bridge giving orders to
Fury
and the freighters control teams. He was no exception. Jonathan had reviewed his personnel file. Knowles had twelve years with the Terran Federal Navy and another thirty in the Solarian Fleet. Jonathan had no qualms about letting him guide the massive ships that were rapidly closing, while outside the
Fury’s
rigger team stood ready to secure the inflatable docking tubes, utility lines and cables. Once that was done with the first freighter, the second one would dock to the first, and then all personnel and cargo could be unloaded from both ships onto
Fury
in a matter of hours. Jonathan didn't begrudge the Knowles position. Some officers were sure that NCOs were just there to enforce discipline, and advert their eyes from their betters when officers passed, but Jonathan knew better. Officers led, but it was useless to lead when no one would follow you, and it paid to listen to those who had the skills. That didn’t mean Jonathan was totally out of his depth. He’d been rated as a rigger 3rd Class under the United Spacers Union when he was 16. After his graduation from the academy, Jonathan had taken an optional re-certification course on his ensign cruise, and held a rigger 1st rating. So instead of nervously standing behind Knowles on the bridge biting his nails, he was outside with the reserve team. Though some officers would think such things beneath their dignity, Jonathan had no such delusions. In cases like this when most of the crew was slated to come aboard from the transports, it was all hands on deck. Knowles had seem a bit startled when Jonathan informed him that he’d be joining the riggers. In fact, all the officers had seemed unsure what to make of it except George who was use to Jonathan's hands on style. George had really been enjoying himself since Jonathan came aboard, while the rest of the crew and officers were being driven to confusion. Jonathan looked like a Provo, talked like a Steader, and led like a Spacer. His inspection, which he’d conducted in utilities rather than uniform, had been incredibly thorough uncovering things every other officer would overlook. He was also lenient despite finding contraband alcohol and food. Anyone who thought he was a softy was disabused of that notion when Jonathan found the number 6 plasma turrets internal workings in complete disarray. The four man crew charged with maintaining it were on bread and water rations in the brig with sixteen lashes each. There were few sins more grievous aboard a Navy ship than neglecting the vessels weapons. The appeals that the state of number 6 was due to the extended time in mothball didn't move Jonathan. As he noted, the seven other plasma turrets that George had noted in his survey as in poor shape seemed to have been fully rehabilitated in the two weeks since
Fury
had started coming out of mothball. The argument had ended there, and the four man team had been broken up. Better to keep shirkers and gold breakers apart less they feed off each other. Jonathan didn’t analyze his style of leadership much, but he knew his amiable, no nonsense approach worked. 

Jonathan was lifted out of his rumination by the approach of the
Doneghy,
which would be the first ship to dock. The
Taudown
hung off at a safe distance in case anything should go wrong. As the
Doneghy
slid parallel to the
Fury,
the riggers from both ships lept into action. The pull teams, comprised of about a dozen spacers each, attached steel cables to nodes at the bow and stern on both the port and starboard side and top and bottom. This allowed the riggers to use their suits’s RCS packs to gently nudge the freighter into its final alignment. Slowly, the crew performed a delicate dance, pulling and tugging the massive ship into position. From Jonathan's vantage point, it was almost comical. The tiny figures of men in their space suits affecting the movement of the massive, bulky vessel. It was working though. Normally, such maneuvers were safe but then again most things were normally safe until they weren't. All it took was a split second for things to turn. The aft port line, a three inch thick steel cable that had been improperly stored and had become corroded, suddenly gave way snapping in half. The torque from being attached to a 60,000 ton freighter caused it to be whipped back, striking two of the spacers holding it as the rest of the crew dropped it and scrambled out of the way. The
Doneghy
began to roll and float toward the
Fury
taking the path of least resistance. Jonathan and the two dozen spacers next to him were moving as soon as the cable snapped.

“Bosun, this is the Captain. Emergency situation, cable break. Unknown casualties sustained. Scramble the lifeguards. We will secure the
Doneghy.”

“Aye sir,” came the reply. At the
Fury’s
air lock, the eight men teams who had been standing by lept into space using their fast jet packs. They closed in on the beacons of the now scattered line crew, while Jonathan and the other riggers from the back-up group closed in on the node where the line had been secured. It took a blood freezing two minutes to close the gap, two minutes while the
Doneghy
drifted closer to the
Fury.
Finally, two of the cable men reached the node, and began working immediately.  One secured the hook to the steel bar as he flew past, unable to slow because of his velocity. He made it look easy, but such a maneuver took years of training. His partner, meanwhile, let the line unspool from the wheel he carried on his back flying at full speed to get it unrolled as fast as possible. Jonathan slowed, as did the other riggers, securing themselves along the line and switching their RCS jets over to Knowles’s console on the bridge. Finally, a full three minutes after the line had broken the call came from the cableman.

“Line out.” That indicated he’d run out of line.

“All together heave,” Jonathan instructed.

The riggers fired their RCS jets and pulled getting the line taunt.

“Bosun, line secured,” Jonathan reported.

“Aye sir, stand by stabilizing,” Knowles said over the com.

Now came the painful part. Jonathan and the other riggers pulled the line taut as Knowles linked their RCS systems together through the control panel, and then began firing them in unison. As the riggers from the original line crew took hold of the line, it increased the amount of torque exponentially and gradually the
Doneghy
stabilized. It took a grueling ten minutes during which Jonathan's arms burned and his brow began to sweat. The RCS thrusters were doing the heavy lifting, but the riggers still needed to keep hold of the line and keep it taut. Most of them were doing this through nothing but old fashioned muscle power and it was draining. Finally, Knowles signaled again.

“
Doneghy
stabilized, positioning docking collars now, wait one.”

Jonathan and the other riggers waited, sweat stinging their eyes. It wasn’t something most people thought about, but being unable to wipe your face was the worst part of EVA.

“Docking collar secure, line crews heave off.”

As one the riggers relaxed letting the line go limp. They moved away from it letting the cable men begin to spool it up.

Jonathan activated his com unit, “Hilper, casualty report.”

The assistant engineer, like Jonathan, had taken additional certification only her area was EVA rescue and recovery, which was why Jonathan had put her in charge of the lifeguard teams.

“Sir we're doing a head count now, wait one,” she said in her clipped tones.

Jonathan waited floating blissfully in the zero gravity watching the star field through his visor. Men were inspired looking at that sight, or else they gradually went mad. Something flickered at the edge of Jonathan's field of vision.  Using his neural control, he ordered his heads up display to magnify it. Zooming in, Jonathan could just make out the shape of one of his crew floating in the emptiness. He checked his HUD again - no transponder signal.

“Hilper, Bosun this is the Captain. I have eyes on one of our people. I’m investigating. Send lifeguards to my location.”

Jonathan ignored their acknowledgements as he tilted his RCS and burned toward the crewmen. As Jonathan approached, he could see it wasn't good. The crewman was missing his right leg below the knee and his right arm. The cable when it snapped had gone through his flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter. The suit seemed to have done its job auto sealing the breaches. The life support system would have injected several drugs to prevent shock. As Jonathan closed to a few feet, he slowed reaching out and taking the crewman's shoulder and turning him around. He saw that it didn't matter. The helmet visor had been breached and suffocation would have been almost instantaneous. Jonathan's crewman stared back at him, his face frozen from the cold but his eyes open. Jonathan reached through the broken visor and closed his eyes.

“Sir,” Hilper chimed. “Headcount complete. Four injured, two with amputations, three dead and one missing.”

“Four dead lieutenant,” Jonathan said. He turned to see the two lifeguards coming up behind him. Silently they helped the Captian load their comrade into a body bag. The procedure for deaths aboard ship was to jettison the bodies for  burial in space, but with the freighters docked the dead men and woman would hitch a ride back to Solaria, and be buried in earthen graves. After they had zipped the body bag up, Jonathan opened a com channel to everyone in range.

“Though the light has gone from their eyes, and their bones shall lay in earthen soil, grant that their souls shall forever walk among the stars in the places where demons flee, and angels fear to tread, and only men dare go.”

A chorus of “Amens” came back through the coms. 

“Knowles are we secure?” Jonathan asked

“Aye sir
Doneghy
is set and
Taudown
is coming up now,” Knowles replied.

“Has the cable’s trajectory been verified?” Jonathan asked.

“Aye sir, it's on a terminal orbit with Zhong.  ETA to burn up three months. A debris bulletin has been issued.” Knowles said. There was a pause and Jonathan saw the indicator switch from open to private channel.

“Sir, are you coming in?” Knowles asked.

“Negative Boats.” Jonathan replied using the Bosun’s informal title.

“I’ll regroup with the rest of the reserve team. Let's get this fat bitch hooked up, and Knowles keep doing what you're doing. You are showing some masterful skill. Even Captain’s can't stop cable breaks. We are only the first master
after
God,” Jonathan said.

There was a pause, “Acknowledged Skipper. Let us know when your back on station,” Knowles said.

Despite the sadness of losing men without even getting the ship underway, Jonathan smiled a bit at that. Being called Skipper was a sign of his acceptance by the crew, not just as their lawfully appointed Captain, but as the person they trusted to lead them. Jonathan's moment of happiness was brief however as he followed the life guards and the corpse back toward
Fury.
Men died in space. They died often and usually violently. All it took was the flick of the finger of fate and you were finished. There would be letters to write to families and reports to fill out, but Jonathan's prayer was the only memorial the crew of
Fury
would have for their fallen comrades. Their bunks would be cleared, and their possessions sent home or else divided among their mates, but tomorrow it would be as if they never were aboard. It was the callousness of the service. Duty to the living came before all else.

Solaria  System, In Orbit of Zhong, Solarian Republic

Outside RSNS
Sound of Fury

October 18th 843 AE

Thankfully,
Taudown
  proved less of a hassle than
Doneghy
and the lines held. With the big freighters docked to
Fury,
the final unloading could begin. Jonathan eyed the manifest in his helmet HUD, and not for the first time whistled at the sheer scale of it.
Fury
was taking on three quarters of her crew and her whole Marine contingent, plus their provisions, ammunition, and a menagerie of additional items. The entire process would probably take about two days. After which, Jonathan planned an intense series of drills before the convoy assembled early next week. Once the convoy assembled and was under way, it would be three weeks till the deadline. With luck,
Fury
would be in position by the time hostilities began. Jonathan had no desire to be escorting a convoy when war began. Few tasks were more thankless or dangerous. Wormways might create natural choke points in and out of star systems, but the wormways’ unpredictable natures, not to mention their occasional tendencies to randomly vomit intense radiation during temporal storms, made it blockading them untenable. Pickets were posted, but doctrine dictated that fleets position themselves near solar bodies of strategic importance. This made it easy for small squadrons of light ships, wolf packs to slip through wormways undetected and hide in the vastness of star systems, striking at targets of opportunity. Jonathan looked at the massive
Taudown
and
Doneghy
again. Those waddling giants were designed to move huge quantities through secure space lanes, not defend themselves. Smaller, faster merchantmen were often armed. Some were very well armed, but the transports Jonathan would be escorting were the very definition of sitting ducks.