Part 27 (1/2)

”Okay, getting to your other prisoners, there's those three snake-s.h.i.+t sneaky chiefs of yours who tried to sabotage your atmosphere manifold. If that isn't a stab in the back, I don't f.u.c.king know what is. Those dirty sons of b.i.t.c.hes are going to get a straight-up, full-dress, formal f.u.c.king court martial. The judge advocate has pa.s.sed on outright treason-I always knew he was a G.o.dd.a.m.n p.u.s.s.y-and is prosecuting for attempted sabotage. I'm betting on a conviction and that they'll be sentenced to something like seven to ten years on a penal asteroid. Then desk jobs for the rest of their terms of service-you and I know, no skipper will ever let those c.o.c.ksuckers serve on his s.h.i.+p. It would likely be twenty-five on that asteroid instead of seven to ten, but I'm sure that the court will put some of the blame on that one-man squirrel convention of a CO these men used to have.”

He shook his head grimly. ”Oscar. One of these days, I'd like to get my hands on that loopy son of a b.i.t.c.h and make him answer for what he's done to some fine officers and men in this command. He's the worst thing since Philip Francis Queeg. Ever heard of Philip Francis Queeg?”

Max and Ibrahim shook their heads.

”f.u.c.king shame. No one reads the G.o.dd.a.m.n cla.s.sics any more. Every CO in the whole f.u.c.king Navy should take a few hours off from writing all those G.o.dd.a.m.n reports that don't amount to jacks.h.i.+t and read The Caine Mutiny. If a few more people had known who Philip Francis Queeg was, it would have been plain as black sky that Captain Oscar and Captain Queeg bought their b.l.o.o.d.y ball bearings from the same gag-and-gift shop, and someone would have sent Oscar off to the nut plantation where he belonged.

”Next subject. I've also read a stack of communications from the Pfelung stating that they think you're the best thing since indoor egg incubation. They want to be sure that you're one of the officers that they get to work with because they say they like the way you swim or that you navigate the currents skillfully or some such fishy bulls.h.i.+t like that. You know how they talk. I told them not to worry-they'll be seeing plenty of you, Rob.i.+.c.haux. Maybe after they get to know you, they may lose some of their enthusiasm. They'll start saying you swim into rocks or s.h.i.+t where the eggs are laid or something like that.

”You've always been something of a loose cannon, young man, but there's no denying that you got results this time out, and that's what counts in warfare-results. Victory in combat against the enemy will obtain for you the remission of many sins, a great many sins indeed. The Admiralty loves a winner. Not real keen on losers, though.

”And Rob.i.+.c.haux, condolences for the loss of your XO and those men in the cutter. d.a.m.n good man, that Garcia. d.a.m.n shame to lose him. I had him pegged to have a command of his own in a year or two. I'm pulling to get the Navy Cross for him, Amborsky, and the rest.

”But you, young man, you are the only destroyer skipper in this whole f.u.c.king war to take down a Krag battlecruiser without a.s.sistance from another wars.h.i.+p. There's gonna be some publicity from this, but I'm tempted to keep cla.s.sified how you did it, just so it doesn't tempt every half-a.s.sed destroyer skipper into bolting a brace of Raven missiles onto the side of his cutter. Very dangerous stunt. Unless the pilot is a f.u.c.king genius, it's a good way to destroy the cutter and kill the pilot. With all that ma.s.s near the bow, it must have taken a brilliant G.o.dd.a.m.n pilot to manage the thing.”

”My man Mori is, I think, the best small craft pilot in the Navy,” Max said.

”Maybe he is. At any rate, way to kick a.s.s. I wish I could have been there. G.o.dd.a.m.n! I miss the real thing. Instead, I'm sitting on my fat a.s.s two or three pa.r.s.ecs away from the battle, moving little electronic icons around in a f.u.c.king tactical projection. That's not leaders.h.i.+p, it's a G.o.dd.a.m.n trideo game.

”All right, next. On this Pfelung thing, half of my Intel people tell me that there is no way they would have seen through that stunt the Krag were pulling with those freighters the way you did. Congratulations. Of course, there's the half that don't say that and are telling me 'Oh, h.e.l.l, yes, it was right there all the time, and if we had known what Rob.i.+.c.haux knew, we would have seen it in a heartbeat.' What a steaming crock of grade-A bulls.h.i.+t. It took a real genuine Black Sky Out the Viewport combat officer to see that plan, not some electron-pus.h.i.+ng Intel weenies-G.o.dd.a.m.n sneaky little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

”And speaking of sneaky, how'd you manage to get all those transfer requests pulled? That was a neat trick.”

”What are you talking about, Admiral?”

”As of 21 January 2315, there were seventy-three pending requests for transfer from personnel a.s.signed to the c.u.mberland. As of today, there are none. Somehow, they were all withdrawn.”

”But, sir,” Max asked, ”can't the men withdraw them on their own?”

”Of course they can, dumba.s.s. It's the right of every man to request a transfer and his right to withdraw that request. That's a sacred s.p.a.cer right that goes back to the Salt.w.a.ter Navy. But no one has ever had seventy-three transfer requests withdrawn at almost the same time. It's too much of a coincidence. Just doesn't G.o.dd.a.m.n happen.”

”The reasons for wanting a transfer went away, so maybe the requests did too, sir.”

”You might be right. It's just a h.e.l.luva lot to swallow. If it's genuine, you might just be one of those great leaders of men, like Patton and Halsey and Litvinoff and Wong and Middleton. Like that's f.u.c.king likely. Humph. Speaking of leaders.h.i.+p, I know Admiral Middleton has a soft spot for you, so I sent him a signal about how your first cruise as a skipper came out. He sent this-he's a long way off, so it came by tachyon Morse and it's pretty terse. But I thought you'd want to have it.” He handed over a slip of paper, evidently torn right out of the decrypt printer.

It said: ”HORNEY PLEASE TELL CAPTAIN ROb.i.+.c.hAUX THAT HE DID AN OUTSTANDING JOB STOP I COULD NOT BE MORE PROUD OF HIM THAN IF HE WERE MY OWN SON STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

Despite the lump in his throat, Max could not help asking, ”'Horney,' sir?”

”Um, old nickname. Very old. Goes back to my mid days on the John Houbolt. People didn't start calling me 'Hit 'em Hard' until I got my first command. Enough about that. Put that slip of paper in your sc.r.a.pbook or wherever you keep things like that. You'll be wanting that twenty years from now, unless you get your reckless a.s.s killed first, that is.” Max folded it carefully and put it in one of the chest pockets of his uniform.

”You know what probably prompted that signal? It wasn't bagging that battlecruiser or even what happened at the Battle of Pfelung. I told him about your CAPE scores.”

Sahin broke in. ”Cape? What's a cape?”

”Acronym, Doctor. Computerized Automatic Performance Evaluation. Your s.h.i.+p's computer, arrogant little f.u.c.ker that it is, constantly measures every kind of job performance on the s.h.i.+p that can possibly be measured by computer: how long it takes your sensor people to identify a contact, how long between a system reporting trouble to when it is fixed, and hundreds of other things, and turns them into a scaled index, updated daily, with 100 representing the most perfect crew imaginable. I told Admiral Middleton that the c.u.mberland's CAPE went up from 21.7, the lowest in the Task Force, to 71.4, which is considered to be in the average range. Low average, I might add, but still average. So, Rob.i.+.c.haux, Middleton sends me back a personal signal saying how that score improvement shows you to be some kind of diamond in the rough.

Well, I'll tell you something, son, Fleet Admiral Charles L. Middleton can say that all he likes-you're not under his command, in the Big Chair on one of his s.h.i.+ps, while he has to sit in a f.u.c.king swivel chair behind a f.u.c.king desk and yell into a G.o.dd.a.m.n comm panel, trusting his carefully laid strategic plans to the judgment of a twenty-eight-year-old c.o.o.na.s.s who doesn't know when to keep his G.o.dd.a.m.n pants zipped and his G.o.dd.a.m.n mouth shut. Saying things like that from where he sits is like betting with someone else's money. I ought to transfer you to his Task Force and see how he likes the crazy s.h.i.+t you pull in his nice, orderly command.

”Your men, though, that's something different. Different thing entirely. First they put up with that bandicoot Oscar; then they go through that wild ride with you, and they still perform the way they did at the Battle of Pfelung. The s.h.i.+p stood and fought-not just fought but fought well-against an enemy that was superior both in numbers and in firepower. Good men. d.a.m.n good men. Been through h.e.l.l. Gave 'em h.e.l.l. So, in tomorrow's Orders of the Day, I'm issuing to the c.u.mberland a Bronze Battle Star.

”Light that big, bright f.u.c.ker up the next time some s.h.i.+t-for-brains jerkoff fighter pilot calls your s.h.i.+p the c.u.mberland Gap. Getting in your comebacks by blinker is too G.o.dd.a.m.n slow.”

How had the admiral heard about that? ”I am also authorizing your vessel to display an 'E' for Excellence for the next thirty days. Keep this up and I wouldn't be surprised to see your CAPE at about eighty-one or eighty-two in ninety days, which would put you in the top third.”

”I would,” said the doctor.

”You'd be surprised? You don't think they will improve that much?” asked the admiral, scowling. Dr. Sahin's remark smacked of disloyalty to his crew, something of which Louis G. Hornmeyer took a very dim view.

”Actually, sir, I expect them to do substantially better. I would bet that in ninety days their score will be at least ninety.”

”Doctor, I'm not sure you understand how this works. These scores are indexed against the past performance of other crews-the amount of improvement required to get from the twenties to the seventies is actually less than what it would take get the c.u.mberland from where it is now to a ninety. There is a very strong law of diminis.h.i.+ng returns.” Amazing how the admiral's legendary profanity abated when he talked to the doctor.

”I understand it perfectly. I have spent some time familiarizing myself with the subject.”

”All right then. You said 'bet,' Doctor. Do you mean that literally?”

”Yes, I suppose that I do.”

”It's well known that I like to put down a wager or two from time to time. I know you're flush with prize money right now, so do you want to put some of that money at risk?”

”It will not be at the slightest risk, with all due respect, Admiral. What do you propose as the size of the wager? How much can you afford to lose?”

”I think a thousand is reasonable. Agreed?”

”Agreed.”

”BUSHMAN!” Max expected the ceiling tiles to fall. Bushman stuck his head in. ”Bushman, get the book. The doctor here wishes to make a wager.”

The man bobbed his head and ducked back out. He reappeared less than five seconds later, carrying an old, tatty, antique-style ledger book, and sat at a side table, picking up a pen to write.

”Bushman, the doctor and I have a bet that the CAPE scores for the c.u.mberland as of ninety days from this date will be ninety or higher. He is pro; I am con. The amount of the wager is one thousand credits to be paid in hard cash. Is that acceptable, Doctor?”

”Perfectly.”

”Bushman, you can go.” The man wrote for a few seconds, then got up and left.