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The Meeting - Part Four
Redoubt Returns
20-03-2268
Earth L-5
On approach to Saltlake naval base
Home again. At the end of the Redoubt's third
patrol in as many months, Captain Ferris was certain that his crew was feeling
the fatigue as much as he was. His temper was growing shorter, and his thinking
was getting fuzzier, which can be disastrous in this job. They had managed a
nice little rescue operation to cap off this last mission, but the gratitude of
the survivors of the Corregidor, and the accolades they were sure to
receive from the brass wouldn't make up for the overriding need for rest.
Ferris' thoughts drifted to the warm comforts of his billet on Saltlake Base.
He thought of the different feel of the bed, the different sounds, and the
uninterrupted sleep he could get there. For the past couple of years that was
the place he called home. In fact, it was only slightly larger than his
quarters on board his corvette, but that billet was all about spin time, Rest
and Relaxation, and catching up with old friends. The captain's cabin on the Redoubt
was a place to shave and catch a nap between watch duty and paperwork.
Ferris could feel the awe that
gripped almost every member of every vessel that approached the cradle of the
species. Even though he wasn't, his ancestors were born on Earth. No matter how
far flung people had become; no matter how many generations were born and
raised in the colonies, this was the common homeland to everyone. Returning
here from a mission filled every member of the crew, from bridge officers to the
deck hands, with excitement. Every returning spacer knew those feelings of
relief. Some just relished the anticipation of getting off the ship and getting
drunk and laid. For others there was a visceral sense of warmth and safety,
being aboard Saltlake and so close to mother Earth.
The blue disk of Earth filled the bridge with a
pleasant new brightness that was a refreshing change from the dull red
overheads and the glow of their workstation monitor screens. Like a stick
insect crawling across the lens of a big blue spotlight, Saltlake base appeared
in the middle of that blue and white disk. It was a spindly station of
cylinders, long thin docking arms at both ends, and rotating sections in the
middle of its main axis orbiting the Earth's L-5 point. Two larger military
ships could already be seen next to it from this far out. It all seemed to loom
up at them ridiculously fast as they came out of LDS. More and more traffic
quickly became apparent in the station's vicinity as they approached.
"Approach
autopilot has disengaged, Captain. We're slowing to port speed and will be
holding at 4 Km off Saltlake. Hey, that's the Purdue. It looks like Vice
Admiral Wexler and his favourite destroyer are in town. Their entire support
escort group is here, too. We've got corvettes all over the place out here.
There's the Strathmere, the Stonebridge, the Khyber, and
the Toulon. It looks like he brought the whole gang.
From the look of the traffic around here, we'll be waiting awhile before
getting docking clearance," McMichael reported from the pilot's seat,
clearly frustrated. "Anyone need to make a trip to the head?" He
heaved a sigh that was audible over the hum of machinery, the constant
squawking chatter of ship comms, and the beeps of proximity warnings.
The traffic around Saltlake Base was indeed getting
heavier these past few months, and the queues for docking were a major
frustration. The confines imposed by the strict regulations of space traffic
control and the density of orbital activity seemed to be unnatural for vessels
accustomed to plying the vast open reaches of space unfettered. Naval corvettes
were not supposed to be stuck in traffic, especially not when they were
returning from a three-week patrol, and a bit of heroic rescuing.
To make matters worse, Captain William Ferris was not
inclined to be patient with the STC personnel; not since they started joking on
open channels about his ship. The good-natured ribbing had started innocently
enough about four months ago when the crew of the CNV-534 Redoubt was
returning from their first patrol since the now-notorious recon mission. The
STC folks had asked the crew to "cool their jets" while they waited
for docking clearance. This was followed by what sounded very much like
laughter in the background over the comm. Then came the apologies for having to
keep them "on ice", then came suggestions to "chill out",
reassurances that they weren't getting the "cold shoulder", and so
forth. They heard every other bad pun or reference to the cold imaginable, and
some that were stretched beyond the imagination, all of which were followed by
laughter audible in the background of the STC Centre. The Redoubt had
been forgotten by the news media, and by the war-weary populace of Earth as
quickly as they had been noticed, after their reconnaissance mission.
Unfortunately, it looked like their peers in the navy weren't about to let it
go as easily. The past was going to continue to haunt the crew who had once
been Out in the Cold.
Now that they were back, they had to prepare themselves
for more unwanted comments. With the exception of the Corregidor rescue,
the patrol mission had been almost entirely uneventful. After two weeks on
patrol, their only excitement was a brief comm exchange with a remote listening
outpost, and the discovery of an old wrecked hulk of a tug from some unheard of
fight that had taken place years before. There was nothing to do but tag it,
log it, and continue on their way. At least they'd been able to end things on a
high note with a heroic rescue.
The crew of the Corregidor wasn't
making any cold jokes anymore.
Nonetheless, everyone aboard the Redoubt settled
in to wait just like they'd waited for clearance the last two times they
returned from patrol. Waiting seemed to be a big part of their job these days.
Ferris doubted anyone on the bridge was in the mood for more cold jokes, but he
steeled himself for it, in hopes that he would at least provide a good role
model for his officers. As expected, they were hailed by STC.
"CNV-534 Redoubt, this is Saltlake
STC. Welcome back ladies and gentlemen. You are cleared to dock on number
4."
The directness, and the
politeness shocked Ferris out of his grim mood. Even his restless backside was
stilled for a moment. They were cleared to dock already? And on number 4! That
dock had recently been designated for civilian traffic, much to the chagrin of
the Navy. In fact that whole arm of Saltlake station had been opened up as a
civilian section last year under considerable political pressure, and now that
the Independence war was
heating up, the Admiralty was sorely regretting the decision. They thumped
tables and shouted things like 'security risk', 'spy haven', 'intelligence
nightmare' at station council meetings. But their complaints fell on deaf ears.
Large corporate interests, as well as huge amounts of taxpayer funds help pay
for and build this station, and they wanted their access. Once the Navy caved
in to political pressure, and gave access to the free-market masses, it was
next to impossible to take it back. Number 4 wasn't the nicest receiving area
the orbital had, but it certainly was the most interesting. It was worth a
stroll down the main concourse for the food stall smells alone. Ferris was
thinking about the delicacy he tried during his last visit to that section for
a moment before he recovered enough to consider that this might be an
escalation of the pranks. Perhaps the folks in STC were joking with him.
He
re-opened the channel to the traffic controller. "Saltlake STC this is the
Redoubt. Please confirm immediate clearance to 4."
The
reply was crisp, professional and very clear. "Confirmed, CNV 534 Redoubt.
Number 4 is clear and waiting for you. Navy brass has given us permission to
route any and all waiting naval traffic there, now. You aren't the only ones
who get tired of waiting in line, so we're stepping things up. Nice work on the
rescue of the Corregidor crew. Oh, and it appears that there's a message
waiting for you there, Captain. Proceed when ready."
So it
wasn't a joke. There was no laughing in the background, just straight up
professionalism and a clear path from STC. "Acknowledged, Saltlake.
Commencing docking," Ferris looked up to the mirror over the pilot station
and saw McMichael looking at him in stunned silence. "You heard it right,
Mac. Take us in nice and proud-like."
McMichael
was rarely at a loss for clever retorts, but he still hadn't recovered
sufficiently to say anything more than "Aye sir. Docking autopilot
engaged."
It
looked as though the Admiralty had given up complaining in council meetings and
were trying a new tactic to secure that part of the station. Wondering about
the waiting message, Ferris opened the comm to STC again. "Saltlake this
is Redoubt, again. Transmit that message to me directly, please. Command
codes appended"
"Negative.
Aah, sorry, but no can do, Redoubt. It must be a special delivery. It
says here that a member of Vice Admiral Wexler's staff will meet you at dock 4
with a message. That's all we know. STC out."
Ferris
keyed the comm off and leaned back into the astonishingly uncomfortable
captain's seat and reflected. It didn't sound good. A hardcopy message from
Wexler, hand-delivered by someone from his staff simply couldn't be good. He'd
only ever seen the Vice Admiral once before, during some pep talk presentation
to Commonwealth Navy officers a couple of years ago. What in the hell could
this be about? Re-assignment? Disciplinary proceedings? Ferris' mind started
worrying over every possible screw-up he'd been part of in his career, trying
to figure out what he'd done that would warrant an official skewering. For a
brief moment, he entertained the possibility that this was his well-deserved
commendation and promotion, but dismissed it almost as quickly. He was certain
it wouldn't have anything to do with pulling off the rescue. Bad news traveled
much faster, and through different channels than good news.
This was definitely not going to be good news.
McMichael,
assuming that the waiting message must be related to their heroic rescue,
uttered the nursery rhyme fragment that had become another signature phrase
"Home again, home again, jiggity jig," to no one in particular, then
added, "The last one to The Bad Seal buys the round. And we'd
better get there early. If Wexler's boys and girls are here, it'll be that much
harder to find a table. You'd better have your creds ready, there, Kenji."
Iwamasa
ignored the taunt.
Ravindran
turned from her WEPs console to face Captain Ferris. Even when she was
exhausted, the small delicate features of her face were striking. "This
should be a pleasant change," she said. "I hope we get more leave
time before our next mission. Our last furlough seemed too short."
Ferris
whispered, "Amen to that" to himself, as he keyed in final commands at his
console.
The
corvette slowed to a crawl as it closed the final few Metres to the dock. They
all felt the small bump as the collars touched and the seals locked.
"And
I hope we get something better than another patrol of empty space for our next
mission. You'd think they were punishing us with these boring milk runs," Iwamasa
added.
Ferris
just nodded absently. A boring mission would have been fine with him, but he
was pretty damned sure the next mission wouldn't be another milk run.
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