To Honor You Call Us (2 page)

“Sir, you’re bleeding,” observed Montaba quietly.

Max looked at his arm.  His uniform sleeve was soaked with blood and he could see deeply into the muscles of his forearm.  The slash was deep, and yet, Max felt strangely distanced from the sensation of pain.  He pulled a First Aid Kit from an Emergency Equipment Bin, stuffed a volume bandage into the arm of his uniform, and then stuck his whole forearm into a compression sleeve, pulled the cinch, and tied it off.  The sleeve inflated to put pressure on the volume bandage and slow the bleeding, while a medication ampule in the bandage was ruptured by the pressure, releasing coagulants and an antibiotic cocktail into the wound.  Maybe Max would not bleed to death in the next few hours or die of an infection before he got to a doctor.  Just maybe.

This took only about a minute.  People were moving quickly but efficiently to their assigned stations, getting their displays tied into working data channels and bringing their controls online.  Max stabbed a comm button on his panel.  “Attention all hands, this is Lieutenant Robichaux in AuxCon.  CIC is gone and I have assumed command.  Ship is being conned from here.  All DC and Boarder Repel stations report your status by lights.  I need two Marines to AuxCon.  Maintain Condition One.  That is all.”  How the Marines were supposed to determine which two were to respond to this command, they would have to figure out for themselves, because Max had his hands full. 

Hands full was right.  Max had never commanded anything larger than a 350 ton System Patrol Vessel.  Now he was commanding a heavily damaged 25,650 metric ton Frigate in combat with a much larger and more powerful capital ship, light years from any hope of reinforcement or support, with virtually all of his officers and much of his crew dead.  The expression “over your head” didn’t even begin to cover it. 

The crewman at the Damage Control Station sang out.  “Getting damage reports, sir.  Relaying them to your board.”  It would take a few minutes before a complete picture developed. 

“Boarders?”  Max said to Lewis at the On Board Defense Station.

“Only green lights so far, sir.  They are pretty well distributed throughout the ship.  I’ve got a voicecom report from a squad of Marines saying that they just surrounded and took out the five Krag who blew CIC.  Maybe we got them all.”

“Maybe so.”  And maybe not.  Max stabbed the comm button again.  “AuxCon to Engineering.” 

A somewhat reedy but precise voice answered instantly.  “Engineering here.  Brown speaking.”

“Werner!”  Max responded gleefully, relief flooding through his every cell.  He gave the name a German pronunciation, even though Engineer Brown’s accent was decidedly British.  “Do you have any kind of engines working down there at all or am I going to have to order ‘out sweeps’ and have the crew row us home?”

“
Left
enant,” the Engineer exaggeratedly gave the rank the archaic British pronunciation, contrary to naval procedure, “since your meager training still doesn’t encompass reading the Master Status Display, it is my duty to inform you that the main sublight drive is available at up to thirty-nine percent power, but I suggest you endeavor to keep that lower than twenty-five percent.  Compression drive is available but no higher than two hundred and twenty c.  Again, my strong recommendation is to approach that speed only in grave need—one hundred fifty would be much more prudent.  The jump drive is nothing but scrap metal and molten pieces of abstract art.  Oh, and if I were you I shouldn’t want to pull anything more than about eight Gs because the inertial compensators are capable of no more than seven point eight Gs.  That is, unless you wish to kill what little crew you have left.”

“Understood, Werner.  If anything else of any importance breaks, let me know by comm.  Master Status is down.  Would be nice if it worked.  Of course, it’s not like I expect
you
to fix it.”

“I shall attend to it in my copious free time.  And,
Left
enant, if you find yourself unable to remember the route to Lovell Station, feel free to ask me for directions.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Werner.  AuxCon out.”  Somewhere between a third and two thirds of the crew might be dead, one of the two star drives was gone for good, a vastly more powerful enemy vessel was just meters off the starboard beam, but gallows humor was alive and well in the Union Space Navy.  Good thing. 

He jabbed the comm key once again.  “AuxCon to Casualty Station. . . .  Anyone in Casualty, please respond.”  Nothing.  “Anyone up here not insanely busy?”  An Ordinary Spacer Second Class stepped forward.  “Shaloob, run on down to the Casualty Station, see what’s going on down there, and report back from the nearest working comm.  With CIC gone, your percom might not work.  And, we’re not sure the ship is clear of Krag so watch yourself.  I want your sidearm
in your hand
and make sure you’ve got rounds in it and a spare mag.  Or three.”

“Aye, Skipper,” the man said automatically.  He press checked his weapon, popped the magazine and looked at the witness holes, then drew three spare mags from the AuxCon weapons locker and went out the door, pistol in hand. 

“Skipper.  Never been called that before,” Max thought.  “Maneuvering, open up some range between us and the Krag ship, in case they’ve got any more ideas about boarding or they get their point defense weapons working again.  Get us out to four hundred kilometers.  Course and acceleration at your discretion, but take it easy on the old girl, she’s had a rough day.”

“Aye, sir, four-zero-zero kills, course and acceleration at my discretion, taking it easy,” said Tomkins who apparently was the senior of the three at the maneuvering stations—one for yaw and roll, one for pitch and trim, and one for the drive systems. 

“Tactical, what weapons do we have?”  Dear, God, please let there be some. “Status on pulse cannon:  no lights at all, no response to comms.  My opinion is that we should assume forward and rear batteries are out.  Number two and four missile tubes are available.  Tubes loaded, crews standing by, reloads at the ready.  But, I’ve got a red light on the main coils and amber on the auxiliary.  The auxiliary coil driver is running at only five percent, so it will almost be a dead tube fire.  Tubes one and three show red lights across the board and their crews do not answer.”  Short pause.  “I think the crews are dead, sir.”  Marceaux responded quickly and precisely, but his voice was shaking.  The adrenalin was wearing off. 

“God rest their souls,” he said softly.  “Good job, Marceaux.”  Then, in what the Navy called an Officer’s Order Voice, “This is a Nuclear Weapons Arming Order.  Arm missiles and warheads in tubes two and four, and target the Krag ship.”

“Nuclear Weapons Arming Order acknowledged and logged, sir.  Arming missiles in two and four, arming warheads in two and four, and targeting the Krag.”  Marceaux repeated his part of the time honored litany.

“I plan to fire two while holding four in reserve in case two does not destroy the target or another target presents itself,” Max announced.  “Maneuvering, sing out when we get to four hundred kills then turn to unmask the number two and four tubes.

WHAM.  A hammer blow struck the ship rattling the teeth of everyone on board.

“The Krag just fired one of their projectile weapons, sir,” Tactical observed. 

“We noticed.  Mr. Adamson, give me a read on the projectile’s velocity.”

“It was just over a thousand meters per second, sir.”

“So, about ten percent.  Most of
their
acceleration coils on the projectile weapon must be out.  It’ll take a hit at the optimal angle for them to penetrate the hull.”

“Unless they can zero in on one of our hull breaches,” Adamson muttered.

“Glad you thought of that, Adamson.  DC, do we know where our hull breaches are, yet?”

“Affirmative sir, reports are tolerably complete.”  This from Arglewa.  Somehow he had acquired a nasty burn on his shaven scalp.  “We have two right together in Frame Three at azimuth two-zero-five and two-one-two and one in Frame Five at azimuth two-two-three.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Arglewa.  Get some burn foam on that shiny head of yours.  The glare is distracting me.  Maneuvering, do your best to roll the ship to present an azimuth of about. . . .” he took a rough average of the three azimuths and subtracted it from 360, “seventy-five degrees to the enemy.”

“Just passing four-zero-zero kills, sir, yawing to unmask tubes two and four and rolling to present seventy-five degree azimuth,” said Tomkins.

“Very well.”

Max’s comm buzzed.  “Robichaux here.  Go ahead.”

“This is Shaloob.  Casualty station is
gone
, sir.  I think the Krag blew the hatch and tossed in a satchel charge.  Looks like the place was full of wounded when they did it, too.  Nothing but debris and body parts now.  Nurse/Medic Salmons and Pharmacist’s Mate Cho have got a makeshift casualty station set up on the RecDeck.  I count fifty-three wounded there, thirty-two look serious.  Salmons and Cho are performing surgery on someone right now so I didn’t interrupt them to get more information.” 

“Good call, Shaloob, and good report.  When either Salmons or Cho gets a second, ask them if they can use you there.  If so, lend a hand, if not hustle back here.” 

“Aye, sir.”

“AuxCon out.”

WHAM.  Another Krag projectile slammed into the hull, this one causing two of the panels in the compartment’s false ceiling to fall to the deck.  A pre-pubescent Midshipman who had appeared in AuxCon without Max noticing calmly picked up the two panels and stacked them with the other debris he had quietly been arranging near the inoperable waste disposal chute, the look on his face as blasé as if he were policing a park for candy wrappers.  The boy had a short barreled shotgun slung over his shoulder and powder deposits on his face and hands proving he had made extensive use of it in the last few hours.  The boy wasn’t shaving yet but, in all likelihood, he had already killed.

Two marines with blood on their uniforms and fire in their eyes stepped into the compartment.  “Lance Corporal McGinty and PFC Nogura reporting as ordered, sir,” said the older of the two.  Both saluted smartly.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Max, returning the salute with equal precision.  A Marine felt insulted if you gave him a sloppy salute.  “Take up station outside the hatch to this compartment.  You see any Navy, get ‘em in here.  You see any Krag, you know what to do.”

“Aye, sir.”  The Marines did a perfect parade ground about face and took up their stations in the corridor. 

“Tubes two and four unmasked, enemy targeted,” Marceaux reported.

“Very well.”  Max responded.  “Mr. Marceaux, enable drives in missiles two and four.  Release warhead safeties.  Set for maximum yield.”

“Enabling drives in missiles two and four.  Releasing warhead safeties.  Setting for maximum yield.”

“Open number two missile door,” said Max.

“Number two open.”

“Verify missile target.”

“Sir,” Marceaux responded formally, “missile number two is targeted on the Krag vessel approximately four hundred kills off our bow.”

“Very well.  Weapons Officer, you have a Nuclear Launch Order.”

“Confirmed, sir, I have a Nuclear Launch Order.”

“Fire Two.”

“Two away.”  The ship shuddered as the missile was accelerated marginally by the damaged coils in its launch tube and then continued to accelerate under its own power.  “Missile on course and homing on target.”  Marceaux sounded relieved.  He probably had never fired a live missile before.  “Impact in seven seconds.”

There was an optical feed of the Krag ship on four displays strategically located around the compartment.  Every eye was glued to one of them as every man silently counted down the seconds, watching as the Krag ship slowly yawed, probably to unmask a just-repaired beam weapon battery and fire what was likely to be a killing blow to the Frigate. 

Three, two, one . . . Right on the mark, all four displays flared into almost painful brightness as the Krag ship disappeared in an incandescent sphere of rapidly expanding plasma slowly fading from a brilliant blue-white through the color-temperature spectrum into dull red and vanishing into infrared frequencies invisible to the human eye.  When the fireball was gone at last, there were only the cold distant lights of the stars set against the infinite dark of space. 

“All right, people, the bad guys died.  We didn’t.  Excellent work.  Now, let’s see about getting the old girl back to Lovell Station.”