Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga) (23 page)

“
Your decision at the stream was correct, Sir. That’s what earned you my support.”

“
You’ve been an inspiration to us all, Master Chief, particularly to me. I’ll remember your example, and try to apply it.”

Steve craned forward in his seat next to the cutter pilot, peering through the viewscreen. Their destination was looming larger through the plasglass, a long charcoal–gray octagonal cylinder flattened top and bottom and ending in blunt hemispheres at either end. Rows of brightly pulsating diodes lined her sides, top and bottom, warning other spacecraft of her presence in a powered orbit a hundred thousand kilometers above Lancaster. In the distance beyond her, he could see the lights of the other three ships of the Division.

“
There she is, Sir — LCS
Achilles
,” the pilot informed him, grinning at the young officer’s obvious excitement.

“
She was one of the first batch of
Hero
class destroyers, wasn’t she?” Steve asked, staring in fascination at the warship that would be his home for the next two years.

“
That’s right, Sir. She’s a Flight I ship, built twenty years ago. Her refurbishment’s brought her into line with Flight II standards, and updated all her systems and weapons. She’s had the latest stealth coatings applied as well.”

As they drew nearer, Steve smiled to himself as he thought how disappointed a holovid entertainment addict would be to see a real warship, as opposed to those envisioned by the fertile imaginations of set designers. Theirs had aerials, antennas, turrets and other structures sticking out everywhere, offering multiple reflective angles and surfaces that would make them stand out like a searchlight in the dark to anyone looking for them using radar or lidar — an instant death sentence in combat. Real warships eschewed such nonsense.

Achilles’
surface was unmarred by visible protrusions except for her gravitic drive antennae and telescopic communication aerials, all of which were carefully shaped, angled and coated to be as stealthy as possible. Her powerful active and passive sensor arrays were layered onto her hull, which was a composite of steel, polymers and carbon nanotubes, carefully sealed with stealth coatings. It incorporated a Faraday cage that offered protection against radiation, and partial insulation against electromagnetic pulse effect. Her missile tubes and laser cannon barbettes were flush with the surface of the hull, revealing themselves only in action. Steve knew that if
Achilles
turned off her navigation and station–keeping lights and radar transponder, at anything but close range she’d be invisible against the backdrop of space, both to the naked eye and to radar and lidar. Only her own emissions would be detectable, and even those not very far away if they were kept to minimum power levels.

The sixty–ton cutter was dwarfed by
Achilles’
sixty–thousand–ton bulk as she moved towards the docking bay near her stern. The pilot cut the gravitic drive and switched to reaction thrusters as the small craft approached the zone where her drive emissions might interfere with those of the destroyer. Steve felt his harness tighten around him as his body seemed to surge upward with the sudden removal of weight as the vessel’s internal gravity field cut out.

The pilot steered to within a couple of hundred meters of the docking bay, turning his craft to face away from the ship. He cut his reaction thrusters as soon as indicator lights on his control panel informed him that the bay’s tractor and pressor beams had locked on to her. The beams pulled her gently stern–first into an open berth. Docking arms connected with her hull and locked in place while a trunk extended concertina–like from the rear of the berth, sealing itself around the collar of her rear ramp. Conducted through the metal of her hull, Steve heard a
clunk,
then a faint hiss as the sealing joint inflated. He felt weight return to his body as the ship’s artificial gravity field extended through the docking arms to encompass the cutter. The lights over the rear ramp changed from red to amber, indicating that airtight integrity was being established, then flickered to green as a chime sounded.

The pilot announced, “Airlock and gravity field operational. Opening rear ramp.” He pressed a button on his console, and the ramp folded down into the trunk, opening a deck–to–deckhead gap spanning half the rear bulkhead. “Clear to disembark and unload.”

“Thank you, PO Hyun.” Steve unbuckled his harness and stood. In the load compartment behind and below him, a liberty party of spacers from the ship did likewise.

“
My pleasure, Sir.”

Steve walked down the ramp, through the trunk and into an airlock, followed by the spacers. The hatch on the far side of the airlock admitted him to a brightly–lit, freshly–painted foyer. It seemed small compared to those on the freighter, transport and depot ships aboard which he’d previously served. He knew that was because a destroyer carried far fewer small craft — only two cutters, plus a gig for her Commanding Officer — and didn’t have nearly as much traffic, in terms of either people or cargo. There were only four airlocks in the docking bay, plus a replenishment dock providing an access point for resupply missions by larger cargo shuttles.

He came to attention and saluted the Commonwealth flag, hanging from a polished staff mounted halfway along the central bulkhead, beneath the ship’s crest. The latter portrayed a Greek warrior of the Bronze Age standing on a mound, legs apart, back straight, head raised beneath a helmet topped with a large arched crest of red–dyed horsehair, eyes staring into the distance. His upraised right hand clutched a great spear, its butt grounded, the leaf–shaped point high above his head. His lowered left arm supported a round bronze shield, its decorative pattern matching those on the armor protecting his legs, groin, forearms and torso. The circular image was surrounded by a yellow–golden rope, with a scroll at the top reading ‘LCS
Achilles’
and another at the bottom with the ship’s motto,
‘Fortiter in Re’
.

Steve waited as the spacers passed him to log themselves aboard at the counter. Within a few moments the baggage system delivered his trunks, suitcase and carryall. He lifted the smaller trunk into its recess on the lid of the larger, wheeled unit, activated the tracking unit on his belt, picked up his carryall and started for the counter, pulling the wheeled suitcase behind him. The lower trunk’s electric motor hummed as it followed him, homing on his tracking unit.

A Petty Officer Second Class sat behind the counter. She rose to her feet and braced to attention as he approached, her eyes flickering to the single silver bar on the epaulettes of his Number Two uniform. Steve returned the courtesy as he stopped in front of her, glancing at her nametag.

“
Good afternoon, PO Anderson. Ensign Steve Maxwell, come aboard to join.” He fumbled in his trouser pocket, then handed her his order chip.

“
Good afternoon, Sir. We’ve been expecting you. Welcome aboard.”

She inserted the chip in her terminal and swiftly scanned the summary page. “All in order, Sir. I’ll forward a copy to the Ship’s Office.” She tapped instructions into her terminal, then removed the chip and returned it to him. “The Commanding Officer, Commander Mars, is away from the ship at present. The Executive Officer, Lieutenant–Commander Kilian, has requested that you report to his office as soon as you arrive, Sir. I’ll have a Spacer escort you there, while another of my work party takes your dunnage to your cabin.”

~ ~ ~

The administrative offices were on the port side, and the command offices to starboard, in the forward third of the ship, ahead of her six missile cells. The command alcove was a short corridor at right angles to the ship’s main passage. A door standing ajar on its starboard side bore the legend ‘Executive Officer’, and beyond it another, closed door was labeled ‘Conference Room’. On the port side, a Marine sentry stood guard before another closed door marked ‘Commanding Officer’. He braced to attention on seeing Steve, but didn’t speak.

Steve returned his courtesy and nodded to him, trying to suppress the butterflies in his stomach. His first meeting with the Exec would be critical. In terms of regular contact with them and supervising their execution of their duties and responsibilities, the Exec was the day–to–day boss of
Achilles’
officers, far more so than the Commanding Officer. If Steve established a good working relationship with him, his life would be far easier. If he didn’t, his assignment to
Achilles
would be at best unpleasant, at worst unendurable.

He knocked at the open door. A voice inside called, “Enter!” He stepped inside, snapping to attention before the desk.

“Ensign Maxwell reports to the Executive Officer as ordered, Sir!”

“
Welcome aboard, Ensign.” Lieutenant–Commander Kilian stood, offering his hand. “Your orders, please?”

“
Here, Sir.” Steve shook his hand, then took his order chip from his pocket once more and handed it over.

“
Thank you. Take a seat.”

“
Aye aye, Sir.”

Steve sat down, trying to take in the Exec’s appearance without appearing to stare. He was a tall, thin man, looking to be in his mid–thirties, wearing khaki working dress. A single ringed planet denoting his rank was pinned to each side of his open collar. His hair was close–cropped, as was that of all Spacers and Marines so as to fit into their spacesuit or armor helmets. A faded white scar ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth, and Steve couldn’t help wondering why he’d never had it removed. Cosmetic surgery could have dealt with it with no trouble at all, particularly in its early stages. His face was tired, lined.

Kilian plugged his order chip into his terminal and scrolled rapidly through its contents, nodding in satisfaction. “All in order. How much do you know about our ship, our Division and our mission, Ensign?”

“
Not very much, Sir; just that
Achilles
is the flagship of the Twenty–Third Destroyer Division, comprising four newly–refurbished
Hero
class ships. The Division’s just finished working up, and is on its way to the Midrash Sector for anti–piracy, anti–smuggling and commerce protection duties. I’ve been running so hard to get here that I haven’t had time to find out more, Sir.”

Kilian grinned. “I’m told you applied for our vacancy so fast, and shipped out so quickly, that the staff at the School of Navigation and Tactics could hardly see you for dust! Their Exec was rather amused.”

Steve had to laugh at the memory. “Sir, my class was about to graduate, but I had no guarantee of an interesting assignment. I know the Bureau of Personnel talked to the School about sending eight of our class to the Second Battle Division in the Vesta Sector. That would mean two years as a dogsbody aboard a battleship, at the bottom of the heap among eighty commissioned and warrant officers, doing the dirty jobs no one else wanted and having very little real responsibility. The odds were pretty good that at least half of the top ten graduates of our class would be assigned there, and I was getting worried.

“
I happened to be in the Admin office when BuPers’ urgent request arrived, so I was the first of our graduating class to hear about it. I was even more interested to hear you were going to the Midrash Sector, because my Marine roommate from OCS is serving there — he and I became very good friends during the course. I applied right away, even before your vacancy hit the school network. Since my application was the first received, and I had all the skills you were looking for, and because BuPers had assigned your requirement a higher priority than BatDiv2’s, the Exec granted my request. The School graduated me a day early, to allow me to ship out at once.”

“
I’m very grateful they did.” Kilian’s voice was very serious. “Your combination of qualifications, skills and experience is scarce. Graduating among the top five in your class is pretty good in itself, but even more important from my point of view is that you’ve had more enlisted experience than most junior officers. That means you’ll need less hand–holding than usual to find your feet aboard ship. That’s very good news for us, because we don’t have enough officers to spare for that. I’ll try to see you as often as possible for Junior Officer Development sessions, but even that’s going to be difficult sometimes.”

Steve nodded. “I understand, Sir. Er… if it’s not out of place for me to ask, Sir, why are we so short of officers?”

Kilian grimaced. “Part of it’s the perennial shortage — there are never enough qualified bodies to fill all available slots. Most ships are up to ten per cent below their authorized officer complement. Another factor is that we commissioned and worked up in haste, thanks to the urgency of the Midrash Sector’s requirement. We didn’t have time to fill our personnel roster in the usual way — we had to rely on BuPers to get us anyone who was available at short notice. They did very well for us, all things considered, but they can’t work miracles.

“
To cap it all, we were supposed to get two Junior Lieutenants from a depot ship inbound from the Alcestis sector. Unfortunately, a cargo shuttle collided with her before departure. She’s been delayed to repair her damage, which means she won’t reach Lancaster until after we’ve departed for Midrash. She couldn’t send the officers on ahead to join us, because she needs their services as watchkeepers to get here. BuPers says they’ll send them on to us, but you know as well as I do that until they’re safely aboard, there’s always the risk that another ship with an equal shortage of officers may snaffle them.