The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  “Looking forward to it.” Huron stood. “By the way, how’s Nick doing these days?”

  “Now you’re going to start prying into my private life?”

  “So you and Nick do have a private life.”

  “Don’t start.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  CEF Academy Orbital Campus

  Deimos, Mars, Sol

  “Welcome to today’s op, Cadets.” Commander Buthelezi looked out at the twelve expectant faces before her—expectant, but not universally eager. It was the last day of War Week, and aside from the fact that it actually lasted ten Terran days, not seven, it was specifically designed to be brutal. Buthelezi could see the effects of sleep deprivation on several faces, and on a couple, the despair born of repeated crushing defeats. She predicted that less than half of the prospective pilots before her were going to come back next term for more.

  Two she was sure would: Cadets Kennakris and Basmartin. Kennakris was waiting eagerly, almost fiercely, for their assignment. War Week had awakened something in her that one rarely saw, and she’d actually seemed to get stronger as the days progressed. Basmartin’s enthusiasm, though certainly marked, was of a less ferine nature. As a student, he was solid, steady, precise and seemed almost indefatigable. There was chemistry between them; they made a good team, with Basmartin’s uncommon common sense anchoring Kennakris’s inveterate seat-of-the-pants risk-taking. And they were almost tied for the lead in War Week points—Kennakris leading by only two.

  “This is a Red Team/Blue Team op for all the marbles,” Buthelezi continued, flashing the point total on the screen. Ten faces fell: it was almost equal to the possible score of all their exercises so far combined. Kris’s eyes narrowed slightly and Buthelezi could have sworn they got a little brighter, while Basmartin just looked over at her and smiled. “And you get to pull out all the stops. Here we go.”

  Buthelezi adjusted the display and brought up a star system in the holographic volume of the classroom’s big omnisynth, now configured as the Ready-Ops room of a light carrier. “Lacaille,” Buthelezi announced to a general murmur. Lacaille had been even more in the media since the change in the Nedaeman government; the ongoing drama surrounding the proposed ultimatum had kept it a top-line item almost every news cycle.

  “This is the situation: The Lacaille government has detained a diplomatic packet carrying sixteen of our people, including a senior consular official, sent there to negotiate the extradition of Nestor Mankho.” Murmurs of approval and nodding heads were cut short by the commander’s sharp look. Kris was, she noticed, the only one who had not taken her eyes off the display.

  “They are blaming irregularities in some of our people’s credentials for the delay and claim the meetings will commence when those are addressed. But they’ve disabled the packet’s jump convolver, and we have evidence they are in communication with the Bannermans. Our sources indicate that once they have active Bannerman support, they intend to use our people as hostages to get a number of unacceptable concessions. The packet is still in orbit around Lacaille and our best intel is that our people are still on it. Our response is to dispatch two corvettes transporting a team of marines to rescue our people and then recover or destroy the packet. Your mission is to effect this rescue. Four of you will be assigned to the corvettes. The rest will provide fighter cover for the operation.”

  Louder murmurs now, with three cases of indiscreet eye-rolling. This scenario was vastly more involved than anything they had previously been presented with.

  “Focus, people,” Buthelezi snapped, recalling all eyes to her. “Lacaille’s Navy, such as it is”—smiles at this—“is stationed at their primary moon, where their main orbital base is. You’ll find what we know about their current order of battle uploaded to your xels, but briefly, their heaviest combatants are destroyers, mostly old Halith refits, although they do have two newer ships that were domestically produced. Only six can be considered up-to-date and operational, and of those, we believe two are undergoing refit in airdock at this time. The older ships are either mothballed or laid up in ordinary.

  “In addition, we estimate they have four new frigates, two of which we know to be operational. The other two were recently undergoing OPEVAL trials and may still be fitting out. They also have twenty older boats—again, originally Halith—of which at least six are undergoing refit with new weapons and sensor systems.”

  Commander Buthelezi scanned the little group to see how this info was being received. Overall, pretty well, she thought. “So as far as major combatants go, we estimate only four destroyers and perhaps eight frigates are ready to sortie on short notice. Sortie time from their moon to planetary orbit is sixty to ninety minutes. It is unlikely that they have more than one destroyer and two frigates hot”—meaning they could sortie within the hour—“the rest will take at least twelve standard hours to get underway.

  “Normal patrol duties in Lacaille space are handled by corvettes and LMACs. They do have quite a number of light interceptors and some strike fighters but they do not use these for patrol. They are attached to their main orbital base and don’t operate independently.

  “We are here”—Commander Buthelezi highlighted a jump field just at the limit of deep-radar range from the Lacaille system—“and these are Lacaille jump fields.” She highlighted these as well; there were three, almost equally spaced just outside the orbit of the lone gas giant in the system and more-or-less synchronous with it. “You will jump into this field here”—Buthelezi indicated the jump field closest to the gas giant—“and make a transit along this route to Lacaille orbit.” An orange line skirting the gas giant curved in gracefully to intersect the planet.

  “Estimated transit time is two-hundred-sixty minutes. If you maintain schedule, you will reach the packet’s position while it is at its maximum distance from their primary moon, adding an extra thirty minutes or so to their response time. Once you intercept the packet, you in the fighters will establish overwatch while the marines from the corvettes board and recover our people. You will see that we have allowed forty-five minutes for this operation. You will then escort them to the jump field that provides the best avenue for exit, getting your jump convolver settings from the corvettes. Questions?”

  Basmartin raised a polite finger. Buthelezi nodded to him. “Do we know who’s keeping an eye on the packet?”

  “There have been one—sometimes two—corvettes in company most of the time. We believe there have been one or two LMACs visiting sporadically as well. Our corvettes will handle any corvettes or LMACs in company. You will intercept any craft approaching the packet or who appear to be intent on interfering with the rescue operation. Yes, Cadet Brunner?”

  “Are we allowed to fire on approaching craft, ma’am?” asked Minx.

  “If you witness a hostile act, you will return fire. If a Lacaille craft attempts perimeter breach, you may prevent that by force. Full ROEs are on your xels and you will submit your acknowledgement with the op-plan, as per usual.”

  Kris raised her hand. “Ma’am, what about patrol routes and sensor coverage?”

  “All the latest is in your TAC upload. You’ll note they don’t have the resources to maintain leakproof surveillance. Your approach has been plotted and timed to avoid the routes we know about and any buoys we’ve been able to detect. Once you get inside the hundred-minute mark”—Buthelezi indicated the time tick—“you’ll be detectable to their listening nets if you aren’t careful. So keep it dark and quiet after that point.”

  “Ma’am?”—Basmartin again—“Are we sure they won’t move our people downside?”

  “We’ve informed the Lacaille government that if our people are removed from the packet, we will consider that an act of war which will be met with a maximum response.” Buthelezi smiled. “That is not a victory condition, people. There will be special negative grades for anyone who involves us in another major war over this. Understood?” A chorus of nods assured her that it was. “Good. Otherwise, scoring i
s the same.”

  Buthelezi took an appraising look around the room. “Very well. You now have a full TAC upload available. We are at T-6 hours on this op and I expect a plan within the hour. Kennakris, as points leader, you have command of this op. Basmartin, you’re her second. If there are no other questions, then good hunting, Cadets.”

  Basmartin whistled as Commander Buthelezi left the room and looked sideways at Kris. “What the hell?” Kris shook her head, but Minx, who had been squirming through the last part of the briefing, burst out, “Christ! We don’t know how to do this! Jump, fly four hours through hostile space, engage Jesus knows what at the other end? Destroyers! Frigates! It’s ridiculous—”

  “Clamp it, Minx,” Kris snapped. Minx got on Kris’s nerves in the best of times, but she was okay as long as things were straightforward and by the book. Give her too much leeway, though, and she tended to get flighty—like now. Still, Kris had to admit, if only inwardly, that they were being asked to undertake a mission far beyond what they, as first-term cadets, could be expected to accomplish.

  “You think we’re being boggarted?” Basmartin asked. Boggart was cadet slang for a no-win scenario. They were especially popular near the end of War Week and as far as any one of them knew, no one had been boggarted yet, so there was a general feeling they were overdue.

  “Maybe.” Kris sighed. Their mission scenarios had always been precise up until now; any variations well defined, not probably this and latest intel indicates that and we estimate only six . . . or eight . . . or . . .

  She went to the omnisynth and leaned her elbows on the edge, watching the planets and the jump fields and the little moon with its orbital base, along with their objective and its unknown covering force, move serenely through their simulated paces. Would they really cut loose capital ships against her little force of eight fighters and two corvettes?

  They might. Academy exercises were not about fairness or even odds, but there were limits. Red Team/Blue Team meant there was another squad of cadets who’d been given the task of intercepting her forces and defeating them. So she wasn’t up against a battle simulation computer or exercise refs. Whatever authority those other cadets—the Red Team—had, it could not be that much greater than what she’d been given. That meant they would not have the authority to sortie all their major combatants—that was an NCA decision. At best, they should be able to request support from no more than one frigate or maybe the destroyer—assuming the info on how many combatants they kept hot was accurate. As for fighters, a full squadron wouldn’t surprise her, but if their specs could be trusted, they wouldn’t be as capable as her team’s.

  However, there was something else—perhaps even more critical—and it had nothing directly to do with the details of this exercise: their instructor’s attitude. How Commander Buthelezi felt about her, Kris wasn’t sure: she treated all cadets strictly according to their merits. But today, she felt that the commander was paying particular attention to her, and furthermore, Kris had detected a tiny sparkle in her instructor’s eye, a sparkle she could only describe as devilish. Her instincts in this regard were well honed, and she was almost positive something unusual was up.

  She glanced over at Basmartin, who was poking his xel and talking with Tanner, who was often Minx’s wingman, although Kris personally thought he was the better pilot. Minx herself was towards the back of the room, alternately reiterating her point, helped out by agitated gestures, and listening to the other cadets with pursed lips.

  “Got anything, Baz?”

  Basmartin came over and started to stroke through the TAC upload for her. “Pretty much what she said. We can expect small craft on orbit, and if they aren’t totally asleep they’ll put fighters in geo-polar and wait for the corvettes to engage. Then the real fun will begin.”

  “So where do we set up overwatch?”

  “Well”—Basmartin zoomed the omnisynth display in on Lacaille—“the way we’re coming in, the L5 point looks good. The corvettes bang in and whichever way the fighters come down, we bounce ‘em.”

  “What if they have a frigate out there?”

  Basmartin looked sour, and Minx, who’d come over to stand behind him, said, “If they do that, we’re so screwed.” Kris had never met anyone before who said screwed—the first time she’d heard it, she hadn’t known what it meant—and it still made her eyes roll. But she suppressed it now, and as Minx seemed about to enlarge on her opinion for the third or fourth time, she said to Basmartin, “Look at it their way.”

  She adjusted the display and pulled up a window from the point of view of Lacaille’s orbital base. “Look,” she repeated, “the transit they gave us is the best transit.”

  “So?”

  “So, if we can see it’s the best transit, they can see it’s the best transit. And they must have some idea of the timing, and they know where their surveillance holes are better than we do. So if they put a squadron here—or a frigate—and another in geo-polar, and we come in like we’re supposed to, look what happens.” She tapped the data into the omnisynth and ran it.

  “Christ,” said Tanner as the brutal scenario unfolded.

  “What we need to do”—Kris entered some new data—“is get here, by L3. That will at least allow us to pick off that outer group, and if the corvettes can stay out of the way of the inner group for a bit, I think we can come down in time to make it work.”

  Basmartin shook his head. “But we can’t get to L3. We’d have to go through this”—he added a red line—“and forces from their base can cut us off anywhere along here.” He highlighted the danger zone—at least thirty minutes with no way out and no hope of support.

  “Not if we come from this jump point.” Kris highlighted the complement to their assigned jump field. “It’s only about forty minutes farther out. If we could jump in there, and if we jump in say half an hour early, they’d miss us completely, wouldn’t they?”

  “But we can’t.” Basmartin insisted, running his hand across the short bright-gold curls that covered the top of his richly bronzed scalp. “Buthelezi isn’t going to change the scenario—we can’t just ask for a new convolution.”

  “What are you thinking, Kris?” Minx asked suspiciously. “No upperclassman’s going to run a new convolution for us—that’s cheating.”

  “It wouldn’t work anyway,” Tanner added. “Even if someone did, those convolutions are only good for a few minutes—you know that.”

  “No,” Kris said slowly and with a most particular look. “But the corvettes have all the nav data. That’s how we’re going to get the convolution settings to get home. They’ll have to link it over with the new settings for the exit jump. So we have access to the nav data if we want it.”

  “Want it for what? Our fighters don’t even have a convolution module. Even if you knew how to operate one—”

  “The refs supply the convolutions, Kris,” Minx broke in, talking over Tanner with slow emphasis to make Kris grasp the depths of her imbecility. “They won’t run a new set for us! It’s not in the scenario!”

  Now Kris did roll her eyes and turn away from Minx with exaggerated disdain. “Look, Baz. If I can get us these convolution settings—legally—will you follow me on this?”

  “No problem—if you can do it in a way that won’t get us kicked out.”

  “Tanner?”

  “Sure.” Tanner grinned. “I’m not sure I care if you get kicked out.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kris,” said Minx, “but I—”

  “Minx, stow it for a second, okay? Nobody’s gonna get you into trouble. All you have to do is follow the plan they gave us—same jump field, same timing, same trajectory, same everything.” She skewered Minx with a direct challenge. “Will you do that? If we get this right, we all get out early, and then you can spend the whole weekend with your girlfriend.”

  Minx folded her arms under her ample bosom and shot a hip. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Fine. You get the big piece th
en.” Kris turned back to the omnisynth, took her previous data set and started to manipulate it. “This is what I got in mind . . .”

  * * *

  Commander Buthelezi was relaxing in the Instructor’s Lounge, lavishing whipped cream over a generous wedge of seven-layer cake—she had a notorious sweet tooth and maintained her sinuous, tight-sprung physique by dint of rigorous daily exercise—and waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to finish synthesizing when Lieutenant Innis poked her head in, a look of consternation on her round pink face.

  “What is it, Kath? Haven’t given up already, have they?”

  “No ma’am.” The lieutenant hurried over and laid her xel on the table. “I linked it to you, but I’m afraid there was no response.”

  “Oh.” Naomi Buthelezi smiled. “My fault—left it in my office. What’s up?”

  Innis pointed at her xel. “They submitted it, ma’am. Cadet Kennakris, I mean. She’s submitted her op-plan.”

  Buthelezi checked the time—barely three-quarters of an hour. “That was fast. Problem?”

  “Dunno, ma’am. Not obviously.” She scrolled through the plan Kris had submitted. “It certainly isn’t orthodox, though.” Innis tapped the xel. “She’s proposing to split her fighters—in the presence of a superior adversary, no less, and she’s aware of that too—into a group of three and a group of five. The group of five, under Cadet Brunner, will come in with the corvettes on the assigned route and take overwatch at L5.”

  “Okay.” Except for splitting the group, that was entirely expected.

  “But, see here, ma’am, the other group—that’s Cadet Kennakris with Cadets Basmartin and Tanner”—the three best pilots, Buthelezi noted—“they’re going to take a covering position here. Just inside L3”

  “Hmm.” Commander Buthelezi slowly consumed a forkful of cake. “How do they plan to get there?”

  “Doesn’t say, ma’am. But they’ll be sitting ducks for most of the way.”