Dreadnaught tlfbtf-1

by Jack Campbell

  Jane Geary seemed preoccupied as she answered, her attention focused to one side. “Dreadnaught is engaging threats against the landing force and the prisoners, Admiral.”

  The only threats Dreadnaught was moving to engage were the cruise missiles. “Colossus and Encroach are assigned those targets, Dreadnaught. Return to station now.”

  “If we missed hitting any planet-based particle beams, Dreadnaught could get speared by one in that low an orbit,” Desjani said.

  “I know!” Dreadnaught hadn’t altered her vector. “Captain Geary, get back into higher orbit and return your ship to her assigned station now.”

  Jane Geary’s expression didn’t alter, intense concentration visible there, and she didn’t answer immediately.

  “Dreadnaught is firing hell lances,” the combat systems watch reported.

  There were ten cruise missiles. Dreadnaught fired ten hell-lance shots. Geary, his display cranked to high magnification, watched as each particle beam ripped through a cruise missile as the missile crossed open areas like streets or narrow strips of woodland.

  “Targets destroyed,” Jane Geary reported. “No collateral damage. Dreadnaught is returning to station.”

  “Very well.” That was all he trusted himself to say as Jane Geary’s image vanished.

  Desjani cleared her throat. “You’ll have to decide whether to give her a medal or relieve her of command.”

  “Tanya, damn it to hell, I don’t need—”

  “And in this fleet,” she continued, “you know which action will be regarded as justified.”

  “She went against my explicit orders—”

  “She got the job done.” Desjani gestured toward the planet. “And she did it aggressively and with style. Think before you act on this one. Sir.”

  He took a deep breath, then nodded. “All right.” What the hell is Jane thinking? She’s thinking that she’s Black Jack, that she has to be him. And, dammit, she did a good job just like Tanya said. But what will happen next time she disregards orders to demonstrate her status as a “real” Geary? Maybe disaster, like the sort of brainless courage that cost us Paladin at Lakota. But I have to deal with that later. Focus. I’ve got Marines about to land. Is anyone else acting up?

  Invincible stood out on the display, not for what it was doing, but for what the battle cruiser wasn’t doing. Every other warship was making small changes in its orbit at random intervals to throw off targeting by surface-based weapons. But Invincible sailed along without any variations in her orbit, locked into the exact center spot of her assigned position in the formation. “Invincible, begin evasive maneuvers as previously instructed.”

  Captain Vente, who had never spoken up at fleet conferences, sounded peevish now. “No specific maneuvering orders were issued.”

  “Random, Captain Vente. Make random changes in your ship’s movement,” Geary ordered.

  “What kind of random changes?”

  Desjani gestured to attract Geary’s attention. “Combat maneuvering subroutine 47A.”

  “Execute combat maneuvering subroutine 47A,” Geary repeated to Vente.

  “Oh. Very well.”

  Orion. What was Orion up to? If any ship was going to have problems doing what it was told . . .

  But Orion was in position, jinking randomly in her orbit, all systems reporting combat readiness.

  The first shuttles were dropping fast to the surface inside the prison camp, their ramps out so that the moment the shuttle touched, Marines in full combat armor were rolling out and dashing for cover. Close-in weapons on the shuttles still coming down lashed at guard towers and other defensive positions, ensuring that any prison guards still at their posts stayed under cover. Within moments, the first wave was down, the shuttles lifting again for safety while the Marines headed for their objectives, and the second wave came in behind them.

  The buildings there were more like multistory dormitories than the low, warehouse-type structures Geary had seen at previous Syndic labor camps. Rows of small windows looked down on the courtyards where the shuttles were dropping Marines, but no fire came from any of the windows.

  Geary took a long look at his display. Dreadnaught was almost back on station, and everyone else seemed to be behaving themselves. The annihilation of the launch sites appeared to have discouraged any more attacks on the prison camp area, with even Syndic ground forces lying low. Their leader may be stupid, but they aren’t. None of them want to face this fleet’s firepower just to salvage their leader’s pride.

  He called up windows for the Marine unit leaders, momentarily surprised by the number that appeared. He had more than twice as many Marines as had previously been with the fleet, meaning twice as many unit leaders. He touched one face, the subdisplay showing activity in the prison camp immediately highlighting that officer’s position near the shuttles. Trying again, Geary got a lieutenant who was leading a platoon inside one of the buildings, and called up another window offering a view from that Marine’s combat armor.

  A moment’s disorientation vanished as Geary’s mind made sense of the images, seeing a darkened hallway lined with doors. The Marines moved quickly, weapons ready, all the way to the end of the hallway, then, at the lieutenant’s command, one of them reached for a locked door and twisted the lock with the enhanced strength of the combat armor. With a squeal of protesting metal, the lock snapped, and the door swung open.

  Two men in faded Alliance ground forces uniforms stood within, not moving, their hands out. They had enough sense not to do anything while nervous Marines had weapons trained on them. “Where are the guards?” the lieutenant asked them.

  “Even floors, guard stations at the end,” one of the prisoners immediately replied. “Normally three guards.”

  “Got it. Stay put until the follow-on forces come through.” The lieutenant sent her men up the stairs at the end of the hall, the combat armor allowing them to leap several stars at a time until they crashed through the doors onto the next floor.

  The guard station was deserted, its alarm panel blinking frantic and futile warnings. “Guard stations in this building are abandoned,” the lieutenant reported. “Roger,” Geary heard her captain reply, his voice sharp. “Make sure you check every one. Combat engineers are coming through to disable alarm panels and ensure they aren’t linked to any dead-man traps. Make sure your Marines don’t touch them.”

  “Understood.” A moment later, the lieutenant roared at some of her own Marines. “Orvis! Rendillon! Don’t touch those damned buttons!”

  Geary closed the window, feeling guilty at concentrating on a single, small piece of the picture when the entire fleet was his responsibility. “Why is it that whenever sailors or Marines see a button, they want to push it?”

  “Did you ever wonder what they did before humans invented buttons to push?” Desjani asked. “There must have been something they weren’t supposed to do.”

  “No resistance,” Carabali reported. “The guards are hunkered down in their barracks and surrendered to the first Marines to breach the doors.”

  That was going well, anyway. “Any problems?”

  “Not yet. Seventy-five percent of the prison camp is now secured. Estimated time to completely secured is five minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Things were going far too well, but he couldn’t spot any problems hiding, ready to pounce. He tried to relax while staying alert and shifting his attention between different displays, watching his ships jink and dodge slightly at random intervals to confuse any attempt to target them from the planet’s surface, watching the green “cleared” areas on the prison camp display grow to cover the entire area, waiting as the Marines ensured that no booby traps were active before they began breaking open doors wholesale and herding newly liberated prisoners into courtyards where shuttles waited.

  Another window popped open next to Geary. “We’re getting identifications on the prisoners, Admiral,” Lieutenant Iger said. “It looks like this was a VIP labor camp.”

&nb
sp; “A what?”

  “VIPs, sir. Every other prisoner ID we’re getting is for an admiral or general. The lower-ranking officers among them, and by ‘lower-ranking’ I mean usually fleet captains and colonels, all seem to be men and women who were highly decorated and influential before being captured. Now we know where the general officers have been, why the prison camps we’ve liberated prior to this had captains and colonels as the senior officers. There are a few civilians so far, but even those are high-ranking officials or political leaders who were nabbed in raids or assaults on Alliance worlds. No enlisted personnel at all.”

  “Highly decorated and influential,” Geary repeated, something telling him that those words were critically important.

  “Yes, sir. Like, um, Captain Falco.”

  Captain Falco. A single individual who had triggered mutiny against Geary and caused the loss of several ships. And this Syndic labor camp was full of individuals with similar backgrounds. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No. Thank you.” He had to think about this. Were these individuals still valuable to the Alliance? To the government? But if they followed the molds that Geary had seen thus far, they would be thorns in the government’s side. “Wait. Lieutenant, I’d like you to go through their records. From before they were captured. What I’d like to know is whether any of these VIPs had some special knowledge, skills, or political relationships that would still be important for their rapid return to the Alliance.” Phrase it that way, so it didn’t sound like he was trying to discover the government’s reason for sending him here.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did he say?” Desjani asked, as Geary ended the call. The concern in her voice told him that his expression was giving away too much.

  “Let’s talk later.” Right now he had to do something else. Was it better to have the VIPs underfoot on Dauntless, or stashed somewhere where he wouldn’t have to fend them off? I can more easily transfer them to other ships, if I want to, if they’re first warehoused somewhere. He quickly called Carabali. “General, change of plans. I’d like all of the liberated prisoners delivered to Typhoon and Mistral. The assault transports are better suited to rapid screening and medical exams.”

  The Marine commander paused, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll direct the shuttles to head for Typhoon and Mistral. Are both of those ships aware of the change in plans?”

  Carabali could be very diplomatic for a Marine. “I’m notifying them once I finish speaking with you.”

  “Very well, Admiral. I should inform you that the first shuttle has already launched with orders to proceed to Dauntless. Should I divert it as well?”

  Damn. An obvious change in destination for that shuttle at this point would raise too many questions. “No. We’ll take them aboard here.”

  Back to Desjani. “Dauntless will only get one shuttle. The others are going to Typhoon and Mistral.”

  She eyed him curiously. “All right. We were planning on processing more than that, but it’s your fleet. Do Typhoon and Mistral know—”

  “I’m calling them now!”

  “Excuse me,” Desjani muttered just loud enough for him to hear, then raised her voice. “Lieutenant Mori, we’re only getting one shuttle. Inform everyone on the intake teams.”

  Finishing informing the commanding officers of Typhoon and Mistral of the change, and wincing inside as he knew how much of a last-minute scramble those orders would cause on those ships, Geary turned to a stony-faced Desjani. “Sorry. It’s because they’re VIPs.”

  “Who are VIPs?”

  “The prisoners.”

  “All of them?”

  “Damn near.”

  After a moment, Desjani asked another question. “Military VIPs?”

  “Yeah. Like Falco.”

  “What the hell?”

  “My feelings exactly.”

  With no opposition, the Marines on the ground were moving very quickly. “There were fewer than three hundred prisoners in this camp,” Carabali reported. “Most of the cells were unoccupied. We have all of the POWs in hand and are loading the last ones into shuttles now. I’ve already started lifting Marines out, too. Estimate fifteen minutes until the last Alliance personnel are off the surface.”

  “Excellent.” It all went like clockwork, even as he waited for something to go wrong, some unexpected factor to suddenly throw a wrench into the smoothly working operation. But the last Marines dodged into the last shuttles, the last ramps rose, and the last shuttles leaped into the air, leaving ranks of disarmed Syndic prison guards standing around apparently uncertain of what to do next.

  “Shuttle on final,” the maneuvering watch reported. “Estimated time to dock five minutes.”

  “How long until the last shuttles are recovered?” Geary asked.

  “Forty minutes, sir.”

  Every Syndic on the planet seemed to have gone to cover. Nothing was moving in the sky or on the roads or in open country. “Looks like the Syndics here finally figured out what a bad idea it was to mess with this fleet,” Desjani commented, drawing grins from her watch-standers.

  Geary stood up. “I’m going down to greet that shuttle, Captain Desjani. I’ll be back here within half an hour. I need to see some of these VIPs and talk to them.” Maybe then I can get some clue as to the reason we were sent here.

  Desjani just nodded, her eyes on her display, her brow furrowed in thought.

  He walked briskly, trying not to reveal any disquiet to the crew members he passed, who all seemed cheerful as a result of the one-sided fight and victory, word of which was already flashing through the fleet. Inside the shuttle dock, Geary paused to take in the sailors forming up to serve as a combined honor guard and intake force to get the newly liberated prisoners evaluated, assigned quarters, and given necessary treatment.

  “We meet again,” Rione murmured as she came up beside him.

  “What brings an emissary down here?” Geary asked.

  “I may not be a senator anymore, but I still have an obligation to pay respects on behalf of the government to those who have been imprisoned.”

  And you’re probably hoping to find someone who knows something about your husband. But he didn’t say that out loud, knowing that in her place, he would have done the same.

  The shuttle swung in, easily visible behind the shield keeping atmosphere in this part of the dock, then came to a gentle landing as the outer doors sealed and the shield dropped. Geary waited as the ramp extended and the shuttle’s hatch opened, watching the men and women who came down the ramp. Despite their VIP status, they resembled the other prisoners of war liberated by the fleet in the last several months. A mix of ages, some of them captured so long ago they were now elderly. Threadbare uniforms mixed with articles of castoff Syndic clothing. Thin from hard work and just enough food. And looks of mingled disbelief and joy as if they feared this was a dream from which they would soon awake.

  The only difference was the amount of rank present. As far as Geary could tell, there were only a few commanders or majors among them, everyone else being at least colonels or captains, and almost half wearing the tarnished insignia of admirals and generals. Iger hadn’t been exaggerating in the least.

  He was gazing at the prisoners, searching for Captain Michael Geary even though he knew the odds of his great-nephew being alive and being here were very small, when a noise from Rione caught his attention. A wordless gasp, it somehow carried across the dock. Several of the former prisoners heard and turned to look, one man among them stumbling to a halt, then running toward her. “Vic! By the living stars, is it really you?”

  Geary took a step away as they embraced, feeling embarrassed to be witnessing such raw emotion, actual tears flowing from Rione as she held him.

  He started to look aside, then focused back on Rione’s face. Amid the wonder and happiness, did he also see horror? How could that be?

  But then she noticed him and averted her own face for a mom
ent. When he saw it again, Rione had only the natural emotions from such a reunion visible.

  She broke the embrace, turning toward Geary, reestablishing the iron control Rione usually displayed. “Admiral, may I present Commander Paol Benan, my husband.”

  Geary waited for a salute, which didn’t come, and he belatedly realized that, of course, these officers had been imprisoned when he had reintroduced saluting to the fleet.

  Benan grinned broadly. “It’s really you. Well, damn, of course it is. The Marines told us Black Jack was in command. Who else could have brought the fleet this deep into Syndic space? You must have them on the run. We can beat them now, crush them so they never again pose a threat to the Alliance! Now that we’re off that planet, you can hit it with everything you’ve got!”

  It took both Rione and Geary a moment to realize what he meant, that the Syndic authorities here had cruelly withheld news of the end of the war. “Paol,” she said, “the war is over. We already won.”

  “What?” Benan looked completely lost for a moment. “When? How?”

  “Admiral Geary. He wiped out the Syndic fleet and forced them to agree to peace.”

  “Peace.” Benan said the word as if he had heard it for the very first time in his life and had no idea of its meaning. “That’s . . . but you attacked the planet. The Marines assaulted the camp.”

  “The Syndic CEO here balked at his obligations under the peace agreement,” Geary explained. “We took necessary actions to liberate you and your fellow prisoners.”

  “Yes.” Benan still seemed uncertain. “We can help with some targeting for your follow-up bombardments. There are some buried installations, well concealed, that we know the locations of.”

  “There will be no more bombardment of that planet, Commander.”

  “But . . . the manufacturing centers . . . population centers—”

  Geary heard his voice hardening. “This fleet no longer wars on civilians, Commander. We attack military targets only, and those attacks now will come only as necessary to ensure that the Syndics abide by the peace treaty.”