The Black Ships (18 page)

Growing up, Märti had known some informal
priests, but this man seemed out of place, sitting casually on the floor of one
of the greatest cathedrals in Christendom as though he were about to pull out a
picnic lunch. Even more unusual, he looked less like an aging priest and more
like a retired army officer.

“Why don’t you tell me about it,” the older
man suggested.

Leuzinger must have come here for
confession,
he thought.
This priest knows what
happened but can’t talk with me about it unless I tell him myself.
He told
the story, beginning from the moment he jumped out of the boat. The elderly man
listened in silence and, when the major was done, shifted his position with a
grimace.

“My natural cushion isn’t what it once
was,” the old man explained as he settled. “If you could go back two days, what
would you have done differently?”

Märti was surprised. He was not quite sure
what to expect from this priest whom he had just met, but that question had
gone neatly to the heart of his guilt. Despite appearing more concerned with
his own buttocks, he was clearly listening very carefully. The question had
sounded almost off-hand but that took away the tension, giving Märti time to
think without feeling that an answer was immediately required.

“I don’t know, Father.” He frowned at the
floor, seeing the events again in his mind. “I suppose I should have been
quicker to replace the handful of men who had been hit by the gasoline. That
might have saved her.”

If the priest noticed that the soldier
hadn’t said
them
, he gave no sign of it. “A very dangerous choice,” he
said with a barely perceptible shake of the head. “A gap in your defenses, even
for just a moment, could have been all it took for a stand-off to become a
melee.” He shifted again, with an apologetic smile. “What would happen, Major,
if the crowd had broken through and come to blows with your men?”

Märti didn’t need time to think about that
and the priest seemed to know it because he was now obviously waiting for an
answer. “Chaos. More would have died. My men would have been overwhelmed by the
crowd, someone would have begun shooting and then more would have joined in.”

 “Some of the crowd would have seized
weapons from your men,” added the priest. “The south end of the island would
have become a charnel house.”

This man seems to know a lot about the
military, for a priest.
“We shouldn’t have been
here in the first place,” said Märti quietly. “My men are trained to fight
soldiers, not hungry civilians angry at being forced to choose between food and
medical care.”

The priest looked absently into the middle
distance between them for a moment. “When I first entered the priesthood,” he
began, seeing the past as though it hung there, between the pillars. “I wanted
to study canon law but I found myself placed in charge of an orphanage.” He
shifted to lean a bit to the right. “Imagine my outrage,” he smiled. “Rather
than the exciting future that I had planned out, I was stuck in an unimportant
little building in a back alley of Marseilles. Ahh, that’s better,” he said as
he shifted to his left, leaning on one hand.

“Father, we should get up; the floor is too
cold to sit on for any length of time.” He extended a hand and the man took it.
As the priest came to his feet, Märti imagined the same scene, except the man
was wearing fatigues and had webbing hanging about his torso as he came to his
feet. It seemed far more natural than his current black clothing.

The older man clapped him on the shoulder
with a friendly grin. “Let’s go for a walk.” He led the way out the massive
front door and down onto the Quai du Marché Neuf. “In time,” he resumed his
earlier theme, his breath misting in the cool autumn air, “I came to realize
that I had been of far greater service in that little orphanage. Some of my
children have gone on to do great things and I like to flatter myself that I
had some small part in their young lives.”

They walked in silence for a while, not the
slow perambulation one associates with a strolling priest, but a quick
purposeful stride. They passed the men at the Petit Pont and the Pont St.
Michel. When they reached the Pont Neuf, the priest threaded his way through
the soldiers at the barricade as though such things were an everyday occurrence
for him. The men gave way with deference and he led Märti out to the middle of
the bridge. One camera crew was there on the far end, no doubt doing a
follow-up piece.

“We love to make plans,” he said, ignoring
the camera. “But our plans do not take precedence and, quite often, our talents
are needed where we least expect.” He turned to the down-river side and nodded
towards the center bastion. “This is where you found her?” He hadn’t missed the
reference earlier.

Märti sighed as the memory filled his
senses. He could hear the screams of the wounded, the quiet urgency of the
medics and, most of all, the screams of the little girl. He nodded silently,
not trusting his voice.

“Major, it is my well-founded opinion that
you could have done nothing to prevent this tragedy. In fact, you and your men
did much in the aftermath to save the wounded.” He placed a comforting hand on
Märti’s shoulder as he spoke. “Whether you believe it or not, I am one of the
few who can make such a judgment based on personal experience. I have been in
your shoes and I clearly remember how it felt all these years later.”

I know who this is,
thought Märti. He remembered, years ago, reading a piece on the
‘Warrior Bishop’, a former officer with the  
Légion étrangère
who
had served in Operation
Mantra
in Chad. Something had happened while
there that had caused him to forsake his life of adventure and enter the
seminary. He had never revealed his reasons to anyone and Märti realized that
he now knew, more than anyone, why this man had changed the trajectory of his
life three decades ago.

“You’re Bishop Cheverie, aren’t you?” He
blurted the question in his surprise, even though he was already certain of the
answer.

The man turned and held out his hand.

Märti dropped to his left knee and he
kissed the ring.

“I must admit to a small bit of subterfuge,
my son,” he said as the officer climbed back to his feet. “I brought you here
before revealing who I am.” He placed a guiding hand on his shoulder and they
walked back to the barricade. “Though I believe you could have done nothing to
prevent this tragedy, I also believe it important for the people of this city
to believe it as well.”

The men moved aside to let them back onto
the island. “If you were seen as the figurehead of all that plagues our
country, then more would die at these barricades. That is why I came here with
you.” He stopped once they were past the barricades and turned to face Märti
speaking loudly enough for the men of First Platoon to hear. “I would not have
come if I believed you were to blame. No one can know what secret fears lurk in
a man’s heart, and your young corporal would most likely have given his own
life to save his comrades.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the
men at this. “He was a good man, Your Grace,” Leuzinger asserted sadly. “I wish
I could have stopped him in some other way.”

“We should all mourn the passing of a good
man,” the bishop replied gently. “But he was in the grip of a fear that put him
beyond reason. If you hadn’t acted, how many more would now be dead?” He looked
at the men. “You have been on the grenade range, yes?” As they nodded, he
continued. “The range NCO in your bunker carries a sidearm. You know why this
is.”

They nodded, some sneaking a glance at
Leuzinger. The parallel was clear. A man who panicked while holding a live
grenade could kill his comrades. It was the duty of the range NCO to ensure
that the live grenade did not find its way over the back wall of the concrete
cubicles. If that meant shooting the student, then that NCO would have a very
difficult memory to live with.

“You can’t dwell on it,” Cheverie
continued. “What happened was unavoidable. What was done, had to be done. I
believe you’ve been brought here for a reason. Perhaps to learn, perhaps to
teach…” He turned his gaze on Märti. “You must discover what that reason is.”
With that, he nodded to the men and walked back up the street towards the
cathedral.

Roosevelt Island, New York

December 5
^th
, 2026

M
ark spotted Callum leaning on the low sea-wall, looking out over the
the East River and he walked over, joining him in gazing across at Manhattan.
“Had a problem with the cab this morning,” he said casually. Cal grunted
non-commitally. “I pulled our video gear before it went into the garage,” he
continued. “I can try to get him talking on the way to Kennedy this Friday.”

“No need,” Cal grinned across the water
where a protest march was starting to form up. “Change of plans. I had someone
pick him up this morning and take him somewhere quiet.”

Mark stared at Cal’s grinning profile in
silence for a few moments. “You had him picked up,” he repeated Callum’s words
flatly. “You mean you abducted him?” 

“That’s right. We’ll interrogate him and
then maybe have him record a video statement to help generate some buzz before
we move into the next phase.” He looked over at Mark, awash with excitement.
“We’re going to be very busy.”

“Wait a minute.” Mark cocked his head. “You
had him picked up. You have someone else in the city helping you?”

Cal looked back at the city.
“Compartmentalization, Marky my boy.” His face grew grim as he spoke. “Our
group in Antioch is completely compromised because everyone knows about each other.”
His hands were fists as they rested on the concrete sea-wall. “That won’t
happen here. My capture team has no need to be seen with you or associated in
any way with any of the other groups.”

“Other groups?” Mark’s eyes grew wide in
surprise. “Shit, Cal, you haven’t even been here a month and you got yourself a
whole network?” He leaned on the wall and looked out at the Lower East Side.
“You could at least let me know about changes in plans that
do
affect
me. I was worried about missing our target this morning. I was all set to get
him talking about what happened in Paris, and you went and changed the whole
game.” He swiveled to look at Cal again, suspicion clouding his features. “Did
you sabotage my cab last night?”

Cal grimaced, looking down at the river.
“Had to look natural, didn’t it? This way, your dispatcher can tell the police
that you were clocked off when the kidnapping went down – no way you would have
been anywhere near Kennedy when your regular customer went missing.” He looked
around them quickly before continuing. “Listen, Mark, you and I are the
planners. It was a mistake for me to risk you on an operation so I pulled you,
and put in a different team.”

There was no such team, of course, Cal was
entirely on his own. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something
about Mark that set off alarms in his head. Kevin had gone to ground, so Cal
couldn’t ask him about his cousin. Mark had a very… federal… feeling about him.

Cal decided to let him believe there was a
network. That would give him the time he needed. He could plan and execute his
operation while they were hoping to gain access to his fictional network of
operators.

 “So what are we planning?”

A wolfish grin spread across Callum’s face.
“We use the UN prisoner as our voice. Video messages on the web and every major
news outlet. People will watch because we’re going to drive a big load of
explosives right up to the Secretariat and set them off.”

The best misdirection always had a grain of
truth in it.

Cassini Proving Grounds,

Geosynchronous Orbit

January 5
^th
, 2027

F
rank brachiated onto the observation deck like a pro. The two day
delay in launching the medium cruiser had left him stranded on the
Amazon
and he had spent his time exploring the small frigate from stem to stern as she
guarded the shipyard. A ship-to-ship shuttle had transferred him over to the
new ship once the engine glitch had been sorted out and the crew-ban lifted.
Until the ship was capable of leaving Earth’s gravity-well under her own power,
all non-essential personnel were refused permission to board.

He had been awestruck by the size of the
Amazon
.
It contained more than three times the volume of the contemporary surface
frigates that plied Earth’s oceans. The frigates, all named for rivers, were
the smallest of the fleet and were designed for fast acceleration while still
carrying a considerable armament.  The
Amazon’s
complement of
twenty 105mm and fifteen 155mm guns were adapted straight out of the self
propelled howitzers that had served in Earth’s many bloody conflicts.

The turrets were drastically shrunken
compared to their terrestrial cousins as they had no need to hold crewmen.
Auto-loading shunts, nicknamed ‘powder monkeys’, fed ammunition from central
magazines located in the middle of the vessel. A smaller complement of close-in
weapon systems or CIWS was spread around the outer surface in an attempt to
provide a last defense against incoming weapons such as missiles.

Approaching the
Hermann
– all
cruisers were named for famous warriors - Frank had been reminded of just how
small the frigates really were. The
Amazon
may have been bigger than a
surface frigate, but the
Hermann’s
dimensions were more than double that
of the Amazon, giving her a volume that was roughly eight times as much.

The
Hermann
bristled with weapons.
She carried thirty 105mm and thirty 155mm guns as a base armament but also
carried four 250mm bow chasers as well as two more mounted aft as stern
chasers. The emphasis of this vessel was obviously on attack, though she could
still sting in withdrawal. At the ship’s heart was the strategic magazine where
twenty W87 thermonuclear warheads lay strapped into storage racks. The warheads
had been harvested from American Peacekeeper missiles and their modified
casings lay in racks on the far wall. Heavy steel cones were provided to
increase the chance of a warhead reaching an enemy ship under fire as well as
more exotic ceramic foam shields to allow the warheads to reach a planet’s
surface.

As with the
Amazon
, the
Hermann
bristled with an array of CIWS, mostly the updated version of the venerable
Vulcan Gatling gun. She was a beautiful ship in an ugly sort of way. Both
classes of escort vessel were simply designed, much like an elongated matchbox
with a slight indent or
hogging
in the middle. The edges and corners
were rounded off to provide a more effective firing solution but the look was
definitely boxy.

Today’s exercise would be maneuver and
fire, and Frank was keenly aware of the numerous stanchions and grip handles
that littered every interior surface of these vessels. The script called for an
emergency thrust to bring the main battery to bear upon a target that currently
sat at forty degrees off-axis. This would test the ship’s ability to quickly
engage an unexpected target. The heavy 250mm guns could only traverse ten
degrees due to the massive breech mechanisms and so the ship had to be swung
about to bring her main armament into action.

This represented a change from the old
naval tactic of ‘crossing the T’. In the days of sail, a ship’s main armament
was mounted on the port and starboard sides. The bow often contained smaller,
long-range guns intended to interdict an enemy’s rigging or punch a hole in her
hull. A captain who crossed the T was one who had his broadside facing the bow
of an enemy. A 44-gun frigate like the old
USS Constitution
could wreak
crippling damage on a 74-gun ship of the line if she was crossing her enemy’s
bow.

The
Hermann
turned that old rule on
its head. Her sting lay in her nose, not in her broadside. By swinging to face
the enemy, not only would the main battery be clear to fire, but also the
entire flank armament of 105mm and 155mm guns could swivel on their turrets to
face the enemy. The turrets could rotate by 360 degrees and the barrel itself
rotated in a 180-degree arc within its mounting.

“Emergency maneuver. All hands brace for
impact.” The voice blared from speakers throughout the ship, followed by
immediate activation of four of the eight maneuvering thrusters built into the
bow and stern. The forward port thrusters and the aft starboard thrusters
suddenly went to full power, and everyone on the observation deck scrambled to
find handholds as a deep rumbling sound reverberated through the ship. For a
moment, they looked at each other sheepishly as there was still no movement; it
took a long time to get a ship this heavy moving.

After about five seconds, Frank noticed a
tendency for his body to drift to starboard and he was slowly rotating around
the handhold mounted to what he thought of as the ceiling. The tendency grew in
strength as the spin accelerated. Screens mounted in the observation deck
showed a plan version of the vessel, indicating the change in orientation. As
they reached the twenty-degree mark, Frank could see the forward engines shut
off on the port side and roar into life to starboard. The engines were fueled
by a massive tank of liquid propellant. Though solid fuel engines were cheap
and efficient, they couldn’t be shut off once started and would have been worse
than useless for maneuvering.

There was a moment of reprieve as the ship
ceased its rotational acceleration and then everyone in the room began to
rotate in the opposite direction. The engines continued all the way to the
forty-degree mark and then shut down, leaving the ship facing her target. The
evolution had taken just over two seconds per degree.

Now came the tense moment. The turret guns
had been proven during the
Amazon’s
testing but everyone was a little
nervous about the main armament’s viability. The nervous chatter on the mess
deck had centered around the recoil tearing an opening in the hull. “Why else,”
the head cook had intoned with a knowing look. “would I be needing to wear
this?” He’d brandished his EVA helmet at Frank.

“All hands, all hands, main battery test
beginning. All hands seal your EVA gear immediately. Test begins in twenty
seconds.” An automated voice began a countdown as Frank forced himself to
remain calm. He carefully pulled his helmet from the Velcro tab at his waist
and slid it over his head. He felt a moment of relief as he pulled the locking
ring, hearing the satisfying click as it engaged the seal around his neck. The
automated voice took on a more artificial tone as the small speakers in his
helmet activated.

Now, with ten seconds to go, his mind ran
through the worst case scenario.
What if the mounts fail?
His hand
sought the ceiling handle for reassurance.
That barrel weighs a hell of a
lot. If it came crashing back through the ship it would pass right through the
magazines.
He shuddered despite the uncomfortable heat of his suit. There
were hundreds of charge canisters stored behind the main batteries.

Once the projectile was rammed into the
breech, the designated number of sealed charge canisters would then ride onto
the loading rails and the breech block would force them in behind the outgoing
round. The propellant contained it’s own oxidizers, allowing the loading
compartment to be unpressurized.

The charges were the greatest danger, Frank
now realized. If a gun came free of its hydraulic dampening mechanism, it would
almost certainly demolish the forward compartments of the ship, including the
powder store for the main battery. Cellulose canisters were no match for the
tons of steel that would tear through the magazine and a deadly cloud of
propellant would be the result. The ensuing explosion would destroy the entire
front half of the warship and cripple her, though it wasn’t certain any crew
would be left alive anyway.

It was already too late to change most of
the first fleet. The modules were already sitting in the transfer yard and
there was no way to change the design.
I need to get Kim involved in
improving the designs for the next two fleets,
Frank thought as the
countdown reached zero.

A deep bellow sounded through the ship,
transmitting through the bulkheads. Monitors and other fixtures rattled for a
few seconds while observers took note of the worst offenders for remedial
action. Frank raised his hands involuntarily as a brilliant fireball blossomed
from the end of the huge gun. The projectile was lost against the blackness of
space and all eyes looked to the monitor where a fire control display was
shown.

The round ran true, passing through the
center of the target twenty kilometers away. A chorus of oddly muffled cheers
sounded in the room. Frank looked to the damage control option on the central
monitor and breathed a sigh of relief. The weapon mounts, their housings and
the bulkheads of the entire region around the main battery had optic fibers
embedded in them. Any cracks would sever the optic conduits and register
immediately on the damage control system.

The procedure repeated three more times for
each of the forward guns before the main show could begin. Every weapon on the
ship would now partake in a live fire exercise. The fire control panel came to
life as operators in the Combat Information Center selected all batteries and
designated the target as live. Frank looked out the windows in time to see
turrets swing from the safety position to bear on the primary target.

The entire ship seemed wreathed in flames
and combustion gases as the sound of close to thirty guns began to hammer
through the ship. There was the sharper report of the 105’s mixed in with the
deeper, sonorous booms of the 155’s. The 250’s were set to fire in sequence,
partly to minimize the chance of damage to the ship, but also to ensure a
steady stream of fire from the big guns.

With a cycle time of roughly twenty
seconds, it was decided that an enemy might feel he had a short breathing space
between volleys in which to think and act. By firing in sequence, one every
five seconds, it was hoped that fear of the big guns might disrupt the enemy’s
decision cycle.  

A section of the fire control display
indicated that two starboard batteries and one dorsal battery had been tasked
to a new target.  In unison, the selected weapons turned to the new
target, their fire now converging on a single point ten kilometers from that
side of the ship while the remaining guns continued to fire on the target to
the front.

Frank had seen enough and wanted to get
below to the CIC before the next phase began. He made his way over to the hatch
in the floor and passed through into the main dorsal-ventral trunk. He
descended as quickly as he dared, remembering that several crewmen had broken
their wrists by moving too fast and carelessly grabbing a handhold without
considering the forces involved.

He reached the CIC hatch and passed through
one of the airlocks that allowed continued access in the event of a hull
breach. Once inside, he nodded to the Swiss soldier who guarded the airlock and
floated over to the fire control team. Their status board was far better than
the display up on the observation deck. It showed each of the ship’s six main
surfaces with color-coded zones indicating individual batteries.

“Designate ventral five and six to target
Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha.” The gunnery officer spoke as loudly as possible without
shouting, his German accent oddly lost as he raised his voice.

“Ventral batteries five and six to target
Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha, aye sir,” the gunnery director replied as he touched the
screen to highlight the affected batteries, then touched the target designator
on a list at the bottom. Frank wasn’t sure of the man’s rank as he was
unfamiliar with German insignia. The individual turrets went gray as they
traversed, going back to red as they came to bear. “Ventral five and six now
engaging target Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha,” the man reported. “Ventral Five-Alpha is
masked.”

The display showed the one turret still in
gray. It would be unable to fire if another part of the ship were in the way.
To ensure this, the weapons integrators had devised an ingenious system using
adjustable physical barriers in the traverse mechanisms of each weapon. It was
physically impossible for any gun to fire on a part of the ship.

That plan was about to be put to the test.

The captain tapped his headset. “All hands,
emergency maneuvering, brace for impact.” Deactivating the headset, he kept his
eyes on the monitors in front of him as he began to issue orders. “Helm, bring
us around to face target Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha.” The ship began to come about on
a flat plane as though she were sitting on the Pacific. “Fire Control,
deactivate exercise target Zulu-Three-One-Alpha,  activate exercise
target  Zulu-Five-Five-Bravo and engage.”

The new target now sat apart from the flat
plane that the ship was spinning on. The fire control was programmed to offer
corrections to the helmsman so that the ship could optimize the use of her
gunnery. While engaging two targets, the ship herself made the third
point  that changed a line to a plane. If she were aligned with that
plane, then all dorsal and ventral guns should be able to hit either of the
targets.