PrenTalien had been in this business too long to wince when the blow fell, but he felt it all the same. “Thought so.”
“Narses thinks it gives us opportunity and take some heat off Karelia. That’s a priority right now. The Plenary Council is all in this time. Even the Speaker’s up on her hind legs about it.”
“Do you think they’re right?”
A wire-tight silence stretched between the two for several seconds before Westover exhaled noisily. “I’m not thrilled with the timing. But I agree we’ve got to do something. Karelia is hurting and we’ve been slugging it out on the Caledonia-Kepler axis all this year. So far, we haven’t accomplished a damn thing.”
PrenTalien nodded without speaking—that same lack of progress was keeping him up three nights out of five. But with Overlight in gear, he’d wondered if he’d get to sleep at all. The plan looked great on a console. It took advantage of their alliance with the Bannermans to make a sweeping end run through Halith’s colonial sectors, exploiting their well-known aversion to relinquishing territory. The phrase: “Where the flag of the Dominion has been raised, it must forever remain,” was not mere jingoist gloss, but official imperial policy. In the first war, that policy had cost Halith dearly, as they’d expended an inordinate amount of vital resources defending marginal systems. Their record is this last war as better, but the League hadn’t been able to mount a credible threat to Halith’s territory before the decisive battle at Wogan’s Reef.
The real sticking point was the Bannermans. The plan relied on either a diversionary strike through their space, or the actual strike, with the diversion being focused on Rho Ceti. In either case, while the Bannermans were not operationally involved, they were being counted on to provide some logistical support, and—most of all—not tip off Halith once the strike was underway.
Relying on the Bannermans was the crucial mistake the Halith Supreme Staff had made in planning Wogan’s Reef. Now Joss thought they were bidding fair to do exactly the same thing. On arriving six GAT months ago and offering her services as a volunteer, Trin Wesselby has briefed him on her suspicions (Carlos had been told, as well) but that’s all they were. Their cloudy crystal ball had turned black. They back to the old guessing game, and in any case, with the Council hard over, there wasn’t a damn thing either of them could do about it, short of mutiny.
Carlos tended to be an optimist when he could afford to be, and Joss couldn’t easily read him now. His sense was being obscured by an ugly feeling the Meridies had cooked this up at this particular time to put him and Carlos in a near-impossible position: the burden fell directly on Ninth and Eltanin, and if the whole thing exploded in their faces, the ratification of Vesta’s new status—a done deal up until now—would never happen. Ninth would be crippled, he and Westover would be recalled, and the Meridies would be back in the driver’s seat.
Joss didn’t know how far he wanted to go in mentally accusing the Meridies governments of outright treason, but there was also the question of the mole running loose. If the mole got wind—or if that individual actually had a hand in pushing this—or the Sultanate flipped or the Emir of Ivoria chose this time to rebel, certainly with Halith help, or if the Ionians declared war . . .
“Your copy of the final order should be here this AM,” Westover interrupted this heavily freighted thought-train of potential calamity. “We’ve changed the scope since you were briefed. The Council decided against the Rho Ceti option: the Caledonians have already done a lot of heavy lifting and they were beginning to balk—”
“They’ve got more sense than I thought—”
“Who? The Council? Or the New United Kingdom?” asked Westover with a smile.
“Never mind.” PrenTalien put his coffee cup down.
“So the plan is to go via Mantua. We’re standing up an full IW group in Lo Gai’s place—emissions signatures, deep-radar returns, dummy logistics, simulated comms traffic. Not just the passive D&D stuff either; we’re going after Halith’s command nets, his logistics systems, sensor nodes, email from home. Full invasion prep. To maintain security we aren’t using standard packets to coordinate this op—everything is going by drone.”
That was no less than PrenTalien expected.
“We’re sending the Ninth through the Traps and the Antares XZ—”
“The Porte will love that.”
“They won’t know. We can run deeper into the Traps than they think—Lo Gai will be transiting where it won’t occur to anyone to look.”
“Just his kind of stunt, I must admit.”
“That’s not the half of it—when the Rho Ceti option was still on the table, he wanted to run the Rip. I told him only if he paid for the fleet first.”
PrenTalien rolled his eyes. “I imagine that broke his heart.”
“I expect so. The new wrinkle is that the Bannermans have offered us a base at Vistanovo—”
“We’re not actually gonna take them up on that?”
“No. But we are going to use it. Ninth will link up with Third Fleet at Lacaille and proceed to Callindra 69 under deep cover. That’s the jumping off point. If things are good to go, they’ll bypass Tau Verde and move on Illyria—it’ll be up to Lo Gai what route he chooses—while Nedaema’s Myrmidon Fleet covers Wogan’s Reef. It’s purely a defensive mission, the kind of thing they’re good at. We need to keep the Prince Vorland Fleet pinned at Janin so they can’t be used against us at Illyria until we have a foothold.”
PrenTalien grunted. As CinC PLESEC before taking over Eltanin Sector, he knew all about Nedaema’s skills, defensive and otherwise. It was his previous worries that reoccupied his mind now.
“He’ll be in an ugly spot if the Bannermans turn. Especially if they bring in the Tyrsenians.”
“Yes. Shariati will be on point. CNO has given her orders that if the Bannerman’s double-cross us or the Tyrsenians decide to take hand, she’s to go rouge—not engage any superior force if she doesn’t absolutely have to, but burn hard for any target she likes and make the rubble bounce. No restrictions.”
That gave even as hardened an officer as Joss PrenTalien pause. “The Speaker agreed to that?”
“She wasn’t given a choice. She bought off on the concept and Lian refused to even consider the plan without that option. Hazen can’t afford to have CNO another resign in protest.”
PrenTalien sat back and folded his hands in his lap with a nod. Lian Narses might not be the most brilliant strategist the CEF ever produced, but if she was somewhat lacking in finesse, she made up for it with stamina, ruthlessness, and unadulterated doggedness. If the Speaker got athwart her hawse, Lian would run her down without mercy and be damned to the consequences.
“So what do you need from me?” he asked after that moment’s reflection.
Westover reached out and stirred up the data littering his desk. “I want your assessment of how bad it gets if this thing tanks on us. We can hash out the details at today’s staff meeting, but I wanted to get your impressions here first—before the music starts.”
PrenTalien’s eyes went to the big situation display on the wall. “Frankly, Carlos, we could see no end of ugly from this. If Lo Gai and Tim get cut off, we aren’t just risking Crucis again, but the Pleiades. That means Canopus goes and we have a two-axis threat at Regulus. That plays right into their hands.” He studied Westover for a moment. “You sure we planned this caper?”
“I thought you’d say that.” The former CNO did not have much of a reputation as a gambler, and this was an op only a gambling addict could love. PrenTalien began to wonder why Carlos even seemed to be giving it any real consideration. “What do you suggest?”
Was that a wink he saw from his old friend? “Give Lo Gai his head. Forget about the link-up with Third. Leave Tim at New Madras in case the shit hits the fan. He and the Myrmidons can nail down that axis and let Lo Gai do as he thinks best.”
“Without Third, Ninth can’t get past Tau Verde. We need both fleets to leapfrog the junction.” Westover’s t
one was more that of someone posing a tactical problem than an argument.
“He can bypass the whole mess. Use the Outremeria transit to Zalamenkar and the thin route straight to Illyria. It’ll take longer but that route will handle one fleet. And if Yasmin wants to make some rubble bounce, turn her loose there—that will keep ’em entertained until Lo Gai shows up and slams the door. If we push Fifth Fleet through the Huygens’s Gap, while Grand Fleet takes up the slack, we’ll have those bastards with their ass elevated instead of us.”
PrenTalien noticed Westover’s posture became more relaxed than it had been heretofore.
“Well, Joss,” the Consul General began. “That’s almost exactly what Lian and I agreed to back on Mars a month ago.”
“You what? Carlos—”
“Sorry, Joss. I needed your unedited, informed opinion. Now that I have it”—he smiled—“we can move forward. You’re only the third person who knows what we talked about. Everyone else thinks we’re about to run full-tilt at that clusterfuck with open arms. If we’re lucky, Halith will even move to cut us off at Callindra, which would make things quite a bit easier. Wishful thinking, I expect.”
With a nod of agreement, PrenTalien returned his attention the display. “True, but we’re still not completely outta the woods yet. “
Westover swirled the coffee in his cup, watching constellations of bubbles orbit therein. “Iona?”
“Damn straight, Iona. I’m more worried about them than the Andamans. If Iona decides to declare war, I’ll have a major conflict behind the G-West extremity of my battlespace. Bad enough—but if that lets Halith in you won’t be able to pick up our remains with a hydrogen scoop.”
“Lady send they don’t declare,” Westover said with deep conviction.
“We’ll have to do better than that.” PrenTalien couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. He hated that deeply stupid business: a blockade bought and paid for by merchant house reps who were sure that the ex-colony would never go to war with its former master. Idiots.
“We are doing better than that,” Westover interrupted PrenTalien’s near-silent muttering. “Or we’re supposed to be. The Honorable Mr. Loews has been dispatched with a diplomatic mission to Iona. They left last PM and should arrive in Iona in a week or so.”
“What exactly is Loews supposed to accomplish?”
“In essence, nothing.”
“Picked a good man,” PrenTalien said under his breath.
Westover kept his smile inward as he went on. “He is to cajole, hint, bully and at all costs forestall a declaration of war, without committing us to anything. We can’t afford to change our stance towards Iona right now—Halith might get suspicious—but we can offer forlorn hopes, drag things out and generally muddy the waters. Above all muddy the waters.”
“What’s his impact on the operations at Iona intended to be?”
“That depends on circumstances.” Westover paused to glance at the sector situation display. “Who’s keeping the station at Iona right now? TF 9.6, isn’t it?”
“Under Rhimer.” PrenTalien’s eyes dropped. Rear Admiral Rhimer had been First Fleet. His unit was one of the few detached and assigned to Ninth when it formed. First Fleet had not been unhappy to see him go; Ninth had not been happy to welcome him.
Westover continued to survey the display. “How’s he been doing since the Callindra business?” His tone was carefully diffident.
In the months before the Wogan’s Reef, Rhimer and his immediate superior, Admiral Hollis, had been given the task of blockading the Bannerman fleet at Callindra 69, to prevent it linking up with Halith’s Kerberos Fleet. At the beginning of the action, Rhimer had been decoyed out of position and mauled. Hollis had refused come up and support him. During the blockade, a kiloliter of bad blood had built up between the two men. Afterward it broke out in open hostility and spilled over during the court martial. The court acquitted Rhimer of deserting his station—barely. The judgment wouldn’t have been nearly so close if Rhimer hadn’t tried to fix all the blame on Hollis, whose decision to not support him did smell of bad faith, but in the eyes of many, Rhimer went overboard in resenting it. Verdict of no, the damage was done and First Fleet hastened to get rid him when the opportunity arose.
PrenTalien moved uncomfortably in his chair. “No matter what the court martial said, the lower decks think he’s shy and I believe half the officers agree with them.”
“So you sent him to the Ionian station.”
PrenTalien shrugged, a tired gesture. “Seemed prudent to get him out from under. Once we got this idiotic blockade business settled, it put him in a good position for an independent cruise—maybe a chance of a small action and some prize money.”
That could do wonders for a commander’s reputation, even one as tarnished as Rhimer’s. Westover folded his hands and said nothing.
“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” PrenTalien finished. “What am I allowed to tell him?”
Westover glanced down. “As little as possible. Candidly, we’d prefer not to tell him at all.”
PrenTalien just looked at his friend of a half-dozen decades across the desk.
Westover held up his hands. “I understand—I do. But if Halith smokes this before we’re ready, you’ve just pointed out badly this brews up. TF 9.6 is too visible. They must continue to act as though nothing’s changed. If we inform Rhimer, will you guarantee his acting ability?”
PrenTalien shifted uneasily, forced to admit he could not. “So how long do we have to leave him in the dark?”
“Since we’ve extended the timeline, we’ll know that in about seventy-two days.”
PrenTalien was capable of hiding his feelings when he wanted to, but he didn’t want to. Eventually he said, “You know I’m going to insist that we warn Rhimer if this thing blows. You’ve thought of something I suppose.” He was confident Westover had and Carlos did not disappoint him.
“Loews has a CEF officer with him—”
“Just one?”
“Given the situation, it was considered wise to keep the CEF’s overt presence to a minimum. We aren’t sending him in a combatant for the same reason, although I argued for using Defiant to get their tonnage up. But I digress. The officer in question is to monitor the tactical situation. We do have someone in-system who’s been briefed on Overlight. If things begin to look warlike, this person will confer with the officer we’ve sent, who will advise Loews, and Loews will warn Rhimer. Rhimer has orders to listen to him.”
“Who’s this officer upon whom we stake so much? Losing a whole task group would look bad in the media.”
“I’ve no idea.” PrenTalien favored Carlos with another hard look, but Westover turned his hands palms up. “Someone downstream was deemed to have a more current appreciation of the situation. Lo Gai was directed to supply an appropriate individual.”
“Why didn’t they send Huron?” The question was almost immediate. “I could’ve spared him for this. He has Ionian connections, too.”
“Wouldn’t fly, Joss. Commander Huron, though an excellent choice in many regards, is too high profile. For another thing, he tops Loews on the social scale—that could’ve caused friction.”
“Okay,” PrenTalien conceded. “I’d like to give Sanjay a private heads-up to give TF 9.6 some cover if they have to pull out.” Vice Admiral Sanjay Sansar and his unit, the Trifid Frontier Force, had been shoring up the Sultan’s military since early in the war. He also performed the useful role of keeping weather eye in the Sultan himself.
Westover’s glance was cordially pointed. Pulling the Tuffs (the TFF’s preferred nom de guerre) out of the Sultanate, even temporarily, ran significant risks, especially with the situation between the Sultan and the Emir. “You’ll do it anyway, matter what I say. Just don’t be too obvious about it.”
Now PrenTalien smiled, but without mirth. “You may rely on my discretion.”
“I shall have to. The mission in Iona is to hold the status quo. As long as that has be
en holding, I pray it should not prove too difficult. I trust that’s clear?”
“Utterly.” PrenTalien’s tone made it clear he felt that good deal of praying might definitely be called for. He started to get up.
Westover’s manner softened. “Don’t take it hard, Joss. I know what you can do when you put your mind to it.” He gestured at the liquor cabinet, tucked right under a situation display. “Go ahead, get yourself a drink.”
PrenTalien snorted, brief and sharp. “Thanks Carlos, but I don’t think I’ll be drinking much for the next couple of months.”
~ ~ ~
Day 167
IHS Bolimov, docked
Kazanian Station, Halith Evandor, Orion Spur
With skirling pipes and the thunder of drums, all unamplified and perfectly analog, IHS Bolimov, flagship of the Prince Vorland Fleet, prepared to welcome its admiral. The members of her crew appointed to this duty were formed up with geometric precision, filling the dreadnought’s boat deck to capacity: the rates and common mariners foremost by divisions, their officers just behind, and to the back, serried ranks of marines lined the bulkheads, lending a formidable, if not exactly sinister, presence to the ceremony. Long gone were the days when the marines’ main purpose was to bolster the resolve of conscript mariners, but the habit—and the reminder—remained.
Admiral Caneris had taken part in this ritual innumerable times, from his earliest days as a thin, nervous midshipman until now, and at no time had he ever been tempted to take it for granted. Ritual, in all its ancient, varied and eccentric forms (eccentric to the uninitiated, that is) lay at the heart of naval life, as critical as the incessant training. For while training told men and woman what to do in the inexpressible maelstrom of combat, it was the powerful sense of belonging that penetrated deep into the fiber of their being that kept them doing it. It was not loyalty to the State, still less to its political goals, for which these people arrayed before him would fight and die, but for each other. Ritual formed a critical part of that adhesion, making a collection of strangers into a crew, and keeping the disciplined warrior from degenerating into a mindless killer.
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 20