So, as far as anyone who cared to inquire was concerned, it was situation normal and 387 was in pinchspace somewhere en route to the Kashliki Cluster.
For one moment Ribot wondered what had ever made him want to be the captain of a Fleet warship. He sighed as he decided how to handle the most pressing issues on his plate: Michael first, officers and senior spacers second, and announcing the bad news to the troops third.
Ribot groaned. What an evening he had to look forward to, and no doubt Fleet had a full debriefing team standing by, ready to talk all night if need be. Wonderful.
“All stations, this is command. Hands fall out from berthing stations. Revert to harbor stations, ship state 4, airtight integrity condition zulu.”
Strezlecki turned to Michael as the surveillance drone crew left without the high-spirited banter that normally accompanied berthing. “Not a very happy bunch of campers, sir.”
Michael nodded. “Not surprising, I’m afraid, under the circumstances. But what I want to know is what Fleet wants us to do next. You saw the Fleet supply ship berthed ahead of us? The Ramayana, I think. I’m sure that’s no coincidence.”
Strezlecki smiled. “Well, sir, for what it’s worth, I think the shit’s about to hit the fan and little old 387 is going to be in the thick of it. We did a good job, maybe too good a job, to get in and out the way we did, and I’m sure Fleet will want more of the same.”
“I won’t give you odds on that, Strez, ’cause I think you’re right. But let’s just wait and see. Shit! I’d better get a move on. I’m officer of the day.”
As Michael finished stowing his space suit, Mother commed him.
“For your information, Michael, Major Claudia McNeil is our Frontier Fleet liaison officer, and she’ll be onboard in five to confirm that we have everything we need.”
“Roger that.”
“And Captain Andreesen from Fleet has just confirmed that he’ll be arriving on the up-shuttle at 20:15. He should be here ten minutes after that.”
“Okay. Captain got all that?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, Mother.”
Strezlecki looked at him quizzically, left eybrow lifted inquiringly. “Developments?”
“Sure are. Fleet’s sent OPS-1 to talk to us.”
“Game on, I think, sir,” Strezlecki said with half a laugh. “I’m sure Fleet hasn’t sent OPS-1 to tell us to take a holiday.”
“Know what? I think you’re right.”
With some relief, Ribot and Michael saluted the backs of Captain Andreesen and his two staff officers as they made the awkward and always undignified transition from 387’s grav field to the space battle station’s. Amazing, Ribot thought, how even senior officers refused to use the lubber’s rail. Turning away from the enjoyable sight of one of the hardest men in the Federated Worlds Space Fleet on his hands and knees, Ribot stepped out of the air lock into the drone hangar. He waved Michael closer. “All officers, Michael. Wardroom in five.”
Just as he was about to drop down the ladder, Ribot spotted Strezlecki huddled over one of the surveillance drones in the far corner of the hangar. Altering course, he wove a path across a crowded deck to where she was working. “Problem?”
“Oh, hello, sir. No, not really. Bonnie took some micrometeorite damage during her fly-by, and I was just double-checking the repairs. Ramayana has got hot spares if we need them, but I don’t think there’s any need. No damage, just cosmetic. The plasteel armor did what it was supposed to do.”
“Pleased to hear it. Michael?”
“Sir?”
“What are you waiting for? Wardroom now. You can trust me with Petty Officer Strezlecki.” Ribot’s tone was mock serious, but Michael was too flustered to pick up on it.
“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” With that, Michael shot across the hangar, dodging the closely packed drones before dropping down the ladder like a brick down a well.
He’s a good officer, Ribot thought, and he’s handled himself well despite what must seem to him an endless series of setbacks. Having to tell him that he couldn’t go planetside to be with his family was bad enough. Telling him that there was a complete embargo on all outgoing personal messages and that as a consequence he could not even talk to his father must have broken his heart. But he just seemed to absorb the blows, burying the bad news somewhere deep within himself and moving on. Ribot didn’t want to be the first Hammer that Michael met. It could be ugly.
He turned his attention back to Strezlecki. “Just a quick one, Strez. What’s the mood below?”
“Pretty unhappy, sir. Lots of grumbling ’specially from the young and single. But I think that’s no surprise. If the troops aren’t complaining, then that’s the time to be worried.”
“True enough, but do they understand why?”
“They do, sir. Don’t underestimate how they feel about the whole business. The idea that the Hammer would actually do what they’ve done is pretty hard to take. So as long as 387 is doing something to hit back, then things will be fine. And remember, sir, that there’s more than one person onboard who lost family in the last war even if they are too young to remember the details. Reis, for one. She lost both of her parents. She would happily give up six months planetside on Jackson for the chance to kick a few Hammers to death, and she’s someone the lower deck listens to. Mind you, the party animals are disappointed at missing out on the delights of Jackson, but they’ll get over it.”
Ribot nodded. It was what he had expected, but it was always good to get confirmation, particularly from a senior spacer as solid as Strezlecki.
“But sir, if I can add something?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Everybody’s figured out that Fleet has plans for us. The sooner everybody knows what’s expected of us, the sooner they’ll knuckle down and get on with things.”
Ribot nodded. The advice was, as ever, solid. “Them and me both. As soon as I can, Strez, as soon as I can.”
The wardroom felt crowded, the officers coming to their feet as one as Ribot entered.
“Okay, folks. Seats, please. Michael, close the door.”
Michael watched carefully as Ribot sat down at the head of the mess table. Ribot paused for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. Something big was coming, and he was pretty damn sure he knew what it was. He looked around, forcibly struck by the look of hungry anticipation he could see on their faces. The last mission had welded them into a team, and it was a team that wanted to do more.
“Well, no prizes on offer tonight for guessing what comes next,” Ribot said. “From what I’ve heard, everyone onboard has decided that Fleet has plans for us, and so they have.”
“Pretty hard to explain away a bloody great supply ship the size of the Ramayana berthed immediately ahead of you as just one of life’s little coincidences, sir,” Armitage said with a half smile.
“True enough.” Ribot smiled. “Well, anyway, enough tap-dancing around. We’re going back to Hell as part of the covert surveillance team to prepare for Operation Corona, a full-scale Fleet attack sometime around late November tasked with the recovery of the Mumtaz and her people. We don’t yet have exact dates.”
Ribot paused in some amusement as Michael punched the air, his emphatic “Yes, yes, yes” giving vent to every ounce of stress, frustration, and anxiety accumulated over the last weeks. Michael was ecstatic. Involvement in what came next, yes. He’d expected that. But after one of the most hazardous missions ever undertaken by a Fleet ship in peacetime, to be put right back in the front line of a major planetary system attack, well, that really was a shock. Not that he cared. They’d be taking the fight right to the Hammers, and that was what he wanted.