Starhold by J. Alan Field Page B

casualties hadn’t been worse. He didn’t feel lucky though, as he stood deckside on Rusalka Station watching the bodies of his dead crewmembers being carried off the ship. No one even knew why those people had given their lives, and that’s why it was so important that Tempest departed with Task Force 19 when the Sol operation got underway. He and his crew needed to see the enemy—they needed to understand why it had all happened.
    About half of Tempest’s wounded would be shuttled dirtside to Port Bannatyne for care. Ordinarily, the captain would have accompanied them, but time was working against Pettigrew as he tried to arrange for speedy repairs to his ship. To that end, he had sought and been granted an immediate conference with Admiral Getchell aboard his flagship, the battleship Vespera.
    Removing his dark blue beret as he boarded Vespera , Pettigrew was wary of the upcoming meeting. Vice Admiral Levi Getchell was a space force institution. As a young officer, he had won numerous honors fighting against the Gerrhans in the Settlement Wars. Today, in his early sixties, he had a reputation as being Old School. Getchell’s leadership style was completely opposite to that of Pettigrew and the two men had never met personally. Combined with everything else that had happened in the last ten days, Pettigrew was filled with apprehension as he entered the admiral’s stateroom.
    “Come in Captain, come in,” beckoned the gray haired man sitting behind his desk. Yet to look up, Getchell was writing with an old-fashioned pen on a paper tablet as Pettigrew moved to the front of his desk and stood at attention. Pen and paper huh? thought Pettigrew. I heard he was Old School, I just didn’t realize how Old School. Apparently, the headmaster was Socrates. These thoughts from a man who still read Ernest Hemingway. Who knows, perhaps he and the admiral would get along fine.
    The hunch about getting along fine with the admiral dissolved as the seconds ticked by. Getchell had still not looked up, leaving Pettigrew standing there. It was the old trick of establishing your superior rank by purposely ignoring someone—Getchell was putting Pettigrew in his place.
    Finally, the older man raised his head. “Please, Captain, have a seat.”
    The admiral reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a container of pills, sliding two into his hands. “I’ve read your after-action report Captain Pettigrew, and first let me offer my condolences on your fatalities. Pretty rough, huh?”
    “Yes sir, pretty rough.”
    “Of course,” Getchell swallowed his pills and chased them with water, “it might have been even rougher if your little playing possum tactic hadn’t worked out.” Pettigrew cringed inside as Getchell continued. “The enemy could have attacked that station and killed everyone on board while your ship floated around, doing nothing.” The admiral’s expression signaled that he wanted a response.
    Pettigrew collected himself. “Sir, as I stated in my report, there was ample evidence suggesting that the enemy vessel could have easily destroyed the station, but instead was seeking engagement with another warship. I wanted to have that engagement away from the station and on our terms, sir.”
    Getchell groaned. “Suggesting, Captain, suggesting. You weren’t sure, but you rolled the dice anyway. I’ve studied your record, Captain—you’re one of Polanco’s gang.”
    This is going so much worse than he ever expected. Pettigrew knew not to say a word.
    “You’re the clever one aren’t you, Captain? Admiral Maxon’s his hotheaded girlfriend and Choi’s his sociopathic harpy. But you, you’re his prodigy, his wunderkind.”
    So very much worse…
    “Easy, Captain, easy. You don’t look too well,” Getchell chuckled. “At my age, my bark is worse than my bite. Everyone knows I don’t like Victor Polanco, including Victor. We were on opposite sides during his little putsch last year. He won and I lost, but I’m