"I promised. But that's amazing. You're a great ship handler, Jan. That maneuver was perfect."
"Thanks. Now remember what I told you. It's a secret."
"But—"
"A secret. Nobody else hears a word of it."
"If they review the log—"
"Nobody looks at the log. They're too busy handling whatever's going on right now to worry about what happened five minutes ago. Don't tell anybody else what I showed you, Paul."
Tweed's face was firmer than Paul had ever seen it, so he nodded in assent.
I guess she just wants to prove to herself how good she can be at something. But why not let the others know? I don't understand. Good thing no one spotted her working those controls
. Paul frowned again, remember the XO's eyes on him when he snagged the tiny bit of flotsam.
Herdez doesn't miss anything. Does she know? She must know. That "Good job, Lieutenant Tweed" bit. Why would she say that about just activating an automated maneuvering sequence? But it's like she's keeping it a secret that she knows Tweed's secret because she knows Tweed needs it to be a secret for her own reasons
. Paul shook his head, slightly dizzy from following his last thought train. Jan flicked another nervous smile his way and he nodded back to her in reassurance.
* * *
"The SASAL ship is running." Paul glanced up in surprise at Lieutenant Sindh's calm statement. "They, or South Asian deep space sensors, must have spotted us when we maneuvered for intercept."
"They're going to get away?" Paul felt a mix of regret and relief.
"Maybe. We're calculating course options now, trying to see if we can still manage an intercept inside the US zone."
Lieutenant Bristol looked up from his meal. "What if they can't? Can we intercept them outside the zone?"
"We
can
. The question is,
may
we?" Sindh glanced at Paul. "What do the orders say, almost-a-JAG?"
Paul snorted at the nickname, then concentrated on remembering the twists and turns of their convoluted orders. "There's a lot of room in there for the captain's discretion. But, orders aside, we don't really have legal authority to stop another ship which isn't in an area we claim."
"Even if he used to be in our area?"
"That's right. If we don't catch him inside our zone, we're not supposed to haul him over outside of it. It's sort of a jurisdictional thing. Just chasing him out of our zone enforces our claim."
Jen Shen swung over to grab another tube of coffee. "Unambiguously?"
"Well, no. Not like actually catching him in our area."
Sindh looked around the wardroom as if evaluating her audience. "Chasing another ship out of the zone isn't going to generate lots of good visibility for the
Michaelson
. Or her captain."
Paul bit his tongue.
She's saying what we're all thinking. Wakeman isn't going to let a potential career boost like seizing that ship slip through his fingers
.
"If we do that, seize the SASAL ship outside our zone, won't it generate bad visibility?" Bristol asked. "Since it'd be illegal?"
Sindh made a face. "I don't think Paul said such a seizure would be illegal. He said we're not supposed to do it by international standards."
Paul nodded. "I'm no expert, but it seems to be really complicated. The XO has had me draft some point papers to try to explain it all to the captain—"
Jen snorted. "Explain complicated stuff to Cap'n Pete? Good luck. He's so dense he bends light."
Sindh suppressed a smile. "Jen . . ."
"Okay, okay. I'll watch my words. But the point's the same. Trust me, if there's room in our orders for our captain to figure he can grab the SASAL ship in or out of our claimed area, he'll try to do it."
On the heels of her statement, the bosun's pipe shrilled on the all-hands circuit. "All hands prepare for maneuvering in five minutes. Secure all objects and materials. Undertake no task that cannot be completed prior to maneuvering."
Sindh looked toward the speaker. "I suppose that means we've calculated a new intercept trajectory. We'd best get comfortable. If the Captain is going to try to manage an intercept within our area, this might be a long burn to build up sufficient velocity."
Jen hoisted her coffee, then dropped the tube back into storage undrunk. "Yeah. 'Damn the torpedoes,' but since we don't know how long we might be pinned down I'm not drinking this."
"High-g acceleration is hell on a full bladder," Sindh agreed.
* * *
It felt strange. They were in a chase, heading at high speed toward a point where they should intercept the fleeing SASAL ship just inside the American area. But, as if in a dream, the huge distances to be covered caused the chase to play out in slow motion over days and weeks. On maneuvering displays, the vectors of the
Michaelson
and the other ship continued converging, but at an apparent snail's pace. Physically, the SASAL ship was off the
Michaelson
's starboard bow and about ten degrees above the plane of the
Michaelson
. As the ships converged, that position never changed even though the distance to the other ship steadily decreased. Constant bearing and decreasing range had been the formula for intercept or collision for as long as ships had sailed, and it applied just as surely in space.
Inside the
Michaelson
, activity had the same hurry-up-and-wait feeling. Preparations, planning, and training for the impending encounter were run-through and then run-through again.
It's like they expect us to intercept the SASAL ship in a couple of hours, but then we come out of the training sessions and realize it's still a couple of weeks away. How's anybody supposed to keep their adrenalin pumped for that long
?
Paul glumly went back to scanning the section of the Ship's Organization and Regulations Manual update he'd been assigned to review. Possible impending combat or not, the
Michaelson
's command structure had no intention of letting routine paperwork slide, and there wasn't anything more tedious or routine than updating the SORM.
General Quarters. Ship's company to battle stations. Highest state of alert and readiness. Blah, blah, blah. Station assignments. Assistant Combat Information Center Officer, which is me, posted in the Combat Information Center. That'd make a lot more sense if had a real job to do in CIC
.
During General Quarters, Commander Garcia had posted Paul behind a multi-spectrum sensor tracking panel, ordering him to supervise the two enlisted Operations Specialists who crewed the panel. However, the two enlisted knew their jobs better than Paul ever would and didn't need supervision. They knew it, Paul knew it, and Garcia knew it. "The real reason you're here," Jan Tweed had confided to Paul, "is so that if I get disabled in action, or relieved for cause by Garcia, you can take over for me." Which truth had left Paul feeling like a cross between a spare tire and a vulture.
The decompression alarm located not far from Paul's right ear suddenly began whooping wildly. Paul flailed his arms, shocked from his near doze over the boring paperwork, then slapped the ensign locker's comm unit. "Engineering, I've got a decompression alarm in space—"
"Understand," the engineering watch stander broke in, her words barely audible over the clamor of the alarm. "We've already checked your stateroom's status. There's no decompression under way. False alarm."
"Thank you!" Paul yelled back over the alarm. "Now can you reset the alarm before it deafens me?"
"Uh, sorry, sir. Remote reset isn't working. Do you know how to do a local reset?"
"What?" Paul shook a fist at the alarm, then jerked in surprise as the hatch to the locker popped open and Jen Shen swung in.
"Real or false alarm? I assume false since the hatch opened for me."
"False, Jen. How the hell do I stop it?"
"Like this." She flipped up a panel next to the alarm, made a fist and punched the touch pad that rested under the panel. The alarm's wail finally shut off. "When the alarms stick you have to joggle the 'trons a little. Don't ask me why."
Paul rubbed his forehead, fighting down a headache inspired by the alarm's scream. "Why'd it go off in the first place?"
"Hell if I know. If you ask the crew, they'll tell you it was Petty Officer Davidas."
"Huh?"
"Yeah. You hadn't heard? If anything unusual happens now the crew says it's Davidas screwing with stuff."
"They think the ship's haunted?"
"Well, yes. But not in bad way. Davidas was a good guy, so none of the crew think he'd do anything to hurt them. But they figure he is having fun at their expense." Jen grinned as Paul flinched again at a stab of pain in his head. "Or your expense, in this case."
"I don't believe it. We're a million miles away from civilization, and the crew thinks the ship's haunted, but they're not worried about it. I'll never figure out sailors."
"Yeah, you will. Let me tell you a secret." Jen Shen leaned so close to Paul that he could feel her breath against his cheek. "You're becoming a sailor yourself, Mr. Sinclair." Then she winked, laughed, and swung out of the compartment.
Paul rubbed his cheek, his senses overloaded by recent events, but with an odd feeling that seemed like pride stirring inside.
She really thinks I'm becoming a sailor
?
* * *
The South Asian Alliance ship had held a steady course as the
Michaelson
closed on it. As the kilometers between the ships dwindled, more and more details had become apparent, until the Michaelson's combat intelligence systems had been able to identify the ship.
"He's a research ship?" Paul checked the display again.
"Yeah. Pavarti-Class." Jan Tweed pointed to the same data. "A crew of about twenty, plus another twenty scientists, if they're carrying a normal amount of people."
"No weapons."
"None to speak of, no."
"Then we don't have anything to worry about."
"Not if he's really a Pavarti, no. That is, if he really is a Pavarti and hasn't been modified to carry armament."
Paul checked the data again. "You know, this'd actually be simpler if we knew we were dealing with a warship up front."
"Yeah, it would be." Jan twitched as an alarm sounded, focused on the SASAL ship. "Damn. They're maneuvering." She hit her comm pad. "CIC, I want an estimate of what that ship's doing soonest. Captain, this is the Officer of the Deck. The SASAL ship is maneuvering."
"Captain's on the bridge!" Wakeman was there almost before Tweed finished speaking.
He swung into his chair, peering at the main display. "What's he doing? What's he doing?"
"We don't have an estimate, yet, Captain." Tweed was chewing her lip, perspiration standing out on one cheek. "We have an aspect change, so he's changing heading, and a main drive burn." The display chirped, bringing a narrow probability cone to life. "It looks like he's altered course a bit and put on speed to try to clear the area before we can intercept."
Wakeman stared at the display. "Give me a new intercept course. Now!"
Tweed fumbled at her controls, sweating more heavily, as Wakeman reddened with impatience. Paul helped where he could, but the system would only accept input from one watch station at a time. Finally, the new course popped up on the display. "There, Captain."
"That's no good! Look at it! That's outside our area! I want an intercept inside our area!"
Commander Herdez had appeared on the bridge, unnoticed in the tension, and was now leaning over Tweed's shoulder, studying her work. "Captain, ship's systems say this is the earliest possible intercept we can manage at this point."
"It's not good enough! Give me a better one!"
"Captain, I've confirmed Lieutenant Tweed's work. Due to the SASAL ship's speed increase and course change we cannot intercept inside our area. This display shows the earliest point at which we can intercept outside our area. If we put on any more speed, we'll be unable to brake quickly enough when we reach the SASAL ship and shoot past it."
Wakeman glared at the symbol representing the SASAL ship. "Why'd they wait until now? We're so close! It's like they're taunting us." His eyes fixed on Herdez. "That's what they're doing, isn't it?"
The XO crossed the bridge quickly, hanging close to Wakeman and whispering urgently as Paul strained to hear any of her words without success. Wakeman's face kept getting redder, until he waved a hand in angry dismissal. "I know all that. And I know our orders. If that's the best intercept we can manage, we'll damn well do it. Let's go!"
Lieutenant Tweed hesitated. "Captain? You mean execute the earliest intercept maneuver?"
"Yes! Is there something wrong with your hearing? Execute! Execute!"
Tweed froze for a second, then replied in a slightly ragged voice. "Aye, aye, sir. Bosun, warn the crew. Maneuvering in five min—"
"In one minute! We're not letting this bastard get away!"
"Maneuvering in one minute." Tweed, her face rigid, waited through the seconds, then punched in the command.
Paul, watching as covertly as he could, saw her hands gripping her arm rests, not inputting any further maneuvering commands.
She's too upset or too angry to do this maneuver manually. Not that I blame her
. His muscles tensed against the force of the main drive.
This is a hard burn. With only one minute's warning. I hope nobody got caught in the middle of something they couldn't secure in time
. Vectors swung around once more, eventually steadying onto a new intercept point several thousand kilometers outside of the area claimed by the United States.
Four days. There's nothing else that ship can do to try to outrun us. We're faster. One way or the other, this chase is going to end in four more days
.
* * *
"Sinclair."
Paul jerked his head around at Commander Garcia's hail.
"The captain wants you on the bridge for this intercept."
"Sir?" Maybe Paul didn't have much to do in CIC, but he was Tweed's assistant, which meant his duty station was supposed to be here. Granted, with both Garcia and Tweed on hand as his immediate superiors, odds were Paul would never have anything to do except watch and learn, as Tweed had once advised him. Unless both Garcia and Tweed somehow died or were incapacitated, Paul wouldn't be giving any orders in CIC. Still, he had a job here. "My general quarters station—"