The Admiral saw this as other sources fed him more data than he could possibly use. Finally, he took the poor young officer aside. ''You did well to let me sleep. Your briefing was precise and to the point, but now I am awake. I have my eyes open. So be a good boy and only answer the questions I ask.''
The youth turned pink. But he nodded and took his station behind his three technicians. Good. Good.
The Admiral turned to his battle board. As it was now, he'd be going into a battle with his fragile engines pointed at his enemy's station-based lasers. But those were his orders.
''Go straight in,'' Henry Peterwald told him. ''Straight for them. I'll have Wardhaven set to cave like a house of cards.'' Well, these cards were making noises like they might shoot back.
''Should we put some fear into them?'' Saris asked.
''No, I need to keep some surprises up my sleeve. Let's let them think they know what they face for a few hours more. Raise deceleration from 1.0 to 1.05 g's, give us a bit of a cushion in case we need to stop decelerating later for a while.''
''Like to dodge passenger liners or shoot up the station?''
''Or something like that.''
Contact: -7 hours 45 minutes
Tom began the reintroduction of Kris to her old boat forward in the fo'c‘sle. Here, a slip of a gunner's mate 3/c oversaw the firing tubes for the Foxers, and now the AGM 944 missiles.
''You still lifting weights, Kami?'' Kris asked.
''Twice a day,'' the woman replied from where she sat buried in the middle of four huge canisters of reload.
''Don't worry, ma'am, if one of these puppies misfires, I'll kick its ass.''
''And if she needs help, she only has to shout,'' came from the next compartment.
''And if you big lugs need help in a tight corner of the laser bay, you know who to call, too,'' Kami shouted right back.
Apparently, the deal Kris had worked out in her weapons division was still holding. The fo'c‘sle had been cramped even before the larger 944s had been added. Four launching tubes fed by four canisters full of reloads, and, for the Foxers, spare canisters to horse into place when the first load was empty. Now it was an even tighter fit. Kami ruled here.
Just aft of there was the laser bay, its four long pulse lasers the reason for PF-109's existence. Here, Ensign Satem, the Swede, and two more mechanics saw to it that when the boat was in a place to break something, it got broke.
''Any problems?'' Tom asked.
''None you need to worry about,'' Satem answered. Swede, their newly promoted 2/c, and his two junior mechanics were going over number-three laser. ''Normal check. No surprises, sir. Ma'am. You give us a battlewagon. We'll put the holes in it. Let's see how good they are at breathing vacuum.''
Next aft was the bridge. Penny and Fintch had it to themselves. ''Where's our raven, that Moose fellow?''
Fintch gave a thumbs-down; a glance showed half of Sandy's sensor feed was blank. Tom and Kris climbed the next deck down. Sparks's command of the radio shack looked like it had already taken a hit. Ensign Hang Tran, Sparks since she started at Wardhaven Tech for reasons she refused to explain, was hardly as tall standing as her four subordinate electronics techs were bending double over two opened black boxes.
''Not that board,'' Moose was saying to them. ''The next one.''
Kris glanced around. Radio, radar, magnetic gear, network, jammers, noisemakers, or at least the controllers for antennas located around the hull of the boat, she recognized. New boxes with hastily stenciled names like maskers, decoys, and one just marked Black Cauldron Rev 4.5 didn't tell her a lot.
''Any problem?'' Tom asked.
''Yes,'' Sparks snapped.
''No,'' Moose said.
''Any consensus?'' Tom said.
''Would you open that hatch, gal, and ask that other gal if she's got color?''
Kris guessed she was the first gal. She lifted the hatch to the bridge. ''Penny, you showing lights?''
''No.'' A pause. ''Yes. I got them again. But damn it, I don't like them blinking on and off.''
''Me neither. Here. Somebody hand me that duct tape.''
''Duct tape? You're installing gear in my boat with duct tape!'' Tom's voice was amazingly calm, all things considered.
''The board is in there solid. The tape should keep it from wiggling. Hand me that foam spacer as well. Both of them.''
''That going to hold at three g's?'' Tom asked.
''You gonna be any worse off losing it then than if you never had it?'' the old fellow answered as he went about taping it down.
''Sparks, there any way you could secure it better?''
''Sir, there is no way that I'd touch that stuff. It's bread board. Hell, sir, it's bread crumb board, some of it.''
Moose looked up from what he'd just finished. ''Some of this stuff is experimental, yes. The fleet sailed with everything that was good, kosher, bought under contract and documented forty ways to Sunday. And, if you ask my opinion, half of it won't work, and the other half is already obsolete. This stuff is what the fleet should have had. Would have had if the procurement folks had half an idea of what was really going on. Anyway, you got what we can give you.''
''We can't afford to lose sensors,'' Tom pointed out. ''No sensors, and we are deaf, dumb, and blind. No sensors, and we can't find a battleship to shoot. You understand?''
''I understand you. You won't lose your sensor feed again. And I'll keep the other guy's sensors from seeing you.''
Tom shook his head. ''You sure this is a good idea?'' he asked Kris as he turned away.
''The reservists crewing the decoys came up with the idea of pulling these folks in. They think we really need them, Tom. I don't know enough about this to argue.''
''What do you think, Sparks?'' Tom asked.
''My favorite college professor, Doc Marley, says that no matter how good it may look, the job is never done until the job is fully done, checked out, and documented. I did not think duct tape was included in that.'' She sniffed. ''But when I called Professor Marley, I found that he is on the 105 boat working with Singh. I asked him why he isn't with me on the 109. He said because the Moose is a better raven. Batty as they come. Do not make him mad, but the best there is when the documentation can't be finished and hell's a-popping,'' she said, shaking her head.
''I guess that answers that,'' Tom said.
''I'm gonna keep working down here,'' Moose said. ''I understand you intend to do three g's with radical turns.''
''Something like that,'' Tom said.
Moose pursed his lips. ''Didn't quite factor that into this gear. I'll see what me and your guys can do about that.''
''I'd much appreciate that,'' Tom said and led Kris aft.
They paused on the empty quarterdeck. ''What do you make of him?'' Kris asked.
''Batty as they come says it all, but then, taking on six battleships with a dozen mosquito boats and whatever you can press-gang out of the yacht basin don't exactly strike me as the sanest thing I've ever let you talk me into.''
''You don't want to be a bored old married man, do you?''
''Ma and Da didn't complain about it, but I'll settle for looking in on the engine room just now.''
There, Tononi and two motor mechs were going over the antimatter injectors under the Chief's watchful eye. A yard man was standing by with a toolkit… and spare injectors.
''Pass them the new one,'' the Chief said as they entered.
''Problem, Chief?'' Tom asked.
''Not now. Not now that we've replaced one hundred and twenty-five percent of the motor, sir,'' the Chief answered with what passed for a tight smile.
The yard worker blanched. ''They're certified parts, Chief.''
''Certified by my pet monkey, most likely,'' the Chief said.
''We going to need any more parts?'' Tom asked.
''We have a spares cart on the pier,'' the yard worker put in.
''I'd think it was empty by now,'' the Chief growled.