Signal Lieutenant Pryor awoke to the strident buzz of his bunkside telephone.
"Sir, the commodore's called a Condition Yellow," the message deck NCO informed him. "It looks like that bandit blasted through our intercept and took out two Epsilon-classes while he was at it. I got a standby from command deck, and—"
"I'll be right up," Pryor said quickly.
Five minutes later, he stood with the on-duty signals crew, reading out an incoming from fleet. He whistled.
"Brother, they've got something new!" He looked at Captain Aaron. "Did you check out the vector they had to make to reach their new position in the time they've had?"
"Probably a foulup in Tracking." Aaron looked ruffled, routed out of a sound sleep.
"The commodore's counting off the scale," the NCO said. "He figured he had 'em boxed."
The annunciator beeped. The yeoman announced Malthusa's commander.
"All right, you men." Broadly's voice had a rough edge to it now. "The enemy has an idea he can maul Fleet units and go his way unmolested. I intend to disabuse him of that notion! I'm ordering a course change. I'll maintain contact with this bandit until such time as units designated for the purpose have reported his neutralization! This vessel is under a Condition Yellow at this time, and I need not remind you that relevant sections of the manual will be adhered to with full rigor!"
Pryor and Aaron looked at each other, eyebrows raised. "He must mean business, if he's willing to risk straining seams with a full-vector course change," the former said.
"So we pull six on and six off until he gets it out of his system," Aaron growled. "I knew this cruise wasn't going to work out, as soon as I heard Old Carbuncle would be aboard."
"What's he got to do with it? Broadly's running this action."
"Don't worry, he'll be in it before we're through."