by Jay Allan
“That’s amazing, far more optimistic than I’d have guessed. Your Commander Fritz really lives up to her reputation.”
“Yes, she does. I’m very lucky to have her…and she’s built one hell of an engineering team.”
“So, when do we move on the station?” Eaton’s voice was a bit tentative. Barron understood, and he felt the same way. Neither ship was ready for action, not really. Many systems were patched back together haphazardly, subject to renewed failure under the pressure of battle. Half of their fighters were trapped in Dauntless’s still-inoperable bays. But none of that mattered. The Varus system was far behind enemy lines, a dangerous place for two Confederation battleships, and they’d pushed their luck far enough already. Waiting wasn’t an option. Destroying the station was too important…and if fresh Union forces arrived, the chance would be lost.
“An hour,” Barron said. “That will give us time to do a final check on the primaries. Then we’ll move forward and engage.” He hated the idea of charging in with their battered ships, and with no real idea of what defenses the station mounted. But he didn’t see an alternative. “I doubt we’ll be able to get the bays up and running by then…can you get your fighters launched?”
“Some, at least. We’re still trying to refit and refuel them, but we’ve got about twenty ready to go now, and we’ll have more in an hour.”
Barron nodded, to himself as much as anyone. The situation seemed almost unreal to him. In the Academy they taught doctrine, how to proceed in battle conditions. But his rapidly increasing combat experience was teaching him that much of what he’d learned was useless. It was all well and good to review things under textbook conditions, but he’d found that such situations were shockingly rare in real combat. No Academy class would have discussed two battleships, both battered and depleted, attacking a massive enemy construct, with no idea of the weaponry they’d face and no useful estimate of what it would take to destroy the thing. But this wasn’t a classroom, and the destruction of that supply facility could be the difference between victory and defeat, not just in Varus, but in the entire war. Dauntless and Intrepid had to go in. Barron knew that, and he was sure Eaton did as well.
“Very well. I know your people will do their best to use the hour well, as I am sure mine will. Then we go in, Captain. And we don’t stop, we don’t pull back until we’ve destroyed that thing…or it’s destroyed us.”
Chapter Forty-Two
CFS Fortitude
Mellas System
308 AC
“Open.” Striker snapped the word, far more of his anger and frustration coming out with it than he’d intended. He was glad it was just the AI speaking to him, and not one of his spacers. The computer wouldn’t take offense, wouldn’t think he was angry at it.
He was angry, though, or, more accurately, he was frustrated. His meeting with the admiral had gone poorly. That hadn’t been a total surprise. But realizing that Admiral Winston had lost his nerve, that the fleet’s senior officer was shaken so deeply by the defeats he’d suffered, he was prepared to do anything to avoid risking battle again, was a sobering piece of news. And Striker had no idea what he could do about it. He’d argue his case again, of course, but he already knew that would be a waste of time.
The door slid open, and he walked through, into his quarters, pulling his hat from his head and tossing it toward the table. It hit near the edge and slipped off, falling to the floor. He turned to walk toward the small counter along the wall. He needed coffee. Actually, he needed far more than that, and for a passing moment he regretted the fact that he wasn’t a drinker. The idea of really tying one on appealed to him, at least in a theoretical way.
“That bad, eh?”
Striker whipped around at the words, his hand moving reflexively toward the pistol at his side. He checked the movement before he actually drew the weapon. He was on his flagship, after all, not on a battlefield. But who the hell was in his quarters?
“No need to defend yourself, Admiral. I just wanted to have a word with you away from, shall we say…prying eyes.”
Striker relaxed slightly as he recognized the voice. Holsten.
“You really have to be more cautious, Director. Someone a little more tense than I am might have reacted with combat instincts…and only find out later they’d decorated the far wall with the brains of the chief of Confederation Intelligence.” He didn’t bother to ask how the operative had gotten aboard his flagship without his knowledge. He suspected that had not pushed Holsten’s skills to their limits.
“We all take our risks, Admiral. I have come to ask you to take another one.”
“I am more than ready to face the enemy, Mr. Holsten. But that is not my decision.”
“No, it is not…at present. Perhaps we have to do something about that.”
Striker felt his body tighten. He didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit. But he didn’t respond. Something made him listen.
“Well, you haven’t threatened to clap me in irons, so I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“If you’re going to suggest what I think you are, I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Admiral, what do you think of Rance Barron?”
“He’s the Confederation’s greatest hero.”
“Yes, thank you for that answer directly from a textbook. Now, tell me what you really think of the man, of who he was.”
Striker hesitated. “I suppose what has always struck me about the admiral’s history was his courage. Not just in the face of battle, but in doing what had to be done, in stepping up when the Confederation needed him.”
“And what do you think that means, ‘stepping up’?”
“Taking command of the fleet, of course. Convincing the Senate to go along, rallying the officers, giving the people hope.”
“Convincing the Senate? Is that what you think he did?”
Striker didn’t respond. He wasn’t a naïve man, and he’d always suspected Admiral Barron’s actions had been more aggressive than the fawning histories suggested.
“Admiral, I am going to tell you the truth. You will have to decide if you believe me, but I trust you will not find it surprising that Confederation Intelligence knows exactly what happened in the middle of the second war with the Union.”
Striker stood motionless, listening. Part of him wanted every detail, and part wanted to cover his ears, to flee the room.
“Admiral Barron seized control of the fleet. He was not appointed, he was not placed in command by a superior officer. He and a cabal of officers launched a carefully-planned operation to capture and imprison several of the fleet’s highest-ranked commanders, along with hundreds of members of their staffs. He did not seek to injure any of them, though there was fighting on several ships, and there were casualties.”
Striker moved to the side, pulling a chair over from the table and sitting down. He definitely didn’t want to hear anymore, but it was like a drug, and he couldn’t stop listening.
“Suffice it to say there were forged orders and a broad campaign of well-meaning deception. Many of the spacers—most perhaps—who followed Admiral Barron into that first resurgent battle did so under false pretenses. Had he lost that fight, there is little doubt he would now be regarded as the blackest traitor in Confederation history rather than the greatest hero. Assuming, of course, there would have been a Confederation without his victory.”
Striker wanted to say something, to argue. His mind reeled, trying to doubt what Holsten was telling him. But somehow, he knew he was hearing the truth.
“His victories legitimized his actions, Admiral. First with the fleet, which came to almost worship him as he led them from defeat and despair to victory. Then with the people, who anointed him the savior of the Confederation. The Senate was enraged, of course, at least at first. There were bills drawn, warrants of arrest, charges of mutiny and high treason…but it became a practical impossibility to move against the admiral as his triumphant campaign continued.”
“Are you saying that Admiral Barron threatened the Senate? That he dictated terms to them under the guns of the fleet?”
“No, Admiral, not precisely. Admiral Barron’s brilliant leadership changed to course of the war so quickly, the Senate could not oppose him openly. The politicians were irate, but they were afraid too. We’ll never know what Rance Barron would have done if he’d been pushed too far, if the Senate had declared him an outlaw and ordered the fleet’s officers to oppose him. Would he have sacrificed himself, surrendered to face trial and execution? Or would he have turned his forces on the Senate? There is little doubt most of his spacers and Marines would have followed him in any endeavor. It is a credit to him that he did not use this power. The Senate quietly ‘disappeared’ all the actions it had taken against him, and he remained the senior admiral of the fleet as the peace was negotiated. The people adored him, and those who had voted on proclamations of treason against him began to shower him with public honors.”
Striker looked across the room at the spy. “I understand why you have told me all of this, Mr. Holsten, and, while I find it all quite disconcerting, I do believe you. But I am no Rance Barron.”
Holsten didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He just returned the stare silently for a moment. Then he said, “Admiral…Rance Barron wasn’t Rance Barron, at least not what you know of by that name. He was a young admiral, sworn to follow the commands of those who outranked him. Until he realized that the Confederation he loved was on the brink of ruin. Then he acted.” Holsten’s stare was cold, fixed. “What will you do?”
“What do you expect me to do? I don’t have a network of support, especially in First Fleet. I don’t have the reputation Rance Barron had, the following. Am I supposed to move against Admiral Winston? Imprison him? Kill him?”
“I assure you, Admiral, I have no animosity toward Arthur Winston, nor any desire to see him harmed. He is a loyal officer, if one of mediocre skill. His legacy, I’m afraid has more to do with his good fortune in having been in the inner circle of a man of true capability. The loyalty he showed toward Admiral Barron was certainly commendable, as, in its own way, so is his longevity. But we have allowed the Union to prepare far too long for this war, and I confess on my part that our intelligence efforts failed to warn us of their true strength. Admiral Winston cannot stop the enemy invasion. Endless debate in the Senate cannot stop it. Any route through normal channels—any legal effort—is doomed to fail. If we are to save the Confederation, we must act…and we must act now.”
Holsten stood quietly for a moment, giving Striker the chance to digest what he was saying. Then he stood up and walked across the room, extending his arm. There was a small data chip in his hand. “This chip contains orders relieving Admiral Winston and appointing you as commander-in-chief of the combined fleet. It is, of course, a forgery. But it will be weeks before any confirmation can reach fleet headquarters for confirmation. Take command of the combined fleet, Admiral. Do what we both know must be done…now, while you can. Because after this, it is unlikely I will be able to give you a second chance. If our plan fails, you will have a chance to escape the consequences. You can claim I gave you the orders, and you believed them to be genuine. I, on the other hand, likely face an unpleasant result, whether you succeed or not.” He hesitated. “But it is of no matter…if you succeed, it is well worth my sacrifice to save the Confederation. And if you fail, I have no desire to outlive it.”
Striker reached out and took the chip. He held it in front of him, staring at it, a look of undisguised horror on his face. He didn’t react, didn’t say anything. He just sat there.
“So, Admiral,” Holsten asked softly, “what will you do?”
* * *
“I am sorry, Admiral Winston.”
The old officer stared back across the table. There was surprise in his expression…and anger, hurt. Striker thought he saw relief as well. Holsten had crafted the false orders well. Winston was being recalled, not in disgrace, but to take command of Third Fleet, to prepare it for the defense of the Core Worlds. It didn’t make sense, not really, but it was enough for Winston to save face, and that made it easier for him to accept. At least that’s what Striker hoped. He was all in now, and he had Marines loyal to him just in the next room, but he was praying silently that Winston didn’t push him to that.
“Why didn’t this come through normal fleet channels?”
Another good question, and one that Holsten’s ingenuity had anticipated. He had been standing behind Striker, silent, but now he answered.
“The document is clear on that, Admiral. Fleet channels have been compromised. That is why the order was entrusted to Confederation Intelligence at the highest levels. I considered it so important, I decided to deliver it myself.”
Striker watched and waited, his stomach twisted in knots. He was ready to face the enemy fleet, to fight the desperate battle to stop the irresistible Union advance. But he wasn’t entirely sure he had it in him to issue the necessary orders if Winston resisted…to watch his Marines drag the admiral away. And, even if he could, he was on Repulse. An attempt to arrest the admiral on his own flagship could go wrong in more ways than he could count, and any number of those could lead to open fighting between Confederation personnel.
“You will note, Admiral, that the document bears the Senatorial Seal. I urge you to request confirmation, though it will take some days for a communique to reach Megara, and as many more for the response to return.”
Striker stood silently, amazed at Holsten’s iron control. The intelligence director knew what would happen if that confirmation request reached the Senate, and yet he was inviting it, asking for it. Striker knew he faced the likelihood of death and defeat when—if—he was able to take over the fleet, but he still gave thanks his career had been in the military and not the spy services. He couldn’t imagine playing a role—lying—so well, with such rock-solid poise.
Winston sighed softly. “No, I don’t need confirmation, Mr. Holsten. The dispatch is in order, the seal valid. If the Senate feels I am needed more with Third Fleet, so be it. As I consider it, I begin to understand their thinking. First Fleet is lost, the remnants will have no choice but to retire toward the Core. This transfer will allow me to begin preparations for a last ditch defense.”
Striker watched in amazement. Winston’s suspicion, to the extent it had existed was being cast aside, his ego creating justifications, convincing him the transfer was a promotion of sorts, a final attempt to rely on him for salvation. He wondered how much Holsten had manipulated him into making the choice he had. He didn’t think he’d been led down any path against his own judgment, but the intel chief appeared to be a master at influencing peoples’ actions.
“I have a shuttle prepared for you, Admiral. There is a fast escort ship waiting to take you back to Megara to assume your new command. I’m sorry for the short notice, but the Senate was quite clear that they wanted you with Third Fleet as quickly as possible. With your permission, we can dispatch a steward to pack your things.”
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Holsten. And yes, that would be fine. If you can send my belongings to the cruiser before we depart, I would be appreciative.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Striker said softly. “I will see to it myself.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Winston looked over at Striker. “Take care of my people.”
“I will, sir. With my life. I hope you know that.”
“I do, Admiral Striker.” He paused. “Admiral, I beseech you to exert the greatest care in your command over the fleet. We are at a terrible disadvantage here. I beg you, do not throw our ships away in a hopeless attack. You must retreat from here…you cannot win a fight now. All you can hope to do is delay the enemy advance while I get Third Fleet ready to defend the Core.”
“I understand, sir.” Striker’s answer wasn’t exactly agreement, but it sounded enough like it to satisfy Winston. He’d almost argued, telling the admiral he had no intention of yielding system after s
ystem, abandoning billions of civilians to the invaders. But there was no point. Winston was broken, his spirit gone…but his body would be gone soon too, and then Striker could set his plan in motion. He knew his attack was a desperate act, and he was terrified about the battle, about its consequences. He was wracked by guilt, disgusted with the way he’d attained command. But he knew what he had to do, and by God, he would see it done.
Chapter Forty-Three
Bridge
CFS Dauntless
Varus System
308 AC
“The primaries are online, sir. Reactors at ninety-seven and eighty-eight percent capacity, respectively.” Fritz was rattling off her report, exceeding even Barron’s outsized expectations of her performance. “I can get you up to 6g from the engines, anything more than that is iffy. Damage control teams positioned around the ship ready to address any malfunctions or new damage…and we will have issues. These systems are cobbled together the best we could manage, but it will take days to get more secure repairs in place. I couldn’t get the bays operational, sir. We tried, but there’s just too much damage. Even if we could have gotten a launch tube working, the rail systems to move ordnance and the fuel lines are so much junk. It will take two days, at least, to get to even partially operational status…and longer to get back to anything approaching normal.”
Barron hated that half his force’s fighters were stuck inside his ship’s crippled bays, but he didn’t lose sight of the fact that Fritz had worked magic in getting the crippled ship back into the fight so quickly. The problem was somewhat alleviated by the fact—hope, actually—that most of the station’s fighters had already been destroyed. Most of what he’d seen had been destroyed, and nearly two hundred fifty fighters was one hell of a complement. But he didn’t know there weren’t more waiting in there.