“I have,” Commander Rasmussen, Adrissa’s chief of staff, said.
“Go ahead, Commander.”
“Thank you, sir. Before I get to that, let me just say that I have no argument with the first part of your report. I think your analysis of the NRA’s strategic and tactical situation is one hundred percent right. I also endorse your views on the relative strengths and weaknesses of the Hammers and NRA. That said, let me focus on what I think is the single most important conclusion you have reached. From the day I was dumped on this asshole of a planet, I always assumed the one thing the NRA needed more than anything was ground-attack landers and air-superiority fighters. Give the NRA enough of them and they’d be on their way. Since then, I’ve seen nothing to change my mind. Bear with me a moment, but”—Rasmussen paused to look around—“can I just ask if that’s how the rest of you see things?”
Heads nodded in unanimous agreement.
“Thought that was the case. So, Lieutenant Helfort, what makes you so sure that we were … are wrong?”
Michael’s heart sank when he looked at Rasmussen’s grim face, the set of his jaw uncompromising.
“Well, sir,” Michael said with more confidence than he felt his argument merited. “It’s because we were phrasing the question badly. The question is not, ‘What’s the best way to help the NRA win?’ No, the question is, ‘What can they procure and we supply that will enable them to win?’ Sorry, I know it looks like semantics, but it’s not. You are right, sir. I saw things the same way. If we could give the NRA landers and fliers, game over, but—”
“The problem is,” Rasmussen said, cutting Michael off, “that there is no way to get the NRA the landers and fliers they need short of persuading a reluctant Fed government to send an invasion force complete with five marine air wings. That’s the point, am I right?”
“Yes, sir. If landers and fliers are the only answer, I’m afraid this war will never end. The NRA will still be launching hit-and-run attacks on soft Hammer targets when we’re all long gone. Assuming they last, which history shows they won’t, of course. I’m no expert, but everything I’ve read on asymmetric warfare reinforces the same point. All the support the NRA receives from those poor bastards out there”—Michael hooked a thumb at a distant McNair—“is because they are successful, because success offers the promise of victory. But there comes a point where they have to deliver on that promise, when they have to win the war; otherwise, they lose that support. Then it’s all over.”
“Stick to the point, Lieutenant,” Adrissa growled.
“Sorry, sir. You’re right, Commander. Landers and fliers are one answer, the best answer. Sadly, it’s not the right answer because we can never get them.”
“So that begs the next question, which is this,” Adrissa said. “Why are surface-to-air missiles the right answer? Surely they are no easier to get hold of.”
“The NRA needs just one thing: to get into McNair,” Michael said, choosing his words with care; this was not the time to lose his audience. “If they can achieve that, everything tells us that the Hammer government’s power is so centralized in McNair that it collapses. We know that the clans controlling the other Hammer planets are already positioning themselves in anticipation of that day. Not that we care, because the Federation can easily deal with three independent Hammer worlds. So that tells us the question we should be trying to answer.”
Michael halted for a second, conscious that he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. “The real question is this: What can we do to enable the NRA to cross the Oxus floodplain and get to McNair with sufficient forces left intact to allow them to take the city? General Vaas’s strategy has been right all along. Once the NRA is inside McNair, it’s just a matter of time before it’s game over. The Hammers’ landers, fliers, and orbital kinetics are no good to them anymore. General Vaas says there are things that even the Hammer military won’t do, and trashing their foundation city is one of them. Polk might give the order, but none of his people will obey him. Get the NRA into McNair and the Hammer’s military advantage vanishes.”
“So what they need,” Rasmussen said, “is a mobile air-defense shield to cover their advance out of the Branxtons, across the Oxus floodplain, and on into McNair.”
“Exactly, sir,” Michael replied. “That’s the good news, because missile batteries are easier to steal than landers, and Chief Chua tells me he can reverse engineer manufacturing templates for all the Hammer missiles in service. It would take time and effort, but microfabs can manufacture everything except the warheads and propellant. The bad news is this slide here … my modeling shows the NRA will need at a minimum five battalions of Gordians and fifteen of short-range Gondors to cover an NRA attack on McNair, not to mention Goombahs, Sampans, and Stabbers for local air and antiarmor defense. We can’t ignore the marines’ heavy armor, and any move on McNair will expose the NRA’s flanks.”
A leaden quiet fell over the room. Michael was not surprised; that was a lot of ordnance. He glanced at Adrissa. “You had some questions, sir?”
Adrissa shook her head. “No, you’ve covered them. Comm your report to everyone in the room but make sure to put FedEyesOnly on it before you do. This is not the time to share this with General Vaas and his staff.”
“Hold on … right, that’s done, sir.”
“Good. Right. We need to move on this fast. I want comments and criticisms back to Helfort within forty-eight hours. We’ll reconvene, work our way through them, and have the report completed before this week’s out. That’s all, folks. Carry on, please.”
While the meeting broke up in a welter of subdued conversation, Adrissa beckoned Michael over.
“Sir?” he said.
“Well done, Michael,” Adrissa said. “That was good work, very good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” Adrissa said. “Parts one and two were the easy bits. So get started on part three. Now that we understand the problem we’re trying to solve, maybe we’ll find a solution that works.”
“Sir.”
Thursday, January 3, 2402, UD
FLTDETCOMM, Branxton Base, Commitment
The rest of Adrissa’s staff had long gone, but still Michael sat at his workstation, his mind worrying away at the challenge Adrissa had dumped in his lap. Exhaustion washed through him, a gray fog that blurred the problem into a chaotic mass of unrelated issues until he no longer knew what he was supposed to be looking at, until lines of analysis fell apart, until the faint voice of common sense told him he was wasting his time.
Not that he would anymore. He had wrestled with what Adrissa liked to call part three for the best part of two weeks, deep inside sure he was not close to finding the answer. Hell, he did not even know what the answer looked like. Problem was, Adrissa was not going to buy that; she was unhappy enough as it was with the time he was taking.
Michael rubbed eyes gritty from too many hours spent laboring in front of a holovid screen. Enough was enough, he decided. He still did not have the answer, and if Adrissa did not like that simple fact, so be it.
He closed his progress report. He snorted softly: lack-of-progress report more accurately. Stamping it for Adrissa’s eyes only, he commed it to FLTDETCOMM’s mailbox with strict instructions that it be delivered no earlier than 08:00 the next day. He was leaving for a badly needed weekend off with Anna in an hour, and the last thing he wanted was Adrissa dragging him back into the office to tear strips off him.
“Wake up, Lieutenant. We’re coming up to Mike-44.”
“Uh, what?” Michael mumbled, for a moment totally disoriented. “Oh, thanks,” he said to the corporal responsible for maglev security, belatedly working out where he was and why.
Michael had slept the whole way jammed into a corner on the overcrowded maglev, and his left leg was stiff and uncooperative. Under protest, it allowed him to stand up. Grabbing his pack and rifle, he wriggled his way through the car, which was jammed with NRA troopers going wherever NRA troopers went
for the weekend. He did not care; all he did care about was that Anna and the 120th had been pulled back out of the line for a week, and unless things had changed in the hours it had taken him to get from FLTDETCOMM to Mike-44, she would be waiting for him a ten-minute walk from the maglev station.
With a soft hiss, the maglev eased to a stop, and Michael pushed his way through the doors before they opened fully. Grateful for the exercise, he limped off, all fatigue banished by the prospect of meeting up with Anna again. It had been too long, and he missed her.
Turning a corner, he made his way down a laser-cut tunnel toward the 120th’s billet, a water-carved complex of caves opening out from an enormous cavern. Emerging, he presented himself to the security post controlling access.
“Welcome, Lieutenant,” the young corporal said, handing Michael his identity card back. “I was at the River Kendozo breakout, so it’s good to see you. You’ll find Sergeant Helfort second on the right. She said to go on through and not to wake her or she’d kick your ass.”
Michael grinned. “Okay … Hey, wait, Corp. You said Sergeant Helfort?”
“Yes, sir. I did. Fastest promotion in NRA history,” the corporal said, returning the grin, “and well deserved.”
“Shit, she never said anything about it.”
“The colonel paraded the whole regiment yesterday, called her out of line, and pinned the chevrons on himself.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Michael said. “Talk about hidden talents. I’d best go and congratulate her.”
“Not if you value your life, I wouldn’t,” the corporal said. “She’ll be asleep and probably wants to stay that way.”
“Oh! Okay, in the morning, then. Thanks, Corporal. Catch you later.”
Friday, January 4, 2402, UD
120th Regiment billet, Sector Mike, Branxton Base, Commitment
Anna plowed her way through two bowls of whatever gruel the 120th’s foodbots were dishing out that morning followed by a mug of coffee before she said a word.
“That’s better,” she said, pushing her tray away. “So when did you arrive?”
“About 03:00. You were snoring, so I decided I’d live longer if I left you alone.”
“Huh! Good call, and I’m glad you did,” Anna said, sipping her second mug of coffee. “First decent night’s sleep in ages. I needed it.”
Michael nodded; Anna’s face was pale and drawn. Her honey-gold skin had faded to a washed-out gray, but her eyes were the same, bottomless green pools that had entranced him from the first day they had met.
“So,” he said. “What’s this I hear about you being a sergeant or something?”
“No something about it, flyboy. Yeah, as of two days ago, I am officially Sergeant Anna Helfort, NRA. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
“It does,” Michael conceded. “So let me guess. You were promoted because you are a careful soldier who refuses to risk her own life or those of her troopers. Tell me I am right.”
“Umm, well … yeah, sort of. Yeah, I think that’s right.”
“Anna, Anna!” Michael shook his head in despair. “I’m the certified lunatic around here. I’m not sure this relationship can accommodate two. So what happened?”
“Oh, not much,” Anna said, waving a hand. “Last week, B Company found themselves in a firefight with a PGDF battalion probing our sector. They were pinned down, and we were sent to bail them out. My platoon CO and sergeant were hit, so I took over, we killed a shed load of Hammers, and brought everyone home. Not much more to say.”
“Yeah, right,” Michael said, looking skeptical. “What about your section leader?”
“Section leader? Umm, let me see. Oh, yes, that would have been me.”
“Anna!” Michael snapped. “That’s two damn promotions, and you didn’t tell me? No, make that three. I forgot trooper to lance corporal.”
Anna shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t want to worry you,” she said, not looking at all apologetic.
Michael tried to glare at her. He abandoned the attempt when Anna fluttered her eyelashes at him, eyes the color of deep jade drawing him in and down. “Oh, please,” he muttered. “Stop that.”
“Come on, flyboy. Janos Kallewi’s been moved to our local rehab center, so why don’t we go and check on him before we get the hell out of here. Battalion’s given my platoon leave until Monday morning, and I intend to make the most of every second.”
“Lead on, Sergeant Helfort.”
“How you feeling, Janos?”
Kallewi scowled. “The honest answer, Michael, is bored,” he said, “bored shitless. This rehab stuff is a pain, and all the more because it takes the Hammers a month to do something we’d get done in a week back home. They’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and the food’s shit.”
“No kidding,” Anna said with a laugh. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“So, Janos,” Michael said. “How’s the brain?”
“Getting there. Hammer medical technology might be slow, but it does the job … in the end. The headaches have gone.”
“When are they releasing you?”
“Another couple of weeks, I think. I’ve been posted to one of the training battalions, the 774th. Can’t say I’m too unhappy about that. I was lucky to get away. Did I ever say thanks for that?”
“You don’t have to,” Anna said. “We were there anyway.”
“Oh?” Kallewi said. “That’s not quite what I’ve been told. Not that it matters. I’m here, and I owe you both, and that’s a fact.” He leaned back in the battered armchair, eyes closing for a moment. “Sorry,” he said, opening them again. “I still get tired. The doc says it’ll pass.”
“We’d better go.”
“Yeah. Try me next week. I’ll be better.” Kallewi’s head fell back, and his eyes closed.
Michael flicked a glance at Anna, his face twisted with concern. “Okay,” he said. “Next week, then.”
Kallewi said nothing, a nod of the head his only response.
“See you later,” Michael said softly as they left.
Anna’s hands slapped the tabletop with a flat crack that echoed around the empty canteen.
“For chrissakes, Michael,” she said fiercely. “It’s not your fault. Janos is a big boy. He makes his own decisions. He’s here because he decided this was where he should be, fighting the Hammers, not because you forced him. He’s a marine. Killing Hammers is his job, and that’s what he’s been doing.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t ‘yes but’ me!” Anna snapped. “There’s no buts about it, so stop it. You are not responsible for any of this. Anyway, what’s happened has happened. It’s history now, and you can’t change it. So stop trying to.”
“Okay, okay,” Michael said, raising his hands in defeat. “I get it, I get it.” He rubbed eyes gritty with stress and tiredness. “I want another coffee, then let’s go. You?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Michael made his way across to the drinkbot; by some miracle of Hammer engineering, the battered relic produced the excellent coffee every Hammer needed to get through the day.
Anna was right, he thought as his mug filled, but only up to a point. Yes, Janos and the rest of Redwood’s crew had made up their own minds to be part of this whole insane project. So yes, he bore no responsibility for what might happen to them, but what about the prisoners of war from J-5209? They were a different matter altogether. He had given them no time at all to think through the question: stay a prisoner or come with us. What a choice! Of course they came; as far as they knew, the rescue was a Fleet operation, not some lunatic scheme dreamed up by mutinous spacers. Now some of those prisoners were dead; for them he bore absolute responsibility, and nothing Anna said would change his mind about that.
In the end, it was simple. It was up to him to honor that responsibility by returning them home, and the only way to do that was by finding a way to end what he, along with an increasing number of the Feds, was beginning to think of a
s a war without end. Shaking his head at the arrogant stupidity of it all, he took his mug and walked back to rejoin Anna.
Talk about hubris, he said to himself as he sat down, disheartened by the enormity of the problem he felt compelled to resolve.
“Right, then,” he said, forcing good humor into his voice. “Where to now?”
“Well, remember that place we went to last month?”
“The cave with the pool? I sure do,” he said, leering at her.
“Don’t be such a pig, Michael. Anyway, I’ve checked with my contact in Juliet sector security. It’s ours until Monday, so what are we waiting for? Come on, drink up.”
Michael did just that, his heart soaring at the thought that for a few precious days he and Anna could pretend that the rest of humanspace did not exist.
Sunday, January 6, 2402, UD
Sector Juliet, Branxton Base, Commitment
The rest of the universe had faded away into irrelevance; for the first time in a very long while Michael felt at peace. Feet propped up on a handy rock, he lay flat on his back, looking up into the thick canopy of tangled branches that concealed the small cave and its idyllic spring-fed pool of cold, crystal-clear water. Alongside him, Anna slept, curled into a ball and snoring softly. She had been much more tired than she had let on; she had slept much of the weekend. When not sleeping, she seemed content to let the hours slide past nestled into Michael’s shoulder in between breath-catching dips in the rock pool.
Not that Michael minded. The absolute quiet of the place had allowed him to think his way through the tangled mess of guilt and emotion that cluttered his thinking. For the first time in days, he knew he was thinking straight; it was a good feeling, even if the conclusions he had reached were nothing to celebrate.
“Screw it,” he muttered. So what if the NRA was bogged down in an unwinnable war? He was alive, Anna was alive, both of them dragged back from the brink of horrific deaths at the hands of Colonel Hartspring. Even if they were on borrowed time, even if every day might be their last, being alive and together was better than being dead. As for the future, it would take its own path; he might as well get used to the fact that he could only do his best to nudge it in the right direction. If things did not work out, then so be it.
Helfort’s War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet Page 33