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CHAPTER FIVE

"Come," Knott said in answer to the chime at his door.

"Good evening, sir," the XO said as she entered.

He smiled wearily at Mai and held out his hand. She dropped a set of datachips into his waiting palm, then, at his gesture, sat in the easy chair near his desk. Knott put the chips down on his desk and returned briefly to his reading. The desk here in his personal quarters was smaller, but every bit as businesslike as the one in his office, and was used almost as much.

"I think that you'll find that everyone has struggled to be as detailed as possible under the circumstances," Mai Ling said when he turned to her at last.

He grinned. "Mai, you're so inscrutable this evening," he said.

She winced slightly, but smiled in return. Then settled in to wait. If she was to be briefed, the captain would speak with her tonight.

"We're being sent on a mission to Mollie space," the captain said at last.

Ju cocked her head. "Of course," she said. Where else would they go? For what other purpose did the Invincible exist? "But there is something about this mission that troubles you, sir."

He nodded slowly.

"Our cover is that we're supposed to attempt to intercept a pirate ship loaded with goods for the Mollies. What we're really going there for is to drop off six Speeds to do guerilla runs against their shipping."

"I see," she said. Indeed she did. Well, that's the Spider's trademark. Bold. Daring. Unconventional. Suicidal. Mai Ling licked her lips. "We are to return for them?"

"Yes. But there's a great deal that could go wrong. We'll be cruising in another area looking for pirates or illegal shipping, or Mollies. Meanwhile, they're going to be on their own. Which means that if for any reason we can't get back to them . . ."

"There's no backup?" Ju asked. Though it was more a statement than a question.

"Given this is one of Scaragoglu's projects I can't answer that," Knott said grimly.

"But, given that this is one of Scaragoglu's projects it's fair to assume that the answer is no." Mai Ling caught a flicker of expression. A good XO was supposed to be able to read her captain's mind. . . . "So we will have to make sure that nothing goes wrong," she said.

Knott smiled. "Now, why didn't I think of that."

Their eyes met. Except that, by definition, in a wartime operation things do go wrong. 

"Well, General Scaragoglu was right . . . Commander Raeder would be wasted in a desk job on Earth."

Knott nodded. And, of course, Scaragoglu may have decided that if he's doomed anyway, he might as well go out in a blaze of useful glory. And if he's not just lucky, if he's really good, he'll find some way to survive . . . and be even more useful somewhere else, later. 

"Testing to destruction," Knott murmured.

"Poor bastard."

"Commander?" Chief Jomo arap Moi's voice came from the speaker sounding unusually clipped.

Raeder, who was working hard at clearing his mind via the judicious use of a puzzle cube, answered, "Chief?"

"Sir, could you come down to Main Deck, please? We . . . have a most unusual delivery. I'm sure it's a mistake but they won't take my word for it."

"On my way." Raeder put down the cube and headed out the hatchway.

I should brief arap Moi on what we're expecting to be delivered, he thought. There had been plenty of things on his list that would come as a surprise to the Chief. Peter hadn't expected deliveries to begin arriving so soon, though. Working with Scaragoglu does have its benefits, he conceded, smiling. Maybe this is what it's like to be in the High Command; you snap your fingers, and things actually happen. You get things, instead of "queries" and "requests for clarification" and "profoundly regrets." 

Peter stepped out onto cavernous spaces of Main Deck and took a deep breath. The scent of machinery, lubricant, fuel and scorched plastics, pleased him as much as the scent of flowers after a spring rain, and it was far more familiar, the smell of his trade. He walked from bay to bay to where he knew the Chief waited, glancing left and right at the Speeds towering over him, gleaming in the bright light.

He began to frown as he walked. The last two Speeds seemed to have fewer techs around them than there should be.

Where is everybody? 

There they were. Chief arap Moi and twenty or so techs stood about the elevator platform that delivered the more massive supplies to Main Deck. On the platform stood six enormous boxes, easily three meters by two; one of which had been opened and into which the techs were looking with excited smiles and appreciative murmurs.

The Chief, however was not smiling. As soon as he saw Raeder he broke off his conversation with a nervous-looking petty officer and came towards him in haste. He snapped off an almost absentminded salute.

"Sir," he said angrily, as soon as he was close enough, "I don't know what the quartermaster is trying to pull here but I do not like it." Arap Moi turned and pointed indignantly at the platform and the unlucky petty officer who'd escorted the shipment. "For some reason they're trying to dump these obsolete weapons on us. I told them we wouldn't accept delivery. He tells me that you personally ordered them. I told him, no way you'd ask for this garbage. For starters, they're useless, and besides that, where the hell are we supposed to put 'em?" He gestured around at the huge space they were walking through as though it was a footlocker. "This isn't a fleet carrier, where they can put a squadron of Speeds in a corner and forget them for a year. We're stocking up for a long cruise and we're crowded."

They arrived at the platform and Peter looked into the open box. His face lit up like those of the curious techs around him. He reached out and stroked the sleek side of one of the missiles—technically, the mines. Star Command hadn't ordered any of these since he was in junior prep, but it was an old maxim that you never threw anything away as long as it could be polished.

"I, uh, should have warned you that we'll be getting in a lot of supplies, Chief," Raeder said. He managed, just, to keep from sounding apologetic.

Arap Moi stared at him as though this pronouncement had been made in some foreign language. Fibian, for example.

"This?" he squeaked. The Chief cleared his throat and tried again. "So . . . you did order this?" He couldn't quite keep the disbelief out of his voice, or hide his own belief that "this" was a piece of junk.

Peter bit his lip. He felt a guilty urge to explain himself and yielded to it. For some reason Raeder wanted arap Moi to share his enthusiasm for these mines.

"Do you remember that movie?" he blurted out.

The Chief's head came forward. "Movie?" he asked as though he'd never heard of one.

"Yeah. That one where the Consortium ship has kicked the hell out of the Star Command ship and she's been forced to shut down her engines." Peter looked eagerly at the Chief to see if he remembered.

Arap Moi shrugged and said, "Uh . . ." uncertainly.

"Sure you do, Chief," said one of the techs, her face aglow. "It's the one where they're moving this missile from a damaged compartment to the only workable launch tube they have left . . ."

"And they have to do it by hand . . ." another continued excitedly.

"And the captain gets on the com and says everybody has to stay perfectly still in hopes of fooling the enemy sensors."

"So they have to stop in the corridor, holdin' this missile."

"And the sweat's pouring down their faces, and their arms are shakin' like this!" The first tech squatted slightly and demonstrated, all the others nodded in happy agreement.

"And the Consortium ship pushes their sensors finer and finer until they can detect . . ."

"Way off . . ."

"Yeah, way off, the sounds of the crew's breathing and heartbeats."

"So the Consortium captain thinks they've got the Star Command vessel right where they want it."

"And they zip in . . ."

"Right between this mine field that the Star Command captain had laid out . . ."

"And the Consortium ship triggers 'em!"

"And bam!" The tech clapped two hands together, grinning.

"Star Command wins the day," Raeder finished happily.

There was a pause while everyone looked at the Chief with big, encouraging smiles. Then arap Moi nodded slowly.

"Yeah. I think I remember something like that. Of course, in the movies they can rig a detector to hear vibrations in vacuum."

Raeder slapped the Chief's arm impulsively in a gesture of approval.

Arap Moi's dark face took on a worried expression.

"Sir," he said, moving in close, his back to the techs, speaking quietly and confidentially. "I can see that you have a sort of . . . attachment to the idea of mines," he continued, wisely avoiding the word, sentimental. Arap Moi pursed his lips and thought a moment. He raised a hand, thumb and forefinger joined, and said carefully, "But these are completely obsolete weapons. They are entirely useless. All they're going to do is take up space that would be better allotted to supplies that we can actually use." He shook his head. "These things should have been destroyed years ago."

There was a cry of protest from the gathered techs.

"They're junk!" he exclaimed, turning to the small crowd.

Instantly there was an explosion of beseeching gestures, and a chorus of exclamations and excuses for why the Invincible absolutely had to have these mines on board.

The Chief looked from one young, earnest face to the next, noting that they'd closed ranks between him and the boxes of mines. Suddenly he felt like the mean old stepfather who wants to throw the smelly, slobbery, but deeply loved family pet out into the cold. He brushed one hand over his short-cropped, silvery hair. Glancing at Raeder he saw that it was unanimous opposition.

"This is one of those generational things, isn't it?" he asked resignedly. "The psychs fine-tune those movies to recruit adolescents and it warps their subconsious forever? Subliminal promptings, neural short circuits?"

Raeder shrugged. Maybe so, he conceded to himself with a lopsided smile. I did watch the damned thing fifteen times. 

"I should have briefed you, Chief," he said aloud. "Why don't I do that now? We've got a lot of stuff coming in the next few days and you should know what to expect." Peter glanced at the precious cairn of mines, then back at arap Moi.

"There's nothing else like this," he promised, a little alarmed at the Chief's expression. It would be unbearable to make a CPO cry.

"Well," said Raeder to his second in command. "I thought I'd save time by having you sit in on this little briefing with Chief arap Moi."

Cynthia sat up straight in her chair, looking woeful and very pretty.

I can see why Paddy's absolutely gone on her, Peter thought. Anybody who can look that appealing when they're obviously miserable would be irresistible to a New Hibernian.

Raeder suspected there was some genetic tic that drew Celtic men towards sorrowful women. At the moment, he felt a bit protective towards Cindy himself, even with the strong dash of Sassenach in his background.

By now she knows that Paddy was rejected by OTS, and given her home planet's rule-bound culture and Star Command's ironclad rules about fraternization she's probably thinking that their story is never to be. Well, maybe Paddy was right and this mission could give them a chance.

The acting quartermaster was still on his way, so Peter took advantage of his absence to say, "Lieutenant, you've been doing a great job in improving your people skills."

Arap Moi looked up from the manifest he'd been scanning to nod his agreement.

"Thank you, sir," Robbins said, brightening shyly.

"So." Raeder slapped his hands together. "I'm going to reward you by giving you significantly more to do over the next few weeks." He grinned at her.

The second lieutenant smiled back, but Peter could see her swallow. Star Command had a tradition that the reward for doing work well was more work. With a sidelong glance at the young woman, arap Moi changed the subject.

"We're getting everything on this list, sir?" The Chief's eyes were skeptical. "I mean, all of it?"

"Yep," Raeder assured him. This is a great feeling, he thought. As though he were a billionaire, or maybe Santa. I could get used to this.

Deep inside he knew that there was a degree of danger in that. What would it be like if it was always like this? If he always got what he wanted, while others stood there frustrated and empty handed. That kind of power could go to a man's head. Pretty soon they'd give him a nickname . . . something like "The Spider." He resolved that he wouldn't be one of those guys. "Bull Moose," maybe, or "Speed Devil" or "Ladykiller Raeder," but definitely nothing insectile. Although he had been "Peter Maggot" for a while in Basic . . .

"We'll be getting in more stuff than we've ever had to process before, so you and the lieutenant will be called on to use your ingenuity in finding stowage."

There was a sudden series of sharp raps at the door, as though a passing woodpecker wanted to come in and check for woodlice.

"Enter," Raeder called out.

A slight, nervous young man with an extraordinarily full head of hair came in and saluted, turning slightly to direct his salute at all of them. Raeder stifled a smile. This was the sort of petty officer that good scroungers always hoped to encounter. Someone so lost in detail that you could steal the pants right off them and they'd helpfully lift each leg in turn without ever noticing you were there.

"Petty Officer Bryany, acting quartermaster, reporting as ordered, sir."

Raeder returned his salute and said, "Welcome aboard, Bryany, have a seat. Draw yourself a cup of coffee—this is a new ship and the filters actually work."

The young petty officer looked at Cynthia and the Chief, then uncertainly lowered his arm. He smiled awkwardly and shifted into the empty chair before Peter's desk. Then looked up attentively, stylus poised over his notepad.

Peter allowed himself to smile then. Was I ever that young? he wondered.

"I've called this meeting to inform you that we'll be receiving large shipments of parts and machinery for Main Deck," he said.

"Yessir," said Bryany. "We've already been getting them. I've forwarded the heaviest equipment direct to Main Deck."

"Yes, I'd noticed," the Chief said dryly.

Raeder gave him a look. The Chief gave him one right back and it was the commander who turned away first.

"Any-wayyy," Peter continued. "Whether we've hit the lottery, or there's a glitch in the system or whatever, now is the time to order anything you've been needing."

Bryany fairly bounced in his seat, raising his stylus like an overeager student.

"Bryany," Raeder said, giving him leave to speak. Even Cynthia was visibly fighting a smile at the young petty officer's enthusiasm.

"Yessir. Every department has been receiving backlogged supply orders in unprecedented numbers." His big teeth shone in a happy grin. "I'm seriously concerned that we might overrun our storage capacity."

"In that case, sir, perhaps we should dispose of any bulky and obsolete equipment we might have cluttering up the Main Deck storage facilities," arap Moi suggested.

Raeder gave him a stare from under his eyebrows.

"No," he said simply. "They stay. I'm sure you can deal with it."

The Chief raised an eloquent eyebrow.

"Put that eyebrow back where it belongs, Chief. They stay." Raeder almost lost it when he looked over at a thoroughly puzzled Cindy. "I got some mines," he explained.

"Ooohhh!" Cynthia's whole face lit up.

"Et tu, Lieutenant?" arap Moi muttered.

"So that's what those boxes were," Bryany said, almost reverently. He clutched his notepad in his two hands. "Do you suppose I could get a look at one?" he asked eagerly.

"Sure," Raeder said magnanimously. "The Chief will show you where he put them. Won't you, Chief?" He glanced over at him and watched the older man concede defeat with his eyes.

"Yes, sir. I'd be happy to."

Peter could see by the two shiny happy faces before him that a long meeting would be futile.

"I won't keep you long," he said. "The station quartermaster's office has a few details that they wanted to hammer out with us." He passed around some datachips. "So let's get to it."

They were done in record time thanks to Bryany's capacity to understand quartermaster-speak. It seemed that only a few terms and a couple of obscure accounting practices were all that had actually changed. So Raeder dismissed them happily and happily they went.

Most of them.

"Oh frabjous day," the Chief muttered sarcastically as he turned to the door.

"Cal-loh cal-lay!" Bryany, sang out. "Uh, sir."

The Chief smiled at that and led the youngsters away. Hell, I'm starting to feel paternal—command must be going to my head. There were times he wished he was back in a Speed, where the only thing you were responsible for was staying alive and seeing that your opposite number didn't. He was sorry that the Chief didn't understand and share his affection for the mines. He'd made up his mind to join Star Command the first time he saw that movie. The next eight times he'd viewed it had only confirmed him in his belief that there could be no better life than that of an officer in the service of the Commonwealth. But the trick with the mines had been the heart of the whole thing.

He sighed.

Everybody else gets it, he thought, perhaps a bit resentfully. Then shook his head. Maybe it is a generational thing. 

The problem with selecting personnel for this sort of mission was that you felt obliged to consider things outside the usual parameters. For instance, every time he ran across someone with young children, he found his finger moving to scrub them from his list. Raeder leaned back in his desk chair, dangerously overloading its compensator, and nibbled at an oatmeal cookie, refusing to consider precisely what that meant his subconcious was telling him. If you don't believe you're going to win, you won't, he reflected. Hence, I'm going to win. He still didn't want any young parents on this one.

Still, he was proud of his choices. It was like he fitting together a wonderfully complex puzzle with Paddy's able assistance.

But there was one aspect of the mission that he'd been putting off and he knew that further delay was becoming impossible.

He'd been reading and rereading the dossiers of Sutton's squadron, and they were impressive. Most of them were people he genuinely liked and enjoyed serving with. Of course, in the last week all of the Invincible's resident squadron had gone out of their way to say hello to Raeder. He had to grin, they'd been so transparent.

But I don't want to restrict myself to just the Invincible's resources. For one thing it wouldn't do to gut the Invincible's squadron. I doubt that either Ronnie or the captain would appreciate that. The general's briefing had indicated that Sutton's squadron would see some pretty active deployment on this mission.

And besides . . . And besides, he wanted to see if he could draft the few remaining pilots from his old squadron who had remained on active duty, the ones he'd served with before he lost his hand. His squadron had been shredded in that fight, and the survivors had been reassigned to other ships, or, as in his case, other jobs entirely. He didn't know where most of them were anymore.

But I know their qualities like I can never know a pilot I haven't flown with. And if I'm handing out plums, I'm going to make damned sure they get some. 

Raeder pulled up to his com and typed in: Auerbach, Espinosa, Wisniewski, and Barak, and their ID numbers. Then he sent a request for them to be placed on temporary assignment to the Invincible.

The last time he'd seen them, they'd been gathered at the foot of his hospital bed, looking guilty and embarrassed. They'd had a pile of bad news for him, including the news that there weren't enough of them left to rebuild their squadron. He sighed. They'd grown apart over the months of his recuperation. Sheer distance played a part in it, that and the fact that he'd buried himself in his rehabilitation and flight engineering studies.

Even if they decide they don't want to be assigned to the hutch, they'll make excellent replacements for anybody I lift from Ron's squadron. He felt a slight twinge of guilt there; he really should consult with the squadron leader before even considering such a move. But . . . But it's in the pipe now and I don't want to call it back. Besides, they might all be interested, which would mean that he wouldn't have to tap Invincible's squadron at all, except for alternates. Need to know, as well.

He still had two places open for the general's picks. Wonder when they'll show up? Raeder would feel a lot better when he'd introduced them to Paddy. Like he's a half-trained Doberman and they're the new baby-sitters. Peter sat with his chin in his hand for a moment, imagining all sorts of mayhem when he brought the volatile substance that was Paddy in contact with the catalyst that Marines had always been for him

Ah, well. Sufficient unto the day are the evils thereof. 

Then he hit the com and called in his next interview subject.

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