To Honor You Call Us (6 page)

He took a few minutes to walk around, briefly looking at each display, noting that as he approached each station, the man serving it would tense up, ever so slightly.  And, while most of the displays showed things in good order, two revealed what Max could see were comparatively minor but subtle problems that the watch stander should either have been addressing or should have announced for others to remedy.  That’s when he noticed the shine.  On everything.  All the surfaces in CIC gleamed, even the ones that were unfinished metal when the ship came out of the yard.  They gleamed beyond the normal rigorous level of cleanliness that was normal for a warship—they gleamed as though they had each been polished laboriously, endlessly, obsessively, many, many times over the roughly year and half the ship had been in commission. 

Max casually walked over to an emergency equipment access panel and opened it, as if to check the readiness of the reserve oxygen cylinders.  Even the
inside
of the access panel was polished.  He pulled out one of the oxygen cylinders.  It was polished too, and the rough edges of metal where the two halves of the cylinder were welded together had been ground even with the rest of the tank and brought to a high gloss.  It was then that Max noticed that the Chief manning the Computer Core Status Console was watching him out of the corner of his eye and smiling smugly, as if he was aware his new Captain had seen the extraordinary level of spit and polish to which the ship had been brought and was very, very proud.

Carefully maintaining a neutral expression, Max replaced the cylinder and closed the panel.  He opened three other panels and found a similar borderline-psychotic level of polish behind each.  To top it off, there was no wear of any kind on the deck tiles, even in places where there was a pair of watch stander’s feet every minute of every day the ship was not moored.  That meant that someone was replacing the tiles at least every few months which was certainly not the norm.

“XO, ETA to the Navbuoy?”

“Two minutes, fifteen seconds, sir.”

“Very well.  I’ll be in my cabin.  Notify me as we pass the buoy.  I wish to see all department heads in the Wardroom at ten hundred hours.  You have the CIC.”

“Aye, sir, I have the CIC.”

With that, Max left CIC for his cabin.  One of the perquisites of being the CO is having one’s cabin just a few steps away from CIC.  It took him less than thirty seconds to get from the CIC hatch to his day cabin.  He went directly to the Captain’s Safe, keyed in the combination, and opened the door.  Inside, on top of the usual contents, were two envelopes.  One was the large blue official admiralty issue envelope with the red seal used for Orders, and the other was a plain, cream-colored envelope addressed by hand to “Lt. Commander M. T. Robichaux—Personal and Confidential.” 

His heart was racing.  These orders could be the key to the most exciting days of his life, or could be the introduction to untold months of unbearable tedium.  And, in just a few seconds he would know.  He slipped his index finger under the seal but did not break it. 

The comm terminal on his desk beeped.  “CO here.”

“Skipper, this is the XO.  We just passed the buoy.”

“Very well.  Steady as she goes.”  He broke the seal.

Chapter
3

09:59Z Hours 21 January 2315

Max sat at the head of the table gazing at his Department Heads and taking his first good look at the wardroom of his new command.  Of the group of twelve, four were in SCUs:  the XO, the Chief Engineer, the Weapons Officer, and the Marine Detachment Commander.  Of course, it was always possible that one or more of these men were already in their combat gear, but Max took it as a sign of support from these critical officers.  On the other hand, he did not take the wearing of Dress Blues by the others as a sign of disloyalty.  Not everyone would have heard about his appearance in CIC just over half an hour ago and not everyone would have had time to change. 

As for the room itself, it was less than impressive.  In the Trid Vids about the Valiant Naval Heroes of the Krag War, the jut-jawed, clear-eyed, broad-shouldered protagonists always conducted their meetings in a beautifully appointed conference room complete with walls of computer displays and lavish arrays of high definition 3D projections to show the tactical situation from several angles and on multiple scales. 
Cumberland
was too small to have a space set aside just for meetings, so the group was assembled in the wardroom, where the officers typically took their meals and coffee.  The designers of
Cumberland
’s
wardroom had made two and only two concessions to the compartment’s secondary function as a meeting room.  First, it was somewhat larger than was strictly necessary to seat the eight or so officers who were the maximum number off duty at any given time.  And, second, there was one and only one flat panel display on one wall as well as well as one and only one standard resolution one cubic meter 3D projector.

It was 09:59 and there were fourteen chairs around the wardroom table, but only thirteen occupants, counting Max.  Perhaps whoever set out the chairs allowed for an extra or someone counted wrong.  Surely, no one would dare be late.  At exactly 10:00 by the Wardroom clock, to the second, Max began the meeting.  In the Navy, 10:00
means
10:00. 

“Good morning, Gentlemen.  For those of you who havn’t met me, I’m Lieutenant Commander Max Robichaux, your new commanding officer.  I’ll be making the acquaintance of each of you at the conclusion of this meeting.  I’m going straight to the point.  We’ve been given a difficult and important mission.  This is a mission that could make a significant difference in the course of the war and, not incidentally, restore to this ship the respect and good name that she deserves.  Unfortunately, gentlemen, it’s a mission for which this ship and her compliment are no more ready than a newborn baby would be for an all expenses paid night at an Alnitakian whorehouse.  I’ve been over the after action reports of your last two engagements and the evaluations from your last exercise.  They can be described in six words.”  He counted them off on his fingers.  “Pitiful.  Wretched.  Em.  Bar.  Ass.  Ing. 

“Your people can’t acquire targets, they can’t track targets, they can’t hit targets, they can’t maneuver toward targets, they can’t evade targets, they can’t identify targets, and they can’t evaluate targets.  The only thing that this ship seems to be able to do well is BE a target.  Now the strange thing is that there isn’t one reason in this whole big bright galaxy why this crew should perform like a bunch of fuck-ups.  According to aptitude tests, this crew should be well over the naval average for crews of this type.  In fact, most of the members of this crew were on the tech team that shook down the systems for the prototype vessel for this class.  These people are not morons.  You are not morons.  So, the question of the day is why is everyone performing like morons?”

Suddenly, the door to the wardroom door burst open and, out of breath, bedraggled, wearing a dirty lab coat over a mismatched assemblage of different grades of uniform, appeared Doctor Ibrahim Sahin. 

“Doctor,” Max said severely, “you are late.”

He bowed.  “Apologies, please accept my profuse apologies.  I had difficulty finding the location of this inappropriately named space in this most confusingly arranged vessel.  I mean, when I was informed that this assemblage was to take place in the ‘wardroom’ I assumed that we were meeting in a space associated with the ship’s medical facilities.  After all, a ‘ward’ is part of a hospital or a clinic is it not?”  He gazed searchingly at his audience, expecting to receive a ringing affirmation.  Hearing none, he forged on.  “When I was able to find no such room in or near the Casualty Station, I looked around the ship for a sign or guidepost to steer me in the right direction such as we had at the Military Physicians Training Facility or at Travis Station.  But, I am amazed to report to you sir, totally
amazed
that there are no such directive signs of any kind
anywhere
on this entire Battleship, save and except only those pointing to emergency hatches, fire fighting equipment, and escape pods.  How, sir, how, I ask you, are those uninitiated to the construction of this complex warship to find their way through the labyrinthine convolutions of her multi-brachiated corridors?  I ask you sir, how?” 

The doctor stopped talking, not so much because he ran out of indignation, but because he ran out of air.

“Doctor,
Doctor
, please calm yourself and take a seat.”  Max could not help but notice that a few of those assembled were actually smiling indulgently.  If the doctor had intended to provide some much-needed comic relief to the proceedings, he could not have timed it better or delivered a more exquisitely crafted performance.  “Doctor, this is a Destroyer, not a Battleship.  A different kind of vessel entirely.  There are no directive signs because such things would be an aid to enemy boarders.  If you are ever lost again, simply ask the nearest crewman for directions, and he will be happy to assist you.” 

“My thanks to you, sir,” said the doctor, plopping into his seat, apparently mollified that the lack of signs was due to some considered reasoning process rather than mere incompetence.  “Pray, sir, return to whatever it was you were talking about.  I shall review the recording to acquaint myself with what was said before my arrival.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.  As I was saying, why does a crew comprised of men who on paper are so intelligent and able perform like morons?  You know, or should know, the answers as well as I do.  Three things.  Training.  Leadership.  Fighting Spirit. 

“First, training.  The level of training on this vessel is abysmal.  Why?  I’ve looked through the Crew Activity Reports.  This crew spends twice the time on spit and polish and half the time on combat training than the standard for type.  Priorities are wrong.  Hell, someone has buffed, polished, and polymer sealed the washers on the bolts that hold my toilet to the deck.  This isn’t cleanliness, this is insanity. 

“Now, don’t get me wrong, a warship must be clean.  Scrupulously, thoroughly, immaculately,
militarily
clean.  But, there are limits, and this shining the insides of the air ducts crap goes out the airlock from this moment.  This is a warship, not an Admiral’s Yacht.  I don’t care if every metal surface gleams.  I don’t care if the carpets are deep cleaned daily.  I have posted on the Ship’s General Database the cleaning schedule for the last Destroyer I served on in a combat zone.  I want it adapted to this ship and followed.  From now on, training is the priority.  I want as much training crammed into the schedule as humanly possible.  XO, you’re now the Training Officer.  I want a training schedule on my desk at zero six hundred hours that’ll bring this crew to a razor’s edge within twenty one days.

“If I may, sir,” interrupted the XO, respectfully, “why twenty-one days?”

“Because, XO, that’s all the time we have before we go into combat.” 

That got everyone’s attention.

“Second problem, leadership.  The Admiralty got rid of part of the problem for us.  Captain Allen K. Oscar and Lieutenant Pang, his XO, are gone.  Good riddance.  Based on the Admiral’s opinion of them, they are probably counting comets somewhere in the Zubin Elgenubi Sector.  But, you can tell just from walking into CIC that those officers didn’t take the problem with them when they left.  Now, the primary means by which those of us in this room exercise leadership is by naval discipline, and the discipline on this vessel defies explanation:  Greenies put on report for making mistakes in duties for which they haven’t had adequate training, Able Spacers confined to quarters and even put in the brig for misinterpretation of orders and honest oversights . . . good God, there’s a man in the Brig right now who’s been there for forty-five days because he
misidentified a sensor contact
.  Major Kraft, I want that man, hell, I want
every
man in the Brig released immediately upon the conclusion of this meeting.”

The commander of the Marine detachment nodded.  “Aye, sir.  My pleasure.”

Max noticed from some averted gazes and foot shuffling that not everyone at the table was equally enthusiastic about that last order.  Tough shit.

“And, that’s going to be the order of the day, gentlemen.  Simple mistakes, errors, and oversights are to be rectified by training, not by punishment.  On this ship, punishment is reserved for neglect of duty, insubordination, and willful misconduct.  And, in the case of officers, add to that abuse of subordinates.  And, make no mistake about that.  I will not have the men excessively shouted at, berated, or abused.  I know that the Navy is fueled by profanity as much as by deuterium and that sometimes it takes a lot to get a Spacer’s attention, but there is a line, gentlemen—there is a matter of degree—between manly exhortation and abuse.  That line will not be crossed on this ship.  The Navy is a
hard
service but it is not a
cruel
service.  And, remember, these men need to be encouraged at least as much as they need to be criticized.  You, the men in this room, are their leaders.  They’ll be looking to you for guidance, for encouragement, for help.  Give it to them.  Show them how to be good spacers, good crewmen, good warriors.  They can’t reach behind themselves and pull it out of their asses.  They’ve got to learn it from you. 

“Third and last, we need to cultivate a warrior spirit on this ship.  Too many of these men act as though they are getting ready for a fleet exercise or an Admiral’s inspection instead of meeting the enemy in battle to take or destroy him.  Until further notice, SCUs are the Uniform of the Day.  Officers will carry side arms and boarding cutlasses at all times.  Enlisted personnel will train regularly to repel boarders and be thoroughly drilled in side arms, shoulder arms, edged weapons, and hand to hand combat.  Men will practice boarding and repelling boarders at least three times a week, watch against watch, with an extra beer or liquor ration to the winners.