Like shadows, the four ships of Flotilla
Blue Three slipped through the patrol cordon
of the powerful Martian Space Force. Only
the crazy luck of their mad, medal-bedecked
Commodore would ever get them out again.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories September 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Second Martian War was three weeks old when the officers of theTerran destroyer Darkside found themselves assembled in Control andglumly aware that the Flotilla Commodore was sizing them up. It washard to tell just what he was thinking, but whatever it was they hadmade up their minds to return it doubled in spades.
Having a Flotilla Commodore on board was actually a hardship,particularly if as in the case of the Darkside—the ship elected wasunsuitable for a flagship. The Commodore needed cabin space for himselfand for his staff, and that meant that five of the Darkside's nineofficers would have to double up on what space was left. On board adestroyer that meant a good deal. But more important yet was the moraleffect on the ship's company.
With a flag officer on board the easy life of an informal vessel wouldvanish and something of the formality of a big ship would take itsplace. The officers and crew would feel themselves under the scrutinyof higher authority no matter how hard the Commodore tried not tointerfere with the working of the ship. And it naturally followed thatthe ship's commander would lose some of the joy in his independentcommand. Thus a happy ship would become a tight one ... QED. It was asituation as old as ships and men.
So there was little joy to be seen in the faces of Commander Scott andhis officers when Commodore Hartnett stepped through the valve followedby his staff. Nor was their anything about Hartnett's appearance tosuggest that they had been anything but right about the manner in whichFlotilla Blue Three would be handled throughout the coming patrol. TheCommodore was a model of military correctness, a martinet moulded intwo Martian Wars and twenty years in space to a steely hardness thatwas disconcerting.
They saw a lean, leathery man in his late forties, dressed inimmaculate Greys that sported an apalling amount of silver braid.Four stripes were rare aboard destroyers. Eyes that matched the hardgrey of the uniform glittered in a spaceburned face, shaded by heavyblack brows. Young Ensign Blake's heart sank as he took in the setof the shoulders and the smooth fit of the blouse. He made a mentalnote of the fact that from now on there would be no more standingwatches in sweatshirt and sneakers. He also reflected sadly on the manypleasure jaunts that Scott was wont to let him make in the Darkside'sskeeter-boat, and bade a mental farewell to those happy moments. Theset of the Commodore's long jaw instilled more respect for Space ForceRegs in the young reservist than all the ten orientation lectureshe had received at Hamilton Spaceport. Plainly there was a new erabeginning for the TRS Darkside!
There wasn't a man on board who hadn't heard of Hartnett, of course. Agambler in combat, he had always managed to come out ahead of the game.His record was the record of practically every major achievement of theForce. Most of it could be read from the four rows of ribbons under hisCommand Pilot's sunburst.
There was the pale blue of the Terran Honor Medal that he'd won byramming a Martian dreadnaught of the Diemos class with his crippledcorvette off Io in the first Cat war. There was the red bar of the DSMreceived for leading t