Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  Now, it took on a darker complexion. Caneris did not believe the Emir could have engineered this betrayal on his own. The League, or more likely Iona (if Palmer’s suspicions had weight), was using him, having somehow learned of the invasion plans. Someone in IRIS must have been turned, or been extraordinarily careless.

  His thoughts turned to the IRIS agent and his cozy relationship with the Emir, but he thrust that distraction away. The Morus harbors should begin arriving sometime tomorrow. It would take a day and a half to reach them, if they pressed hard.

  “Signal Admiral Moreau. Tell him to disregard AG-VII and direct his efforts toward AG-I.” Somewhere in the Apollyon Gates an enemy fleet must be awaiting him. Moreau was hurrying ahead with their destroyer screen to find it.

  “Leave our right uncovered?” asked Hoffman.

  Caneris nodded. “I believe we must.” AG-VII linked with Eltanin, and lacking the six destroyers he’d been forced to leave behind, they could not adequately cover both approaches. Their whole invasion scheme depended on CEF Ninth Fleet having departed Eltanin, and Danilov’s people had judged that intelligence to be credible. He would repose his faith there. In which case, the enemy fleet almost certainly had to be Ionian. Iona was the key—that is, their fleet was. The mission couldn’t go forward until the key was in their pocket.

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 232 (0637)

  LSS Polidor, entering Whiskey Sector

  Apollyon Gates, Antares Region

  Within the confines of Polidor’s flag bridge, Kris tapped up Lieutenant Salsato in CIC, back in his familiar role as tactical action officer. Minerva Lewis and General Corhaine sat next to her. The general would return to Penthesileia as soon as they got a good look at the fleet now emerging AG-XI, dead ahead. That should be any minute now. The TAO’s visage shimmered into the display.

  “Talk to me, Salsato. What’ve we got?”

  “Halith fleet at nine fifty-three megs, ma’am,” he replied. “Formation unchanged. Closing at mark three-two-six. At current course and acceleration, we will enter their engagement envelope in . . . one hundred twenty-eight minutes.”

  “Very good. General order: set Condition One throughout the fleet, weapons tight. All ships come to formation”—her eyes flicked to her console—“Juliet-Tango. All ahead two-thirds. Acknowledge.”

  The acknowledgements flowed back across the net and Kris watched as her ships closed up and began to accelerate. Cloak, led by the light cruiser Tanith, took station in the right flank. Dagger, with Corhaine’s other light cruiser, Tisiphone, on point, formed up on the left. Pitchfork, including Polidor and Penthesileia along with Ariel, the resurrected Osiris and Ethalion, a destroyer crewed by Ionian volunteers, held the center.

  Far ahead, Jester, composed of Commander Yanazuka’s four stealth frigates would be taking up stalking positions behind Caneris’ approaching fleet. Far astern, a detachment of shipbreakers in three corvettes, designated Curly, Moe, Calvin (the names were their own, and meant nothing to Kris) were on their way to Deep Six.

  Forty-two thousand kilometers behind Polidor trailed the lithomorph in a special armored box, fitted with all the gear needed for Kris to communicate with it, and a covecom beacon to allow Trin or Dr. VelSilinjes to locate and recover it, should that become necessary.

  In thirty minutes, they would increase to flank and close to within torp range. After launching their first concentrated salvo, the formation would break to execute Capricorn, resulting—if their plan worked—in the pell-mell battle they wanted.

  “Anything else, ma’am?” Salsato inquired.

  Probably should be . . . There’d been the hint of a nudge in her TAO cum chief of staff’s tone. Oh right . . . “Wrap a package for Red Horse and send. Tell him we’ve made contact, dispositions . . .” Her voice faltered. Salsato new very well what to include in a data package. “You know the drill,” she finished lamely.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He had the good grace not to smile when he said it.

  “Carry on, Lieutenant.” Kris blanked the screen, wondering what else she might be neglecting.

  As if spurred by the thought, Corhaine asked, “Any thought of saying something to your people?”

  “Huh?” Kris glanced at her. The general’s expression was entirely enigmatic.

  Min’s wasn’t: she was grinning. “What I think the general is getting at, are you gonna deliver a stirring exhortation as we race into battle? You know, the St. Crispin’s day speech: We band of brothers. Or England expects that every man will do his duty. Or: Give me a fast ship for I intend to go in harm’s way. That sorta thing. The last might be apropos. The Ionians dote on him—took it for their motto.”

  “ ‘Give me a fast ship’ is their motto?”

  “ ‘To go in harm’s way’. John Paul Jones. Father of the United States Navy.”

  At least that explained why Kris couldn’t place the quote. She’d heard a lot about Lord Nelson at the Academy but few American admirals before the 20th Century by the Old Reckoning. She drummed her fingers, considering. Between Min looking like she was happily expecting the third act of her favorite play and Corhaine’s look that might signify anything—expectation, concern, detached appraisal—she had no idea what to think beyond the fact that something was obviously expected of her.

  Oh, what the hell. She keyed up her Signal Lieutenant, Ensign Naburu Simms. “Open the fleet broadcast channel, Ensign. Transmit in clear.”

  “In clear, ma’am?” Ensign Simms was young and very new at this job.

  “Damn right, Mr. Simms. Loud and clear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He tapped and typed briefly. “Channel open, ma’am.”

  “All hands, this is the Commodore.” She paused to draw a calming breath. “You may have noticed we are now in a target-rich environment. That’s the Prince Vorland Fleet inbound and you can be sure they wanna dance. We will accommodate them in about two hours.” Another pause. “Now I know you are all aware of their reputation. And you’re probably aware of mine. But just in case, let me tell you where I stand.”

  Her voice lifted. “I will not go home with ordnance in my possession as long as there are targets left to use it on. We fight until we’re down to rat packs and bad language! Is that clear?”

  Off to the side, Min was giving her a beaming thumbs-up.

  “If we run out of rat packs, we go to close quarters and kick ’em in the balls! We go home winners or we don’t go home at all.” She shot Min a look. “Now you Ionians. I’m told your motto is: To go in harm’s way. I want you to know I do not hold with that. I do not intend to go in harm’s way. I intend to put those sonsabitches over there in harm’s way!”

  Now the General was openly smiling and Min was smothering a laugh with her hand.

  “Alright people, now you know exactly how I feel. Good luck. Good hunting. Kennakris out.”

  She turned to her audience as the channel closed. “How was that?”

  “Bravissimo!” Min was clapping. “Bravissimo! Tour de force!”

  Corhaine continued to smile but said nothing.

  “F’chrissake, Min,” Kris muttered, a flush creeping up her face. “Why don’t you ever speak English?”

  “What fun would that be?” Min laughed. “You know? You almost quoted Patton there.”

  Kris sighed. “Who?” Min’s endless parade of historical trivia could get wearing.

  “General George Patton—US Army, Second World War. As I recall, at the end of a famous motivational speech he said: All right, you sons of bitches. You know how I feel.”

  Kris pursed her lips. “Yeah. That is better.”

  “Marginally.” Min’s grin was diminishing to a more tolerable scale. “Makes me wonder if the two of you ain’t related somehow.”

  She didn’t see the look Corhaine shot her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 232 (0800)

  INS Lexington, entering system

  Nicobar, Antares Region

  The heavy cruiser INS Lexington dropped out
of the High Holy(as mariners liked to call it) into far reaches of Nicobar’s system, brimming with goodwill and pacific intent. This, at any rate, was the impression they had labored to achieve, starting with a message from Admiral Caneris’ chief of staff, speaking for his admiral and bearing a perfectly authentic signature, directing the slaver fleet to rendezvous with its escort—seventeen ships named in an attachment—at the jump zone connecting Nicobar to the Acheron junction, and thus to Winnecke IV and the Outworlds.

  With Admiral Caneris dispatched to the Apollyon Gates, and the Emir thereby allowed to proceed to Andaman on his own as he’s so earnestly desired, the commander of the slaver fleet had been overjoyed that the Emir had evidently convinced the admiral to change his mind on this point also, and now here they were to fulfill that “happy expectation”, with Lexington in the character of the escort’s flagship, IHS Alma, and himself as Rear Admiral Vauban, the escort’s commander. Following Lexington were three more cruisers, four light cruisers, six destroyers and three frigates.

  Checking the formation, Commodore Bainbridge found it as he wished, for the most part. To emphasize his peaceful nature, he’d arranged the most inoffensive cruising order possible, with Lexington in the lead and his other cruisers, Shiloh, Trenton, and Saratoga, just astern in line ahead.

  Then a small gap, and two columns of his lighter combatants, headed by the irrepressible Hancock and Tecumseh, commanded by the sister of Hancock’s captain, determined not to let her younger sibling have all the fun. Last in the columns were two older ships, Decatur and Kearsarge, reactivated from reserve status, and trailing the formation in line abreast were his three frigates.

  It was those three frigates that caused him to add the qualifier “for the most part”. The Ionian Navy prided itself on having the best ship handlers in Charted Space, and not without justice. But this was no time to be showing away and those frigates were formed up just a tad too smartly to be quite convincing.

  Turning to his Signal Lieutenant, Padrick Garret, he highlighted them on the bridge’s main screen. “Message to Osprey and Lammergeyer. They are to swallow their pride and straggle a bit. Osprey may sag eastwards a trifle if she chooses.” He paused. It might be well to adjust the rigid perfection of the columns too. “Suggest to Algonquin”—one of his crack destroyers—“she might crowd her next-ahead. And Ranger might fiddle about some.”

  “Fiddle about, sir?” asked Lieutenant Garret with a smile.

  “Captain’s discretion”—with an echoing smile.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  As his ships carried out their orders to straggle, sag, crowd and fiddle, Bainbridge checked the time. He’d received no updates since a brief communication from LSS Kestrel just before exiting the Gates, and, short of a dire emergency, he expected none. By the schedule, Trumpet V should have arrived in the Gates a few hours ago and, based on Kestrel’s info, would be making first contact with the Halith fleet about now. The arrangement of jump zones in Nicobar’s system placed his destination 27 hours away at a brisk yet comfortable cruising rate.

  The slaver fleet, departing from Nicobar itself, would require about half that time to reach the jump zone, and it was imperative that it not be late. The Andamans in general, and the Nicobarese in particular, took a relaxed view of time, but Bainbridge did not think that would be much of an issue in this case. The fleet’s commander seemed quite eager to get about the business of raping and pillaging defenseless settlements. Reading a forwarded copy of that man’s response to the message he’d been sent in Caneris’ name, Bainbridge could almost see the drool.

  He glanced at the chrono again. It was almost time to announce themselves. This would be the first real test of their stratagems. The navy engineers had done their best in a short time to match his ships’ emission signatures to their Halith counterparts, the mass ratings were similar enough except for Lexington, mimicking a battlecruiser, and they had retuned Lexington’s drive plant to account for that disparity.

  Most of all, they had a full set of authenticated signatures and private signals, all thanks to an entity known (only to him and few select others) as the “Seventh Angel”. Who the “Seventh Angel” might be he did not know or desire to know, but judging by results so far, he was willing enough to admit this person’s angelic qualities. The next hour would reveal if his faith was misplaced or not.

  In the event it was—if somehow the Nicobarese saw through his ruse de guerre—his orders were clear: he was not to hazard his squadron. The rendezvous had been selected because it made sense the slaver fleet from the point of view of time, and to the Ionians because it was comfortably remote. With comms jammed by his EW section, Nicobar would not even be aware of the slaver fleet’s destruction; only that a fleet translated through the zone to the Acheron. When—make that if—they got around to checking the mass estimates of the fleet that left, they would tumble. That would be long after the (red) horse had left the barn, as it were.

  If, on the other hand, the slaver fleet remained in port at Nicobar for any reason, his orders clearly intended that he should not attack it there. But they didn’t expressly say that: merely that he must not hazard his fleet. Nicobar’s port was protected by a detachment of the Andaman Navy. Bainbridge had already reached his own conclusion about how much of a hazard this detachment posed to his squadron. And Nicobar was only seven hours away from his current position.

  With these thoughts in mind, he turned to Lieutenant Garret. “Make our salutations, Pat. Then send a message to that individual over there”—he meant the slaver fleet’s commander—“and desire him to make all ready to depart at the appointed hour.” Bainbridge caught his Signal Lieutenant’s amused look at his boss aping the stilted and archaic forms of the Imperial Navy’s official speech. “If you think it desirable, you might urge him to ‘lose not a minute’.”

  Garret allowed himself as much of a grin as bridge discipline allowed. “Yes, Admiral.”

  That “admiral” was perhaps not entirely consistent with said discipline, but the habit had spread through the ship since it became known who they were pretending to be. The crew was absurdly pleased with their “upgrade” to battlecruiser, and with their commodore’s “promotion”. Indeed, Bainbridge had become aware that, Rear Admiral Vauban’s given name being Augustus, some members of the lower deck had taken to calling him “Gus” in place of his previous moniker “Ichabod”.

  Bainbridge, himself, did not care one way or another. If they pulled this off, his people were free to call him any damn thing they wanted.

  ~ ~ ~

  Four: The Wrath of the Lamb

  “For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?”

  —Revelation 6:17

  Day 232 (1600)

  LSS Polidor, engaged

  Whiskey Sector, Apollyon Gates

  Strange symphonies, stranger signs. Startling colors—steamy alizarin, a laughing gold that tickled and teased, the most beautiful teal she’d even known—Mariwen had worn it on their night out—all singing a lyric of shapes, coalescing beautifully, completely—the soft, enfolding rapture of perfect understanding . . .

  The fingers of her good hand flicking across the keys and in the back of her mind, in a reserved space, Corhaine’s smooth, cool and utterly assured voice, managing the battle as though she were conducting an orchestra:

  “Cloak, your mark is that battlecruiser at zero-one-three, angels eleven. Get his attention but do not engage. Your exit is Zulu Tango. Prepare to jump in forty-five. Convolution uplinking . . .” Kris hit SEND with her right thumb. “. . . now.”

  With a deep breath and an electric shudder down her backbone, Kris reconnected with the world outside. Scanning the situation displays, she saw their plans were working: using lots of ice and hitting constantly from three directions. Keeping things stirred up. It felt like ages but the chrono informed her it’d been barely eight hours.

  No casualties to speak of yet—a couple of minor victories: one destroyer notched
and another limping. Another sixty hours of this . . . or seventy-two. Maybe eighty.

  Maybe more . . .

  A ping came through from Corhaine over the special tight-beam they’d set up to Penthesileia.

  “Commodore, we have a priority one.”

  “Shoot.”

  “DESRON coming out hot and angry. Need Dagger to stage an intervention. Hooking with drones now.”

  There they were on her display: four destroyers and a light cruiser boosting hard after Cloak. Finally they had a chance for a big bite. “Got ’em. Not very subtle, are they?”

  “I don’t think they have time for subtle.”

  Kris grinned at the hint of a chuckle in the general’s voice. “Working . . .” Then sliding down, into the zone, merging with the music . . . Corhaine’s voice, that soothing effortless tone of command, her anchor . . .

  “Dagger, this is Pitchfork Bravo. Your target is that DESRON at one-six-zero, angels minus two. You have drone cover from the west. We’re giving you the inside track. Conserve your missiles if you can. Convolution coming in seven, six, five . . .”

  SEND.

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 232 (1615)

  IHS Mistral, engaged

  Whiskey Sector, Apollyon Gates

  “Why don’t I have any detonations?” Captain Amadeus Potucek of IHS Mistral demanded of his weapons control officer. They’d fired a full salvo of torpedoes at the enemy formation closing in from starboard, led by a heavy cruiser or perhaps a battlecruiser—his electronic warfare officer had not been able to tell in all the ice and with the formation employing heavy ECM—without apparent effect.

  “Improper range setting, sir,” the WCO replied, with a daggerish look at the electronic warfare officer. “Due to ECM. The torpedoes passed the formation before they armed.”

  “Reload and recompute!” barked Potucek. “Come to heading . . .” The order froze in his gullet. Passed the formation before they armed? That formation must be much nearer than he thought. Why hadn’t they fired? “Conning officer! Where did that formation come from?”