The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  Her staff nodded as one, though none to them—from the intel officer to the chief of logistics to the young jig who was her very temporary and nearly invisible flag lieutenant—looked happy about her bringing it up again: DeCano and Harmon most especially. Dirk Bajorat was keeping his thoughts to himself, as per usual.

  “Yes, ma’am,” DeCano said, his tone shaded with frustration at having to recap an argument he’d thought was settled. “But as we said before, we don’t have a way to surveil it. If we detach Artemis and Callisto, and support them with Janus and Ixion, I wouldn’t give much for our defense net if the Doms do get a punch through. And I wouldn’t give anything for them if the Doms put ’em in a tight spot. Frankly, I don’t like dividing our forces to that degree—not with what we’re up against.”

  What the operations officer was being less than frank about, Shariati sensed, was his strong philosophical objection to sending their people on a suicide mission, which was what this amounted to. Maybe not for Callisto and Artemis—the two destroyers were fast and would give a good account of themselves in a scrap—but certainly for Janus and Ixion. The frigates were old, thin-skinned, light on the bite, short-winded and, most of all, slow. They were of no use to her if she had to execute her sealed orders, and not much more in defending the station. They could be invaluable as reconnaissance assets—but only if she was willing to sacrifice them.

  The commodore nibbled her stylus delicately, her dark violet eyes shadowed. Lo Gai could order it—and she had no doubt he would—but coming from her, it was more likely to seem merely callous. She couldn’t fight this battle with his people believing she considered them no more than expendable pawns—fine words and cogent arguments would get her no more than grim-lipped obedience and she needed much better than that. She set the stylus aside.

  “Well, then. I think we know enough about what we don’t have. Let’s focus on what we do have.” Half the faces in the compartment looked as if they expected a homily on the value of surprise. “What we have”—she smiled as she prepared her surprise—“is a ‘tanker fleet’, although it exists purely in the Doms’ mind.” Shariati’s smile might have been decorated with feathers, but none of the staff were quite sure of the ill-fate canary’s identity. “We can position this ‘fleet’ wherever we like, to funnel the Doms’ assault along a vector of our own choosing. If they are attacking strictly with a carrier group, that should be quite diverting for them, as their fighters won’t be much use against the station, and by not tying our force down here, we retain tactical mobility.”

  She directed her attention to the staff intelligence officer, Lieutenant Irene Varis. “Lieutenant, I’d like the Doms to think we are doing everything we can to give them the impression the tankers are cozied up here, when ‘in fact’ they are moving to a ‘rendezvous’ with Admiral PrenTalien. Do you think you can do that?”

  The lieutenant, who had previously been on the ragged edge of glum, looked positively joyful at the prospect. “Yes, ma’am. Shall we scatter breadcrumbs or give them a nip-slip?”

  Varis was fairly young and Shariati was not entirely familiar with that turn of phrase, but she took it to be equivalent to what her generation called a knickers flash. “Whichever you feel would be more effective, Lieutenant.”

  “Breadcrumbs I think would be surer, ma’am, but they take longer too. Though I suppose we could moon them if they’re too slow on the uptake.”

  “As you see fit, Lieutenant. I see no need to be culpably abrupt in our actions.” Shariati said it a touch coolly—she was finding Varis, in this new mood, a trifle unbuttoned.

  The intel officer seemed not to notice. “Exactly where will we be sending them, ma’am?”

  “Caucus with Commanders DeCano and Harmon when we break here and work out some options based when we’ve discussed this AM. Do you think you can have something by 1400?”

  The three officers concerned exchanged a look. “Doable, ma’am,” Varis asserted.

  “Excellent. Jan?” She queried the operations officer as she highlighted the Callindra 69 transit on the display. “On this axis, how soon could they be in position to launch a strike against us?”

  “I’d say fifty-three hours, give or take four hours. If they use the Novaya Zemlya axis, that would add at least another twelve hours, but it does give them additional support options.”

  Shariati tried to ignore him harping on his damn battleships. “True. But the Callindra axis is the more urgent problem. If can we rule it out, we have that half day to respond on the Novaya Zemlya axis, is that not so?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That gives us about forty-two hours to prove my theory correct.” The commodore turned now to her fighter boss. “Sonovia, what are our long-range recon assets currently?”

  “They’re not what I’d call ideal—um . . .” Harmon cleared her throat, realizing a moment late that she was criticizing her absent CO’s dispositions to his spouse. “Apologies, ma’am. That is, we have Commander Huron’s wing here on Trafalgar and Concordia’s squadron.”

  “Both full strength?”

  “No, ma’am. Concordia’s squadron is a full flight short of its complement. Commander Huron’s wing is in no better shape: he’s light one squadron. The remaining two have all but three slots filled, though his Echo Squadron has two officers on semi-active status, one with provisional flight clearance.”

  That was far less than optimal. “Display them, please.”

  Harmon put the latest condition report for all the units up on the board. The commodore skimmed it. She would have been much happier with another squadron but at least she had Huron. Then her eyes narrowed in displeasure as she noted the numbers that Huron’s own Echo Squadron had put up. They had more kills, by far, than any other in TF 34; perhaps more than any other in the fleet. That would never do: recon squadrons were not supposed to act like strike forces or interceptors. In fact, Shariati was aware that Huron had been assigned to recon to curb his famously aggressive tendencies. Of course, he was also known for pushing things to the outer limits of his instructions, but she was still surprised that he’d been hotdogging it to this degree.

  However, Huron was not her wing leader, and she could hardly rebuke an officer for his prior conduct, especially when his actual CO ranked her. But in view of her orders, she could see to it that he kept his horns in where they belonged while on her watch.

  “Display the combat detail for Echo Squadron, please.”

  The record appeared and one of Shariati’s dark level eyebrows rose as it revealed the real surprise: the flight’s elevated numbers were not primarily the work of Commander Huron, though he’d done his share. It was a junior member of Echo Squadron who’d been running up the total; one of the two on the walking wounded list. Shariati highlighted the officer and recognized the name Lo Gai had mentioned.

  “This Ensign Kennakris—she’s the one who mixed it up with Jantony Banner?”

  Harmon glanced up. “That’s affirmative, ma’am.”

  “I see.” But the name also rang a different, and rather distinct, bell. “She’s been associated with Commander Huron for some time, has she not?”

  A touch of color came to Harmon’s cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Link me her service record, please.” The file obediently appeared on the commodore’s xel. She opened it and almost immediately looked up. “Why does Kennakris have dual seniority dates in her file?”

  “She served on active duty while at the Academy, ma’am,” Harmon answered. “They entered her as a midshipmen for three months after her first term. The reason’s not in her file but allegedly it had something to do with slaver ops. Apparently she has . . . expertise in the area.”

  Ignoring the superfluous explanation, Shariati looked at the dates. An ensign’s seniority normally went by their class ranking. Skimming her academy record, she noted Kennakris had graduated near the bottom of the upper quartile due to mediocre course work in everything but tactics, math, and flight training. T
here were a few disciplinary issues, as well—a cryptic note about her hustling, of all things, low-gee racquetball—which, combined with her course work, put Kennakris about a third of the way down the list. But then there were her months of active service.

  “That would make Kennakris the senior officer in her class then?”

  “That’s not officially resolved yet, ma’am,” Harmon explained. “Since there haven’t been any other midshipmen entered since early in the last war, Ensign Kennakris is in a unique position and the Admiralty’s not keen on setting a precedent.”

  Shariati nodded, reading deeper into the file. “So how have you been handling it?”

  “Our general feeling, ma’am, has been that her active service should take precedence over her class ranking.”

  “I see she got her combat wings early. Was her active service a consideration there?”

  “Not really, ma’am. Her training squadron got jumped during a convoy op.”

  That wasn’t as unusual as it should have been. Fighter groups usually had a squadron of new flight officers who were not yet combat qualified. They were employed on routine missions like convoy ops in pacified areas, and some CinCs were more optimistic about declaring an area “pacified” than others. Admiral Tannahill was one of these, and Kennakris had been deployed in his area at the time. But it was unusual to award a flight officer her combat wings that early just for getting shot at.

  “What happened there?”

  “It’s reported in the annex, ma’am.”

  The commodore fixed Trafalgar’s fighter boss with a withering look.

  Harmon cleared her throat again. “Well, she scored three kills, ma’am.”

  “Three?”

  “And two probables.”

  “Did she, indeed?” Shariati glanced back at the file, tapping her full lower lip. “Anyone else draw blood that day?”

  “Ensign Basmartin was credited with one kill and a probable, and the squadron leader also got a kill.”

  “That’s eight killed or damaged. How big was the opposition?”

  “Sixteen fighters, ma’am.”

  “Against twelve in this training squadron?”

  “That’s correct, ma’am.”

  “So two green ensigns accounted for close to half of a roving Halith squadron, with their leader batting clean-up? And Kennakris essentially made ace-in-a-day her first time out.”

  “Two of those were just probable, ma’am.”

  “Oh, certainly.” The pointed sarcasm was evident on the commodore’s face. “The Board sitting still for a young colonial ensign achieving that before she even had her combat wings? She’d have had to bring the heads of those last two home on pikes. I’m surprised they allowed her three.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well then.” Shariati pushed herself away from the table. “We seem to be in the presence of a phoenix. Has this ensign any other characteristics that might be pertinent?”

  “Well, ma’am,” offered Commander DeCano, “the CinC once commented that she scares the living shit out of people.”

  “So I can believe.” The real question was: how could they use it? She killed the display and stood. “That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. We reconvene at 1400.”

  * * *

  Alone in her stateroom, Commodore Shariati keyed up a private line to Trafalgar’s recon wing leader. “Commander Huron, I should like to inquire after one of your flight officers.”

  “Would that be Ensign Kennakris, ma’am?”

  “Do you always answer the question like that?”

  “Well, ma’am, she does have a way of getting people’s attention.”

  “I’ve been told she scares the living shit out of people.”

  “That’s one of the ways she gets their attention.”

  “No doubt. Currently, however, she’s on the walking wounded list. Do you think she’s mission capable?”

  “The medical director has given her clearance for light duties.”

  “Does your reluctance to answer the question indicate a lack of confidence in your own judgment, Commander?”

  “Apologies, ma’am. I would rate Ensign Kennakris is back to about eighty-five percent, except perhaps for her stamina.”

  “And how would you rate that?”

  “I’m afraid it’s too soon to tell, ma’am.”

  “I see.” The commodore passed a finger across her lips. “I have in mind a surveillance op. I would like your candid appraisal of the chances that Ensign Kennakris could successfully undertake it.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Briefly, Shariati outlined her plan as Huron’s features took on a set look. “Well, Commander?”

  “I would say there is a reasonable chance,” he answered, since surviving was clearly not among the success criteria. He did not voice this postscript, merely adding, “I cannot quantify it, however.”

  “Have you some reservation, Commander?” Shariati asked, reading his expression.

  Huron returned the commodore’s gaze, weighing his next words. “Not as to capability. But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I would like to point out that Ensign Kennakris is shaping up to be an exceptional officer.”

  “Quite so. Is there another flight officer you feel would be better suited to lead this mission?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I request that I be given personal command of this mission—”

  “That is out of the question.”

  “With respect, ma’am, no more so than shanghaiing my people for a suicide mission.”

  There was clearly not one iota of respect in his look or his tone. He did, in fact, have great respect for the commodore—he even liked her—but trying to pull his people out from under him like this and send them off on a mission without a homecoming was beyond the pale. She obviously had her reasons—no doubt good reasons—but that did not mean he had to sit still for them.

  He pressed the point—insubordination be damned. “I am Trafalgar’s recon wing leader, and I’m the best you have. Let me do my job.”

  Shariati’s violet eyes went amethyst and just as hard. “I’m fully aware of your sterling service record, Huron. I’m also aware of certain—how shall I say it—rumors? But I would think an officer of your seniority and accomplishments incapable of letting personal feelings influence an operational decision. However”—a long curved forefinger with its elegantly polished nail traced a whorl on the desktop—“I do not claim to be infallible and perhaps I am mistaken. Am I mistaken, Commander?”

  Huron could not avoid the deftly delivered thrust but he had the sense not to squirm on the blade, even as she gave it that final twist at the end. The set look deepened. “No, ma’am.”

  “Most gratified to hear it.”

  “Have you any further comments?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And of course, it is understood that undertaking this mission is strictly voluntary.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Shariati nodded; a clear signal the interview was at an end. “Thank you, Commander. Please extend my compliments to Ensign Kennakris and tell her I should like to see her as soon as convenient.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I believe the ensign is at leisure and can report to you within the hour.”

  “That would be excellent, Commander. Good day.”

  “Good day, ma’am.” In hell. And the screen blanked.

  * * *

  “Be seated, Ensign.” Commodore Shariati gestured graciously to the chair on the other side of her desk. “This meeting is strictly informal and unofficial. I would like to solicit your opinions on a course of action I am considering and I expect to you to speak frankly. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Kris did her best not to show the chill that skittered down her spine. As a rule, commodores never “solicited” anything from ensigns, frank or otherwise. Huron had been guarded and uneasy when he’d conveyed the summons. That was a bad sign—this was worse.

 
; “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Commander Huron speaks highly of you—not without reason.” She waved a hand at the desktop. “I’ve been reviewing your file. Most impressive. Ace-in-a-day, twenty-eight victories, a Distinguished Flying Cross, and you survived an encounter with Captain Banner. That’s more than most pilots could hope for in their entire career, and you’ve managed it in only five months.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been fortunate.”

  “Napoleon supposedly thought it more important for a general to be lucky than brilliant.”

  “Didn’t Napoleon lose, ma’am?”

  “There is that.” Shariati smiled, a slender expression, deceptively mild, and glided on. “But what particularly interests me is your Academy record. You are the only cadet ever to defeat a boggart.”

  It was true enough: she and two studymates, Ferhat Basmartin and Frank Tanner, had beaten a no-win scenario—a boggart in Academy slang—by literally going around it; exceeding the bounds of the simulation. An inquiry absolved Kris of cheating and promptly classified the findings on how she’d done it at a very high level, so Kris did not know if the commodore had access to the entire record or just part of it. But either way, she didn’t see how it could possibly be relevant.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And this note from Sergeant Major Yu—”

  Kris felt a breath freeze in her trachea. She’d been in the sergeant major’s class at the Academy, and except for that op on Rephidim where she’d lost her head, fucked the mission, and gotten Marko Tiernan killed, they’d gotten along just fine—

  “Is it true what he says here about no-win scenarios?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “He said,” the commodore enunciated carefully, “he thought you were unacquainted with the concept of a no-win scenario. Is that true, Ensign?”

  “I—ahh—I wasn’t aware the sergeant major held that opinion, ma’am.”

  “He has always been an excellent judge of these things, in my experience.” Shariati swept her desktop clean. “Some might feel—justifiably—we are facing a no-win scenario now. What do you think?”