TGS snippet 6

Woops! I meant to post a snippet yesterday, but this sinus migraine has had me under the weather. It's down to a dull roar now (but by no means completely gone, grr) so I'm at least functional.

Anyway, sitrep, still piddling along with the second story in Semper Fidelis. The last Suqi test was nasty. I give up... for now.
   In other news, I am printing parts for my reindeer project. Common parts I can print, but my printer won't let me print trays as I'd planned. If I try to print more than 2 parts at a time it mucks it up. I'm peeved over that. It means printing 2 parts at a time, then plug the laptop in, and do it again over and over... There are 70+ parts in each of the 8 reindeer as of the latest version, printing 2 at a time... you do the math. And that's just the innards...

On to the snippet!:

  Note: Still in chapter 5. I want to get up to Elvira's introduction, but I dunno if we'll get there. We should be seeing TGS back from Goodlifeguide.com anytime now...

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Captain Couglin set a tablet down as he read the latest situation report from his XO. His XO had his hands full dealing with Executioner's damage, but that didn't stop the captain from helping out here and there. After all, they needed everyone since they were shorthanded.

He was bitterly unhappy but more or less resigned to seeing the damage and hasty repairs on his ship. He would never had accepted such repairs before leaving the home star system. No, they had no choice. He had never had a wounded ship to deal with before; it was a new and very unwanted experience to have to endure. Battle Fleet had never been in a proper battle after all, just endless simulations that never quite got it right it seemed. He snorted softly to himself. There was no reset, no slipped plans to read, no scripted battle to perform. Not only had they been in a real battle, but several, and they'd gotten their asses thoroughly chewed in the last one. All the while retreating, which was a humiliation all in itself.

It was a harsh experience to have to deal with. Dealing with the damage was almost as bad as the logistics and morale issues. He couldn't bear to visit the wounded, though he'd seen it his duty to do so at least once. He'd kept his stomach strong as he walked through the rows, but by the end, even his resolution had wavered a bit. It was one thing to see such things on the VID screen or hear about them through second or third hand, quite another to see it in person. He'd seen sadism, sat through a couple of arena games, but it was quite appalling to see your own people hurt—people you served with, people who you needed. To see the shock and horror on their faces, the missing limbs, the lost looks … it was harsh.

The smells alone clogged his sinuses enough to make him want to gag. The heart-tearing looks and soft sounds haunted him for days and nights afterward, making an already difficult task of sleeping almost impossible. Fortunately, the admiral had authorized all of their critically injured personnel to be shipped out in the worst of the crippled ships.

Getting them out of the line of fire also got them out of sight and therefore, temporarily out of mind. There was too much to do, too many things to fix and not a lot of time, personnel, or resources to do it with.

But, it had to be done. Another defeat was not an option in his book he vowed grimly.

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Commander Berney Yashanaka shook his head as he took stock. He was tired beyond belief, but there was some progress made. How much good it would do he wasn't certain.

There were twelve warships left: six tin cans, two heavy cruisers, the two battle cruisers Demeantor and Unconquered, the carriers Nimitz, and Executioner. And every one of them had been damaged to varying degrees. They had two couriers, two tankers, two empty munitions ships, and two Marine transports in the fleet train, plus the resupply convoy of two freighter colliers and two escorting tin cans.

Admiral De Gaulte had detached one courier to race ahead with the news of the disastrous battle. Berney had to admit, he wasn't certain he would have slavishly upheld his duty with that sort of news. But, he had to admit the empire needed to know and every moment was now precious. The fleet train had confirmed the little ship had passed through and jumped onward a week prior to their arrival.

So, that was something at least. He knew his career was most likely toast, but for the moment, he didn't care.

With the two fresh tin cans, their warship numbers had increased slightly. Their speed remained the same; they were moving at their best speed for the jump point while also simultaneously trying to make what repairs they could. Needless to say, things were a bit rushed in the heat of the moment.

One of the two colliers had offloaded a single squadron of fighters onto Nimitz. That was it. They barely had enough pilots to man all of the planes. He had just finished polling the fleet for any additional fighters or pilots. None had been found.

They had dealt with the dead in hyperspace, so he had one less chore to handle. He yawned and then stretched. He needed to get some sack time. He was punch drunk with fatigue, and he knew it. The admiral himself had ordered him to get a minimum of four hours rack time. Most of the staff were in the same boat he was in. Stress was taking its toll on everyone, and nerves and tempers were frayed.

They were just about done cleaning out the fleet train, which was none too soon since they were a day away from jumping out. As soon as the ships were empty, he knew the admiral would detach them to race on ahead. There was no point keeping them with the fleet, and the sooner they got to where they could get fresh supplies, the sooner they could haul them back to the fleet. He fought the itch to check the fleet status. Instead he pulled his stinking shirt off and tossed it in the general vicinity of his hamper and then climbed into his rack with a groan. His thumb reached out blindly behind his head until it found the switch and then the lights blissfully went off. He sighed softly and then did his best to close his eyes and rest.

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Lieutenant Commander Sedrick Lovato had never been more tired in his life, nor unsure of the future, both for himself and his career as well as for the Empire. That bothered him a lot more than he was usually willing to admit or show.

Berney, Catherine, and the admiral put on a good show for everyone else. But, as staff intelligence officer he knew just how big a crack they were in. If he didn't his last skull session with Lieutenant Myron Chekov, the staff tactical officer had confirmed it. They'd spent hours going over all of the sensor data that had been pulled from every ship in the fleet. They had poured over every byte to squeeze out as much as they could for the admiral. They hit the usual points he wanted to know, but he'd come up with more questions for them to answer.

Hopefully, they'd answered some of them. Some he was fretfully aware he couldn't answer. Like how quickly the enemy could reinforce. Nor how fast they could repair the damaged ships. The Sword of Retribution Fleet, and wasn't that a laughable title now! He shook his head as a fresh wave of bitterness threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn't afford the luxury of wallowing in self-pity and anger. No, not when he had a job to do.

The only member of the staff who was dithering as much as he and Myron were was Lieutenant Jeremy Herod, the staff navigator. He was focused on trying to squeeze as much efficiency out of the fleet as they could for their next trip in hyper, but he was well aware of the damage. Privately, Sedrick was certain they'd only pick up an octave at best. Some ships might even lose an octave as some of their engineers scared themselves with their damage assessments. He'd heard the stories of some of the jury rigging going on throughout the tattered fleet. He shuddered every time he wondered if such things were happening on Executioner.

Hopefully not, his personal survival was riding on the safety of the ship in hyperspace.

The battle had been a slaughter. Weeks had passed since it, and he had been over it many times. He had yet to find any fault in the decisions Cyrano had made. Oh, the man had made a few mistakes, as had the staff, but none critical. Nothing he could say they had overlooked or screwed up. They'd been caught in the works. Not that he expected the brass back home to care. They'd hang them all for failing anyway.

That was not a thought conductive to sleep he knew.

Nor had he found anything in monitoring the staff's discussions. He couldn't do it personally, not while he was swamped, but a cursory look at the word pattern search had yielded little to bring to his true lord and master's attention.

He was also aware of political implications of the loss of Archangel with Crown Prince Adam Ramichov, the battle cruiser's XO, as well as the loss of Star Mauler with Prince Mason Ramichov on board. Suddenly, the succession had changed drastically.

Sedrick grimaced internally at the internal calculus that was entered into his own plans for the future. He was supposed to be watching Catherine for any signs of trouble or disloyalty. He had a healthy respect for the woman but hadn't seen much sign of her scheming. Now, he wasn't certain what to do or where his loyalties should ultimately lie. He realized he should put such considerations aside. After all, they had a wounded fleet to deal with and a victorious enemy bearing down on them.

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