Chapter 18 – Naval Engagements

The arrival of the City of Bangkok was more than just an opportunity for hilarity at the name; for Samantha, it was a chance to check out her station in the new Planetary Control Centre, hidden deep under an otherwise anonymous Martello some distance from Camp Shackleton.

No sooner had the young Civil Service cadet taken her station than the controller reported six contacts. Pinging the IFF quickly revealed not only the anticipated CSS City of Bangkok, but also brand-new Patrician corvettes Key Largo and Montego Bay, Aurora-class transports Kon Tiki and Lucky Break, and a Stagecoach-class fast freighter, CSS Dray.

“Someone has a sense of humour,” observed Colonel Deschenes.

“Sir?” enquired the duty officer, nervously.

In response, the Colonel pointed with his matte white pace stick to the names and hull numbers of the ships of this tiny but significant fleet approaching his colony. CSS Lucky Break boasted hull number AP013.

The communications techs were suddenly inundated with traffic from the six ships, but one voice cut through the clutter with clarity and command. “This is Admiral Vincent Van De Graaf, Commander of Fleet Operations for Sector 12. Would Colonel Michael Deschenes be available?”

“Admiral, this is Colonel Deschenes. Welcome to the colony of Thule.”

“Thank you, Governor. We have things to discuss. Can I meet with your senior Civil Service officer and your facilities engineer, say over lunch?”

The Colonel made an appointment at the Officers' Club for 12:30 hours, and shortly afterwards left. Lieutenant Carruthers, on the other hand, stuck around. It turned out that the AIs on the vessels above were not terribly interested in discussing with a lowly Lieutenant matters that were not in his purview, but recognized the far-junior-ranked Optio Redburn as a Very Important Someone.

“Well?” Carruthers demanded of the teen.

“As we feared, but at least no worse. Apparently all but four are the households of the crews on the corvettes, both the ones we've been seeing scouting around the area and those two new ones. There are 192 pods with at least double that number of concubines and four times that number of kiddies, almost all the dependants being under four.”

“Any strange creatures we should be wary of?” asked Carruthers, still gun-shy from the incident with the Pet Pods.

“Apparently not. Oh, wait – there is one.”

“Just one?” asked the suddenly nervous engineer.

“Yes, a big grouchy old bear, standing about a foot from me, wears lieutenant's bars... you might want to watch out for him, he could be trouble.” She looked at him.

“Cute, Little One. Very cute.”

“As long as you're still thinking that I'm cute when I'm screaming your name on my birthday.” They both looked to the corner of the display, where the countdown clock now read: Four Weeks, Six Days.

Samantha, resplendent in dress grey, met Lieutenant Carruthers, similarly attired in his dress Marine uniform, on the front steps of the Officers' Club. The AI advised them that no, they weren't late, but that the Admiral was waiting for them in the Igloo Lounge, a small intimate dining room for lunch meetings with VIPs like the Admiral.

Admiral Van De Graaf was impressive: tall, slender, with just a touch of grey at his temples – undoubtedly chosen by design to look older and more commanding. His jet-black uniform was immaculate, and his mannerism was that of someone who could command a mountain to move with the fair expectation that it would – but preferred to let the mountain think it was bestowing a favour upon a close friend.

The concubine taking their order was redheaded, well-endowed and dressed in a pair of leather sandals. She started with their drinks: a Bronx for the Colonel, martinis for the Admiral and Lieutenant Carruthers, and an appletini mocktail for the only member of the party too young for alcohol during working hours. They made polite “how-was-your-trip” type conversation with the Admiral as the drinks were served, and for a few minutes while everyone tucked into replicator-style steak Diane, duchess potatoes and glazed carrots, conversation was sparse and concentrated mostly on the Admiral's questions about how the Marines were coming in their training.

Finally, the plates were cleared and the post-luncheon coffeepot placed in the centre of the table for all to help themselves. The serving concubine made herself scarce so that the Quality could discuss important matters of state in relative privacy.

After the door closed behind the nubile and highly decorative young woman, the Admiral turned to his three dining companions and quickly got down to business.

“I was unaware that the senior Civil Service officer was so young. An Optio? That's the equivalent of an Officer Cadet. That makes you what, thirteen?”

“Yes, Sir, Admiral, Sir. I arrived with the first draft of Marine recruits – my father is a sergeant now – and when we discovered upon arrival that no Civil Service officer had yet been assigned to Thule, I volunteered.”

“So you're not covering for a full-rank officer who is on manoeuvres? You're on your own here?” The Admiral was impressed.

He was even more impressed with her reply. She could have taken full credit, but didn't. “It's been made much easier by the support of Colonel Deschenes, Sir, both in his position as Brigade Commander and in his position as Governor, and by the co-operation of every officer and NCO in the system. A Civil Service NCO will be visiting each pod and welcoming the newcomers, finding out what kind of sponsor they've got and if there are any problems I need to know about.”

“The Civil Service doesn't have NCO's,” the Admiral observed tartly.

“No, Sir,” agreed Samantha smoothly. “However, the new recruits don't know that, and by the time they find out they've been bowing and scraping to their future sergeants' and corporals' straw bosses dressed in Civil Service grey uniforms, it's a little late to get outraged.”

The Admiral snorted in delight. “Perfect! I can see how that works. Colonel, I'll order the Navy NCOs to make their lead concubines available to the Civil Service for such duties when necessary. If I'm not available, you as Planetary Governor can make the call.” He turned to Carruthers. “And how is Scott Base coming along?”

That was a far less pleasant topic, but Carruthers didn't need any excuses. “When we found you were heading here early, we put all planet-side construction effort on the base. The corridors where your pods will be stationed are in, as is each neighbourhood centre – a pair of pods that provides some small recreational area to about fifty families. It also contains a transport nexus station. Your actual command zone isn't ready, so we've borrowed a backup command and control centre under a nearby Martello as temporary facilities. The domed area itself is a week from completion, and will take another week after that before you can walk around it everywhere without having to dress in a parka.”

The Admiral nodded approvingly – his trip had been sprung on him and everyone else at the very last moment, so it was no surprise the complete base wasn't ready, but at least it seemed operational. “Well, let me tell you what I know and what I can surmise from the Ferret Forest.” At Samantha's look of puzzlement, he explained, “Earthat Command.” He cleared his voice and took a sip of his rapidly-cooling coffee. “We're looking at this as the potential for a spearhead through their line of advance, to pincer them and hopefully isolate them into two groups – the older hives that are already dying from exhaustion of their resources, and the newer ones along their route of travel. With that in mind, we'll add to the naval presence here with PC's and an attack fleet. The PC fleet will start with a dozen boats, and they want them up to 48 within a year. Each Tarawa can take a battalion – we'll start with three by the time your last draft is trained up, so we can take half the brigade on a single hop, then move up gradually to eighteen, with screening ships on top of that.”

“Eighteen? Are we growing to divisional strength?” It was the first that Michael had heard of it, but it did make sense.

“Probably within a year. Right now, you're considered the logical commanding officer for the Division, which means promotions all round when it's confirmed.” He glowered at each person present meaningfully. “Word of this must not leave this room. I shouldn't need to tell you what the impact on morale will be if the situation changes and we end up leaving the 12th Brigade at its current strength. But the Facilities Engineer needs to make plans based on worst-case scenarios, as does the Civil Service officer.”

Both Carruthers and Samantha nodded and gulped.

The Admiral wasn't quite finished. “I know that the last freighter delivered a ground-based and a space-based fabrication facility. The freighter Dray is carrying two more, one of each again. Their instructions are to build nothing but more of themselves, which will help you tremendously. Their production will in turn make the tanks and ships that you'll need to take the fight to the Sa'arm. Plus, Optio Redburn, I was asked to bring along a present for the colony, courtesy of the Office of Targeted Extractions.”

All three officers blanched. Samantha explained, “The last two 'presents' had a rap sheet the length of my pace stick, a fairly low CAP score, and gang tattoos everywhere.”

“Oh, this is a sponsor,” came the comforting reply. “But it was imperative that he leave Earth soonest to get his cargo here before it was injured, so we sent him forward on the fast freighter. He's Jacques Villers, a vintner from the Rhone Valley. His wife – now his concubine – and the rest of his loved ones are heading out on a K'treel explorer ship, along with any other goodies that Tribune Whitefeather can cook up. He left so quickly, we were unable to detail him a pod.”

“Palatable wine would be a nice change from the cleaning fluid you normally get from the replicators...” ventured the Colonel. Nobody else in the room knew it, but back on Earth the Colonel and his wife were connoisseurs of fine wines.

“So I need a pod for this man... say, what about his CAP score? Does he need more concubines?” Carruthers could see tons of complications.

“One of his concubines is his former wife,” the Admiral reminded the base engineer. “She, their dependant-aged kids – a son and a daughter, twins I understand – and another concubine with her three kids are all coming here as fast as Tribune Whitefeather can find a vessel. For now, he's happy to comfort some of the women in your brothel.” The Admiral cocked an eyebrow at the youngster who would be the one running the colony's brothel. “You DO have a brothel, don't you?”

“Oh, yes. You should come over for lunch some time,” Michael joked as Samantha turned a vivid crimson. “It's an experience not to be missed. Bring the family.”

She gave Michael a dirty look, and turned back to the Admiral. “He's here all week. Try the veal,” she recommended, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

At that moment, an eleven-year-old boy was looking up into the concerned eyes of a Marine sergeant, having just regained consciousness. The sergeant had volunteered some of his limited off-duty time to coach basketball in the school gym, and was concerned lest this little incident get back to the sponsor of this boy.

“Are you OK, son?”

The boy blinked.

“What were you looking at? You weren't paying attention, or you would have caught that ball with your hands rather than your head.”

He shook his head, glanced over at a knot of five girls, who were all sitting in the stands and looking at him with concern. This was not how he wanted to get the attention of the one with the long black hair. Not cool, not cool at all.

The sergeant wasn't blind. He saw where the boy's eyes went. “OK, so who were you looking at?” The lad blushed red, and the sergeant's voice grew conspiratorial. “Is she cute?” He blushed even redder. Yes, realized the sergeant, one of those five 11-year-old girls. God help us all if it's that one.