“So we shouldn’t contact them either?”
“Not at this time. I’d view it as an unacceptable risk. We’ll have to see to our contingencies and trust Corhaine to handle hers.” By contingencies, the Roquelaurie clearly meant elevating the alert level. For a start.
The president shifted his attention to the Director of ISS. “Do you agree, Ed?”
“I do. I’m afraid I’d have to say the ball is in the League’s court right now.”
“I see.” Marquardt looked down the table at General Avery, whose face with its broad forehead and narrow deep-blue eyes either side of an indomitable nose, was set in its usual resting scowl. “What do you say, Rick?”
All eyes in the room fixed on the general. Rick Avery was known for being an excellent strategic thinker, having a wealth of experience in all branches of the Ionian military, and possessing a fighting spirit second to none. Nonetheless, many were confidant Marquardt would replace him with a more congenial officer, for Avery was also cold, arrogant, lacking in tact or discretion, and given to drinking, quarreling, and seducing other men’s wives. That the president could appreciate Avery’s positive qualities in spite the dense cloud of negative ones was much to his credit.
“I agree with Bill. It’s all been bumblepuppy until now. Rhimer—once he knows—is certain to treat this as a casus belli—”
“Loews would never agree to any such action,” the Foreign Secretary piped up. “He’s dedicated to—”
“I’m sure I hope that’s the case,” said Avery, sinking him with a glare. “But hoping is not my department. However, if those who deal in hope could buy us a week”—he continued to skewer Poule with his gaze—“that would be helpful. It will take that long to put our people on war footing.”
Lifting his cup of now tepid coffee, Bill Roquelaurie, who’d seen the general’s statement coming a great way off, observed the president going pale and the Foreign Secretary, positively white.
“I see your point,” Marquardt said at last, “but I think we need to guard against an overreaction.”
“That’s exactly what I am doing, Mr. President,” General Avery replied. “Guarding against the CEF’s overreaction.”
~ ~ ~
Day 194
LHS Leander, geosynchronous orbit
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
“By God, you will not, sir!” Loews roared, surging to his feet, his face purpling with rage. “You have disgraced the uniform you wear once already and if you cross me on this, sir, I’ll break you! I’ll break you, by God, and bury you so deep in your own shit that Hell itself will seem like fucking paradise!”
A shocked silence gripped the room as tightly as Loews’ hands were vised onto the edge of the table. Admiral Rhimer, pale and very rigid, cleared his throat. “I regret . . .” he began in a flat gravelly voice, “I regret any intemperate remarks I may have made. It shall be as you direct, your Honor.”
Kris, midway between the two men at the long table in Leander’s largest compartment that was now serving as a conference room, sat stock-still as the reverberations of the explosion began to die away. She’d expected a detonation of some sort once Rhimer learned mercenaries might be hiding somewhere in the system—since mercenaries obviously presented a clear and present danger to his force, there was simply no way not to inform him—but she hadn’t expected anything this bad. The admiral had arrived with blood in his eye, and started off by insisting on an ultimatum, which he read out the assembled staffs, and which (even to Kris’s undiplomatic ear) seemed calculated to give the maximum offense possible to Ionian sensibilities.
When the Envoy dismissed the ultimatum out of hand, Rhimer protested, barely civil at first and then with increasing heat, until he announced his attention to act unilaterally, the Mission be damned. That triggered Loews’ outburst, ringing still in the ears of all present.
Breathing heavily, Loews let go the table and subsided into his chair—it creaking under his weight. “Very well. Let us then proceed with the utmost caution—the utmost. No word of this development must be allowed to leak. We must give the situation the fullest deliberation. Commander Kennakris, please confer with my staff and submit any recommendation you may have as soon as possible. You may, of course, consult with Commandant, as you think necessary.” Kris, the members of Loews’ staff, and Min—sitting directly across and looking as staggered as the rest—responded with automatic nods. “And I shall try to forget any unfortunate remarks in my record of these proceedings. That is all, officers . . . gentlemen.”
Loews might forget, Kris thought amidst the scrape of chairs and rustle of people getting up to leave but, looking over at Rhimer’s face. it seemed very unlikely he would ever forget—or ever try to.
* * *
The first dog-watch found Kris back in Leander’s wardroom, nursing another cup of tea and a nasty tension headache. Across from her sprawled Major Lewis, empty handed this time, possibly—from the look on her face—because if she were holding a glass, her grip might shatter it.
“I knew he’d go ape-shit the moment he heard about this.” Min’s voice had dropped to dangerous growl and she was rubbing the knuckles of one clenched fist on her palm. “But Christ on a fuckin’ crutch.” They’d conferred with the members of Loews’ staff as directed; a brief meeting which accomplished nothing. The problem was Kris had no idea what the scale of the danger was, how it might present itself, or who or where the mercenaries were. Vasquez’s comment that the man she recognized had once joined an Andaman mercenary unit was no more than hearsay, and hearsay decades beyond its shelf life. Kris wholeheartedly believed it, but Vasquez was in sickbay, in the care of Dr. Leidecker, who had decided to be especially cautious about the corporal’s condition, and unavailable to shed any further light on the matter, assuming she even could.
Min had said next to nothing during meeting. Kris sensed she was biding her time. Now on Leander as head of the Envoy’s security detail, her position was ambiguous. If she felt like it, she could argue her first duty was to the Mission, and Kris knew she felt like it. Even though Rhimer would dispute that, there wasn’t much he could do about it. The major might be several grades below the admiral, but as an officer of an independent service, Min did not officially report to him any more than Kris did. In addition, League policy made the marines responsible for the security of diplomats. While it wasn’t usual for a marine commandant to play bodyguard, it could be justified on the basis of Loews’ stature and the importance of the Mission. Or probably justified, Kris figured. The real point, she knew, was that it put several welcome light-minutes between Min and the Yellow Admiral.
So Rhimer’s authority over Min was limited to what appeared in their respective orders. Had their working relationship been more cordial, this would not have mattered, but as things were—and especially because Rhimer cherished the feeling (still common among aristocratic officers from the Meridies) that the marines were a cadet branch of the Navy—Min was not about to surrender one iota of her autonomy.
What Min intended to do with that autonomy, Kris had no idea. The major was noted for doing things her own way: act first and explain later. Those explanations could be quite creative, too. But Kris was the one on the hook to provide recommendations—as soon as possible—and as far as recommendations went, her inspiration, given the last 48 hours and her headache, was at an especially low ebb.
On the other side of the table, Min’s expression had lost none of its lock-and-load intensity, and if she was indeed biding her time, Kris hoped she’d get over it. After an uncomfortable silence had definitely overstayed its welcome, Kris looked up with a question half formed to see the major doing the same.
“Go ahead,” Kris invited, happy to delay exposing her lack of constructive ideas.
“I was just gonna ask if the Envoy had consular authority,” Min said.
Consular authority would give Loews the right to issue orders in the name of the Plenary Council. It wasn’t unusual for it to be granted to sen
ior diplomats too far removed to receive timely direction from the Council. Kris didn’t know the extent of the powers Loews had been granted, just what a few comments she’d overheard implied. Given what had just happened, though, both men would bathe in boiling oil before they cooperated with each, consular authority (or any other) be damned.
“I think. That doesn’t mean shit now, though.”
Min had stopped grinding her knuckles against her palm. Now, one forefinger stroked the corner of her full, chiseled lips. “If the mercs no longer posed a threat, Rhimer wouldn’t have any cause to do anything, right?”
“Yeah. But how’re we gonna do that? We’ve got fuck-all to go on—one comment about Andaman mercs from almost twenty years ago.”
“Oh, they’re not Andamans,” Min said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I know who they are. Corhaine’s Black hats.”
“How’s that work?” Kris had heard Rafe mention the outfit a time or two.
“Simple. The Ionians wouldn’t hire anyone but the best. And they’re the best. Also, anyone else we would’ve spotted a long time ago.” Kris noticed Min was clenching her fist again. “God damn it.”
Kris didn’t know what the epithet was for, or why the major’s clear gray eyes had suddenly turned dark and clouded.
“Look.” Min sat up, leaning hr elbows on the table. “If Loews has consular authority, he can authorize an op. My orders are to support the blockade, particularly in regard to smugglers and other ‘incursions by stealth’. This would fall neatly into that category, y’think? If Loews invokes his authority, based on your advice as his senior military advisor, we wouldn’t need Rhimer to cooperate, or even know until it’s all over but the shouting. Right?”
Sure, if you don’t give a rat’s ass about your career. “I guess you can try making that argument.”
Min mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. “Would’ja rather watch the admiral go off like a monkey with rocket up its ass? Aside from the entertainment value, I mean? He’s all primed.”
That logic and Min’s smile forced Kris to concede the point. “Alright. But what’re we gonna pitch to the Envoy? That you’re clairvoyant? Do we have anything resembling a plan?”
Min stood up, seized by new and dangerous-looking energies. “Lemme go work on that.”
* * *
Near the end of the grave watch, after with wrestling with sleep in spite of her head and finally winning, Kris awakened to the jarring sound of her xel going off. Blinking and swearing, she got the piece of shit unfurled to be greeted by Min’s radiant smiling visage. Evidently, she hadn’t slept yet.
“You weren’t asleep, were ya, Commander?”
“Yeah, actually I was”—blinking and clearing the unpleasant stickiness from her mouth.
“Well, you’re not now. I got something to show ya. Your place or mine?”
Kris grimaced and struggled upright. “You got coffee in yours?”
“Will by the time you get here.”
Reaching out for her uniform, Kris exhaled noisily. “See ya in five minutes.”
“What’dya got?” Kris asked as Min let her into her quarters and handed her a steaming hot cup of black, pungent brew.
“Have a seat—I’ll show ya.” She gestured at the pert, pretty young woman with captain’s tabs on her collar sitting at one end of the small table, who appeared far too chipper for oh-dark-thirty. “This is Captain Gomez.”
Kris, switching the cup to her off hand, gave her a nod as she slid into the offered seat. “Captain.”
“Commander,” the young woman answered with a smile and bob of her head. Min put her xel on the table at activated the display. A system schematic shimmered into existence.
“Found ’em. Orbiting Thetis.”
“That was quick.”
“Yep. Helps to know exactly what to look for. Now . . .” Min’s face resurrected that chilling grin and she rubbed her hands. “You’re gonna like this part.”
The scalding liquid almost blistered Kris lip as she tried it. “That so?”—setting it down and wondering if she dared ask for cream. Min didn’t strike as someone who went in for cream.
“Your genius idea.”
That was news to Kris. No genius ideas presented themselves to her memory—no ideas at all, to tell the truth.
“We can’t get within a long yell of Corhaine’s fleet with boats—not even small craft—even if we had ’em, which we don’t.”
“Right.” That part was clear enough.
“So we hafta use what we got.”
“Right.” This part wasn’t clear at all.
“Body bags,” Min said with a sly note of triumph. “Give ’em a nice coating of crash foam and they’ll have the cross section of a pebble from DC to daylight. With all the rocks and ice around Thetis, no one will see ’em coming.”
“Wait a sec . . .” Your genius idea. “You mean drift?”
“Why not?” Min highlighted a trace on the schematic. “You pulled off a five-megaklick swim in just a flight suit to catch that tender at Wogan’s Reef.”
“Actually, I didn’t,” Kris corrected her, suppressing a shudder at the memory. “I missed the g’damned tender.” If it hadn’t been for Baz—
“So maybe I wasn’t clear,” Min said with a detectable wink to her voice. “I meant is that you got close enough that your wingman was able to detect you—”
Kris swept finger along the trace. “That was five million clicks—you’re talking almost seven.”
“—using a homegrown algorithm on your xel and your sidearm as a maneuvering thruster.”
Captain Gomez’s gaze bounced between them.
“Here,” Min pressed on, “we’re using marine combat suits with full thruster packs in a system full of NAVSATS. If we make like we’re returning to the fleet—in a rare ol' hurry, you understand—and bail out here”—she lit the spot—“at that delta V, the drift will take—”
“Thirty-three hours, maybe thirty-hours, depending on the decel you can get away with,” Kris interjected, having done the calculation in her head.
“A shade under thirty-five,” Min allowed, “playing it safe.”
“If that fleet doesn’t move that whole time.”
“I don’t figure they’ll move. They’ll lie up dark and cold until the wrangling gets settled, one way or another. If the Envoy can’t keep the waters muddied for at least that long, he’s not the man I think he is.”
Kris had to give her that. But Min’s plan limited her to the marines already on-board Leander, which amounted a single platoon. “How many people were you planning to pull this off with?”
“Coupla dozen oughta be enough.” Min dropped her eyes to Kris’s hands. “Say? Can I get you more coffee?”
“I’m good.” She didn’t need the coffee to get her blood pumping anymore, and the major certainly seemed to living up to her reputation. “How are you gonna take over a merc fleet with twenty-four people?”
“You handle the Envoy,” Min answered with affected casualness. “I’ll take care of that.”
“What did she do?” Captain Robyn Gomez asked Min incredulously after Kris had left.
Min explained how Kris, bailing out of her fighter at the end of a recon op to find the Halith carrier battle group, had engineered one of the longest swims in history to try to catch the tender that was supporting her flight. She almost did too, but it only worked out because her wingman, Ensign Basmartin, disobeyed orders and flew tender back himself instead of sending it back on remote as Kris had told him to. Basmartin had been a whiz kid with sensors and he’d managed to locate Kris—who, being deep in enemy space, had turned her suit beacon off—by detecting the transients from firing her sidearm as maneuvering thruster.
Robyn Gomez, who’d been a junior lieutenant at Wogan’s Reef, shook her head. “Good Lord, ma’am. People say we’re crazy.”
Comparing the relative degrees of insanity required to attempt a drift of five million kilometers with attacking
a Halith monitor that had crew of over two thousand with a single company of marines, which Min and Gomez had done in what the Corps still called the “Great Junk Offensive” might not be the most profitable exercise.
Min, thinking of all this, looked at the captain’s apple-cheeked young face—her cornflower-blue eyes that were trying to see across five-million klicks of hard vacuum—thought about it, and said nothing.
* * *
The Envoy surprised Kris early that AM, and for once the surprise was pleasant. She’d sent him an urgent eyes-only message when she rose, having gotten a whole two hours sleep, without being confident he’d wouldn’t ignore the caveat and come bursting in with his staff. Min’s wasn’t one she wanted share with a room full of people, roomful bein defined as any number greater than three.
But the Loews who replied and promptly asked Kris and the major to join him is his stateroom was not the man Kris had encountered before. Gone was the bombast; the larger-than-life, almost baroque bonhomie, replaced by an air of extreme gravity. He listened attentively to Kris’s briefing, which she’d labored to reduce to a quarter of an hour; asked a few direct, intelligent questions to which Min provided direct, concise answers, and sat silent for a minute, impassive as a resting Buddha. At last he heaved a weighty sigh, almost a grunt, as if setting down a ponderous burden.
“Officers, you plan is approved. I will record the necessary directives and make appropriate representations to the admiral at the proper time. May God speed you all.”
“God speed?” Kris muttered as she accompanied Min to prepare her select two dozen and deliver to Robyn Gomez the dreadful news that, after spending all night helping draft the plan, she wasn’t going along. If things didn’t work out, Min’s executive officer, Captain Troy Anders, would assume command of the marines and Robyn would take over as his XO. So no fun, no matter how much she disliked it.
Min lifted her attention out of the study she’s been in since they left the Envoy. “What about it?”
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 38