by Jay Allan
Survival.
“Tyler, I understand where you’re coming from, but you can’t possibly be suggesting we hand over enhanced primary batteries to…” Winters looked around. There was no one present save for trusted Confederation officers, but he clearly wanted to be sure. “…crazed barbarians from the Far Rim. If it’s even possible to cram the things in those buckets they call ships.”
Barron almost responded immediately, but Anya Fritz beat him to it.
“It’s not,” the engineer said bluntly. “Most of their tech would have been museum quality in your grandfather’s day. The don’t have the power generation capacity to support even standard primaries, and they certainly don’t have the transmission infrastructure.”
Barron still believed the only thing that mattered was winning the war, but Fritz’s cold engineering report brought him back to reality. Winters wasn’t right, too. The Far Rim potentates weren’t the exactly the most trustworthy allies.
“Fine, if not the Far Rim dwellers, then…”
“What, the Union? You can’t be serious.” Winters’s voice was getting louder, his tension pouring out. “You can’t possibly trust them enough for that. I’ll consider us lucky if we can get through this war without them turning on us. If you give them enhanced primaries, we’ll be facing fleets of battleships with them a few years later.”
“No…you’re right. Maybe Denisov…” He was teetering on the edge of trusting the Union admiral, but there were thousands of spacers on those ships, and most likely some Sector Nine agents he hadn’t rooted out. “Clint, we’re never going to win this war if we can’t trust our allies.” It wasn’t an appeal to trust the Union. It was a lament about a lack of options.
Winters’s response pounded the point home. “We’re just going have to judge each situation as it comes. We may decide we trust Denisov well enough. He’s a man of his word, I’ll buy that. But he has duty, too, beyond his promises to us, and putting primaries into Union hulls? All it will take is one of those getting back to Montmirail, and…”
“That won’t work either, so the political debate is pointless.” Fritz again, just as certain as she’d been a moment before. “I mean, it’s probably possible, but it would take a massive retrofit, and the addition of some higher-powered reactors, so you’d be giving them that technology as well. The primaries are spinal mount weapons, so installing them in any existing ship is going to require some serious jury-rigging, and tearing the thing half apart. A Union ship? A year. Maybe. More likely, eighteen months.”
“Which we don’t have.” Fritz’s argument wasn’t the same as the one Winters had pursued, but the admiral jumped on it anyway.
“So…anything?” Barron was looking over at Fritz. Political considerations were one thing, but none of that mattered unless the guns could be crammed inside a hull that could support them…and quickly enough to be ready when the fleet set out.
“Maybe the newest Alliance ships. There’s already some Confederation tech in those, thanks to our treaties signed during and since the civil war. Nothing on the extreme cutting edge, but probably good enough. They’re big ships, too, with designs highly rationalized—a huge difference from the twisted jumbles of circuits and power lines that used to dominate their fleet.” She paused, clearly thinking for a few seconds. I’d say a year to retrofit under normal circumstances, but if you really want the bottom line, we might be able to do it on a couple ships in two months, maybe even six weeks.” She hesitated again. “That’s breakneck speed, Captain, with thousands of workers conscripted to get it done. And I can practically guarantee accidents. It will be a miracle if we don’t lose a dozen workers per ship, and it could be a whole lot more. The amount of vacuum work alone is incredibly dangerous.”
“We might be able to make that work.” Barron was thinking about the time factor. He barely heard her comments on the dangers involved. The part of him that focused on that warning tried to gain his attention, but he slapped it away, almost subconsciously. Tyler Barron wasn’t an unfeeling monster, ready to kill dozens of workers to get what he wanted, but he’d seen thousands upon thousands killed in the war so far, with nothing to show for their sacrifices, save a desperate stand on Craydon and a battered and worn fleet still in the fight. He’d mourn any workers and techs lost in the retrofits, no more or no less than he did the spacers he would certainly be sending to their deaths.
He wasn’t sure if his forces could win at Megara, but victory or defeat, if there was one certainty he didn’t doubt for an instant, it was that, either way, the losses would be almost beyond count.
“Before you make any decisions, Admiral, let me be clear.” Fritz’s personality was relentless, her drive almost unstoppable. It was that, as much as her knowledge and intellect, that had made her such a wizard at her job. But now, Barron could hear the doubt in her tone, the hesitation. “That means a full-scale effort, redirecting thousands of workers, as I said—and I mean the kinds of workers we need, highly skilled. That will hit some of the other production operations hard. And there are no guarantees. We could as easily end up with several battleships sitting in spacedock disabled without functioning primaries. You’d actually have less firepower, and still be out the production of all those workers.” She paused. “There are a hundred problems that could come up, issues I’m not even thinking about now, difficulties in meshing systems and tech, trouble matching Confederation and Palatian conduits.”
“Do you think you can do it, Fritzie? If I put you in charge of the operation with unlimited authority to direct any resources you need to the project? Say, four ships total?” Barron was thinking of the four newest Palatian vessels, Invictus and her three sister ships. They were powerful warships, useful in the battle line, but their range disadvantage against the Hegemony railguns had severely impaired their ability to bring their own powerful broadsides into the fight.
“I think so, Admiral…” Fritz was clearly still uncomfortable. “I want to be blunt, sir…I can’t make any promises. We could just as easily knock those ships out of the OB for half a year as get the primaries functioning in time for the attack.”
“But you think you can do it?”
There was a long silence. Then: “Yes, sir…I think I can.”
“Then do it. I’ll need to get Vian Tulus’s okay first, of course, but I don’t think he’s going to turn down the chance of getting weapons that can engage the enemy at almost double his current range.”
“What about the Senate, Ty?” Winters sounded concerned, though only slightly.
“What about them?” Despite his feigned innocence, Barron knew exactly what his comrade was saying. He was about to give sensitive Confederation technology to a foreign power, and blood brother or not, there was no question he should get Senate approval before he even brought it up with Tulus.
He couldn’t imagine the Senate agreeing, or at least giving the go ahead without weeks of furious back and forth. That would have been a crucial stumbling block. If he’d given a shit.
The Senate had granted him broad military authority, and even expanded it after his resignation stunt. He knew what they would do if he raised the issue beforehand. They would argue and debate, and talk endlessly…and then they would do what he asked, because they had no choice. Because he was completely ready to throw his admiral’s insignia at them again.
He didn’t have the time to waste on that kind of foolishness, or frankly, the stomach for it either.
“Don’t you think we should get their approval?” Winters again, as halfhearted as before.
“Probably. But, honestly, I don’t give a shit what they have to say about it…and perhaps we’re better off not even bringing it up. If we do and they say ‘no’—or, more likely, decide to talk about it endlessly—we’ll have to outright disobey them, or threaten them. Again. A little gray area can be a good thing, don’t you think?”
Winters sat for a few seconds, thinking. Then, he smiled and said simply, “I’m okay with that.”
Barron was glad to hear his comrade’s words, though he hadn’t been overly concerned that an admiral called ‘the Sledgehammer’ was going to be overly concerned with political protocol and the sensitive egos of Senators.
“Okay, Fritzie…I’ll talk to Vian right now. You should be good to go officially in a couple hours, so start figuring what you need now. I mean it, Fritzie. If you need half a dozen magnates to march around the spacedock in their underwear, I’ll send the Marines to go get them. Your only priority besides getting the batteries installed and working is time. Get them ready for the invasion, whatever it takes.”
“I appreciate the support, Admiral…” A rare smile slipped onto her lips. “Though, I think I’ll pass on that kind offer, amusing as it would likely be.”
Barron returned the smile, for a few seconds. Then, his grim expression clamped down again, and he said, “We’re not taking any shit from anybody down there, Fritzie. When I say, ‘whatever it takes,’ I mean just that…so keep that in mind. And if any of those industrial titans or local politicians gives you a problem, you tell them they’d better get the hell out of there before I wander along.”
It was the kind of thing people said but didn’t really mean. But this time, Barron was dead serious. “Because, if they interfere with your work, I’ll have them shot on sight…or, more likely, I’ll shoot the bastards myself.”
* * *
“Jake, come in. Pour yourself a drink.” Barron gestured toward the small bar setup in the corner of the room. He’d never been much of a drinker himself, but he kept a few high-quality liquors on a table in the corner. He was trying to see as many of his senior officers as possible to discuss the coming attack, and he figured, with the firestorm they were about to head into, if they wanted a damned drink to make their orders go down easier, he’d see that they had one.
“No thank you, Admiral. I don’t think I’ll be drinking for some time.”
Barron looked at Stockton, standing straight, his face a mask of grim focus. Barron remembered the wild young pilot he’d found on Dauntless when he’d first arrived to take command. Jake Stockton had always been a gifted pilot—and the terror of the battleship’s poker games—but he’d become far more than that. He was a leader now, in every sense of the word—and a damned good one—and Barron had seen the razor-sharp weapon standing in front of him forged from that young Lightning jock by pain and war and suffering.
“Sit, Jake.” Barron gestured toward the large sofa where he sat. He’d taken some of his meetings in his office on Station Killian, but Stockton was posted to Dauntless anyway, and it was a good excuse to get away from the insanity churning all around the orbital platform, maybe to spend a night in his quarters on the battleship, which was far more a home to him than the half-rebuilt station.
Dauntless’s crew was used to his presence, and they were protective of him, and of his privacy. He could get some quiet on the battleship, some peace. He’d been issuing orders and having pep talks with hundreds of officers, but Stockton was an old friend, a link to happier times, when he was a freshly promoted ship commander, and almost a decade and a half of unrelenting bloodshed was still a dark and unknown future.
Stockton nodded, and he sat down, about half a meter from Barron.
“Jake, I wanted to have a talk with you about what we’re planning.” His eyes caught the gleaming stars on the pilot’s collar. It was still hard to believe Stockton, that half-crazed lieutenant and squadron commander, had become an admiral. Barron had pushed the promotion through himself, of course, and he was only sorry there was nothing else he could do to recognize just what Stockton had done to keep the Confederation in the war. There had never been an admiral in the fighter corps before, not one who stepped out from behind a desk and led missions personally…but then the Confederation had never fielded strike forces of thousands of fighters, either. Command of so vast a force was an admiral’s billet, certainly, and it was unthinkable that anyone else wearing the uniform could lead those wings better than Stockton.
“Yes, Admiral, of course.” Stockton was on the select list of officers who’d been informed of just what it was the fleet was preparing to do. The rest knew something was up, of course. The upsurge in activity around the base stations and the fleet couldn’t be completely disguised. Some no doubt suspected the truth, though from the gossip and rumors he’d heard, Barron knew the most common guess was there was intelligence warning that the enemy was coming back to Craydon sometime soon. A distant second-place assumption was that the fleet was falling back again, abandoning the Iron Belt system.
Only the hardiest of souls—or the crazy ones—had dared to speak of a return to Megara, of the fleet truly taking the offensive for the first time in the war.
Which, of course, was just what Barron intended to do.
“Jake, you know what a difficult fight this is going to be…and no one knows better than you what a crucial part your people will play in any victory.” The new weapons systems, and the increased ranges of the enhanced primaries, would make the fleet’s capital ships a larger factor than they’d been in earlier battles, but there was no question in Barron’s mind—and he was sure Stockton’s—that the bombers would again bear more than their share of the load.
“Yes, Admiral…of course.” Stockton’s youthful sense of invulnerability had given way to a darker relentlessness, but despite age and fatigue, he remained an unstoppable force. “We’ll be ready to do what you need us to do.”
Barron nodded, feeling a touch of guilt. The attack on Megara was likely to be the worst fight yet, the casualties almost beyond what he could force himself to imagine. And, Stockton’s people would pay the worst price.
“Jake…I’ve been thinking, and I’d like your opinion.”
Barron sat silently for a moment, and Stockton, replied, “Yes, sir, of course.”
“I’m considering stripping the Craydon defenses, assigning every squadron we can into the fleet…anywhere we can cram them in. It will leave this system extremely vulnerable…and it will cut both ways on your strike force. You’ll have more wings, perhaps considerably more if we’re creative about loading up the bays…but the cost will come in turnaround times during the battle. It’s one thing to pack a couple extra squadrons into a battleship’s bays, we’ve done that before. It’s entirely another to refit and relaunch all those ships under combat conditions.”
“I think we can manage that, Admiral. It will take some planning, but we should be able to get the wings on some kind of rolling schedule that, at least, reduces the effects of overloaded bays and flight crews. I can’t promise we won’t have some problems, but in my book, we’ll be better to have more ships in the fight. Besides, how much of a concern is the defense of Craydon? Megara’s not a long journey, and it’s beyond unlikely some kind of enemy attack will slip around the fleet and strike while we’re moving on the capital. Even if the enemy hit Craydon, with the fleet gone, will an extra thousand fighters really make a difference without the fleet? We both know these new stations are at best half-finished, and none of them have fully-operational defense grids.”
Stockton hesitated again and looked right at Barron. “Besides, sir…this is something of an all-in bet, isn’t it? If we win at Megara, the enemy will be forced back, farther from Craydon, certainly. The war probably won’t be over, but we’ll be in better shape for sure. And, if we lose, if this attack fails…we’re finished anyway, aren’t we? We might hold out another year, maybe two…at least if they don’t pursue us right out of Megara as we retreat. So, why cut down on any power we can put into this push?”
Barron was nodding, but he remained silent for a few seconds, a bit surprised at the accuracy of Stockton’s analysis. Barron had known all along he was betting the Confederation on the operation, but hearing the pilot’s non-nonsense analysis gave him a moment’s pause. Not doubt, not really—he’d already decided on the course of action—but certainly a reminder of what was at stake.
“The Craydon squad
rons are packed with rookies, Jake…and maxing our strike force means bringing all the available escort carriers with the fleet. We’ve used them against supply lines, but in a straight up battle? I doubt it would take long for a Hegemony cruiser—or even an escort—to blast one to atoms. That’s not only the loss of the ships and their crews, but it only makes a bigger mess with managing the strike force refits.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Admiral. Stara Sinclair can manage it all. She’ll find berths for the squadrons from destroyed carriers, and…” A moment of silence. “…well, sir, we both know a lot fewer ships will be coming back to refit than the number that took off.”
The two men were silent for perhaps thirty seconds. Then, Stockton repeated, softly, “A lot fewer.”
Chapter Seventeen
Umbilical C14, CFS Hermes Docking Connection
Platform Killian
Planet Craydon, Calvus System
Year 320 AC
Andi walked—stumbled was a more accurate description—reaching out to steady herself on the shifting walls of the umbilical. The flexible docking tube connected Hermes to Station Killian, allowing her crew to report for duty without getting in the way of the larger supply link about ten decks below.
She made her way forward, and finally poked her head through into the ship’s open airlock. She lurched forward, pushing one leg through and holding on until she felt the hard metal deck beneath her boot. Then, she climbed the rest of the way into the confined space, moving completely inside. The airlock was large enough for three or four people, but Andi was alone. She was the last to board Hermes before its departure, and as soon as she closed the airlock’s outer doors, the umbilical would detach, and her ship would be ready to depart.