Temporary Duty (46 page)

Recovery wasn’t quite so pretty. The bür trapped first, coming in a little hotter than they had when coming aboard the first time and gathering in clumps along the side of the ops bay to watch. "Look alive," said Howell when all the bür were in. "From the look of it things didn’t go all that good for our guys this time."

Commander Collins was hot enough to twang the first two retarders, the first time that had happened in quite a while, and almost all of the other Hornets were either hotter, sloppier, or both than usual. The first flight of Tomcats was about the same, and in the short pause after they trapped all the retarder crews double- and triple-checked their consoles. The second flight was manned by the alternate crews, and despite improvement they simply weren’t as good as the primaries.

105 managed to twang number three before getting down to deck-maneuvering speed. The sailors exchanged looks as it taxied away. As they understood it, the low-powered lasers used in the mock combats caused a shock that was transmitted distinctly through the airframe. They also scarred the paint, and from the look of it Mr. Carlyle had gotten as much as he could dish out if he hadn’t actually come out second best. Multiple splotches marred the Navy blue of the wings and tail surfaces, and several irregular areas of peeled paint marched down the midbody, definite kills if the weapons were on their normal settings.

106 and 107 were a little calmer but still hotter than usual, and bore similar if less extensive evidence that the bür were several cuts above the opponents they’d encountered before. Number 108 was lagging, and Howell pulled out his binoculars and took a look. "Shit," he said. "It looks like he’s lost it. This could get interesting."

"Who is it?" somebody asked.

"Carson," another replied.

"Oh, shit." It was obvious to the naked eye that his attitude was wrong. Carson’s problem seemed to be that he couldn’t bear to head directly for the ship. Peters could sympathize a little–the times he’d been outside it had been much easier to think of the ship as "down" than "over there"–but if the pilot was too rattled to get the nose down it was likely to cause problems.

Sure enough, the nose was way high, at or above the angle it would use when landing on the carrier. That wasn’t what Carson had in mind, though, because the wings were still folded back in high-speed mode. If he’d reverted to the training he’d gotten, the wings would be extended–or maybe not; he would have learned on modern airplanes, which didn’t have variable geometry.

Twang!
went the first retarder.

The nose-high airplane caught the air inside the bay. It rose and kept rising, meeting the beams of the overhead with a shower of sparks and a crash that reverberated down the bay.

Having the wings back, and a little luck, saved two lives. As it rose the Tomcat pitched nose-down, catching one of the crossbeams just aft of the rear cockpit, shearing the vertical stabilizers off clean with a hell of a screech but sparing the canopy and its occupants the same fate. It then fell to the deck with another reverberating crash and skidded down the bay, leaving long scars in the nonskid and spraying yellow fire. It didn’t take telepathy for two hundred and forty-eight humans to share variants of the same thought:
No fuel, thank God, no fire, thanks be to God in His mercy
.

Kraewitz got there first and yanked the escape handle. Explosive bolts sent the canopy sailing, and the backseater’s bubble tumbled after it. The canopy coamings were still above their heads, which caused a delay that was probably fortunate. Peters cat-scrambled up the side, jamming the toes of his boondockers into the slots provided for that purpose, but the action gave him time to think a little. Without the threat of fire they could take time to make sure there were no broken necks or backs before moving the flight crews, instead of snatching and grabbing in a pile of slippery foam while praying that the ordnance didn’t cook off.

There weren’t any scars on the NFO’s helmet, and the straps seemed to have held; Lieutenant Carson seemed to be in about the same shape. Cunningham was reaching for his straps but stopped when Peters hissed, "Wait for the medics." The other Second Class backed off, content to observe if a little itchy. A shout of "Make way, there!" from below gave Peters just time to swing over and crouch on the intake before the corpsman was swarming up to take charge. Another was heading for the front seat, obliging Cunningham to perch insecurely on the canopy edge.

SPEYR, LTJG it said on the NFO’s helmet, with a single bar and a design of red stripes like stylized ram’s horns. The corpsman felt around the base of the man’s neck, then undid the snaps of the oxygen mask and worked the helmet off, revealing a sweaty disheveled face. He handed the helmet to Peters and began to expertly palpate the officer’s neck and upper back. "Bear a hand here," he said when he seemed satisfied, not a request.

He and Peters got the straps undone, fumbling a little because despite training neither of them had done it often. By that time the officer was able to cooperate, managing to stand up in the cockpit with a little help and swing his legs over onto the maintenance stand somebody’d had the wit to bring up. "Thanks," he said faintly. "I think I’m okay."

"No, sir, you ain’t okay ’til the doc says you are," the corpsman said firmly. He and Peters got the officer to sit, head down between his knees, until a litter was passed up. They got him on it and the straps tight; another sailor took one end, and he and the medic worked it down the steps and set off across the bay, with Carson just behind in his own litter.

Peters clambered down more slowly, shaking with reaction, and sat on the deck, bracing his back against the crumpled port engine nacelle. He pulled off his helmet, dumped it, and put his own head between his knees, breathing deeply to come down off the adrenaline high. Sailors were crowding around, but Warnocki’s bark of "Clear away there!" started them moving off, and the Chief came over to Peters. "You okay?" he asked. "What happened?"

"He was nose high. You seen the rest."

"Yeah," Warnocki said sourly.

* * *

Peters was relaxing on his bunk, deep in the tenth volume of the long-running saga of Orberig the Sailor, when someone pounded on the door. "Come," he said shortly.

"The results of the board are in," Howell said without preamble. "Simple negligence."

Peters nodded, wondering why the First Class had taken the time to pass the word. They’d learned to get along, but they’d never be friends. "‘Bout what I expected. When’s the Court?"

"There won’t be a Court," Howell said, keeping his mouth in a tight thin line.

"That don’t sound right," Peters observed, not quite correctly. An Accident Investigation Board finding of "gross negligence" on the part of an officer generated a Court-Martial as a matter of course; "simple negligence" could be handled more simply. "What’re they doin’ to Carson? Limited duty and a note in his 201?"

"You got it. He’s off flying status and gets a note in his file, and that’s it."

"Well, at least he’ll be out of our hair."

"Not precisely," Howell advised. "In fact, not at all. Which brings us to the best part. The Board in its wisdom has ruled that a contributing cause to the accident was, quote, ‘failure of poorly-trained and poorly-supervised enlisted crews to properly operate important safety equipment’. That means thee and me, Peters, not to mention Kraewitz and Bannerman. We get love letters in our 201s too."

"Mighta known," Peters observed disgustedly. "Well, I didn’t really want that third chevron anyhow."

"Oh, you’re all right. You, Cunningham, and Kraewitz get letters commending you for ‘prompt, effective, and appropriate action in a situation with lives at stake’. No doubt they’ll staple the two of them together and shove them to the back of the file, just call it push and pull." Howell regarded his sleeve sourly. "Me, I don’t get any such letter, so I can kiss any chance of a rocker bye-bye."

"You know well’s I do it don’t work that way," Peters pointed out. "Takes ten attaboys to cancel one aw-shit, and I reckon this here’s more of an aw-fuck, myself. I ain’t never gonna get enough attaboys to cancel that, especially with me and the Master Chief not gettin’ along."

"Hmph. Which brings me to what I looked you up for. Having received this news, the Master Chief has decreed extra drill for us ree-tarded operators, starting right after next chow. In full gear. With adult supervision."

"Well, I reckon from their point of view that’s the next thing on the program," Peters offered judiciously. "Hunh. How’re we gonna drill effectively? It ain’t like we had anything resemblin’ a simulator."

"Cross that bridge when we come to it. First session will just be review of procedures, which is to say, teaching our new boss which switch turns the lights on."

"Yeah … What’s this about supervision? Is Chief Joshua gonna come down and look over our shoulders?"

"Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all," Howell opined with mock-solemn cynicism. "No, the Chief stays where he is. Us, we get a real grownup. Following the Board’s recommendation, Commander Bolton has assigned us an LSO."

"An officer? How’re they gonna do that? All the officers are flight crew, barrin’ the Doc." He looked Howell in the face. "Oh, shit. You ain’t tellin’ me–"

Howell nodded, with a bare-toothed grin containing not one iota of amusement. "You got it. Seeing as how he’s been relieved of flying duties, and is therefore without a current assignment –"

"That asshole Carson gets to be Landing Signal Officer. Well, ain’t that great."

"You got it," Howell repeated. "First
utle
after next chow, in full drag, ready to receive the words of wisdom from On High. Be there or be square."

"Walkin’ our posts in proper military manner," Peters added. "Well, I reckon there ain’t nothin’ for it."

Howell just nodded and pulled the door closed. Peters shook his head, looking over at his book, which he’d laid down carefully, using a four-ornh note for a bookmark. Cherin had explained to him in some detail the reason for not laying books open and face down. He’d never had much to do with books before, but the precaution seemed sensible, like securing watertight doors … which had nothing to do with the present situation, which was not looking like a pleasant prospect. Among other things, having a real officer on the deck would disrupt the command structure they’d improvised. By virtue of his rank, Carson would be the constituted authority, making Chief Joshua’s role as default Air Boss moot. "Come!" he shouted when the tapping on his door was repeated.

"I guess you’ve heard the news," Dee said.

"Yeah, and it don’t thrill me," Peters understated.

"I expected that," Dee told him wryly. "I hate to impose, but I need some help."

"What do you need?"

"Chief Joshua told me to arrange for a member of
Llapaaloapalla
‘s crew to be present for the additional instruction he ordered." She looked a little sheepish. "I’m not very familiar with the
zerkre
, and they don’t know me at all. Would you go along and help me out? They know you a lot better."

"You sure?" Peters asked softly. "I’m one of the ones in the shit."

"Yes, I know, but I don’t even know where to go or who to ask."

"Jus’ go to the control room and ask for Dhuvenig. If he ain’t around, either Heelinig or Deenerin can help you."

"But I’m afraid!" she almost wailed. "Won’t you please go along? In all my life I never imagined that I would visit the control room."

"What’re you afraid of?" Peters asked gently. "They’re nice folks up there."

"Maybe for you, but I’m only a trader, and a junior one at that," Dee pointed out. "Please help."

"You’re jumpin’ at shadows." Peters held up a hand when she started to object. "OK, I’ll go, but we can’t be seen together, leastwise not by any of the humans." He thought for a moment. "You know where the library’s at?"

"I think so. I’ve never been there."

"Learnin’ that’ll be good for you," Peters said with some amusement. "It’s an interestin’ place. I done learned a lot there."

"So I should meet you in the library?"

"Yeah. Wait a
tle
or so, then go to the library. Don’t wait too long. It’s gettin’ close to mealtime, and after that we won’t be able to get away with much.»

"All right," she said a trifle wanly. "Come as soon as you can. I don’t feel welcome in that part of the ship."

"You’ll be fine," Peters assured. "Go. I’ll be there as soon as I can."

"OK." She turned and left, pulling the door closed.

Now isn’t this a helluva deal?
Peters waited a few minutes, then pulled on dungarees over his
kathir
suit and searched out his hat. The requirement to wear clothing over the airsuit was honored much more in the breach than in the observance, but the order had never been rescinded, and if he was already on somebody’s shit list there was no point in adding tick marks.

Dee had managed to find the library, but hadn’t mustered up the courage to go in; she was standing outside the door, looking fidgety and getting odd looks from the occasional passerby. «Calm yourself,» Peters told her. «They won’t bite you.»

«I’m not emotionally certain of that,» she said, with more humor than he’d expected.

«Let’s go inside for a moment,» Peters suggested. «The librarian is a good person. Perhaps if you meet her you can become more easy about meeting the others.»

«That might help,» she agreed.

«Come, then.» Peters pushed open the library door. «Hello, Cherin,» he greeted the woman at the desk. «I introduce Dee.»

Cherin glanced at him with a little quirk of the mouth. «Hello, Peters,» she said, amusement in her voice. «Welcome to the library, Dee. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.»

«No, I’ve never been here before,» Dee agreed.

«You’re a Trader, aren’t you? Is there anything special you like to read?»

«No, I have never read very much,» Dee admitted. «I read some books when I was in school, but never since.»

«That’s too bad,» the librarian chided. «Reading is a good way to learn new things. Look at Peters. He reads more than almost anyone I know, and as a result he knows much more than you’d expect.»