Part 6 (1/2)
”Chief Bond has a lot of sense. Thank G.o.d none of you is from Zubin Eschamali IX. Or even worse, Fuhkher II.” That one got a few laughs. The mood in the room was starting to lighten a bit. Maybe these people can start to function now.
”Okay, then, Greenlee. I want you to sit down right here and spend the next hour teaching Onizuka everything you can about specidents. Since he's had the course, he must know most of what he needs, so give him the practical tips you learned on the job that weren't in the training, and then run a few exercises. I've got some you haven't seen. Access the menu under 'Captain's Training Files.'”
Just then, Harbaugh came in, out of breath, pillow creases on the right side of his face, eyes bleary. The man obviously needed coffee. Max looked around for the pot. He couldn't spot it. A cola would do. Then he noticed that there were no coffee cups or mugs, nor any beverages of any kind anywhere in the compartment. Max looked at the CPO first with all the stripes. If anyone here knew what the h.e.l.l was going on, it would be this man. ”Chief, what's your name?”
”Kleszczynska, sir.” When he got a blank stare from the captain, he spelled it.
Max looked imploringly at the ceiling for a second. ”And what do the people who have not practiced Polish tongue twisters from birth call you, Chief?”
”Klesh, sir,” he answered, smiling.
”Chief Klesh, where is the coffee pot for this compartment? And the drinks chiller?”
In a voice that did not entirely conceal his disapproval, the chief responded, ”Both removed at Captain Oscar's orders, sir.”
That figures. Men who stand rotating four hour watches around the clock are expected to stare at sensor readouts, in a darkened room, for two hundred and forty minutes, and not fall asleep at their stations without coffee or drinks to sustain them? Riiiiiiight.
Max went to the nearest comm panel. He stabbed the b.u.t.ton savagely. ”Quartermaster.”
”Quartermaster's office, Chief Jinnah here.”
”Chief, this is the skipper. Does this s.h.i.+p have the standard issue of coffee pots and drink chillers for a vessel of this cla.s.s?”
”Absolutely, sir.”
”Mugs and cups too?”
”The regulation number, sir.”
”And Chief Jinnah, if I wanted coffee pots to be used to actually make coffee and chillers to be used to chill drinks, and some cups and mugs to be available to hold beverages rather than collecting dust somewhere, how would I go about finding them?”
”They are all in the spares bay. I can get you the grid numbers if you want them.”
”All there at Captain Oscar's order, I suppose.”
A resigned sigh came over the comm. ”Affirmative, sir.”
”Chief Jinnah. Make this your priority. I want those coffee pots and those chillers issued and stocked by fourteen hundred hours. Issue the cups and mugs too.”
”Yes, sir!” Something told Max that the chief liked his coffee.
Max punched another key.
”Enlisted mess, Chief Lao here.”
”Chief, this is the skipper. I need coffee and beverage service in the Sensor SSR ASAP. Are you the man who can make that happen?”
”Affirmative, sir. Just have the men key in what they want on the Tray Request menu, and the senior man in there key in an authorization, and I'll have it in there in under ten minutes.” Most of the senior NCOs on this s.h.i.+p seemed to be on the ball, at any rate.
Greenlee explained to Max that Captain Oscar had prohibited beverages at stations because he thought they didn't ”look s.h.i.+pshape” and because of fears of spillage (absurd because all the consoles were hermetically sealed). Accordingly, some of the men in Sensors had to be shown how to pull up the Tray Request menu from their consoles.
While all this was going on, Chief Klesh had brought Ensign Harbaugh up to speed, and Harbaugh had been to every console to see what each man was doing and to get a look at what each sensor was reading. Max put him on getting crash training to the five men who were new to the department, with the rest of the people there either helping those five or running training exercises until the next jump.
”And after the jump, when you've determined everything is clear, everyone but two of you go back to running exercises while two watch the consoles. All the senior people rotate through keeping an eye out.
”Harbaugh, Klesh, put your heads together and see if there's anyone off duty who would be helpful in increasing these men's proficiency in a big burning hurry. If so, get them in here. You have my leave to wake anyone in this department from both of the off-duty watches. Harbaugh, when the next watch comes on, put them to work doing the same thing this group is doing, and have them do the same for the next group.”
”Yes sir.” Harbaugh seemed eager, anyway.
”And Harbaugh, effective immediately, you're the new sensor SSR commander. I need green lights across the board from this room and I need 'em yesterday. Anything you need to make that happen, you come straight to me. Understood?”
”Understood, sir.”
”Carry on, then.”
”How in the h.e.l.l did you get your hands on that?” Chief Tung pointed at the object on the table in front of him. It looked like a slightly oversize, bright yellow pancake with a few b.u.t.tons and lights set in the center.
”The lock on Ordinance Locker Number Three has had an electronic fault since we were commissioned. You can open it by entering zero-one-two-three. I never reported the problem, in case I ever needed to liberate something.” Chief Kapstein was proud of himself.
”Why didn't you 'liberate' something that would do us more good than one d.i.n.ky little thermoflasher?” snarled Chief Larch-Thau. Resting at the center of the tiny table in the Goat Locker, the stolen device looked more like an hors d'oeuvre than ordnance.
”Because, dumba.s.s,” answered Kapstein, ”there's a sniffer in there that reads the chemicals in the air. You take out too high a volume of ordnance, the trace compound concentration in the air goes down and the computer triggers an alarm. You can slip out one or two of these little jewels, but anything more or anything bigger and you're nabbed.”
”But what,” Tung asked, ”can we do with a thermoflasher? All the drives, deflectors, reactors, and every other high-energy component is high temperature tolerant. A thermoflasher will just burn off the paint or melt the dials. Brown can just pop on new panels or a new control interface, and it'll be good as new.”
”Come on,” Kapstein chided. ”You mean to tell me you can't think of a single low-energy system that's also mission critical?”
”You mean...?” Larch-Thau smiled, pointing at the ceiling.
”Absolutely,” Kapstein answered.
Having skillfully removed the ceiling panel and an air return duct access panel, all three men were crawling along the air conduit, which was approximately one meter square. Tung had already entered a command from his percom, directing the computer to reduce the airflow through this duct so that there wouldn't be a pressure buildup to alert the computer that there was an obstruction consisting of three chief petty officers. After five minutes of stealthy creeping, they reached a branching duct that led toward the lower decks. Fortunately, there were rungs bolted to one of the sides.
Not saying a word, they moved more slowly as they went down. After descending almost two decks, they came to another horizontal duct, which they followed for just under twenty meters. By this time, all three men were sweating, not just from the warm air in the air return ducts and the exertion, but from fear of being caught. If apprehended, the very least they would likely face would be a court martial, and at worst, in theory the skipper could toss them out the airlock.
After a few minutes, they reached a grille that blocked their way. On the other side of the heavy metal grating they could barely discern a complex array of pipes, ducts, and electronics. Attached to the grille's corner were three small signs. The first read: ”MAIN ATMOSPHERE PROCESSOR MANIFOLD.” The second: ”WARNING: ENTRY WHILE PROCESSOR IS IN OPERATION WILL KILL YOU IN LESS THAN ONE MINUTE. CONFIRM PROCESSOR IS OFFLINE AND UNIT POWER LOCKED OUT BEFORE ENTRY.” The third: ”ENTRY WHILE PROCESSOR IS IN OPERATION PROHIBITED BY 60 CNR 29623 AND WILL RESULT IN SEVERE DISCIPLINARY CONSEQUENCES.”
Larch-Thau laughed. ”I wonder what's worse: dying in less than one minute or the 'severe disciplinary consequences.'”
”Once you're dead, I'm thinking that the discipline isn't too bad,” said Kapstein. ”Okay, let's do this.”