Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  * * *

  “The enemy appears to be well into conducting repairs to their frontline forces. I’m sure intensive review of the scanning results will yield more data, but I can summarize a bit if you wish.” Stockton stood in the front of the conference room. He was looking out at all the senior officers present, but he was mostly focused on Tyler. Barron wasn’t the overall commander, nor Stockton’s direct superior anymore, but the pilot had served under him for a long time, and there was a strong bond between them.

  Tyler nodded. “Please, Jake.” He was still reeling from the day he’d gone to see Stockton, when he’d sent the fleet’s strike force commander on a multi-system trip back to Megara, three transits each way in a fighter. It was a grueling run, and while Barron hadn’t expressly ordered Stockton to go himself, he’d had no doubt that the legendary Raptor would make the run. Stockton had tried to go alone, but Barron had insisted he take two other pilots with him. One of those, at least, had made it back with Stockton.

  “Well, sir—sirs—there are mining platforms and refineries around the asteroids and some of the outer system moons. There are factory ships and mobile shipyards, and they are all operational, working at what appears to be an almost unbelievable rate. I couldn’t get any real data on how many ships have been serviced, or how much ordnance replaced, but my gut is, they’ll have the whole fleet in decent shape for a fight in another month…and damned closed to fully operation status, save for the most badly damaged ships, of course, in two.”

  Stockton stood silently for a few seconds. Then, he said, “Of course, that is all guesswork. I fly fighters, I don’t analyze fleet logistics.”

  Barron appreciated Stockton’s flash of humility, but he was ready to take the pilot’s analysis at face value. He’d always admired Stockton, but he was beyond impressed at the grim and capable leader his once-brash, young pilot had become.

  “I, for one, don’t have any problem accepting Admiral Stockton’s analysis.” Barron paused. He still had trouble believing the rank Stockton had achieved, the rank he had chosen to give his old squadron commander, and even more, just how much he knew Raptor deserved it. It had leapfrogged Stockton over hundreds of more senior officers, but there was just no escaping the fact that the pilot commanded thousands of fighters in every battle, not only a massive force, but also the most vital one to preserving any hope of victory.

  “Aside from the admiral’s proven capability as a scout, it fits with our own estimates, albeit, unfortunately, with the more pessimistic ones.” Which had been the only ones Barron had even considered. The Hegemony might kill him, but he’d sworn they would never take him by surprise again with their capabilities or dynamism.

  “I think we all consider the admiral’s report to be reliable, Tyler.” Dustin Nguyen was staring down at the table, even as he spoke. The stress of the battle in Olyus, and the unending workload since the fleet had arrived at Craydon, were really wearing down on the old officer. “I think the real question is, what can we do about it? This war has been like no other we’ve ever fought. We’ve had no significant respite, and not even any vital supply lines that offer a vulnerable spot to attack. Yes, of course the enemy still must have ordnance moving forward from the distant homeworlds, but with their mobile logistics, their ability to mine raw materials and refine them into what they need, there is nothing we can cut them off from that will cripple them…save, perhaps, for antimatter. And as crucial as that resource must be to their main guns and other key systems, it is not large. A single freighter can carry enough to sustain their operations through the complete conquest of the Rim. For all we know, they may have—probably have—enough in that vast fleet of freighters to keep them going to the end of the war.”

  No one spoke for a moment, the room silent, save for the distant hum of some machinery. Then, Tyler Barron’s voice cut through the eerie quiet.

  “We have to destroy it.”

  “Destroy what?” Clint Winters was sitting opposite the table from Barron. “There are no normal supply lines to hit, no convoys we can intercept to hurt them, at least not enough.”

  “Their logistical support fleet is their true strength in this war, even more than their massive battleships and their railguns. It is the one thing we haven’t been able to counter, and the single resource that has denied us almost every defensive tactic that might have helped us, bought us time.” Barron paused. “When they advance to meet us here, to crush us once and for all, they will almost certainly leave the support ships behind, as they have in every instance of this war. The freighters and mining ships and mobile shipyards will be in Megara when their battlefleet moves forward against us.” He paused. “We have to destroy it.” His voice was as cold as the depths of space itself.

  “Destroy the logistics fleet? Is that even possible?” Gary Holsten was the sole occupant of the room who wasn’t regular military.

  “Possible? Yes. Probable?” Winters was clearly interested in the idea, but doubt clouded his words. “I don’t see how.”

  “The stealth units.” There was no detectable emotion in Barron’s tone.

  “I understand what you are thinking, but they’re untested…and we’ve only got sixteen operational units. Assume you are right, that the logistics train is left in the Olyus system, and the enemy main fleet moves on us here. They will still leave some kind of garrison, both to support their conquest and occupation of Megara and to defend the supply fleet. How can we possibly expect to use sixteen stealth generators to get there with a fleet large enough to pull this off?”

  “The answer is simple, Clint. We put the generators in our sixteen newest and biggest battleships…and we send them to Megara. We have more than one way to reach the capital without going through enemy-held space, or anywhere the Hegemony battlefleet will pass on its way to Craydon. And, the stealth units will safeguard against running into some random patrol.”

  Winters just stared back across the table, an expression on his face the likes of which was rarely seen on a man called ‘the Sledgehammer.’ “You can’t be serious,” he finally said.

  “I’m deadly serious. What else can we do?”

  “Tyler…first, aside from the fact that even a fleet of our sixteen best ships is a woefully inadequate force to send against whatever garrisons the enemy leaves in Megara, do you realize how badly it will weaken the main fleet to lose the detachment you’re talking about?”

  “I realize that. Does it matter?”

  Winters just stared at him.

  Barron paused. He knew he’d been morose, resigned to defeat, ever since the fleet had abandoned Megara. And, he still felt that way. He knew they all thought he was losing it, but, for all his cold-blooded pessimism, he knew exactly what he was proposing.

  “We lost in Megara, Clint…with Prime Base, the capital fortresses, even the asteroids we armed and towed into place. We’re weaker now, down twenty percent in hulls, and over a quarter in fighters. Everybody under arms is exhausted, demoralized.” He paused. “We’re not going to win here, my friend, no matter what strategies we concoct, what desperate plans we put in place. Craydon is not the primary battle in my plan, it’s the diversion. Hitting the logistics fleet in Olyus is the main attack. The mission of the ships deployed here is to entice the enemy battlefleet out of Olyus, to give the raiding force a chance to get around and hit those supply and repair ships hard.”

  “The attack on Olyus will still be very close a suicide mission, Tyler. Especially if those stealth units fail to function perfectly. You know that.”

  “I’m willing to take that risk.”

  “You? Who decided you would lead the ships back to Olyus?”

  “It’s my plan. It’s on me to take the chances. You and Admiral Nguyen can command the fleet here…and once the enemy is clearly deployed, you can decide what to do, fight it out or pull back. I just need those heavy units busy while I hit the support fleet.”

  “You should be here with the main fleet, Tyler. Even with the sixteen best h
eavies gone, it’s still far and away the largest force.” A pause. “I will lead the flanking force.”

  Barron stared across the table at his comrade, and his friend. “No, no way. It’s too dangerous.”

  “But, it’s not for you? We’re way past worrying about danger now, aren’t we? We’re teetering on the edge of the abyss here, and you’re right. This may be the only way to stop the enemy, at least for long enough for us to deploy more of the new technology, and get some new ships in the line. A chance, at least…which is more than we’ve got now.”

  Barron was about to respond when Nguyen slammed his hand down hard on the table. “That’s enough from both of you. Let’s figure this out, make sure the plan is even practical. We don’t even know if those stealth units can be installed quickly enough, and without them, this really would be a suicide mission, and a pointless one at that. We work out the details, together. Then, I will decide who leads the raiding force and who takes field command here at Craydon.”

  The old admiral paused, and he glared at both of the younger officers. “You wanted me in command, and that’s what you got…and that’s just what I’m going to do. Command.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  UFS Illustre

  Hovan System

  Union-Confederation Border

  Union Year 222 (318 AC)

  The pain was intense, and it radiated out from his chest to every extremity of his body. There was blood all over him, his own now, mixed with that of his murdered aide. He was on the floor, though it took him an instant to realize that, and he didn’t remember actually falling.

  He was still screaming at himself inside, railing against the carelessness that had caused him to walk into an assassin’s bullet. The aide’s face flashed through his memory. If the young officer had not chased him down with a last second report, if he hadn’t gone in first, Denisov would be the one lying dead on the floor, his brains blown across half the room.

  Instead, he was just critically wounded, and his assassin was still there, somewhere in the darkness of his office, no doubt ready to finish the job. His fortune, if that was the word for it, had bought him a few seconds more of life, nothing beyond that. He’d led his people into mutiny, put countless loyal officers into the sights of Gaston Villieneuve’s murderous paranoia. All for nothing.

  He waited for his death, expecting it any second. But it didn’t come.

  I’m behind the lieutenant. He’d fallen hard, and the dead aide was on his side right next to him.

  Blocking me?

  He imagined his office, trying to guess where his killer was positioned. Behind the desk.

  Of course.

  And, the body next to him was right in between him and his desk.

  He might have had a chance, after all…but even as he tried to move, to reach for the gun, he realized he’d dropped it and it had skittered out of reach. The brief flash of hope drained away, and despair settled in again.

  He caught a glimpse of something, not even a visual sighting so much as a soft sound, the rushing of air. The assassin on the move.

  Now, it’s over…

  He heard a crack. No, a loud succession of shots. Some kind of automatic fire, and a second later, a bright light shining across the room.

  He wrenched his head around, and he saw a figure dead center in his field of view, caught in the middle of the shaft of bright light. A woman. She had a pistol still in her hand, but, as he watched, it slipped down to the ground. She wore a normal spacer’s coveralls, but they were covered in small red dots.

  Not dots…gradually expanding circles of crimson. She fell to her knees, and in her face, he could see pain, and determination. She still looked as though her only thought was to kill him, even as her strength slipped away, and her own death came for her.

  He heard the sound of loud boots on the deck, and he knew his guards had come. They had made it in time. Just.

  Or not quite. He wasn’t sure. The pain was almost unbearable. He was badly wounded.

  Very badly wounded.

  He felt hands on him, saw the hazy image of a guard. There were words, but they were soft, far away.

  And, then not there at all.

  * * *

  “He will probably survive, though if you’d asked me an hour ago, I might have said otherwise. He’s tough as nails, but even so, if it had taken another three or four minutes to get the artificial heart in him, he’d have died right there on the table.”

  Denisov could hear the words, and on some level, he could understand them. But, they still didn’t seem real.

  He was lying, as he had been before, but now he wasn’t on the deck. He was in a bed. And, the pain. It was gone. He felt…nothing. Almost as though he was floating.

  But, the words…they were still there.

  “Where am I?” He spoke. Or, at least he’d tried to speak. It took a few seconds to realize that he’d heard the words in his head, but his raw and parched throat his not managed to force out anything audible. He moved his hand, though that, too, was far more difficult than he’d expected.

  He took a breath. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but there was a strange feeling. Pressure? Tightness?

  He tried to move his head, but he couldn’t. His midsection was covered with something. Metal. Some kind of apparatus.

  I’m in sickbay. I was shot.

  Artificial heart? The words echoed in his mind, realization setting in. He knew he’d been badly hurt, but now he realized just how close he’d come to death.

  How close his assassin had come to success.

  He tried to move his arm again, and to force something audible from his mouth. He managed a grunt, not very communicative, but enough to get the attention of the doctors standing just inside the doorway to the room.

  They came running over, one of them turning to check the bank of monitors next to the bed, while the other leaned over him.

  “Admiral, I am very pleased to see you awake. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, but I am confident you will survive.” There was considerable sincerity in the doctor’s tone. That meant two things to him. One, he probably was going to make it. And, two, the man tasked with seeing to that result was a supporter of his, and not an officer harboring closeted resentment about the choices he’d made for them all.

  He tried to speak again. He slowed his words down, concentrated on each one as though its utterance was a herculean task. Which each of them was. “Thirsty…”

  “Of course, Admiral.” He turned and snapped off a command to one of the medical technicians who’d entered the room. “I was reluctant to allow you any water in case I had to take you back into surgery.” He looked at the other doctor, who turned from the readouts and nodded. “But, your stats all look very good, so I am optimistic you are past the worst of it. You will need a substantial recovery period, of course, and there are some realities of living with a robotic coronary pump you will have to adjust to, but in the end, I am sure…”

  Denisov stopped listening. He didn’t want a pep talk, a rousing support session on how well he was doing. His fleet was in enemy space, at least what had been enemy space for a century. He was on his way to try to forge an alliance with people who hated him, who despised the Union and its spacers as much as he and his people hated them. He didn’t have time for ‘substantial recovery periods,’ and he damned sure didn’t understand why doctors had to make everything so complicated. Did they think ‘robotic coronary pump’ sounded better than ‘artificial heart?’

  “No time…” He’d managed to get a better handle on forcing out words, but he stopped when an assistant came up to the bed and held a small canister next to his face. He opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around the small straw extending out.

  The feeling of water, cool, crisp, wet…it was indescribable. For a few seconds, it was his universe, all he cared about, all he could imagine he would ever want.

  He drank and drank…and then the container ran dry. He looked up, his eyes finding the
doctor’s, his expression as clear a communication as any oratory could deliver. More.

  The doctor shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but after what your system’s been through, we have to go slowly. You can have another canister in half an hour.”

  Denisov felt a wave of anger, of pure, unfiltered, elemental rage. He wanted water, damn it. Now! It faded quickly, and his rational mind understood the situation. But, the water had been so incredible…

  “I need to get out of here, Doctor…as soon as possible.” His speech had recovered considerably from the hydration, and, while not exactly loud and commanding, his voice was now completely audible.

  “Admiral, that’s not possible. I’m afraid…”

  “You know where we are, Doctor. You know the situation. I have to get out of here and back to the bridge…as soon as humanly possible.”

  “I understand the situation, Admiral. Do you understand that if I disconnect you from the med support system right now, you will be dead long before you can reach the bridge? Will that help the fleet in any way?”

  Denisov saw unintended complexity in that last question. He was far from sure his presence had done a damned thing beneficial for his people, at all. But, he was determined to finish what he had started.

  “Then we need to set up a command station down here. I need my aide, and we’ll need a direct comm link, and some portable scanners.” He paused, and he looked up at the astonished doctor standing next to him. “And, I’ll need some help staying awake, Doc, so, have some stims ready. I’ll go as long as I can without them, but…”

  “Admiral, that is out of the question. You need rest, and the…”

  “Is it better if I die because the Confeds attacked us? Or if the Hegemony forces are still following us, and they hit us when we’re not ready?” He paused. The doctor was only looking out for him, and he knew that. But, reality was reality. “There is no choice, Doctor. I’ll try to get some rest, but that’s not going to happen unless I have all the data I need down here. Help me get everything I need set up, and I will stay as calm as possible.”