HMS Prince Adrian
Madras System
August 19, 1906 PD
“so aside from your concerns with the node maintenance, the shuttles are in good shape, Scotty?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Scotty Tremaine replied. “Flight systems just passed their ninety-six-hour inspect-and-maintain cycle on everything but Shuttle Three—it’s twelve hours off-cycle with the other birds, but we’re going to short-check it to bring it on-calendar with the others next inspection—and Enviro checks green on all of them. Power systems on Shuttle Alpha and Marine Two are about due for I-and-M, but their diagnostics all look good, so I don’t expect any surprises there. It’s the nodes that worry us.”
He and Senior Chief Harkness stood in Brandy Bolgeo’s tiny alcove of an office, and she looked down at the memo board he’d handed her when they came in.
“We’re not quite up to the book overhaul limit on any of them,” she pointed out.
“No, Ma’am,” Tremaine agreed. “But we’re getting close, and the spares situation’s not getting any better. When I realized how close we were, especially on the Alpha shuttle, I checked with Commander Tyson about availability.”
Brandy nodded. Commander Richard Tyson was the Logistics Officer aboard HMS Juan Navarro, the superdreadnought-sized maintenance ship based in the Madras System as the core of Sixth Fleet’s service squadron. They really should have had two of her, but there weren’t a lot more of them, and the Navy was still playing catch-up on the lost time and seriously run-down maintenance stocks imposed by the formal declaration’s long delay.
The Johnny, as she was known with varying degrees of fondness, was running at maximum capacity to keep up with Sixth Fleet’s demands, especially with the repair of the light damage the superdreadnoughts Kodiak Maximus and Paladin had suffered in Sampson. The five laserhead hits scattered between the two of them had inflicted no significant harm on their heavily armored hulls, although the same damage would have been rather a different story for something as fragile as Prince Adrian. The most time-consuming repair was the replacement of two elements in Paladin’s Number Two Gravitic Array. But restoring the wallers fully to full capability took precedence over other, lesser chores, and more and more of what should have been “yard dog” maintenance had fallen on the shoulders of individual ships’ engineering departments.
Engineering departments like Prince Adrian’s.
Technically, Lieutenant Tremaine shouldn’t have gone directly to Tyson. He should have reported his concerns to Lieutenant O’Brien or Brandy, and Lieutenant Commander Yaytsev should have taken them up with Tyson. Going direct that way, especially on a pure information request, didn’t violate any regulations or formal procedures, but it was frowned upon because of the way it could clutter the communication channels and requisition pipelines. The last thing they needed when everyone was so overworked were multiple or conflicting requests from different officers aboard the same ship. At the same time, it was the sort of initiative she’d come to expect out of Tremaine. She tapped the memo board, scrolling to the next page, and nodded mentally as she found exactly what she’d expected.
“They’re that backed up?” she asked, looking back up from the neatly tabulated availability data Tremaine had assembled.
“For right now, yes, Ma’am. And, frankly, the Commander doesn’t think it’s going to get better anytime soon.” Tremaine grimaced. “I think part of it’s the construction programs, Ma’am. That and the refits.”
Of course it was, Brandy thought. One of the first places the Admiralty had gone while it was busy robbing Peter to pay Paul was the new construction queue. Keeping ships they already had in service up and running—and provided with ordnance—was more important even than the ships currently under construction. So parts, personnel, and funds had all been diverted from the building slips to the maintenance of already operational units. And, in many ways, the initial successes of Riposte Gamma—not to mention the battles of Hancock, Yeltsin, and Seaford—had made an already bad problem even worse.
The Royal Manticoran Navy had captured almost forty Havenite ships-of-the-wall in undamaged or repairable condition before Admiral Caparelli had been forced to suspend operations. A dozen or so of them had been handed over to the Grayson Space Navy, which badly needed a solid core of wallers of its own. The rest had already become—or were still in the process of becoming—welcome reinforcements to the RMN’s own wall-of-battle. Unfortunately, even the ones which had been almost entirely undamaged required significant refits to make them compatible with existing RMN units and practices. Most of them needed repairs—major repairs, in some cases—as well, however. That had actually made the delay between the end of Riposte Gamma and the formal declaration fortunate, in some ways, in that it had given the desperately overworked yard dogs time to get more of those prize vessels back into service under Manticoran colors.
Yet the effort which had gone into them had been still another diversion from the new construction programs, and it had eaten up still more of the Navy’s maintenance resources without any special appropriation to replace them. All of which meant it was going to be quite some time—probably at least another T-year—before BuShips fully regained its balance.
And part of the trickle-down consequences of that was obvious in the spares manifest and projected delivery time fame Commander Tyson had shared with Tremaine.
“All right.” She looked up from the memo board. “I’ll take your report to Commander Yaytsev. I’m pretty sure he’ll endorse your recommendation and we’ll request enough spares to bring us fully back up to book inventory levels. But based on this”—she tapped the board—“we all know we’re not going to get that.”
“No, Ma’am, we’re not,” Tremaine agreed with a slight grimace, and Brandy moved her gaze to Harkness.
“May I safely assume you’re keeping a sharp eye on the diagnostics, Senior Chief?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Harkness replied. “All my people are briefed in on the spares situation. We’re doing everything we can to baby our systems along, and our techs are pretty damned good, you should pardon the expression. But no matter how good they are, the truth is that—like the Lieutenant says—we’re going to start missing book mandatory replacement times in a couple of more T-months. Unless something changes, of course.”
Brandy’s grimace was less slight and considerably more sour than Tremaine’s had been, but she nodded. She’d discovered, even in her relatively brief time aboard Prince Adrian, that Horace Harkness was every bit as competent as her father had predicted. And he’d been on his best behavior the entire time. In fact, she’d made a point out of consulting his service record, and it would appear Horace Harkness had reformed. The thought of a reformed Harkness was probably enough to boggle the mind of anyone who’d known the old Harkness, but there wasn’t a sign of his fabled ability to circumvent the limitations of official regulations on things like games of chance and onboard intoxicants. For that matter, he hadn’t had a single fight with a Marine in over three T-years, which was a new record for him.
Another thing she’d discovered about him was that even though he had to know whose daughter she was, he’d never once given any sign that he did. Still a bit rough around the edges, yes. Definitely. But probably one of the two or three toughest, most capable senior noncoms she’d ever met. If he said “his people” were on top of things, then they were on top of things. At least as well as they could be, given the spares situation.
“Ma’am,” Tremaine said, “I understand why we’re where we are on this stuff.” He waved at the memo board on her desk. “And I get that we didn’t have a choice. But do you have any better notion than we do of how long it’s going to take to get fully back up to speed? Because, truth to tell, I don’t have a clue, and some of our people in Flight Ops are asking me about it. Not just them, either. Gunny Babcock was in the shop bending the Senior Chief’s ear about it yesterday.”
“Babcock?” Brandy arched an eyebrow, then glanced at Harkness. “Senior Chief?”
“She wasn’t bitc—complaining about it, Ma’am,” Harkness replied. “She was just a little . . . concerned about long-term serviceability. Looking ahead, I mean.”
“And is that an issue yet, Scotty?” Brandy asked, turning back to Tremaine.
“No, Ma’am. Not yet. But if you’ll notice, the pinnaces’ nodes are deeper into their life cycles than any of our other small craft. Mostly because they get more and harder use, of course. I think Major Yestachenko’s cutting back a bit on training flights to stretch that. Nobody’s told me that for sure, but the flight schedule’s definitely lighter than it was. And I think the Gunny’s worried about that.”
“You mean you think Major Yestachenko’s worried about it, and Sergeant Major Babcock, like the excellent NCO she is, is voicing her concerns to Harkness, so that he can voice them to you, so that you can voice them to me,” Brandy said dryly.
“Well, actually, yes, Ma’am,” Tremaine admitted. “Which doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a point.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Brandy nodded, forbearing to mention just how well she and Iris Babcock knew one another. “In fact, that’s exactly what both of you—all three of you—should be doing. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything Commander Tyson hasn’t told you already. I will say that my acquaintance with the Commander suggests that his numbers are pretty close to spot-on. That’s about all I’ve got, though.”
“About what I thought, Ma’am.” Tremaine smiled crookedly. “It’s just that—”
The com unit on Brandy’s desk chimed, and she raised one finger at Tremaine.
“Hold that thought, Lieutenant,” she said, and tapped the acceptance key.
The display lit, and Commander Carson looked out of it at her.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” she said. “How may I help you?”
“The Captain needs to see you, Lieutenant,” the XO said.
“Of course, Sir.” Brandy hoped her sudden tickle of trepidation didn’t show in her voice. “When would be convenient for him?”
“Now would be a good time, actually,” Carson replied. “And, by the way, Lieutenant, you’re not in any kind of hot water. Just in case you were worried about that. Which of course”—he smiled broadly—“no officer possessed of a sterling character such as your own could possibly have been.”
“No, Sir. Of course not.” Brandy allowed herself an answering smile, and he chuckled.
“In that case, please report to Captain McKeon’s day cabin as soon as you can.”
“Of course, Sir.” Brandy glanced at her chrono. “I’m about done here at the moment, actually. I can be there in ten minutes, if that’s convenient?”
“That would be just about perfect, actually. I’ll tell him to expect you.”
* * *
“Lieutenant Bolgeo to see the Captain,” Brandy told the Marine outside McKeon’s cabin’s hatch.
“Of course, Ma’am.” The Marine braced briefly, then touched the com pad beside the hatch. “Lieutenant Bolgeo to see the Captain,” he announced.
“Enter,” a voice responded, and the hatch slid open. Brandy nodded to the sentry and stepped through it. She started to come to attention, but Captain McKeon waved a hand at her.
“Have a seat, Brandy,” he invited instead, pointing at one of the chairs in front of his desk, then tapped his desk unit.
“Yes, Sir?” a voice said.
“I am in desperate need of coffee and two cups, Hiram.”
“Sir, I gave you a fresh pot thirty minutes ago,” Chief Steward Mate Brodzinski replied.
“And your point is? That was then, and this is now. Besides, Lieutenant Bolgeo is here, and I’m sure she needs a cup, too. That, by the way, is the only reason that I am disturbing you with my modest request.”
“I’m sure it is,” Brodzinski said dryly. “Three minutes, Sir.”
“Well, if you have to take that long,” McKeon said with a broad grin.
“I don’t know, Sir. Might be more like five, now that I think about it.”
“Just remember who signs your efficiency report, Hiram,” McKeon chuckled, and released the key to sit back in his own chair as Brandy settled into hers.
“In case Commander Carson didn’t already tell you this, Brandy, you’re not here so that I can express any unhappiness with you. In fact, it’s the other way around. I’ve been entirely satisfied with your performance aboard ship so far, and Commander Yaytsev gives you very high marks. Which, judging by the Department’s performance, you fully deserve.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
A sense of satisfaction flowed through her. She’d already discovered that Alistair McKeon was one of those COs who believed encouragement of success was a better motivator than chewing out failures. By the same token, as far as she could tell he never offered false praise. His people had to earn his approval, and that made it even more satisfying—even more precious—when they got it.
“Obviously, all our departments are working hard,” McKeon continued. “The truth is, though, Engineering’s working hardest of all, and everybody else depends on Engineering. We were just about due for our next scheduled general overhaul when it all hit the fan in Hancock and Yeltsin. Obviously”—his tone was desert dry—“we missed it. And, trust me, I know exactly how tight margins have gotten on some of our systems.”
Brandy nodded soberly, although she wondered where this was going.
“Riding herd on all of that, keeping all those balls in the air simultaneously, is not an easy chore,” the captain said. “Commander Yaytsev’s done an outstanding job, but there are limits in all things. The reason I mention this—”
He paused as the hatch to Chief Steward Mate’s Brodzinski’s pantry slid open and the steward emerged with a tray bearing a fresh carafe of coffee and two cups. He set his tray on the end of McKeon’s desk, poured coffee into both cups, then lifted the lid on the small container of cream to check its level. Satisfied with what he saw, he replaced the lid, collected his tray, and left. All without a single word.
McKeon looked after him with a grin, then poured a hefty dollop of cream and dropped a single sugar cube into his cup. Brandy preferred hers black, and she’d already learned that Brodzinski brewed a superior cup of coffee.
She sipped appreciatively, waiting while McKeon stirred his cup, laid the spoon aside, and took a sip of his own. Then he looked back at her.
“The reason that I’ve mentioned just how hard Commander Yaytsev’s job has been is that the Commander is leaving the ship.”
Brandy sat straight up in her chair, eyes widening in surprise. This was the first she’d heard of anything like that, and there was something about Captain McKeon’s eyes, a trace of . . . sorrow, perhaps, in them.
“May I ask why, Sir?”
“You may. I know you’ve met his wife, so you know she’s also navy. You may not know, though, that Lieutenant Commander Yaysteva is a yard dog on Vulcan.”
He paused, eyebrows raised, and Brandy nodded. HMSS Vulcan orbited Sphinx, not Manticore, but it was every bit as big—and busy—as Hephaestus.
“Actually, I did know that, Sir. She’s worked with my dad on a couple of projects.”
“Well, there was an accident aboard Vulcan,” McKeon said heavily. “Just one of those things, especially with everyone pushing as hard as they are. It looks like one of the construction shuttle pilots misjudged his approach, but we’ll never know for sure. He didn’t make it, and the black box was unrecoverable.”
Brandy’s eyes widened. Navy small-craft flight recorders were engineered to survive under extreme circumstances. Any accident sufficient to destroy one of them had to have been a . . . significant event.
“The collision took out an entire construction bay assigned to Dominion, one of the new Gryphon-class ships,” McKeon continued, as if to confirm her own thoughts. “Thirty-seven dead, nineteen injured, and just as bad, in many ways—although it’s one hell of a lot less painful in human terms—Dominion’s completion date’s been pushed back at least a couple of T-months. Probably more like three or four.”
Brandy winced.
“Lieutenant Commander Yaysteva is among the injured.” McKeon paused, made himself take a sip of coffee, then set the cup back down. “In fact, she’s very badly injured. They didn’t think she was going to make it for the first couple of days, and best estimate is that she’ll be in regen and rehab for a minimum of seven or eight months. I think you’ve had a little experience of that of your own?”
“You might say that, Sir. And I’m really sorry to hear she’s been hurt, but I can tell you from that ‘experience’ of mine that Bassingford does really, really good work.”
“I know. But, the Yaystevs have three young children—the oldest is only about twelve—and they don’t have a lot of family. So as soon as I heard what had happened, even before I told the Commander, I approved immediate compassionate leave for him to return to the Star Kingdom to see to his family.”
Brandy nodded. Some skippers, especially given current circumstances, would have been less than willing to give up an engineering officer of Kirill Yaytsev’s caliber unless BuPers twisted their arms hard. She wasn’t at all surprised that McKeon wasn’t one of them. That was her first thought. But then she realized the captain had settled farther back into his chair and was looking at her with one eyebrow raised. Now why—?
Then the coin dropped. Of course. If Yaytsev was leaving, obviously someone had to replace him, and it would probably take at least a couple of weeks to find someone under these circumstances. Until they did, Yaytsev’s duties and responsibilities would fall upon one Brandy Bolgeo.
“I understand, Sir,” she said. “And I’ll do my best to fill his shoes until his replacement gets here.”
“Well, that’s the reason I wanted to speak to you,” McKeon said.
“I beg your pardon, Sir?”
“About that replacement,” the Captain amplified. “The way things look right now, there won’t be one.”
“Sir?” Brandy realized she was sitting very, very straight in her chair.
“I said there won’t be one.” McKeon shrugged. “I’ve spoken with both Captain Bernardo and Captain Hunter. They agree with me that Commander Yaytsev needs to be returned to the Star Kingdom as quickly as possible, under the circumstances. They told me, however, that it might be some weeks before they could find me a replacement for him.”
He paused, one eyebrow arched.
“I’ll certainly try to hold the fort until—” Brandy began, but his waved hand interrupted her.
“As I say, they told me it might be some weeks,” he said. “And I told them that would be fine. That I can wait until they find me a new assistant engineer, because I’m fully satisfied with the chief engineer I already have. You.”
Brandy’s eyes flew wide. Chief engineer? At her age? After she’d been beached for so long? When she’d been aboard Prince Adrian for barely three months?!
“I appreciate that, Sir,” she said, “but are you—?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he interrupted again. “I know you haven’t been aboard long, but Kirill thinks the world of you. He didn’t hesitate for an instant when I asked if you could take the slot. Which, I might add, only confirmed my own impression and my own inclination. I know you’re junior for the position, and I’m sure putting you into it will raise some clerical-type eyebrows back at BuPers. For that matter, given what I just said about easy chores—or, rather, the lack of them—I’m not offering you any easy duty here, Lieutenant. On the other hand, I’m confident of your ability to hack it. And as long as you can, and as long as you do, the slot’s yours. Fair?”
“More than fair, Sir,” Brandy said firmly. “And I promise you’ll get the best I’ve got.”
“Never doubted it,” McKeon said. “If I had, you wouldn’t be getting the slot. So, Chief, I suppose you should be getting back to your shop.”
“I guess I should, Sir. I need to talk to the Commander, anyway.”
“He’s aboard the flagship right now, arranging transportation. Dandelion’s pulling out for the home system in less than three hours, and I want him aboard her. So I’m not certain you’ll have time for that talk.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Brandy hoped she sounded as confident as she wanted to. And the truth was that Yaytsev had seen to it that both she and Lieutenant O’Brien were fully up to speed on their department’s operations. What she was less confident about was that she’d paid close enough attention to those briefings of his.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Lieutenant,” the captain told her, and there might have been ever so faint a trace of wickedness in the smile he gave her. “And, that said, I suppose I should let you go get started.”
“Of course, Sir.” Brandy inhaled deeply, set her cup on his desk, and stood. “Permission to withdraw, Sir?”
“Granted, Lieutenant Bolgeo.” McKeon’s smile was much broader now. “Let’s be about it, Chief.”