Putting aside the moral issue—the Sultan was out of the same mold—killing the sultan in this reckless manner was stupid: alive, he would’ve still been useful. When Caneris suggested, the Emir had been alternately simpering and boastful. They parted on nominally cordial terms, but Caneris could not conceive how IRIS came to repose any faith in this creature, and ever since he’d experienced nothing but obstruction and delay.
After such a long transit, his fleet badly needed supplies, along with some minor repairs and refurbishment. The Ivorians hastened to provide these, but somehow they rarely arrived as promised and when they did, were often the wrong item. Even the simplest jobs frequently needed redoing, and always they were mortified, they were desolated, they would set it right . . . tomorrow.
A beginning of such promise mostly squandered, Caneris found himself fighting time along with obstruction. How much was deliberate on the Emir’s part and how much was his people’s ingrained sloth and pure cold-blooded incompetence, he could not tell. Why the Emir should want to delay when the logic of events would seem to cry out for all speed mystified him. The excuse offered—that the huge slaver fleet the Emir had been tasked to assemble was not yet ready—could not be attempted to be believed, and waiting until it was did nothing but erode Caneris’ position.
Conceivably, the Sultan’s “untimely” death had something to do with it. Aside from his sport, perhaps the Emir had planned to use the Sultan as a tool to legitimize his coup d’état. Yet the people in the capital—Andamans in general, Caneris felt—were a craven bunch and the issue of legitimacy hardly seemed to arise. The Emir seemed to agree: the populace, disgusted with the effete reign of the deposed Sultan (he claimed), would surely welcome him.
In Caneris’ view, they would merely roll over for whomever poured slop in the trough. Those who feared becoming an evening’s entertainment for the Emir and his intimates would no doubt profit from this delay, by making themselves scarce, but was no concern to anyone but them. To the extent organized existence might appear, he did not expect it from within the Porte itself, nor from the old Sultan’s nominal supporters.
More likely, the Emir did not entirely trust him, or Halith in general. (If so, Caneris heartily returned the favor.) At the capital, the Emir would be more subject to Caneris’ force than at Ivoria, where he had considerable forces of his, and of less dubious loyalty (if that was possible), so perhaps the Emir was delaying to better marshal what support he could at the capital. What the nature of this support might be, and from where it might originate, Caneris could, for the moment, only guess. But he was coming to believe in its existence.
The Emir himself adding fuel to this smoldering speculation by insisting, during their first face-to-face meeting, that he should travel separately to the capital to declare himself sultan, with his own flotilla. It would be better in all ways, he said, if Caneris went first to Nicobar, to rendezvous with the slaver fleet when it was assembled and leave the escort there before proceeding to the capital, “should his presence be required”. That was errant nonsense: taking the escort with him was pure waste. The fleet could meet its escort at Winnecke IV and proceed to the Outworlds from there.
But doing so would remove a sizeable portion of Caneris’ force from the areas of most concern to the Emir at a critical time. Further, the Emir had made clear he expected Caneris to leave the Trifid Frontier Force at Ivoria, in his charge. The admiral had no notion of leaving POWs at the mercy of man like the Emir, or putting a modern fleet within his grasp. That was simply out of the question.
In thinking along these lines, Caneris had more to rely on than his judgment of the oily Emir. Since before the war, IRIS had maintained an agent in the Emir’s court, a vain and showy man, devoted to his creature comforts, who’d given his handlers much uneasiness. A Nicobarese by birth, IRIS had recruited him from, of all places, that world’s Ministry of Culture during a series of choral concerts many years ago. An authority on vocal music, he’d accepted a position as a visiting instructor at Halith Evandor’s leading musical academy for a year before returning home. A private citizen again, he’d been directed to secure a position with the Emir, who shared his passion for opera, and whose sybaritic lifestyle, reflected in his court, was much to his liking.
Caneris had met him once during his stay on Halith Evandor: a tall slender man with a high noble forehead, dark wavy hair, slightly mournful eyes that tipped down at the outer corners, a soft chin and caressing manners that made him irresistible to a certain type of woman. He made an odd companion for the short Emir, who was bald, paunchy, and had largish ears—defects he refrained from correcting for reasons of his own—but companions they were; by all accounts (as the archaic saying went), thick as thieves. As an agent, he had the singular advantage that no one, looking at him, would ever connect him with intelligence.
The admiral knew all this because, in the labyrinthine realm of Halith intelligence where spies spied on spies and guardians guarded against other guards, as much as (if not more so) than external threats, Danilov also had a confidential agent in the Emir’s court. This person, about whom Caneris knew nothing but a codename, “Palmer”, regularly reported on both the Emir and his IRIS counterpart.
Upon arriving, Caneris had received a number of updates from Palmer, among them the latter’s suspicions that IRIS may be in league with his political enemies, which did not surprise him at all. Much more disquieting, Palmer had detected some covert communications that seemed to be aimed at Iona. Given their history, that the Emir was playing a double game struck him as entirely plausibly.
However, none of this was anything marines could fix it at the present time. His orders were clear: secure the Winnecke IV junction, conduct the Emir to the capital, and provide an escort for the slaver fleet; and that was precisely what he meant to do. No more, though certainly no less, and (if at all possible), without letting the Emir out of his sight.
The thought of orders directed his attention to the chrono on a near bulkhead, a handsome antique his late wife had given him on their first anniversary, which had accompanied him on every commission since. Long-service mariners developed an acute sense of the passing of the watches; Caneris was no exception, and his gaze touched upon the chrono just as the seconds hand was sweeping to the apex. The chime—deep, sonorous, and to him, a particular comfort—announced the naval noon, and beginning of the afternoon watch.
The tapping of his thumb against his knee stopped. “It is time we open our orders, I believe.”
Their sealed orders, he meant, locked in his safe set into the bulkhead a meter below the antique chrono. Standing together, each produced an ingot of dull bronze-colored metal, and after tapping their private codes into the safe’s pad, applied the ingots to the outermost recesses. The middle slot was reserved for the ingot belonging to Caneris’ chief of staff, and it would have been usual for all three men to be present. Regulations required only one or the other to second Caneris, however, and since the unhappy end of Lieutenant Isleman, Captain Dupré had spent no more time in his admiral’s company than necessary. Caneris did not miss him: what gifts Dupré possessed were distinctly modest and now that his loyalty had been assured, Caneris employed him strictly for administrative matters, for which he was adequate. At the present time, his was downside, searching for another batch of mislaid spares, and doing what he could to urge the port authorities to greater efforts.
Caneris broke the seal on the envelope and removed the crisp sheet within. Unfolding it, his eyes skipped down the lines meticulously calligraphed in black ink.
“I shall inform his excellency that it is quite impossible for us to wait until his fleet is assembled.” He handed the parchment to Hoffman.
The captain’s eyes narrowed as he read it. “Even if we consolidate stores and reduce repairs to a bare minimum we cannot get our fleet in fighting trim by this date. Center Force, perhaps—though I cannot answer for all of it.”
Caneris waved that concern aside with a flick of his
hand. “That will have to be sufficient. Those ships remaining will secure Winnecke IV when they have completed stores. The Emir shall leave promptly and his fleet can join when—if—they become ready. With him gone, I think Dupré will have a much freer hand with the dockyard, and be better able to make his people jump. Flank Group can watch over our captures. Be so good as to transfer all our marines into Bolimov and Condorcet.”
“No marines on our captures, sir?” The captain’s voice made his concern plain, even as his face stayed impassive.
“Admiral Sansar can be trusted to abide by his parole. But we can spare Elchingen, I believe. That should do well enough.” IHS Elchingen was a grand old battleship, but slow, and now speed was everything. Any ships who could not keep up with his flagship would serve a more strategic purpose here, either guarding the TTF or holding the junction—now, a doubly vital task.
“As you wish, sir.”
“I would be obliged if you could supply me with a statement of condition for Bolimov and those ships most eligible to accompany her by tomorrow evening’s gun.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Very well, then.” Caneris rose and twitched his uniform jacket straight without a thought. “Now I shall explain the facts of life to our Ivorian friends.”
~ ~ ~
Day 211
LSS Kestrel, in free space
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
“That’s the quick cut from our end,” Commander Constance Yanazuka finished her abridged account of what happened at Ivoria. “Halith has de facto control of the sultanate and the Antares fuel fields.” She glanced at the group crowded into her quarters. LSS Kestrel was by no means a roomy ship, and the skipper’s stateroom (it hardly deserved the name) was no bigger than a junior officer’s berth on a major combatant. “And why do I get the impression things are even worse than I thought they were?”
The expressions on her listener’s faces were why. No real surprise there; just stolid acceptance of worst fears realized, not unlike hearing a doctor announce he has “unwelcome news”. Huron exchanged glances with Trin Wesselby and Major Lewis. Kris, sitting on his right, was looking down and chewing her lip. Then he answered the commander’s question; brief and to the point:
There was basically nothing in the way of the Prince Vorland Fleet now: it would take weeks to reposition the necessary forces; mounting any kind of operation, weeks longer. The political situation in regards to the Meridies complicated things further, potentially ruling out all but defensive measures.
“Yep. That’s worse.” Yanazuka’s expression was entirely ruthless.
“Can you give us any more details on how they pulled this off?” Huron asked her.
Her hands, clasped on the table, flexed. “We intercepted some traffic that suggested the Emir was ready to make his move. I sent a drone to Sanjay, but the Sultan must’ve already got the word. He’d left for Ivoria to attend some function—the Emir invited him. Next the admiral got a message from the Sultan, stating he’d arrested the Emir for treason and learned that a Halith fleet was due to arrive ‘shortly’. Sanjay sailed straight into an ambush. In demanding their surrender, the Emir called himself sultan.”
“Was Admiral Sansar able to send any messages?” Trin asked.
“He was—unfortunately.” Yanazuka paused. “A routine status message went out when he translated in. They let that one through. Then they closed the net.” Unfortunate, indeed—that would add at least a week before anyone started raising serious questions. The Halith commander had it all timed to a gnat’s ass. Or better. The commander continued. “We got out through the backdoor by the skin of our teeth, but I didn’t see much point in sending a drone ahead. Not without knowing how things stood here.”
That told Huron that Yanazuka had not trusted Admiral Rhimer with the revelations. A drone would’ve saved only eighteen or twenty hours, at best; not enough to make any difference as far as ELSEC was concerned, but plenty of time for Rhimer to overreact. History showed the wisdom of that judgment, even if it was moot when she made it.
Yanazuka’s statement about the skin of their teeth wasn’t quite accurate, though. There’d been six ships in her squadron; she arrived with five. Missing was LSS Merlin, commanded by EJ Evans. He’d been classmates with Evans at the Academy; a jolly stubborn barrel-shaped kid who loved to roughhouse. Not a guy to ever back down from a fight. Or surrender.
Huron pushed that thought way. “Commander”—addressing Yanazuka again—“I have General Corhaine waiting in our gig. I’d like to involve her in our discussions—strictly my responsibility. Is that agreeable to you?”
He made no attempt to justify his extraordinary suggestion—under normal circumstances, a court-martial offense, and perhaps a capital one—as current circumstances were as far from normal as could be imagined. But Constance Yanazuka had a reputation as stickler and she hadn’t always seen eye to eye with Huron in their prior dealings. This time, however, she just shrugged and gave him a nod.
“When my ass is on fire, anyone who can man an extinguisher is welcome.”
With that sentiment, heartily seconded by all on the compartment, Huron brought in the general and introduced her to Commander Yanazuka. These brief cordialities accomplished, he invited everyone to lay their cards on the table: “Strip down and lay it on the carpet” were the actual words used.
“Anyone wanna go first?”
After a beat of silence, Yanazuka accepted the baton. Kestrel had collected a large store of data covering the Emir’s activities while she was stationed there, but only a tiny fraction had been decrypted. There were indications the Emir was in the process of assembling a large fleet, nature and purpose unknown, in the vicinity of Nicobar. She felt it likely that the Prince Vorland Fleet expected to rendezvous with this fleet, but that was no more than a hunch. She hadn’t been able to collect any of the Prince Vorland Fleet’s comms worth mentioning—a few fragments; not enough to work with.
Huron expected Trin speak to this and she would have, had not Corhaine lobbed a bombshell onto the table first: “We have an operator in the Emir’s household.”
In the echoing silence, the general explained their contract with the Ionians included collecting intel on Emir’s intentions, especially with respect to Winnecke IV. With a glance at Min, she continued. “As I imagine some of you are aware, the Emir is a music lover. This allowed us to bring him in contact with our operator through another member of his court: a former official of the Nicobarese Ministry of Culture, who is enthusiastic about opera. Subsequently, our operator identified this person as an IRIS-controlled asset.”
This second detonation deepened the silence from her first blast. Surveying the professionally blank expressions around the table, except for Min, who looked like she might want to slap somebody, she said, “We’ve been able to exploit critical areas of the Emir’s network and household systems—his OPSEC people rely rather too heavily on the thug-at-the-door methodology. He does use Halith encryption standards, though, and that data remains mostly denied to us.”
“Mostly?” Trin said in the vacuum of sound when the general paused.
“Neither he nor the IRIS asset are especially reticent individuals, as you might expect. They can rarely resist dropping hints to a sympathetic listener.”
They did expect: Trin and Huron nodded without comment. Min’s mouth got a little tighter.
“Our operator detected that the Emir was planning a coup, but not how he planned to pull it off or the extent of Halith’s involvement. I submitted a report to the Ionians. It’s very possible the Ionians informed the Sultan.”
Huron leaned back, arms crossed. That would explain why the Sultan left before Yanazuka sent her message to Admiral Sansar. “Anything further?” he asked.
“We haven’t been able to receive reports for almost three weeks.” Diplomatically, Corhaine did not mention the self-evident reason.
“The Ionians gave you a tap and a drop box on the system node?” Trin asked.
“That’s correct.”
“So if you access it to download any news messages, ISS will know about it.”
“That is also correct.”
“Don’t see how we can avoid that,” Huron interjected. “The fire’s at their feet just as much as ours. We’ll need their help if we expect to do more than just watch the vultures circling.”
“You think they will help?” Trin’s voice had a caustic edge, slight but noticeable.
“Oh ye of little faith”—answering that edge with the ghost of a grin. Then he turned to Kris, who’d been mute thus far. “Have you heard anything about any business with this lithomorph?”
“A lithomorph? Dr. Leidecker talked about one on the way out”—recalling the discussion at dinner, well before they reached Iona. She’d given Huron a brief rundown on her adventures with Vasquez and Loews’ physician during the run-up to the conflict. “A living rock or something?
“Or something. Captain, would you mind filling us in on this part?” This last to Trin.
In clipped tones, Trin described her suspicions that Corporal Vasquez had been dispatched to Iona as part of a covert op aimed at “dealing with” the lithomorph. When she finished, Kris’s yellowed eyes declared her feelings on the matter. Huron continued.
“If so, there’s more going on here than meets the eye.” He looked down the table to Min. “Any comment, Major?”
“I think it’s best if the corporal speaks for herself, there”—an answer edged about with a touch of frost. “Shall I pass the word for her?”
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 46