Rend

by roadrodent60

A couple of centuries into the future, the 7th star navy fleet is attacked by an alien fleet. The survivors limp home where a long gone set of skills are needed. Skills that two unlikely mammals have.

Rendering Honors

Note: All institutions develop traditions. The longer those institutions exist, the more traditions they have and the more entrenched they become. This is especially true with any military organization.

Year 2268:

The Terran Seventh Fleet was on the edge of known space preforming military maneuvers and doing some mapping and exploration when they were ambushed by a fleet of ships of an unknown alien race. The aliens had the advantage of tactical surprise and a numerical advantage of nearly two to one so they had reason to believe that victory would be theirs. The dogged determination of the main and screening ship crews and the fearless, bordering on wild, attack runs by the Avenger attack fighters (the space equivalent of a torpedo bomber) were reminiscent of Taffy 3's WW II battle of Leyte Gulf in 1944. As the fighters delivered their shoals of attack drones against the alien ships, the Terran capital ships poured relentless hellfire from their main and secondary weapons into one enemy ship after another. As the battle progressed, the aliens came to understand that the children of Terra well and goodly deserved their terribly deadly reputation! Almost four hours later, the surviving alien ships broke off and fled, leaving the field of battle, and victory, to the Terrans. But victory has its cost, paid in destroyed and battered ships and dead, missing, and injured crew. There is no time to mourn the lost, only time to do emergency repairs, recover survivors, and attend to the wounded. Some one hundred hours after the last shots were fired the remnants of the Seventh turn their bows towards Sol and set course for home.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Terran Space Navy shipyard at Sol 3 i.e. Earth, Yard command center, Yard Commander's office:

"…surviving ships of the Seventh Fleet have arrived in system and we have reports that as much as one-third of the fleet's vessels have been destroyed in the attack and that all other ships have damage ranging from moderate to heavy with losses of Avenger fighters pegged at more than sixty percent. While we do not have any official figures on crew losses it is expected to be high, perhaps close to fifty percent!" stated the moose woman news anchor.

"Keep talking, you idiot!" growled the gray squirrel naval officer. "If the enemy is tapped in on this, you and yours are telling them everything they want to know!"

Vice Admiral Harrison Thomas, like a good many in the military, didn't have much of a good opinion of the news types. They were always interested in their ratings and had little problem putting out any sensitive or classified information they got hold of to get even a slight boost in those all-important ratings.

"Humph, is it any wonder that military commanders from William T. Sherman to today regard reporters as spies and would dearly love to execute them as such!" Thomas groused to himself.

That wasn't quite the whole "picture", as the admiral knew. There were times that the newshounds were useful but it seemed that the damage they did in revealing classified info. outweighed the useful part most of the time. As the anchorette droned on he looked down at the hard copy sheet on his desk. It was a two page report on the 7th's ship and crew losses plus damages and injuries…and MIAs.

"A lot of doors being knocked on right about now," he murmured with a sad shake of his head. "I don't envy the folks in chaplain services one bit!"

The other thing that bothered him was that the anchorette's "estimates" pretty much matched the figures in his report; leaked by some politician as a hoped for political advantage, he guessed.

"If they declare formal war that will, hopefully, come to an end or, at least, we'll see some executions as a result."

The last part was, likely, wishful thinking but he could dream! The "cheep" of his intercom interrupted his thoughts.

"Yes?" he said at the image of his secretary on his screen.

"Sir, Senior Councilman Crockett online for you," Mrs. Sims, a ferret fem, informed him.

"Put him through!" he replied.

Contact from the top political official of the Terran Federation was, in Thomas' experience, always interesting, not always good, but interesting. The image of the somewhat grizzled looking male skunk came up on the screen.

"Greetings, admiral," he said.

"Hello, senior councilman. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just letting you know that the funds to repair the 7th's ships and to build replacements for those lost have been approved. We'll be working on funding for construction of additional ships to supplement the fleets tomorrow."

"That was quick!" the squirrel officer observed.

A sly grin and look of wicked amusement appearing on the skunk's face told Thomas that something else was coming.

"And those funds you've requested for upgrades and modifications for your shipyards have been authorized as well."

"What?! All of them?!" exclaimed the surprised yard commander.

"Yes, even for the eleven new docks and support facilities for them. And there's 490 billion credits set aside for 'sudden emergency' projects as well."

"I…I've been pushing for those funds for years! What happened that….?"

Thomas fell silent at the Councilman's open mouthed grin and his crafty expression.

"Let's just say that in the confusion of near panic that there are opportunities to slide stuff by without folks really noticing what they are!" the elder skunk said in a conspiratorial tone.

"I'll take it!" the squirrel said, happily.

The admiral's pleased state fled at the sight of the sudden change on the councilman's face, one of seriousness.

"Admiral, I know about the Navy tradition of ships docking on their own but all, I repeat, all ships are to be docked and under repair within eight hours of the fleet's arrival. Those that need to be towed in are to be towed; no stalling, NO excuses! Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Adm. Harrison replied.

After the councilman's image vanished from the screen Harrison's eyes went back to the papers of the report. Information included in them was of the ships whose self-docking systems were utterly wrecked and wouldn't be ready even if they had a month of out-of-dock work done on them. He knew that they weren't going to….

"There is a space navy tradition that says that any ship that can still move under its own power should dock on its own. As at least several of the surviving ships will be unable to do so because their docking systems are totally destroyed they will have to be towed into dock. This is considered a kind of failure and a black mark against the ship and its crew," he heard the anchorette say.

After a few seconds pause Harrison cut loose with a streak of swearing that drew from all of his 60 some years of life experience!

"The whole damned fleet heard that!" he bellowed at the end. "Thanks for making my job damned near impossible!"

Shipyard communications and control center:

"Commander Myers!"

"Yes?"

"The destroyer Hammann has put in a request for a pilot and guide team to dock their ship!" stated a communications tech.

"They want a…what?!" the raccoon officer asked.

The cervine woman pulled a sheet out of her printer and then handed it to her commander. After he read it she saw an unfocused expression come to his face.

"Hmmmmm, there hasn't been such a team in several decades," he murmured to himself.

As much aware of the docking tradition as any long term Navy man, Meyers knew of the detrimental effect on the already beat up crews if they were towed into dock. Add to that that it would be a blot on the ships' records for as long as they existed, making them less desirable to serve on. Furiously, his mind raced about to try to come up with an answer that just didn't seem to be there. Then….

"Launch a data search to find any of the old docking pilots and guides!" he ordered. "We'll see if we can get any of them up here in time to do something for at least a few of the ships!"

"That's a forlorn hope," his cold Logic said. "Even if you got them here in time they are forty plus years out of practice. And then, there's the issue of certification…"

The 'certification' word sparked something.

"Add another data search! Check the skills records of everyone, and I do mean everyone, in the yard! Match them up against the required skills for both docking pilot and guide!" he commanded.

"Admiral on deck!" someone called out.

"I'll be talking to the Old Man! If that search turns up anything bring it to me immediately!"

"Docking pilot? Guide?" inquired a rabbit doe petty officer.

"Yes, here it is," said the white-tailed deer doe, Debra Lawsan. "Docking pilot is a means of last resort to manually, very manually, dock a vessel. The guide is to give visual cues to assist in the docking."

"'Last teams deactivated and slots for them removed 52 years ago due to lack of need'," the lapine read over her colleague's shoulder.

"They became obsolete, like the landing deck guys on the old wet navy aircraft carriers in the mid twentieth century," the cervine fem said.

"With more than half a century gone by, are these ships, and the docks, even equipped for this anymore?" the rabbit asked.

After launching the skills search for the commander, Debra setup another one and got results for it in just a few seconds. Her screen displayed two pictures; one was the aft end of a heavy cruiser while the other was an inside side of one of the docks. There was a circle around a place on the cruiser, a pod of some sort, shaped like a football with its ends cut away that was tucked in an indentation in the starboard side of the ship very close to its stern. The circle in the dock picture showed some kind of platform folded up against one side of the dock.

"To date, all ships retain the docking pod, with its controls. And that platform is the guide's position. According to the information, all the docks still have them and the platforms have all their docking aids still in place. Even the software for the pilot and the guide is still loaded up on the ships and the docks."

"Almost like they knew they might need it again," observed the lapin.

"Well, all the technical stuff isn't any good if you don't have the mammals to make it work! And that is the big stopper…"

An authoritative "cheep" sounded from her station as the hard copy printer spat out a couple of pages.

"…are grasping at straws, commander! We both know there are no more of those teams available!" Harrison said.

"I've got my people running data searches for any of the old pairs plus a cross check to see if there is anyone in the yard with comparable skills! Give us a bit to see what we might turn up!" pled Myers.

"Commander, I sympathize with your sentiment. Those crews have been through enough without having this…indignity heaped upon them. But, the orders are quite clear on their being docked and under repair within eight hours! And with the fleet pulling in in a matter of minutes not only would you have to have your team but they have to be literally 'on hand' to have any chance of docking all of the ships that need them!"

"Sir, even if a few of them could be brought in by a team that would…."

"Sir!" petty officer Lawsan interrupted as she handed him the hardcopy.

The raccoon did a quick scan of the sheets, and then, amazed at what he'd read, handed them to the Admiral.

"A stores keeper?! A supply 'puke'?!" Harrison stated, incredulously.

"With documentation of all the skills of the pilot," pointed out Meyers.

"All on simulators, no real…'hands on' training or experience!" the Admiral threw back.

"Sir, these simulators are so realistic that the crews that train in them get their flight pay just as if they flew the real thing! I'd like it better if he had real world experience but he's what we have and he's here in the yard!"

In his mind, the commander wondered…hoped, it was a prophetic omen that the mammal in question was, even now, on board the Hammann, delivering some supplies.

"Look, even if I were to accept this he's only half the team! Without the guide the whole point is mo…."

Lawsan appeared by her commander's side once more and handed him another set of papers. Quickly, he scanned through…then, more slowly, read through them again. When done, he handed the papers to the admiral for his inspection. Like the commander, he looked them over twice. In that time another paper was slipped into the commander's hand. He gave it a quick look over and repressed a smile that tried to come to his face.

"I'm not sure I can believe this!" Harrison said, at last. "How in the hell could this sailor be trained as a guide, let alone receive certification?!"

Meyers handed the paper he held to his superior officer who, in turn, read it.

Manual docking pod, Destroyer Hammann:

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I can 'fly' it but, without a guide, I've got about a 20% risk of crashing into some part of the dock. And the larger the ship the more that risk increases," stated Grey.

He was seated in the docking pilot's pod with his hands on the joystick controls, something he had wanted to do ever since he'd been a kid. Having delivered the parts shipment he had brought to the destroyer he was almost to his shuttle craft when one of the ship's senior NCOs intercepted him.

"Come with me," he said.

"To where?" asked Grey.

"You'll see," was the answer.

The trip through the ship was a visual education in damage control and on the spot repairs and towards the end of their route they had to seal up their suits because that part of the ship was open to hard space. The chief stopped at a hatchway, broke the cover over an activation lever, and then yanked the lever. The hatch opened and Grey's heart rate picked up because he knew where the crawl tunnel behind that hatch went.

"You first, son," said the chief.

Holding on to his excitement, the stores keeper crawled into and then through the tunnel and into the pod that, until now, he had only seen in holographic displays.

"Take the seat, seaman," came the order over the comm. link.

He was already in the seat when the chief's helmeted head appeared out of the tunnel. A tap on the lower right corner of the flat vid screen brought it to life, allowing him to see out along the starboard side of the ship to the dock that was about a couple of kilometers past the bow. With that on, he, then, brought his eyes up to look out of the window for the 'real world' point of view.

"Well, what do you think?" asked the chief.

Dock # 4-17:

As the airlock went through its depressurization cycle the platform about a hundred meters below it folded down from the wall. Once down three rings, spaced some 10 meters apart from one another, folded upwards from the floor. They had a diameter of about 15 meters and were set in a straight line along the long axis of the platform. Some three meters past the last ring was a raised platform a touch over two meters high. Now, this "stage" was ready, all that remained was for the "player" to arrive.

The cycle complete, the shudder style hatch "blinked" open and, in a few seconds, someone dressed in a hard vacuum suit emerged from the hatch opening and descended, feet first, towards the waiting platform. Their arms were folded across their chest with each gloved hand gripping a seven meter long day glow orange colored "wand" that had been retrieved from the museum deck.

Destroyer Hammann:

"…it's a nice thought and I'd dearly love to do it, but…" said Grey.

"Seaman Grey, this is the yard command center, do you read us?!"

"Roger, command, read you five by five!" came the answer.

"You are hereby field promoted to the rank of lieutenant j.g. (junior grade)! Your promotion, and certification as an emergency docking pilot, have been entered into the records! Your guide is on deck!"

Grey's eyes canted downwards to the vid screen just in time to see the hard suited figure land on that small raised platform behind, relative to his position, the guide rings.

"You are authorized and cleared to bring the Hammann into dock!"

It took the passage of a few heartbeats, and a quick records check, for Grey to realize that this was not a joke!

"Clear out, chief, this has to be done without any distraction!" the newly minted officer commanded.

"I'm gone!" he said, and was.

Grey synced his suit communications unit with the one in the pod.

"Bridge, this is the docking pilot. Requesting the Captain's permission to maneuver the ship for docking!" he said.

"Pilot Grey, you have permission to land the ship!" came the reply.

"If this is a dream, don't let me wake up any time soon!" Grey thought as he lifted one protective cover set on the left side of the pod and then flipped the switch beneath.

Guide's platform Dock 4-17:

The guide dialed up their magnification on the suit visor. What that revealed was what they had heard, the ship had taken one heck of a beating! A movement caught their eye and they watched as the pilot's pod extended out and down some 30 meters. Once locked into position the front of a long pod set starboard and low of the cockpit opened and then a telescoping boom extended some 40 meters forward and locked. At the foremost end of the boom a ball about two meters in diameter lit up with a bright orange glow. Seconds later they saw the ship start moving to one side and keep going for nearly a kilometer before slowing down to a stop, then it went the other way and stopped in its original position. The same maneuvers were done on the Y-axis (up/down) and then the Z-axis (forward/back). The guide remembered something their instructor said a number of times:

"Any docking pilot worth their salt always takes a ship for the 'dance', checking the actual capabilities of the maneuvering thrusters!"

"Well looks like we've got one that's good!" thought the guide. "Now, does he know to…"

"Attention Guide, starboard thrusters at about 53 percent, port 67, forward 35, reverse 42, climb 63, dive 56. Port and starboards are notably soft!"

"Well, well, he even knows to do the call out!" the guide thought with a wary grin as they adjusted their visor's heads-up-display program.

That done, the guide looked at the waiting destroyer, took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, and then…

"Heads up!" came the call as the wands were snapped up and across one another over their head.

Destroyer Hammann:

"Eyes on the wands, eyes on the wands!" Grey, hands light on the joysticks, reminded himself.

Over the next several minutes he followed the wand movement "commands" to get the 38,000 some metric ton ship lined up with the center axis of the dock (from the rear, and the front, the dock looked like a six sided honeycomb cell). When that was completed, the guide wand motioned to bring the warship forward. As he eased the one stick forward, Grey clicked to the "very fine" settings for the X and Y axis maneuvers.

Dock 4-17, guide's station:

In the visor the light beacon, referred to as "The Ball" in the "trade", showed clearly but not glaringly so. Through the target rings it was set fairly low but that was acceptable. Though concealed by the side of their helmet, the guide knew that a "train" of mangled metal was passing by them.

"Concentrate on the 'ball' and range readings, get the ship parked!" the guide thought.

"Dock the Hammann right and you and your pilot will be bringing in anything else that can be manually docked in the time we have!" commander Myers had told them.

That second of distraction during the memory recall caused the guide to miss a range cue. Seconds later, they realized the mistake and brought the wands high and crossed them in the "stop" position. The pilot put everything into braking and had the ship's reversing thrusters been greater in number and in better shape Grey could have pulled it off…as it was….

"Oh CRAP!" exclaimed the guide.

Experience in microgravity took over; knees bent and then legs pushed off, propelling the guide up off the platform. Seconds later, the "ball" passed through the spot where they had been, followed, naturally, by the boom and then the pilot's cockpit. The target rings, ripped from the floor of the platform, now hung from the forward end of the ball and boom storage pod. The ship finally stopped, nearly 270 meters further forward than it should have been.

"God! He is going to soooooo chew my ass over that!" the guide bemoaned.

Pilot's cockpit; Destroyer Hammann:

"Damn, damn, DAMN! I didn't time the distance marks on the dock wall!" Grey hollered in self-chastisement.

Dock 4-17: Dock control station:

"Well?!" asked the dock captain, anxiously.

"It's sloppy but just within parameters," came the answer.

"Yard control, Hammann is docked!" relayed the captain. "Bring in the shuttles to pick up and transfer the docking team!"

Guide and pilot rode separate shuttles to their next assignment, the destroyer Hermes and its waiting dock. Though they both knew the clock was "ticking" the pair took a bit more time to get things set up. They, also, remembered to be more alert to what they needed to do. However, due to the fickle nature of the damaged ship's thrusters (a number failing during the last several seconds of braking) the guide had to, again, launch upwards to get clear of the ball "train" coming through. Still, the ship stopped in a somewhat better position than the first so they called it a success. Again, shuttles ran the pair to the next ship, destroyer Kursk. After getting it into dock they went to work "landing" a pair of light cruisers (Quincy and Samuel B. Roberts) and then "graduated" to the heavy cruisers (Bismarck, Canberra, Helena, and Togo). With each docking, guide and pilot gained a better feel and skill for their task so that when they brought in a battlecruiser name Hood the parking was just a few hundredths of a percent off. Their next job was the second most massive ship in the 7th fleet; the battleship South Dakota was to be parked in dock 2-2. Grey did a particularly through "dance" with this ship (massing some 291,000 metric tons, he knew there was very little room for error). While watching the ship move about, the guide remembered something they had asked their instructor;

"How do you know when you are good at this? I mean really good at it?"

"You mean, when do you know that you are the best?"

He got a nod.

"You know you're the best when…"

He tapped a finger on a place just left of the center of his chest.

"…the 'ball' touches your heart!"

"I never got what he meant by that."

Just then, the ball and boom finished deploying from their pod. The ball lit up and...inspiration struck!

Eyes on his guide, Grey noted the wands signaling him to bring the ship down a bit. He thought that odd for it looked like they would hit the rings pretty much dead center. Still, he followed the instruction and then saw the guide resume the move forward motions. When the guide fanned their arms out from their body, wands extended straight out to their left and right, he began applying a little reverse thrust. Arms slowly moved upwards and the further up they got the more power he applied to the thrusters. When the wands crossed and touched together the ship came to a final halt. Grey moved his eyes from the wands down to the guide and what he saw made his eyes go wide!

Shipyard communications and control center:

The cheering and hollering came from everywhere in the control center!

"And with a damaged battleship, no less!" someone yelled over the hoopla.

What the video link from dock 2-2 showed was the guide standing a couple of steps back from their original position with the beacon ball pressed pretty much to the center of their chest!

Admiral Harrison held a straight face through all of this.

"Comm, put me through to the Australia!" he directed.

TNS (Terran Navy Starship) Australia; emergency docking pod:

"It took a small weapon hit!" the petty officer explained. "About the only thing left was the extension boom and the lower part of the pod! We got the boom out, welded a seat to the floor and rigged up a view screen and the thruster controls! The beacon and boom pod is gone and we don't have time to rig a replacement!"

All of this was self-evident as Grey, already strapped into the seat, looked around. He did a couple of touch tests on the joysticks to confirm that they did work. One eye on the vid screen, he saw the guide take position on the platform. So did the guy with him.

"You think he'll bring us in?" asked the fennec fox NCO.

"Don't know, it's up to them whether this goes through or not," Grey said. "Take a hike guy, I have to dance this thing and the time is getting pretty tight!"

Dock 2-1; guide's platform:

"TNS Australia, combination dreadnought and heavy fighter carrier," mused the guide. "Flagship of the 7th fleet. Mass; 347,000 metric tons!"

On the zoomed in visor, it appeared that there was no part of this ship that had not taken some sort of damage. That it still held together and could move in spite of all the punishment it had taken was a miracle in its own right!

"Its size, mass, and damage make bringing it in tricky enough. But with the beacon gone that makes things even worse!"

TNS Australia:

"Good grief!" thought Grey as he eased the ship through its dance. "This thing handles like a greased pig on oiled glass set on polished ice!"

When he was done he gave the report to his guide. As before, the guide gave no radio reply.

Out of the corner of his right eye Grey saw something; a tug moving into position.

"Time to decide" he thought to the image of the guide on his screen. "Now or never, go or no go!"

Dock 2-1; guide's platform:

The pilot's report was as grim as the guide had expected it to be. Any remotely sane person would wave this one off! Eyes behind the visor caught the movement of several tugs closing in on the ship. Decision point had come.

"Heads up!"

TNS Australia; docking pilot's cockpit:

"You're crazy!" he thought to his guide.

His one hand tilted the joystick forward.

"And so am I."

Dock 2-1:

It came forward. The vessel was one long continuous study in every type of possible damage that could be inflicted on a ship! There were huge holes and unpatched rents and rips through which heartened spacesuited crew members looked to see the rear edge of the dock pass by. Everyone who wasn't needed on station in the ship, even the 'walking wounded', was out on some exposed surface so they could see what was happening with their own eyes. Many could see the guide's platform and waved at the person there. All of them had their suit video recorders running; this was a moment that they wanted to remember and pass on.

The guide got the remnants of the pilot's pod set at the upper right of the target rings. Once in position, holding it there wasn't that much of a trick; the crunch would come on deciding when to apply enough of the remaining thrust (taking into account that as much as 15 to 20 percent of it would likely fail during the braking) to stop the ship in proper docked position. If they over shot, the tugs would have to come in and do a repositioning; not quite as humiliating as being towed all the way but a situation that they would still prefer not to happen.

"Okay boss, let's see how good your student is at doing this," the guide said.

With no ball to watch, they concentrated on the exposed pilot in his seat. When the guide could clearly see something on him they reduced the magnification on their visor by one setting while bringing out the wands to their sides. When that same spot on Grey's suit became clear once more the wands began moving upwards.

Pilot's cockpit:

One eye on the guide and the other on the wall markings, Grey put on the brakes. As expected, he felt some loss of power as he applied more thrust. The time between the distance marks was a little short so he gambled on adding more to the braking. More thrusters failed and he had a real sinking feeling that this might not come off. The next thing he knew, the ship was stopped and when he looked about he saw that he was some 40 odd meters past the rear edge of the guide's platform, a much smaller error than they had had with their first two ships. He looked at the countdown timer that he had running in the upper right corner of his visor.

"Two minutes past the dead line," he said aloud. "Not too shabby, all things considered!"

Releasing his seat harness, Grey jetted over to the guide's platform and settled down next to the person there.

"Let's get out of here before any of the crew get to us!" he heard his partner say.

"I'm for that!" he replied. "I don't think these suits can stand up to all the backslapping we'd get!"

The pair pushed off up towards the lock which was already open and waiting for them. Once inside, the hatch closed and air began rushing in. When the lock atmosphere light switched to green the two took off their helmets and, for the first time, got a good look at each other.

What Grey saw was a domestic sheep woman. He guessed that, out of suit, she stood about as tall as he. Her black colored head fleece was barely shoulder length. Her name plate listed her rank as petty officer second class. He stuck out his right hand.

"Gideon Grey," he introduced.

The ewe took his hand and gave it a short shake.

"Sharla Gibson," she replied.

What she saw was a male red fox in his early 20's.

"You want to tell me how, without the ball for reference, you figured when to give me the brake call at the right time?" Gideon asked

"Sure. In a situation like this I was, after taking into account various factors, to dial up the visor zoom to an appropriate setting and wait until I see the pilot's helmet name plate clearly, do this so I know what it looks like. Then, drop down one setting, and when the name plate becomes clear again start putting on the brakes. It's not exact but…."

"That's slick!" Grey said in mild awe. "And just who taught you to be a guide? That position has been gone for nearly 60 years!"

"My dad. He was one of the last guides when they eliminated the slot. He salvaged a couple of the training simulators and when I let it be known I was going into the Navy he insisted on teaching me the trade. Said that there would be a time when it would be needed again."

"Well, he called that one, for sure! Now, how did you get official certification? I couldn't believe it when I looked it up on records!"

Sharla smiled widely.

"They retired dad but they didn't pull his instructor's certificate!" she said smugly as she opened the hatchway into the dock. "Now, do you want to explain to me how it is that you got enough training so that the highest ranking officer in the yard was willing to let you bring in ships?" she asked.

As they traveled through the corridors Grey explained about his "unofficial" flying time in the simulators.

"Pays to be in good with the sim. pups!" he said.

"Looks like it do…."

Their comm. units interrupted.

"Docking team report to shuttle bay, ASAP! You are to report to Adm. Thomas at yard command center!"

"That sounds ominous," Grey said.

"Yeah, Navy doesn't take too well to mavericks!" Sharla said.

Yard control center; Admiral's office:

"Senior petty officer Gidson reporting as ordered!" Sharla said as she saluted.

"Seaman Grey reporting as ordered!" Gideon said and, also, saluted.

The admiral let them hold their salutes for several seconds and then…

"At ease!" he said.

The pair dropped their hands and waited.

"The two of you have put me in a very…unusual position," Harrison said. "I believe that both of you have been in the Navy long enough to know of how dim a view is taken of mavericks in the ranks!"

Two heads nodded. The silence stretched out for what seemed to be a long time.

"Grey!"

The fox snapped to attention!

"Yes, sir!" he barked.

"You misrepresented yourself in your reporting to me! Your rank is not seaman, it is lt. j.g.!"

"Uh, yes sir. Apologies sir!"

"Gibson, we've gone through your guide training and certification with both a fine toothed comb and a fine screened sieve…and can find nothing wrong with it! As such it will be allowed to stand."

The ewe had visions of the proud look on her dad's face when he got to hear that!

"Yeah, that'll happen after he's taken a few verbal 'stripes' off of you for the Hammann foul up!" an inner voice reminded her.

"Normally, some kind of disciplinary action would be due for the…eccentricities you two have pulled."

He glared at Sharla.

"I ought to bust you one or two levels for that stunt you pulled with South Dakota!" he growled.

Sharla stood ramrod straight, saying nothing.

"However, it was that action that persuaded me and fleet admiral Hanson to have you dock the Australia."

Silence.

"Things are not 'normal' these days. We have an unknown enemy out there and until things can be settled one way or another we are on a war footing. As such I have been given a fair bit of leeway on doing things. So, as of now, the two of you are an official emergency docking team. Your positions are entered into the records and you will receive all pay and privileges…and responsibilities that go with them."

A feeling of joyful accomplishment washed through Sharla and Gideon at what they heard!

"Don't get comfortable! You two are going to be in training, retraining, if you will, until you can dock ships while you're half asleep! Now, go get yourselves some chow at the main mess hall and then get some shuteye. Dismissed!"

The members of the newly formed team saluted and then departed the office.

"Fastest way to the main mess hall is through the main auditorium," the admiral's receptionist told them. "Turn left out of the office, right at the next corridor, and then just walk through the auditorium to the door on the opposite side and it'll take you there."

After thanking her, Gideon and Sharla headed out. When they arrived at the auditorium the place was dark except for a narrow strip of light that illuminated a band of floor. As they started into the room, all of the lights came on! It took several eye blinks and some eye focus adjustment for them to see clearly again. What they saw sent an odd chill through them both! On opposite sides of the formerly lighted strip stood twelve formations of ships' crew members, six to a side, standing at parade rest. On the walls behind each formation was a large banner, each having a ship's name on it. Every vessel they had docked was represented. Sharla and Gideon guessed that there were at least a couple of hundred members in each of those formations and, here and there, was someone who looked a little worse for wear.

"My god!" said Gid. "They're exhausted and still…"

"Then, let's get on with it!" Sharla said. "I've got left…"

"And I've got right!"

"Attention!" came the command.

Nearly three thousand pairs of feet snapped together, their collective "crack" echoing off the giant room's walls! When tod and ewe got within a couple of meters of the first ranks:

"Present…arms!"

Some three thousand hands came up in salute and held; Sharla and Gideon brought up their hands in return salute and held them there as they slow marched between the formations. Thus were honors rendered to those who had saved the reputation and pride of the 7th Fleet.