by David Weber
Over a hundred other workers, some of them key low-level management employees, had defied their edict, and they’d followed through with the promised firings. It had hurt productivity, but there were always enough people on Włocławek desperate for work that the downtick had been manageable, and that had made it an acceptable price for choking off visible political unrest.
Yet that hadn’t ended the unrest in question; it had simply driven it underground. The KWM had enlisted dozens of members from the fishing boat crews and processing plant staffs even before the airbus was shot down. After Mazur’s declaration of war on political dissidence, recruiting had surged. And that meant the SEOM’s own fishing boats had transported the weapons Dupong Mwenge had supplied to the KWM across the Wiepolski to Szafirowa Wyspa, Sapphire Island, the private island the Szponder family had owned for the better part of three T-centuries.
It wasn’t an especially huge island, but at forty-one kilometers long and almost twenty-four kilometers broad at its widest point, it wasn’t exactly tiny, either. In fact, it had a total area of just under five hundred square kilometers, most of which remained in a virgin state, aside from a handful of isolated beach houses and Prezent do Praksedá, the enormous, landscaped estate Szponder’s great-great-great grandfather had built for his great-great-great-grandmother.
That much space had provided plenty of room to conceal the KWM’s small arms and crew-served weapons. And the Ruch Odnowy Narodowej’s original charter had been signed in the grand dining room of Prezent do Praksedá.
Under the circumstances, Kotarski reflected, Tomasz has a point. I’ve never been all that sure about afterlives, but if there is one, Włodzimierz’s going to laugh his ass off if we actually make this work.
* * *
“It’s good to see you, Ma’am.” There was a twinkle in Commander Naomi Kaplan’s eye as she emphasized the rank title, and Ginger Lewis waved one hand in an airy gesture.
“Always good to maintain one’s seniority over the little people,” she said complacently, and Kaplan chuckled and looked at her own tactical officer.
“You should make a note of that, Abigail,” she advised.
“Before I can think about maintaining anything, first I have to get senior to someone,” Abigail Hearns pointed out. “Not that such an unworthy thought would ever cross my mind. Unlike you heathen Manticorans, Graysons understand how important it is to maintain an appropriate humility in our dealings with those less fortunate than ourselves.”
“Sure you do,” Ginger said. “I’ve noticed how shy and retiring you are.”
The three of them sat in comfortable chairs in her day cabin, and she smiled at the younger woman. Abigail smiled back, although there’d been some suspiciously damp eyes when they arrived aboard Charles Ward as her guests. Abigail was fairly certain it hadn’t been a coincidence Aubrey Wanderman happened to be in the boat bay, personally supervising the side party when they came aboard, either. Paulo d’Arezzo would be joining them for supper when he came off-watch in about ninety minutes, and despite his noncommissioned rank, Wanderman would be there as well.
At which point, she reflected, forty-five percent of HMS Hexapuma’s total surviving personnel would sit down around a single dinner table.
With plenty of room to spare.
“I’m only sorry you missed the Commodore and Helen,” she said as that bittersweet thought went through her.
“It happens…a lot,” Ginger observed. “And maybe it’s just as well Admiral Khumalo bumped Sinead—Ms. Terekhov, I mean—off the CW in Spindle.” She shook her head. “Somehow I don’t think finding out she’d missed him by less than forty-eight hours would have been a happy thought for her. In fact, I’m pretty sure she would have broken something. Probably a lot of somethings.” She chuckled. “That’s a lady who knows what she wants, and she’s about through waiting for the Navy to let him come home again.”
“Hard to blame her,” Kaplan said. “It’s not like they left him home very long.”
“And they do have a tendency to send him off on…challenging missions,” Abigail agreed.
“That’s something I wanted to ask you two about,” Ginger said. “What’s all this business about Mobius? All I know about it is that Mitya Nakhimov, my astrogator, tells me it’s about two hundred light-years from here. I’m assuming there’s a reason Admiral Gold Peak’s sending an entire division of Saganami-Cs off to it?”
Chapter Fifty-Three
“Be seated, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Rear Admiral Craig Culbertson said as he walked briskly into the flag briefing room, accompanied by Captain Roscoe Weisenthal, his flag captain, and Captain Helena Sammonds, his chief of staff. “I apologize for my tardiness,” he continued, crossing to his chair “Captain Weisenthal’s XO had a point that needed clarification.”
He sat, and the assembled squadron and division commanders who’d politely ignored his command to seat themselves, followed suit. He smiled and shook his head, then tipped back his chair. He was a tallish, sandy-haired man with a full, neatly trimmed beard, and he normally smiled a lot. Today, though, his smile faded quickly and his brown eyes were intense as they swept the men and women around the briefing room table.
“I assume you’re all waiting with bated breath to discover the reason for this summons,” he said, “and I won’t keep you in suspense. The primary purpose of this meeting is to discuss with you the possibilities Captain Grierson’s arrival from Manticore present. I realize his cruisers and destroyers scarcely represent a vast increase in our combat power, but they do significantly increase the total number of platforms available to us. So it’s occurred to me that Admiral Gold Peak might expect us to do something with that availability.”
He paused and, here and there, a head nodded. Mike Henke had left Culbertson’s CLAC squadron—already understrength by one carrier, even before HMS Cloud had been detached to accompany Sir Aivars Terekhov to Mobius in response to Michael Breitbart’s second, desperate request for assistance—to cover Montana. She’d left him two divisions of Saganami-C-class heavy cruisers—Prescott Tremaine’s CruDiv 96.1 and Captain Otmar Kenichi’s CruDiv 94.2—and a pair of destroyer squadrons. The first division of Terekhov’s CruRon 94 would return to Culbertson’s command as soon as he’d completed his mission to Mobius, but no one knew exactly how long that mission was likely to take, since no one knew the situation he’d find when he arrived there.
In terms of defending Montana, Culbertson’s remaining five CLACs, supported by eight Saganami-Cs plus the large number of Mark 23 missile pods aboard his munitions ships, should be adequate to deal with any likely Solarian threat. In the meantime, the rest of Tenth Fleet was in the process of uniting in the Tillerman System for a direct attack on Meyers, the administrative capital of the Office of Frontier Security’s Madras Sector. Culbertson had no qualms about Gold Peak’s decision to take the war to the Sollies—not after she’d received confirmation Massimo Filareta was about to attack the Manticore Binary System—but it had left him with too little butter for his bread where additional Mobius-like situations might be concerned.
Of course, she hadn’t known—then—how the Second Battle of Manticore had worked out. Culbertson did, and that was part of the reason for this meeting.
“My current thinking,” he continued out loud, his expression grimmer, “is that we really don’t know how many other places these Alignment bastards may have promised desperate people Manticoran support. Admiral Gold Peak’s instructions to answer any support request have been confirmed by Governor Medusa and Admiral Khumalo. But she didn’t know at that point how decisively Filareta would be defeated or what sort of reinforcements that might free up for us here, and until Captain Grierson arrived, we were far too shorthanded for her to have contemplated our doing anything more…proactive than waiting for someone to come calling. And, frankly, Mobius was damned lucky to find the Admiral here when Ankenbrandt arrived. He wasn’t looking for the Navy in Montana; he only expected to send a message on to Spindle. So I
don’t think we should assume anyone else is going to be sending messages here, however badly they need help. They’re more likely to send them direct to Spindle, exactly the way Ankenbrandt intended to do before he found us here. Or, as Commander Fremont”—he nodded to Commander Louis Fremont, his staff operations officer—“suggested to me the other evening, they’re likely to not send them to us at all.”
One or two people frowned, and Culbertson snorted.
“The point the Commander made to me over supper the other night—ruined my digestion, too, I might add—is that if he’d been in charge of setting up this operation, he’d also have set up ‘communications chains’ that went either to the Alignment…or nowhere at all.” He smiled bleakly. “Unfortunately, that theory fits entirely too well with the sole case we know about. The only reason Mr. Breitbart’s messengers came to Montana was that after the attack on Trifecta Tower, the situation on Mobius disintegrated so quickly he had to improvise, using his own communications assets rather than the ones the ‘Manties’ set up for him. After Commander Fremont made his suggestion, I went back over everything both Ankenbrandt and Ms. Summers said before they were sent on to Spindle. Neither of them ever mentioned what sort of communication channels their ‘Manticoran’ contact had established, but it was clear they were operating outside those channels because of how suddenly the situation had worsened. And that leads me to believe Commander Fremont’s almost certainly correct about what was supposed to happen when they asked for help.
“Which further suggests that if anyone else needs our help, they’re going to be telling the wrong people about it.”
He paused, and the silence was deafening as his officers digested the implications.
“If that happens,” he resumed after a moment, his eyes cold, “thousands of people—maybe hundreds of thousands, or even millions—are going to die thinking the Star Empire of Manticore—our Star Empire, Ladies and Gentlemen—betrayed them. And I’ve decided that’s not going to happen anywhere we can do anything about it.”
“I think we’re all onboard with that, Sir.” Scotty Tremaine’s voice was harsh. “May I ask how you plan to go about it, though?”
“Indeed you may, Captain.” Culbertson let his chair come upright, planting his forearms solidly on the table top. “Captain Grierson’s arrival gives us far more light platforms than Admiral Gold Peak ever contemplated when she drafted our instructions. Captain Zavala’s Saltash operation also gives us a far better meterstick for how effective those light platforms can be, even against heavy Frontier Fleet units. My primary responsibility at this time is the defense of Manticoran citizens here in Montana, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take advantage of that effectiveness and those platforms. What I intend to do is to organize at least three, hopefully four, task groups of light cruisers and destroyers. I’d like for each of them to have a core of at least one division of Rolands, to give them some long-range firepower. I may break up your division, Captain Tremaine, to assign a Saganami-C to each of them, as well. And I also intend to attach a single freighter—I’m looking at our smaller support ships first, but I’m willing to commandeer civilian ships from the supply chain Admiral Khumalo’s set up for us here in Montana, if I have to—with a load of Mark 23 pods and a pair of dispatch boats, so they can send for more help if they need it.
“While Captain Sammonds organizes that, Commander Fremont and I will go through every scrap of intelligence we can turn up, trying to identify star systems in our vicinity—within a couple of hundred light-years, let’s say—the Alignment may have targeted. Frankly, I doubt we’ll find enough information to make meaningful determinations, but it may at least help us prioritize a bit. Either way, though, I intend for those squadrons to depart Spindle within forty-eight hours—seventy-two, at the outside.”
He paused, and Commodore Madison, the CO of his second CLAC division, raised an eyebrow.
“And do what when they get there, Sir?” he asked in the voice of someone who suspected he already knew the answer to his question.
“The gloves are off now,” Culbertson said flatly. “You’ve all seen the reports on Second Manticore. As Duchess Harrington told Filareta, if war’s what the Sollies want, then war is what they’re damned well going to get. By this time, Kolokoltsov and the other Mandarins have received the Grand Alliance’s formal declaration of war, and Admiral Gold Peak is already moving on the Madras Sector. That being the case, I see no reason we shouldn’t take a few offensive steps of our own. I intend to take or destroy any Frontier Fleet units in those systems. In addition, we will seize any Solarian civilian shipping as legitimate prizes of war…and if our people should just happen to walk into another Mobius situation”—those bleak, brown eyes circled the table again—“then they can damned well do something about it.”
* * *
“So you’re Stephen Westman,” Sinead Terekhov observed.
“Indeed I am, Ma’am.” Westman doffed his Stetson and swept a remarkably graceful bow as she finished stepping from the boarding tube to the shuttle pad. Then he straightened, blue eyes glinting under the bright Montana sun. “An’ from the portrait Aivars keeps in his cabin, you must be Sinead.”
“And you figured that out all on your own,” she marveled with a smile.
“Ma’am, I know Montanans have a reputation for not havin’ the very quickest brains around,” he said earnestly. “Howsomesoever, that’s not really fair. Why, most Montanans’re just as smart as anyone else you might meet. Then there’s the ones like me. The ones who need a mite of help t’ know when t’ come in out of the rain. But we do try, really…and I s’pose I might’s well add that Captain Lewis warned me you’d most likely be along.” He shook his head with a smile of his own. “I should’ve realized old Bernardus’d come up with a ship for you.”
“Aivars does seem to have made friends in the oddest places out here,” she agreed, extending her hand.
“He’s the kind of man does that,” Westman agreed, and raised her hand to his lips rather than shaking it. Then he tucked it into the crook of his left arm and waved his right arm at the pad lift.
“I understand you have that effect on people, too,” he said with a smile. “An’ Captain Lewis warned me you were…‘a force of nature,’ I b’lieve she said.”
“No? Did she really?!” Sinead laughed. “I’m not nearly that fearsome, Mr. Westman!”
“Don’t think I said anything ’bout ‘fearsome,’” he replied. “However, soon’s she told me that, I reserved the Presidential Suite at the Comstock—that’s the best hotel here in Estelle—for you. Been holdin’ it for the last week, waitin’ for you and Bernardus t’ get around Admiral Khumalo.” His smile broadened, but then his expression softened and he patted the hand in the crook of his arm “Reckon that’s the least Montana—and I—can do for Aivars till he gets back here.”
* * *
“Well, there they go, Sir,” Helena Sammonds observed, standing on HMS Elf’s flag bridge as she and Craig Culbertson watched the icons accelerating steadily towards Montana’s hyper limit. “At least we made your deadline. But you’re dumping a lot of responsibility on some fairly junior captains,” she added.
“Of course I am.” Culbertson turned from the display. “I think they’re up to it, though. And whether they are or not, I agree with Admiral Gold Peak. I’m not letting thousands of people who trusted us die thinking we betrayed them.”
“And that bit about destroying any Frontier Fleet units they meet?”
Sammonds, Culbertson knew, wasn’t second guessing him. What she was doing was giving him one last opportunity to consider his instructions to the commanders of those improvised task groups, check his orders one last time for potential improvements, while they were still in com range.
“Admiral Gold Peak was right about that, too,” he said. “She couldn’t know we’d formally declare war after Filareta attacked the home system, but it wouldn’t really matter either way.”
He shrugged and twitched his
head sideways at the display.
“All they’re going to run into out here in the Verge is Frontier Fleet. I know Frontier Fleet’s one hell of a lot more competent than Battle Fleet, but I’ll be astonished if there’s more than three or four warships in any of the systems on our list. I could be wrong about that. And if the Alignment’s plans to ginger up resistance movements have borne fruit, I suppose the locals may have requested additional support. Even so, the most they’re going to see is a handful of battlecruisers, and Zavala demonstrated what the Mark 16 G can do to Solly battlecruisers. Every one of those ships has additional pods limpeted to their hulls, and we’ve assigned one of Tremaine’s Saganami-Cs to each task group. I know he hated breaking up his division, but if just five Rolands can dismantle four Solarian battlecruisers with a single salvo, then three or four of them backed by a Saganami-C can handle anything they’re likely to run into out here. And whatever the Sollies may think, we’re at war with the bastards now, Helena. So if there’s anyone out here stupid enough to pull the trigger rather than cut his wedge and surrender when he sees Manticoran warships entering his system, he’ll deserve whatever the hell he gets.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
“Governor,” Håkon Ellingsen said as Jeremy Frank escorted him once again into Oravil Barregos’ office.
“Mr. Ellingsen.” Barregos held out his hand. “And this is—?” He raised his eyebrows at the much smaller man at Ellingsen’s side.
“Abernathy, Governor,” the newcomer said. “Captain Vitorino Abernathy.”
“I see.” Barregos shook his hand in turn, and then nodded to the man who’d risen from the chair beside his desk. “And this is Admiral Rozsak.”
“A pleasure to meet you Admiral,” Abernathy said, shaking his hand in turn. “We’ve heard a lot about you. The stand you made to defend Torch…” He shook his head in obvious admiration, and Rozsak shrugged.
“We had a commitment. A moral one, as well as a treaty.”