Chapter 4: Dinner with a Friend
An excerpt from the book The War with Whybarria by Friday Goodfellow, Scribe to His Royal Highness, King Randal the First of Llene. Written in the year 191
“The final battle in the war between our kingdom and the Whybarrians occurred where the ancient Ayeache road crosses the Roddo River. The previous battles had depleted both fleets down to a single serviceable vessie each, the Victory-class vessie Buffalo serving our navy and the Whybarrian Navy’s Royal. Unbeknownst to the Whybarrian admirals, the forces of Llene had also run critically low on fuel. When Admiral Taylor, commander of our Llene fleet, assumed command of the Buffalo, he did not have sufficient fuel to return to the city of Dyes, and even if he had, fuel supplies there had run out.
As a note, in this battle, your humble author began his military career. There was, at that time, a small village called Covenant, forty-some-odd miles south of the river. I was born there and lived there until the war prompted my family to leave. As we traveled, we crossed paths with the Buffalo. My older brother and I, eighteen and sixteen years old, respectively, were conscripted on the spot. We were assigned to carry ammo to the guns along the top deck. Here, I have the opportunity to describe much of this battle firsthand.
Admiral Taylor laid out an ingenious plan to defend against the Royal. As he withdrew from the Battle at the Brick House, (along the way picking up a number of conscripts) he parked his ship along the left-hand edge of the road, near the top of the hill overlooking the ancient bridge. There he shut off his engine. We moved all the working guns to the right-hand side of the vessie, tying them down with thick wire. The admiral planned to wait until his spotters at the top of the hill signaled that the Whybarrians were about to crest the rise. Once he had word, we would let his vessie begin to roll down the slope without starting her engine, only using gravity. As the Royal closed in, we would turn to the right immediately in front of her, forcing the enemy to face all the guns we had to offer with only her scant forward guns to meet our challenge. Hopefully, a blast or two from all guns would knock the Whybarrians out of commission, allowing the Buffalo to drift down to the bridge without using any fuel. Taylor called it “Crossing the T.”
The Royal had been damaged the day before in the Battle at the Brick House and had undergone repairs throughout the night to be ready around nine the next morning. Admiral Beard, commander of the Whybarrian fleet, planned on waiting until the Royal’s sister ship, Monarch was ready for service, but extensive fires broke out aboard the Monarch during repairs. The Royal set out alone, still leaking a small amount of water and steam, and still streaked with soot from the fires she had suffered the day before. Along the way, she encountered and engaged at least two small bands of sailors who had abandoned their ships the day before. My parents, along with my younger sister recounted such an incident. As the Whybarrian vessie passed a group of sailors, a few of her guns haphazardly opened fire on the men. While the fire wasn’t effective, it was a frightful experience for my family.
At ten minutes after ten on the morning of June Twentieth, 168, Admiral Taylor received the report that the Whybarrians had been spotted heading directly toward him. He ordered all hands to their stations, guns ready. My brother and I sat in the door to the elevator room, each ready to push a cart full of bullets up to the guns that needed them. Five minutes later, just before our rivals came into view, the transmission hands slipped the silent ship into neutral. Upon the bridge, the brake was released. Slowly, we began rolling. The Royal came over the top of the hill just a moment later, spraying steam and smoke, lined with soot and battle scars, looking all the world like a ghost from the battle the day before.
Aboard the Royal, Beard stood on the high deck, looking down at the hood as steam poured out of bullet holes in the vessie’s sheet metal. Next to him stood his engineering officer in charge, Ensign Buchanan, who had explained the situation to him. They were losing coolant at a rapid pace, tire two was losing pressure and there was engine trouble. They were burning oil and had lost a good deal of power. They likely had a bad valve on the number five cylinder. Beard had decided to limp to the river bank, where he could park under the bridge, with plenty of access to water and concealment from any passing Llene vessies. As the river came into sight, so did the Buffalo. Beard shouted down to the command deck “Full speed!!” Taylor’s plan to cross the T was not lost on the Whybarrian. The admiral ordered Buchanan back to the engine bay. He then returned to the command deck where he called for all hands to stations and gave the command to prepare for impact.
We thought that the Royal was already at her best speed. The smoke and steam streaming out of her made it look like she was flying. Admiral Taylor may have made his right-hand turn a few seconds too late. Nonetheless, for an instant, the plan worked well. Gunners had been briefed to fire their guns when the enemy’s front glass was in their sights. Our volley devastated the Royal. From our vantage point, we could see the radiator split into three pieces, spewing scalding water and steam everywhere. The bullets bounced all around, knocking off bits of metal and sending them flying at their mechanics. In half a breath, a high-pressure fuel line severed and the fuel sprayed across the whole engine before igniting. Buchanan’s first order on returning to the engine bay was to shut off fuel at the tank and initiate fire suppression.
The upper decks of the Royal were less heavily damaged; the platform the transmission crew stood on was destroyed with two men killed. Their alternates rushed to rig up rope swings in order to complete their duties. Commander Cole, the executive officer, had a leg removed by a bullet, but maintained his post on the bridge. None of their magazines were penetrated, or if they were, their stock of ammunition was depleted. Outside of the engine bay, the damage by the Buffalo was light. However, the damage in the engine bay was enough to leave the Royal crippled. Despite their last-ditch acceleration, now both ships were relying on gravity and momentum to move.
We had begun our turn back to the left to coast away from the engulfed Royal. My brother and I rushed down the gun line, restocking the crews. There came a shout from the rear. The Royal’s last burst of speed proved just enough. Beard gave the command to ram us and the Royal’s helmsmen pushed hard to the right on their wheel. Their right front bumper barely caught our aft. In an instant, the Buffalo spun around and the two gunships slammed side on side into each other. None of us had been able to keep our feet. A few of the gunners had been knocked over the deck, and down to the pavement below. Many of our guns were knocked off their mounts. As we picked ourselves up, we were close enough to hear Beard give the command to “grab on.” Three huge metal hooks came flying out of the Royal, piercing through our sheet metal and latching us in place. Then we heard the shouts of their marines.
There are many turning points in every war: a certain strategy is employed at just the right moment, a technology is developed just in time, or a certain stroke of luck changes the tone of the war. The deployment of Whybarr’s Marines in the Battle of the Roddo was much more than that. If they had not been deployed in such a manner, we would have eventually freed the Buffalo from the Royal and been left free to regroup. We had enough gas to make it back to where the Battle of the Brick House took place. We would have systematically destroyed the Whybarrian vessels there under repairs. However, as Admiral Beard threw his men at us in such a perilous fashion, our last hope of defense was overwhelmed.
Their marines came rushing at us. They crossed the gap between the vessies scampering across ladders, swinging from ropes, and sliding along gun barrels (both their own and ours.) Some simply leaped from their higher decks and plummeted onto ours. They swarmed, snarling and spitting like dogs, slashing and stabbing anything that wasn’t clothed in their distinctive red breastplate and helmet. For their part, the Royal’s gunners performed a precisely timed dance with the marines, carefully firing on the masses of our men without wounding a single of theirs.
My brother and I ran toward the elevator. Right before we reached it, the lift was blown clear off the ship by a well-placed shot. There was no good place to go, with the marines on our heels and the guns demolishing everything around us. My brother took me by the arm, and we made a mad dash for the far side of the deck. Together, we leaped off the top deck, landing in the grass below.
For a moment, Admiral Taylor weighed the idea of fighting to the last man. But the savage skill the marines employed made it clear that there was precious little benefit in that. We saw the white flag raised at ten fourteen that morning. From his vantage point on the Royal, Beard lingered a moment before shouting for the marines to stay their arms. We made our way around the Buffalo in time to see him climbing down the stairwell to board the vessie.
The Whybarrians took our vessie as their own, unhooking her from the Royal, which, despite the best efforts of their mechanics was soon consumed by the fires started by our bombardment. They set about to repair the Buffalo. My brother and I were captured and ordered again to work on the Buffalo, only this time by the Whybarrians. Soon, the prisoners patched things together enough to travel and we were ready to set off by dawn. The Monarch had rejoined them around midnight, along with a refueler, the Mobile, that had been fitted with a host of guns from the abandoned Highness. Together, on the morning of June 21, the three ships limped into the city of Dyes, up to Sarie Palace, and demanded surrender from King Randal.”
The vessie fitters had built the Mobile II to be nearly identical to her namesake. She took up roughly the same space as the battle vessies she restocked. The engine compartment matched, but rather than deck after deck of guns and marines, she kept just enough room for her crew of two hundred. The rest held warehouses and tanks, great and small. The warehouses kept food, uniforms, spare parts, and tools, while the main tank carried gasoline. The smaller tanks were filled with brake fluid, steering fluid, motor oil, and coolant. She also hauled a pair of batteries on the rear deck, and a pair of spare tires hung over the rear, gently bouncing along. A big crane stood at the starboard rear of the refueler, the single biggest difference between her and the Mobile. It made handling the hose much easier, and could also be used to lift a battle vessie enough to change a tire if needed.
Another notable difference between the two refuelers pertained to the crew. In her time, men crewed the Mobile, typical of Whybarrian vessies. The Mobile II’s crew consisted entirely of women. From the Captain to the mechanics, doctors to dishwashers, every soul aboard answered to ma’am. And despite the occasional rumor or grumble to the contrary, the ship performed second to none and carried out her duties with great competency and honor.
One of the driving forces behind Mobile II’s success walked up the steps to the officer’s mess for dinner with the Captain. Commander Caterina Debacca presented herself as a conscientious naval officer: poised, confident but not cocky, deliberate in thought but decisive in action. She also dressed the part, decked out in her tailored dress greys, collar and cuff turned out just so, to show the brown color that denoted her rank of Commander. She preferred wearing the coat when she could. To her way of thinking, the fit of the brown canvas uniform shirt felt a little too casual and immodest for a naval officer. Her wool bifold officer’s hat hid neatly under her arm, shoes, and buttons shining like the setting sun on the windshield.
A mess sailor greeted her at the door. “Evening ma’am, the Captain has the whole place cleared out for you two. The food is on the table and she’s asked that we stay out unless we’re called for. I guess ya’ll have some important business.” The sailors that served the Captain’s mess were always dressed impeccably, but they enjoyed collecting a little juicy gossip if they could.
Caterina did not bite. “I guess I’ll find out. Thank you, Ellis.” She smiled her winning smile and handed Mess Sailor Ellis her hat and slid off her jacket. At five and a half feet, she stood at average height, fit but feminine, with fair skin freckled by long hours standing on the bridge. She kept her straight red hair up in a bun, such that she could slip on the bifold without struggling to tuck in her hair. At twenty-six, a bit on the young side for a Commander, but not enough to inspire more than the typical rumors about how she achieved the rank.
She achieved her rank, in fact, by dedicating her life to her work. She studied naval history and strategy in her spare time, did inspections other officers ignored, and volunteered for duties no one, man or woman, wanted to undertake. And as often as not, her requests were declined by the male Admirals in Cauls. However, her efforts did not go entirely unnoticed and she attained the position of first mate two weeks before this trip. She forsook time with her family, promising relationships with a few desirable bachelors and any friends outside of her shipmates to reach her rank. It also earned her a nickname.
“Icy!” Captain Brenda Donaldson jumped up as Caterina stepped into the room. She hated the nickname Icy, but it stuck. Brenda was a year older, petite, dark skinned with black hair. She bubbled and her warm, personable way with subordinates bordered on fraternization. She also ranked as Caterina’s best and closest friend.
“Brenda, sit, sit, you shouldn’t have waited for me to eat, I’m sure you’re hungry.” They hugged, and while it bugged Catarina to hug her commanding officer, the room stood empty and it had been a while since they saw each outside of passing in the corridors.
“I am, I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast.” Dining on a vessie out on patrol usually meant something plain, almost Spartan, even in the officer’s mess, but tonight Brenda ordered the cooks to prepare a special meal. "We've got fresh baked sourdough, a soup with carrot and tomato, and fresh fish I bought when we stopped in Roddo City." Brenda had a way of smiling that warmed a room. "And wine! Have a glass; this is that dark red you like from up north.”
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Brenda offered a Gemesea red. Caterina and Brenda drank four bottles between the two of them one night almost four years ago. Truth be told, Brenda likely drank three of the four. The Mobile II broke down at Leacofair, back when both of them were lowly Ensigns. They were put on leave until repairs could be completed, and proceeded to paint the town red, drinking and dancing all night. They spent a wonderful night, but the wine did not really taste all that good. “Captain, my shift on the bridge begins after this meal. I probably shouldn’t.” Caterina knew better than to point out that Brenda was technically on shift right now. That would fall on deaf ears.
“You don’t have to be right all the time, Commander.” Brenda poured herself a glass and took a healthy sip. “So, how long has it been since we sat down and ate together? A month?”
“More than that, almost…six weeks, at least.” It felt good, good to sit down with her friend and take a moment. The bread tasted good and the soup too. The fish looked overdone, but it certainly beat the typical fare.
“You know, I’ve been a Captain a month, today actually.” Brenda looked over her soup spoon at Catrina.
"I know. I've been meaning to apologize." Caterina sat straight in her seat. She took a deep breath. "Look, I've been thinking about our promotions. If you weren't a friend, I wouldn't have a word to say, but Brenda, you received a promotion I desperately wanted and clearly deserved. That's not your fault, and I know that. We've both been busy, we're both in new positions, with more authority and responsibility. And we got those positions only two weeks before we set off on patrol." Brenda's face turned a bit red, and she looked at the table. Caterina could not let a promotion ruin a friendship. She simply did not have time. “I’m sorry, Brenda, I am. I should have made time to throw you a promotion party.”
“Well Icy, I'm not exactly thrilled you think you deserved this position, even if it's the truth." Brenda sheepishly reached out to hold her friend's hand. "But if anyone owes an apology, it's me. I'm your commanding officer these days, it's my responsibility to through you a party, not vice versa." Apparently, Brenda needed a friend too. "everything just happened so fast. I'm sorry." The Captian chewed on her lip, "no hard feelings?"
Caterina grinned and nodded "No hard feelings. Thanks for the dinner."
"Oh, I'm glad you like it." Brenda released her hand and took back up the wine glass. "I would have preferred a nice big party with all the officers. but that's just not possible now that we're underway...and I had a feeling you'd prefer a smaller event."
Caterina nodded and swallowed at the same time. "True, and it's nice to get some time to catch up."
"I'm glad to hear you say that." Brenda didn't look glad, her smile faded, "there is something we need to talk about.” She pulled a flake off the river fish and washed it down with wine, then turned to Caterina. “We’ve been set up; Admiral Packard, the fleet commander, doesn’t want an all-female crew in his fleet. He sent Swift and Hunter away, hoping he could get them replaced with men.” Caterina could not believe what her friend blurted out.
“What do you mean, ‘set up?’ Swift and Hunter got a new promotion. They’re studying a new kind of depot system together, somewhere in Rawlledge.” It had struck Caterina as odd and unexpected for both Captain and first mate to transfer on the same day. Maybe unprecedented. But sometimes vessie Captains did odd things. Rumor had it that the Captain of the Lance personally greased at least one thing on the ship daily. No matter what, he put at least a dab of grease somewhere on that ship every day. And the Captain of the King’s Own, Jethro Turner, sang to the ship every morning. Sometimes the oddest Captains seemed to be the best. Or luckiest.
Brenda plunged on. “Last night in Roddo, I went out with Packard’s XO, Captain Clay. I plied him with a few whiskeys and he sang like a bird. Admiral Kincaid, the head of fleet operations wants a woman’s transport, in fact, I think all the big wigs at HQ want more women in the Navy, but Packard doesn’t. He timed everything just right. He went to the Captain and the first mate separately a month before the King’s Fleet set off. He told them about this great chance for advancement, terrific position in High Meadow, but they have to accept immediately. He made some excuse about it being short notice. Then, after they both accepted, he springs it on them that they’re both going, that the experimental depot has a crew of two. He stuck them on a transport headed west before they could even write a letter. Clay seemed pretty proud of the scheme, I guess he thought it up.”
Brenda paused for another drink “So they didn’t know they’d be going together?” Admittedly, Caterina wondered about the sudden exit of Captain Swift and her first mate, Commander Hunter. The two of them were some of the best women in the Navy, but she did not suspect Packard. In fact, she half believed the rumors going around.
“No, Packard knew that Kincaid and the other Admirals at HQ couldn’t replace them with anybody near as experienced as they were, and he hoped that they would drop Mobile II out of the fleet, replace her with one of the male crewed transports from Queen’s fleet.”
Caterina ate a chunk of the fish, paying no mind to how well the cook had prepared it. “Why didn’t Kincaid replace us with the Pegasus? That’s an all-female crew.”
“She’s getting a full overhaul, won’t be ready for at least another week.” Brenda apparently stopped tasting the wine, as her sips became gulps. “Packard screwed us good, planned it all out just right to try to get rid of us.” She stopped for a moment, and looked down, then continued. “But you got screwed twice.”
Caterina cleared her throat. “What do you mean, Brenda?” Their friendship had a decade-long history. Brenda might be clingy and dingy and not the most dependable friend a girl could have, but she maintained Caterina’s trust since they became close. So why did she hide what she wanted to say? “What do you mean?”
“Clay was there when Kincaid and the rest met to decide who would captain this ship, Packard was too, but they weren’t listening to him, they only let him sit in so he could save face.” Brenda poured another glass of wine, took a big drink, and a deep breath. “Look, we both know you’re the better officer between the two of us, you had to wonder why they didn’t pick you to captain this vessie, right?”
Caterina wondered, but never asked. “I figured it was political, they didn’t want to show preference to the king’s little sister. And I am a year younger than you.”
Brenda shook her head. “That’s not why. It’s because you snubbed Kincaid’s son.” Her words jolted Caterina. She remembered Stanley Kincaid, remembered not being interested, and saying so.
“The professor? You don’t think Kincaid would hold that against me, do you? Stanley was being a little presumptuous, asking for a date from a daughter of one of his colleagues…in the midst of the Scientist’s Christmas Ball.” Caterina fought to keep her cool. Stanley was a worm, and she suspected something when he asked, in such a boisterous manner, in front of so many people. What did he expect, for her to accept that kind of invitation from a man with a decade-plus on her?
“I know Admiral Kincaid did hold it against you, Clay said as much, and I think Stanley intended to be snubbed, that he played you.” Brenda again reached for her hand. The thoughtful gesture scarcely soothed Caterina. “Clay didn’t know the whole story, or at least he said he didn’t, only that Kincaid had some sort of axe to grind with you, personally and that it concerned his son.” She paused and took another deep breath. “When the mess happened with Parks and his son, where did the late Queen send them?”
She hated hearing that name, hated picturing that face, hated those memories. Stanley was awkward, but the Parks’, they were worse. “Grandma sent them to High Meadow, but you know, I didn’t ask for that. I tried to hide the whole drama from her, but she found out. That was all her…”
“Yes, Yes Icy, but where did she send them?”
Brenda seemed a little more dingy than typical tonight. Why would she even bring this up? “High Meadow, she sent them to High Meadow in Rawlledge to study wind erosion.” A joke of her grandmother’s; after Professor Parks dismissed Caterina, Queen Gina inquired as to why, exactly, her granddaughter could no longer continue at University in Cauls. Parks’ answer; to the effect of Caterina being a royal distraction to other pupils and better suited to an administrative job in the navy; led the Queen to pronounce him an expert on hot air, and send him and his handsy son off to Rawlledge to study wind erosion; permanently. But that had been almost ten years ago.
“High Meadow. What’s in High Meadow?”
“Well Brenda, not much. They have wind, dirt, farms…Brenda, you’ve been there same as I have, there’s not much there.”
“Swift and Hunter are there now.” It struck her, she had missed it and Brenda figured it out. She wondered why the Navy would put a depot in High Meadow when she heard of their assignment, but the real question dug deeper, why Packard sent them to High Meadow?
“So why does Packard care about Parks?” Caterina found herself reconsidering the wine. “And for that matter, why doesn’t Packard want a woman captain? And why would Stanley want to be snubbed in front of all his colleagues?”
Brenda poured the last of the wine into her cup and finished it in one big gulp. She let the empty cup, still in her hand, rest on her lap and stared down at it. “I don’t know, but Packard wanting us gone is the only thing that makes sense. Captain Swift wouldn’t leave us high and dry if she knew Hunter would leave too. And I can’t think of a reason he would get rid of them other than to try and get rid of the woman crew. Parks and Stanley Kincaid worked together before he was sent to Rawlledge. I could see why he might want to put you in a tight spot. And while we don’t know why, sure seems Admiral Packard is sending a "no girls allowed" message.”
Caterina noticed a tear running down Brenda’s face. “Oh Brenda, I’m so sorry.” She reached out and hugged her, and Brenda began to sob. They embraced for a long moment, any trace of hesitation long lost. Then Caterina pulled away. “Look, no matter who the captain is, we’ve got to prove these guys wrong. We’ve got to run the hottest refueler in the fleet, and we will.”
Brenda did a most un-captain-like thing and sniveled. “I know, I know we will, I just wasn’t ready for all this, all the politics. Swift and Hunter used to handle all that, we only needed to do our jobs. Now…”
“I know, but we can handle it too, the same way they did.” Caterina did not sound as convincing as she hoped she would. “You’ll see, it will be fine.”
Brenda looked up. “Can’t we contact your brother?”
“No, we can do this, I’ve never needed him to help me before, not with the navy, and I certainly wouldn’t want my big brother to come fix this.” It hurt a little to have it suggested. “Look, schedule a time when we can set down, without so much wine and sobbing, and work this out. Bring in Commanders Oden and Smith, they’re sharp and have connections. Maybe they can help us figure it out and make a plan. But in the meantime, I’m late. I was supposed to be at the bridge ten minutes ago.”
Brenda sighed, not a breath of apprehension like so many times through the course of their half-eaten meal, but a lonely sigh. “I will, day after tomorrow probably. But I will.” She paused and looked up. “Icy, I know you’re going to say it’s the wine talking, but I love you, you’re the best friend I could ever have.”
Caterina stood up, but she paused and leaned over. “No, no, I know it’s not just the wine, I know you mean it, but you’re wrong. I certainly don’t deserve a friend as good as you, and I love you too, captain.” She leaned over to hug her friend, a short but strong hug, then sharply walked away.
Up on the bridge, Caterina put the night’s discoveries aside. She counted tonight as one of her favorite nights. Time to refuel.
When not in a town, the Whybarr fleets stayed constantly on the move, but to refuel, the vessies needed to be standing still. So that the fleet could still move, the refueler and a battle vessie would go on ahead of the rest and set up along the route, well in advance of the formation. One by one, vessies would break off from the pack and meet with the refueler to get their fill of fuel. The refueling part did not particularly excite Caterina, but accelerating to pass all the other ships, and speeding along to find a place well in front did.
Directly behind the bridge sat the communications room, filled with an ancient CB radio. A voice came from inside. “Commander, the Mace is ready, requests our status.”
Caterina smiled, “Ready here, we will follow the Mace to the rendezvous site. And Ensign, tell them to be quick.” She walked along the rail that split the bridge crosswise. “Keep a sharp eye,” she warned the lookouts as she took the half flight of steps down from the captain’s seat to the lower deck. Caterina walked up to Petty Officer Jones at the helm. “Let me steer her for a minute Jones.”
“Aye Commander.” Jones stepped aside and Caterina took the wheel. She ordered the sailors on the transmission team to clean the windshield as soon as she finished with the Brenda, and the headlights showed out at the line of vessies ahead of her. For a breath or two, the fleet lumbered along. One of the port spotters called out “coming up on the port side, battle vessie, the King’s Mace.”
The call came from another spotter and Caterina responded, “Aye spotter.” The headlights illuminating the road on her left grew brighter and brighter until she saw the Mace. She made the customary call, out of habit and procedure. Then another breath and the vessie surpassed them. “Set throttle to forty percent”
“Forty percent throttle, aye Commander,” came the reply from four of the sailors on the bridge. They stood to the helm’s right, two steps forward, next to a six-foot lever. They were all strong girls, with big muscles. The lever extended through the floor, and below the bridge. It pulled a rope through rigging and counterweights, around pulleys and down, to where the giant’s accelerator pedal still sat. As the young sailors above leaned into their lever on the bridge, the pedal below slowly depressed until it rested a little less than halfway down.
Before the throttle team could reach forty percent, the engine began to growl. Caterina gently leaned into the wheel and pulled the handles to her left, hand over hand. The front of the transport swung to port and the Mobile II gently rolled to starboard under the weight of her liquid cargo. “Throttle forty percent, Commander,” the sailors called as Caterina brought the wheel back to starboard.
“Aye, throttle forty percent.” She replied. The vessie jumped as it downshifted, clawing a bit at the loose gravel on the ancient road. The other refuelers of the fleet slipped by, each one receding a little quicker than the last. Then they surpassed the battle vessies, faster and faster until at last they passed the lead and were out in the open, only the dust from the now distant Mace in sight. Holding the wheel of a zooming hunk of steel as it sped down these long-forgotten roads in the far reaches of the realm gave Caterina a feeling like no other. All her cares fell along the road behind her and for a few short miles, she relished in driving. All too soon, the tail lights of the battle vessie ahead peaked through the dust and began to grow brighter. “Set throttle to twenty percent...Be ready at the brake.” She glanced over at Jones as the sailors busied themselves with their work. The response came back; throttle secured. She thought of how she would feel in Jones's shoes. “Come over here, you need to steer her now. I'm sorry to steal that moment Jones, it’s just too much fun.” She stepped back and saw the stars, the ridges up ahead, and a handful of marines busy aboard the deck of the Mace. Later, maybe the day after tomorrow, she would need to piece together what Brenda had shared, but for the moment, she just enjoyed the road.