Against All Enemies (9 page)

"What I want to know," Randy Diego asked, "is why they did it? I mean, why kill those people? What was the point?"

Paul glanced around, but no one else seemed willing to answer the question. "We don't know for sure, Randy, but best guess is that the SASAL leadership didn't want these settlers getting off easy. They wanted to make an example of them so no other groups would try to settle asteroids without oversight and monitoring."

"So they tried to kill them all?"

"Apparently."

Kris Denaldo made an angry face. "Anybody else planning on setting up rogue settlements will know the SASALs are willing and ready to slaughter them. And they'll know we won't stop the SASALs from doing it," she finished bitterly.

"We couldn't," Paul insisted. "You know that."

"Sure. We had our orders. And those orders gave the SASALs a free hand. How'd they know?"

"They didn't—"

"Are you sure? Look at what they did. It's just like they knew we couldn't do anything, that we'd have to sit by and watch them fire on those guys."

Paul scowled down at his food, not feeling the least bit hungry and unable to think of any response to Kris' statement.
They couldn't have known our orders. But they sure acted like they did. They even stopped shooting when there was a risk of hitting us by accident, as if they knew that would allow us to shoot back
.

"We saved two kids," Ensign Gabriel noted.

"Is that supposed to cheer us up?" Kris demanded. "Between the SASALs and the settlers' own suicide pact a lot more died."

"I know," Gabriel agreed helplessly. "I just . . . I don't know. It's something."

Mike Bristol nodded at her. "That's right. Does anybody know if the captain's going to get in any trouble because of this?"

"Why would he get in trouble?" Kris asked.

"You know."

"No, I don't."

Bristol made a face. "A scapegoat. What if they want a scapegoat?"

Paul shook his head. "The captain deserves a medal for what he did, not any kind of reprimand."

Randy Diego spoke again. "But all those people on the asteroid did die. If the politicians need someone to blame—"

"They can't nail it on Hayes," Paul explained with an outward patience he didn't real feel. "I know for a fact that word's gotten around in the press that our ship was put between those SASAL ships and their targets."

"But I thought we weren't supposed to do
anything
," Randy insisted. "If they need someone to blame and the captain did something they can claim was wrong—"

"Or didn't do something they can claim he should've," Val Isakov chimed in. "They could court-martial him. Make him the fall guy." She smirked at Paul. "You might get a chance to nail another captain, Sinclair."

The fatigue and frustrations of the last several days boiled over inside of Paul. Only the straps holding Paul into his seat kept him from launching himself at Isakov, his hand clenched into a tight fist. Isakov's eyes widened, but before anything else could happen Kris Denaldo had reached across Randy and grabbed the front of Isakov's uniform. Randy stared straight ahead, his body rigid at being caught in the line of fire between Isakov and Denaldo.

"You stupid bitch," Denaldo stated in a voice which seemed all the more menacing for not betraying any emotion. "Paul Sinclair testified on behalf on Captain Wakeman. Nobody else had the guts to do that, but he did because he thought even somebody like Wakeman shouldn't be blamed for the things they couldn't control. Either know what you're talking about or keep your damned mouth shut." Denaldo released Isakov's uniform and leaned back again, then unstrapped with quick, angry gestures. "I'm not hungry, anymore."

Val Isakov, her face still red with anger, watched Kris leave the wardroom, then unstrapped herself as well. "By your leave," she spat, then she was gone, too.

Silence settled. Paul rubbed his face, then found himself looking at the chair at the head of the table. Commander Sykes, the old supply officer, had sat there during the junior officer meal shifts. The new supply officer had chosen to eat with the senior officers, and no one else had stepped in to provide a steadying hand to the junior officers.
Sykes would've kept that situation from blowing up. Sykes would have some good advice for us
.

Bristol followed Paul's gaze and nodded in understanding. "I miss him, too."

"We're tired as hell and too strung out to think straight." Paul pushed his own food away. "We could use some calm center of gravity right now."

"Yeah. The guy was almost a father figure. Of course, if we'd told him that he'd have said 'could be' and asked us who our mothers were." Bristol sighed. "It's hard having Smithe for a boss now. Sykes gave us plenty of free rein, but Smithe wants to know every time I need to push a button on my keypad so he can sign off on it first."

"Ouch. My sympathies."

"I bet you're looking forward to Garcia leaving."

Paul grinned. "You could say that. I haven't got a good feel for what Moraine is like, though."

"She doesn't seem to have Garcia's distemper problem."

Paul smiled again. "No. But she seems sort of . . . twitchy."

"Twitchy? Nervous?"

"Yeah. And every time she looks at me she has this expression like I'm another ship on a collision course with her and five seconds from impact." Paul unstrapped. "I've got twenty minutes left to grab some sleep."

Instead of heading straight for his stateroom, though, Paul went by Kris Denaldo's quarters. She was sitting in her chair staring morosely at nothing, but she looked up as Paul knocked on the open hatch. "Hi, Paul. Sorry I blew up at Crazy Ivana. Unprofessional."

"It's not like you weren't provoked."

"I'm turning into Jen."

"Careful, that's my fiancée you're talking about. Are you calling Jen unprofessional?"

That brought a half-hearted smile to Kris' face. "Perish the thought."

"Besides," Paul added, "if Isakov had been within reach of me I would've beat you to her." He grinned. "Did you see the look on Randy's face when you reached across him to get at her?"

"No. Was it priceless?"

"'Deer in the headlights' doesn't begin to describe it."

Kris smiled again, then went somber. "Three years is a long time to do this sort of thing, Paul. I feel burnt out and sucked dry. That's how I felt
before
the asteroid incident. Now it's even worse."

"Will you be okay?" Airlocks were too easy to find for someone who thought they couldn't handle life anymore. It had happened on other ships to other sailors who couldn't handle their personal or professional pressures.

But Kris shook her head. "I'll be fine. Me big strong Space Warfare Officer. Underway is the only way. Do I sound perky enough?"

"Try a 'hoo-rah.'"

"I will
not
try a 'hoo-rah.' I'm not a Marine."

"Hang in there, Kris. In two weeks you'll be walking off of this ship for the last time."

"I'll believe it when it happens. Who's going to look out for you for Jen when I'm gone?"

Paul smiled. "I'm a big strong Space Warfare Officer, too. I'll be okay."

"Sure you are." She waved him away. "Go get some sleep."

"Do I look that bad?"

"Frankly, yes. And before you tell me, I don't want to know how I look."

* * *

"Watch out for that guy!"

Paul jerked in reaction to the warning from Isakov, then cursed to himself before answering her. "I see him. The system shows him tracking clear of us."

"He's too close." Isakov kept her eyes riveted on the maneuvering display where dozens of contacts within the five thousand kilometer danger zone around the
Michaelson
moved along their own trajectories. "I hate being this close to base. There's to much crap out there to worry about."

Paul privately agreed but didn't say so since he'd yet to forgive Isakov for her latest verbal jabs at him. Franklin Naval Station had spent weeks being just a bright dot in space; then with apparently shocking speed had become a great hollow disc rotating majestically before them as the
Michaelson
's velocity had closed the final thousands of kilometers within a short time. "Braking maneuver in five minutes," he reminded Isakov.

"Handle it."

Yes, ma'am
. Paul turned to look at the bosun mate of the watch. "Give the five minute warning, Boats."

"Aye, aye, sir." The bosun raised his pipe, triggered the internal broadcast circuit and blew the notes that called attention to his announcement. "All hands prepare for maneuvering in five minutes. Secure all objects and materials. Undertake no task which cannot be completed prior to maneuvering."

Paul reached to call the captain, only to have his gesture halted in mid-reach as the bosun spoke again. "Captain's on the bridge!"

Hayes pulled himself into his chair and strapped in even as he scanned the maneuvering display and shook his head. "There's a lot of traffic out there today."

Isakov nodded. "Yes, sir. Request permission to begin final deceleration and approach to station."

"Permission granted." Hayes looked over at Commander Kwan entered the bridge and hastily went to his own chair on the opposite side of the bridge from the captain's. "XO, let's go ahead and get the crew to stations."

"Yes, sir." Kwan pointed at Paul and Isakov. "Do it."

Isakov in turn looked at Paul, who couldn't help smiling at the absurdity of the way the chain of command was playing out on the bridge as he faced the bosun again. "Pass the word for all hands to man stations for entering port."

"Aye, aye, sir." Another blast on the whistle. "All hands man stations for entering port. Department Heads make reports of readiness for entering port to the Officer of the Deck on the bridge."

Paul checked the time. Two minutes to the final braking maneuver. "Boats, give the two minute warning." Hayes and Kwan were talking across the bridge to each other, but he couldn't pay any attention to that now. One minute. "One minute warning, Boats. Captain, request permission to initiate final braking maneuver."

Hayes nodded without taking his eyes off of his own maneuvering display. "Permission granted."

Paul watched the countdown scroll down to zero, then pushed the button confirming the maneuver. Thrusters fired, pitching the
Michaelson
to the side. On the maneuvering display, her trajectory toward Franklin showed as a broad curve. More thrusters fired, halting the ship's stern on the right bearing, then the
Michaelson
's main drive slammed them into their seats as it roared to life and began braking the ship's velocity. Paul swallowed, wondering if his stomach would ever get fully used to the rapid changes in apparent gravity caused by such maneuvers.

The curve of the ship's trajectory flattened out until the
Michaelson
was aimed at a point just above the station and coming in at an angle that would allow it to match the station's rotation at the point where its berth awaited the ship. Paul glanced at Isakov out of the corner of his eyes.
Who's taking the ship in for final? If I ask, they'll give me the job for sure since it'll sound like I'm volunteering
.

An instant later his unspoken question was answered by the captain. "Paul, why don't you take her in today."

"Aye, aye, sir."
Lucky me. Again
. Driving the ship through open space could be great fun. Driving the ship into her berth, where the slightest mistake could cause a collision and lots of damage, was never fun.

He keyed the communications circuit. "Franklin Naval Station this is USS
Michaelson
. Request permission to approach the station and dock at our assigned berth seven alpha. Over."

After a moment, Franklin replied. "This is Franklin Naval Station. Roger. Permission granted for USS
Michaelson
to approach the station and dock at assigned berth seven alpha. Follow standard docking procedure. Over."

Paul looked over at the captain, who waved one hand to acknowledge the message, then replied. "This is USS
Michaelson
, roger, out."

To his side, Isakov spoke. "All departments report readiness for entering port, Captain."

Paul concentrated on the maneuvering display. The ship's systems could auto-pilot them into dock, but few ships used those systems routinely for close in approaches. The tiniest problem in the electronic brains running the automated systems could translate into serious trouble too quickly for human intervention to correct it in time. Experienced people, for all their human flaws, were more reliable.

"Standby thrusters," Paul commanded as the
Michaelson
began gliding over the top of Franklin's great disc. Berth seven alpha loomed ahead and off to one side, the movement of the ship and the rotation of the station bringing ship and berth together with ponderous precision. He had to gauge the right moment to fire thrusters to halt the
Michaelson
relative the station at just the right place. "Starboard thrusters all ahead two-thirds."

"Starboard thrusters all ahead two-thirds, aye," the bosun mate of the watch echoed. The
Michaelson
shuddered as the thrusters slowed the ship's sideways progress.

Paul tried to feel the ship's motion and match it to the need to reach the spot right above the berth. "All stop."

"All stop, aye."

It wasn't quite enough. "Starboard thrusters all ahead one-third."

"Starboard thrusters all ahead one-third, aye."

The ship quivered again, with less force, slowing even more. "All stop!"

"All stop, aye."

Watching the ship's movement and the rotation of Franklin below, Paul thought it felt very good. "Standby all lines."

"Standby all lines, aye."

They were drifting very slowly now, the berth coming into alignment with the ship. "Send over Lines One, Three and Five."

The lines snaked out, leaping toward the berth and latching onto contact plates. The lines tightened as the
Michaelson
continued to drift. Paul studied the display, wondering if he'd need to tap the thrusters again. But the strain on the lines stayed within acceptable limits and the ship lurched only slightly as the lines brought her into a complete match with Franklin's movement. The bosun twirled his pipe again. "Moored! Shift colors!" The flag on the
Michaelson
, safely ensconced in a container aft, didn't actually move to another location as it would on a seagoing ship, but the
Michaelson
's broadcast identity changed, telling anyone listening that the ship had ceased being a free maneuvering object and was now tied to a station with a fixed orbit.