A Call To Arms: Chapter Sixteen

    “Yes, Ma’am,” Travis said, his pulse suddenly pounding.

    Maneuvering past her, he pulled his way down the passageway and headed toward the bridge, a sinking feeling joining the resident tension already in his stomach. He had no idea what he’d done now, but for Castillo to be bothering with him at a time like this it must have been something big.

    Like the other officers aboard Phoenix, Travis had been part of the bridge watch rotation ever since the early days of his assignment. But he’d never seen it during combat conditions, and the first thing that struck him as he maneuvered through the hatch was how calm everyone seemed to be. The voices giving orders and reports were terse, but they were clear and well controlled. Captain Castillo was strapped into his station, his eyes moving methodically between the various displays, while Commander Sladek held position at his side, the two of them occasionally murmuring comments back and forth. All of the monitors were live, showing the ship’s position, vector, and acceleration, as well as the status of the two forward missile launchers, the spinal laser, and the three autocannon defense systems.

    In the center of the main tactical display was the approaching enemy.

    It was a warship, all right. The signature of the wedge made that clear right from the outset. It was pulling a hundred twenty gees, which didn’t tell Travis much — virtually any warship could handle that kind of acceleration, and most could do considerably better. The range marker put it just under four hundred thousand kilometers out, a little over twelve minutes away on their current closing vector.

    His first reaction was one of relief. There was no way a warship could sneak up that close without Phoenix’s sensors picking it up. Fornier had been right: this was indeed a drill.

    But what kind of drill required Travis to be hauled away from his station onto the bridge? Was Castillo testing Bajek’s ability to run Forward Weapons? That seemed ridiculous.

    “Analysis, Mr. Long?”

    Travis snapped his attention back. Castillo and Sladek had finished their quiet conversation, and both men were gazing straight at him.

    Travis swallowed hard. What were they asking him for? “It’s definitely a warship, Sir,” he said, trying frantically to unfreeze his brain as he looked around the multitude of displays. CIC should have spit out a data compilation and probably even an identification by now, but the screen was still showing nothing except the preliminary collection run-through. Probably another of Phoenix’s chronic sensor glitches. “But it’s not being overly aggressive,” he continued, trying to buy himself some time. “The hundred twenty gees it’s pulling is probably around seventy percent of its standard acceleration capability.”

    “So far, there’s been no response to our hail,” Sladek said. “How would you proceed?”

    And then, to Travis’s relief, the sensor ID screen finally came to life. The approaching ship was indeed one of theirs, a Triumph-class battlecruiser. Specifically, it was HMS Invincible, flagship of the Green One task force.

    He had a fraction of a second of fresh relief at the confirmation that this was, indeed, just a drill. An instant later, a violent wave of fresh tension flooded in on him.

    Green One was commanded by Admiral Carlton Locatelli. Uncle of Ensign Fenton Locatelli. The junior officer Travis was continually having to write up.

    And here Travis was on Phoenix’s bridge, being asked advice by his captain while Locatelli charged into simulated battle.

    What the hell was going on?

    “Mr. Long?” Castillo prompted.

    With a supreme effort, Travis forced his brain back to the situation. “Do we know if she’s alone?” he asked, again looking around the bridge. Everything he could see indicated Invincible was the only vessel out there, but he wasn’t quite ready to trust his reading of the relevant displays.

    “Confirmed,” Sladek said. “There’s nothing else within range –”

    “Missile trace!” someone barked.

    Travis snapped his gaze around to the tactical. Invincible was actually firing a missile?

    A practice missile, obviously, without a warhead. But even so, it was unprecedented to use one in an exercise.

    Or, for that matter, to use one at any time, for any reason. Captain Davison had refused to use one of Vanguard’s missiles even when lives were at stake. Commander Metzger had undergone hours of hearings after using one at Secour, and that situation had been just one step short of a full-on war footing. And rumor had it that Salamander’s captain had been relieved of command mainly because he’d used one in the Izbica Incident.

    But a new wedge had definitely appeared on the displays: the smaller, more compact wedge of a missile tracking straight toward Phoenix. Either Locatelli had some special dispensation, or he no longer gave a damn what Parliament thought.

    “Acceleration thirty-five-hundred gees; estimated impact, two minutes forty seconds,” the tactical officer called.

    “Stand by autocannon,” Castillo ordered calmly. “Fire will commence fifteen seconds before estimated impact.”

    Travis drew a hissing breath. That was, he knew, the prescribed response to a missile attack. With an effective range of a hundred fifty kilometers, the autocannon’s self-guided shells were designed to detonate in the path of an incoming missile, throwing up a wall of shrapnel that could take out anything that drove through its midst, especially something traveling at the five thousand kilometers per second that a missile carried at the end of its run.

    At least, that was the hoped-for outcome. Given that the missile would be entering the shrapnel zone barely two hundredths of a second before reaching its target, it was a tactic that either worked perfectly or failed catastrophically. Still, more often than not, it worked. Or at least it worked in simulations.

    Only this wasn’t a simulation. And Phoenix’s Number Two autocannon wasn’t tracking properly.

    “You have an objection, Mr. Long?” Castillo asked.

    Travis started. He hadn’t realized he’d said anything out loud. “We’ve been having trouble with the autocannon, Sir,” he said. “I’m thinking…” He stopped, suddenly aware of the utter presumption of this situation. He, a lowly lieutenant, was trying to tell a ship’s captain how to do his job?

    But if Castillo was offended, he didn’t show it. “Continue,” he merely said.

    Travis squared his shoulders. He had been asked, after all. “I’m thinking it might be better to interpose wedge,” he said, the words coming out in a rush lest he lose his nerve completely. “If the missile comes in ventral, there may not be enough autocannon coverage to stop it.”

    Castillo’s lip might have twitched. But his nod was firm enough. “Helm, pitch twenty-six-degrees positive,” he ordered.

    “Pitch twenty-six degrees positive, aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman acknowledged. “Pitching twenty-six degrees positive, aye.”

    On the tactical, Phoenix’s angle began to shift, agonizingly slowly, as the ship’s nose pivoted upward. Travis watched the display tensely as the incoming missile closed the distance at ever-increasing speed, wondering if his proposed countermove had been too late.

    To his relief, it hadn’t. The missile was still nearly twenty seconds out when the leading edge of Phoenix’s floor rose high enough to cut across its vector.

    “Continue countdown to missile impact,” Castillo ordered. “Jink port one klick.”

    Travis frowned as the helmsman repeated the order. A ship had a certain range of motion within the wedge, particularly at the zero acceleration Phoenix was holding right now.

    But moving the ship that way was tricky and cost maneuverability. What was Castillo up to?

    “Missile has impacted the wedge,” the tactical officer announced. “Orders?”

    Castillo looked at Travis and raised his eyebrows. “Suggestions, Mr. Long?”

    Travis stared at the tac display, where Invincible was now rimmed in flashing red to show that her position was based on the foggy gravitic data Phoenix was able to glean through the disruptive effects of her own wedge. For the moment, at least, the two ships were at a standoff. Phoenix couldn’t fire at something she couldn’t see well enough to target, and with its wedge floor interposed between them the destroyer was likewise completely protected from any weapon Invincible cared to throw at her.

    But Phoenix was a ship of the Royal Manticoran Navy. Her job wasn’t to be safe. Her job was to protect the Star Kingdom’s people. Whatever this exercise was all about, and however Locatelli was grading them on it, that grade wouldn’t be very high if Phoenix continued to hide behind her wedge.

    “Recommend we reverse pitch and reestablish full sensor contact, Sir,” he said. He hesitated, the regulations against spending missiles pressing like fire-suppression foam against all of his tactical training. Still, if this was an all-out exercise, surely it worked both directions. “I’d also recommend we stand by to launch missiles.”

    This time Castillo’s lip definitely twitched. But he merely nodded. “Anything else?”

    Travis frowned. From the tone of Castillo’s question, he guessed there was indeed something else they should be doing. Wedge, sensor contact, missiles —

    Of course. “I’d also suggest the autocannon begin laying down fire as we approach reacquisition.”

    “Good.” Castillo gestured. “Pitch twenty-six degrees negative; prepare missiles and autocannon.”

    “Pitch twenty-six degrees negative, aye, aye, Sir.”

    “Prepare missiles and autocannon, aye, aye, Sir.”

 

---

 

    Once again, the tac display began to shift. Travis watched, his thumbs pressed hard against the sides of his forefingers. From somewhere forward came a muted rumble as the autocannon began firing. The flashing red rim around Invincible vanished as the sensors reacquired contact —

    “Missile!” the tac officer snapped.

    Travis blinked. The whole thing had happened way too fast for him to see, but the vector line on the tac display showed that the incoming missile had come in right along the edge of fire from the misaimed Number Two autocannon, shot past the wedge floor as it pitched back down, skimmed past Phoenix at a distance of eleven kilometers, then continued on to disintegrate against the wedge roof.

    He was staring at the line in confusion, wondering how in the world a second missile had sneaked past the sensors — wondering, too, how in hell Locatelli had gotten permission to spend not just one but two practice missiles — when the com display lit up and Admiral Locatelli himself appeared. “Well, Captain,” the Admiral’s voice boomed from the speaker, “I believe that gives me the kill.”

    “Very nearly, Sir,” Castillo said calmly. “I think you’ll find your missile didn’t quite make it into full kill range.”

    Locatelli frowned, his eyes shifting off camera. His smile soured a little, and he gave a small grunt. “Clever,” he said reluctantly. “You’re still blind, though — your whole tracking radar system would have been destroyed. Telemetry system, too.”

    “I can still launch missiles,” Castillo pointed out.

    “Only if there was another ship nearby you could hand them off to,” Locatelli countered. “In this case, there isn’t.” He shook his head. “All in all, Captain, your response was a bit on the sloppy side. I suggest you consider upgrading your tactical officer’s training and drill schedule.”

    “This wasn’t my usual tac team, Sir,” Castillo said. “One of my other officers was handling the action.”

    Locatelli sniffed audibly. “Your other officer has a lot to learn.”

    “Yes, Sir.” Deliberately, it seemed to Travis, Castillo turned a studiously neutral look in his direction. “I believe he knows that.”

    Travis felt a swirl of disbelief corkscrew through his gut. He’d been prepared — almost — to believe that an admiral of the RMN might actually go out of his way to slap down a junior officer who had crossed him.

    But for Travis’s own captain to join in on the humiliation was beyond even Travis’s usual level of reflexive paranoia. For Castillo to single him out this way, in front of the entire Phoenix bridge crew…

    He swallowed, forcing back the stinging sense of betrayal. Castillo was still his commanding officer, and he was expecting a response. “Yes, Sir,” he managed.

    “Perfection is a noble goal,” Castillo continued, his eyes still on Travis. “We sometimes forget it’s a journey, not a destination.”

    I never claimed to be perfect. Travis left the automatic protest unsaid. Clearly, this was his payback for insisting that Ensign Locatelli do his job, and neither Castillo or the Admiral would be interested in hearing logical arguments.

    Or pathetic excuses, which was what any comment would be taken as anyway. “I understand, Sir,” he said instead. “I’ll make it a point to remember today’s lessons.”

    “I’m certain you will.” Castillo turned back to the com display. “Any further orders, Admiral?”

    “Not at this time,” Locatelli said, a quiet but definite note of satisfaction in his voice. “Resume your course for Manticore. I’ll want a full analysis of your crew’s response to this unscheduled exercise a.s.a.p.”

    “It’ll be ready by the time you return from your training run, Sir,” Castillo promised.

    “Good,” Locatelli said briskly. “Carry on.” He reached somewhere off-camera, and his image vanished.

 

---

 

    And with Locatelli’s tap on the com switch, the image of Phoenix’s bridge vanished from the display.

    “Excellent,” the Admiral said with clear satisfaction. “We’ll want to look closely at the post-action data, but from the looks of it the exercise went quite well.”

    “Yes, Sir,” Metzger said, keeping her voice neutral and making sure her face was turned away from him.

    A complete waste of effort. As always, the Admiral knew exactly what she was thinking. “You disapprove,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

    She hesitated. But Locatelli always encouraged his senior officers to speak their minds. “I just think the exercise was flawed, Sir. Captain Castillo’s tactical team should have been calling the orders, not some random junior officer.”

    “In other words, you disapprove of Castillo dealing out an object lesson to Lieutenant Long?”

    Metzger winced. Was she really that transparent? “I disapprove of his choice of time and place,” she hedged. “This was an expensive exercise. It should have remained focused on its main purpose.”

    “The purpose of all exercises is to make a better Navy,” Locatelli said. “Sometimes they shock officers and crews out of routine and complacency. Sometimes they demonstrate flaws in equipment and tactics. And sometimes they teach valuable lessons.” He paused. “Or don’t you think your shining Lieutenant Long needs to occasionally learn a lesson?”

    Metzger clenched her teeth. Long was smart and innovative, and in her opinion was one of the rising stars of the new generation of Naval officers.

    But damn it all, the Admiral was right. Long did have a few serious blind spots, and those gaps definitely needed to be filled in.

    “Long has enough trouble with human interactions and contacts as it is,” she said. “Making him look like a fool in front of his ship’s bridge crew won’t help with that.”

    “I disagree that it made him look like a fool,” Locatelli said. “But if I assume you’re right, it still leaves him with a choice. The same choice one we all have to make on occasion. Sink, or swim.”

    He gestured toward her board. “And while Lieutenant Long contemplates that decision, you can start collating data on the exercise. I want to know how well Invincible performed, preferably before we hear Phoenix’s results.” “Aye, aye, Sir,” Metzger said.

    She watched out of the corner of her eye until he was gone. Then, she turned back forward, indecision gnawing at her gut.

    In some ways, Locatelli was right. Long needed some real-world experience, and this was as close to real combat as he would ever actually get.

    But for his captain to deliver that experience this way…

    Metzger scowled. It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself firmly. Humiliation was something that happened all the time in the Navy. Long had certainly had his share of verbal dressings-down, and he would live through this one, too.

    But she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else going on here. Something that maybe she should look into.

    She straightened her shoulders. And why not? Long was a good officer, and Castillo was a decent and competent captain, whom she was on good enough terms with. And there was certainly no reason two captains who happened to be within easy conversation range shouldn’t have a little chat about things. Especially when both of them were coming off an important exercise.

    “Com, send a signal to Phoenix,” she ordered. “My compliments to Captain Castillo, and ask when it would be convenient for me to have a private discussion with him.”

    “Yes, Ma’am.”

    “And,” Metzger added, “make sure to emphasize the word private.”

 

---

 

    “Secure from Readiness One,” Castillo ordered. “Resume course to Manticore, and get the spin section back up to speed.”

    He turned back to Travis. “First lesson of combat, Mr. Long: always be ready for the unexpected. In this case, because we weren’t accelerating and were on a fairly predictable course, Invincible was able to slip a second missile into the wedge shadow of the first. If the attacker is very clever with his timing, he can arrange it so that the rear missile burns out its wedge at the same time the forward one impacts the target’s wedge. With nothing showing, a pitched target will have just enough time to resume attitude as the second missile enters kill range.”

    “Sometimes the tell is a bit of the second wedge peeking through during the drive,” Sladek added. “It can also show up as a sluggishness in the first missile’s maneuvering as its telemetry control is eclipsed by the one behind it.”

    “Yes, Sir,” Travis said. And if the missile was kicked out with a fusion booster, as most RMN missiles were, there would also be a telltale flare when it was launched, plus a slight decrease in the attacking ship’s acceleration to give the missile time to get a safe distance before lighting up its wedge.

    All of that had been in his tactics classes back at Division Officer’s School, of course. But in the heat of the moment, and with the role of command unexpectedly thrust upon him —

    He cut off the train of thought. Rather, the train of excuses. He’d been given a job, and he’d failed. Pure and simple.

    And if it hadn’t been an exercise, with a practice missile instead of the real thing, he and everyone aboard Phoenix would probably be dead. “Yes, Sir,” he said again. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

 

---

 

    Castillo grunted as he unstrapped from his station. “No need to be sorry, Lieutenant. There’s just a need to learn.” He waved at the tac display. “As I said, that kind of trick takes careful timing and a great deal of skill. But it also requires a fair amount of luck. Your job as an officer of the Royal Manticoran Navy is to cultivate both. And to always assume that your opponent has done likewise.”

    He floated out of his chair, steadied himself a moment, then gave himself a shove that sent him floating swiftly across the bridge. Quickly, Travis moved sideways to get out of his way. “Mr. Sladek, return ship to Readiness Five,” the Captain called over his shoulder. “Mr. Long, you may return to your station for debriefing.”

    “Yes, Sir,” Travis said. Lesson delivered, and lesson learned, and the captain was back to business as usual.

    Travis would remember the day’s lesson, he promised himself. The whole lesson.

    Very, very well.

 

---

 

    “Understand, Allegra,” Castillo said, “that what I’ve told you is to remain strictly between the two of us.”

    “Of course,” Metzger said, a sour taste in her mouth. So simple. So obvious.

    And really, so inevitable.

    Lieutenant Travis Long, an inventive and clever young man, but an absolute rule-stickler, especially where proper maintenance and operational procedure were concerned. Ensign Fenton Locatelli, not inventive at all, driven by a sense of family history toward a greatness that could only be earned and wouldn’t be his for years, if it ever was. Of course the two of them would clash. And clashing over maintaining a piece of junk equipment that neither had realized was damaged and couldn’t be maintained had drawn the attention of the ensign’s justly distinguished uncle.

    Castillo was a good officer, and a good captain. But he was also acutely aware of how the Star Kingdom worked, and of the turmoil that rumbled at the political intersection of Navy and Lords. Long’s ongoing trouble with Ensign Locatelli not only could be played to the advantage of the Navy’s opponents somewhere down the line, but it also put Castillo’s own position and standing at risk.

    And so when the opportunity had presented itself, he’d opted to give Long a reminder that no one was perfect. Only it wouldn’t work, Metzger knew. Long might be cowed for now, but sooner or later his inability to look the other way on these things would reassert itself. And if Ensign Locatelli got in the way, Long wouldn’t hesitate to write him up.

    Long was a good spacer. But he really had no idea how the political games were played.

    And she was pretty sure Castillo knew it, too.

    “What are your plans?” she asked.

    “Ideally, I’d like to separate them,” Castillo said heavily. “Leave one in Forward Weapons and move the other to Aft Autocannon. The problem is that Long is really too qualified to kick back there, and I doubt the Admiral would take kindly to me moving his nephew.”

    “How about simply transferring one of them off your ship?”

    “How?” Castillo countered. “I’ve more or less promised to keep Locatelli for a while — don’t ask — and last I checked there weren’t any likely Gunnery Officer openings in the fleet where I could put Long.”

    “How about something on shore?”

    “He just came out of BuShips. Sending him back would probably look bad on his record, and I really don’t want to do that to him. Personality clashes aside, he’s really a pretty good officer.”

    “And a smart one, too,” Metzger said, a sudden thought occurring to her. It would be a bit of a stretch, but nothing so far out of the ordinary that it would raise any red flags. “What was your assessment of Long’s performance? Off the record?”

    “Off the record, he did okay,” Castillo said. “Especially considering he was thrown into it without any warning. A little more experience and training and he’ll probably make a pretty fair tactical officer.”

    “How about right now?” Metzger asked. “Not TO, of course, but ATO?”

    “You know an ATO slot that’s open?”

    “Maybe,” Metzger said. “Casey is just about finished with her refit. Maybe that slot’s still open.”

    “You must be joking,” Castillo said with a snort. “Half the RMN wants aboard that ship.”

    “Which means it may still be under consideration,” Metzger pointed out. “If I were you, I’d send the suggestion directly to Defense Minister Dapplelake.”

    There was a short pause. “Dapplelake,” Castillo repeated, his tone gone a little flat. “Is there something about Long that I should know, Captain?”

    “Nothing relevant,” Metzger hedged. There were details about the Secour incident that were still known only to the Star Kingdom’s top leaders, details which Metzger herself was still under orders not to talk about.

    But the Defense Minister knew all about Long’s contribution in turning that potential disaster into a slightly tarnished victory. He knew, and King Edward knew. Between them, they should be able to pull all the necessary strings.

    “All I can tell you is that the Defense Minister has all the relevant data,” she added.

    “All right, I’ll give it a try,” Castillo said. “But only because you’ve got me intrigued. And if it actually goes through, you’re going to owe me a drink.”

    “Next time we’re on Manticore,” Metzger promised.

    “And,” Castillo added, “you’re going to owe me an explanation. One that’s as every bit as full as my glass.”

    “Absolutely,” Metzger said with a smile. “One half-full glass, on me.”

 

---

 

    For the next five days Travis walked around on figurative eggshells, waiting for the inevitable fallout from his part in the fiasco.

    To his surprise, no such fallout materialized. Or at least nothing materialized in his direction. There were vague rumors that Captain Castillo was spending an unusual amount of time in his cabin on the com with System Command, but no details were forthcoming and Travis himself was never summoned into his presence. Given that Phoenix was about to settle in for some serious refitting, chances were good that that was the main topic of any such extended communications.

    Phoenix was slipping into its designated slot in Manticore orbit, and Travis was finally starting to breathe easy again, when the shoe finally dropped.

 

---

 

    “You’re joking,” Fornier said, staring wide-eyed from across the cabin. “After all that, you’re being promoted?”

    “I’m being transferred, anyway,” Travis corrected. “I still think the promotion is a mistake.”

    “Please,” Fornier said dryly. “BuPers doesn’t make mistakes like that. Or at least, they don’t admit to it. Besides, just getting put aboard Casey is a hell of a step up all by itself.”

    “Maybe,” Travis growled as he arranged his dress uniform tunic carefully at the top of his travel bag. “But if Locatelli’s behind this, hell may very well be the relevant neighborhood.”

    Fornier shook his head. “You’re way too young to be this cynical,” he said. “Anyway, who says Locatelli’s hand is anywhere near this? For all you know it was Castillo who recommended you for Casey’s ATO.”

    “With my sterling performance on the bridge during that drill cementing it?” Travis shook his head. “Not likely.”

    “Fine,” Fornier said, clearly starting to lose his wedge-class patience level. “So Castillo decided you needed a lesson in humility. Welcome to the human race. But maybe while he was delivering the message he also saw something he liked about you, some potential that hadn’t come through before.”

    “I doubt it,” Travis said. “About all I did was regurgitate what was in the manual. Or half of what was in the manual. No, given Heissman’s reputation, I think they all just want me out from under Castillo’s fatherly care and underneath a genuine hammer for a while.”

    For a moment Fornier was silent. Travis looked around the cabin, mentally counting out the items he’d already packed and trying to figure out if he’d missed anything.

    “There are two ways to approach life, Travis,” Fornier said into his thoughts. “One: you can expect that everyone’s out to get you, and be alert and ready for trouble at every turn. Or two: you can assume that most people are friendly or at least neutral, and that most of the time things will work out.”

    “Seems to me option two is an invitation to get walked on.”

    “Oh, I never said you don’t need to be ready for trouble.” Fornier grinned suddenly. “Hey, we’re Navy officers. It’s our job to be ready for trouble. I’m just saying that if you’re always expecting betrayal, you’re never going to be able to trust anyone.” He shrugged. “And speaking from my own experience, there are a fair number of people out there who are worth your trust. Not all of them. But enough.”

    “Maybe,” Travis said, sealing his travel bag and picking it up. “I’ll take it under advisement.” He held out his hand. “It’s been great serving and rooming with you, Brad. Keep in touch, okay?”

    “Will do,” Fornier promised, grasping Travis’s hand in a firm grip and shaking it. “Best of luck.”