by Eric Thomson
“And you deduce this how?”
“These are the finest quarters on the station other than Kerhasi’s private suite, Lord. Fit for an admiral of the first rank. And the pantry is well stocked. Nothing but Zahkar vintage ale and the finest distilled spirits, imported from Shrehari Prime at great expense. Only a friend offers the best to a comrade returning home in disgrace. He did not object to my being among your personal retainers?”
“No. I explained why, and I told him of my intention to take the clan seat in the Kraal. After hearing of my plans, he offered his assistance.”
“Good. You will need the support of every fighting admiral if you are to push out those useless relics polluting the admiralty and the highest levels of government.”
“Push out? Are we not getting ahead of ourselves? Let us first see who we can rally to the cause of reform. Perhaps I will not find enough takers.”
A cruel smile split Regar’s lips.
“Trust me on this, Lord. You will. Start with those unfairly removed from command and sent to the officers’ reserve. They will be nursing a grudge that only blood can extinguish, and many of them are members of the Kraal or belong to the four hundred noble clans who claim a seat in the Kraal.”
Brakal’s eyes narrowed as he studied Regar.
“You have thought much on this matter, it seems.”
“Since before the day we first met. I have known for a long time that someone with enough prestige, charisma, and influence needs to arise and end the war before it ends the empire. Remember, before joining Tol Vehar, I labored in the bowels of Tai Kan headquarters. I saw incontrovertible evidence of our leaders’ incompetence and corruption.”
“And I am that someone?”
“The gods placed you this path for a reason and expect that you follow it until victory or death.”
— Seven —
Dunmoore’s hologram faded away, leaving Corto and Petras alone in the conference room.
“Sir, I hope you’re not seriously entertaining her notions. Using tactics devised for underwater combatants five hundred years ago? Ludicrous.”
Irritated by her tone, Petras gave Corto a withering glance.
“Did you ever hear the saying only a fool never changes his mind? Or the one that defines insanity? It’s doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? Finding that convoy took too long, and we didn’t do a good job taking it. With three frigates and two destroyers, not a single Shrehari ship should have escaped. I can’t afford to try again unless we change our mindset and adapt our tactics. We have a finite time on patrol, and SOCOM expects results from our first cruise, not a report stating Iolanthe struck terror in the enemy’s heart when on detached duty while the rest of Task Force Luckner was muddling around.”
A pained expression crossed Corto’s face.
“So we didn’t make a clean sweep, sir. Yes, we took longer than expected to find our prey, but it was our first actual engagement with the enemy. I wouldn’t throw out the tactics we developed at the first sign of difficulties. Besides, the skeptic in me wonders whether this isn’t merely Dunmoore’s way of getting out from under your control so she can keep acting as she pleases.”
Petras shook his head.
“I doubt she’s that devious.”
“You read her report on the Toboso incident, right? If her actions there don’t count as being devious, then my definition of the word is out of sync with yours.”
“Imaginative rather than devious, Lena. She did what was necessary for a peculiar situation. I suggest we read what Dunmoore sent us on wolf pack tactics, then think about how we’d adapt them because I’m seeing similarities between the situation in which those underwater combatants operated and our situation. I’ll be interested to see if Dunmoore, you, and I come up with similar answers.”
Petras saw his flag captain’s jaw muscles working, and he knew she was holding back an angry outburst. It made him wonder about the depth of her resentment at Iolanthe going to a freshly promoted post captain with three previous wartime commands in space. Corto’s first and last ship, an elderly Type 204 frigate by the name Akula, had been decommissioned long ago after suffering irreparable damage in the early years of the war.
He nodded at the conference room door.
“You go on ahead, Lena. We’ll talk about this after breakfast tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once she left him sitting in splendid solitude at the head of the conference table, Petras switched the main display to a live view of space around his flagship. He searched for Iolanthe somewhere off the starboard quarter, wondering once again why SOCOM chose her as Task Force Luckner’s Q-ship. Surely the entire senior staff knew about Lena’s disappointment at not being given command.
**
“Why do I think Corto would rather see you burn in the fires of hell?” Holt asked once Dunmoore severed the link with Hawkwood. He had quietly watched the entire after-action review from beyond video pickup range. “She held it in, but if her eyes could kill... Petras, on the other hand, was obviously intrigued, which surely didn’t help her mood.”
“Perhaps there’s something to the idea Lena Corto coveted Iolanthe and is miffed at SOCOM giving me, a newly promoted post captain, command instead of appointing a more senior officer who worked at SOCOM HQ for the last few years. It can’t just be my pouring a dose of reality on their long-held notions about raiding in enemy space as a formation. Or trying to give the admiral advice after we first joined the task force.”
Holt let out a humorless bark of laughter.
“Especially after we came back with an orbital station kill to our credit while they let almost half a convoy slip through their fingers. You know, maybe Petras wouldn’t listen before because Corto was whispering sweet poison into his ears, but their partial success and our clean sweep might be opening his eyes.”
“Let’s hope so. In any case, we should hear our answer tomorrow.”
“And what if Petras not only rejects the wolf pack idea — or Corto convinces him to do so — but also keeps us within visual range of the flagship from now on?”
“We keep doing our duty, Zeke, as you well know. How about we play mix and match with Task Force Luckner so I can give the admiral a few ideas when we speak again?”
A lazy grin split Holt’s face.
“Let me start. Iolanthe and Jan Sobieski to form the first team.”
Dunmoore shook her head.
“Pairing the two newest and most powerful ships?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Please.”
“But together, we’d wipe out every bit of shipping in the sector and give the boneheads serious headaches while Petras and Lena play battle group command. Gregor will be crushed you rejected the idea.”
“He also knows better,” she replied in a dry tone. “If you don’t want to take this seriously, I can manage by myself.”
Holt raised both hands in surrender.
“I’ll be as serious as a case of the Darsivian mange.”
Dunmoore made a face at her first officer.
“Ugh. Next time, try a less disgusting simile.”
**
“Good morning, Captain.” Admiral Petras nodded at Dunmoore’s hologram when it materialized in Hawkwood’s conference room.
“Good morning, sir,” she replied in a bright tone, smiling at her commanding officer. Dunmoore turned virtual eyes on a sour Corto. “Good morning, Lena. I trust both of you slept well.”
“Tolerably,” Petras replied when he saw Corto wouldn’t return Dunmoore’s cheerful greeting. “I spent part of the night with visions of semi-feral submersibles dancing in my head. A fascinating era. The statistics are, for their day, staggering. Almost seventy percent of German underwater combatants and crews became casualties, yet they sank over two thousand six hundred merchant ships and almost two hundred warships in less than six years. How did you come across this bit of naval history?”
“When I was first appointed to command Iola
nthe, I spent a lot of my spare hours researching historical commerce raiders, including those fielded by wet navies. I was trying to familiarize myself with their mindset and the tactics they used, since Q-ships aren’t on the curriculum at the Armed Services Academy. I dug up that article on submersible wolf packs along the way. But since Iolanthe appeared destined to work alone and the very idea of wolf packs seems unknown in the Commonwealth Navy, I promptly filed it in the back of my memory. That’s why the idea didn’t occur to me until after I observed your review yesterday.”
“I see. Lena and I debated the matter all morning, and we seem unable to agree on the merits of the idea.” If Dunmoore felt surprise at Petras’ unexpected candor, she kept evidence of it from her expression. “Lena believes the risks of splitting up so we can track down enemy shipping outweigh the benefits, especially if the Shrehari pick up our subspace transmissions and determine approximately where we are. She fears the enemy could pick our ships off one by one, as happened to those submersibles.”
“There’s no doubt it’s riskier than sailing and fighting in formation, sir. Yet the success of the wet navy wolf packs speaks for itself, casualties notwithstanding, and we enjoy an advantage the old submersibles lacked. We can jump to hyperspace and evade the enemy if his warships track the source of our radio signals or come upon individual Task Force Luckner ships before the pack can form. As far as I know, they still need more time to cycle their hyperdrives between jumps than we do. But space is immense, their sensors aren’t as good as ours, we can run silent better than they can, and they already know human ships are operating inside their sphere. I think the biggest issue we will face using wolf pack tactics is getting the message out when one of our ships spots an enemy convoy since it’s probable at least some of us will be FTL when it happens. But I may be able to propose a few solutions.”
Petras gave his flag captain an involuntary glance as if expecting another round of objections, but she merely sat there, stony-faced.
“They are?”
“Assuming we pair off the ships, they could leapfrog each other on their patrol route, so that one ship in each pair is sublight and able to listen. Another would be to assign a ship as retransmission node, responsible for listening to alerts and ensuring everyone in Luckner acknowledges them. It would stay sublight in the center our patrol area until every unit confirms, then join the pack at the appropriate coordinates.”
Petras rubbed his square chin with a rough hand.
“Interesting. I prefer your second idea. Who would you appoint as the node?”
“Whichever ship has the most powerful subspace radio array. But for our purposes, any of them would do. Perhaps cycling ships through retransmission node duty would be best for morale and give everyone a chance to hone hunting skills.”
“If we intend on following this path, then I suggest Hawkwood be the node,” Corto said, breaking her silence. “The flagship has a subspace array as powerful as any, including Iolanthe. Besides, we shouldn’t be patrolling, we should be controlling.”
Dunmoore inclined her head.
“Good point, Lena. It parallels wet navy practices, seeing as how the submersible wolf packs were directed from a shore-based operations center rather than one of the units at sea.”
Corto scowled at Dunmoore’s easy use of her first name.
“I still think splitting up the task force is too much of a risk, Admiral, but if that is your choice, staying sublight until all ships are vectored on an enemy target seems best.”
“I choose to do so. What are your recommendations for dispersing the task force, Lena?”
“Sorry, sir. Give me a moment to think it over.”
Petras turned to Dunmoore.
“Siobhan?”
A flash of surprise crossed her eyes. He’d never used her first name before now.
“Sir, if you intend to keep Hawkwood as the node, then Skua should stay with the flag. That leaves an odd number of ships. I propose we pair a scout each with Jan Sobieski and Tamurlane since they’re the strongest after my ship and the flag, and team up the remaining two frigates. Iolanthe would be a singleton, but she’s also powerful enough to operate alone.”
“Interesting choices. Thoughts, Lena?”
Corto shrugged.
“We’re talking six of one, a half dozen of the other, sir,” she replied in a grudging tone. “The pairings make sense, and I expected Captain Dunmoore would propose Iolanthe patrol on her own.”
“Four packets.” Petras rubbed his chin again. “Okay. Lena, please work out the protocols to assemble the wolf pack from the moment one of our ships spots an enemy convoy. I’m sure Siobhan will be happy to help.”
“Target area, sir?” Corto asked, her sullen expression making it obvious she’d never approach Dunmoore for even an iota of help.
“The outskirts of the Atsang system, now that we’ve established it as a hub of sorts for this sector. We’ll place the patrols astride the probable shipping lanes leading to suspected outlying bases and to the heart of the empire.”
“Yes, sir. What about rules of engagement if a pair’s senior officer believes the pack will not form in time to intercept a target?”
Petras glanced at Dunmoore, who kept a bland face as she bit back her instinctive answer to the question. But he had noticed the flash in her eyes, as his next words proved.
“They may engage at their discretion.” When he saw disapproval in Corto’s face, he added, “None of our captains are reckless enough to take on more than they can handle this far from the nearest starbase.”
Corto eyed Dunmoore’s hologram again, clearly struggling to swallow a biting retort. Perhaps a reminder of Stingray’s former captain doing precisely that and returning home on a combination of hope and prayer when she should have perished in the enemy-occupied Cimmeria system.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right.” Petras tapped the tabletop with the extended fingers of both hands. “If something else comes to mind, Siobhan, call me. Otherwise, stand by for orders. Thank you both.”
**
Holt clapped his hands without making the slightest bit of noise when the insignia of the Furious Faerie replaced Petras on the day cabin’s main display.
“And another victory for our Siobhan.” His roguish grin, combined with the patch covering an eye ruined years ago, gave Iolanthe’s first officer the aura of an elegant pirate in naval uniform.
She made a dubious face.
“Let’s wait until we see results before calling it a victory.”
“At least you convinced Petras to try rather than continue patrolling as a formation, which is a win in itself. And if he racks up the kills thanks to wolf pack tactics, Corto won’t be his favorite captain anymore. In fact, by the crabby look on her face, I’d say she’s already feeling less love. Who knows? If this gets him a third star, maybe it’ll earn you your first.”
Dunmoore waved away the idea.
“I haven’t done enough HQ staff jobs for promotion to flag rank. The last time I rode a desk was as a lieutenant before the war.”
“Working for Admiral Nagira, if I recall correctly. But that’s not a hard rule, Skipper, only a convention to help guide promotion boards. Should the grand admiral wish to make you a commodore, then it’ll happen, and I’m pretty sure Admiral Nagira breaks bread with him several times a week.”
“Could we stop fantasizing about a dazzling future for little old me and war game a few wolf pack scenarios? I think our admiral will have an epiphany within the next day and look to Iolanthe as his anchor.”
“So long as it doesn’t involve chess.”
— Eight —
Brakal, flanked by Regar and Toralk, stood atop the military spaceport’s observation tower and gazed down at Shredar, the imperial capital, in the distance. Its ancient stone buildings seemed to sulk beneath a blanket of low, gray clouds, the sort that would release a primal deluge capable of turning dust into a sticky, nauseating slime. Even the financial district
’s modern metal and glass towers appeared drab and careworn under a dull, late afternoon sky that gave everything a sick, greenish hue. The oppressive atmosphere suited Brakal’s dark mood.
His eyes were inevitably drawn to the imperial palace at the heart of the government district, Shredar’s Forbidden Quarter perched on a flat-topped rise marking the city’s center. There, those who started this war and were most assuredly losing it lived in isolated splendor, divorced from the consequences of their decisions.
Though the child emperor and his mother, who acted as regent, were considered untouchable under both the law and ancestral customs unless they lost the favor of the gods, no such taboo covered the members of the governing council. They could be removed and punished for treason. And those same ancestral customs protecting the imperial family allowed for a kho’sahra, a military dictator, to take the council’s place and rule the empire if its future was under threat.
Brakal could conceive of no greater peril than that of a slow, agonizing defeat at the hands of increasingly bold human commanders equipped with ships outclassing any design produced by Deep Space Fleet construction yards.
The war might have been winnable early on if the council and its pet admirals had stuck to limited goals, but even at this late date, they still did not understand what he had realized long ago. By attacking the human Commonwealth unprovoked, the empire woke up a sleeping giant. That giant needed many turns to muster his full strength, but he was now striding toward Shrehari Prime, looking for vengeance in the form of a victory which would humiliate the empire.
Such humiliation would cause no end of social unrest, especially among the subject species, and could even threaten the child emperor’s legitimacy in the eyes of his people. Many dynasties had fallen during the empire’s long history because of decisions damaging to the Shrehari people’s collective sense of honor. Every such fall came with brutal civil strife. And what could the empire’s citizens consider more dishonorable than succumbing to a species still regarded as weak and contemptible by most Shrehari, even long after they had proved the contrary?