Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1 (4 page)

The funniest group on board is RISTA, McAdams and her two person team floating in their berthing area, each one holding a pad, another eight or ten pads in free float around them, and four monitors live on the wall. She picked an interesting team. Her number two, Lieutenant Bass, out ranks her by two grades and 10 years, outsizes her by 120 pounds. Rare for a senior person to volunteer to serve under a 23 year old ensign, rarer for the 23 year old to be comfortable commanding a superior officer.
And her third is 18 year old probationary Seaman Juan Manuel, four months in the service, who got one of the highest scores ever on the spacial acuity test they give to new recruits. She told me that the Academy only trains people in battle group maneuvers, she wanted someone she could train from scratch to think about single ship operations. He's been with us less than a week, probably now wondering if he should have asked for other duty.
It looks more like a slumber party with a college student, her uncle, and younger brother, than a military planning exercise, but who am I to argue. At least as long as I like the plan in the morning.
At 2200, I issue a general order to the crew. Sleep. Everyone in their rack by 2330, and no one out before 0600, unless they get permission from me personally. Much pretend moaning and groaning, but tomorrow will not be a day for the tired.
The
Constitution
crew is doing the grunt work, helping Ayala load and inventory a couple thousand containers of supplies, they request to keep working and I am happy to oblige. As do the Marines from
Constitution
, who want every gun shiny before we go.
I make sure to revisit the slumber party, and give them an extra hour to get me their report if they'll get some rack time. Not sure they didn't sneak back out as soon as mom left the room. Another oddity of the ship, they are the only mixed group, officers and enlisted bunking in the same quad.
Then I take my own orders, except that I head to the bridge, strap myself into my command couch, and fall quickly asleep.

Chapter 2

FRIGCOM delivers hot breakfast at 0630, something else I have not seen in 11 years of active duty, an admiral voluntarily serving pancakes (or what would be pancakes if you didn't have to eat them out of a tube) to the crew. Clearly not reconstituted pancakes either, these have that scent of fresh cinnamon and a real stove.
Constitution
's folks are still there, done with inventory and gun cleaning, yet looking for more to do. We set them to wandering the ship, cleaning and doing a pre-flight inspection to make sure (or as sure as we can be), that we'll at least make it out of the dry dock without killing ourselves. Even with two dozen of them, it will still take a couple hours.
The captains of
Congress
and
Richard
are there as well, more than eager to go with us, Lt. Paul Summerlin and Lt. Angie Springs. Both are experienced captains, Summerlin a typical corvette commander, thin, wiry, mid-30s, Springs looks like a smaller version of Shelby, all muscles and darkness, except her hair is quite a bit longer. I wouldn't want to meet either of them in the proverbial dark alley, but they are exactly what I want with me now. I need to give Commander Perez a well done.
They join Shelby, Captain Weaver of
Constitution
, and me to meet with McAdams and her group at 0900, who walk us through a set of probability based search grids using
Yorktown
,
Congress
, and
Richard
to hit high probability targets, shifting to lower probability space if necessary.
It's a solid plan given how much we don't know, I just wish I understood better how they assigned the probabilities they did. The two corvette captains download the data to their pads, and, grabbing a slew of pancakes, float off to oversee the final re-outfitting of their boats. I get rid of everyone else and spend an hour picking Weaver's brain. The two of us are going to write "the Book" on frigate ops, the other ships at least a year behind us, and I want all the ideas I can get.
At 1100, Shelby and I float onto the bridge, make our way to the captain's station, and call up the signals menu. There's a big button on the screen labeled "Clear the Decks." My index finger lingers over it for just a couple seconds, then slides down.
Three tones, then a pre-recorded voice, "Attention. Attention. The ship is preparing to depart. All ashore."
I push a button on the arm of my couch and speak into my collar mic, my voice echoing throughout the ship. "This is Captain Krieger. On behalf of the crew of
Yorktown
, our deepest thanks to the
Constitution
crew. We would not be ready if not for your help."
Our Marines have the unenviable duty of making sure everyone is off, and making sure every hatch is sealed and ready for departure. My lead crew is back on the bridge within a minute of my signing off, except for Mr. Powell, who rightfully thinks the boss should physically be in engineering just in case. Two petty officers are at the bridge stations. We all strap into our couches, regulation in case something really bad happens.
I have my left screen set to the hatch menu, which shows a black outline of Yorktown, broken at every open hatch with a 45 degree mark. One by one, they turn from red to green, and shift to blend into the body.
Ensign Marcos, the second to Garcia and normally not paired with her is at the co-pilot's station. His voice rings through the bridge. "Green board."
I switch the left screen to a rotating set of engineering system indicators, the right to a rotating set of exterior camera images.
"Engineering, switch to internal power." I would cross my fingers, but someone might see. Nothing happens for a minute, then the change hits my screen.
"
Yorktown
on internal power. Reactor status nominal." Petty Officer Jordan makes my day. For the first time, my ship is standing on its own two feet.
I knew, or my rear end knew, every sensation that
Ayacucho
made, from the smallest pump engaging to the constant low hiss of her life support systems and vibration of the engines. I could tell which thruster was firing without looking at my panel. I'm looking forward to learning the idiosyncracies for my new command.
"Go or no go on ship status. Helm?" I try to keep my voice calm.
A decidedly non-calm Garcia. "Go."
"Engineering?"
A calm Powell on the intercom. "Go."
"RISTA?"
A joyful McAdams. "Go."
"Marines?"
Lt. Palmer way too serious with a somewhat un-Marinelike "Go" via intercom.
"Mr. Ayala?"
"Go."
"Mr. Perez?"
"Go."
"Mr. Garcia, inform dock control to disengage moorings and open dock seals."
"Affirmative." I have us all on the speaker so everyone can listen in across the ship. I watch as the pilot's hands fly across her screen, activating the comm channels.
"Dock Control,
Yorktown
, requesting moorings release and evacuation clearance." Garcia has a completely different business voice.
"
Yorktown
, Armstrong Station, moorings disconnected, standby for evac clearance." The dock controller is as excited as we are.
"
Yorktown
standing by."
Everybody with the right camera access, which is pretty much everybody on the ship who wants to, can see the vast doors of the dock open. The controller comes back and states the obvious.
"
Yorktown
, cleared to evac dock three. Maintain egress position at 300 meters."
"300 meters. Cleared to evac." Garcia forgot to use her business voice on that one.
I give the order. "Mr. Garcia, take us out."
"Aye, Skipper."
Yorktown
is floating free in the bay, and Garcia gives her the tiniest of nudges from the rear thrusters. She and Marcos spend the next three minutes correcting even the smallest deviation from course. A mistake now could cost us the ship, and/or the entire station. Not to mention I'd be back home by next week, farming.
I don't breathe again until we hear Marcos' voice.
"Yorktown is cleared the dock."
I'll forgive him his slight grammatical faux pas.
We settle in at 300 meters, waiting, 24 mostly nuclear tipped missiles to load, not something that has been tried before on a ship this size to my knowledge. Actually, we know the Dynastic Navy has done it, but they aren't talking to us.
Six tugs appear, pushing a dull metal framework that they guide into place outside the starboard side of my ship, a giant steel insect maybe about to sting us. All the tube doors are on that side, some designer's decision that the ship captains don't understand, but why would they ask us?
"Mr. Jordan, open outer doors, all tubes."
"Affirmative. Outer doors open."
For the next two hours, we watch helplessly as one missile at a time emerges from the darkness and gently slides into its tube. They spent months practicing on a mock up, but that usually does not produce results this nice. The Marines and the engineers check each one as it seats, and report success after success.
Until the very last one. It slides in fine, but won't seat. It slides out fine, then back in, seats, but won't attach. It unseats, slides out, back in half way and stops. It won't slide out. They slide it back in and then pull again to get it out. I want to call them and remind them that there are 20 nuclear mines in the head end of that thing, but I decide discretion is the better part of valor. Finally, they stop, apparently thinking about what to do next. I decide for them, my finger jumping to the radio button.
"Dock control, Captain Krieger."
"Captain, go."
"We'll pass on the last missile, and take the ones we've got." Fifteen sighs are audible on the bridge.
"Affirmative. No go on number 24."
"Roger. Thanks." I want to add, get that frakkin' thing away from my ship, but I hold it in. I wait until the missile's clear before I speak again.
"Mr. Jordan, close outer doors, all tubes."
"Closing outer doors.... Green board."
It takes the tugs 15 minutes to clear
Yorktown
of the metal praying mantis, and then we are floating all alone. Five small blips show on the radar, our two pods, two gigs, and sloop. They fit into the boat deck without any trouble.
Then four bigger blips appear on the active radar, our corvettes. We dock the LS-3 on the port side,
Richard
against the boat deck so it will be clear as soon as we jump,
Congress
on top, and the assault ship starboard to balance the LS. The boat deck crew and the Marines test the collars to ensure air tight and acceleration secure matings. They give the all clear, and we notify dock control. Instantly, as if he's been waiting for the moment, there's an incoming message on my channel from Admiral Benson.
"Put me on speaker." No nonsense, no need for introductory remarks.
"You already are, Admiral, she's all yours."
"Captain Krieger, Lt. Summerlin, Lt. Springs, ladies and gentlemen of
Yorktown
,
Richard
, and
Congress
you've done remarkable work the past 24 hours, and I'm sure the best is still to come. God speed. FRIGCOM out." And he's gone.
We're in orbit around Earth, large swaths visible in our cameras from this altitude, still looking like an idyllic blue and brown ball, oceans, clouds, mountains, though the ice caps cover most of what was once Canada and Australia. Impossible to tell from orbit that it's uninhabitable, and likely to remain so for thousands of years. The countdown clock shows 38 minutes until our firing window, way too much time to think, so I put the crew to work double checking and triple checking. We have to get to the corona of the sun to jump, we're going at four gees, powered the whole way, fast enough that the jump either works, or we all die. Pretty good motivator.
At the five minute mark the acceleration horn sounds, and the voice let's everyone know now's the time to get strapped in. At three minutes, I go on the speaker.
"This is Captain Krieger. The crew of
Bainbridge
is counting on us to save them, the crews of our five sisters are counting on us to honor the service. We will not let any of them down. Stand by for acceleration."
I keep the speaker open.
"Helm?"
"Go."
"Engineering?"
"Go."
"RISTA?"
"Go."
"Mr. Perez?"
"Go."
"Mr. Garcia, you are cleared to engage, one gee."
"Cleared for main engine start, one gee." There's an eagerness to her voice.
The computer starts to count down from 10, really too dramatic for my taste, but who am I to fight tradition? It gets to one.
The feeling of rockets starting on a big ship is indescribable. There's a pulsing deep inside of everything, a heavy feeling despite the movement of the ship, and vibration that's almost a sound as well, even though there is no acoustic signature.
Yorktown
hits one gee without even breathing hard.
"Mr. Garcia, flight plan approved as prepared, you may proceed."
"Affirmative, flight plan is go."
Ten minutes at one gee, up to two gees for another ten, then three for another ten, then start the climb to four. My buttocks reports a vibration at 3.62 gees, the instruments catch up at 3.8.
"Slow to 3.5 gees." Not the first command I wanted to give in deep space. Let's hope it's a minor problem.
"Affirmative, slowing to 3.5."
At 3.5 gees, all of us weigh something between 400 and 700 pounds, a few of the Marines more than that. Yet, I am probably about to give some of those people an order to move which would involve climbing or descending ladders.
"Engineering, status?"
"Skipper, we are diagnosing, 60 seconds please." Both our voices are heavy from talking while weighing a lot.
"Roger."
We wait, seems like hours, but is really 85 seconds.
"Captain, request two minutes at zero gees." Powell sounds almost happy, it must be a truly minor issue.
"Mr. Garcia, engines to standby."
"Affirmative, engines to standby."
And suddenly we are back to floating comfortably in our couches. That lasts for less than the two minutes.
"Captain, adjustment implemented." She's clearly happy now that she beat the 120 second estimate.
"Thank you Mr. Powell. Mr. Garcia, resume one gee."
"One gee, aye."
This time we climb back to four, no vibration, no worries. Nothing to do for 24 hours. We turn the engines back for 15 minutes every three hours (it is impossible for a human being to perform certain necessary bodily functions at four gees). Otherwise, we strap in, and wait, mostly miserable under the extra pounds. You can sleep, read, watch a movie, listen to music, play games by yourself or against your crewmates, or just be bored, whatever your pleasure.
Six hours in, we switch to Perez's shift, and eight hours later to Ayala's. I spend that time suspended in my ready room, nervously watching as I give them their first chances to sit alone in the big chair (float alone in the big couch?). Two hours before the jump, I join my shift in command.
Three hundred years ago, a Russian mathematician named Mariana Tereshkova did a remarkable geometric manipulation that described a mechanism for instantaneous movement between physical positions. The math relied on a very large gravity well and the relative masses of a large object and a small one, such as a ship. The ship had to fly toward the gravity well at an exact velocity and at a very precise angle. At just the right point, it could energize a field of gravitons which would magically transport the ship to literally anywhere. There was an effective drag coefficient involved in practice, however, which limited the jump capability to about 40 light years. By jumping from star to star, a ship could still get almost anywhere it wanted to go, but it was not easy.
Travel by Tereshkova jump was dangerous and expensive. A slight velocity or angle error and the ship burned up in the waiting sun. A computer error, and the ship ended up somewhere it did not intend, and, if it were not close enough to another gravity well, the crew was doomed to starvation long before they could make it home. No permanent bases were established outside the solar system, space belonged to the explorer, just as the oceans did 800 years ago.
Then, 100 years later, an American named Donald Cooper reworked Tereshkova's equations switching from geometry to more conventional mathematics, re-centering them on the mass of the star, not the ship. His version eliminated large planets such as Jupiter as gravity sources, but removed both the necessity of a tightly controlled flight path, and the distance limitation. The Cooper-Tereshkova Jump, or CT Jump, required only careful control of the software, and a powerful enough reactor aboard ship.