Against All Enemies (2 page)

Paul waved again in farewell, then noticed Lieutenant Val Isakov giving him a sour look as she strapped in at the officer of the deck watchstation.
Uh oh. Now what's she up to
? "Something wrong?"

Isakov shrugged elaborately. "Of course not. You have your little cliques and old friends. I'm just the newcomer."

"Val, you've been on the ship for about six months."

"And you and her," Isakov noted with a jerk of her head toward the hatch where Denaldo had left, "have been onboard for about three years. But that's okay. I don't expect to be allowed to feel part of your group."

Paul kept his expression noncommittal, carefully avoiding nodding or otherwise seeming to agree with her. He thought of Isakov as sort of a reptile, not bad to look at but not something he wanted to get close to, either. He also suspected that Isakov knew that Kris Denaldo usually referred to her as "Crazy Ivana," a name Paul also thought fit Val Isakov perfectly.

"But then your old Academy pal shows up," Isakov continued, "and you go through all that ring-knocker bonding nonsense. It's a bit much."

"What ring-knocker nonsense?" Paul had never been bothered by the standard nickname for Naval Academy graduates, which mocked their alleged tendency to knock their class rings on objects as a way of drawing attention to themselves.

"'If the minimum wasn't good enough . . .'"

This time Paul shrugged. "It's sort of an unofficial motto. That's all. Brad Pullman wasn't a big friend of mine at the Academy. We're classmates, and we shared a few courses over the years, so I know him and he knows me. No big deal."

"Sure." Isakov subsided into sulky silence.

Paul pretended to be concentrating on his display. He never knew whether Isakov would try to aim a heavy-handed come-on his way or try to bite his head off or just ignore him.
Personally, I much prefer being ignored by her
.

"Mr. Sinclair, sir?"

Paul twisted his chair so he could look at the bosun mate of the watch. "What's up?"

The bosun tilted his head toward the messenger of the watch. "I've been tryin' to explain what we're doin' here to Valejo, and damned if I can."

"That's okay, boats. It's not in your job description."

Val Isakov bent another sour look toward Paul. "Keep it professional."

Paul followed an old piece of advice and just smiled back at her. "Yes, ma'am." Then he addressed the messenger. "Seaman Apprentice Valejo, you just came aboard, right?"

She nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. I came on with Mr. Pullman and Ms., uh . . ."

"Commander Moraine?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, then." Paul hooked a thumb toward the display dominated by the craggy surface of the asteroid. "There's a rule, one of the few rules
everybody's
agreed to up here, that nobody gets to set themselves up on an asteroid without international approval, supervision and inspection." Valejo nodded again, but her face was puzzled. "Do you know what killed the dinosaurs?"

"Oh, yeah. I mean, yes, sir! Some big rock hit the planet."

"Right." Paul indicated the asteroid again. "A big rock like that. We don't really want any more big rocks hitting Earth anytime soon, but if somebody was allowed to just settle on one, they could maybe set up a propulsion method to kick that rock toward Earth. Hopefully, we could intercept and divert it. Hopefully. No one wants it to get to that point."

The bosun spoke again. "That's what I don't understand, Mr. Sinclair. Why'd anybody do something like that?"

"I don't understand it either, boats, but every once in a while some group of people does something that's really scary for the rest of us." Paul indicated the structures on the asteroid's surface. "This particular group calls itself the Church of One. 'One' as in the only one they think should exist, apparently. They received approval to set up a remote settlement on Mars. No big deal. That sort of thing's been done before. It makes a small group of people happy, helps pay for stuff on Mars for everybody else, and pretty much renders any anti-social types harmless since they're out in the Martian equivalent of east nowhere."

"But they didn't go to Mars," the bosun noted.

"No. They hijacked the ship carrying them. They did a good job of it, too. No alarms. No alerts. They diverted the ship here and did it so quietly that no one realized what was happening in time to stop them. That ship, there. It's just a regular merchant named the
Jedidiah Smith
." Paul pointed with one finger at the symbol representing a ship hanging perilously close to the asteroid. The
Michaelson
's combat systems had a half dozen aim points fixed upon the ship's hull, ready to blow holes through critical areas if need be. "Then they offloaded their stuff, which seems to have included a lot of gear for living on an asteroid and not all that much for living on Mars, and pretty much dared everybody to do anything about it."

"And we're goin' to take 'em off, right, sir?"

"Right. Not you and me, but those modified cargo carriers loaded up with cops."

"Cops? Not Marines or SEALS?"

"No. This isn't a combat mission. Nobody's supposed to get shot. Combat troops like Marines are trained to shoot. Cops are trained to try to avoid shooting."

Valejo nodded again but the bosun looked perplexed. "Then why are
we
here? And all them other guys?" He made a gesture encompassing all the other ships shown in the displays.

Paul pondered the question for a moment.
Do I really want to get into all the politics here? The fact that everyone is here to keep an eye on everyone else as well as the illegal settlers and the cops? That these Church of One types not only have made hostages of the crew of that ship they hijacked but are also threatening to kill all of their own kids if force is used against their "settlement?" I can't go into any of that. The rules of engagement that tell us under what conditions we're allowed to fire, and who we're allowed to fire at, are classified pretty high and the bosun doesn't have a need to know
. "Everybody's here to keep an eye on things." The bosun let his skepticism show. "Boats, that really does sum it up. And that's as detailed as I can get."

Paul became aware that Lieutenant Isakov was watching him narrowly.
Just waiting for me to spill something I shouldn't? I wonder what Crazy Ivana would do with knowledge I'd broken security regulations? Not keep it to herself, I'm sure
.

The bosun nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand you officers can't tell us everything. Thank you, sir."

"No problem." Paul noticed Isakov going back into a solitary sulk. He relaxed against his own seat, eyes on the surface of the asteroid, watching as it completed rotations and the same structures and aim points came into view time and again. At some point he realized the repetitive motion was becoming hypnotic and began cycling through other views to remain alert.

An external communications circuit chirped for attention, breaking the silence on the bridge and startling everyone; then it spoke in the clear, unaccented English which meant whoever was sending the message was speaking or typing it into a verbal translator that rendered the words into another language. "This is South Asian Alliance Ship
Gilgamesh
. I am altering my position two kilometers along a bearing of one three five degrees relative, down angle two zero degrees relative. Over."

Paul tapped his own communications controls to acknowledge the
Gilgamesh
's message, letting the other ship know the message had been received and understood.. "This is the USS
Michaelson
. Roger, out."

He glanced over at Isakov, or who looked back at him and nodded toward the general area of the captain's cabin as she answered his unspoken question. "You go ahead and call him."

"Okay." Paul reached for the comm switch, then hesitated and went to his display controls instead. He manually moved the
Gilgamesh
's position along the track it had announced, then told the combat systems to update their readings and studied the results for a moment before finally calling the captain. "Sir, this is the junior officer of the deck. The
Gilgamesh
has informed us they're changing position slightly."

"Slightly?" Captain Hayes sounded grumpy, but then he hadn't had much sleep lately.

Probably less than any of the other officers had, Paul realized when he thought about it. And Paul hadn't been getting very much. "Yes, sir. Two kilometers along a track one three five relative and two zero down from his current position. Our combat systems don't reveal any change in the tactical situation as a result."

"Hmmm. No reason given for the shift?"

"No, si—" Paul's answer was cut off by another call to the bridge.

"Bridge, this is Combat. We've analyzed the
Gilgamesh
's position change. In his previous location the asteroid's tumble would produce an occasional momentary line of sight blockage between the
Gilgamesh
and the
Saladin
. This change will make sure they have continuous line of sight."

"Thanks, Combat. Captain, Combat reports the
Gilgamesh
probably moved to ensure a continuous line of the sight to the other SASAL warship present, the
Saladin
."

"Hmmm. Okay. Thanks. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir." Paul listened to the circuit click off, feeling a tight knot in his guts.
I should've gotten that analysis from Combat before I called the Captain. But what if Combat had taken a while to figure out that line of sight thing and something had happened before then so that I'd have had to tell the Captain I hadn't informed him of the
Gilgamesh
shifting position when it took place? I would've lost a piece of my hind end if that'd happened. I got lucky. Or maybe I helped make my luck. After all, I've been leading those operations specialists in Combat for a long time, now
. He pressed the comm switch again. "Combat, this is Mr. Sinclair on the bridge. Who ran that analysis on the
Gilgamesh
?"

"That was me, sir. Kaji."

Operations Specialist First Class Kaji. "Damn good job. That was fine work, Kaji."

"Thank you, sir."

Paul didn't bother looking toward Val Isakov. He knew she wouldn't offer any praise and he didn't want to look like he expected any.
Besides, that message from the
Gilgamesh
rattled me. It felt too much like it woke me up from a daze. How can I be drifting off when there's so much potential for trouble? But let's face it, that was probably the only two minutes of excitement we're going to see in this four-hour watch and I'm working on a serious sleep deficit.

But if anything else exciting happens, I don't want it waking me up
.

If there'd been another officer standing watch with him, they could've played trivia games to pass the time and keep awake.
I'll take emergency maneuvering systems for four hundred
, if they were in a professional mood. Or
I'll take late twentieth-century movies for two hundred
, if they weren't. But not with Isakov.

He did the next best thing, calling up the detailed information on the other ships present, both warships and freighters. He'd already looked at them too many times to count, but if an emergency arose he might need to know something right off the top of his head.

It worked well enough to pass the time that Paul was surprised when the bosun cleared his throat. "Permission to sound reveille, ma'am."

Isakov, who didn't seem to have moved for hours, nodded without looking back at the bosun. "Permission granted."

The bosun raised his pipe, an archaic little device the Navy had clung to even as efficiency experts tried to sell the virtues of digital recordings played automatically with canned announcements. In the deliberate inefficiency of his human presence, the bosun represented one of the U.S. Navy's constant rear-guard battles against change. The bosun keyed the ship's internal broadcast system, took a deep breath, then sounded the drawn-out whistle which tradition insisted upon for declaring the ship's day had begun. "Reveille, reveille," the bosun chanted immediately after the last note faded. "All hands turn to and trice up."

Paul stretched and yawned as Isakov made a face and dialed up the captain's cabin. He knew she didn't like giving the Captain his wake-up call, but Isakov knew that was one task she had to handle in person instead of handing it off to Paul. He half-listened as Isakov ran through the standard spiel. "Good morning, Captain. It's zero six hundred. The ship is on-station . . ."

The darkened bridge gradually brightened as the ship's lights came to their "day" settings. Occasional sounds came to the bridge team as the rest of the ship stirred to life. The bosun passed mess call for breakfast. Paul glanced at the hatch, hoping their reliefs would show up on the bridge before the captain did. He both liked and respected Hayes, but the captain could be a real bear first thing in the morning if he hadn't got at least a few good hours of sleep.

"Yo, Paul."

Paul turned and smiled. "Yo, Randy."

Ensign Randy Diego smiled, too, though the gesture was aimed mostly at Isakov. Paul tried not to let his reaction show, instead running through the details Randy had to know in order to assume the watch, repeating some of it when Randy's attention seemed to be wandering. "Okay. That's it. Any questions?"

"Uh, no."

Paul pointed to the display. "Don't forget the Captain's going to ask questions about
Gilgamesh
after that position change."

Randy blinked with apparent surprise, then nodded. "Right, right. I'll be ready." He saluted. "I relieve you, sir."

"I stand relieved. On the bridge, this is Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair. Ensign Diego has the conn."

"This is Ensign Diego. I have the conn," Randy repeated.

Paul unstrapped wearily and pulled himself out of his chair. "Later, Randy." He glanced over at Isakov, who was busy turning over her duties to Lieutenant Bolen and ignoring both Paul and Randy, then pulled himself off the bridge using the handholds set at convenient intervals in any spot that wasn't occupied by some other equipment. Living in zero-gravity most of the time didn't do much for the leg muscles, but the arms got good workouts.