Starhold (7 page)

“Well, as far as I can tell. Part of the reason I was selected for this mission is that I’ve actually piloted
Kestrel
—I was on the prototype test team. This ship is identical, so it should be fine. Damndest thing though, the task force taking the wrong ship. I told Ojukwu that I wanted it noted for the record that we were not receiving the ship that had been assigned to us in the mission profile. Seriously Carr, I know time’s short, but I think we should contact Admiral Getchell about this.”

Carr looked around the hanger and pointed out one of the mechanics. “See that guy over there, the little one?”

Sanchez glanced around to locate the enlisted man. He was setting on a bench, having a sandwich and talking with another mechanic.

“Yeah, I see him. Why?”

“Very talkative young man. While you and the Commander were discussing the situation, my new friend over there and I were chatting. I found him to be a very gabby fellow. So talkative, that I think I found out why we get
Kite
and not
Kestrel
.”

Sanchez folded her arms and put on a severe face. “Not sure I like where this is going, but go ahead. Why don’t we get
Kestrel?”

“Well, Ojukwu said that
Kestrel
was requisitioned earlier today. I think the commander is engaging in the great tradition of military-speak.”

Sanchez put her hand to her forehead as if nursing a headache. “So, you’re saying that ‘requisitioned’ really means what?”

“
Kestrel
was stolen.”

* * * *

For a person who was about to sleep for four solid weeks, morning had come too soon for Carr. Part of the procedure leading to a planned induction into hypersleep was fasting for twelve hours in advance and the unsavory task of bowel prep. Drinking the diarrhea-inducing liquid was almost as disgusting as the multiple trips to the toilet it prompted. Then there was the anxiety of the mission ahead. By the time he fell asleep, it was time to get up and head back out to Camp Caspeta.

The two decided not to mention their suspicions regarding a stolen ship to Commander Ojukwu, or anyone else. They would take possession of
Kite
and get out of town, leaving Admiral Getchell and his minions to sort through the
Kestrel
affair.

As the morning progressed with preparations for departure, Carr decided that Sanchez was more moody than usual and knew it wasn’t just nerves about the mission. When she summoned him to a quiet spot beside
Kite
just before take-off, he had a good idea of what was coming.

Leaning an outstretched arm against the side of the ship, she began. “I know what you’re planning and it’s not going to happen.”

“All right, you tell me,” he said, crossing his arms, “what am I planning? Let’s get it all out in the open.”

“We’re going to get to Earth, land, and then you’re going to pull rank on me or something, leaving me behind with the ship while you go off reconnoitering. To you, I’m just the chauffer. It’s going to be just like the last four days. You’ve shown me no confidence, no trust, and you can barely even bring yourself to talk to me.”

“We’re mission partners, not friends.”

“No, we’re not, Carr,” she said raking her fingers through her hair. “A partnership means sharing and trust. It means believing that your teammate is competent and will do the right thing at the right time. I know I don’t have your experience, but dammit, when Tolbert teamed me with you he didn’t just pick my name out of a hat! And my uncle being an admiral has nothing to do with my qualifications for fieldwork—I’m as qualified as any other operative. I don’t know, maybe you’re incapable of trusting someone else.”

Carr raised his head and stared at the hanger ceiling for a moment. “Sanchez, I know you’re capable, that’s not the issue. On missions, it doesn’t pay to get personal. You get to know a person, you get to like them, and then when a tough call comes along, it affects your judgment. Best to keep it professional.”

“Nobody’s trying to get personal, Carr. I don’t want to screw you, I just want to work with you, but I can’t do that unless you’re willing to work with me. This thing is too big for mistrust and misunderstanding to get in the way. You want to be professional? Fine, BE professional! Take your head out of your ass and let’s do this—together.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Carr pointed an index finger in her direction. “Sanchez, let me tell you something. You’re…”

“Over the line, I know, I know,” she stared down at the floor.

“I was going to say that you’re right. You’re absolutely right,” he said as she looked up at him. “I
have
had my head up my ass. I’ve been preoccupied with, well, other things on my mind and that has to stop. Like you just said, this is too big.”

The pilot looked around as if she didn’t know what to do or say. She hadn’t expected his capitulation, let alone his candor.

“But there has to be an understanding,” he continued. “You’re in. You’re in all the way, but I do have more experience than you and I am the mission commander. When we get to the point where our butts are on the line and I say jump, you have to trust me and jump—no questions, no debate, just jump. Can you do that?”

She nodded silently.

“I guess what I’m asking is, can
you
trust
me?”

A tiny smile broke across her face and she extended her hand to him. Without words, Carr gave it a firm shake.

By 11:30 hours,
Kite
was airborne and breaking the atmosphere of Rusalka. The lieutenant commander was clearly enjoying her new toy as she flew the scout to a position high above the planet before turning the controls over to the ship’s computer.

“Ship, hold this position and await instructions to initiate hyperdrive,” she ordered.

“Affirmative, Commander Sanchez,” replied
Kite’s
verbal interface, using the familiar female voice that computers always seemed to use.

It was time to prepare for hypersleep. The ship contained two ‘coffins,’ enclosed cryonic sleep beds, which would sustain their lives in a rough state of suspended animation during the nearly four-week journey to Sol. Carr slipped into the head to prepare: one final use of the toilet, stripping off all clothes, and the donning of a cotton thong. Hypersleep demanded the exposure of skin so that the computer could better monitor the body, so subjects were mostly naked. A thong was the only concession to human modesty. When he emerged, he suspected Sanchez might make some sort of joke at his expense, but she was too engrossed in the final ship preparations to much notice.

He laid down in one of the hypersleep chambers, which was a kind of large drawer that slid out from the wall. It was padded but a little cold, and he knew it was going to get a lot colder. A combination of drugs and low temperatures would dramatically slow down bodily processes. It wasn’t absolute suspended animation, but close to it. In most cases, a small scout craft like
Kite
would have been deployed from a larger ship close to the system or planet that was to be investigated. They could have chosen to stay awake for a month, but the ship really wasn’t designed for living. The sleeping option seemed like the reasonable course of action.

The ship’s computer had dimmed the interior ambient light to a soft blue tint. When she emerged from the bathroom, Sanchez was wearing only her thong. Carr had expected some sort of bra, but it wasn’t there. Of course, his eyes went straight to her breasts, which were beautiful, as was the rest of her body. The combination of instrument lights and the blue ambient tint on her lovely olive skin produced an erotically surreal sight.

“Sorry to shock you, Carr, but I’ve been in enough military locker rooms to leave modesty behind,” she said climbing into her coffin on the opposite wall of the cabin, lips curled upward in amusement.

Carr looked up toward the cabin ceiling and cleared his throat. “No problem,” was all he managed to say.

“Ship, initiate hypersleep protocols and commence navigation program Sanchez Gamma Zero,” she commanded. “Sleep well, Frank Carr.”

“And you, Etta Sanchez.”

“That’s good. I didn’t think you remembered my first name.”

“Get some sleep, Sanchez.”

His sleep chamber slid into the wall as Carr felt the sting of several injections and IVs penetrating his skin. He was also aware of a drop in temperature, but the drugs were rapidly inducing sleep and a measure of euphoria.

So, maybe Sanchez wasn’t the fragile, geeky woman he had initially taken her for. She had surprised him several times in the last hour and he actually felt better about having her along.
Yeah, she was going to be OK. Now, I just have to make certain that… I’m… OK…

6: Encounters

A few days after
Kite
jumped out of the Hybrias system,
Tempest
jumped in. Although his ship was damaged from its engagement with the nameless enemy, Pettigrew had entrusted Uritski Station to the care of the destroyer
Reinhold
and continued on to Rusalka at full speed. Chief Engineer Mullenhoff was less than enthusiastic about
Tempest
traveling that far and that fast considering the battle damage the vessel had incurred. Mullenhoff’s concerns were noted for the record. Pettigrew was the only person aboard who knew why they had been summoned to Rusalka and he didn’t want to miss out on the expedition to Earth.

Upon docking at Rusalka Station, the grim task of removing the dead and wounded began. Eleven crewmembers had died and thirty-three more had been wounded. After reviewing the battle data, Pettigrew thought they were lucky that casualties hadn’t been worse. He didn’t feel lucky though, as he stood deckside on Rusalka Station watching the bodies of his dead crewmembers being carried off the ship. No one even knew why those people had given their lives, and that’s why it was so important that
Tempest
departed with Task Force 19 when the Sol operation got underway. He and his crew needed to see the enemy—they needed to understand why it had all happened.

About half of
Tempest’s
wounded would be shuttled dirtside to Port Bannatyne for care. Ordinarily, the captain would have accompanied them, but time was working against Pettigrew as he tried to arrange for speedy repairs to his ship. To that end, he had sought and been granted an immediate conference with Admiral Getchell aboard his flagship, the battleship
Vespera.

Removing his dark blue beret as he boarded
Vespera
, Pettigrew was wary of the upcoming meeting. Vice Admiral Levi Getchell was a space force institution. As a young officer, he had won numerous honors fighting against the Gerrhans in the Settlement Wars. Today, in his early sixties, he had a reputation as being Old School. Getchell’s leadership style was completely opposite to that of Pettigrew and the two men had never met personally. Combined with everything else that had happened in the last ten days, Pettigrew was filled with apprehension as he entered the admiral’s stateroom.

“Come in Captain, come in,” beckoned the gray haired man sitting behind his desk. Yet to look up, Getchell was writing with an old-fashioned pen on a paper tablet as Pettigrew moved to the front of his desk and stood at attention.
Pen and paper huh?
thought Pettigrew.
I heard he was Old School, I just didn’t realize how Old School. Apparently, the headmaster was Socrates.
These thoughts from a man who still read Ernest Hemingway. Who knows, perhaps he and the admiral would get along fine.

The hunch about getting along fine with the admiral dissolved as the seconds ticked by. Getchell had still not looked up, leaving Pettigrew standing there. It was the old trick of establishing your superior rank by purposely ignoring someone—Getchell was putting Pettigrew in his place.

Finally, the older man raised his head. “Please, Captain, have a seat.”

The admiral reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a container of pills, sliding two into his hands. “I’ve read your after-action report Captain Pettigrew, and first let me offer my condolences on your fatalities. Pretty rough, huh?”

“Yes sir, pretty rough.”

“Of course,” Getchell swallowed his pills and chased them with water, “it might have been even rougher if your little playing possum tactic hadn’t worked out.” Pettigrew cringed inside as Getchell continued. “The enemy could have attacked that station and killed everyone on board while your ship floated around, doing nothing.” The admiral’s expression signaled that he wanted a response.

Pettigrew collected himself. “Sir, as I stated in my report, there was ample evidence suggesting that the enemy vessel could have easily destroyed the station, but instead was seeking engagement with another warship. I wanted to have that engagement away from the station and on our terms, sir.”

Getchell groaned. “Suggesting, Captain, suggesting. You weren’t sure, but you rolled the dice anyway. I’ve studied your record, Captain—you’re one of Polanco’s gang.”

This is going so much worse than he ever expected.
Pettigrew knew not to say a word.

“You’re the clever one aren’t you, Captain? Admiral Maxon’s his hotheaded girlfriend and Choi’s his sociopathic harpy. But you, you’re his prodigy, his wunderkind.”

So very much worse…

“Easy, Captain, easy. You don’t look too well,” Getchell chuckled. “At my age, my bark is worse than my bite. Everyone knows I don’t like Victor Polanco, including Victor. We were on opposite sides during his little putsch last year. He won and I lost, but I’m still here.”

Pettigrew didn’t let down his guard. “Yes, sir,” was all he dare say.

“Most men would have exiled their enemies, or worse. Actually, he did exile a bunch, but not me. Personally, I don’t like our Admiral-in-Chief, but I do appreciate that he allowed me to continue doing the only thing I’ve ever known. Does that make any sense to you, Captain?”

“I think I can understand that, sir.”

Admiral Getchell leaned forward, hands clasped with forearms flush on the desktop. His eyes locked with Pettigrew’s. “I
have
studied your record, Pettigrew. You seem to be a promising officer, maybe a little unconventional for my taste, but you get results and that’s what counts. But sometimes, like at Uritski, you take too many chances. Let me tell you, Captain, there’s going to come a day when being clever will not be the clever thing to do.”

Pettigrew tried not to take it personal and let the truth of what Getchell said sink in. “Sir, I think you’ve just given me some very sound advice.”

The admiral rose and walked to a cabinet. “Join me in a brandy, Captain?”

Pettigrew didn’t like brandy, but he knew it would be a bad tactical decision to decline. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“According to your report, your ship’s pretty banged up. Looks like you’re going to have to sit this one out,” Getchell remarked as he handed a snifter to the younger officer.

“Sir, we just need a patch job. I think we can be operational in a few days at most.”

Getchell swirled the fine Tezrinan brandy under his Roman nose and inhaled its aroma. “My people say six days, minimum. Rusalka Station is only a Class Two facility and its resources are being stretched to the breaking point as is. Besides, the task force will be departing in forty-eight standard hours. I don’t see any way
Tempest
can be with us.”

Pettigrew took a gulp of brandy. He hated the taste, but maybe he needed some right now. “Sir, I have an idea.”

Getchell sipped his drink and smirked. “I knew you would. Go ahead, be clever for me, Captain.”

Pettigrew plunged ahead. “Not trying to be clever, sir, just trying to get my ship into the fight. I noticed that
Lares
is in system.”
Lares
was a massive auxiliary vessel, the only Union ship of her kind. She was a mobile spacedock, designed to repair ships that were stranded in systems without repair facilities or near forward areas during a conflict.

“Yes,
Lares
is here for additional ship support. Admiral Sykes is bringing Sixth Fleet to Hybrias, just in case our mission at Sol goes all wrong.”

“Not to be presumptuous, sir, but I’ve already checked with the dockmaster of
Lares
. If you give your permission,
Lares
could begin work on
Tempest
immediately and have us operational within five days, possibly four. My guess is that TF Nineteen will rendezvous at a rally point just outside Sol before entering the system. If
Tempest
follows but makes directly for Sol and not the rally point, we can be there at almost the same time as you, sir.” When traveling long distances, groups of warships tended to get strung out in hyperspace. Battleships, for instance, couldn’t travel as fast as destroyers could. To enter a system in force, it was naval doctrine to use a rally point just outside the target system in order to gather everyone together for action.

Admiral Getchell leaned back in his chair. “You really want in the fight that bad? Hell, there may not even be a fight. My orders are to attempt diplomacy first, especially if we have a first contact situation on our hands.”

“Sir,
Tempest
is the only ship in the fleet that’s actually fought these people, whoever or whatever they are. It may not be much of an edge, but it’s one you may be able to use when the time comes,” Pettigrew countered. When Getchell failed to respond immediately, Pettigrew pushed on. “Just two hours ago, I watched eleven bodies being hauled off my ship, sir.
Tempest
needs to be at Sol when it all goes down. My crew and I need to understand what this is all about, why our crewmates had to give their lives. We’ve earned the right!”

That got a rebuke from Getchell. “Forgive me, Captain, but you’re sounding a bit entitled,” the admiral said in a sharp voice.

“I don’t mean to be, sir, it’s just that I’m angry at what’s happened.”

The admiral stared at the captain with uncertain eyes, trying to decide about Pettigrew. Rubbing his jaw with his left hand, Getchell finally stood.

“All right, Captain—you win. I’ll cut the orders for
Lares
to begin repairs on your ship at once. You’re instructions are to follow the fleet ASAP, making directly for Sol. But, I want to make one thing perfectly clear to you. I don’t need your brilliant tactical mind at Sol, Captain—I need your heavy cruiser. So, if and when we go into battle, you play it straight up and by the book.”

“That’s perfectly clear, sir.”

“And speaking of orders,” Getchell continued, sitting himself on the corner of his desk, “if anything should happen to me or my flag captain, you will take command of the fleet as senior officer.”

Pettigrew was caught off guard. “Surely, there must be someone else in the task force more senior than myself.”

“Believe me, I’ve checked and it’s you. I’ll send you the mission orders I received from Central Command to make it official, but there’s one thing you need to know. My orders are that, if in my judgment, the outsider’s presence on Earth constitutes a threat to the security of the Union, I am to destroy not only the enemy ships but also the colony on the ground via orbital bombardment.”

Getchell paused a moment to let that sink in. Union probes indicated the existence of up to twenty thousand lives at the Earth colony, lives that Getchell or Pettigrew may have to destroy. “I can only hope that neither of us has to give that dreadful order.”

“Agreed, sir.” Pettigrew placed his empty brandy snifter on the desk. The somber mood of the last topic made him want to request a refill, but he had work to do. “Admiral, if I’m to have my ship ready, I have work to do. Permission to return to my vessel, sir?”

“Permission granted, and good luck, Captain. I expect we’ll all need some in the coming weeks.”

Pettigrew turned to leave and Getchell called after him.

“Oh, Captain, do me a favor, will you? Day after tomorrow, my Merrifield football team plays in the first round of the Pan-Union Cup. Obviously, I’m going to miss the match. When you arrive at Sol, let me know how the game turned out, will you?”

“I’d be happy to, sir,” Pettigrew grinned. As he was about to step through the hatchway, he turned back to Getchell. “And, sir, thank you.”

By now, the admiral was back behind his desk, head down and writing on his paper pad. Without looking up, he nodded. “Dismissed, Captain.”

* * * *

He almost lost her at the bar. It was the day of the first Pan-Union tournament game and the place was packed with fans, gathering to watch the match on the big viewscreens. Many were locals, but off-duty spacers and Marines were out in full force as well. The Hybrias system had become the most militarized place in Union space. Sixth Fleet had arrived yesterday, joining Fifth Fleet who was already stationed here. There was talk of war with Gerrha in the air, but Hybrias wasn’t even close to Commonwealth space and nobody could figure out what was really going on. He was certain the captain knew, but the Old Man wasn’t sharing.

With over forty warships in system and a great many of their personnel on shore leave, things were really wild in Port Bannatyne that evening. Toss in the football match with a lot of drinking and the local constabulary was gradually being overwhelmed. Fights were breaking out everywhere: ship crews fighting other crews, fans fighting other fans, spacers fighting civilians, and Marines fighting everyone.

The first bar she hit must have been too unruly for her tastes, because she came out just seconds after she entered. In fact, she left so fast that he almost bumped into her. Only a quick dodge behind a huge Marine sergeant saved him from being spotted. When the sergeant wanted to know what was up, he had to do some quick thinking. The Marine was clearly buzzed and not in a good mood, so he smiled and promised to treat the Sarge and his chums to a drink, then sprinted away when the big oaf went through the bar’s old-fashioned revolving door entrance.

It was a few minutes before he picked up the trail again, spotting her red blouse down the street. Thank the Gods she hadn’t worn her uniform because he would have never found her in the sea of space force blues flooding the city. This time she chose what looked to be a smaller, more intimate dining establishment. That worked for him. If all went according to plan, intimate would be good.

Waiting outside for fifteen minutes or so, he did a final check of himself while looking at his reflection in a shop window. His hair looked good. It was never mussed because it was so short, too short in the back where a premature bald spot was growing. His stubble beard looked fine, making him look more masculine. The clothes checked out too. It was mid-summer in Port Bannatyne and he had selected a light cotton print shirt and beige trousers for the evening. He gawked at a netboard mounted on the facade of a building across the street to kill some more time, pretending to be interested in its flashing images. Someone must have scored in the football match, as a noisy cheer suddenly sprang from every building up and down the avenue. Finally, when he was sure she was committed to dinner—and when he had worked up enough nerve—he moved toward the door of the restaurant.