0300 Book 1 - 4. Chapter 4: Military Options

Chapter 4

Military Options

The only way to erect such a common power,
as may be able to defend [men]
from the invasion of foreigners,
and the [injuries] of one another . . .
is to confer all their power and strength
upon one man, or upon one assembly of men . . .
—Thomas Hobbes, “Leviathan,” 1651 CE.
Earth Analogue III

Word was passed that the Enterprise VII would visit the Edmonton School after her diplomatic mission to Salt Lake City. The excitement that announcement stirred was overwhelmed by the news that a group of students would be assigned to Enterprise for two weeks. Selection was to be made by computer. I couldn’t figure a way to push anyone into making sure the computer would select me, so I was surprised when I was named. With 10,000 students, the odds were long, to say the least, that I’d be included in the 20. But I was. I probably should have suspected something, but I was far too excited.

As soon as the selections were announced, Dmitry cornered me. “You must get ship’s patches. Wait.”

He removed a shoebox from his locker and opened it.

“Come, sit.” He patted the bed.

“Here, see? This one is from the Jefferson. My father served there. This one is from the Lorentz. I had an uncle who served there.” He continued, listing ships from throughout Fleet on which his relatives had served.

“The only way to get patches is to serve on the ship or to trade with someone who has served. You can’t just buy them. Your short duty probably won’t count as serving, so you’ll have to trade.”

He gave me five Fleet School Edmonton patches. “They should trade even for these—one for one.”

“No more than five?” I asked.

“No, that’s kind of an unwritten rule,” Dmitry said. Then, he handed me a glassine envelope containing a patch. I recognized the Cyrillic letters, but didn’t know what they meant.

“But, you should be able to get at least twenty Enterprise patches for this one,” he said handing me the envelope. “This is the Prince Potempkin of Tauris patch. They were issued for the 75^th anniversary of the First Revolution, and are very rare. You’ll have to find a collector, though, who knows its value.”

“Are you sure you want to give this one up?” I asked.

Dmitri grinned. “I have nine more at home. My mother’s uncle’s father’s boyfriend served on her.”

I realized that I had learned more about Dmitri in those few minutes than I had since we were first assigned as roommates two months ago. I had no time to think about that because the door opened and I looked up to see not only my other roommates, but all of the boys in the element crowding into the room. They all had Edmonton school patches in their hands. “I must have a list!” I said, and grabbed my iPad.

* * * * *

The USF Enterprise was the most recent in a line of distinguished ships to bear that name. The first was a British sailing ship, captured by Colonial forces in 1775 and renamed Enterprise. Her original name has been lost in history. The second, another sailing ship, was a privateer commissioned by the State of Maryland in 1776, later purchased by the Continental Congress, and which saw service during the Colonials’ war for independence from England.

Enterprise III was the first true Fleet ship, a twelve-gun schooner that saw service during the Battle of Drena in 1805 (the “shores of Tripoli” war) and in the War of 1812, when President Jefferson sent Fleet to kick British butt. Enterprise VI was a steam-powered aircraft carrier. The most recent sea-going Enterprise, number VII, was a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, kept in commission long after Fleet’s military aircraft had been replaced by anti-gravity shuttles. Now decommissioned, the carrier was a museum to Fleet Aviation, permanently berthed in Charleston.

The new Enterprise was a battleship-class warship, with a crew of 4,500 including what was still called an “aviation wing”—the pilots and crew of AG-powered craft, some of which were capable of trans-lunar flight. Flight crews, besides pilot and co-pilot, included loadmasters for the transports, jumpmasters for the troop carriers, weapons operators, sensor operators for reconnaissance craft, and more.

Everyone assembled at the school’s spaceport—the only place large enough to accommodate a battleship.

“How big is she?” one of the kids in the element asked. We were at ease, and chattering among ourselves.

“Ginormous!” Another answered.

“One million, three hundred fifty thousand tons,” Dmetri said. “And 4,026 feet long when the ensign is extended. She’s the biggest thing Fleet has ever built.”

The Enterprise didn’t land—she hovered about 10 feet off the ground—all 1,350,000 tons of her. That was impressive. Near the keel, two flight decks were open to display various AG craft.

“Look! Fighters,” someone said. “And Guns-a-Go-Go!”

There were also troop transports and air ambulances nicknamed “Baby Huey.” The air ambulances and “Guns-a-Go-Go” gunships were both named after helicopters that saw service in the South American Wars of Liberation and the termination of the French-Indochina wars. The basic airframe was the same: chassis with power supply and propulsion, stretched, narrowed, or widened to fit a mission-specific body.

As we watched, gun ports above the flight deck opened and half a dozen different kinds of guns were rolled out. Above the gun ports, crewmembers lined a long deck with a railing and waved to us.

It looked like everybody in the school came to see us off, but of course it was really to see Enterprise. On command, we designees broke ranks from our elements and gathered at a landing pad. It was the first time I’d seen the others. There was one other Cadet j.g., a dozen Cadets, and six Ensigns j.g. We looked at one another, and I sensed some nervousness. Understandable. We’d not been told what our duties would be, just that we’d be gone ten days and that we’d need duty and dress uniforms. Each of us carried a duffle bag. Mine held my dress uniform, neatly rolled up; three jump suits; handkerchiefs, underwear, and socks; and my iPad and charger; a toothbrush; and a stock of school patches. I kept the Potemkin patch, safely in its envelope, in my pocket.

A gangplank extended from a hatch to the landing pad, and we rode its escalator into the ship. At the top of the escalator, each of us turned toward the Fleet ensign that flew on the stern—nearly a quarter of a mile away!—and saluted, then turned to the Lieutenant Commander who stood at the hatch. We saluted him and asked, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

He returned our salute, and surprised us all by shaking our hands and welcoming us aboard.

Meanwhile, gangplanks extended from the flight deck, and students and faculty swarmed aboard. How is she going to deal with nearly 12,000 visitors? I wondered, but didn’t have time to explore that thought. A Lt. j.g. asked us to follow him to the Junior Mess.

“You’ll be eating, sleeping, and training with a group of boys ages 6 through 18, and grades Cadet j.g. through Ensign,” he said. “The senior member of the mess is Ensign Polk. You will consider him to be your Element Commander with the same responsibilities and authority, even though the Junior Mess is not technically an element. He will assign your duties, set your schedules, administer non-judicial punishment if required, and will send an evaluation to your element at Edmonton upon completion of this tour of duty. If you have any questions that can’t be answered from the computer files or others your age and grade, ask him. Any questions?”

He had stopped outside a door labeled, “Junior Mess.”

No one spoke; I think we’d all gotten his message: take our questions to a computer terminal, to one of our mates, or to the commander of the mess.

The Lt. smiled. “Good. You passed your first test.” Then, his demeanor changed. “There will be others, and they won’t be as straightforward or as easy.”

* * * * *

Enterprise normally would be the heart of a Fleet Battle Group that included cruisers, destroyers, hospital ships, troop transports, and other ships, depending on the mission. Her role, currently, was described as diplomatic missions, although it was apparent to me—and probably anyone else with more than two brain cells—that Fleet was “showing the flag” and the power of Fleet.

I’d never questioned Fleet’s role as world government—most of the world, that is. France, I knew about. There was some trade and tourism between France and the rest of the world, but her old colonial empire was no more. Her nuclear powered submarines with nuclear-armed missiles had been turned to scrap. The French Foreign Legion, once one of the world’s most elite fighting forces, had been disarmed and disbanded, although some of their descendants made a pretty show in the annual Bastille Day Parade.

There were others than the French who refused to relinquish their autonomy to Fleet: the religious, the survivalists, and the Luddites.

* * * * *

Ensign Polk was an eighteen-year-old with pale white skin and red hair. He was waiting when we came into the Junior Mess. A couple of us snapped to attention and started the “reporting as ordered” routine, but he waved us off.

“Save that for when the adults are around,” he said. “You’re going to have enough pressure, enough work, and enough to worry about without a lot of formality in the junior mess.”

He held up his hand, again, and added, “That doesn’t mean anything goes. I expect you to behave yourselves as young gentlemen, to do your assigned tasks swiftly and cheerfully, to get along with one another, and to leave the Enterprise with an understanding of what teamwork and cooperation mean.

“You were selected by computer so it’s not likely but I have to ask. Are there any boyfriend pairs?”

Seeing only shaken heads, he added, “You will each be assigned a sponsor of your grade and age. He will take you in hand, show you the ropes, and be your roommate for the time you’ll be with us. Normally, you get to select your roommate; we don’t have time to establish those relationships. I hope you understand.

“I have spoken with your school’s Provost; we will not be conducting classes. Too complicated given the wide variety of ages and grades. You will, however, be standing watch with your sponsor. He and his watchmates will be responsible for your training. We do rotate watch hours and positions frequently. It’s part of our training; it will become part of yours.

“Any questions?”

Hearing none, he gestured and a cadet with an iPad began reading off pairs of names.

I was paired with an eight-year-old Cadet j.g. His name was Phillip Moore, and he was nice enough, especially since I was only six. His father was a Lt. Commander and a senior weapons officer, which was why Phillip was serving aboard a warship. My father had been Fleet—a commander and ship’s captain—but I didn’t mention that. It didn’t matter—Phillip wouldn’t have remembered, anyway. If my father had lived, he’d probably be an Admiral, and I’d be living is space with him. The thought was painful, but I managed to wipe away my tears before Phillip saw them.

Phillip didn’t have a roommate, although his room held two pairs of bunk beds. “The Junior Mess is not up to TO&E,” he said. The Tables of Organization and Equipment described just that, for every element in Fleet, from a group of schoolboys to the largest ships—battleships like Enterprise. Phillip showed me where to stow my stuff, and helped me get towels and bed linens from the supply system.

The next stops on the Enterprise tour were to be London, Stuttgart, Pamplona, Odessa, and Cape Town. That would be the last port on our short visit, and we’d be taken back to Edmonton by shuttle. At least, that was the plan. But, as someone once said, “no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” It was an aphorism, not a law of nature, but it did give us something to think about.

Ensign Polk wasn’t kidding about having different watch positions. Between Edmonton and London, a flight of less than four hours, Phillip and I were assigned watch in the engine room. During the three days we were in London, we stood watch in the infirmary, armory, and on one of the flight decks with a fire-fighting crew. The last one was a lot of fun, since the crew put on a demonstration for distinguished visitors, and we got to put on protective gear and run through flames with them. The crew, not the visitors.

It was fun, but exhausting, running around wearing 30 pounds of gear. Phillip and I barely made it through our showers and supper before crashing on our bunks. It was about three hours later when General Quarters sounded. We woke quickly—the GQ alarm would wake anyone—even the dead. Within seconds and despite the gravity compensators, we felt the ship turn and accelerate in what had to have been a combat maneuver.

The boys from Edmonton hadn’t been assigned GQ duties, but we were smart enough to follow our hosts to theirs. Phillip and I shinnied into our jump suits and boots. Then he grabbed my hand. “My GQ station is with my dad,” he said. “Come on!”

We ran to the bridge where a guy I saw was Phillip’s dad gestured to two secondary weapon consoles. “Each of you take one console, and buckle in. Mr. Moore,” he addressed his son formally, “activate your console and report weapons status.”

He looked at me. I had vacuumed his mind, and Phillip’s, of all they knew about the consoles, and tried to project “I know what I’m doing, too.” It must have worked.

“Mr. Stewart, activate your console and report status.”

I powered up the console and watched as it linked to the ship’s computer. Then I whistled. The Enterprise was no “Quaker Cannon.” My console monitored and controlled the portside weapons. Nova Sol! I thought. There’s enough firepower here to wipe out a small country! No, make that a large country! I had control of Gatling guns that fired 1.00-caliber slugs at the rate of 600 a minute; cannons that fired explosives, incendiaries, and anti-personnel rounds; self-propelled rockets—ditto; and 32-inch guns that could fire a slug the weight of a small elephant. All reported ready and with lots and lots of projectiles. The Junior Mess may not have been up to TO&E, but the ammunition bunkers sure were.

“Port systems all go and ammunition at 100%, sir,” I said.

Phillip was seconds behind me reporting starboard batteries “go.”

“We don’t yet know our mission or our targets,” Lt. Commander Moore said. “What initial weapons and loading do you recommend?”

I felt Phillip’s hesitation and uncertainty. Our chairs were on rails; I unlocked mine and slid to him. We whispered together for a few seconds. Then, I slid back to my position.

“Cannons with pyrotechnics, HE, and anti-personnel rounds; one battery of 32-inchers with pyrotechnics and one battery of 32-inchers with HE,” Phillip said. “Gatlings with 5% tracers.”

“What do you know about pyrotechnic rounds,” his dad asked. “And why do you recommend them? No,” he gestured to Phillip, “You answer Mr. Stewart.”

“They’re fireworks, sir, and since the current mission of the Enterprise is to show the flag, they would be used for that purpose. Until we know more about what our mission is, I’m going to assume it’s similar. Fireworks for show, with anti-personnel and HE in reserve.”

“Mr. Moore? What is your opinion?”

“He’s right, sir. It’s show and tell. I didn’t know about the fireworks, and suggested the tracer rounds, and then HE. Same principle: show and then force.”

Phillip’s dad nodded. “Make it so,” he said, and turned back to his own console.

Phillip and I sent orders to the gun crews. While loading under combat conditions was mostly by robotic arms, Enterprise still carried gun crews who normally did the initial loading, stood around looking useful during tours of the ship, and kept tabs on the robots. They would take the places of the robots should that be necessary. If that happened, they would face more danger perhaps than anyone else on the ship.

A few minutes later, the Captain came on the Tannoy.

“Gentlemen, this is the captain. Our mission has changed. We are proceeding at flank speed toward the Gulf of Kutch. We will arrive in . . . 54 minutes. Large numbers of Mujahedeen, traveling in what appeared to be fishing vessels, have landed at several locations on the coast, and are massing in the direction of major cities, including Jamnagar. Our mission is to stop and capture or destroy those forces. Civilian casualties are to be avoided where possible. The Mujahedeen forces are to be assumed to be fanatical and suicidal.”

“Uh, oh,” I whispered to Phillip. “Don’t think fireworks are going to do it!”

Phillip’s father heard, grinned, and then touched his finger to his lips in a shush gesture.

The Captain continued. “On the other hand, I’m willing to try a little psychological operations where appropriate. If we encounter bands of Mujahedeen in open country, we’ll try pyrotechnics—from the 32-inchers—and make offers to surrender from psyops speaker-equipped shuttles. You guys in the Mujahedeen studies group, get on it—you’ve got 50 minutes. And kudos to our two cadets on the weapons consoles.”

Phillip and I grinned at one another. It was only then that I realized: I’m on the bridge of the Enterprise! The Captain is only a few yards behind me! Way, way cool! I resisted the impulse to turn around and grin at the captain.

* * * * *

The psyops plan had mixed success. One group, about 100 mujahedeen, surrendered after seeing the explosions 500 feet above their heads and the Enterprise hovering 500 feet above that. In a second group, a couple of fanatics opened fire on their fellows who offered to surrender. They returned fire, and the entire group of 200 managed to kill or wound each other. We waited until the shooting stopped, then sent in Marines followed by medics. They saved a dozen or so. At least there were no civilian casualties.

The real battles took place on the ground. Fleet Marines, with close air support from Guns-a-Go-Go, fighters, and a few rounds of 32-inch HE, took only three days to mop up the remaining forces.

The “Battle of Jamnagar” would have not been of any consequence except that the Mujahedeen had gotten possession of several antique Mirage fighters and a nuclear weapon. The fighting was almost over, and the marines had signaled for pickup, when sensors signaled incoming. The crew, including Phillip and me were working 12-hours-on, 12-off. We’d just come back on duty when the signal came in. Something was approaching, hot, from the port side. I didn’t have time to consult with either Phillip or his father before I triggered two of the Gatling guns to take it out.

“No IFF, sir,” I said. “He was an unknown.” I knew there was more, but I couldn’t tell him.

“By the book,” he said. “If you were a certified weapons officer there would be no question. Since you’re a cadet, there will be an inquiry. I hope you understand.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The marines secured the wreckage, and a forensic team found the unexploded nuclear weapon. By this time everyone had forgotten that I’d been involved, and the report of the incident was entered as routine in the ship’s records.

We didn’t get to our next scheduled destination because the government of India insisted the entire crew take shore leave at one of the resort cities on the eastern shore. They made it clear through diplomatic channels that they would be terribly offended if we didn’t accept their offer. It wasn’t hard for them to convince the captain. He crossed India slowly during daylight. When we reached the coast, he sent us down a few hundred at a time. I hadn’t packed a bathing suit. I could have bought one from ship’s stores, but it turned out we were going to a clothing-optional beach. Phillip and I and his mates from the Junior Mess had a grand time.

The night after our shore leave, Phillip asked me into his bed. It was an adult-sized bunk, so we both fit. We cuddled. Phillip whispered to me. “I like you, Paul. You figured out the pyrotechnic loads, and made my daddy proud of me. Thank you.” He kissed me.

“I know we’re too little to be boyfriends, and maybe after tomorrow we’ll never see each other again, but I want to cuddle with you. I want to remember you as a friend. Maybe someday—”

I stopped what he might have said with my own kiss. I knew if there were to be a someday, I would have to create it. I was right. After the shuttle ride from India back to Edmonton—via the Pacific Ocean and a stop at Kilauea, Hawaii to get up close and personal with an active volcano at the Fleet Vulcan Research Center—I called him. He shook his head when I asked if he knew me.