Edwards watched the battle unfold with the quiet detachment that he'd grown accustomed to. It was nothing he hadn't seen dozens of times before. The aggressive dashes and withdrawals by the fighters. Illumination radars being traced by passive ESM, leading right back to their operators. The frantic calls over the net made by pilots who were evading missiles.
It brought back memories. Watching RIM-66 Standards track onto an inbound raid, seeing a flight of Tomahawks bear down on a surface contact hundreds of miles away, tracking, and sometimes listening to an ASROC or Sea Lance dispatch a none-to-cautious submarine. They were all flavors of the same event.
However, this time he didn't see it the same way both in the literal sense of the word and in the more abstract nature of how he viewed the battle. Sure it was on the board but that was more out of habit than anything else. It would be more accurate to say he felt the movements, the emissions, the target distances, speeds, and other information that was oh so critical in creating a firing solution.
His attention continued straying to the hostile air contacts. Always on those little red chevrons marching across his mind's eye. Emotion roiled inside of him. Their existence mocked him, like buzzing mosquitoes. He wanted nothing more than to turn on the radars and begin blasting them out of the sky with any weapon he could guide onto them. For a moment instead of pieces of machinery doing battle he saw them as living beings. Evil beings whose existence was inherently sinful. Beings which, for that moment, were assigned moral character based on whose side they were on. Beings that needed to be slain for the safety of the whole.
For a half second the bloodlust turned to concern and his eyes darted to the bulkhead, beyond which he knew a pair of Ford Class Carriers were gestating at Newport News Shipbuilding, their hulking frames lying in their Graving Docks like a pair of immense concrete wombs. Several other Carriers, Sea Control Ships, and Aviation Destroyers were in drydocks or moored alongside piers scattered around the area. They were just sitting there, exposed.
The scratching began then, starting in the back of his skull but extending into his conscious mind. A small insistent voice prodding him to take action. "The Carriers were vulnerable." it said, and his hand twitched involuntarily, as if keying a weapon release against an enemy just out of reach. The idea of the flaming wreckage of the interlopers who would dare threaten the precious carriers was intoxicating.
He needed to do something. He needed to protect them. His hand began to reach for the control board to arm the weapons and power up the radars. He… needed to come to his goddamn senses.
He stopped and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Protect the fleet." he muttered, the words having new meaning to him now.
That was why the battle had become personal, even if he was almost a thousand miles away. It clouded his judgment. Officers didn't, shouldn't, have the luxury of getting emotional during combat. He was the center, the focal point around which every member of the crew turned at his command and to be that center he had to be perfectly solid.
"And look where that got you." He muttered.
Officers also didn't have time to engage in self pity, or so he told himself, and he ended the line of inquiry.
He grimaced. To say he was a changed man didn't quite get to how literal that was. He'd tell Bremerton about this later. It was probably nothing unusual, maybe the powers that be would even think it was a benefit to some degree or another, a "loyalty check" on their newest asset. On the other hand, the possibility that he'd be the USS "Case Study" didn't have great appeal to him. Come to think of it, wasn't there a British Carrier that had an unhealthy obsession with Destroyers? If he knew that much then Bremerton certainly would. She may not tell him exactly who it was. She was too much of a consummate professional to do that. Then again, maybe he'd better not bring that up. Some wise guy might get a "good" idea and assign him as a close-support escort to her. That would be a match made in Hell.
He made another glance at the board. Fleet Air Defense was what he'd, they'd, been good at. Air warfare was the bread and butter of an Aegis ship. It was what he'd personally trained in. Together, it was practically second-nature, more instinct than thought.
He'd figure out his place in this new world of his. If it was only to ever play a supporting role that suited him just fine. He could play that game with the best of them. They'd play the same role in death as they did in life.
"Even in death I still serve." He muttered. When he said it out-loud it wasn't as funny as he'd thought it would be.
The battle was all but forgotten now except in the most abstract sense as his mind wandered. The mental exercise was now to create plans that would play to the strengths of the systems he could bring to bear. SAM traps, decoy groups, radar pickets, each could now be employed with new twists and adjustments to it. It was like opening a door to a room in your house you never knew existed. A new array of possibilities were set before him. A canvas of ocean speckled by streaks of missile plumes and exploding aircraft like the brush strokes and smudges of some particularly militant artist.
It wouldn't be without difficulties, mainly because of simple geometry. The AN/SPQ-9B, horizon search radar that was currently mounted high on the mast, over 30 meters above the water, would be about two meters from the water if it was on his rigging, cutting his detection range for sea-skimmers and surface contacts down to maybe six to twelve nautical miles depending on target height and conditions. A similar tale could be said for the other sensors, both active and passive. There were work-arounds, some better than others, all having compromises.
If the singular SPY-6 array his rigging held was any indication, he may face further bottlenecks in guidance channels. He had no idea if the planar illumination arrays were present on the rigging or in what quantity but their presence or lack thereof would be a critical factor in capabilities. He made a mental note, then thinking better of it, got out a physical notepad and wrote down that it was critical to find out the illumination and data link capacity of the radar systems present on the rigging. They may already have that in the cards for him but the problem gave him something to chew on.
The Echo/Foxtrot band AN/SPY-6 and it's India band illuminator cousin, the AN/SPY-5, themselves successors of SPY-4 and SPY-3 arrays respectively, while often called radars they were more accurately described as "multifunction arrays". When one boiled things down they were simply large, very powerful, very high tech, and of course, very expensive, radio transmitters and receivers. Sure, the obvious use was to detect and track objects, but that transmission capability could be used to provide a data uplink to a missile and then receive a downlink from that same missile as its own inertial guidance system tracked position in lieu of the radar. Alternatively, the arrays could imitate enemy radars, supplementing the other electronic warfare systems that the ship held, albeit in a limited frequency range but with far superior output.
Having all the missiles in the world didn't matter if the ship with them couldn't manage their guidance. Time-sharing, terminal illumination, and networked operations made the dance all the more complex, something he'd come to know very well from his time as AAWC on USS Washington.
He revised his plans slightly, putting notes to follow up on a later date once they had a grasp of his actual capabilities. At worst he could be a spare magazine for a battlegroup, provided he wasn't using his ship in a fully deployed state. At best, they'd be able to set the mother of all SAM traps on some unwitting Sirens. Both were needed and thus perfectly adequate roles.
Those thoughts eased his mind as he moved on. He could do his job, he knew it from his flesh to his keel. He could, maybe, make a difference. It didn't have to be much, but just something would allow him to take comfort in the fact it was all worth it.
As he finished checking the azimuth pods, they rotated without issue and locked in place as he prepared the system for silent running. He found no problems at all in their function, which was a moderate surprise given all the grief he remembered that system had given his crew, but Kansen ships seemed to be uncannily reliable. The Mark 42 automatic 5"/54 mounts that had proliferated among the ships brought up to STANKAN Spiral 3 in accordance with STANAG 5541, didn't face the loading issues that their "real steel" counterparts faced.
He made a mental shrug and finished up with the checks. It was just another thing to get used to and being uncannily reliable wasn't the worst problem one could have.
The contractors too were finishing up now and he felt them leave the ship, their boss giving a friendly knock on a bulkhead to let him know.
Now that he was alone, Edwards stood in the CIC, half expecting the talker or his XO to remind him of some matter or another.
It never came. He was entirely alone. A captain with his ship but not his crew.
He broke out of his trance and moved down to his stateroom. Lights turned on as he willed them, sterile white guiding his way. If he closed his eyes he could still hear the Klaxon's call as it reverberated down the halls.
He called Lieutenant Friedman who, after being brought in on Edwards' existence by dint of retrieving him, became his own personal head of security.
Nothing, no signal.
"Dumbass." Edwards muttered before going back up on the deck and retrying. Steel and Titanium layered with an electromagnetic spectrum absorbing skin wasn't known for its radio transparency. He was getting distracted, missing the details of things. That was dangerous. Small factors typically weren't themselves threats but they had a habit of collating into major ones that were. In the Navy lessons were written in thousands of years of blood so it was best to pay attention.
Friedman's phone rang once before the Lieutenant answered. "This is Friedman, go ahead." He said, voice clipped.
"This is Orpheus. I'm going to be staying on my ship tonight." Edwards said, keeping his tone neutral.
There was a pause as Friedman probably wrote something down before he got back on the line. "Understood. I know folks like you sometimes prefer that. I'll adjust the rotations." He said.
"Thank you Lieutenant." Edwards said before hanging up. If Friedman was annoyed it didn't show. Either way that wasn't Edwards' problem. It wasn't that he wanted to piss the other man off but some things needed to be done and it was alright to exercise rank every once and a while, so long as it didn't become a habit.
Edwards returned to his stateroom and scooped up the box he'd brought over from his office and moved aft. He had a busy schedule for the rest of the day though it had very little to do with the preparations for the move. Something that had nothing to do with the usual proclivities of Kansen.
He passed back outside across the amidships VLS section before making it to the aft superstructure, containing the exhaust stack for engine room two, his aft radars, and the helicopter hangar. He entered, going down a half-flight of stairs and taking a left into the machine shop.
The lights came on, revealing a million dollar collection of tools and fabrication aids. He set the box down and moved over to the smaller of two CNC machines. Accessing the associated monitor, he opened an email with an attached set of files he'd sent it a couple days ago, the time being necessary for the contents to be screened for malware. He downloaded them to the machine and then opened up the package, removing the first of a set of eighteen gauge brass plates and set it next to the machine.
With practiced hands he made quick work, installing the piece into the fixture plate, installing that on-top of the T-Slot plate that was already in the machine, aligning it, and checking over the settings before starting the first run.
Standing back and watching the machine go to work, he felt its motions as if they were his own as the program played out in parallel within his head. He'd learned to work CAD programs and various machines such as CNC mills and 3D printers back in his Academy days when his stipend was nowhere near enough to fund his Tau and Imperial Guard armies. Now those skills were serving this more solemn purpose.
Blinking, he took the moment to look around. The sounds of the CNC mill gave the impression of the space being active but the stillness of the room set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Edwards had been here during workups. It was just dead now, all the life that had made it special having been sapped out of it.
He walked around, passing his hand on the powder deposition printer he'd managed to finagle for the ship. That one piece of machinery, combined with the aviation contingent, had given their helos and RPAs the best readiness rate in the Second Fleet. He'd made sure that had appeared in the performance evaluations of that division and that each of them were aware of their achievement. Good morale made getting things done easier
That was also helped when he gave Lieutenant Ignacio, the Division lead, the quiet go ahead to use the machines for personal use in their down-time. It wasn't all selfless. It kept them motivated and Ignacio played Eldar so Edwards had a partner for the quieter moments around port.
The mill wound down and Edwards retrieved the set of engraved name plates from it. A lump formed in his throat as Lieutenant David Ignacio's name was the first one he saw. When the aft turbine had been destroyed a fragment had torn through the decks and caught him in the stomach. He'd gotten off the ship but died in the water before the crew was picked up. The small brass piece wasn't a headstone but it suddenly felt like it had the weight of one.
They were set on one of the workbenches while Edwards returned to the mill. He cleaned off the fixture plate with a brush and secured the next brass plate to it. He selected the next program and let the mill do its work.
Each of the name plates had to be snapped off from the others by the thin and scored section that connected them. He proceeded to round off their burrs and edges before bringing them all up to a pleasing shine.
By the time he finished, the other set was fully engraved and he repeated the task.
As he worked the task became all consuming. More than once he felt as if another set or sets of hands were supporting him or steadying him when he began to involuntarily shake as emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Their presence was gentle, ghosts of memories long past. It was intimate but not exactly like that of a lover's touch. It was like a companionable silence that two people could exist in, it was comfortable but not intense.
As he began to mill the wood backing for the plates he thought about what had prompted him to do this. He could've had professionals do this. He could've, but having the plates was only part of it. Making each of them, feeling their heft, reading each name, the act itself was a memorial as much as the engravings were. It was the least he could do.
He finished the work around 0200. Now it was time to find their resting places.
The criteria was simple. They would go to their favorite spots on the ship or the nearest point indoors. Finding these spots involved combing over each individual's impact on the ship. There was no simple way to do that. In a way Edwards was grateful for that. Human life should not be considered routine.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the amount of them that almost pulled themselves to where their racks had been or to where coffee machines and pots were located. Sailors never really changed. Ignacio went next to his beloved powder deposition printer. Jonas to his duty station. Wilcox was one of the many that enjoyed their rack time more than anything else. Each was unique. Some were in utility closets, others on railings, bridgewings, the CPO's mess, the Ward Room, and in one case in the male enlisted head. He wondered about the stories each of those spots held. He understood the feelings but the contexts behind them felt just out of his grasp. They all were tiny encapsulations of humanity that he'd carry with him forever and it felt wrong that he should not be aware of those details.
Forever was the correct word. Once recorded onto a Cube those moments would exist either in this world or somewhere in the nothingness that those indelible objects towed the line in.
Dawn broke as he set the final engraving, one for Petty Officer Rachael Wallbach in the starboard boat bay.
He returned to what remained of the mess deck, the place where he'd usually make in-person announcements to elements of the crew. Several new placards glinted as pre-dawn light peeked in through the portholes.
He summoned up the 1MC. "This is the captain. All hands please report to the mess deck. All hands please report to the mess deck."
Edwards moved toward the bow, looked through his notes and then up at the empty room.
When he opened his mouth again he had to suppress a quaver in his voice.
But suppress it he did and his words carried throughout the ship.
"I, we, commit these memories, these lives, given by those in this world to that of the next. When the sea gives up her dead their souls may yet wander for we do not know what lies beyond, what lies within the unknowable intricacies of creation. I have faith that when their time comes their souls shall be laid to rest. Until that day we carry on and honor them, draw on them for reassurance and guidance, and never forget the price they paid. In the name of The Lord Amen."
He stood in silence, closed his eyes, and felt the pressure behind them release as if a dam burst.
As he opened them the room seemed crowded with the faces of the fallen. He blinked and they were gone. The journey he would take from here on would not be his alone. That certainty hardened his resolve. What may come in the future was unknown but he would face it. With his crew at his back he had no choice. With his crew at his back he could overcome it. It was time to move on.
With finality he said, "Dismissed."
Despite not sleeping more than a couple snatches, that morning Edwards felt awake and alert. He was physically younger than he used to be and the subtle rejuvenating nature of a Kansen body, even without rigging, meant he didn't tire as much even compared to his reckless days of youth.
Fortified with a proper dose of boiler sludge coffee, a shower, and a shave that dispelled the short beard that had regrown in the last six hours and with which he was in constant battle, he was ready to face the world.
Or so he thought until he got a last-minute summons to Fukada's office.
He was to deconstruct his ship at 0810, what was she after now of all times?
But she was the one with stars on her shoulder and he was a lowly three-striper so he answered.
She was seated, staring at him intently as he came to attention.
The saying, "Red sky in morning sailors take warning," flitted through his mind before he banished it.
"Commander Edwards reporting as ordered ma'am." He rang out. It would probably be best to observe formality for the moment.
"At ease." She said, waving. "Close the door." She said, gesturing.
He did so and waited for the other shoe to drop.
It did. "Keep in mind that your sleep isn't just for your own comfort. We get important information out of it and keeping a routine schedule ensures we aren't wasting the time of a valuable asset." she said coldly.
His face betrayed no emotion except for a slightly curling lip. How she'd known about his lack of sleep was unknown and she seemed to be under no obligation to tell him.
"Understood ma'am. I wasn't aware of the nature of these… activities." He said, lacking a better word for the arrangement that he'd not been entirely aware of.
She sighed. "But that wasn't what I'm here to talk about. Follow me, we're going to the SCIF." She said, getting up.
Edwards supposed that made the whole exercise of closing the door moot but he followed her out and down the hallway. They took a right deeper into the building. Outside the room a uniformed MP soluted them both before doing a double take at Edwards.
"Ma'am you know the regulations, Kansen can't be allowed into a secure facility." He said.
Because Kansen inherently had recording capabilities, allowing them into any secure room or directly accessing either SIPRnet or JWICS was forbidden. It was an annoying element to life, especially when he'd needed to brief his Kansen contingent on some matter or another but security was security.
"I know. I'm making an exception." She said in that same forceful tone.
"Ma'am…" the MP trailed off. "I'll have to report this."
"If anything comes of this it's my ass. You were doing your job." She said before signing in for the room.
Edwards shot the man a sympathetic look as he signed in but nothing more. God help you if you got in an Admiral's way.
For a minute Edwards wondered if the MP would actually keep them out of the secure room but he relented and unlocked the door, letting the two officers in.
The Secure Compartmented Information Facility, or SCIF looked like most other rooms. It had a few computers, file cabinets, and a large table at the center of the room. The thick reinforced and insulated door closed behind them with an audible clunk.
Fukada led the way before unlocking a file cabinet with her keys. She opened it, fingers running along the labels before she found the folders she was looking for.
"Here we go." She said, setting them on the table.
A very prominent "Top Secret" label was slapped onto the top of each folder.
Edwards gestured questioningly at the items.
"You're cleared for them. I want to know what you think." She said, irritation creeping into her voice.
Edwards gingerly picked up the first one that bore the title "Project Lazarus".
It was a draft of a proposal. The first page gave a very detailed description of just exactly what would happen to you if you so much as breathed a word about the project. The next was an abstract followed by a background on the history of himself, his ship, and their sinking, something he wished he was less familiar with.
Finally it got into the meat of the proposal. Edwards read it with an unreadable expression.
"Chimera?" He asked, arching an eyebrow at Fukada.
"Would you prefer a different term for what you are?" She asked.
He shook his head slowly. "No, Chimera works, it certainly is descriptive enough." He said.
He went back to reading.
Phase one was simple. Onboard each ship was to be a designated "Recovery Officer '', preferably the captain or senior officer though it was emphasized that Wisdom Cube compatibility was the most critical criteria for selection other than being commissioned. In addition to their normal duties they would carry around a wisdom cube at all times of day. Should the ship be sinking they were to stay onboard the ship and hopefully whatever happened in his case would be repeated. Provisions included cyanide capsules to "aid" in the process should the officer not be incapacitated in the action.
The cubes were to be taken from the STANKAN Spiral 5 upgrade for the battleships Nelson and Rodney. An upgrade that would've added three badly needed Mk 4 Twin-Arm RIM-2 Terrier launchers on each of the battleships.
"The Brits aren't going to be happy about the reallocation of their cubes. They don't have many Terrier ships if I recall correctly." He said.
"No they don't but Lazarous wouldn't take any Bullins away from them so it's just a delay, not an outright cancellation, and a relatively short one at that if our Wisdom Cube recovery rates stay as they are. Anything else?" Fukada asked.
"Can I ask about this 'Sandman' source? I've seen mention to it in a number of instances here." Edwards asked, tapping the paper and looking up at Fukada.
It was her turn to shake her head. "No you may not. Information on Sandman is Sensitive Compartmented Information and you aren't in the need-to-know." She said.
Edwards forcefully exhaled. Just wonderful. Another thing he was kept in the dark about.
Phase two and three were more nebulous. Two primarily focused on methods of analyzing what exactly happened, proposing a few lines of inquiry. Three was focused entirely on wider implementation. Damaged ships slated for scrapping or refurbishment were highlighted given their disposability with a few such as the USS Leyte Gulf at the top of that list and several basic criteria establishing an expendability versus capability balance with which potential ships could be evaluated.
He started on the second set of documents. It was an analysis of yesterday's battle, written by one Margaret Hernandez, apparently part of the intel department for SACLANT headquarters.
Signals Intelligence, or SIGINT, had noted the Pulse Repetition Frequency of the new SF-4 Foldout radars suggested the use of a pulse-doppler "look-down" radar with previous Siren radars having a PRF of around 7.0 kilohertz and the new ones operating with a PRF of 270 kilohertz, marking a drastic change in their electronic emissions. No firm capabilities were found without an actual radar to take apart but further measurements indicated they had a peak power output somewhere between 30 and 50 percent greater than previous models, further differentiating them from what had been seen before. That was concerning.
Even worse, analysis run on what was dubbed the AA-S-5 "Atlatl" suggested an increased burn time and more energetic motor compared to the AA-S-4 "Antelope", their previous semi-active radar homing missile, almost doubling the effective range. It was unknown if the weapon could take advantage of the newer radars but there was nothing to suggest it couldn't. At least it wasn't a monopulse seeker. That would be undesirable to say the least.
The Author proceeded to draw parallels to improvements in Siren capabilities following previous improvements in Kansen, events that had, as she described it, culminated in two of the largest naval battles in history and the devastation of no less than three cities, including his old home. He gripped the page, knuckles going white as he read the final conclusions that the swift implementation of "Project Lazarus" was the only option to counter such an escalation without force of nuclear arms.
He set the paper down, taking a deep breath. No pressure. Brinkmanship with Alien intelligences was apparently considered a normal career route in The Navy these days. Just his luck.
Fukada reclined slightly as she scrutinized him.
"How do you feel about this proposal?" She asked.
Edwards was silent, aligning his thoughts and feelings. He spoke carefully when he opened his mouth. "I… don't like it, in a strict moral sense, but it's necessary in my opinion and that's without this report." He said, shaking the SACLANT intelligence assessment for emphasis.
"Do you have any suggestions that you think we should implement?" Fukada asked.
Edwards paused again to think. "Make sure they understand that by doing this, they are effectively killing another person in a deeply personal way. If I was a coldhearted bastard I'd suggest using psychopaths to do it. Then again, psychopaths don't make good officers. Either way it isn't an ideal situation."
Fukada nodded in assent. "I'll see what can be done. Maybe once we know more about what happens something else may help us along." She said, shrugging. "Any other questions or comments?" She asked.
"I can't say I'm especially surprised about this." He said, tapping the folder with "Project Lazarus". "A couple of DOE folks seemed convinced that there were going to be more… Chimeras." He said, tasting the word. "You may want to have some of the more sneaky bastards I know you keep around take a look at any possible leaks."
Fukada frowned in irritation and let out a sigh. Some markedly less sneaky bastards back in the Department of Energy were going to get an earful when she got some spare time. He was sure of that.
"Anything else?" She asked.
"Do you think that analyst is on the money?" He asked.
Fukada rubbed her temple. "Maybe. I don't know. She's definitely one of the more alarmist ones I've seen but recently they all seem a little on-edge. SACLANT himself thinks she's good. Take that as you will." She said acidly, as if the mention of her direct superior was a curse. "But so far we only really have a couple independent events so to me, connecting them all together seems a bit premature. Maybe that's why I'm not in the business, I guess I don't see whatever she sees."
She checked her chronometer. "I believe you have a ship to pack up and a flight to catch." She said standing.
"I believe I do." Edwards said, mirroring her.
She stuck her hand out and he shook.
"Good luck Ed. Give them hell. And, God forbid it comes to it, good hunting." She said smiling.
"Thanks, I'll do my damndest."
A/N: Been a while. Let me know if you think this shorter chapter (~5k words) is more comfortable to read. I've been finding my chapters regularly running up over 10k words so if breaking them down is a more enjoyable experience I would be open to adjusting that.
In other news I submitted a Freedom of Information Act Request to the Navy to declassify and release a document somewhat related to this story. If that isn't a first in Fanfiction History, I don't know what is.
They didn't have it but instead directed me to a different agency that they believe has what I'm looking for. It took a couple months for them to get back to me so we'll see what happens with the new one. When (if) I get the documents I'll probably include my findings in an extended author's note though the thought of having a "chapter" dedicated to some of the research that goes on in the background may be in the cards at some point. In the meantime I'm making an approximation for some of the weapons systems in the story. Don't worry, it's from the late 1940s to early 1950s so it's not like I'm looking for super sensitive stuff but it's damned obscure and there's just not much on the weapon. If you have any details about the Command Guidance system for the SAM-N-8 Zeus or any details pertaining to the "Angled Arrows" projectile please PM me. I have guesses as to how they work but that's all I have and, like I said, they're obscure.
That being said I find it a moral obligation to leak any and all classified Russian MOD documents provided to me. If you're reading this in Fort Meade this is a joke. If you're reading this in Langley this is not a joke and I would be happy to assist.
For reading recommendations I can't place "The Lost Fleet" series by John G. Hemry (pen name Jack Campbell) highly enough. I found it relatively recently and it does a better job than I can ever hope at integrating a number of the ideas and themes I want to explore in this story. It's not super hard Sci-Fi, but if you've read Honor Harrington it's in that vague realm. It has strong Battlestar Galactica vibes but is more focused on the titular main character.