Fleet of the Damned (11 page)

Sten made the long haul from Prime to Cavite as a liner passenger. He spent the voyage going through pictures, sketches, abstracts, and envelope projections, as besotted with his new assignment as any first lover.

Part of the time he devoted to a quick but thorough study of what was going to be his base planet. Cavite was about two-thirds the size of Prime World and sparsely settled. There was little industry on Cavite—mostly it was an agriculture-based economy, with a little fishing and lumbering. The climate was also similar to Prime—fairly temperate, with a tendency to snow a bit more than on Prime.

The rest of the time Sten pored over details involving his ships. It did not matter that at present his command consisted only of four brand-new Bulkeley-class vessels and himself. He was to man his ship on arrival on Cavite.

Under separate covers, a fax had gone to Admiral Doorman, requesting full cooperation.

Sten had arrived on Soward just before his four ships were "launched." There wasn't a great deal of ceremony—the hull builder had signed the ships over to a secondary yard, a transporter gantry had picked up the ships, complete less armament, electronics, controls, and crew compartment, and had lugged them across the huge plant.

Incomplete as they were, Sten was in love the first time he had seen the sleek alloy needles sitting on their chocks. To him, the entry in the new
Jane's
update fiche was poetry:

6406.795 TACTICAL ASSAULT CRAFT

Construction of a new class of tactical ship by the Empire has

been rumored, but as this cannot be confirmed at present, this

entry must be considered tentative. Intelligence suggests that

these ships are designed to replace and upgrade several current

classes now considered obsolescent.

It has been suggested that these ships will bear the generic class

of BULKELEY. Development of this class is considered to be

under construction, with no information as to the number of

ships contracted for, commissioning dates, or deployment dates.

To repeat, All information must be considered quite tentative.

Sten figured that the editor of
Jane's
was practicing the age-old CYA, since the rest of the data was entirely too clotting accurate for his comfort:

CHARACTERISTICS:

TYPE: Fleet patrol craft

LENGTH: 90 meters est. (actually 97 meters)

D: Approx. 1400 fl.

CREW: Unknown

ARMAMENT: Unknown, but theorized to be far heavier than any other ships in this category.

The rest of the entry was a long string of unknowns. Sten could have filled in the details.

Each ship carried a crew of twelve: three officers'—CO, weapons/XO, engineering—and nine enlisted men.

And they
were
heavily armed.

For close-in fighting, there were two chainguns. Medium-range combat would be handled by eight launchers firing Goblin VI missiles, now upgraded with better "brains" and a 10-kt capacity. There were three Goblins for each launcher.

For defense there was a limited countermissile capability—five Fox-class missiles—but a very elaborate electronic countermeasure suite.

Bulkeley ships were intended either to sneak in unnoticed or to cut and run if hit. But the Bulkeley class craft were designed as ship killers.

Main armament was the Kali—a heavy, 60-megaton missile that was almost twenty meters long. Packed inside the missile's bulbous skin was a computer nearly as smart as a ship's and an exotic ECM setup. The missile was launched in a tube that extended down the ship's axis. Three backup missiles were racked around the launch tube.

Crew space, given all this artillery and the monstrous engines, was laughable. The captain's cabin was about the size of a wall closet, with pull-down desk and bunk. It was the most private compartment on the ship, actually having a draw curtain to separate the CO from the rest of the men. The other two officers bunked together, in a cabin exactly the size of the captain's. The crew bunks were ranked on either side of the ship's largest compartment, which doubled as rec room, mess hall, and kitchen.

The only cat that could have been swung inside the ship would have been a Manx—a Manx kitten.

Big deal. If Sten had wanted luxury, he would have opted for Bishop's plan and flown BUCs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

S
tandard obscenity procedure: When an officer arrives at his new duty station, he reports to his new commanding officer.

In the Guard this had meant that one was to show up at the unit's orderly room in semidress uniform. Officer and his new fearless leader would size each other up; the newcomer would be given his new responsibilities and whatever trick tips the old man chose to pass on and set in motion.

The navy, Sten had learned, was slightly more formal.

The "invitation" to meet Admiral van Doorman had been hand delivered. And was printed. On real paper. That, Sten figured, meant full-dress uniform. Whites. Gloves. Clot, even a haircut.

By scurrying and bribing, Sten had gotten the batman assigned to his temporary bachelor officer's quarters to electrostat-press his uniform and borrow or steal a pair of white gloves from someone. The haircut was easy, since Sten kept his hair about two centimeters from shaven.

The card requested the pleasure of his company at 1400 hours. Sten gave himself an extra hour for the civilian grav-car to wind through the packed streets of Cavite City. Even then, he arrived at the main entrance to the naval base with only twenty minutes to spare.

His mouth dropped when the sentry at the gate checked only Sten's ID, then in a bored manner waved the gravcar forward.

Nice, Sten thought. Here we are on the edge of everything, and the taxi drivers can go anywhere they want. Great security.

He paid the driver at dockside, got out, and then goggled.

The flagship of 23rd Fleet was the Imperial Cruiser
Swampscott
. Sten had looked the ship up and found out that it had been built nearly seventy-five years previously; it was periodically upgraded instead of being scrapped. The description gave no inkling of just how awesome the
Swampscott
had become—awesome in the sense of atrocious.

The cruiser evidently had been built to the then limits of hull design, power, and armament. Upgrading had started by cutting the ship in half and adding another 500 meters to the midsection. The next stage had added bulges to the hull.

After that, the redesigners must have been desperate to meet the additions, since the
Swampscott
could now be described as a chubby cruiser that had run, very hard, into a solid object without destruction.

As a grand finale, there were twin structures atop the hull, structures that would be familiar to any Chinese Emperor of the T'ang Dynasty of ancient Earth.

Since the
Swampscott
had never fought a war, these excrescences did not matter. The ship, polished until it glowed, was used for ceremonial show-the-flag visits. It would settle down in-atmosphere in as stately a manner as any dowager queen going down steps in a ball gown. If a planetary assault had ever been required, the
Swampscott
would either have spun out of control or wallowed uncontrollably. In a wind tunnel, a model of the
Swampscott
might have been described as having all the aerodynamics of a chandelier.

Sten recovered, checked the time, and hurried into the lift tube.

Exiting, he saw not one but four full-dress sentries and one very bored, but very full-dressed, officer of the deck.

He saluted the nonexistent and unseen "colors"—toward the stern—and the OOD, then gave the lieutenant a copy of the invitation and his ID card.

"Oh, Lord," the lieutenant said. "Commander, you made a real mistake."

"Oh?"

"Yessir. Admiral Doorman's headquarters are downtown." .

Downtown? What was that navalese for? "Isn't this the flagship?"

"Yessir. But Admiral Doorman prefers the Carlton Hotel. He says it gives him more room to think."

Sten and the lieutenant looked at each other.

"Sir, you're going to be very late. Let me get a gravsled out. Admiral Doorman's most insistent about punctuality."

This was a great way to start a new assignment, Sten thought.

Admiral Doorman may have insisted on punctuality, but it applied only to his subordinates.

Sten had arrived at the hotel in a sweaty panic, nearly twenty minutes late. He had been escorted to the lower of Doorman's three hotel suites, reported to the snotty flag secretary at the desk, and been told to sit down.

And he waited.

He was not bored, however. Awful amazement would have been a better description of Sten's emotional state as he eavesdropped on the various conversations as officers came and went in the huge antechamber:

"Of course I'll try to explain to the admiral that anodizing takes a great deal of work to remove. But you know how he loves the shine of brass," a fat staff officer said to a worried ship captain.

"Fine. We have a deal. You give me J'rak for the boxing, and I'll let you have my drum and bugle team." The conversation was between two commanders.

"I do not care about that exercise, Lieutenant. You've already exceeded your training missile allocation for this quarter."

"But sir, half my crew's brand-new, and I—"

"Lieutenant, I learned to follow orders. Isn't it time you learn the same?"

Real amazement came as two people spilled out of a lift tube. They were just beautiful.

The ship captain was young, dashing, tall, handsome, and blond-haired. His undress whites gloved his statuesque body and molded his muscles.

His companion, equally blond, wore game shorts.

They were laughing, enjoying the free life.

Sten hated their guts on sight.

Chattering away, the two sauntered past Sten, down a corridor. The woman suddenly made some excuse, stopped, put her foot upon a chair arm, and adjusted the fastener on her sports shoe. And her eyes very calmly itemized Sten. Then she laughed, took her companion's arm, and disappeared. She had a figure that made it nearly impossible not to stare after. So Sten stared.

"That's definitely off limits, Commander," the flag secretary said.

Not that he cared, but Sten raised a questioning eyebrow.

"The lady is the admiral's daughter."

Sten wanted to say something sarcastic, but he was saved by the buzzing of the annunciator. He was escorted into the admiral's office.

The term "office" was a considerable understatement. The only chambers that Sten had seen more palatial were some of the ceremonial rooms in the Imperial palace. Always the cynic, he wondered if the suite had been furnished with Doorman's private funds or if he had fiddled something.

Fleet Admiral Xavier Rijn van Doorman was equally spectacular. This was a man whose very presence, from his white coiffed mane to his unwavering eyes to his firm chin to his impressive chest, shouted command leadership. This was a leader men would follow into the very gates of hell. After ten minutes of conversation, Sten had a fairly decent idea that was where most of them would end up.

It could have been said about van Doorman, as it had been about another officer centuries earlier, that he never allowed an original thought to ruin his day.

But still, he was the very image of a leader: fit to address any parliament, soothe any worried politician, address any banquet, or show any banner—and totally incompetent to command a fleet that Sten knew might be only days from being the first line of defense in a war.

Van Doorman was a very polite man, and very skilled in the minefields of social inquisition. He must have scanned Sten's fiche before Sten had entered the room. Certainly he was most curious about Sten's previous assignment—at the Imperial palace itself, as CO of the Emperor's Gurkha bodyguard.

Van Doorman was proud that he had managed to attend several Empire Days and had once been presented to the Emperor himself as part of a mass awards ceremony.

"I'm sure, Commander," Doorman said, "that you'll be able to bring us up to speed on the new social niceties. The Fringe Worlds are somewhat behind the times."

"Sir, I'll try… but I didn't spend much time at ceremonial functions."

"Ah, well. I'm sure my wife and daughter will help you realize you know more than you think."

Clotting great. I am gong to have to be polite to the whole family.

"You'll find that duty out here is most interesting, Commander. Because of the climate, and the fact that all of us are so desperately far from home, we make allowances in the duty schedule."

"Sir?"

"You will find that most of your duties can be accomplished in the first watches. Since I don't want my officers finding this station boring—and boredom does create work for idle hands—I make sure that qualified officers are available for those necessary diplomatic functions."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Oh, there are balls… appearances on some of the minor worlds… we have our own sports teams that compete most successfully against the best our settlers can field. I also believe that all duty makes Jack a very dull officer. I approve of my officers taking long leaves—some of the native creatures are excellent for the hunt. We provide local support for anyone interested in these pursuits."

"Uh… sir, since I've got brand-new ships, where am I going to find the time for those kinds of things?"

"I've received a request to provide as complete cooperation as possible to you. That goes without saying. I'll ensure that you have a few competent chiefs who'll keep everything Bristol fashion."

Sten, at this point, should have expressed gratitude and agreement. But as always, his mouth followed its own discipline.