by Eric Thomson
Once behind her desk, she composed herself to wait for Hawkwood’s response, aware Petras might be dealing with more immediate problems that prevented him from accepting a link right away. But instead of the admiral’s square features, Commander Kirti Midura’s tired face appeared on the screen.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“How is your ship?”
“Holding together. It looks worse than it is, but we’ll need time in dry dock if only to patch that damned hole and replace most of my shield generators.”
“Casualties?”
“No deaths, thank the Almighty. But my sickbay is full.” When she saw the questioning expression on Dunmoore’s face, Midura grimaced. “The majority of the casualties are from the flag bridge. When they converted Hawkwood to a command ship, they shoehorned the flag bridge into a space near the main portside shield generator. That hole in my hull? It’s where the generator used to be. Blowback from its failure turned the flag bridge into a giant capacitor, electrocuting everyone in it. Lousy design and even lousier execution, that conversion, if you ask me.”
“The admiral and Captain Corto?”
“Still out of it. I was about to call when you opened a link. You’re the task force’s next senior officer.”
“I see. Can Iolanthe offer assistance?”
Midura shook her head.
“We’re okay, as long as we head to the nearest starbase from here. I can only re-establish partial shields with my spares.”
Dunmoore caught her fingers tapping on the desktop as she ran through their options. Skua was due for a return to base so she could refill her holds. She and Hawkwood — and perhaps Tamurlane, depending on her state — could travel back together, leaving Iolanthe, the scouts and the three frigates to finish Task Force Luckner’s patrol with one more strike. Depending on what the admiral decided once he recovered.
“One moment, please.” Midura turned her head to one side as if reading an incoming report. “Sir, my medical officer just placed Admiral Petras in a stasis pod. He suffered secondary complications that are better treated by a shore hospital. Captain Corto is now awake and should be capable of carrying out her duties within a day or so.”
And that, Dunmoore knew, left her responsible for Task Force Luckner.
“Fine. I’m assuming command and designating Iolanthe as the lead ship. Orders will follow within the hour, but I intend to head for the Torrinos System and Starbase 32.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you.”
“When things settle, I want to find out why Hawkwood and Tamurlane lingered long enough to lose their shields instead of shooting and scooting as per plan. Gregor and I were perfectly capable of administering the death blow.”
A bitter smile twisted Midura’s lips.
“That’s no big mystery. The admiral ordered two more volleys once we realized how close the station’s shields were to failing. But our portside shields failed first. Or at least I assume it was the admiral. Captain Corto gave the order.”
An attempt to claim the kill for the flagship? Dunmoore silently wondered. Or deny it to Iolanthe?
“Then I shall discuss the matter with Captain Corto once she’s up and about. Dunmoore, out.”
She slumped back in her chair once Midura’s face vanished and exhaled slowly. It seemed the true glory hound wasn’t Farren Vento. But was Petras the one eager to claim coup, or was it Corto?
“First officer to the captain’s day cabin.”
“Holt here, sir. I’ll be there in half a minute.”
She mentally counted to thirty. The door chime rang when she reached twenty-nine.
“Enter.”
“You seem on edge, Captain,” Holt said, examining Dunmoore’s face as he sat in his usual chair across from her.
“Admiral Petras is out of action for the foreseeable future. Hawkwood’s medical officer placed him in stasis until he reaches a base hospital. That means I’m responsible for the task force.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Congratulations are in order, I suppose. What does Lena say?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t spoken yet. She just came out of unconsciousness. Most of the flag bridge crew are casualties. No deaths, thankfully. The main portside shield generator’s failure did it for them. A design flaw overlooked by the shipyard when they converted Hawkwood.”
“Do you think she’ll protest?”
Dunmoore shrugged.
“Probably, but she has no choice. Line over staff, as per regulations. I looked it up a few weeks ago, just in case something of the sort happened. An obscure paragraph, sure, but it gives no leeway.”
His lips twitched with repressed amusement.
“Figures you’d prepare for every contingency, especially one where a certain flag captain who hates your guts might claim the right to take over. Will you keep Iolanthe while acting as the task force commander?”
“I will. We’re heading for Starbase 32 when Hawkwood and Tamurlane confirm they’re good to go FTL. Once we’re out of the combat zone, HQ will decide on who replaces Admiral Petras, meaning there’s no point in my changing current arrangements. Please link all ships with our conference room in thirty minutes, so I can give the necessary orders.”
“Yes, sir.” A pause. “Can I be a fly on the wall when you tell Lena she’ll be your flag captain, even if it’s only for a week or two?”
A mischievous smile lit up Dunmoore’s face.
“I wouldn’t deny you that pleasure.”
Neither Dunmoore nor Holt waited long. Fifteen minutes after the first officer sent warning of Dunmoore’s command conference, an irate Lena Corto demanded to speak with her.
“What do you mean you’re taking command of Task Force Luckner?” The incredulous look on her wan, almost ashen face almost made Dunmoore smile. Holt, out of video pickup range, grinned broadly. “I am senior to you by several years. Luckner is now my responsibility.”
“Sorry, Lena. But under the circumstances, time in rank is irrelevant. Check the regulations. If I recall correctly, it’ll be Volume Two, Section One Hundred and Four, Paragraph Fifteen.”
“I am senior, and that’s an end to it. I will consider any further debate on the matter as insubordination.” A cold fury filled her voice, though it still seemed shaky.
“The applicable regulation states that where a formation commander becomes incapacitated for any reason, the next senior officer assumes command. If two or more officers of the same rank are available and they’re commanding officers, the most senior by time in rank takes over. Where one is a commanding officer, and the others aren’t, the former assumes command, regardless of time in rank. Line over staff. Always. Besides, you’re under medical restrictions.”
“Bullshit.”
“Look it up, Captain Corto. I’m giving you chapter and verse. There is no room for interpretation. A starship captain beats a flag captain under the current circumstances.”
If Corto’s eyes were deadly weapons, she’d have vaporized Dunmoore.
“We will see about that,” Corto replied in a tight voice.
“What we will see is the following. I, Captain Siobhan Alaina Dunmoore, of the Commonwealth Starship Iolanthe, am taking temporary command of Task Force Luckner, pending either Rear Admiral Kell Petras’ return to duty, or the nomination of a replacement by Special Operations Command Headquarters. Please make the appropriate entry in the flag logbook and promulgate my assumption of command to the task force. Once we’re in range of a Fleet subspace array, you will advise HQ of the same. Since Hawkwood’s flag bridge is out of action, please plan to join me in Iolanthe.”
Dunmoore held Corto’s eyes and watched her silently weigh the pros and cons of defiance versus obedience, parsing what either choice meant for her career, let alone her chances of ever becoming a flag officer.
“Aye, aye, sir,” she finally replied. The words came out as a hiss.
“Good choice, Lena. We can both come out of this looking lik
e future commodores if we work together. Otherwise, we’ll grow old together as captains and face involuntary retirement once the war is over. Of course, you’ll face it a few years before I do, assuming the war doesn’t last another eight years.”
A fresh flash of anger crossed Corto’s features. After a few seconds, she asked, in an almost normal tone, “What are your orders for the task force?”
“As I intend to announce at the command conference shortly, we will cross into interstellar space as a formation. Once Hawkwood and Tamurlane confirm they’re ready to sail FTL, we will make for Starbase 32 in a coordinated fashion.”
“So we’re withdrawing earlier than Admiral Petras planned?” Corto wasn’t quite sneering with contempt, but her tone gave away her feelings. “I figured you of all people would continue the patrol after sending both destroyers and Skua home, seeing as how you’re the aggressive commerce raiding expert.”
Dunmoore repressed a sigh of irritation. Perhaps it would be better if Corto remained aboard Hawkwood. She squeezed the bridge of her nose with her gloved left index finger and thumb.
“Missile stocks are low across the task force, and we need a new flag officer. After accounting for a pair of FOBs and over two dozen enemy ships, I think we can call this patrol a resounding success. The effect on enemy morale will also far outweigh the physical damage we caused. I would be grateful if you drafted our patrol report for HQ over the coming days so we can send it the moment we’re within range of a subspace array.”
Corto acknowledged the order with a single, silent nod.
“And I want to know why the destroyers deviated from the plan. They shouldn’t have suffered any damage.”
**
Dunmoore saw approval on most holographic faces around the table when she announced Task Force Luckner was withdrawing from Shrehari space to resupply at Starbase 32. Tamurlane hadn’t lost hull integrity but still faced replacing over half her shield generators — more than her entire stock of spares.
“We will tack only once when we’re back inside the Commonwealth. That will minimize our chances of tripping over marauding Shrehari who pick up our scent. I’d rather not face a running battle with two vulnerable ships and low missile stocks. Iolanthe’s navigator, Lieutenant Drost, will synchronize the task force. When we tack, I will transmit the task force patrol report to SOCOM HQ, so please make sure your operational logs are ready to go with it. Hopefully, by the time we reach Starbase 32, we will know who our new flag officer commanding is and when HQ expects us to sail for Shrehari space again. And finally, Captain Corto will shift over to Iolanthe within the hour.” Dunmoore restrained a smile at the exchange of furtive glances around the table when her words registered. “Questions?”
“Yes, sir.” Holographic Pushkin raised his hand. “What about the task force after-action review?”
Dunmoore felt momentarily irritated with herself. She’d held an after-action review with Iolanthe’s department heads during the FTL jump to the heliopause but forgot that as acting formation commander, conducting one with the captains was now her duty.
“Thank you for the reminder, Gregor. We will hold it before going FTL. Expect a summons from the flag captain within the next few hours. Anything else.” After each of them, in turn, shook his or her head. Dunmoore said, “That’s it. Thank you and feel free to call either Captain Corto or me if new questions arise.”
After the holographic projections winked out one by one, leaving Dunmoore alone with her first officer, the latter asked. “Will you greet Lena on the hangar deck when she arrives?”
“Certainly. We’re stuck together for who knows how long. Hawkwood won’t act as flagship until she’s fully repaired, which means Admiral Petras’ replacement will probably use either Iolanthe or Jan Sobieski. We’re the only ships with enough spare room.” Dunmoore gave Holt a tired grimace. “And since there’s a fifty percent chance of us becoming the new flagship, I suppose we should begin figuring out how and where we set up a suitable flag bridge or command center. Somewhere to park a rear admiral and his staff, so they don’t interfere with my fighting the ship or you sailing it.”
— Nineteen —
Dunmoore watched Iolanthe’s pinnace land on the hangar deck from her usual spot in the control room beside Petty Officer Harkon, the noncom in charge of the cavernous compartment and its giant space doors. When the latter were shut, she gave Harkon a nod of thanks and went out to greet a guest who neither wanted to be here nor was particularly welcome.
The pinnace’s aft ramp dropped, allowing Lena Corto to walk out, bag in hand. She stopped just before stepping on the deck and saluted. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”
Dunmoore returned the salute.
“Permission granted. Welcome.” She offered her hand for what turned out to be a perfunctory shake during which Corto avoided meeting Dunmoore’s eyes. Two of Iolanthe’s spacers emerged from the pinnace, carrying the rest of Corto’s belongings. “We’ve put you in the VIP suite across from my quarters. If you’ll follow me.”
“Certainly.” Corto fell into step beside Dunmoore.
“How is Hawkwood?”
“They’ll survive. Midura’s crew patched the hole to restore temporary hull integrity, but I figure at least two to four weeks in dry dock — if the Starbase 32 facilities are available.”
“What about the admiral and his staff?”
“Admiral Petras is stable, though the medical officer figures he faces a few months convalescence after they decant and fix him. The rest of the staff are on light duties for the next week or two. I think we need not bring them across between now and our arrival in the Torrinos system, seeing as how Iolanthe has no flag bridge.”
“Agreed. Best wait until HQ decides how we move forward under a new commanding officer whose flagship is in dry dock.” They entered a waiting lift and stepped aside for the luggage-bearing spacers.
“What will you do if our new admiral decides to sail in Iolanthe?” Corto glanced at Dunmoore from the corners of her cold blue eyes when the lift doors closed.
“Build a flag CIC somewhere deep within our hull, far from the main shield generators. Our infantry set up their own command post in an unused barracks compartment. I don’t see why we couldn’t create something more formal. Iolanthe is a big ship with a comparatively small crew. We can carry an entire battalion of Marines for several weeks if need be, though their quartering wouldn’t be quite as comfortable as that enjoyed by my single company of Scandia Regiment soldiers.”
They emerged from the lift and headed down the passageway where an open cabin door beckoned. When they reached it, Dunmoore pointed across the corridor while the spacers carrying Corto’s belongings slipped past them, dropped the bags, and vanished.
“That’s mine. And this is yours.” She waved Corto in ahead of her. “If you remember from your earlier visits, the wardroom is one deck lower, and the bridge, the CIC, and my day cabin are one deck up. The stairs are just forward of your quarters. I tend to use them instead of the lift. It’s not only faster but also gives me a modicum of exercise.”
“I’ll be sure to follow your example,” Corto murmured as she took in the spaciousness of her new quarters. “Impressive. Nicer than what the admiral has in Hawkwood and definitely larger than mine.”
“I enjoy the same space and layout across the hallway. My day cabin is just a tad superfluous when my sitting room is part office, part lounge. You’ll find working from here suitable.”
“Just what sort of work do you expect from me between now and our arrival at Starbase 32? Until HQ sends up a new flag officer commanding, drawing up operational plans is rather futile, no? Since you’re now an acting commodore in everything but name, perhaps I should take over Iolanthe.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll carry out my responsibilities as both captain and formation commander in tandem. As you said, until we get a new flag officer, we don’t know what the future holds. In the immediate, I want to make sure we can transmi
t a full report when we drop out of FTL and tack. Our course takes us near one of the interstellar subspace arrays, so it should reach SOCOM well before we dock. With luck, fresh orders might be waiting for us.”
Corto raised her pale eyebrows in a way that conveyed deep ennui.
“A day or two of work. Not much more.”
“Then you might as well consider the rest of the trip as a mini-vacation and enjoy yourself. I won’t be any busier when we’re in hyperspace. Other than routine ship’s business, you might recall there’s not much for a captain except stay out of her first officer’s way.”
Corto replied with a grudging nod.
“True.”
“I’ll let you settle in. The wardroom will welcome you for the evening meal at four bells in the dog watch. Perhaps you could join me in my day cabin at two bells, and we can discuss the task force after-action review. We should finalize that today.”
“Certainly. It should not be a particularly lengthy or difficult exercise. May I use the CIC duty crew to help organize the AAR?”
“Of course. Lieutenant Commander Sirico is your man. I’ll give him a heads up.”
“Perfect. Unless our private discussion brings up matters that might influence the review, I suggest we hold it after supper. Say eight bells?”
“Done. Thank you. I’ll have coffee ready. See you shortly.”
Dunmoore felt Corto’s cold stare follow her on the way out. The next few weeks would be uncomfortable, but she could not leave Task Force Luckner’s flag captain on an ailing starship, out of touch with the acting formation commander. And not just out of fear Corto might dream up mischief designed to advance her career at Dunmoore’s expense. It was equally important she be treated with the respect her appointment deserved, especially for public consumption. Humiliating Corto would only make things worse.
Holt poked his head into the day cabin moments after Dunmoore entered, as expected.
“So? How is our guest?”
“Polite. Impressed by the fact Iolanthe can offer better quarters to Task Force Luckner’s flag captain than Hawkwood could offer Admiral Petras. I’m not sure whether it charmed or disgusted her. She is aware a flag captain is of little use until we reach Starbase 32 and find out what our future holds. But I’m sure she also understands my bringing her here is a kindness. And she probably resents me for it because I’ve taken away the chance to nurse a fresh grievance.”