To Honor You Call Us (3 page)

This particular party was to celebrate the arrival of Vice Admiral Louis G. “Hit-em Hard” Hornmeyer replacing Vice Admiral Vladimir I. “By the Book” Bushinko as commander of Task Force Tango Delta.  Maybe it would be more proper to say, “fill the vacancy of” instead of “replace” because Admiral Bushinko was dead.  Spectacularly dead.  He was vaporized along with his flagship and her 10,237 man crew in battle eight days ago.  The loss of the Admiral and all those men, not to mention a priceless Command Carrier and the more than two hundred Banshee fighters she carried, sucked the wind out of the gathering and weighed on Max’s spirits.

An even bigger damper on Max’s mood was that, as far as he could tell, he was the lowest ranking officer present:  a lowly Lieutenant, though at least not a Junior Grade one.  On the ladder of Commissioned Officers, he stood only on the third rung, so far down that the top was almost invisible to him.  He wouldn’t have received an invitation at all, except that he was still in temporary,
pro forma,
command of the
Emeka Moro,
now that his Skipper, Executive Officer, and the three other ship’s officers senior to him were casualties.  Unfortunately, the ship which he “commanded” was a ship in name only, an unpowered hulk in a holding area waiting for time in dry dock for a list of repairs longer than the Code of Naval Regulations.  She would not go anywhere under her own power for months, if ever.  His “command” was so meaningless, in fact, that he had been assigned temporary duty in Signals Intelligence, sitting at a computer console, sorting through and attempting to interpret enemy communications intercepts. 

Everyone else at this shindig, held on the Recreation deck of the
Halsey
, Admiral Hornmeyer’s flagship, seemed to be at least a Lieutenant Commander and most were Commanders or Captains.  To highlight his feelings of inferiority, Max could see that virtually every uniform in the room bore the “Command in Space Badge,” a medallion in the shape of a stylized warship radiating a salvo of lightning bolts.  The CSB, Max’s most cherished desire since he was eight years old, was worn over the left breast and symbolized that the wearer commanded a Rated Warship, that is, a ship of sufficient power, speed, and range to be sent to meet the enemy without close support from the fleet.  And, as a mere Lieutenant, there was little chance he would be wearing one any time soon.  

But, maybe things weren’t so bad.  With all the casualties throughout the fleet, he might not remain stuck much longer pushing electrons down in SIGINT.  After all, by luck, good planning, or natural ability (or, maybe, a combination of all three), Max’s service record was unusually rich in actual combat duty.  He had been in more battles than many officers could even name, and was almost always assigned to one of the “fighting stations” such as Weapons, Tactical, Sensors, Countermeasures, Electronic Warfare, and various other functions directly related to taking, killing, harassing, or destroying the enemy.  Hell, he had even been wounded in combat.  Twice.  Max was itching to get back in the fight and maybe he had a chance.  Rumor had it that several new ships, fresh out of the massive fleet construction yards back in the Union’s Core Systems, were
en route
to join the Task Force, perhaps with officer billets to be filled from surplus personnel already here.  The Navy Cross he was just awarded for what most people were calling a “valiant boarding action” might give him a leg up in that department.  And, from there, perhaps he would receive promotion and a chance at a command.    

Just as he started to allow himself a smile of hope, his lips curled into a frown of irritation.  Someone, visible to him only as a silhouette, was blocking his view of the majestic ringed planet that hung outside the thirty meter long window that was the room’s only attractive feature.  Max strode up to him to ask him in the deferential manner appropriate when speaking to an undoubted superior officer to step aside so that he could see. 

The man, likely sensing Max’s approach, turned around to face him and Max’s planned request went out the airlock.  First, the man was apparently the only officer in the room with a rank lower than his, Lieutenant Junior Grade, so Max had no need for all the carefully constructed convoluted language one had to use when asking a superior to do something.  Second, he wore over his left breast a medal consisting of a silver star, indicating that the wearer was a non-combat officer; superimposed on the star was the outline of a wooden stick with a single, entwining, snake.  It was the Rod of Asclepius, the ancient emblem of a Physician.  So, the man was a Naval Doctor, and Naval Doctors were worth their weight in antimatter, meaning in general that they were pretty much a law unto themselves and in particular that under long-standing naval custom and etiquette this man could block Max’s view of the ringed planet all day if he chose.  Third, and what really killed his urge get the man out of his way, was that he wore on his face a look of such profound grief and intense, protracted, sorrow that Max could not bring himself to ask him to move.   

The man raised his eyebrows in inquiry.  Quickly, Max decided not to say anything about his view being obstructed and hit upon the most obvious alternate pretext.  “Hello, I’m Max Robichaux, Weapons Officer of the
Emeka Moro.
  I’ve gotta tell you, it’s a true relief to see someone else here who isn’t the exalted Commanding Officer of some ship or other.”  As Max extended his hand, he examined the man more closely.  Physically, he was the most forgettable individual Max had ever seen.  Medium height, medium build, brown eyes, dark brown hair, features representing the mixed ancestry that was the heritage of most humans in the 24
^th
Century, in this case mostly Turkish with some European, and some Arabian.  Neither noticeably handsome nor noticeably unattractive, he could pass as a native or a plausible tourist on any Human world, and would not stand out on any of them. 

The man took his hand, bowing slightly as he did so, a custom on many of the more formal human worlds and one that was growing in popularity.  “Ibrahim Sahin, Assistant Chief Medical Officer of William B. Travis Station.”  A wave of deep emotional pain, quickly checked, washed across the man’s features.  He released Max’s hand.  “I beg your pardon.  Former. 
Former
Assistant Chief Medical Officer.”  Former was right.  The whole enormous facility, which was supposedly in a secure rear area, had been blown to flaming atoms eight days ago with more than 50,000 dead and only a dozen or so survivors.  No wonder the poor bastard looked like he just lost his best friend.  He probably did.  And his second best friend.  And his third.

Max struggled only briefly with what to say when faced with an officer who had lived through what this man had endured.  He fell back on the time-honored Navy Way:  minimize the emotional and talk about the facts.  “Sorry to hear it, Lieutenant.  How did you manage to make it?” 

The doctor shook his head slightly, almost as though he was prepared to disbelieve his own story.  “I was treating a patient for decompression sickness in a hyperbaric chamber.  When the hospital wing was destroyed, the chamber was blown clear.  I closed all the pressure valves and my patient and I lived off of the treatment oxygen bottles in the chamber for twenty-nine hours until we were rescued.  We had emergency lights for only the first three hours or so.  After that, it was dark.  Very, very dark . . . .”  His voice trailed off.  He collected himself and went on.  “Well, in any event, the patient lived and is now being evacuated to the naval hospital on Epsilon Indi III.”

That made sense.  A hyperbaric chamber had to be built like a diving bell to withstand the high pressure air it contained, so it would survive even if that part of the station were breached.  And the things had to be air tight to work in the first place.

“Quick thinking.  And a helluva stroke of luck,” Max observed.

“You could look at it that way.  I’m wondering if I might have been better off if I had been in the corridor or in the head relieving myself when that part of the station went.”

It wasn’t the first time Max had heard that kind of talk.  Max had gone aboard his first warship as a squeaker when he was eight years old, and the Union had been at war for years before that.  Now, at age twenty-eight, Max had a lifetime’s worth of experience dealing with people who had survivor’s guilt.  It had to be nipped in the bud or he would soon be reading in the Naval Gazette that the Admiralty was saddened to announce that Dr. Sahin had died in a “regrettable airlock accident.” 

He put his arm around the man, leading him gently away from the window.  “Walk with me, Doctor.  Let’s both of us get another drink.”  The two made their way to the bar and were waited on right after a short Commodore who looked as though he would be better off drinking strong New Lebanon coffee than the Scotch the bartender had just poured for him.  Max got another bourbon on the rocks.  Doctor Sahin got a glass of Forthian Stout, a dark beer-like brew that contained no alcohol because Forthian yeast produced no alcohol.

“Been in the Navy long?”  It was a somewhat less lame opener than most, anyway. 

“Only four years.  When I completed my Residency on Earth and it was time to go back home, there was no home to go back to.  So, I joined the Navy, spent two years at the DeBakey Joint Forces Physicians Training Facility and when I graduated was immediately assigned to Travis.  I’ve been there ever since.”

“No home to go back to, you said?”

“That’s correct,” Sahin replied.  “I’m from Tubek.”

Max couldn’t remember anything about Tubek, except two salient facts:  first, it had fallen to the Krag about six years ago.  And, second, as with most Krag conquests, no one knew what happened to the people who lived there.  Naval Intelligence believed that they were either killed, enslaved, or some unsavory combination of both.  So, Doctor Sahin had not only just lost everyone he had worked with his entire professional career, but six years before had also likely lost his entire family and everyone he had grown up with.  There weren’t many Grief Counselors in the Union Navy’s Medical Corps, but this guy was a candidate to have one assigned to him full time.

“My God.  How’re  you managing?”

“I manage.  I was very busy on the Station.  Now, here on
Halsey
with all the combat casualties, I am too busy to dwell on things.  Work is good therapy.  My patients need me, and there is satisfaction in helping them, although after I treat them they are evacuated back to the Core Systems or returned to their ships and I never see them again.  Work is what gets me through the day.  The nights . . . the nights are somewhat more problematic.” 

“I know what you mean.  What do they have you doing?”  Spacers got the same diseases as civilians.  So, some naval doctors treated infectious disease or cancer or neurological disorders or digestive problems, but most patched up the wounded, cared for them and, if possible, started them on the path to being restored to duty.

“I’m one of fifteen combat/trauma surgeons on the
Halsey
.  We do all the combat surgery for the casualties from this ship, and also get the more difficult cases from the rest of the task force.  We are operating around the clock in three shifts.  But, they keep on threatening to put me on a Destroyer or a Frigate on detached service.”

No one got rid of a Naval Surgeon, or even talked about it, without good reason.  “Why’s that?”

“I’m afraid that I am insufficiently diplomatic in my dealings with superior officers.  My medical C.O., Captain Choi, has a different philosophy of the extent of reconstructive and rehabilitative surgery that can be profitably performed here, and what should wait until the patient reaches permanent treatment facilities back in the Core Systems.  I am of the view that, so long as surgical resources are available, we should treat the patient to the maximum level of cure that our facilities and staff are capable of providing.  Dr. Choi, on the other hand, says that the medications and other consumable resources used in these procedures should be conserved in case resupply is interrupted and we need them to save the lives of battle casualties.” 

Max could see both sides and recognized that Dr. Choi certainly had some good reasons for his position.  On the other hand, Max asked if he would want to himself to be treated by a doctor who didn’t strive to provide the greatest and highest level of care and benefit that he possibly could every minute he was providing it.  Not a chance. 

Max certainly did not want to get into an argument with this poor bedraggled fellow in any event.  During their conversation, Max had begun to notice other things amiss with Doctor Sahin, particularly with his uniform.  His boots were a bit dull, the creases on his trousers were not as sharp as they might be, there were a few faint spots on his uniform jacket, and his rank insignia and other decorations were less than perfectly situated.  He would not pass inspection from a taut commander, that was certain.  Max’s own uniform was parade ground perfect.

“Well, Doctor,” said Max, “I’ve had my own issues with, what did you call it, being ‘insufficiently diplomatic.’”  The doctor’s raised eyebrow invited him to continue.  “There was the time when I commanded a little PC-4 and Commodore Barber (that was before he became the Famous Throughout the Fleet Admiral Barber) himself ordered me to disengage and withdraw when . . . .”  Max was interrupted by a beep from the doctor’s percom.  The doctor raised an index finger, indicating that Max should wait while he glanced at the display of the device strapped to his wrist.  From his angle, Max could see the text of the message, but didn’t know the medical codes, so he had no idea what it meant, except that the prefix PI meant that whatever it was, it was supposed to be acted on without any delay.