They were to be made as combat-worthy as possible, immediately. Sten's surviving techs, highly experienced at improvisation, would be assigned to the Swampscott.
Just assigned the cruiser, Sten wondered? And he also wondered if he would get an explanation.
Mahoney was about to give him one, when van Doorman spoke for the first time. "General, this man is still under my command. I'd prefer..."
Mahoney stared at the haggard naval officer, then nodded and exited.
Van Doorman leaned against the side of a desk, staring into emptiness. His voice was nearly a monotone. "The problem we all seem to face, Commander, is that the older we get, the less we like things to change."
Sten thought he was beyond surprise—but he was wrong.
"I was very proud of my fleet. I knew that we didn't have the most modern equipment, and that because we were so far from the Empire we didn't always get the finest sailors. But I knew that we were a strong fighting force.
"Yes," van Doorman mused. "It's obvious I thought a lot of things. So when a young flash shows up and tells me that all I have are spit-and-polish marionettes, and my command structure is rigid, bureaucratic, obsolete, and blind, I did not take kindly to that officer."
"Sir, I never said—"
"Just your presence was sufficient," van Doorman said, a slight note of anger entering his voice. "I have made it a rule to never apologize, Commander. And I do not propose to alter that rule. However. The reason I want you, and whatever's left of your command, assigned to the Swampscott is that I know the Tahn will hit us hard when we attempt to withdraw with those liners. I assume heavy casualties. Very likely including myself."
A safe assumption, Sten thought.
"I have appointed you as weapons officer of the Swampscott. According to the conventional chain of command, you would be fourth in charge, under the XO, the navigating officer, and the engineering officer. This is not a time for convention," van Doorman went on, his voice flat once more. "I have informed all appropriate officers that, in the event of my being incapacitated, you are to assume command of the Swampscott.
"Very good, Commander. I was wondering if I would be able to penetrate your poker face.
"The reason is that I no longer have any faith whatsoever in those officers I chose to promote to their present position. I think I selected them more for their social compatibility and sycophancy than command ability. And I am not sure that any of them can handle crisis adequately. Do you understand?"
"Yessir."
"I have also informed Commander Halldor that, even though he has a certain amount of time in grade over you, if I become a casualty you are to assume command of my fleet.
"My fleet," van Doorman said in mild wonderment. "Two DDs, one museum piece, and a hulk.
"Those are your orders, Commander. I assume if I survive the withdrawal, I shall face a general court-martial. Very well. Perhaps it is warranted. But I am not going to end my career with total defeat. Make sure the Swampscott is fought like a combat ship, and not some tired old man's private toy." Van Doorman's voice broke, and he turned his back on Sten.
Sten came to attention, the interview evidently ended.
"Oh, Commander. One more thing. Personal. My daughter sends her greetings."
"Thank you, sir. How is Brijit doing?"
"She is still healthy. Still working with her new... friend." His next words were nearly inaudible. "Another thing I shall never understand."
Sten, with nothing to say, saluted the old man's back and got out.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The four ships that were now the 23rd Fleet had gone underground along with the troops and the civilians. The two destroyers were hidden about two kilometers apart in a widened subway tunnel. The picket ship was camouflaged in a ruined hangar. But the ponderous Swampscott had been more difficult to hide.
Sten wondered if the engineer who had come up with the Swampscott's eventual hiding place was still alive. He would like to have bought the man a beer or six—if there was still any beer in Cavite City.
Two of the massive bomb craters from the Tahn attack on Empire Day had been widened, deepened, concrete-floored, and connected. Under cover of night, electronic masking, and a probe by a Guards battalion, the Swampscott was moved into those craters. The hole was then roofed with lightweight beams, and a skin was sprayed over them. Plas was then poured and configured to exactly resemble the craters. None of the Tahn surveillance satellites or overflights by their spy ships spotted the change.
Sten figured that he would probably have carte blanche when he reported to the Swampscott. He was right. His immediate superiors, van Doorman's appointees, surmised that Sten was the new man and, true benders and scrapers, believed that his every thought was a general order.
Sten carefully scattered the survivors of his own command through every department of the Swampscott. If the drakh came down—and Sten agreed with van Doorman that it would—at least there would be one or two reliable beings he could depend on in every section.
He moved the combat information center, which was also the secondary command location and his duty station, from its location in the second, rearmost "pagoda." He buried it deep in the guts of the ship, finding a certain amount of satisfaction in taking over what had previously been the Swampscott's officers' dining room.
He also suggested—which became an order—to van Doorman's executive officer that perhaps the ship might be stripped for combat. Somehow, the Swampscott still had its beautiful wooden paneling, ruminant-hide upholstery, and fine and flammable dining gear in officers' country.
The loudest objections, of course, came not from the officers but from their flunkies. Sten gleefully reassigned the waiters, bartenders, and batmen from their lead-swinging positions to the undermanned gun sites.
This was a great deal of fun for Sten—until he remembered that sooner or later this hulk would have to go into combat. He estimated that the Swampscott would last for four seconds in battle against a Tahn cruiser. Half that, if they were unfortunate enough to face the Forez or Kiso.
But he had to take his satisfactions where he could get them.
Sten had, at General Mahoney's request, detached Kilgour and put him as coordinator of civilian movement.
When—and if—the liners showed up, they would have only moments on the ground to load the refugees. And both Mahoney and van Doorman agreed that in this area, there was no room for either ego or proper precedent.
Therefore, Kilgour was ordered into civilian clothes and officially given the rank of deputy mayor of Cavite City. Whoever had held that post previously had either died or disappeared, as had the mayor himself.
Kilgour wondered why he had so much support—certain officers and noncoms of the First Guards had been put under his command. Neither he nor anyone else in the Guards—beyond Mahoney's own chief of staff and the heads of his G-sections—knew that Mahoney was systematically stripping his best out of the division to be sent to safety as cadres for the new unit.
And no one except Ian Mahoney knew that their command general was about to violate orders from the Emperor and stay behind on Cavite to die with the remnants of his division.
At first Kilgour thought it would be a hoot to have vastly higher-ranked officers under his command. The hoot was there, but a very minor part of his job.