He Who Dares: Book Two (The Gray Chronicals 2) (51 page)

“Have you thought of a name for your ship yet, Mike?”  He asked at length.

“Yes, sir, unofficially of course, a Corvette don’t usually get a name, just a number.”

“True, but in this case, I’m sure an exception could be made.”

“Well, sir, the consensus on the ship leans towards H.M.S. Nemesis.”

“Good, I like it, and it fits.”

Later that night, Mike thought over the Admiral’s words, seeing meaning and contradictions between what he heard.  Something was going on in the background, something that bordered on treason.  Yet he doubted that it was directed at the King.  Finally, he brushed it away and rolled over and when to sleep.  The official word arrived a few days later that, as of now, Corvette 696 would be known by the name of H.M.S. Nemesis.  As it was too late to break a bottle of Champaign across the bow, Mike did the honors inside to the cheers of the assembled crew.  He broke a small bottle of ships ‘engine cleaner’, curtsey of Petty Officer Macgregor, against the bow main frame, and also gave them a well done from the Admiral and ordered the quarter Master to issue a ration of liqueur for everyone.  After that the routine got back to normal, but to stop too many people asking questions, or wanting to come abroad, the Admiral sent them off on a long patrol around the Southern warp point.  That kept her safely out of the way, but it was boring duty.  His request for an immediate refit was denied, with the explanation that there were far too many ships ahead of him in desperate need of repair.  It did give Gable and Adam time to work on their respective inventions, and a few others they thought up.  Not that it was a singular effort, as all the crew added their suggestion when invited to come up with ideas for improvement.   This started everyone thinking, and in the end Mike has suggestion boxes posted around the ship.  Conner Blake would make the rounds at the end of the watch and collect them for review in the Wardroom later.  A few got some laughs, but on the whole all of them could see that some serious thought had gone into them.

“Here’s one,” Janice said, holding up a slip of paper, “is there a way to hide our drive signature?”  Whoever wrote it, obviously knew how vulnerable a ship was to detection by its drive signature.

“Huh, that’s a question, not a suggestion, Janice.”  Gable grumbled.

“I know, but it's a good question.”

“Never thought about it before,” Adam answered, pulling on his ratty looking mustache he was trying to grow, “but it’s worth considering.”

“What constitutes a drive trail, Adam?”  Mike asked, sipping coffee.

“It's the Graviton signature the dives put out.  It disturbed the gravitational field lines around us as we push against them.”

“From an engineering point of view, what do they look like now, Adam?”  Mike asked.

“Good heavens, you know what?  I have no idea.  Never really thought about it until now.  Mostly you see it as a graphic representation on the screen.”

“What do you see on your sensor screens, Janice?”

“Just magnetic, or gravitational turbulence, sir, something like you see when water comes out of a pipe underwater, swirls and eddied.”

“Seems to me, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir," Conner put in, “no one has really looked at an actual drive trail in a long time, everyone just accepts that they're there.”

“Conner’s right, Adam, maybe it’s time you and Gable really had a close look for once.  It fits into both your areas of expertise.”

“I’ll add it to my list, sir.”

“Can’t you put some of the electronic rating on it?”

“Could do, sir.”

“Tell them what you want and let them have at it.”

“Good point, Skipper.”  Mike saw he needed to teach both Adam and Gable the art of delegation.

If nothing else, all the brain-work did help dispel the boredom.  Now everyone had something to work on, even the Marines.  Mike had given them the task of coming up with improving for their equipment, as most of it was designed fifty years ago and had never been updated.  Between his regular duties, Mike read up on naval history and technology, working on the germ of an idea he’d had the night of the Admiral’s dinner party.  Most of it wouldn’t work in space, but a few of the submarine tactics held merit.  One he investigated and found true was the ability for a ship to hide in the drive trail of another ship.  Sensors looking directly aft were blind due to the amount of turbulence, just as with a submarine.  That was good to know, and something no one had thought of using in space.  The precaution of suddenly turning to port or starboard to check the blind spot was also a good idea.  If one man can think of it, so can another.  Then his cabin comm unit chirped.

“Captain, aye.”

“Message coming in, Skipper.”

“What do their Lordship’s at the Admiralty have to say now?”  He answered.  “Anything interesting?”

“Yes, sir, we’ve been ordered back to Earth for a refit.  That’s odd, the first time I requested it, I was turned down, now this.”  Another thought struck him.  “Could be someone wants a closer look at our ship?”

“No, Skipper, the orders signed by Admiral Rawlings, so I doubt it's that, also, H.M.S. Sutherland will take over our patrol area in two days, according to the message.”

“Set a course so we don’t meet her, just exchange signals, then on to Earth, Number One.”

“Aye, sir.”

They passed the Sutherland the next day, and after exchanging, brief, terse signals the Nemesis proceeded on to Earth.  The ‘Sutherland’ did query the fact that she could pick them up on her scope, but Mike ordered Pete to ignore the message and just send a thank you.  Traffic control gave them an insertion vector and they came in over the North Atlantic, shedding velocity as they plunged through the decent window into atmosphere.  Unlike the old descents where ships entered the atmosphere at high velocity, with the Ag systems, the ship could enter at any speed the Captain wanted, from high speed as in a combat maneuver, to as slow as a feather falling to Earth.  Dropping through the clouds under the speed of sound, they entered into the local traffic pattern and crawled along behind a bulk cargo freighter heading for Portsmouth, watching the gray waves roll by under their keel.  A Naval Police Cruiser flashed up and down the long line of ships, keeping everyone in place, and even if they were Navy, it didn’t get them any priority where docking was concerned.

“Christ on a crutch!  We can travel half way across the bloody galaxy in a wink of an eye, yet it takes us hours just to dock.”  Pete Standish grumbled.

The sheer volume of inbound and outbound traffic was astonishing, and it took almost an hour and a half before they could break out and enter the military lane for Davenport Dockyards.  That was faster, but not by much.

“Comm, query Davenport traffic control and ask them where they want us to put down.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Bet we end up out in the salt marsh again, Skipper.”  Pete commented with a chuckle.

“I’m not going to take that bet, Pete.”

“Guess what, Skipper?”  Janice called.

“What?”

“Number One was right.  We are to land at slip 819.”  She chuckled.

“Right back where we started.”  Pete added.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

As they came slowly up the estuary and turned onto the slipway, they could see a small group of people waiting for them.  Even the environmental shelter was still there, the doors open and ready to receive them.  Cindy looked over at Conner Blake, as if asking if he wanted to take the helm, but he smiled and shook his head.

“You did it alright in that knife fight, so you can do this, girl, nice and easy.”  He said, sitting back in his helm seat.

Mike was pleased to see that she didn’t take offense at the Chief calling her girl.  In fact, none of the female crew took offense over such things.  The Navy might take a dim view of it, what with all their rules and regulation about politically correct speech and forms of address.  That might work in civilian life, but in the cramped quarter aboard a warship like this it just got in the way.  Cindy took her very gently and set the Nemesis down on her landing sponsons, then signaled ‘Finished with engines’ on the telegraph.  The Ding!  Ding!  Of the reply sounded through the Bridge and quite descended.

“Excellent, well done, Cindy.”

“Thank you, Skipper.”  She sat up straighter in her seat, feeling proud.

“We’re home people.”

“Shore Leave, Skipper?”

“Yes, Pete, ask for volunteers for a stand-by crew and give the remainder thirty days leave.”

“Aye-aye, sir, I will tell them to take their comm units, just in case of a sudden recall.”

“Good idea, also, use the shuttles to drop them off at some central points in London, they can all meet there if they need to get back in a hurry.”

“Aye, sir.”  Mike and the XO made their way down to the dock, seeing Cynthia’s grinning face as they stepped ashore.

“Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

“I missed you, Cynthia.”  Mike grinned and hugged her.  “But sorry to say, I didn’t come bearing coffee and donuts this time.”

“Good to see you again, Mike, and you Conner.”  She gave him a broad smile, and winked.

“I did take the liberty of bringing a small present from the ship's mess, sir.”  Conner held out a tissue wrapped bottle.

“Ummm bribing the local natives again, Conner.”  Pete chuckled.  Cynthia accepted the bottle and carefully unwrapped it.  Her smile got even bigger when she saw it was Torgon brandy.

“Did you get into trouble with the Inspector?”

“No,” She shook her head, carefully re-wrapping the bottle and slipping it into the side pocket of her overcoat.  “I pleaded insanity and they let me off with a warning.”  She grinned.

“I bet they did.”  Mike was betting it went deeper than that, but let it pass.  The group slowly walked around the slipway, following Cynthia on her inspection tour.

“No, seriously, they wasn’t much they could do about it.  Your ship didn’t officially exist, so how could they make a big deal about it, not with the union breathing down their collective necks.”

“So, why are we here?”  Mike asked.

“Refit.  I’ve got to replace that damaged drive plate, plus a few upgrades.”

“Right, a brand new ship, and already she needs upgrading.”

“That’s how my orders read, so don’t pick on me.  I just work here, and by the way, what on Earth did you do to my nice shiny ship, she looks horrible.”  She let out a mock groan and shook her head in disbelief.

The Nemesis did look a bit ratty with the Gable coating.  Parts of it were already starting to flake off, due to the extreme cold of space, combat.  It gave the appearance that she was molting.  The torpedo hit they’d taken was on the Port side, but thankfully their upgraded armor plate, and shields worked better than Mike expected.  The near miss had stripped off more of the coating, but that was a small price to pay and things considered.  If she’d been just an ordinary Corvette he doubted he’d still have a full crew.

“Oh, that, blame Gable for it, it's just a little camouflage.”  He said offhandedly.

“Well, I’m supposed to strip that off...”

“What?  You can’t do that.”  Three people yelled at once.

“...and apply a new coat of something.”  She finished, looking at the three men.

“Something, what paint?”  Pete asked, looking worried, thinking she meant to paint her in regulation navel colors.