“I’ll tell you what for, sir,” Fodor said fiercely. “To postpone the inevitable. That’s all.” He took another deep breath to steady a voice trembling with emotion. “Let me go through the price my family has paid. I lost my father back in ’80, killed at the Battle of Mendes Reef when Kercheval and Kronos were ambushed. I lost a nephew and a cousin at the Battle of Comdur. The Hammers have torn my family apart, and they’ll go on doing it. That’s what five more years means. And it’s not only me. There’s not a spacer or marine here who hasn’t suffered at their hands.”
Fodor stopped to look around the table.
“Aunt, cousin, cousin, sister, brother, uncle, sister, father, cousin,” he said, finger stabbing in turn across the faces of everyone present, “and that does not begin to account for all the people we counted as good friends.”
Fodor looked right at Michael. “Let’s take you, sir,” he said. “Mother and sister captured by the Hammers when they hijacked the Mumtaz; you’re lucky they came home. Damn lucky. Most people taken by the Hammers never come home. You were lucky, too; 387 nearly didn’t make it back. How many of her crew died? Then you had the Ishaq blown out from under you. You were fortunate—you escaped—but hundreds of Ishaqs didn’t, including people I joined Fleet with, good friends of mine. How many friends did you lose, sir?”
“Too many, Chief, too many,” Michael said.
“Aye, sir. That’s right. Too many, and there’ll be thousands more before this stops. Now we have that evil bastard, what was his name, Hart something?”
“Hartspring, Colonel Erwin Hartspring.”
“Yes, him. He has the crap beaten out of you, and now he wants to have your woman shot because she’s the one you love. It’s total bullshit, sir, the sort of blackmail only the truly wicked could dream up. So here’s the deal. I understand rescuing Lieutenant Cheung is a one-way mission. I know we won’t be coming back any time soon. I realize we’ll be stuck dirtside on Commitment until this damn war ends, and that means joining the Nationalists, doing what we can to help that raggedy-assed army of theirs, the NRA. I know we’ll be putting our lives on the line. If we can make a difference by teaming up with them after we’ve rescued Lieutenant Cheung, I’ll do that … and be happy to do it. Trust me, sir. I’ll gladly spend the rest of this damn war killing Hammers,” he said, his face twisted into a bitter scowl. “At least it’ll be face to face. At least I’ll be doing something that might make a difference. At least I won’t be sitting back waiting for a Hammer antimatter warhead to blow me to hell. And let’s not forget there’s a bunch of Fed spacers in that camp with her who’ll be more than pleased to see us. I’m sure they have a few scores to settle after what happened at Salvation.”
Overwhelmed by the raw emotion that infused every word Fodor had said, Michael sat, stunned. He’d had no idea Fodor held such strong views. He always assumed he was the only one who carried a burning, corrosive hate of the scum who ran the Hammer Worlds. He struggled to control a growing feeling that things were spiraling out of his control, to push away the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to save Anna.
Recovering his composure with an effort, Michael looked at each person in turn. “You all agree? The way Chief Fodor puts it, you all see it the same way? I need to be sure, because if I agree with what the exec has proposed, there’s no turning back.”
“Chief Fodor is right, sir,” Bienefelt said, “though it’s not only about the deaths of friends and family, though that’s a huge part of it.” Her voice was soft, subdued. “I’ve lost family, too … nobody close but still family … and some good friends, but there’s more to it, for me, anyway.”
“More to it, Chief?”
Bienefelt nodded. “Yes, sir. For me there is,” she said, looking right at him. “We’ve been through a lot, you and me, and you’ve never once let me down. If I’m sent into combat, I want you to be the spacer in charge, and you know why? Because I know you’ll never throw my life away on a whim just to make yourself look good, because you can’t be bothered to find another way. The spacers and marines you command matter. You and I both know that loyalty cuts both ways. You’ve been loyal to me. I figure it’s time for me to be loyal to you. I know rescuing Lieutenant Cheung is a personal matter, but I don’t care. I owe you. As for joining the New Revolutionary Army, it’s a bonus. That’s about fighting the scum-sucking parasites that keep the Hammer of Kraa Worlds going, something I’m always happy to do. I don’t care,” she said, shrugging her enormous shoulders. “Assault rifle or dreadnought, it doesn’t matter to me what I kill Hammers with. I’m happy either way.”
Embarrassed by the raw emotion in Chief Bienefelt’s voice, Michael struggled to respond. “What can I say?” he asked finally. “Anyone else?”
“Yes, sir.” It was Sedova.
“Yes, Kat.”
“Like Chief Bienefelt, there’s more to it for me. I want to do this because I think we can make a difference. Sounds arrogant, I know, and it is, but I’ve read the intelligence summaries. Those poor NRA bastards are doing the job all on their own, and their political wing is struggling to get traction. What they achieve, they achieve without any outside help. Our own government has done nothing to lend a hand, and all because of some misplaced desire not to interfere even though a blind man can see the Hammers will destroy us all. So if we play our cards right, I’m sure we can make a difference, but I need to hear you say it … that chucking it all in to join the NRA is the right thing, the best thing not only for you but for us, all of us … and the rest of the Federation, too. Because much as I respect you, sir, I’m not Chief Bienefelt. I won’t do this simply to rescue Lieutenant Cheung. That’s not reason enough. So tell me. Can we make a difference?”
Michael sat back in his seat. Sedova had taken the heart of the problem and skewered it to the bulkhead. He would not, could not ask these people to risk their lives and careers just to help him rescue Anna, no matter what Bienefelt said. They might like the idea of taking the fight back to the Hammers, but that was not reason enough. It needed to be the right thing to do. It needed to be something that helped end the war.
He shook his head in despair at the arrogance of it all. Only one word described it: hubris. Hubris on a breathtaking scale.
“That is the million-FedMark question,” Michael said, measuring his every word. “So let’s be clear. Nothing we do can end the war, and I know none of us are so stupid as to think that. So what we are talking about is helping shorten it, and none of you should have anything to do with this business unless it helps do that. If you don’t believe what we do will shorten the war—and believe it body, brain, heart, and soul—you should, you must, walk away. Kat is right: Helping me is not reason enough. My problems are my problems; they are not your concern.”
“Yes, sir. We know that,” Kallewi said, a finger stabbing out to reinforce the point. “So what’s the answer? Can we help shorten this war or not?”
Michael had to smile; the big marine was not known for his finesse.
“Okay, here’s my view,” he said, picking his words carefully. He knew this was not the time to oversell; if Ferreira’s plan ever went ahead, that would come back to haunt him when the going got hard, and it would. “I believe we can help. I’ve met Mutti Vaas, the man in charge of the NRA. I’ve met their people. I’ve seen the NRA in action. I know what they’re fighting for, and it’s the same thing we’re fighting for: an end to the Hammer of Kraa. I also know that the Hammer government is not the solid, monolithic structure it presents itself to be. Infighting, backstabbing, deceit, lies, treachery, betrayal, kidnapping, murder, torture … that’s what makes the Hammer’s wheels go around. Put another way, the whole edifice is rotten to the core, and the more people try to push it over …”
Michael needed a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. “I think we have it all wrong. We’ve tried to win this war the old-fashioned way. Our ships fighting their ships using missiles, rail guns, lasers, all the things we’re good at,
relying on technology and good people to get the result we want. Problem is, it isn’t working … it won’t work. It’s the wrong strategy. This war can only be won from the inside, and that means backing the NRA and the Nationalists. I think history will show that our politicians screwed it up when they refused to provide direct assistance to the NRA back in ’93, and even now they won’t in case they are accused of being regime changers. Who knows why? But I can tell you something: This war only ends when the regime changes. So the war drags on, we kill their spacers and marines in the thousands while they kill ours, and all the time we don’t even know if we can beat them. Truth is, if they get a second antimatter plant up and running, there’s a damn good chance they might beat us. Of course I can’t be sure, but I think there’s a good chance we can make a difference. I think it’s worth the terrible risks we will have to take. So, Kat, does that answer your question?”
“Yes, it does,” Sedova said. “I understand there are no guarantees. I understand it’s the riskiest thing I’ve ever done, but I think it’s the right thing. More to the point, it’s better than taking Redwood into combat while the Hammers grind the rest of the fleet into the dirt before blowing us and our home planets to dust with their damn antimatter missiles.”
Heads nodded, the response unanimous, underscored by a soft chorus of agreement.
“No need to ask the rest of you, I know, but I want to be clear. Never mind the legalities. Are you all in because it is the right thing to do?”
The answers came one after another. When the last of the nine had spoken, Michael sat back and shook his head. “Okay, that’s clear,” he said. “I guess it’s decision time for me. No surprises, team. I accept the offer. Let’s do it.”
The conference room erupted in a storm of cheers. Michael waited patiently until things quieted down.
“One question, though. The troops. How about them? It’s fine for us to sit here in furious agreement with each other, but what about them? Janos, you have the largest number of junior people. They want any part of this?”
Kallewi grinned, a hungry, wolfish grin, a grin of feral anticipation. “Well, sir. We won’t know until we ask, but Sergeant Tchiang and I think we’ll have no shortage of takers. Marines are born to fight, after all. They don’t like this stalemate any more than we do. There will be a few who say no, all married with young families. Gavaskar, Park, Mortenson, Nikola, Barret.” Kallewi looked at Tchiang. “Have I missed anyone, Sergeant?”
Tchiang shook his head. “No, sir. They’re the ones. I’d bet my pension that the rest will say yes. They hate deadlock, too.”
“Thanks, Janos. Kat. What about your team?”
“Don’t think any of mine will say no. Can’t be sure until we put the hard word on them, of course. Jackson, maybe. He’s a ‘by the book’ man. This might be too much for him.”
“Jayla?”
“I think all the Redwoods will say yes apart from Lomidze and Faris, sir. Both married, young kids. Don’t blame them. Renegade missions aren’t what they signed on for.”
“So having the people to do this won’t be a problem,” Michael said, “but I have to insist on one thing. Nothing is said to Mother, and nothing to anyone outside this room. That way, when it comes to decision time, our people can see what we want to do, how we’ll do it, and what our chances of success are. That way, they can make what I think the lawyers call an informed decision. Agreed?”
Again heads nodded in assent.
“Fine,” Michael said. “That leaves the detailed planning. We know what we want to achieve. Now we need to work out how to do it. We have a lot to think about and not that much time to do it in. So here’s how we’ll do it. Jayla, you take …”
* * *
Michael sat back while the meeting broke up and waved Bienefelt to stay behind. He was still struggling to come to terms with the enormity of the crime they hoped to execute. He had checked; no one in Fed history had planned and executed anything quite so extreme. He smiled. It would be a long time before the name Michael Helfort faded into history, that much was for sure.
Not that he was happy about what he was getting himself, not to mention the rest of the Redwoods, into. It would be dangerous, and success was far from assured. Even if they managed to rescue Anna, they needed to get away from the Hammers, then persuade the NRA and the Nationalists to take them in, not to mention survive long enough to see them topple the Hammer government. Only then would they all be able to go home.
Bienefelt coughed softly. Michael started. He had clean forgotten about her. “Shit, sorry, Matti.”
“No problem, sir.”
“Just wanted to … you know …”
“Check that what you’re doing is the right thing?”
Michael smiled, a rueful half smile of uncertainty tinged with fear. “Am I that obvious?”
“Know you well enough by now, sir.”
“You do. Well?”
“Legally, no, it’s the wrong thing. Morally? It’s arguable, but on balance I think we’re on the side of the angels.”
“That’s where I get to, Matti. Like most things in life, I guess, if it all works out the way we hope it will, it will have been the right thing. If it doesn’t …”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to make sure it does work out, won’t we?”
“We will. One other thing, though. You know now how I feel about the way this war is managed. How are the troops taking things?”
Bienefelt sat back in her chair. “You really want to know, sir?”
“Yes, Matti. I really want to know.”
“Well, I shouldn’t say this ’cause it’s all scuttlebutt, but things are not good out there in the fleet. The kicking we received at Comdur started the rot. I know the Hammers pulled that one out of the hat, I know nobody had any idea they’d found a way to weaponize antimatter, I know there was nothing that anyone in Fleet could have done to avoid the disaster. Even so, being beaten so badly is hard for your average spacer to take, and it does nothing to inspire confidence in the brass. Whether that’s right or wrong doesn’t matter. It’s a fact. Then the Salvation operation followed. I know we won that one, but at what cost? Eleven ships sacrificed by Fleet, including your Anna’s Damishqui, because Fleet was too gutless to stand up to the politicians. Eleven ships! All those spacers, all those marines, and for what? For what?”
Bienefelt sighed and rubbed her face with hands the size of hams.
“For nothing,” she continued, “all for nothing. We were always going to kick the Hammers’ asses. So no wonder spacers began to worry where the hell this war was going to end up. After that came Devastation Reef. I know we won that one big time, but even the dumbest spacer was able to work out that was only because the dreadnoughts saved Fleet’s backside … no, not the dreadnoughts, you, sir. You saved Fleet,” Bienefelt said fiercely. “And the troops know it. The fact that most Fleet officers feel you did it the wrong way has pissed them off big time. Every spacer I speak to thinks the decision to stop the dreadnought project is madness, total madness. So what do they have to look forward to now? Five more years of war, at least. Jeez, that’s if they’re lucky. Plenty of spacers think this war will never end. Never! Even if it is only five more years, like Chief Fodor said, five years for what? We can’t win this war until every ship carries antimatter weapons, which won’t happen inside ten years no matter how much money we throw at it, and why are we surprised? Took the Hammers the best part of fifty years to work out how to make enough of the damn stuff to be useful. That means the Hammers can build a new antimatter plant to replace the one we destroyed at Devastation Reef, then do another Comdur on us.” Bienefelt paused for a moment. “Though there’s another possibility,” she continued.
“Which is?”
“That the war will end sooner than we think.”
“How?” Michael said with a puzzled frown.
“When the Hammers beat us. Fleet says five years. Who says that’s right? The Hammers must know that the sooner t
hey restore their antimatter capability, the sooner they can destroy our fleet. Then it’s game over. I wouldn’t bet my life on us having that long.”
“Shit! There’s a cheery thought,” Michael muttered.
“There’s worse.”
“Jeezus!” Michael said. “What could be worse?”
“Fleet. Never mind the Hammers; they have their own problems,” Bienefelt said. “You heard the latest rumor?”
Michael shook his head. “Rumor? What rumor?”
“More than a rumor. Palmyra’s crew mutinied.”
Michael’s eyes opened wide with shock. “Shit! I didn’t know that.”
“That’s because nobody’s supposed to. Fleet’s trying to keep it real tight.” She sniffed, a sharp sound of utter disdain. “As if they could keep a lid on something that big. Anyway, it seems half the spacers refused to let the ship deploy on combat operations. Palmyra’s marines managed to keep a lid on it until reinforcements arrived, but things turned ugly.”
“Casualties?”
“Don’t know for sure,” Bienefelt said, shaking her head. “You know the rumor mill, but word is there were some.”
Michael sat, stunned into silence. There had not been a fullblown mutiny on a Federated Worlds warship in living memory; the last one was on the old Fortress back in ’32, and that was a very minor affair involving only a handful of spacers.
“There’s more, sir.”
Michael flinched. “More?” he said.
“Afraid so. There was a riot in the Comdur Fleet canteen, a bad one. Big bunch of spacers trashed the joint, barricaded themselves in. Needed the marines backed up by naval police to retake the joint. Lot of spacers hurt, some badly—”
Helfort’s War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet Page 6