Paul didn't take the tone amiss. He knew there were a lot of other things going on for the bridge watch to worry about, and that they were grateful to know the captain would likely be there soon. Lieutenant Kilgary and Lieutenant Junior Grade Sam Yarrow were standing watch as the officer of the deck and the junior officer of the deck.
The captain'll probably tell Kilgary to take the ship out today. Not that Smilin' Sam has any major faults as a shiphandler, but Kilgary has more experience and Sam tends to slam the ship around instead of using finesse. We don't want anything to make us look less capable than the foreign ships watching us get underway
.
Another whistle of the bosun's pipe. "All hands prepare to get underway. Standby for maneuvering."
Paul checked the straps holding him tightly into his own chair, then looked around to make sure all his sailors were also double checking themselves. If he'd wanted to, he could've activated a circuit that let him watch and hear everything on the bridge, but Paul already knew what orders would be said, and always hated the idea of someone else watching him on watch so he rarely did it to anyone else.
A warning came on his display, showing the
Michaelson
's quarterdeck was being sealed. Lines providing power, water and other necessary supplies from the station to the ship were likewise sealed, then retracted away from the ship. Then the magnetic grapnels tying the
Michaelson
to Franklin began releasing, smoothly reeling back into the ship. Paul felt forces nudging at his body as the
Michaelson
left the constant rotation-inspired feeling of gravity which Franklin provided. As the ship drifted away from the station, Paul's stomach and inner ears began insisting he was falling. He gulped, fighting off the nausea.
We haven't been inport that long. You'd think I'd still have my space-legs
.
The last line holding the ship to the station came free. "Underway. Shift colors," the bosun announced. Sudden, gentle lurches pushed Paul against his straps as the
Michaelson
's maneuvering thrusters fired. He watched the image of Franklin falling down and away as the ship accelerated farther from the station. More thruster firings nudged Paul in different directions as the
Michaelson
's bow was brought around to the right heading.
Gentle and smooth. That's got to be Colleen Kilgary driving the ship. Sam Yarrow'd be giving us all bruises by now
.
A moment later the main drive kicked in. Paul sank deep into his seat as the almost nonexistent feeling of gravity was replaced by acceleration strong enough that he felt over twice his normal weight. His stomach complained again, protesting the changes in up and down.
Paul moved his hand carefully against the force of the acceleration, using controls to shift his display presentation to show the
Michaelson
's new path through space. Symbols glowed to mark other spacecraft, each with vector arrows arching away to show their speed and direction of travel relative to the
Michaelson
. A pale line came into view, marking the vector the
Michaelson
sought, slowly converging on the actual course of the ship. The actual course and intended course lines merged as the main drive cut off.
Another stomach lurch as sustained heavy acceleration was replaced by free fall. Paul gritted his teeth.
I'm used to this. Just give it a little while to adjust again
. To distract himself, he scrolled out his display to where the symbol marking the
Maury
hung ahead of the
Michaelson
. With both ships moving along the same path at the same speed, the relative position of the
Maury
wouldn't change until the ships fired thrusters or main drives again. And they wouldn't do that for several hours, when they were approaching the area where the foreign ships awaited the Americans.
"Secure from maneuvering status. All hands are free to move about."
Paul shook his head, causing his inner ears to wobble a little more. For some reason, that helped his body adjust to zero gravity faster. He unstrapped, floating free of the chair, and using the handholds positioned everywhere began pulling himself toward the hatch out of combat. "Good job, everybody."
Over the year and a half since reporting aboard the ship he'd learned to pull himself through the narrow confines of the
Michaelson
's passageways, gliding through hatches while avoiding all the wires, cables and equipment which often seemed to have been diabolically positioned to slam or snag human arms, legs or heads. Sailors passed him, waiting for Paul to go through a hatch first because of his status as an officer, though Paul himself had to hug the side of a passageway and wait for the chief engineer, Commander Destin, as she came by. Destin, who always seemed to be carrying a virtual cloud of depression in her wake, brushed past Paul without a word. Paul spared one brief glance at Destin before continuing on his way.
Still no love lost there. I sure hope Captain Hayes doesn't decide I should transfer into the engineering department
.
Two hours later, Paul pulled himself onto the bridge for his own watch as junior officer of the deck. Kris Denaldo, who'd been standing the watch, pretended to make a prayer of thanks. "Hey, I'm not late."
"No," she agreed. "It's just soooo boring." Denaldo pointed to the maneuvering display, where the symbols representing the other ships seemed to hang unchanging against the immense emptiness of space. "We're going somewhere fast but you wouldn't know it. It's still six hours until we maneuver for the rendezvous with the furriners. Until then, we just bore a hole in nothing on our way there. Nobody and nothing else is near us."
Paul nodded, scanning the displays. Watches tended to be either way too dull or way too exciting. Once they joined up with the foreign ships, they'd probably all be exciting for a while, but they had a lot of space to cover before then. "Who's this on a slightly converging track with us?"
Kris pointed to the symbol. "The
Mahan
's out here, too. Heading for the same general area."
"What?" Paul stared at the symbol. "They're adding in another ship? This late in the game? I haven't seen—"
"Relax, relax. We got briefed on it during our watch. The
Mahan
got tapped as an observer ship."
"What's the
Mahan
going to see that anyone watching from Earth's surface couldn't?"
"Nothing. But they loaded some VIPs onboard her. American and foreign. They get to 'be here' during the exercise."
"Whoopee." Paul settled into the chair, adjusting the straps to suit his larger body.
Kris Denaldo gave him a curious look. "Why's the
Mahan
got you spooked?"
"I'm not spooked."
"You're not happy."
"You know who the captain of the
Mahan
is!"
She frowned, then her expression cleared. "Oh, yeah. Jen's dad."
Jen's dad. Captain Kay Shen
. A man who'd made it clear that he didn't think Paul measured up to what his daughter deserved, and who'd warned that he'd be watching Paul.
And now here he is, literally watching my ship. Oh, joy
.
Denaldo smiled at Paul's expression. "Captain Shen's not that bad, is he?"
Paul stared at her with exaggerated disbelief. "Do you know those illustrations for science fiction stuff where some big, dark character is looming over and menacing an entire galaxy? That's how I think of Jen's father. He's out there, always watching."
Kris laughed. "Paul, I met him once. He seemed okay."
"You weren't dating his daughter."
"That's true. Jen and I don't swing that way." Kris paused as if thinking. "Still, Jen
is
awful cute."
"And she's mine. Just in case you're not joking."
"
Yours
? Jen's like a cat, Paul, just in case you haven't figured that out, yet. She might choose to hang around with you, but you'll never
own
her."
Yeah. Which is one of the things I like about her. But it leaves me to worry that someday she'll find some other tomcat that she likes better than me. Not that I have to worry about her father liking that other tomcat better than he does me. I think
. "Point taken. Still, Captain Kay Shen is one very hard-assed individual. And I know he's keeping as close an eye as he can on everything I do."
"I thought Commander Herdez was keeping an eye on you to see if you were maintaining her standards."
"She is. Both of them are."
"Ugh. Better you than me." Denaldo ran down the rest of the information Paul needed to know. The turnover briefing didn't take too long, since Paul was familiar with upcoming events and because in this large area of space labeled "local" he and the other officers on the ship had become familiar with space traffic patterns, objects in fixed orbits and navigational aides. "Any questions?"
"Nah." Paul rendered a casual salute to her. "I got it."
She returned the salute, part of the formal ritual the watch followed. "I stand relieved." Raising her voice, Denaldo called out, "This is Lieutenant Denaldo. Lieutenant Sinclair has the conn."
"This is Lieutenant Sinclair. I have the conn." Paul listened as the other watch standers acknowledged the transfer of responsibility.
Lieutenant Sindh had been his more senior watch standing partner as officer of the deck for some months now. He'd regret losing her steady presence on the bridge, too. They passed the hours of the watch playing Foreign Navy Jeopardy, which could be entertaining enough to dissipate boredom while also professional enough not to get them in trouble if a more senior officer overheard them.
Paul was saying, "I'll take Russian Federation minor combatants for four hundred," when their reliefs arrived. Sam Yarrow gave Paul an annoyed look, ignoring Ensign Abacha who'd come onto the bridge right behind him.
Poor Jack Abacha. Standing under-instruction watches with Sam Yarrow. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes
. After turning over with Yarrow, Paul took a moment to talk quietly to Abacha. "Don't worry. Just hang loose and keep your eyes and ears open. You've got Sam Yarrow here, you've got a good officer of the deck watching both you, and the enlisted are watching all the officers. Nobody'll let you mess up too bad."
Abacha nodded with the rapid head jerks that betrayed nervousness. "I don't want to mess up at all."
"Of course not. But you will. That's what being an ensign is about. It won't be the end of the world as long as you learn from your mistakes."
"Thanks."
"Any questions?"
"Uh . . ." Abacha looked around. "Just one thing that's kinda driving me crazy."
"What's that?"
"You went to the Naval Academy, too, so you'll understand. This ship's name is the
Michaelson
and her sister ships have names like
Mahan
and
Maury
. Just like the academic buildings at the Academy. So why is
Michaelson
spelled with an 'a'? The guy who first measured the speed of light was named Michelson. No 'a.'"
Paul grinned. "I wondered that, too. The Mike's not named after the scientist Michelson. She's named after Admiral 'Genghis' Conner Michaelson, the father of the Space Navy."
"Oh. That makes sense, but it still doesn't fit with the names of the rest of the ships in the class."
"Yeah. Rumor has it the
Merry Mike
was supposed to be named after the scientist, but the spelling error was discovered after the
Michaelson
name had been widely publicized, so since they couldn't change the name at that point without admitting they'd screwed up, they just changed the guy the ship was being named after. But that might just be a good rumor."
"Oh, okay." Jack Abacha grinned. "We meant to do it that way, right?"
"Right. Remember you've got some maneuvering in about two hours. Watch and learn."
"Yes, sir."
"And make sure you're tied down tightly to something before the maneuvering begins."
"Yes, sir!"
Paul spent the actual rendezvous inside Combat again, watching as the American and foreign ships fired thrusters and drives to bring themselves into a rough grouping. Tomorrow morning, the game of forming geometric shapes would begin. Paul opened the distance on his display, frowning as he spotted one large object heading in the general direction of the group. "Anybody know who this is?"
One of the watchstanders answered up. "SASAL combatant, Mr. Sinclair. The system IDs him as the
Tamerlane
."
"Thanks." Paul called up information on the
Tamerlane
from the combat systems database. The ship seemed roughly equivalent to the
Michaelson
in terms of size and armament. He checked the contact again. The South Asian Alliance ship wasn't using any methods to avoid detection, and proceeding at a leisurely pace through a neutral transit lane.
No big deal, then. They'll be plenty near enough to see us playing ring-around-the-rosie with the other ships, though, so I guess that's a good thing
.
Paul reached for the intercom to call the bridge, then hesitated.
Should I bother them with this? That SASAL ship won't come anywhere near us on his present heading, and the bridge already has plenty to worry about. Maybe
—
The bosun's pipe shrilled over the announcing system. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, contact the bridge."
Uh oh
. He finally tapped the intercom switch. "This is Lieutenant Sinclair."
Instead of the officer of the deck, he heard the voice of Captain Hayes replying. "Mr. Sinclair, why weren't I and the bridge watch informed there was a SASAL warship in the vicinity?"
Crap. Five more lousy seconds and I could've made the call to the bridge before I got called. Crap, crap, crap
. "Sir, the Combat watch and I were evaluating—"
"I don't want to find out by accident again that there's something like a SASAL warship nearby, Mr. Sinclair!"
Paul took a moment to be grateful he wasn't being chewed out face to face.
Not that I should be happy about that, because it means the Captain's so ticked off he's ripping me up in public. What now? Say that SASAL ship isn't really "nearby"? Try to explain again that I was just about to call the bridge? He doesn't want an explanation. I screwed up. Just get it over with
. "Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir."