by David Weber
"I know. But by the same token, if they get dispatch boats away through the terminus, the only place they can go is the Manticore System. They're not going to be able to get from there to other systems inside our borders significantly before we can get to those same systems from Trevor's Star. The only dispatch boats we really legitimately need to worry about are the ones that won't be using the terminus in the first place."
"I appreciate your concerns," Giscard repeated. "But that aspect of the ops plan is effectively locked by this point. Unless someone presents a specific, demonstrable flaw, I don't see any real prospect of its being changed."
"And all I can offer are non-specific worries that may very well be based on my own concerns about where I could have dropped the ball out at Bolthole," Foraker conceded. She smiled crookedly. "I know. I guess I just had to be sure I got it said."
"Of course you did. That's part of your job." Giscard chuckled. Then he cocked his head at her. "And what about Second Fleet's assignment?"
"Obviously, the fact that I'd like to throw a heavier attack at Trevor's Star means I'd prefer to keep Second Fleet closer to home and commit it there. And the possibility that the Andermani might find Second Fleet's presence so close to their own doorstep objectionable doesn't exactly appeal to me, either. Left to my own devices, and given the fact that NavInt tells us Duchess Harrington has so few SD(P)s and CLACs, I think I'd probably choose to leave her entirely alone in the initial attacks. If we manage to pull off the rest of Red Alpha, then her task force shouldn't be enough to significantly improve the Manties' chances in a counteroffensive even after they recall her. But I have to admit that part of my desire to employ Second Fleet elsewhere may stem from the fact that, like Lester, I have a . . . lively respect for the Duchess' tactical talents. Something about letting sleeping dogs lie," she snorted. "Aside from that, the plan seems sound enough. At least, I don't see how we could come up with a better one to accomplish the same objective."
"If I may, Admiral Giscard," Captain Anders said quietly, "I do have one additional concern I haven't heard anyone address yet."
"What sort of concern, Captain?"
"Grayson, Sir." Several people glanced at one another, and Anders produced a brief smile. "I've been looking at NavInt's most recent estimates of their SD(P) strength," he continued. "I don't know if the Staff's planners are making sufficient allowance for what they might do with that strength."
"At the moment," Captain Gozzi replied before Giscard could speak, "they've sent a substantial chunk of that strength off on a training cruise, Five. And even if they hadn't, it's going to take them some time to figure out what's happening. Even assuming that their navy and the RMN were still on the same sort of terms they were before the cease-fire, there ought to be more than enough delay before they could respond for us to be in possession of Trevor's Star and all of the rest of our objectives."
"I know that's the analysts' conclusion," Anders acknowledged. "And they may well be right. But given the Graysons' performance to date, I'd prefer something a bit more definite than 'may well be right' where they're concerned. Admiral Foraker mentioned letting sleeping dogs lie in Silesia. My own preference would be to keep Second Fleet closer to home to cover against the possibility that the Graysons are quicker off the mark than we think they'll be."
"That thought certainly has merit," Giscard said, waving Gozzi off when his own chief of staff started to respond once again. "But Grayson's possible reaction is another one of those risks we're simply going to have to accept. I think NavInt's analysts are almost certainly right about how quickly Grayson will be able to respond once they realize an attack is underway. I think they're also right about Janacek's attitude towards Grayson. He resents and loathes them as uppity neobarbs with no respect for their betters, so the last thing he's going to want to do is call them in to reinforce his own forces. Hell, he probably hasn't even done any contingency planning with them for how they might respond to an attack if we launched one! Which doesn't even consider the possibility that he and High Ridge have managed to alienate Grayson to an extent which would make Mayhew hesitate to respond in the first place."
"With all due respect for NavInt, Admiral, I don't think I'd put too much reliance on that last point. It's certainly legitimate to think in terms of the physical limitations on how quickly they can respond, but Grayson and the Manties have been through a lot together. I don't see Mayhew cutting his allies adrift. Especially if we're the aggressor."
Giscard gazed at Foraker's chief of staff thoughtfully for several seconds, then shrugged.
"I wasn't going to bring this up," he said. "And what I'm about to say doesn't leave this compartment."
He paused until all of them had nodded.
"All right. Captain Anders may very well be entirely correct in his estimate of the relationship between Grayson and the Star Kingdom. To be perfectly honest, Secretary Theisman tells me that the analysts at NavInt and ForInt are pretty badly divided over exactly how bad relations between the Protector and the High Ridge Government have actually become. However, there are at least some strong indications that the Manticoran Alliance is no longer as . . . solid as it was. Specifically," he continued as eyes narrowed speculatively around the conference table, "we've been in contact with the Republic of Erewhon. Obviously, no one has discussed Case Red Alpha with the Erewhonese, but last week the Erewhon Ambassador initialed an agreement in principle for a defensive military alliance with us."
"Erewhon is coming over to our side?" Lester Tourville asked in a very careful tone of voice, clearly unable to believe he'd heard correctly.
"So I've been assured," Giscard replied. "There's no way to extrapolate from that to what Grayson might do, and no one's suggested to me that we've had any sort of direct diplomatic contact with Grayson, either. But if Erewhon is willing to make its own arrangements with us, I'd certainly call that an indication that High Ridge has managed to do a lot more damage to his alliance network than he probably realizes."
"That's one way to put it, Sir," Anders snorted. "Especially if you're given to understatement!" He paused, thinking hard, then shrugged. "All right, Sir. I'm still itchy about what Grayson might do, but I'll admit it looks like there's even more grit jamming the works of the Manty Alliance than I thought there was."
"Which is probably about the best we can hope for, realistically," Giscard replied with a shrug. "We're dealing with uncertainties no matter what we do. Anyone who thinks it could be any other way is dreaming. But my own feeling is that if we find ourselves forced to go back to war at all, this ops plan offers our best chance of winning."
* * *
Several hours later, Shannon Foraker watched through the viewport of her pinnace as Sovereign of Space broke orbit, accelerating away from the planet of Haven towards the rest of First Fleet.
It was hard to watch her go. Harder even than she'd expected it to be.
"Hate to see her go, don't you, Ma'am?" a quiet voice asked, and she turned her head to look at Captain Anders.
"Yes," she admitted. "Yes I do."
"Admiral Giscard will take good care of her," Anders reassured her, and she nodded.
"I know he will. And I know Pat will, too. But after so long, it just seems hard to see her as anyone else's flagship."
"I don't doubt it. But that's not all of it, Ma'am," Anders said almost gently, and she frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Ma'am, you're not like me. I'm an engineer first, and a tac officer second; you're exactly the other way around. That's why you want to be out there, making Red Alpha work and executing the tactical doctrines you designed. That's the real reason you hate to see her go as much as you do."
"You know," Foraker said slowly, "for a wirehead, you're a remarkably perceptive person, Five." She shook her head. "I hadn't considered it from that perspective, but you're right. Maybe I didn't think about it that way because I didn't want to admit how very right you are."
"You couldn't be who you are an
d feel any other way about it, Ma'am," he told her. "But the bottom line is that as good as you are as a tac officer, the Navy and the Republic need you worse at Bolthole than they need you with First or Second Fleet. It's not where you want to be, Ma'am; it's only where you need to be."
"Maybe you're right," she said softly, turning to look back out the port at the steadily accelerating superdreadnought. "Maybe you're right."
But as she watched Sovereign of Space dwindle in the distance, she knew she didn't want him to be.
Chapter Forty-One
The com attention signal chimed softly in the darkened cabin. It was a quiet sound, but decades of naval service had made Erica Ferrero a light sleeper. Her right hand shot out and hit the voice-only acceptance key before it could chime a second time, and her left hand raked sleep-tousled hair out of her eyes as she sat up in bed.
"Captain speaking." Her voice struck her as sounding much more awake than she actually felt.
"Captain, this is Lieutenant McKee. The Exec asked me to inform you that 'Sittich' is breaking orbit."
"Understood." Ferrero came suddenly and fully awake at the announcement. She glanced at her bedside date/time display and grimaced. It was the middle of Jessica Epps' shipboard night. McKee had the bridge watch, and by rights, Llewellyn should have been in bed and as sound asleep as Ferrero herself. But her exec had always had a tendency to prowl around the ship at odd times, and it had become even more pronounced since their arrival in the Zoraster System.
"What's her accel, Mecia?" Ferrero asked the com officer.
"Just under two-point-five KPS squared," McKee replied.
"And her heading?"
"Just about what you'd predicted, Skipper. She's on a least-time heading from the planet to the hyper limit."
"Good. In that case, I don't see any reason to wake everybody else up this soon. I'll be up in about fifteen minutes. You and the Exec hold the fort until I get there."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am."
* * *
The red icon representing the ship masquerading as the Andermani merchant ship Sittich crawled across Jessica Epps' tactical display. She'd been accelerating steadily for over two hours now, and her velocity was up to just over 18,500 KPS. She'd traveled a hundred and thirty-nine million kilometers, taking her almost forty percent of the way to the G4 primary's hyper limit. And while she was doing that, Jessica Epps had crept stealthily closer to her, bending their vectors steadily together.
The tension on the heavy cruiser's bridge had climbed steadily. It wasn't the same sort of tension her officers might have felt if they'd been tracking another warship. No, this was the tension of a hunter as a long, careful stalk crept towards its successful conclusion, mingled with the vengeful anticipation of closing in on the sort of vermin any self-respecting naval officer recognized as his natural enemy.
Erica Ferrero glanced at her repeater plot. The range to the target was down to barely three million kilometers, and it was painfully evident that the false Sittich didn't have a clue Jessica Epps was even in the same star system with her. Ferrero supposed she shouldn't feel too much contempt for the slaver's crew. After all, they were deep in one of the better patrolled Silesian star systems, and as far as they knew, any armed vessels in that system were under the orders of the man whose illicit cargo they were carrying. Besides, Shawn Harris' carefully deployed Ghost Rider recon drones had gotten an excellent read on "Sittich's" emissions, and the tramp's active sensors were exactly the sort of crap Ferrero would have anticipated from such a disreputable craft. They'd have been lucky to spot a medium-sized moon if they hadn't already known exactly where to look for it.
She smiled. Sneaking into someone else's star system, even when that someone else was limited to Silly sensor systems, was always a challenge. Of course, it was the sort of challenge Ferrero enjoyed, not to mention being an excellent training opportunity. That hadn't made it any easier, however, and she'd been just a bit surprised by how spoiled she'd become since FTL sensor arrays had become available. She missed the continually updated reports from the perimeter arrays she would normally have deployed. Their absence made her feel . . . exposed. As if someone who was supposed to be watching her back wasn't.
She wondered if she would have felt happier if the new patrol patterns Duchess Harrington was instituting had been fully in place and Jessica Epps had been paired off with another RMN vessel. She probably would have, she decided. And the availability of a consort would have given her much more flexibility in her stalk of the slaver. Of the probable slaver, she corrected herself conscientiously.
Of course, the presence of a second ship would have substantially increased the chances that at least one of them might have been spotted. Which made it one more example of the endless trade-offs imposed by an imperfect universe.
She snorted at the thought and looked up from the plot.
"I think we're just about ready, Bob," she said.
"Yes, Ma'am," Commander Llewellyn acknowledged. "Should we send the crew to quarters?"
"I don't see any reason to completely clear for action," Ferrero replied. "Not against a merchie who's still two and a half million klicks outside energy range! Go ahead and close up the missile crews and Missile Defense. We can always man the energy mounts if Mr. Slaver decides to be difficult and refuses to heave to before we close into graser range. Of course, he'd have to be particularly stupid for that to happen."
"Yes, Ma'am."
A true stickler might have detected a slight edge of disappointment in Llewellyn's reply. The exec, Ferrero knew, was a tactical officer's tactical officer. He hated to pass up any opportunity for comprehensive weapons drills, especially when Tactical had a live target—even one as unworthy as "Sittich"—to practice on.
"Patience, Bob," she said in a quieter voice, pitched for his ears alone, after he'd passed the necessary orders. "If you behave yourself, I'll let you take the first pinnace across."
"That obvious, was I, Skipper?" he asked wryly.
"Maybe not that obvious," she said with a grin. "But headed that way. Definitely headed that way."
"Missile batteries report manned and ready, Ma'am," Harris reported from Tactical.
"Very well, Shawn. I think we're just about ready. Remember, we can't afford to just blow this one out of space, whatever it does."
"Understood, Ma'am." Lieutenant Harris nodded soberly. Pirates were one thing; slavers, with potentially hundreds of innocent victims aboard, were something else entirely.
"If she refuses to stop when Mecia hails her," Ferrero went on, "we'll put a shot or two across her bows. But if she still refuses to stop, we'll have to get close enough to take out her nodes with energy fire. Or," she grinned at Llewellyn again, "let the exec take his pinnaces out and play Preston of the Spaceways shooting up her impeller rings with their lasers."
"Oh, frabjous day!" Llewellyn murmured.
"I see you're really looking forward to it," Ferrero observed, and Llewellyn chuckled. Then the captain turned to Communications. "Are you ready to transmit, Mecia?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Then go ahead. And just to be certain they get the point, Shawn, lock them up with your fire control lidar and stand ready to fire that warning shot."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am."
Lieutenant McKee leaned closer to her microphone. "Sittich, this is the Royal Manticoran Navy cruiser Jessica Epps. You are instructed to reduce acceleration to zero, cut your wedge, and stand by to be boarded for routine search and examination."
The crisp, uncompromising demand went out over a directional com laser. It was extremely unlikely that Governor Chalmers would fail to realize what was happening when Jessica Epps boarded the false Sittich, but it was remotely possible. Harris' fire control systems were more likely to be detected by the system sensor arrays than McKee's communications laser, and if Ferrero actually had to fire a warning shot, the detonation of its warhead would definitely give the game away. But if she could keep Chalmers from figuring out what was happening
, he was much more likely to be sitting there, still all fat and happy, when the warrant for his arrest arrived from the Confed government.
And slaving is probably the one thing that will actually get a Silly governor arrested, she reflected. Not that what passes for a government out here really has any particular moral objection to it. It's just that the Queen has made her own feelings on the trade abundantly, one might almost say painfully, clear. And no Silly in his right mind wants to cross her or her Navy on this one. Besides—
"Incoming message!" McKee announced suddenly, and something about her tone snapped Ferrero's head up. She spun her command chair back towards the com officer.
"It's—" McKee broke off and looked up at her captain, eyes huge in surprise. "Skipper, it's Hellbarde!"
"Hellbarde?!" Ferrero stared at the lieutenant for perhaps three seconds, then darted an accusing look at her tactical plot. There was no sign of the Andermani cruiser on it.
"Shawn?" she snapped.
"I don't know, Skipper!" the tac officer replied. "But I'm on it."
His hands were already flying across his console as he, his ratings, and CIC went suddenly to a full-press sensor sweep. They were no longer trying to creep quietly up on an unsuspecting prey, and their active arrays lit up surrounding space like a beacon.
"Skipper, you'd better listen to this," McKee said urgently, pulling Ferrero's attention back from the tactical section.
"Put it on speaker," Ferrero instructed.
"Aye, aye, Ma'am."
There was a brief moment of silence, and then a familiar, harsh-accented voice banished it.
"Jessica Epps, this is Hellbarde! You are instructed to shut down your targeting systems and break off your approach immediately!"
"Shut down—?" Ferrero looked up at Llewellyn.
"Another incoming message," McKee broke in before the exec could reply. "This one's from 'Sittich.' "
"Speaker," Ferrero snapped.
"Jessica Epps, this is the Andermani merchant ship Sittich! What seems to be the problem? Sittich, clear."