by Mike Moscoe
* * * *
Captain Horatio Whitebred studied the message he'd just decoded. So, my employer is happy with my find . He checked again the number of zeros behind the “1” that his employer was adding to his private and very secret account on Helvetica, adding very nicely to the tidy sum the Sommersby sisters had paid him for helping them run their ship of booze and broads into the 97th. He'd even known who in supply would make sure they got a welcome and not the boot. Yes, this war was very profitable!
With the fleet out, Horatio had time to remove references to the Sheffield’s message from the official logs. Navy computers were so old, it hardly took more than a tap with the tools he'd brought. Military secrets were a lot easier to crack than commercial ones. Then again, the Navy hadn't had a war in fifty years. Corporations were at war every minute. The Navy was smart to bring in professionals like himself when they got into a real war. Not smart enough to pay him what he was worth, but that just made it easier for him to do what he was doing now.
Quickly he released his search programs into the comm system. In five minutes, they had corrupted every message on the net about the jump point, and left a resident behind. Any restore from backups would find a garbled file when they opened it. Sorry, all backups are corrupted, too. He'd repeat this when the flag came back on net. If it came back.
Flagships had such a delightful tendency not to return. Horatio, of course, never spent any more time aboard the flag than he had to. People got killed on those damn things. There was no problem finding people on his staff only too eager to brief the admiral. Well, at least the first three admirals. The one out today was no volunteer; he'd made the mistake of beating Horatio at poker. Badly. If he returned, Horatio now had the money to pay up. If he didn't return ... Well, he'd never spoil the boss's Friday night poker game again, now would he?
Life was arranging itself very satisfactorily. No slow climb up the corporate ladder for him like the one that had worn down his dad. No. Grab it quick. Grab it all. Then sit back and watch the others drop like rats. He put his feet up on the desk. Nice.
There was a knock at his door. Sitting up and dimming the obsolete screen that Naval Intelligence insisted its people use, Horatio said, “Enter.” His number two-man did. Commander Stuart might be regular Navy, but he had the mind of a first-rate corporate weasel. Horatio had told him so, and made vague promises about postwar opportunities. This one wasn't dense like so many of the blue-suiters who missed his meaning. If he interrupted, he had good cause. “What you got, Stu?”
“What we've been looking for.” The man grinned.
“We've been looking for a lot,” Horatio reminded him.
“After the Sheffield thing I did a search on jump points. I thought you might like to know who was talking about them, both message traffic and real time.” He held up a disk.
Damn! If this guy had a search log, it was already obsolete. And the backup he was waving was the only evidence Horatio had committed treason. Visions of splitting his fee with this enterprising fellow did not go down easy. Maybe I've found my next briefing officer.
“Most of the messages you'd expect,” the commander went on, unaware of the problem he'd just become, “but there were verbals that intrigued me. A couple of tug skippers get together every night to bitch about the war and how it's costing them business. They checked out harmless, so we ignored them. Then I ran the jump search. They talked about jumps a lot.”
“Is there an end to this story, Commander?”
“Elmo has a third jump point.”
“Impossible. That system's been checked out thoroughly.”
“Jump's not where you'd expect it. Deep in the gravity well, between the two stars.”
“Can't be.” Horatio didn't know much about jump points, but he knew they had to be well away from large gravitational bodies.
“I know. But this one is. Must have been trapped by the rogue when it entered the system. We hauled in one of them. Interrogated him. It's there, and it's a one-jump trip to Wardhaven, the colonials' biggest industrial powerhouse.”
Also the only world the Sheffield’s information had leaked to. Horatio needed time to think. “Thank you, Commander. Get me a full report on the tug pilot's interrogation. I want to study this carefully. Used properly, this could significantly shorten the war. We don't want to throw this away, now, do we?”
“No, sir,” the commander said, tossed him the floppy and a sloppy salute, and left immediately.
Horatio studied his fingers. He had ignored the paragraph of his message suggesting it would be appreciated if he could disappear the outpost and planet that knew of the new jump data. Until a moment ago, that option did not seem possible.
Now, if he commanded the squadron, who knows what might happen? Of course, a reserve captain being fleeted up to admiral was rare. Then, his employer had showed admirable initiative. There was the minor problem of the present admiral. But they had proven to be so temporary, hadn't they?
* * * *
Two days later, Mattim threw himself in his bed, exhausted. It should have been a piece of cake. What went wrong?
They'd barreled into the system a good ten minutes ahead of the colonials. The skunks, all twelve of them, came through their jump point at even intervals, but slower.
“Destroyers on a resupply mission,” Ding announced.
Shuttling between Thor and Sandy, Mattim quickly formed a picture of the coming battle. Their task force would get to the gas giant first and catch the tin cans as they did their swing around. Good. For once, the Navy could keep the grunts out of a pounding. The admiral kept them deployed in loose echelon. Any reflection on a ship from the drive ahead was on the side away from the enemy. The colonials were in for a surprise. A tight laser beam from the 97th corrected that assumption. They were jamming every radio wavelength, but the colonials had gotten off a similar tight laser communication warning the skunks. Still, nobody had lit off a radar. Blindman's buff again.
There was no more talk from the ground; apparently both sides were busy jamming the other. Mattim's plan required the free flow of data—this was not good. But with only a dozen destroyers on a resupply mission, they would not be using his plan. No use giving it away on a mouse; better to save it for the next time the elephants were in town. It didn't hurt his feelings to be chasing a batch of cans.
The squadron decelerated into orbit. Forming a loose cone, they went low and lit up a few radars, covering where the enemy cans should be in line with gas collectors out.
No enemy!
Every radar snapped on, reached high and low, hunting for the missing colonials. “High,” Sandy screamed at the same moment every warning device started honking. “They're above us—and missiles are all over the place!”
Lasers swiveled. Sensors searched. Fire-control computers struggled to separate friend from foe and lay down fire that would miss the one and hit the other. All took time.
The enemy missiles were pure acceleration, with random jinks. The first shots missed. So did the seconds. Then the missiles were in the formation and ships were exploding. One cruiser went into a loop, its engines no longer balanced, shedding armor. A second missile slammed through where a chunk was missing. The ship came apart like an expanding snowflake. Another cruiser took a hit in engineering; in a flash it ceased to exist. Missiles stabbed into two other ships. Their skippers doused their fusion hearts and drifted helplessly ahead of the decelerating task force. ,
Then the missiles were gone, plunging into the gas giant to be lost in its massive coat. The Sheffield’s lights dimmed as its main battery took on the destroyers high above.
“Get 'em, Guns,” Mattim shouted.
“ 'Till they're out of range, we will.”
Other ships joined in. One, then another destroyer was slotted out, but the others were venting water and reaction mass, distorting the laser beams hunting for them and making firing solutions harder. Too soon they were out of range.
“Check fire, crew,” Gun
s growled. “We'll be ready for them next pass.”
“If there is a next pass,” Mattim muttered as he headed for the helm. “They're high and fast. Can they dump supplies?”
“They can dump them, but the poor joes on the ground'U need a broom and dustpan to pick them up.”
Thor grinned. And I wouldn't want to be any too close to where they land”
'So they'll head for the jump. Good. We'll give them some of what they gave us last time. Comm, anything from the flag?”
Nothing, sir.”
There was something else in the voice. The truth you expected and a pregnancy. Mattim was about to mash his comm link and demand more when Sandy's whisper got his attention. “I don't think there will be anything.” Her board showed the task force, ragged now with ships vanished, or struggling, or unpowered and pulling ahead. “There's no carrier wave from the Magnificent , Matt. She must have been one that blew.”
Mattim had watched a bad admiral die, and now a good one There was no logic to this crazy business called war. anyone announce they're taking over?” he asked comm.
“Captain Skobachev on the Trustworthy just assumed command. Undamaged ships form line three. Prepare for a head-on pass at the colonials.” Ding pulled up the dead admiral's formations; line three was loose. Ding maneuvered them into their slot. Which left Mattim time to wonder.
“How'd they target us? They didn't search sweep us?”
“No, sir,” Sandy assured him. “I suspect they found us the same way I found them the last time. Here we are all stealthy against the background of one of the most humongous emitters in known space. They just aimed for the holes.”
“Shit” was all Mattim could say.
As they came around the gas giant, every radar was burning, searching high and low. Every gun was charged, rotated out to cover any angle, hungry for a target.
The skunks were high and accelerating out of orbit.
“Can we?” Mattim asked.
“No way, boss.” Thor cut him off. “We got to do another half orbit before we can try to chase them.”
“They don't have the fuel for this,” the exec muttered.
“Better to coast home than be blown home,” Sandy said.
Mattim settled back in his chair to see what the new fleet lead would do. Thirty minutes later, they were reaching the breakout point to either chase the colonials or head to Beta jump. “Comm, you got anything?” Mattim asked, his patience gone.
“Coming in now. We will stay in orbit to give cripples more time to mend ship. We will then proceed to Beta jump at one gee or less. Skobachev sends.”
Around him flew softly whispered protests. Part of Mattim wanted to join them. The merchant in him checked the profit-and-loss sheet. The Navy's losses were far out of proportion to the damage they'd inflicted. Still, the colonial troops had not gotten supplied and the 97th had been saved another pasting.
Looking at things from that perspective, honors were even.
Still, Mattim would dearly love to smash a few destroyers.
The Sheffield did a fuel scoop, then shared out part of the mix to the Goben once her tanks had been patched and she could hold reaction mass. The damage to the Aurora 's engines was too extensive. A week or more of uninterrupted towing might have brought her back to Pitt's Hope. A week of peace could not be counted on. Once her crew was off, they slowed her down. In a few hours she went flaming into the giant's atmosphere.
The task force stayed vigilant for surprise; Mattim only catnapped in the captain's chair. Only when they were halfway to Beta jump did he allow himself to collapse into bed. The admiral had done everything right. She'd drilled a squadron until it was ready. She deserved to have smashed a half dozen cans. Nothing about this war business made sense.
“How soon can it end?” Mattim asked any god listening. When he didn't get an answer, he shrugged and drifted off to sleep.
* * * *
“In my sister's name, I thank you” was all Santiago said when Ray explained his plan. Ray showed him the briefcase. “One combination, and it's a briefcase. The other, and it's a very powerful bomb.”
“What's the second combination?” Santiago asked.
“I am the assassin, Captain.”
“And if you are shot dead and I can reach the briefcase, the mission will still fail. Major, we always allow for redundancy.”
Ray gave Santiago the second combination.
The presidential invitation was hyped by the media as an honor for all of Wardhaven. Thus, the government's yacht Oasis was made available to them. Ray suspected the spy master's hand; the fat man beamed at the accusation. “The crew is Navy. I made sure they are neither on my side nor the other. Politically neutral. And we will give them nothing to suspect.”
“Listening devices?”
The spy nodded. “Here is a complete set of my sniffers.”
Getting the Oasis ready took a while. Usually, Ray liked time before an operation to plan, squeeze the data for plan A, B, C. The more the better. Here, there was no data—and the only plan left both him and the President dead. Intellectually, he accepted that with a soldier's shrug. His gut was another matter. They'd removed a couple of yards of intestine; he'd shrugged off their warning that he might have problems. Now, with the extra tension, he had problems. He stayed close to restrooms to avoid his incipient diarrhea embarrassing him.
The future lay heavy on Rita. Three times Ray found her quietly crying in private. The first time she shoved him away when he put his arms around her. The other times, she just cried on his shoulder, then dismissed herself to the ladies' room. Still, each night, she took him by storm. Ray had led desperate assaults. He recognized what Rita did for what it was.
* * * *
Before departure, they fitted Ray with a walker. He'd still need canes for balance, but the powered braces made walking easier—and rubbed his skin raw. Ray was given an ointment for that. It took away some of the discomfort, would toughen his skin—and stank. The last was probably the real reason for the braces. Passing port security to board the Oasis, even without the briefcase, Ray set off the detectors. A quick examination of his walker and medicine mollified the guards.
Rita played the socialite basking in attention. She flitted about the ship, begged to pilot it, and pouted when she was denied. They adjourned to their suite. A check showed a microphone in the sitting room, but none in the bedroom or bath. Both of Santiago's rooms might as well have been a sound stage. “And you said I served no purpose,” Rita whispered in his ear.
Once they were in space, lunch and dinner were taken with the ship's officers in the state dining room. The course of the war was studiously avoided. Still, battles were discussed and cussed, as much to delight warriors as to establish the pecking order of whose alternate strategies were right and less right. To Ray fell the duty of judging all. The trip to Rostock required eight jumps.
* * * *
Horatio Whitebred liked the orders he read; he was now an admiral. He'd been apprised by his other employer that there was a well-paid-for clerical error involved. In a week, ten days at the most, new orders would arrive correcting these and appointing another to the stars Commander Stuart was pinning on his collar. In a week, ten days, a lot could happen. The Navy might be congratulating a hero and glad of the mistake.
“Commander Stuart, I'll need a chief of staff. I can't think of anyone better than you. I'll have the paperwork cut on your promotion to captain, if you're ready to be my man.”
“I'd be honored, Admiral.”
Respect somehow was missing in the way his new rank rolled off Stuart's tongue. But Horatio had important things to do. Like making his new stars permanent. “Stu, the ships will be back soon. How long will they need to take on supplies?”
“Two days, one if you push them.”
“Push them. Let me show you why.” For the next fifteen minutes, Horatio ran through his plans for the Battle of Wardhaven. Here and there, the commander tied up a loose end.
&
nbsp; “Which boat should we tap for my flagship?” Whitebred asked.
“Normally, the biggest,” Stuart answered. “With what you have in mind, one of the converted cruisers might be better. In ninety days, a lot got left out of their skippers' training.”
Horatio made an appearance of weighing the question. The Sheffield was one of the matters he had to make disappear. As his flagship, it would be easy to leave a little something behind in the computer for her next jump after he was safely off. “Lost in sour jump” should have been her epitaph—and would yet be. “Sheffield’s fresh from the yard and her captain has shown a certain willingness to adapt himself to a situation.” Horatio smiled, then frowned. “As well as a tendency not to obey orders.”
“In the old days,” Stuart began slowly, “ships had marines aboard. Marines are a lot more willing to shoot sailors.”
“And Elmo Four has a moon full of marines pissed at the colonials. Yes, Stu, we'll relieve the Ninety-seventh of a few good men—and women. Stu, you and I are going to go far. We think alike. I like that in a subordinate.”
“Right, Admiral.” This time Stuart pronounced the rank like he meant it. Yes, Horatio mused, things were looking good.
* * * *
His comm beeped. Mattim mashed the button. “What is it?”
“No leaves authorized. Take on supplies and prepare for immediate sortie. Admiral Whitebred sends.”
“Who the hell is he, or she?” he snapped, not at all happy to be rushing his ship and crew back into the buzzsaw they'd just escaped. Staff needed to do some serious thinking about how they'd gotten into that mess and how to avoid it next time.
“Uh, Captain.” His exec cleared her throat. “You remember Whitebred. He was Chief of Intelligence. Took you to dinner.”
Mattim remembered. Him! Ding didn't look any happier. Maybe she hadn't slept with the ass. “Thanks, comm.”
“Sir, a second message.” There was a pause. “Sir. We're the new flagship.”