1630 hours CST, June 16th, 2673; the mess of the Skate

“So what do you think of our new CO?” Hillary asked Janice, one of the camera operators and back-up gunners, who were usually stationed in the point defense laser turrets. Both of them were on the morning watch and completed the watch at 1500 hours.

“I’m not sure yet, Hill. He seems awfully formal,” Janice replied with a soft sigh as she sat down at one of the mess tables next to the helmsman. “He also seems to want to make a name for himself or something.”

“Some COs like formality. I think it strokes their egos. And some are definitely out to make a name for themselves, but I’m not sure about this one, Jan,” Hillary said, keeping her voice quiet, even though the tight grouping at the tables ensured that no conversation was truly private.

“He’s very different from Lieutenant Williams. I don’t think we ever did more than the minimum catapult launches with him in charge,” Janice said as another tired sigh came from her lips. She picked at the food before her in a listless fashion. Despite the fact that the Skate was accelerating and there was some semblance of gravity, the meals were the zero-G type, tightly wrapped packages heated and then served.

“No, we never did,” Hillary said, her own sigh escaping here, a much different one than Janice’s.

“You’re excited, aren’t you?” Janice accused the helmsman and then hushed down when everyone else in the mess looked at her. “Well, not excited perhaps, but definitely charged up. You had to pilot us through that launch.”

“Yes, but that’s what I’m here for. On Olivier we had to grab chances like that and hang on for the experience of it.”

“I bet you didn’t have to feel like you weighed over two hundred kilograms for five minutes, or over sixty for this long on Olivier either.”

The squat helmsman looked at the tall and lithe camera operator, and something dawned in her eyes. “Oh yeah, you’re from one of the stations, aren’t you?” Hillary said. “On Olivier we felt like this often. It’s a heavy-G world, about twelve percent above standard.”

“Well, my home station was only at point-nine-five G or less. At least, if you were in the outer rings. If you weren’t, then it was much less than that.”

“You’ll get used to it. It’s not that bad.” There was a little sympathy in Hillary’s voice, but her voice mostly contained amusement.

“I’m surprised that Lieutenant Bell plotted a course like this,” Janice said. “One-point-two G; it’s crazy. I don’t think the boat can take it for this long.”

“Oh, the Skate is a good old boat; just ask PO Butler, he’ll tell you all about it.”

“If you can understand what he’s saying—”

“You just have to listen, Jan, with both ears. It’s not that hard. He calls the engines bairns or something like that and rolls his R’s a lot. Once you get past that, you can mostly understand him.”

“Well, I don’t have the advantage of talking to him all the time,” Janice said. “It’s not often that a camera operator has to ask for more power. And if we need servicing in the turrets, we file a request.”

“Anyway, we were talking about our new CO,” Hillary said, getting the conversation back on track.

“What about him? As I said, he seems to be very formal and intense.”

“I think we’ll just have to get to know him better, and he’ll relax as he gets to know us. Just be glad he hasn’t called for a combat warning drill.”

That seemed to startle Janice. “You don’t think he will, do you? Lieutenant Williams never did.”

Hillary could not keep the mischievous sparkle out of her eyes or her voice. “You never know.” She let the words trail off.

“Oh, you’re just putting me on, aren’t you?”

“Of course. He hasn’t said anything at all about it on the bridge while I was there.”

“Just in case, I think I’ll sleep in my skin suit. I hate putting that thing on in a rush.”

“Hey, don’t wear yours out; I’m still waiting for a replacement of mine.”

“That’s right; yours was decertified about four months ago. I’m surprised you didn’t get a replacement yet.” The material that made up the skin suits needed to be custom fitted for each person, and like all materials, it wore out over time and use.

“Lieutenant Williams waited six months for his replacement, and then got told he wasn’t getting one since he was retiring in four months anyway. He had to use a vac suit for almost a year, and let me tell you this: Try to get one of those things on quickly. It’s the next thing to impossible.”

* * *

1758 hours CST, June 16th, 2673; the bridge of TBC-412

Junior Commander Robertson was not a happy squadron commander. His boat, TBC-412, was ready for launch an hour earlier than he had planned. The leisurely exercise he had planned was ruined. He wanted to get his squadron out far enough from the station to make the exercise valid, start the exercise when everyone was ready, and then catch the fox within the first few minutes, the first hour at most. Everyone would have been back to the tender in just over a day, where they could relax, and the squadron’s efficiency rating for materials consumed per exercise would still be high.

Now that his plans were in tatters, he was feeling irritated and a little pissed. He wanted an elegant supper on the station and some drinks in the pub just outside the tender’s docking port. He had hoped for a simple, no-pressure launch of the first set of hounds, including TBC-412, and then a simple one-G acceleration toward the starting point two hours before TBC-473 would even launch. He would have been able to get a good night’s sleep while his crew was tracking the fox all the way to the starting area. The morning would have had him waking up at his standard time and then would leave him with a chance to eat the not-so-pleasant meal onboard the boat, all while TBC-473 rushed to get into position.

TBC-473’s early launch ruined his plans. Robertson had no idea how Lieutenant Murphy was able to get his boat off the tender at 1245 hours. He could only have met his crew after the briefing, and that gave him less than two hours to get the boat launched, but somehow he did it.

Robertson’s crew took four hours with him riding them all the way. He had found out about 473’s launch at 1405 hours, when Captain Reid informed him that Murphy was already on his way and accelerating away. Robertson still shuddered at the conversation. He was caught off guard and was not quick enough to come up with an excuse for why he was not out there and the new senior officer was. It did not help his stomach when the captain called him again at 1730 hours, wondering, in a strictly polite way, why his butt was still on her ship.

Unlike Murphy, Robertson requested a normal launch for himself, with regular launch periods between his boat and the rest of the squadron. Captain Reid had not informed him that Murphy had requested and received a catapult launch, and Robertson had not asked for more information on TBC-473.

TBC-412 floated away from the TRS John Charlie at 1800 hours, give or take a few minutes. The boat’s crew called it the Ling, though never in front of the officers, strengthening the divide between commissioned officers and enlisted personnel. The Ling’s crew had worked hard to get it prepared for launch during the four hours that Robertson had harassed them. The hard work did get the boat ready for launch an hour earlier than planned, but nowhere near as fast as the Skate’s crew had pushed it out the door. Robertson’s boat was fully fueled and provisioned, with every slot in storage marked out properly. Murphy launched with what was already in store, leaving the additional supplies in their crates in the hanger. What he had on board would last them for the exercise.

With a normal launch, the torpedo boats had to use their manoeuvring jets to get to a minimum safe distance from Clearwater Prime. The trip took time, and that time gave Murphy a longer lead. To keep the boats from the various hangers from interfering with each other, each boat launched on five-minute intervals. The trip to a safe distance took at least half an hour, and Robertson had to wait an additional ten minutes for his three-boat element to form up before accelerating toward his patrol zone.

The clock read 1840 hours, just less than five hours after TBC-473 launched, when Robertson’s element started the trip to the first patrol box. The fox was already six and a half light-seconds away, over two million kilometres from the station. It was running silent, and the passive sensors on the three boats could not find it in the glare caused by the sun. The stealth systems onboard the torpedo boats were very effective at that range. The hounds also did not know that their quarry was running away at 1.2 G.

Robertson was cursing as he looked at the timetable, but stopped when he ran the numbers. He should still be able to get to the patrol box fifty minutes before the start of the exercise.

Robertson gave the watch over to the afternoon officer and went off to his quarters now satisfied. Despite the setback he was already thinking of the victory over the rookie commander. He was confident with all his boats out there, he would be able to find the TBC-473 well before the start of the exercise and still complete it as planned.

* * *

1800 hours CST, June 16th, 2673; the bridge of the Skate

“Camera contact!” shouted the overly excited crewman manning the VSO console.

“Where?” Junior Lieutenant Ridgard asked from the watch officer’s seat, keeping his voice calm. Murphy had gone off duty ten minutes earlier to get some supper; the senior officer had a slightly disgusted look on his face when he left. Ridgard wondered if it was because of the food he was about to consume or something else.

“From the John Charlie. It looks like a torpedo boat, sir.”

“Roger, keep track of it.” The watch officer pushed a button on his console to get hold of his new commanding officer.

“Murphy here,” he was quick to answer.

“Sir, we have a torpedo boat contact launching from the John Charlie.”

“What sort of launch?”

“Let me check, sir.” He was greeted by silence on the other end of the channel. He should have had that information ready. Ridgard looked over at the VSO console.

“What sort of launch was it, VSO?”

“Um, sir, it appears to be a standard launch. It looks like the boat just floated off the hull.”

“Appeared to be, or are you sure, Lead? There’s only two types of launch. The boat either shot out the front, or it floated off the hull.”

“I’m sure, sir. The torpedo boat didn’t shoot off the front. It wasn’t going that fast.”

“Well, say that next time,” Ridgard said, and then regretted saying it. He should not have jumped all over the VSO. He turned back to the open channel with Murphy. “It was a regular launch, sir.”

Murphy’s answer was a disgusted sigh. He paused to take a breath before he started speaking again. “Thank you, Ridgard. Keep track of more launches. I’ll be back on the bridge in ten to fifteen minutes.”

During the ten minutes that Ridgard waited for Murphy to come back onto the bridge, the VSO saw two more boats launch from the John Charlie.

“Well, they certainly aren’t in a rush,” he muttered to himself. He was starting to understand the disgust heard in Murphy’s voice. He did not bother to call the reports to Murphy; instead, he waited for his new commander to come onto the bridge.

Murphy opened the hatch to the bridge, shortly after the fourth boat launched from the tender. He climbed the short ladder up to the watch officer’s chair with no effort, despite the heavy acceleration.

“I have the con, Lieutenant; return to your station.”

The junior lieutenant unbelted himself from Murphy’s chair and moved over to the ladder on the other side of the chair before he climbed up to the offensive weapons console, his normal seat on the bridge. Normally the station was not manned except during combat watch, or when it was his watch and the commanding officer was on the bridge. Davion was belting himself into his seat when he realized Murphy had climbed up on the right side of the bridge, allowing the junior lieutenant to get to his station without having to climb over his commanding officer or through the astrogation or helm stations. His past COs had always climbed the ladder on the left side of the bridge, which was closer to their quarters.

The standard watches in the Terrace Navy were eight hours long, filling a twenty-four-hour day. Onboard a torpedo boat, this gave each of the three junior officers a turn as the watch officer. The commanding officer did not have a specific watch for when he was supposed to be on the bridge; instead, he usually roamed the boat doing what commanding officers did when they were not on the bridge. When the commanding officer entered the bridge, he had the option of taking over command, which he usually did two or three times a watch. The crew of the Skate did not know if Murphy would follow this pattern.

Lieutenant Murphy let his subordinate buckle himself into his seat before calling for the situation report.

“Three boats have launched from the Charlie and are using their manoeuvring thrusters to pull away from Clearwater Prime. We don’t know yet, but it looks like they are moving to join up into a three-boat element. The first boat is still moving away from the station. A fourth boat has also launched, but isn’t moving on the same vector as the first three.”

“What’s our current detection threshold?”

“If they know where to look, we’re at one-point-two percent. If they don’t know, it’s around point fifty-four percent.”

Another two launches were detected over the next ten minutes, and Murphy remained on the bridge during the time. The commanding officer hid it well, but Ridgard thought he did not look happy. Torpedo boat launches were detected every five minutes, give or take a minute either way.

Ridgard watched the contact clock of the first boat, running the numbers for torpedo interception. He watched it work its way up to thirty minutes.

“VSO, what is the status of the first three boats?” Murphy asked when the clock reached thirty minutes exactly.

“The first has stopped accelerating away from the station; the other two are still moving away.”

Ridgard barely heard Murphy mutter to himself, “Fairly standard.” Like his new commanding officer, Ridgard was not a patient man when it came to waiting.

“Sir, the first three boats have started to accelerate,” the VSO reported.

“Keep a good eye on them,” Murphy ordered. “Ridgard, do you have a solution for the Mark Fifteens?”

“Yes sir, it became a bit shaky when they started accelerating, but the Mark Fifteens should be able to accelerate at one-fifty Gs for the entire distance. If the targets had stayed motionless, it would take twenty-seven minutes and fifty seconds to reach them.”

“Very good, Davion.” He was surprised that Murphy actually had some praise for one of his officers. “What’s our current position?”

“We’re a little under seven light seconds from Clearwater Prime. Our current speed is two-hundred-twenty kps, still accelerating at one-point-two G.”

“Good. VSO, do you have an acceleration estimate on the first element yet?”

“Yes sir. Absolute acceleration is one G. Bearing is one-thirty-four by fifteen degrees solar reference.”

Ridgard barely heard the sigh from Murphy, but then he was listening for it, and for the press of keys as Murphy worked at his station.

“Lieutenant Ridgard, you have the con. I’ll be in my quarters if I’m needed. Call me if any of these boats accelerate at different rates than the lead elements. If I’m right, you’ll see them all leave Clearwater Prime in groups of three at one G. The final elements will leave at nineteen-fifty hours or so.”

“Yes sir. I have the con. I’ll let you know if they do anything strange.”

* * *

Phillip sat down at his desk in his quarters and opened up the console to look at his personal communications. He decided to write Anna a letter, but knew he would not be able to send it to her until the end of the exercise. Radio emissions were restricted as the boat was running silent.

Dear Anna,

I mark the first day of my command on board the TBC-473. I guess that the rumours were true and that the torpedo boats are the last ditch-resort for officers who are about to muster out. It does seem like my fears were true and that I’m the latest victim.

I’ve come to realize part of what the navy is doing. It fits in well with what I said before we parted. While it can’t keep all the officers around that the navy would like, and has to follow its own peacetime rules of reduction, it can still set up the officers its losing into a better position. The navy seems to be giving us a chance at command, and command on an interstellar capable vessel. That will look good to any merchant owner looking for a captain for their interstellar cargo vessels.

It’s still hard not to feel bitter about it though. And to think that we’ll be separated again when I muster out and head back to Terrace. I know that we have talked about leaving the service together, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I love you Anna, but I don’t think I will be the best person to be around when I leave the navy and try to find my own way again.

Commanding the torpedo boat isn’t much different than being a watch officer, at least not yet. The only differences I’ve seen so far is that instead of being twitchy as a watch officer, and dreading when the captain or XO comes onto the bridge I’m now the one who is causing the dread. I’m also the one who gets to look at the duty roster and the schedules and set them if need be.

When I took command of the 473 all the reports were showing as nominal, but the general alarm logs show that the last time it was triggered was two years ago. This is a bit concerning, I don’t know what to trust, the official reports or the boat’s internal logs.

I must say that it is interesting, being able to look through everything on board the boat without having any restrictions. Well I should rephrase that, the strategic weapon codes are locked out and secured. But that’s standard and we’re not carrying any warheads so it’s not a concern to me.

We started the exercise early. The crew needs the practise, and needs the shake-up it seems. I got them to launch the boat in under an hour, so I’m somewhat happy, it seemed to be about a quarter of the time that the rest of the squadron needed. Oh and I’m sure that the fleet’s signals officer will censor that part.

I hope that everything is going well with you, and that the admiral is happy to have you back on the flag bridge. We didn’t have any communications with the command ship as part of our exercise, since it’s a squadron level exercise only.

I’ll have to think of more to write you later. Just remember I love you Anna, and I hope to see you when we get back from the exercise.

Yours truly, Phil