Jerry Pournelle War World II Death's Head Rebellion

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said, moving toward the door. His stateroom was only one of the things he now
had to prepare for the voyage.
"We limit ourselves to two cups a day, to make it last," Kattinger said as he
opened the cabin door.
"But feel free to come by any time."
Captain Sanchez had almost reached his own cabin when Kattinger
called him back. "Ezio, you almost forgot your book."
"Oh, yes. Thank you."
"In a few minutes they'll be serving lunch on the mess deck," said Kattinger.
"I think it's veal cutlets today. Genuine veal."
Sanchez stared at him.
Kattinger just smiled. "No, don't ask."
Later, making his way to the mess area, Sanchez thought about the ship's
captain. On the one hand, he seemed very resourceful and cared for the
well-being of his crew. On the other hand, such skippers were becoming rare in
the fleet.
Something else nagged at him. In his father's time, things like coffee and
veal were common staples throughout the fleet. After the war, however, they
were unheard of. The Fleet's telling its captains that they were "free to
provision their own vessels as they see fit" was only a tacit admission that
the Fleet was unable to provide proper logistic support for its units, even in
peacetime.
The Empire of Man was going the way of the Romans, only this time there were
more than just new versions of Goths and Vandals. There were Saurons.
Sanchez felt his appetite begin to wane. He shook his head to clear his
thoughts. He refused to be cheated out of the enjoyment of good food by a
distant and probably nonexistent enemy.
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In the mess area, Sanchez found not only genuine veal, but real spices as
well. The usual glutamates were absent. In their place were parsley, basil,
rosemary and garlic.
Hans Kattinger floated near his acceleration chair on the bridge, feeling none
of the excitement he usually felt just prior to getting underway. He listened
calmly as Carl Hansen, the Maneuvering Watch
Officer-of-the-Deck, gave him the final routine message. "Sir, the ship is
stowed for maneuvering and acceleration. The Maneuvering Watch is set with all
hands accounted for, and we have Dock Control's permission to get underway."
"Very well. Take us out." Kattinger and Hansen strapped themselves
into their chairs. Kattinger noticed a monitor screen which showed the
curved surfaces of the planet below. Beneath the patterns of cloud were
various greens, blues and browns, mostly browns. Frystaat.
He reached out to touch the screen, tracing the length of coastline where he
lived.
"Now all hands brace for pitch maneuver," came over the announcing system.
Slowly, with barely perceptible movement, the planet's image began to rotate
on the screen. Kattinger barely heard the voice of Sigmund Besmann, the
Chief-of-the-Watch, speaking to Hansen. "Sir, Dock
Control reports the dry-dock has reached safe distance. The tugs have
completed the pitch maneuver and are ready to detach."
"Very well, detach tugs," said Hansen, following Kattinger's gaze to the
monitor.
Outside the ship, eight tugs, each basically a large fuel tank with a rocket
cluster and cockpit, released their mechanical hold on the grip flanges near
the ends of the ship and turned on small maneuvering jets.
Within minutes they had grouped up and followed the dry-dock to safe distance
from the Fledermaus.
On the bridge, Hansen waited until the tugs signaled their arrival
with the dock, then called the communications center. "Radio, Bridge.
Inform Dock Control that we are commencing the five-minute countdown to
departure burn."
"Bridge, Radio. Aye."
In the ensuing quiet on the bridge, Chief Besmann saw his captain staring at
one of the screens. The look in Kattinger's eyes confirmed what the chief and
most of the crew suspected. That something about this mission was wrong, very
wrong. "Captain," he said at last. "This is it. Isn't is?"
For several seconds the only sound was the vent fan whirring in the corner.
Kattinger twisted a knob by the screen, fading the picture to black. His voice
was a choked sigh. "Yes."
Sanchez crouched with his ear to a sixty-millimeter pipe labeled 'D I WATER.'
He pulled a spoon from his pocket and tapped the pipe three times. He was soon
answered by three faint taps from further down the line. "That's it," he said,
opening the door to the next compartment, "I think that's the whole system,
Lieutenant."
Lieutenant Johanna Dettering was one of the new officers sent by the
Viceroyal Council to exile aboard Fledermaus. She and Sanchez had just
finished tracing the ship's deionized water system. "Do you think we're ready
to get this signed off, sir?" she asked.
"Well, I think the only ones who can sign it are on watch or asleep, so we'll
have to wait. I'm going to the hydroponic section. How about you?"
"Oh, no sir," said Dettering. "I've been chasing quals all day. I've got to
get some sleep before I go on watch. Good night, sir."
"Good night."
Sanchez could not help looking at Dettering as she left the compartment. Only
on Frystaat could rock hard muscles look so good on a woman.
It's too late for you, old fellow, he told himself. About ten years too late.
Besides, she could probably twist you into a pretzel.
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Still, Sanchez had to admire her. Dettering was the only one of the new
officers who did not grumble at her new assignment. She seemed very
adaptable and openly enjoyed the challenge of ship qualification. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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