The deckplates start rumbling. Or perhaps they already were, and now it was just a higher tempo? Its not hard to understand what it means; the engine must be spooling up to full power. Departure from port, the long awaited beginning of an operation. The boat seems to hum in anticipation.
I stand there on the bridge, gazing out the viewport at Alster Shipyard. Alster, the very same place where the Unioners started their battles all those years ago. The same place that so many ships of the Rheinland Kriegsmarine were built, right alongside Oder. A vessel setting sail from this prestigious port ought to have a fanfare, especially since you could consider this its maiden voyage. Bottles of synth-champagne jettisoned on a collision course with the bow, a military band playing a triumphant march, dock workers waving, saying goodbye to their handiwork and offering well wishes for the fights to come.
But theres none of that. Its deathly quiet, even on the bridge. Nothing but the humming of that engine, the beating heart of this boat.
The Old Man is quiet. He stands there behind his command chair, both hands atop the headrest as if he were a perched bird. He, too, is looking at Alster, along the viewports where the waving people should be. But of course there are none.
This is not unusual. It was expected. Our boat is no ordinary ship of the line, nor is its mission any typical affair. The Commander knows this all too well; hes in charge of just about every part of it. Only he never chose to be; it is a forced role, therein lays the point where his authority means nothing.
But on this boat it means everything.
True, the Old Man knew what he was doing in the past, had a distinguished service record to prove it. Kapitanleutnant Wilhelm Metzler, once the commander of a gunboat wing in the Eighth Fleet, Hudson border. An old space dog if there ever was one; his appearance simply exudes the fact. Grizzled, his face creased in wrinkles, his eyes constantly broadcasting a sense of experience and understanding that the crew of the boat can only wonder about.
Nobody would guess that hed just turned thirty not too long ago. I become preoccupied with this single, harrowing thought.
Not much of a sendoff for us it seems, the Old Man says casually, to no one in particular. The navigator, Kressmann, glances over his shoulder in response, but the Old Man is lost in thought and doesnt notice. Confusion briefly crossing his features, the navigator turns back around and tends to his controls.
The Commander straightens his back and looks over at me, bemused. Ready to get underway, Herr Leutnant? he asks.
Its just a formality. On this trip Im nothing but an observer of sorts, not a member of the crew in any capacity, though Ill live off of the same supplies. I suddenly feel like a leech; surely I can help somewhere? But then again the point where Id have to lend a hand is not a pleasant place.
Jawohl, Herr Kaleun, I respond, Im eager to see what you and your men can do.
The Old Mans grin expands a bit before he shifts attention to the navigator. Mooring clamps clear, clearance from Alster control?
Seem so, Herr Kaleun, Kressmann replies without looking back. Hes still intently concentrated on the ships systems, wary of any abnormalities on any of the gauges hes supplied.
Good, the Commander says before turning full around and leaning over the shoulder of another crewman. This time its the communications officer, our resident Funker, Schaub. His station is just behind the bridge along the neck that extends back to the secondary airlock; the console is perpendicular to the rest of the ship, and he seems buried in all of the equipment he has to deal with.
The Old Man taps him on the shoulder once. Any word from Alster control?
Schaub looks back and nods. Jawohl, Herr Kaleun, they simply say Cleared to depart, stand firm for the Vaterland.
At that the Commander suppresses a snort and turns back around to me, an eyebrow raised. Standing firm? As if were standing around at all. He shakes his head and starts walking down the corridor, saying, Bet theyre under the impression were part of the defense fleet.
But the Old Man is intercepted on his way by the Chief Engineer. Just the man I wanted to see, he says aloud, Report.
The Chief throws a salute, but it seems rather lazy, casual. Thats right, the Chief has been with the Old Man for a long time already; he was transferred from their last ship to this one. Was that by the request of the Commander, or was the Chief forced as well? At least they seem friendly, so maybe the Old Man didnt drag him into this. Looks could be deceiving, though.
All in order, I can hear the Chief say, Engines running smooth as Ive ever seen, reactor one and two are stable. Managed to fix the battery for the port razor turret, no more fluctuations.
The Old Man nods thoughtfully. Your crew? He must mean the other engineers, the ones his friend has to deal with. Evidently the Chief and the Old Man are leftovers from the last boat, the rest of their comrades still among the ranks of the regular navy.
I look back around towards Alster, but can still hear the Chiefs sigh. Competent know things quick too quiet Theyre walking away. Some kind of last minute inspection tour?
Still quiet on the bridge. Petersen, the weapons officer off to the navigators right, snorts in what looks like an attempt to clear his nose. Failing that, he glances sideways at Kressmann, and assured that hes not looking brings his finger up to pick his nose.
Usually I should be annoyed by that. But Im not. Theres something about this whole trip that has the entire crew, including me, turned upside down. Im a war correspondent, or at least I was. Rank Leutnant in the Rheinwehr. Prim and proper, I have weight to throw around when I need to. But now?
Now Im some kind of spy. I was pulled out of normal work by the Intelligence division, the originator of this wonderfully suicidal mission scheme. Im their correspondent, a second point of view independent from the ships battle logs. By that logic I should be demanding, scrutinizing, prying, backstabbing. But I cant bring myself to be. Why not? Its my job isnt it? Go ahead, yell at the man for picking his nose, I think to myself.
The Chiefs words suddenly come back to me. Too quiet. What does that mean?
I can hear boots hitting the metal grating on their way back up the neck of the bridge. Naturally its the Old Man, his little inspection no doubt complete, the Chief back with his engine. He seems a little rushed; we were cleared already, after all. Maybe his talk with the Chief was that important to him? To each his own?
The Commander once more perches himself on the back of his chair and orders the navigator to move out. Kleine Fahrt voraus, to be more specific. Slow speed ahead, no need to have the ship rocket out from under us.
A slight lurch, and then were off. Incredible. No waving people, no band playing, hardly any crew speaking, just the humming and then a little lurch.
Our boat, Wolf Eins officially speaking, gracefully glides away from its mooring point. To any onlookers we missed, its just another military Gunboat going out on patrol. To the men inside, the story is completely different.
They were all briefed. Naturally specifics are limited to the Old Man, and maybe the Chief, and to some extent I, but in general the crew all knows. Were going deep into Liberty, deeper than any other ship has since the Nomad Wars. We have no fancy cloaking device; they know were at war and that well probably be coming. Well have no allies for hundreds of lightyears.
Will we make it back to Alster in the end? That feeling hangs in the air, almost chokes me, as Im sure it does the others, staring out their viewports on the upper decks, or the bridge crew and comms officer staring out from the bridge.
I look to the Old Man. Amazing, he has no expression. Is he fighting off anxiety? Does he have any feeling at all right now? Maybe his mind is in another place? But we need his mind here.
Alster slides out of view. Now there is nothing but stars, and the faint glow of Planet Hamburg in the distance. Were on our way.