A Memory: The Royal Navy Deep Space Anchorage 5, 400 AU around Betelgeuse, Scottish Sector, United Kingdom Supersector. 2973, 0900 Zulu.
'Where is Task Force 34, Where is Task Force 34 the World Wonders?'
Message to Admiral Halsey from Admiral Nimitz 1944, Repeated by Admiral Gershon to Lady Ranger regarding Lord Studebakers strategic decisions 2813
THE INTERNAL HULL SHUTTERS of the space-station clanked opened as the pressure equalised between the space-station and the shuttle sent to take them to the asset. The four infantry officers stuttered their way across the gap. Lack of gravity caused Colonel Alastair Macgregor and his entourage, that included Majors Bartlett and Fletcher, to be unusually ungainly. There was a brief pause as the shuttle's internal airlock opened with a quiet swoosh noise. The light from the brightly lit cargo space spilled into the darkened airlock room. The rapid changes in pressure had been making his ears pop, and he had shut his eyes in response to the light as he tried to clear his inner ears.
"Ah, Colonel Macgregor. Welcome Aboard, I've heard so much about you. Your Uncle holds you in high regard. I hope your flight here wasn't arduous." Said a thin, crackly, but also commanding voice.
In the middle of the surprisingly large shuttle's G-seat lined cargo area was a dangerously tiny old man, dressed in the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet. Flanked by four of his own staff officers. The admiral, who held out their hands towards Macgregor. He pushed himself forward, saluted the Admiral and shook the proffered hands. When he got to the Admiral, he had to be careful to not squeeze too hard as it was thin and bony, with extraordinarily little finger strength, revealing the owner's age and career as a deep space admiral. It would not have done to break the hand of the Third Sea Lord.
"Thank you, Admiral Ar-Rahman. Likewise. It wasn't hideous, we came on the HMS RS Puppis. She happened to heading this way, and it is always a pleasure to fly in a Cepheid class. Not sure what we are going back to Earth on though." Macgregor explained, sitting down next to the Admiral after he had gestured to the line of G-seats lining both sides of the shuttle, their posse of officers following suit. He took off his peak, stuffing it into the cargo webbing, and pulled on the helmet and headset that hung on a peg next to his seat. He waited a moment as the Admiral signalled to the flight crew that they were ready to go. The white strip lights went out, replaced by a blackness that was punctured by various pieces of equipment’s red and green LEDs. "I am excited to see the ship. I've never seen a brand new one before." He said, his voice stolen by the roar of the chemical engines firing.
The Navy bulk shuttles that crisscrossed the anchorage used high thrust, but low ISP, rocket engines rather than the VASIMR thrusters of the deep space vessels, because of the rapid, extreme attitude and velocity changes that the relatively confined space of the anchorage needed. Although he had plenty of experience with VASIMR powered craft, Macgregor, nor any of his staff, had experience with chemical rocket motors. The vibration and rapid acceleration were quite shocking to him as the Gs pushed him into his seat. This lack of experience was because the vehicles used to lift people from planets were Scramjet and VASIMR powered which meant their trajectories were often ballistic, dependent on the rendezvousing ship to initiate the capture the high sub-orbital shuttle, rather than using liquid rocket multi, or single stage to orbit, systems.
"Have you not? Well, it isn't going to be that interesting. But that might just be my jaded view. I've worked up at least 30 ships as a commander, captain and various grades of admiral. That new ship smell just doesn't do it for me anymore. And please, call me Rahman." The Admiral replied, his thin aristocratic voice somehow cutting through the roar of the shuttle's engines.
"How long will the trials take, sir?" Macgregor asked as the engine noise ceased and his seat harness strained as his mass became free-floating. He had done enough spaceflight in his career to get used to this weightlessness, but he was a clear rank amateur compared to the naval officers who were sitting around him, as they always looked more graceful in zero-G than they did in gravity. Humanity had not yet worked out if gravity manipulation was even possible, so unless the deck plating was magnetic, a relatively common occurrence, any ship not under acceleration, with that acceleration in the correct direction to the deck, would be gravity-less, so sailors got very used to zero G situations.
"Oh, about a year, year and a half." The Admiral said, dismissively. "Working up a new class of any ship is a complicated procedure, let alone a new class of capital unit. But we thought you might like the enjoyment of being on her first self-powered flight, as she will be your asset."
"I am honoured, of course, sir. I know the MoD's request for the Victoria to be used in this way doesn't amuse the Navy." There was a pause before the Admiral replied, as Macgregor felt his harness tug him around, hinting at the shuttle's change in attitude ready to slow down and dock with the drydock.
"You could put it that way, Colonel." He said, before pushing a button on his headset. "Senior Petty Officer, please take us to 5 kilometres off the port bow side of the Victoria. I want to show our guest what a Battleship looks like." Although he didn't hear the response from the pilot, Macgregor felt it. He jerked away from his chair ever so slightly as the translation thrusters fired, just before the main engines fired, pushing them all into their seats. As the shuttle came to a relative dead-stop, the weightlessness returned; and the Admiral unbuckled his harness. Floating free, he pushed off his seat and glided towards the shuttle's window at the stern of the vessel. The Admiral made the 5-metre trip with just the initial impulse from his push against the chair. Macgregor didn't move for a moment, stunned by the old man's graceful movements. "Come here." He said, looking back at Macgregor, holding on to a handhold above the window; his whole body was at ease, stretched out in the lack of gravity.
Unbuckling himself, Macgregor pushed off his seat, mimicking the Admiral. Not as practised as the Admiral, he had to use the stowage racks to redirect himself, nearly kicking Bartlett in the head as he floated past. The shuttle had not had all of its rotational inertia cancelled, and the slow turn made the light of Betelgeuse, ever-present at the anchorage, cast a red shadow on the admiral's sallow skin that made him look like a skeleton as he stared into the Great Black Sea.
The glow from the star suddenly disappeared as he drifted next to the Admiral. He looked out and couldn't help but let out a gasp. The newest battleship in the Commonwealth was now eclipsing the star. The rotation of the shuttle had slowed to a stop, the fixing the battleship in the centre of the window. Betelgeuse's red light reflected off the ceramic armour of the massive, almost swan-like black hull, which made it look like a glittering ruby drifting through space. As his eyes got used to the light, Macgregor could resolve the main battery weapons, the radar transceivers, communication arrays, and many identical shuttles to the one he was floating in, flitting around the ship, looking like parasitic birds around a hippo. He couldn't get over the scale. At 700 metres, she was almost double the length of the Cepheid class fleet destroyers and nearly 4 times the beam, indeed she was 200 meters longer than the Admiralty class she was replacing. Truly a goliath of an armoured brick in space.
"Do you get why the Admiralty is livid?"
Ar-Rahman looked sidelong at Macgregor's still stunned face.
"Yes, I got it when I when looked at the specs, but now I feel it. How fast is she supposed to go?" Macgregor said, trying not to sound awestruck as the shuttle's translation thrusters fired for just a second, pushing it towards the battleship's mooring, making the ship grow steadily larger.
"Well, that's part of the space trials. Her on-paper speed is about 25% of Lightspeed. However, she uses upgraded versions of the reactor and engines from the Enterprizes, so we aren't sure exactly how she'll behave. But you can bet we'll give her a damn good thrashing to find out."
The shuttle manoeuvred, so it came in over the Vertical Launch tubes of the VLS defence system, found along the spine of the ship. The shuttle cruised along the main pressure hull, the point defence weapon turrets glinting along the ceramic plate lines and the main battery laser strips along her spine were black and dull, the usual brilliant blue glow uncomfortably absent.
"Her rated sub-light acceleration with the taps full on is about 10,000G. We think we can squeeze that to 12,000 without reactor upgrades." Ar-Rahman continued, the shuttle passing over one of the giant reaction control thrusters.
"I know I said this before, Admiral, but thank you for this experience."
Macgregor held out his hand again to shake the Admiral's hand, who took it, as the shuttle floated over the 5-metre-tall letters of the name and Hull number of the HMS Victoria Regina, as it slid down the lateral wings of the ship.
"That's ok, Colonel. She's going to be a good ship; I can feel it," Ar-Rahman replied as the shuttle soft docked against the ship's airlock, causing the Victoria to look like it had grown a pimple. There was a satisfying clunk as the two were hard docked to each other. The lights returned and the naval officers helped his staff out of their seats.
It took them about 10 minutes to move through the ship to get to the Space Warfare Centre deep in the citadel, the armoured box at the heart of the ship. It would have taken the naval officers about a third of the time, but the infantry officers were clumsily gliding through the ship and needed help. Bartlett, Johnson, Fletcher, and Ironsides had gone with the Admiral's officers up to the empty flag bridge so they could see what was happening, both outside and inside, via the shipboard tactical computer systems and windows. However, Macgregor and the Admiral met the trials' captain, Commander Tacconga, and four section heads, all Lieutenant-Commanders in the SWC. Dressed in the naval combat uniform, black coveralls with epaulettes and name tags, they had their specialisms embroidered on their arms. Entering an SWC always felt to Macgregor like he had entered the most energetic MC Escher painting ever made, because every surface had consoles and there being constant movement between them.
However, this SWC felt more like a tomb. The lack of sailors staffing the consoles, which had very little glow, made it feel like a massive cave, as the 360-degree consoles looked like weird, mutated stalactites and stalagmites. One of the Lieutenant-Commanders slipped out, off to be the Officer of the Watch, responsible for the safe navigation of the vessel whilst underway, and for the construction and execution of manoeuvres in combat.
"So, Commander," Colonel Macgregor started, as they moved to the Principal Warfare Officer's desk, which would have been in on the ceiling if they were in gravity. "What do you think of the ship so far? I believe you've had a week of systems testing?"
"Aye, Colonel. Her reactor response and sensor suites are astonishing. I have little doubt she will be the best ship in the fleet. I am looking forward to giving her a short cruise today. We want to test her acceleration, and her ability to manoeuvre by doing two different Passive Thermal Control regimes, whilst moving out of the plane of orbit." She explained as she strapped herself to the seat at the Principal Warfare Officer's desk. She danced her fingers on the touch screen. This caused a holograph of the ship to appear in the middle of her desk. Most systems were greyed out, but the helm, matter/anti-matter reactor, main VASIMR engines and the Reaction Control System Thrusters were all green. They spoke a little longer about the flight plan for the day, just a small 2 AU hop, which was calculated to be about 9 hours of running. They planned that the maximum top speed, which would be on the return trip, was to be 10% c.
The SWC became filled with the sound of chatting as the officers and sailors in charge of monitoring the systems via the consoles filed in.
"With your permission, Admiral?" She asked, looking at the man who was currently bobbing up and down, upside down from our point of view, whilst in a seated meditation position. He nodded, his eyes closed, waiting for the department heads to settle down.
"Steady as she goes, Commander, and bring me that horizon." Ar-Rahman's eyes flashed open, and a smile danced across his lips. Macgregor smiled too, so there was whimsy left in the old man. He liked officers with a sense of pride in the traditions of their service.
Originally said by Admiral of the Fleet Lord Hood, when he asked by the trials captain of one of the Legacy Class carriers, the HMS Yorktown, where he wanted to fly on her maiden flight in 2781, the phrase had become a service tradition for first flights.
"Officer of the Watch, this is the Captain, ahead one-quarter thrusters, take us to the outer marker, bearing 90.165." She said into her radio to the duty officer on the navigation bridge, which was found in the bow.
Although mostly completely unnecessary, because the extreme ranges involved in combat meant everything was, by definition beyond visual range, ships, but especially the capital units, had their main helm on a bridge with a large window allowing the helm staff to see out. Counter-intuitively, navigation, evasive manoeuvres, and general ship handling improved when the navy implemented the windows because humans like being able to see.
Macgregor felt a subtle hiss through his chair, which had come through the ship's decking as the mooring clamps disengaged.
"Ahead, one-quarter, Sir."
With the low power setting of the thrusters, the ship crawled away from its moorings, clearing them in 30 seconds. The capital ship was sluggish when getting underway with one-quarter translation reaction control. At 5 miles from the dock, they rotated 90 degrees, making the ship vertical in relation to the dock, allowing them to head towards the outer marker of the anchorage. This took the ship out of the plane of the system, and it took 6 minutes to get to the outer marker, at about 10,000 miles from the dock, even after increasing the thrust to 3/4s.
"Bring us up to 0.5% c," Tacconga said, as the ship slid across the outer marker. They were now in the unprotected gravity well of Betelgeuse. There was a perceptible increase in shoving power as the main engines fired. Slow at first, the velocity increased from 0.005c through 0.05c, in a blink of an eye. For about 2 minutes, the commander watched the holographic display as the SWC crew kept on top of data collection from the reactors, engines, and hull integrity, using their consoles on the left-hand side of the room. "I would like a go, no-go for going to 5% c. Reactor?"
"Go, Captain," said one of the Lieutenant-Commanders, sat opposite them at a big console on the floor of the room, his voice as calm as could be. The PWO's desk lit up with a green reactor symbol in sympathy.
"Main engines, Attitude and Translation Control?"
"We are go, Captain." A young female lieutenant responded. The word ReIon flashed green in the status list. Macgregor had once asked why the shorthand for engine control was ReIon, only to receive a look of, are you dumb?
"Environment, Electronics and Life Support?"
"Go, sir," One of the other two Lieutenant-Commanders replied, flanked by a Senior Petty Officer and an able seaman.
"Electronic Warfare?"
"Go, Flight." The old and grizzled Master Chief Petty Officer confirmed, calling the Commander the PWO's nickname. This was based on the shorthand for the flight directors from the early space agencies back on Earth, but how it started in the modern navy nobody was quite sure, just that it had always been the Space-based PWOs' nickname. Commander Tacconga didn't even bat an eyelid.
"Officer of the Watch?''.
"Bridge is go, captain.".
"Ok, then. OoW, take us up to 5%, and settle in for our little cruise." She ordered. There was a pause of about 5 minutes before the Commander swung her chair around to face the Admiral.
"Sir, the HMS Victoria Regina has officially entered sea trials, and we are currently at our intended velocity of 5% C, and the main engines shut down in their correct manner and, so far, ReIon is not reporting any issues. Permission to hand over Conn?" The commander asked.
Macgregor hadn't even felt the engines re-engage, let alone disengage. Even though the mass of the ship must have been several hundreds of gigatons, the VASIMRS produced enough thrust that the ship didn't even hesitate.
"Engage the PTC and then yes," Ar-Rahman said, "I believe our guest would enjoy a good tour.". Macgregor nodded as Tacconga swung back.
"Right, test one. EECOM and EW I want to know the behaviour of the communications and radar rigs in the barbecue roll. Navigation tell me if the roll causes any trajectory deflection; ReIon you need to keep an eye on the thrusters, and fuel slosh. OoW, the PTC mode for the Admiralty's is 0.05 degrees per second, correct?"
"Yes, Flight." The OoW responded in the tone of a man confused by someone who knew better than him by asking a blindingly obvious question.
"Get us into a 0.05 degrees per second roll then and keep an eye on the temperature gradients. If it climbs too fast, we will have to up the rate. Flight elapsed T+ 45, instigate the barbecue roll."
Moments later, the holographic display updated with the new thruster burn length. A brief pause later and the display showed the thrusters firing. Macgregor's experience on the narrow beam destroyers, and the fat lumbering troop transports, was that under thrust, the Passive Thermal Control rolls were deeply uncomfortable as you moved with the roll, but around the centre of the axis, not with it. However, here in the citadel in the unpowered cruising state, the PTC was unnoticeable until Macgregor looked up and saw that the admiral was several degrees rotated compared to the PWO desk. Commander Tacconga looked up at her commander and when he nodded, she keyed her mike once more.
"Right, Lieutenant-Commander Veann, the SWC is yours. Keep the data streams up, give me a bell if anything wanders from expected values." On hearing his name, the Lieutenant-Commander, who was sitting at the defensive weapons officer's console, quietly watching the data as well, popped his head up and nodded. After he had taken her seat, Tacconga gestured to the Admiral, and Macgregor to follow her out of the SWC.
"Commander, may I ask you a question?"
As they transversed through the decks, Macgregor tried to not hit his head on the armoured deck above him.
"You have asked me several today, but I may permit another." She replied, trying not to laugh at the flailing grav-dweller as he got turned around by over-correcting his push.
"How is that you come to doing sea trials on the biggest battleship ever constructed?"
"Well, it is not entirely that interesting. I am usually a cruiser Flight. The HMS New DC was my last posting, though I started as a helm officer on the HMS Indomitable. But as part of my ongoing career progression, I rotated here. Naval officers of all branches have to do trials work because understanding how ships work should give us an insight into how much we can throw them about." She explained, opening a bulkhead hatch.
"I see and have you thrown ships about?"
"Only three months ago, sir. A Tarquin destroyer group broke through the Singapore salient piquet and my ship, as well as its sister the Adelaide and their destroyer screen, were tasked with intercepting it. The battle lasted two whole days, trying to pin them down with the Crowns so that the destroyers could swing the door shut on them." She explained, as Macgregor nodded his head along with her hand movements, describing the battle through motion. "I envy the old surface warfare crews. They only had two dimensions to deal with. Anyway, this is one of our four auxiliary tokamak reactors." She stopped, slapping the side of the massive doughnut cylinder in the room they had just entered.
"It produces 100 terawatts and represents enough power to drive the main engines at 10 per cent thrust whilst maintaining life support on deck 4 and lower, by itself. Two gives us 10 percent thrust, full life support, the rail guns, and 1.5-terawatt point defence weapons, or 25 per cent engine and life support on and below deck 4. You get the picture. However, even if all four reactors are engaged, and today none of them are, which coincidentally is why we can stand here, we cannot go to supra-luminal. Only the MAM reactor has enough power for that."
The next stops included the port side torpedo room, and the ammunition handling rooms, both empty, bar the heavy-lift robots and the electromagnetic launcher tubes. They doubled back on themselves to the Communication and Electronic Warfare suite. This had a focus on keeping various aspects of the electronic systems working in combat. It was also one of the redundant SWCs.
It was full of officers and sailors who were performing the tasks of data management, keeping the uplink to the Anchorage open, as well as basic tests on the electronic warfare systems as the SWC directed. All action ceased upon the entrance of the Admiral as the crew recovered from the shock of seeing him. A quick-as-you-were motion later, and the commotion started again.
One of the two navigational arrays was giving a false starfield reading compared to the other. This caused the electronic warfare modules on the 'GRACE' flight computer to reset and restart from the moment the ship turned 90 degrees from the anchorage. The bigger problem was that GRACE was fighting to align the two navigational platforms' information and had been firing the reaction control thrusters, gently at first, and then more and more uncontrollably. The OoW, ReIon and the as yet unmet Engineering Officer on Deck had shut down the Reaction Control System to prevent an uncontrolled loss of attitude, whilst the crew debugged the system. Tacconga disappeared from Macgregor's side, with an apology, to go back to the SWC. Macgregor and the Admiral watched as EECOM officers and sailors began unpacking the software for the navigational arrays, seeing if a hack could be possible to turn off the errant array.
"And this, Colonel, is why we have shakedown cruises and trials," Ar-Rahman said, just as there was a large lurch to starboard as the port side translation thrusters engaged, pushing all the free-floating officers to the port bulkhead.
"You don't say, sir."
Macgregor closed his eyes, as the G-load on his body increased. The thrusters engaging together caused the ship to slip sideways. His micro-radio, connected to the internal radio system, squealed a moment.
"Sir, Rick, you, ok?" Bartlett's voice crackled, sounding like he had just been tossed about.
"Been better, you all ok?"
"Yes, of course, Sir."
The thrusters stopped firing after about 45 seconds, as one of the senior petty officers put his hand up in apologies.
The Admiral laughed darkly, causing Macgregor whiplash to look at him. He looked unharmed as he floated off the bulkhead.
"Sir?" He asked, concerned the Admiral had hurt himself.
"Oh, I am ok, Mr Macgregor. I was just remembering the fate of one of my predecessors."
"Lady Olivia Smith, sir?'' Macgregor asked. An idle conversation with one destroyer commander about 10 years earlier came swimming into his head.
"Ha. Quite so, young man, quite so." He said, impressed that this grav-dweller knew some naval history. "How about we leave these fine sailors to their duties?"
Ar-Rahman pushed off from the wall and glided out of the room to the nearest ladder.
"How old are you, sir?" Macgregor asked, pulling himself up through the deck, following the Admiral. The question slipped out without him thinking.
"Uh, honestly, I don't accurately know. I think I am pushing 160 standard years, but between being adopted at about 3, and the over 140 years in space, travelling at relativistic speed, I really don't know. But I know what your next question is going to be," He said, looking older than anyone Macgregor had ever known, as they made their way to the flag bridge, floating along the empty corridors.
"Did you serve in the Fury Wars, sir?" Macgregor asked the obvious question. The last war finished over 100 years ago and was as brutal as anything the Tarquin war had yet served up. Macgregor tried picturing the Admiral as a young man but could only get him to about 100.
"I was Admiral of the Fleet Vento's aide-de-camp in the Third War of Retaliation. I was 20ish." He said, the weight of years crushing him even smaller than he was.
"What was Lord Vento like, sir? If you can remember. I hear the Fleet Admirals were of a different breed back then."
The question, earnestly asked, caused Ar-Rahman to chuckle.
"They were brilliant, almost as good as Lady Ranger, or Lady Smith, but certainly a cut above most Admirals, including myself. Vento had none of the flair that Ranger had but understood how to plan a deep defence and how to ensnare in a 3d playing field better than anyone. Something that is, as our friend, Commander Tacconga, pointed out, very difficult. In fact, their ability to see in 3d, and to take Utah class battleships into dogfighting range, allowing them to win by using all of space, was unmatched. I still feel privileged to have worked for them." He said as he stopped at the foot of a ladder to the last deck.
"Sounds like an incredible fighting admiral. Did you ever meet AoF Lady Katherine Ranger?"
"You mean Katie? She'd have killed you for calling her Katherine. And yes, I did. Once, about a month before her death, still as sharp as ever. Now that was a privilege." He said, still holding on to the ladder. "She asked to see me after I had had a drag-out fight with a senior admiral, as a Lieutenant-Commander, over weapon recalibrations for which I felt the then regs weren't up to code. She wanted to tell me that for such a young man, bearing in mind she must have been close to 160 herself, I had a lot of balls, and that Vento spoke highly of my service. I think that set my path to become the Third Sea Lord." As he finished speaking, he started climbing again, before stopping once more. "Can you imagine Katie and Paula against the Tarquin? We should have been so lucky."
The final hatch opened into the flag bridge, the brilliant red glow from Betelgeuse filling the space. The star took up only half a degree, the same as the sun on Earth, a sight he had been so lucky to see, and the window tint was on full, which knocked back the light of the star to a pleasant afternoon brightness.
The Admiral spoke to his chief of staff, a full-bird captain of similar age to Macgregor, who was floating by one bank of consoles in the middle of the bridge. The console looked like the one that the PWO used in the SWC and allowed the officers access to telemetry data and controls. However, without a ship's access code to log in, the Captain could only see a small part of the data being generated, even when he used his security clearance to log in. All the controls were also locked out. Macgregor watched as Ar-Rahman plugged his throat mike into the console, and the Captain and Commander Tacconga immediately talked over each other.
"Settle down, settle down. Let's work the problem, people; let's not make things worse by guessing." Macgregor heard the Admiral say, as he drifted to his officers. The man's quiet but firm voice cut through his staff, all talking over each other, making them stop. Macgregor couldn't help but laugh. He recognised those words.
"It looks like that thruster fire stopped the PTC," Johnson said to Macgregor, Bartlett, Fletcher and Ironsides.
"You don't say, Thomas." Bartlett laughed.
"With all due respect, fuck off, sir." The pair redoubled their laughing.
"Boys, now, now. Behave yourselves in front of the Admiral." Fletcher said, chastising the pair. The Admiral and his staff were busy handling the data streams for the SWC and EECOM room and hadn't noticed the petty squabbling.
Macgregor had also barely registered it, as he was busy watching the naval officers. He couldn't help being impressed by the level of professionalism on display. The three staff officers and the admiral were efficiently, and effectively handling four or five different tasks at once, and handing them off to the next relevant person without fuss.
Within a minute or two, the Officer of the Watch had dispatched one of the free navigation officers down to the Flag bridge to assist as the liaison for the flagstaff, enhancing the coordination efforts. The bustling activity intensified as they gained unrestricted access to 'GRACE'. After ten minutes of frenzied work, a sudden rush of air escaped the black staff officer's lips, causing Macgregor to swiftly rotate his head, feeling the pull on his body from the abrupt movement. At times, he despised his heightened situational awareness, and he grabbed the desk in front of him.
"Was that a good..." He didn't finish his sentence before the ship started a violent flat spin, as one-half of the main engines started thrusting at near-full thrust. Bartlett, Ironsides and Fletcher hadn't heard the gasp and so had been floating freely just before being swatted into the transparent aluminium windows of the bridge. Johnson, who had also heard the gasp, had grabbed the handholds on the desks nearest to him and then grabbed each other, preventing them from sharing in the centrifugal impact against the window. "Bennett, why are the main thrusters firing?" Macgregor shouted at the Chief of Staff.
"We needed to set up a PTC, the thermal energy that comes off Betelgeuse requires it, but the navigation platform just read 0.75% thrust as 75%." Macgregor heard the gasped reply from the Captain in his earpiece as the spin rate of the ship increased. The centrifugal force was already at 3.5G, and climbing rapidly.
"Isn't this the fucking software that's in the fucking Enterprizes?" Macgregor yelled once more, the strain already making breathing hard, let alone yelling.
"Yes, Macgregor, but that doesn't mean that it isn't buggy as fuck on a new unit."
"I hate it when naval officers make sense, Scott. Right, Admiral, how are you holding up?"
"Ehhh." came the reply, barely audible. It was less of a word and more of a long exhale of breath. As Macgregor looked up at the Admiral, who was still holding on to the console, the effort of lifting his neck was getting greater by the second. The old man was being lifted off his feet by the G-Load, but unlike the younger officers, he looked like he may be spaghettified at any moment. Glad that the Admiral was both ancient and a facultative space-dweller, and therefore tiny. Macgregor sized him, and the distance to a seat, up. With a plan formed, Macgregor forced his feet onto the floor by using his immense core strength, wedging one in place, which freed his left hand to tap his radio key.
"Tom, how much can you fucking bench?" He hissed into his radio as the G-load went over 6. The Boss's use of the short version of his name, an unusual situation because he always was clear that his name was Thomas, made Johnson snap his hand up to his radio.
"I don't like the sound of this, Alastair," Johnson said, calling the Boss his name out of spite. Realising the plan quickly, Johnson hauled on Macgregor's jacket, dragging him around the desk a little.
"Well, suck it up, otherwise we are going into G-Loc and be fucked, and we need to get the Admiral safe."
"Yes, Sir," Johnson said, curtly. The two struggled around the desk they had grabbed and used it to support them by allowing the centrifugation to push them into the desk itself, as they took a breather. Macgregor kicked the G-seat closest to the Admiral, which hadn't automatically moved to have its back toward the direction of travel because of the lack of mass in it, around.
"Right, Tom, here we go."
Macgregor grabbed Johnson's arm and the two together threw themselves against the increasing gravity to land next to the Admiral. Johnson's arm strength held both men's mass, plus the extra 4.5G of weight until Macgregor pushed himself to close the gap to the Admiral by grabbing the console. The G-load was creeping up towards 6g and Macgregor was starting to bounce between blackout and red-out as he moved his body around, because he wasn't used to this level of G. Where was Heywood-Floyd when you needed her?
"Fuck it." He growled, as he grabbed the Admiral around the waist and let go of the console, remembering a story he had once heard about the shortest prayer. The entire mission to get the ancient admiral into a G-seat had taken about 30 seconds, but it had felt like a lifetime. Each movement took every ounce of strength Macgregor's forty-three-year-old body had, and the fight was starting to drain him mentally.
The fall across the room seemed to take an entire minute, when it had been less than 5 seconds from the moment Macgregor had let go, to the moment he spun the Admiral into the G-seat. His brain processed the details of the moment far faster than even times he'd been under fire. He kept falling after failing to grab and hold on to the console next to the G-seat, and screamed in pain as he slammed into one of the power ducts on the far edge of the room.
"Bollocks."
"Alastair, you, ok?" Bartlett's voice broke through Macgregor's wincing.
"Never better." He said, groaning. "The Admiral?"
"I am good, thank you, Colonel." He replied, his voice still strained. Everyone but Macgregor, who had hit the ducting at 8.5G, breathed easier when he spoke.
The ship got to 10.2G before the OoW called out 'Main Engine Cut Out'. The entire room groaned at this news, but were certainly glad that the centrifugation wasn't going to get worse.
It took another ten minutes for the right-hand side main engines, firing at a decreasing power slope from 50% to 0%, to get the ship flying straight, although her direction of travel was still nearly perpendicular to her attitude. Gravity was held at 1G for a further 5 minutes to let everyone's cardiac system recover from both the G-Loading and the shock. The damage to both the humans and the ship was as minimal as could have been hoped for. Macgregor had broken several ribs in his fall and several of the officers in the EECOM centre had broken arms or legs. The ship turned out to be intact, but a strip of the ceramic ablative plating that had pulled away around the main spotting radar. In all, everything survived remarkably well.
The Admiral, the Chief of Staff, a Vice-Admiral, as well as Commander Tacconga decided that continuing the flight to 1.5 AU, still another six hours away, and to use the time to align the navigational platform was the sensible choice, as the star field from the anchorage's orbit was obscured by the general malaise that a 30th-century anchorage site suffered from. This included solid debris from repairs, frozen waste, and unburnt fuel from the shuttles. Indeed, when they looked through the data logs, they found that the navigational array that was incorrect was aligned at the dock, with some extremely spurious star locations.
The crew finally setup the barbecue roll safely when they took manual control. A Helmsman, another beaten-up Master Chief Petty Officer, sat with the roll thrusters on as weak as possible for ten minutes getting the ship to roll at 0.05 degrees per second. When he achieved this, the surface temperature of the ship on the sun side was nearly 350 kelvin. The ammonia active thermal transfer system was transferring heat to the shadow side of the ship, trying to keep the compartments cool. However, the system was only pumping fluid and gas around using the ship itself, as it was low on reserves, like a massive fridge, rather than sweating out the ammonia, like the system would do under combat conditions, preventing any further cooling, hence the need for the PTC.
"Admiral, I thought you promised me a quiet ride!" Macgregor said, strapped into a g-seat in the flag mess as the ship drifted through space still at 5% c. He took a bite of his sausage, his ribs still screaming despite the levophine given to him.
"Pretty sure I didn't use those words, Colonel, but I'll admit this has been one of the more interesting maiden test flights I have ever been on."
"Me too, Sir." added the Chief of Staff. "Though I only have 5 or 6 under my belt. HMS Indefatigable, the Crown Colony Class ships: Jamestown, Durban, and Sydney, plus a handful of the Tribal heavy destroyer class. Oh, and of course, I was the commander for the Enterprize."
"How did the Enterprize's maiden flight go?" Bartlett asked, clearly enjoying the food.
"Well, certainly smoother than this. We took her out of the Tau Persei anchorage, which is now used as the Mira Class test site, and her engines and navigation suite performed perfectly. Her catapults, on the other hand, refused to work at all." Captain Scott Bennett explained before he started drinking a globule of water that was floating in front of him.
"How about you Commander Dlamini?" Ar-Rahman asked the youngest member of his staff, the Black officer, whose gasp had warned Macgregor.
"I was one of the midshipmen on the launch of the Vanguard, and I was an OoW, and the Flight for two Mira class, as well as the SX Phoenicis."
"Ah, yes, a destroyer man." The Admiral said, nodding slowly.
"Yes, Sir. Good ships all. They all are giving good showings against the Tarquin."
"Yes, a rather tasty little design, if I do say so myself. A heavily armoured torpedo speed machine. Last and best design of the former Third Sea Lord. I never liked serving on destroyers so much. Cruisers were always my jam. A detached squadron of three or four cruisers can give anything, short of the very largest of capital units, a bloody nose."
"I have a question, Admiral?" asked Ironsides.
"Yes, RSM?"
"Well, sir, colour me an ignorant yank, but why is your appointment, Third Sea Lord, when we are obviously not on the sea?"
"Ha. Why tradition, of course." Ar-Rahman replied with that dark chuckle.
"Tradition." Both the Captain and Macgregor said in dodgy Russian accents, echoing the Admiral, which caused them to laugh at each other, enjoying the fact that at least one other person got the joke. The rest of the table, apart from the Admiral, looked confused as fuck.
"Yes, gentlemen, very funny. But basically, yes. The more things change, the more things stay the same. Hence, we are still the Admiralty board, have Hands, Able seamen, Petty Officers, Etc. We fight aliens in deep space every day 1000s of light-years from home, and most of us weren't even born there. I certainly wasn't, were you? So, what does that leave humanity with? Our traditions. We name our capital units the Ark Royal, Victory, Trafalgar, Nelson, Indomitable, and Warspite. Why? Because they are what it means to be human. Touching our historic past is what we do. We have cruisers called the Minerva, the Apollo, the Santiago, the Jubilate Deo, the Santísima Trinidad, and the Christ. Why? Is it because we believe in these figures? Mostly not, but because it is these historic names that bind us. My first ship as a midshipman was the old heap of junk battleship Iowa; not named after the colony, or even directly the Earth State, but after the 1940s ship, via about 7 other ships."
"It is like all the main defence fortifications and training centres being named after ones on earth, such as Fort Liberty, Sandhurst, Pirbright. I did my advanced training at Moore and had a brief Mustang course at Sandhurst." Macgregor added, having finished eating.
"We did our basic training at Sandhurst, different years, of course." Added Bartlett, pointing at himself and Johnson, who nodded.
"I didn't. I went to West Point, like a proper officer, eh." Fletcher laughed, knowing it would rile the pair. "Though I am Canadian, so I should have gone to Point Frederick."
"I did my Marine integration training at Lympstone Barracks, which is about 1000 light-years from Earth, near the Fury border." Said the third member of the Admiral's staff, the relatively young Vice-Admiral who had been on the MAMR deck during the initial launch and problems. He looked relatively unscathed, but he was holding his ribs funny.
"So, you see, Mr Ironsides, that nothing in the galactic commonwealth is done without tradition in mind," Ar-Rahman said, drinking his water globule as it floated at head height.
"I do, Sir. I'm a simple dog soldier, me. These fancy historical names go over my head. I did my training in a run-down barracks on the side of the road, so forgive me." Ironsides's American accent had gotten stronger, surrounded by the mixture of people at the table; four Brits, two Canadians, a South African, an Arabic-Indian, and himself an American. Even if he hadn't been home in 25 years, he still felt like an American, and sometimes it came out.
"Come, Come now RSM. You are not entirely correct." Ar-Rahman chastised. "I know did you did your Warrant Officer Course at Aotearoa, mighty fine historical lineage, right there."
"Yes, Sir. Learnt to do the Haka and everything."
"That explains why you are so bad at your job, then." Chimed in Bartlett as Ironsides gave him a death glare.
The group carried on chatting for two hours. They spoke about their experiences in the war. Ar-Rahman talked about his experience in the third War of Retaliation, instead of the engagements with the Tarquin.
"So, who won?" Bennett asked as a smile danced on his face, bringing the conversation back to the West Point-Sandhurst competition.
The Sandhurst-West Point rivalry was where the American War of Independence was fought every year, quite literally. Throughout the training programs, the Officer Cadets were pitted against a combat AI to hone their tactical and strategic sense by fighting randomly generated battles. To make it competitive, the Officer Cadets with the highest scores against the AI played against their fellow cadets in knock-out contests, which were made up of historical battles. Favourites were, of course: Bunker Hill (1775), Waterloo (1815), The Somme (1915), The Siege of Moscow (2109), The Last Stand of the 82nd (2370), The Assault of Fury Anchorage Delta (2818), and apparently, now Macgregor's actions at Helm's Dyke (2959). Waterloo was a favourite for the opening round, as it had multiple experienced flag level officers involved, but was only a single day's fighting. Though a good laugh for the instructors was to make the cadets fight all four days of the hundred days campaign in real-time. They then sent the winner of these local tournaments to the Uncivil War.
Fought between the two winners of West Point's and Sandhurst's own play-offs, and the cadet with the greatest number of wins, out of the 13 battles fought, won the War. The first ten battles were selected by an instructor at the alternating college, but the War always ended with the Battles of Gettysburg, 1863, 2112, and 2331. Sandhurst was winning 70-62, but West Point had the longest unbroken win streak of 20 years in a row.
"Sandhurst," Macgregor replied.
"West Point," Johnson and Fletcher said together.
"Me," Bartlett added after the others finished. His tone brought a finality to the exchange. Everyone whistled. It was an impressive feat. The pregnant silence following his word made him explain further. "The lead West Point instructor for that year was a Second War of Maastricht buff, so selected two battles from each decade of the war. What he couldn't have known is, was what my degree project was on. I utterly stomped on my West Point opposite number, winning nine of the ten pre-Gettysburg battles. won as McClellan, lost as Stephenson, and lost as the Aegis in 2331, for a total of 11-2 wins. Believe that I am joint third for the biggest wins. Only Field Marshals David Grawler and Lauren DeSoto, and General Edward Treskow have bigger wins than me."
"Heady company Major, two former CDSs and the Commander-Coreward Command." the Admiral said.
"When I told Ted who I was getting as my Operations Officer, he mentioned that he is the only person to have won the Un-Civil War who only got there because the actual highest scorer of his cohort's play-offs, a man called Rochefort, found to be fucking one of the drill sergeants. He is pretty sure that you have more wins overall, and certainly did a better job as Blücher than he did as Wellington." Macgregor said, without thinking.
"Colonel Macgregor, you are a man full of surprises. I am not even on 'Ted' terms with Edward Treskow." Ar-Rahman laughed, the biggest and heartiest laugh Macgregor had heard from him all day.
"Ted Treskow owes me more than I can legally say. But what I can say, l met him during the Indian War of Independence." Macgregor sipped from one of the water bladders given to the grav-dwellers. The room stayed quiet. "The General is a good man, and a better general officer I've not met. Don't tell him, but Ted is even better than my uncle, and was offered the C2GS job on multiple occasions. He refused; he wasn't going to be earthbound when there was work to be done. They are thinking about making the CDS a Six-Star, because of the proliferation of men like Ted Treskow, and yourself, of course, Admiral."
The slow spin of the ship as it maintained its barbecue roll changed the stars coming through the windows of the Admiral's mess. As it turned out, the Vice-Admiral was the deputy head of the Betelgeuse Naval Dockyards, and he pointed out Sol as it came past the window. It was tiny and barely visible, but there was a momentary pause, as the group had that homesickness that all humans felt when looking, however distantly, at Earth. Only Bartlett and Johnson had been born there, but the Admiral was right, it was all their homes.
Macgregor had started to enjoy that final FTL jump, that started 10000 au above, and perpendicular to, the solar system's plane, and the sudden appearance of Earth as ships dropped out of FTL within the moon's orbit. The blues, greens and whites filling the window as the transport vessel dropped into low earth orbit were like nothing else. Even seeing his actual home planet did not fill him with as much awe as Earth did. He had been back to Cheltenham only a handful of times in the last nearly 30 years, but it was very earth-like and visiting humanity's ancestral home scratched that itch. That sense of coming home was helped by the fact his wife and daughter were there.
He wondered if they were looking up at Orion and the big red diamond that was Betelgeuse right that moment. They were three hundred light-years away, but it felt like they were just next door.
The order to strap into G-seats, just in case firing the engines caused the navigational arrays to lose bearing again, came just before the reversal of attitude, and so the group moved back to the Flag bridge. The attitude correction and the course reversal burn occurred flawlessly, as the bridge to bypass the broken navigational platform worked better than expected
The group had moved to the engine control room as they double-checked the magnetic fields and fuel lines of the VASIMR engines were functioning as expected and that they were being fed fuel correctly. The Engineering Officer on Deck called into the ReIon officer that they were Go, whilst they were there.
This second order to strap in was relayed by the Engineering Officer on Deck, and the general noise level from the engineering hands lowered. As engines pushed the vessel up to 10% light speed, Macgregor felt the FTL engines hum, kicking into lower the G-Load on the ship's structure and the people. There was a generalised cheer as the ship broke 10% C and settled at 15%. The readout showed the engines weren't even at 50% thrust.
"EOD, Get over here." Said Ar-Rahman, quietly into his throat mike. The officer in question was yet another pasty-skinned and overtly scrawny-looking woman, who popped up from a large console in the centre of the room. "Commander Gritley, this is your new charge, Colonel Alastair Macgregor," Ar-Rahman explained.
"Don't I know of a Captain Gritley? Used the Cherenkov radiation caused by driving their ship through a super-dense dust cloud to make it look a lot bigger than it was to cause a Tarquin fleet to disengage from an Admiralty Class battleline?" Macgregor asked, getting fainter under the look the woman gave him.
"My Brother." She said, the tone leaving no doubt about her annoyance. "Roth always was the showman."
"It is ok, I too have a famous relation. My Uncle, who is only five years older than me, is the fucking Chief of the Defence fucking Staff. It's a pleasure to meet you for you." He paused, and studied her face, "If you've got at least 1/10th of the flare that your brother has," He floated closer to her. "And 100% more dependability, I read the full report," he added, just at a whisper. "He was out of position and hadn't been screening the capital units as he should have. His brains managed to cover for his dick being in the driving seat. I don't need that type of brashness in the job this ship is doing." Before adding at his average volume, "then we will get along fine."
"Aye, Aye sir," she said, her scowl replaced with a grin.
"I hear you are joining the first crew, along with the gunnery officer and a few others."
"Yes, Sir. I am going to be chief engineering officer, or as it is nicknamed; Pink."
"Let me guess. The duty engineering officer is called EOD, so some smart bastard called the lead EOD pink, as in, bomb so fucking big it turns you into pink mist."
"Aye, be about the short of it, sir." The South African Commander said, from behind Macgregor.
"The navy is weird." Piped up Bartlett, from over the other shoulder. Macgregor had to laugh. His first platoon boss, Captain Hamish Barclay, would have appreciated the joke, especially now, being pink mist himself for nearly 15 years.
"I've been the Pink on three cruisers and ..." Gritley started, before Macgregor cut her off.
"I am sure your record is immaculate."
"As you were, Ms Gritley," Ar-Rahman added. She saluted, which he returned, and moved back to her desk.
"One last thing, Commander," Macgregor said before she was out of easy speaking distance. "Why is the shorthand of Main Engines ReIon?"
"Oh, that's because it's shorthand for Reaction. As in Reaction Control, Sir." She said with her no judgement in her voice.
"Thank you, Commander." He said, before being led out of the space, knowing that he would get along with this crew.
