Shadow of Victory

by David Weber

  “Yes, Sir.” Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it over the wind, but she met his eyes very levelly. “That’s exactly what we’re afraid of.”

  The brigadier looked back and forth between both women, and they looked back at him, no longer trying to conceal the anxiety in their eyes. Only the wind spoke for several seconds. Then he inhaled deeply, turned away, and rested both hands on the observation deck’s railing as he gazed out into the cutting wind.

  “That’s a very scary proposition,” he told that wind. “It’s also pretty far out. I hesitate to use any adjectives like ‘hysterical’ or that ‘paranoid’ one again, but I’m sure you understand how our esteemed superiors would regard the notion.”

  “That’s why we need you, Sir,” Blanton said. “Unlike either of us, you’re a department head, and you’re right—we’re both ‘spooks,’ but you’re a cop. We understand intelligence gathering and analysis, but neither one of us has a clue about how to launch an investigation. For that matter, neither Brigadier Väinöla nor Adão have the…facilities or expertise—or the jurisdiction!—to launch any investigations. But one thing we’re pretty sure of is that if there’s any basis for our suspicions and they kick those suspicions upstairs through our own chains of command, whoever the manipulators are, they’re going to pull out all the stops to quash any investigation you might otherwise be requested to undertake.”

  She did not, Gaddis noted, mention the distinct possibility that they would also take steps to “quash” the troublesome analysts who’d disturbed their comfortable bottom-feeding muck.

  “And what exactly do you want me to investigate?” he asked.

  “We’ve written up everything we’ve turned up so far, Sir,” Weng said.

  She set her teacup on the railing next to his right hand and reached into her coat pockets for a pair of gloves. She pulled them on and reclaimed her cup. When she did, there was a data chip on the railing. He glanced down at it out of the corner of one eye but made no immediate move to pick it up.

  “You wouldn’t have discussed this with anyone over in Admiral Thimár’s shop, I suppose?”

  “Sir, I don’t know anyone in ONI well enough to approach them with something this…tenuous, especially when it has so many sharp edges,” the colonel told him.

  “I know a couple of people in Section Four,” Blanton said. Section Four was the Office of Naval Intelligence’s counterintelligence command. “Frankly, I’d be really worried about the security of anything over there, though. And, well, there’s always Admiral Yau.”

  “Tell me about it,” Gaddis muttered.

  Yau Kwang-tung, Section Four’s CO, had towering family connections…which happened to be his sole qualification for his position. The fact that he had it anyway probably said a great deal about how anyone could hope to manipulate something as gargantuan as the Solarian League, the brigadier reflected now. Obviously, no one could possibly pose a genuine threat to the League or to the Solarian League Navy! That being the case, there was no need to put someone competent in charge of their counterintelligence duties.

  “There’s a reason I asked,” he said, turning to face them and leaning back against the rail. In the process, his right hand just happened to sweep up Colonel Weng’s chip. “Do either of you know Captain al-Fanudahi?”

  “Daud al-Fanudahi?” Weng asked. Blanton only looked blank, and Gaddis nodded to the colonel. “I know the name, Sir, and I know he’s on just about every senior Navy officer’s shit list. That’s about it.”

  “Captain al-Fanudahi is a very interesting fellow,” the brigadier said slowly. “It happens that the main reason he’s on the Navy’s ‘shit list’ is that he’s been telling people for years that the Manties have pulled way ahead of us in terms of weapons development. I’ll let you imagine how someone like Fleet Admiral Rajampet or Admiral Polydorou over at Systems Development reacted to that.”

  “Not well,” Blanton said with a wince, and Gaddis nodded.

  “That sums it up pretty well, actually,” he said. “These days, after what happened to Crandall at Spindle, they’re at least calling him in for the occasional briefing, but he’s still very much a voice in the wilderness.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Weng said. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. “If Captain al-Fanudahi’s already marginalized, how much ability to help push something like this along would he have? For that matter, if I remember correctly, he’s in Operational Analysis. That would be Admiral Cheng’s department, and with all due respect, Cheng’s not a lot sharper stylus than Admiral Yau. And, again with all due respect, I’d be almost as worried about OpAn’s ability—assuming it had the willingness in the first place—to maintain security about this.”

  “Al-Fanudahi’s assigned to OpAn,” Gaddis replied. “From what I can see though, he figures he works for the entire Navy. That’s how he made himself so unpopular, and I suspect a man like that’s probably been looking at aspects of our current situation that go way beyond Operational Analysis’ formal responsibilities.”

  “Are you suggesting we should approach him, Sir?” Blanton asked. Her opinion of the idea was painfully evident from her tone, and Gaddis snorted.

  “No, I’m not suggesting anything of the sort…yet, Ms. Blanton. What I am suggesting is that we need to start counting noses, thinking about who we could approach assuming we discover there’s any validity to these suspicions of yours. I think Captain al-Fanudahi belongs on that list, and Brigadier Osterhaut over at Marine Intelligence might be another. I know she’s technically part of Admiral Thimár’s command, too, but the Marines pretty much run their own shop. Something about getting burned once or twice—or a dozen times—too often by faulty intel from their naval associates.”

  “If you think we need to bring them in on this, Sir, I’m willing to defer to your judgment,” Weng said, meeting his eyes steadily. “I’m not going to pretend I’m eager to do that, you understand.”

  “And I don’t think we should do anything of the sort, either. Or, as I say, not yet, anyway.” He raised his hands to his mouth and blew into them again. “Let me take a look at what you’ve got so far. For right now, I don’t plan on sharing it with anyone. Not until I’m convinced there’s something more here than two very smart analysts who may—or may not—be imagining things. I’ll get back to you, either way. If I come to the conclusion that you’re onto something, though, I’ll have to start asking someone at least a few questions.” He lowered his hands and his smile was bleak.

  “Just between the three of us, I’m not really looking forward to that if you are.”

  APRIL 1922 POST DIASPORA

  “It’s a bit drastic, but to paraphrase an ancient pre-diaspora politician a friend of mine turned up a while ago, ‘The Solarian League is like a hog. You have to kick it in the snout to get its attention.’”

  —Admiral Michelle Henke,

  Countess Gold Peak,

  CO, Tenth Fleet,

  Royal Manticoran Navy.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Coming up on final bearing in twenty seconds, Ma’am,” Lieutenant Commander Nakhimov announced.

  “Very good,” Ginger Lewis acknowledged as HMS Charles Ward picked up her orbital station-keeping marks after three hard days of exercises in Manticore-B’s Unicorn Belt. She watched the maneuvering display while CPO Dreyfus gentled away her last few meters per second of velocity, then nodded as the numbers trickled across the digital readout and, exactly on the mark, fell to zero.

  “On station,” Nakhimov said. “Impellers going to stand by.”

  “Very well done, Astro. And you, Chief,” Ginger said.

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Nakhimov responded, and Dreyfus smiled briefly, then returned her attention to shutting down her board.

  Ginger looked at the back of the chief petty officer’s head for a moment. Angelina Dreyfus was one of the best helmswomen she’d ever seen. At only thirty-six, she was on the young si
de for a CPO, but she had the gift.

  She was also the member of Charles Ward’s bridge crew who most worried Ginger.

  It was ironic, in some ways, she supposed. She was only ten years older than Dreyfus—which was at least as young for a starship captain as Dreyfus was for a CPO—and they were within a couple of centimeters of each other in height. Not only that, they both had red hair. In fact, they favored one another a great deal, aside from the fact that Dreyfus had blue eyes, instead of green. Ginger suspected they had similar senses of humor, as well…normally. But Dreyfus’ older brother had been the night shift manager in Dempsey’s Hephaestus restaurant. He’d been her only sibling…and her parents had been dining in his restaurant when the Yawata Strike hit. She’d taken their deaths hard, and it was obvious she remained a long way from coping with her loss.

  She was scarcely alone in that. Most of Ginger’s new crew had lost someone—family, close friend, crewmate. In her own case, the entire crew of Hexapuma; in Charles Ward’s case, virtually all of the ship’s senior officers. Not that it stopped there; almost a quarter of her crew had been aboard Hephaestus, enjoying what was supposed to be their last leave before they deployed to Talbott while their ship lay sixty thousand kilometers off the station, unable to find docking space. Thank God Captain Mathis’ “couple of weeks” had expanded rather significantly! And not just because Ginger had needed the time to settle in. Her new crew needed that time even more desperately than she did.

  The duty bridge crew had watched the space station blow up before their eyes, which certainly explained the state of shock which had gripped the entire ship when Ginger read herself aboard. Of course, the same thing could have been said of just about every ship in the Manticore System, but the Charles Ward—her crew was still trying to decide between Charley W and simply CW as a nickname—had taken a more grievous internal hit than almost any other ship to survive Many of the other surviving units had lost some key personnel, given the numbers of both officers and enlisted who’d had errands to run aboard Hephaestus, Vulcan, or Weyland; none of them had lost her entire senior command echelon.

  Or eighty percent of their snotties, she reminded herself grimly, glancing to where Paula Rafferty sat at Nakhimov’s shoulder, closing down Astrogation under his supervision. She couldn’t quite make up her mind how well Rafferty was dealing with her isolation in Snotty Row, but at least Ginger had made sure she had someone riding herd on the midshipwoman.

  She smiled, inner grimness easing slightly, as she moved her gaze to Tactical and the fair-haired, gray-eyed, improbably handsome ensign holding down the junior tactical officer’s slot.

  Charles Ward’s losses had left BuPers scrambling for replacement personnel. Well, Admiral Cortez was scrambling for replacements everywhere, to be fair, and that meant an awful lot of officers were being hastily slotted into positions which would normally be held by people far senior to them. The captain’s chair of Charles Ward was a rather pointed case in point, as a matter of fact. The ancient tradition of stepping into “dead men’s shoes” hadn’t really changed that much, she supposed.

  But there had been a couple of upsides from Ginger Lewis’ viewpoint. One of the severest losses to Charles Ward’s enlisted structure had been Master Chief Petty Officer Elijah Tebo, her boatswain. As the senior noncommissioned officer aboard, the bosun was a key member of any ship’s company, and Tebo’s death aboard Hephaestus had left a gaping hole. But the destruction of HMSS Weyland had left Ginger with a replacement she might not have been allowed to choose without the severity of the Navy’s overall losses. If Angelina Dreyfus was young to be a chief petty officer, then Aubrey Wanderman, at thirty-four, was even younger to be a master chief petty officer, but there’d never been a doubt in Ginger’s mind who she wanted as her boatswain. She suspected Aubrey must have been as terrified by the prospect as she’d been by the thought of assuming Captain Whitby’s chair, but he’d come a long, long way—light-years!—from the hesitant, nervous young grav tech, fresh out of advanced training, who’d reported aboard HMS Wayfarer the better part of fourteen T-years ago.

  Well, so have I, I suppose, she conceded. And Paulo’s come quite a ways in the last year and a half, too, she added, watching Ensign d’Arezzo lean closer to Lieutenant Commander Raymundo Atkins, Charles Ward’s new tactical officer, as the two of them discussed something on Atkins’ display. He was barely three T-years older than Paula Rafferty, but his calm, confident demeanor was clearly reassuring to the midshipwoman.

  Which is good, since I don’t think we’ll be seeing any replacements for the other snotties, she thought more glumly. Paula’s going to rattle around in there like a dry pea in a two-liter bottle. Thank God she’s got somebody on the commissioned side remotely close to her own age! And it probably doesn’t hurt that Paulo’s such a nice piece of eye candy.

  That thought, she discovered, came perilously close to sparking an inappropriate giggle from Charles Ward’s CO, but it was certainly true. The only downside she could see was the possibility that Paulo’s looks, added to the quiet strength of his personality, might tempt young Paula into inappropriate thoughts about her superior. Knowing how Paulo felt about the origin of his perfect profile, strong chin, and chiseled lips Ginger had no fear anything inappropriate would happen, but that might not keep Paula from…yearning in that direction.

  It sure as hell wouldn’t’ve kept me from “yearning in that direction” when I was her age, Ginger admitted. He is a tasty-looking fellow, isn’t he? In fact, I’m still a little surprised by how long it took Helen to realize that aboard the Kitty.

  She shook herself out of her reverie and rotated her command chair to face the dark-haired, hazel-eyed commander standing at her shoulder.

  “I think they all did well, Mister Exec,” she told him, making sure her voice was loud enough for everyone on the bridge to hear. “In fact, they’re doing well enough I’m no longer nervous about deploying to Talbott next month. Please make the entire ship’s company aware of that for me.”

  “Of course, Ma’am,” Commander Fred Hairston replied.

  He was a burly, broad-shouldered man, twenty-five centimeters taller than Ginger, whose Sphinxian accent reminded her of Duchess Harrington. He was also fifteen years older than she was, and she’d been afraid that age differential—and the fact that, unlike her, he was a Saganami Island graduate—would create a certain tension between them. So far, all he’d been was a tower of strength, however, and she smiled at him.

  “Thank you,” she said, then checked the date/time display. Another thirty-one minutes till lunch, she noted, and climbed out of the command chair.

  “You’ve got the ship, Fred. I’m pretty sure Jared’s starting to wonder where I am—after all, it’s not like I had anything important to do this morning—and Gareth and I have more paperwork to beat into submission after lunch.”

  Hairston’s eyes twinkled at her resigned tone, but he only nodded.

  “I have the ship, aye, Ma’am,” he acknowledged with grave formality, and she nodded back.

  “Then I’ll leave her in your hands,” she said, and headed for the lift shaft.

  The lift car deposited her outside her quarters, and the Marine sentry reached behind himself to hit the admittance key and open the door for her.

  “Thank you, Simpkins,” she said as she stepped past him.

  “You’re welcome, Ma’am.”

  The captain’s quarters aboard HMS Charles Ward were vast beyond belief for someone who’d been a commander less than seven T-months ago. Ginger supposed a three-million-ton ship could afford the space, but it still struck her as scandalously wasteful, and her new steward—something else she’d never expected to have—poked his head out of his pantry.

  “Table’s already set, Ma’am,” he said, twitching his head in the direction of her dining cabin. “I’ll be ready to serve in five minutes.”

  His tone rather clearly implied that she’d better be ready to eat in five minutes, too, and she nodded meekl
y.

  “That will be fine, Jared,” she said, and went to take her place at the head of the ridiculously large table in the ridiculously vast dining cabin.

  Actually, she reflected as she looked around the compartment, this was probably the one aspect of her quarters that wasn’t on too grand a scale for her taste. It was far larger than anything she’d ever need for her convenience, but she’d already discovered that it was scarcely large enough for her needs. She’d been only a noncom herself when she served under Honor Harrington aboard Wayfarer, but even so she’d realized the value of Lady Harrington’s practice of dining regularly with her officers, and she’d had plenty of opportunities since to compare captains who didn’t follow that tradition with those—like Sir Aivars Terekhov—who did. She’d known which category she wanted to fit into, and those shared meals had done more to bind Charles Ward’s command team together than even she had been prepared to believe they might.

  Stewards Mate 1/c Pallavicini arrived with her salad in considerably less than the specified five minutes. He placed it in front of her, along with a cruet of her preferred balsamic dressing, poured iced tea—a taste she’d picked up from the Graysons with whom she’d served—into her glass, and then disappeared back into his pantry.

  Ginger looked rather bemusedly at the salad. It was fairly spectacular, garnished with cheese, bacon bits, boiled egg, and what she was fairly sure were Sphinxian anchovies. It was also at least fifty percent bigger than she needed, and she could smell the spaghetti sauce—the delicious spaghetti sauce, damn it!—of the entrée coming on behind like Juggernaut.

  I have to do something about him, she reflected, reaching for the salad dressing. I know he means well, but if he keeps this up, he’ll have me weighing two hundred kilos inside of six months!

  In her calmer moments, she knew it was unlikely even Pallavicini could quadruple her body weight, but it didn’t feel that way as she contemplated his notion of a “light luncheon.” This was his first assignment as a captain’s steward, and he seemed grimly determined to see to his new captain’s care and feeding, however she might feel about his ministrations. She strongly suspected that at least half of that was compensation on his part, because he’d been on a planet-side liberty on Manticore when the light cruiser Calliope was destroyed in the Yawata Strike. He couldn’t do much about his dead shipmates, but the loss had imbued him with a fierce…protectiveness probably wasn’t the right word, but it came close, where his new captain was concerned. His reaction to her original suggestion, when she’d first come aboard, that a small salad and possibly a tuna fish sandwich and a glass of milk were more in line with her normal preference for lunch had warned her this was going to be an uphill fight. Of course, where the captains of RMN starships were concerned, convincing their stewards they actually were capable of sealing their own shoes—unassisted—when they absolutely had to was always an uphill fight. Given his obvious response to Calliope’s loss (and her awareness of it) this hill was being a bit steeper than usual, though.