“Well, it’s actually quite simple,” Min said, favoring her expectant audience with a famous smile. “All you have to do is yank the buffer circuit and cross the leads. The system takes that is a sign of primary containment failure, which of course it would be if you hadn’t also run a shunt to maintain the circuit polarity.” She sipped her scotch and gloried in the looks passing from officer to officer about the room. “Gotta say, it convinces people to evacuate wonderfully fast.”
Z-Day +7 (Late PM)
IHS Vardar
en route to Tau Verde
The survivors of the Halith Imperial Navy’s Kerberos Fleet lay up at the NZ fork, waiting for the junction to clear for their jump back to Novaya Zemlya, and then home to Tau Verde and Janin. CARDIV I had gone ahead, carrying their wounded, as they had after Miranda, but with a new officer in command: Vice Admiral Tomashevich, the former CO, had relieved himself of that responsibility by going into his quarters and blowing his brains out with his service sidearm. Whether it was his personal failure at Outbound that had motivated this drastic action, or the magnitude of the overall defeat, or the fear that once again—his ships being themselves undamaged, although his fighter groups had (again) suffered devastating losses—he might be saddled with the burden of delivering the news of a military disaster, and this one the worst since Anson’s Deep (or all of these), none knew. Tomashevich had not opened his mind to anyone before resorting to his pistol.
Whatever his reason, his death was wasteful and widely regretted. It was simple misfortune that he’d twice met a better admiral—not a suicide-worthy failure. Yet there was possibly more to it than that: wild rumors were circulating through the fleet that when their relentless strikes had finally told, despite very heavy loss, the decisive mass sortie from King Constantine had been turned back, with over thirty percent casualties, by just two pilots. One of those, the tale-tellers asserted, was Commander Huron. No one knew who the other pilot might be. Not everyone believed it either, perhaps most did not. (Even so, the story eclipsed the day’s other big news: Captain Jantony Banner reported missing in action.) But there was no question it broke Tomashevich’s will. On hearing the news, he’d ordered a complete withdrawal, even though they might have conceivably made another attempt. (He seemed stunned, his staff whispered, as if he’d taken a blow to the head.) On recovering his wits (if not his composure), he could have come to believe he would be made a scapegoat, and possibly sacrificed.
If that fear played any role, it wreathed tragedy with foolishness. Tomashevich had felt himself victimized by Admiral Vansant’s shirking (as he saw it) the onerous responsibility of being the bearer of bad news, but the man who would now assume that role had no such deformity.
At present, he was on a small cutter belonging to IHS Jena heading for the destroyer, IHS Vardar, on which he would embark for the journey home. The cutter signaled Vardar, a mere formality, and given clearance, settled into the docking clamps on the destroyer’s boat deck. Its hatch opened and out onto the deck there stepped—gingerly, for he had a pronounced limp and one arm bound across his chest with a surgical wrapping—Admiral Jakob Adenauer.
He had given orders to Vardar to receive him without ceremony—none of the splendid, noisy pomp and circumstance that normally accompanied a visit by a full admiral—and now he saw that Vardar’s captain, while obeying the letter of his instructions, had played fast and loose with the spirit, for here was a line of all his officers, wearing their very best.
Covering a sigh, he acknowledged the officers’ salutes. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”
The captain looked nonplussed for a moment, but Adenauer was determined to play his role of guest to the hilt. Once all the critical issues were as well in hand as could be, he’d turned over the command to the Comte Ferrier, his senior surviving officer, so he could personally report back in the shortest time possible. Vardar was the fastest ship left in his fleet. She could leave within the hour and would have no trouble overhauling CARDIV I, arriving a good half-day ahead and sparing Tomashevich’s deputy, a quite decent fellow, the embarrassment that had so vexed his late commanding officer.
Thus, for the time being, he was an admiral without command (a condition, he thought, that was likely to become permanent after the impending court-martial—his staff had at first argued against him leaving, fearing his arrest or worse) and he would insist on being treated accordingly. Limping along the glittering line, he nodded to each officer in turn, stopping to exchange a brief word with those whom he had met before, and came to the captain: a young man, still fresh faced; an over-lieutenant by rank, who had begun the battle as Vardar’s ESM officer. Captain Janacek was among the wounded on their way home with CARDIV 1, the executive officer was dead, his WCO was female and thus barred from holding a combatant command, and Adenauer was ashamed not to recall the name of this young man, who had to look a long way up to meet his admiral’s gaze.
“Sir,” the captain began, “I have arranged my quarters for you. Please allow my executive officer, Lieutenant—”
“No, Captain,” Adenauer interrupted gently. “I will displace no one. You have an empty berth or two, yes?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. But—”
“That will be entirely satisfactory. I would be pleased however, if you could arrange something suitable for the my aide.” He looked over his shoulder to indicate his aide-de-camp, Captain Alexander, who had silently emerged from the cutter bearing a valise and a smaller sealed satchel. “As long as it does not put you out.”
“Of course not, sir. We shall find something at once.”
“And perhaps you can suggest an available berth for me?”
The captain, now slightly flushed, conversed with his acting exec (the woman who was Vardar’s WCO) in low, urgent tones. “E-deck, sir. Forward, by the main ladder junction. There are a few.” He motioned to one of his ensigns. “Ms. Tomiczyk will conduct you.”
Adenauer glanced over Ensign Tomiczyk, who appeared to him to be hardly more than a child, and shook his head. “You are very good, Captain, but I would much prefer to get underway as soon as possible and you will need all your people. I can find it myself.”
The young man deflated in resignation. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Good evening then, Captain.” He turned again to his aide. “Raoul, if you will indulge me a few minutes longer?”
“Of course, Admiral.” And together, they walked slowly off the boat deck.
“This would be it, sir,” his aide-de-camp remarked as they entered the forward berthing space on E-deck. Adenauer stooped to peer at the entry pad. It looked to have been a junior officers’ berth. The names of the former occupants had already been removed—rather hastily it appeared. He wondered how many of the four people who’d bunked here were still alive. They wouldn’t tell him, of course. He recalled from the initial casualty reports (it would take days for a full tally) that, aside from her captain and exec (cut down by the same splinter as they exited CIC together), Vardar had lost less than twenty people, mostly spalling wounds on the gundeck. Relatively speaking, the ship had been lucky.
The entrance responded to the touch of his left hand, and he stooped to step within. The narrow space with its low overhead and general feeling of closeness brought back memories of his earliest days in the navy, when he could not find a rack from which his feet didn’t overhang embarrassingly.
Captain Alexander squeezed in beside him, securing the valise to an upper rack and placing the satchel on the one below.
“Shall I open it for you, sir?”—nodding at the satchel.
“If you would.” Managing the locks with just one free hand would be difficult.
His aide released them both and set the case back down, open. “Anything else, sir?”
“No.” Adenauer levered his frame into the confined space. “Or rather, yes. Please express my regrets to the captain that I will be unable to accept invitations for the duration of the trip.” With the court martial looming
, indulging in such social engagements would be quite ill-advised.
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, Raoul. That is all.”
“Very good, sir.” Alexander gave him a brisk nod, and exited the compartment.
As the entrance cycled closed, Adenauer reached out for the satchel and delved within until he found a small box with round corners. Taking it out, he removed his wedding ring with his left hand, and slipped it on one of the remaining fingers of his right.
Z-Day +7 (Later PM)
LSS Ardennes, at grav anchor;
Wogan’s Reef, Hydra Border Zone
“There you are, Commander!” Admiral PrenTalien called as his stateroom announced Trin Wesselby’s arrival and promptly admitted her. “So happy you could make it. Feeling well, I trust?”
“Never better, sir.” In fact, she still looked a little worn, with the lines not yet faded and that slightly papery texture to the skin of her cheeks, which were still a touch hollow. But much, much better than when he’d last seen her, and with a subtle but telling look in her pale eyes that was better yet.
Standing, he offered his hand. “I gather you were able to meet up with Nick.”
“I did, sir”—accepting the powerful grip. “Did he message you?”
“An hour ago. That’s how we knew to expect you. Take a seat, please”—as he lowered himself back into his own. “How was his vacation?”
Trin sat smoothly in a waiting chair. “Very profitable, sir.”
“Said he chanced on something you’d been looking for?”
“He did bring something back for me, sir, yes.”
“Splendid. Excellent fellow, Nick. And I’ve forgotten my manners again, I see. I don’t believe you’ve met Captain McKenzie of Bellerophon.” The admiral introduced her with an open-handed gesture.
“No, I’ve haven’t had the pleasure.” Trin and Kell McKenzie exchanged courteous greetings, with respectful, appraising looks on both sides.
“And Captain Lewis?”
“We’ve met. How are you, Captain?”—with a gracious bow of her head.
“Very well, Commander. Nice to see you recovered”—returning a pleasant smile.
“Thank you, Captain.” Their eyes met and Trin read an understanding in Min’s gaze she’d half expected to see there. Huron’s work, no doubt, recalling their last conversation. Oh well. Maybe he was right this time. Probably was, in fact. She hadn’t been at her best that night. Far from it.
“And this is Lieutenant Gomez.” PrenTalien recalled her wandering attention.
“Lieutenant.” Trin noted the distinct family resemblance. “You’re Sebastian Gomez’s sister, are you not?”
“Why yes, ma’am”—taken aback at being recognized.
“You do him proud,” Trin offered with a gracious inclination of her head.
“Thank you, ma’am.” The lieutenant was blushing furiously now.
“The rest you know, of course,” the admiral concluded, allowing Robyn Gomez to retreat back into her look of cataleptic geniality.
Smiling acknowledgements all around the table. Then Trin turned her own smile on the admiral. “And congratulations, sir. On an outstanding victory.”
“Oh, don’t waste that on me. It’s them who deserve the credit of it.” He swept a hand to take in his guests and also the fleet beyond the bulkheads. “Especially Captain Lewis here”—ending with a rare chuckle. “Let me get you a glass.”
The admiral got his new guest a glass, filled it, and chuckling still, refilled those of his other guests as well. “I was just saying—about this feat the captain pulled off—that it was the completest thing. Damn me if I’ve ever seen the like. Or ever do again.”
He placed the now exhausted bottle with the other dead soldiers that were lying in state on the lower tier of a side table and lifted his glass in salute. “Good lord willing and the creek don’t rise.”
“Hear! Hear!” proclaimed his guests (though Trin softly) and the crystal clinked.
“To absent friends,” the admiral intoned. They replied “absent friends” as one, and the room drained the smoky, mellow whiskey together. PrenTalien then rose, still rock steady on his feet, and crossed to a cabinet. Returning after a momentary hunt, he placed a squat, unlabeled, dark-frosted bottle on the table between them.
“Now this,” he said in a soft, portentous voice, “is the McGaire old brandy. Admiral Kiamura gave me this after Anson’s Deep. Christening gift, actually—for her firstborn. You know that story, don’t you, Lewis? You were there, as I recall.”
“Just in the vicinity, sir,” Minerva Lewis answered modestly.
“Jasmine also got a bottle, and Carlos. Lo Gai too—though he don’t drink. And the Speaker, I believe.” He favored Trin with a jovial look. “Ask Rafe about that sometime. Though he probably has a case or two squirreled away, knowing him.” The admiral was waxing prosy under the evening’s benign influences. He had no reason to be otherwise, and she was certainly inclined to be charitable.
“Very likely, sir,” she replied, charitably.
“Anyway.” PrenTalien gave a small cough, recollecting his point. “I’ve been saving this for the right occasion, and I believe it now is upon us. Geoff, would you do the honors?” He nodded at Captain Lewis as he worked the cork free with exaggerated care.
“Pleasure, sir.” The lieutenant took up the slim folio from beneath his chair and pulled a sheet of stiff handmade paper from it. Smiling, he passed it over to Min.
“That has been hanging fire too damn long,” PrenTalien remarked as he set out nine tumblers and poured a finger’s worth of the syrupy amber liquid into each. “I’ve stretched a point and made it effective with seniority from the original date of submittal.” Then he paused, as a few drops fell from the lip of the bottle into the former captain’s—now major’s—glass.
There was another side to this story, of course—the necessary poetic complement to Major Lewis’s elevation: the fall Lieutenant Colonel Kerr. That gentleman was confined to quarters, pending a hearing on charges that might range from dereliction of duty to cowardice in the face of the enemy. Not that it was likely to come to that, PrenTalien knew. Although nothing, at this point, could prevent his being dismissed from the Service, preferring charges and holding a full court martial (however richly deserved) would inaugurate a political pissing match that SECNAV currently had no stomach for. So Kerr would undoubtedly be allowed to slink into ignominious retirement, rather than tarnish this victory with the public airing of dirty linen. That might not seem quite like justice, but justice could take other forms, such as the one he was about to reveal.
“I stretch a further point by announcing—for it hasn’t been officially gazetted yet—that a new unit is being formed under the 82nd Special Operations Brigade, to be known as the Anandale Rangers. And the Major here is to have command of it.” Picking up a tumbler in his vast hand, he inhaled sumptuously, and sipped. “Right as sin. Congratulations, Major.”
Everyone present offered their congratulations as well, Kell with a wink. Lewis thanked them all with a touch of new heat in her already flushed cheeks and sipped the old brandy. The aromatic liquor suffused her head with a golden fog, even as it dazzled her senses and made her eyes water. Setting it down gingerly, she saw the admiral looking at her above his glass.
“In honor of the occasion, Cap—ah, Major, why don’t you tip us that new piece about Anandale.”
“New piece, sir?”—wondering how he’d come to be aware of it.
“Yes, you were humming it just before the commander arrived. For Thy Sake, I believe they call it. I don’t think Geoff here has ever heard it.”
“Indeed not, sir,” his flag lieutenant agreed.
“Do you know it, Shiro?”
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure,” Athena Nike's Captain answered.
“How ’bout you, Harry?”
“Nor I,” the Captain of the Fleet avowed.
“Have you, Skip?”
; “Not yet, sir,” the CO of DESRON 6 responded.
“Robyn?”
“No, indeed, sir”—finally overcoming her awe enough to sound almost relaxed.
“Trin?”
“I’m afraid I haven't, sir”—not even clear on what was being referred to.
“I imagine you have, Kell.”
“Once, sir”—giving Min a warm glance.
“Well, there you have it, Major. Your audience awaits.”
“Very well, sir.” Minerva Lewis folded her hands in front of her and began in a surprisingly rich, mellow alto:
For the sake of thee
I stood my ground
For the sake of thee
I bore the sound
Of bullets as they whistled past
And each one sang: All flesh is grass.
Ere long one came that laid me low
And falling as I felt the blow
For thy sake, watched my red blood flow
And lying still—that’s all I know.
I had not lived ten thousand days
I might have died a hundred ways
But for thee I chose this price to pay—Go
And bring to me that sacred fire
Set thy torch to my funeral pyre
And even as I burn for thee—Know
Thou hast not seen the last of me.
“Capital!” The admiral cried, beaming. “One of the finest things I’ve ever heard. Who wrote it, d’ya think?”
Trin noticed Kellyn McKenzie covering a covert half-smile with one hand as Minerva Lewis reached for her brandy.
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