by Mike Moscoe
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.
“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 sa
ilors.”
“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.”
It took Mattim a moment to react. “Thank you, comm” was all he could think of. Rubbing his eyes, he asked the obvious question. “Ding, are we rigged to support a flag and staff?”
“No, sir. It usually takes a week in the yard to peel back armor, insert modules, rearrange things.”
“And we’re to be ready for space tomorrow.” He sighed.
“Looks that way,” she agreed.
“Commander, I’ll be taking your stateroom.” Mattim turned to survey the back of the bridge. “Have four full situation stations installed,” he ordered. “God, I hate sharing a bridge.”
“Yes, sir.” Ding was all work again. She’d have to be; they had a rough day ahead, and a rougher cruise after that.
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Darjin on the quarterdeck. We’ve got a load out from the station armory that they want you to sign for personally.”
“What is it?” Mattim snapped.
She told him.
It was worse than he thought.
THIRTEEN
THE ADMIRAL DISMISSED the reorganized bridge with a wave. “I’ll spend any battle we may have in my day cabin. I’ll need a secure communications lead direct to my office. I’m having to be my own intelligence officer.”
“Yes, sir,” Mattim said. At least the admiral’s staff was small. He’d only had to roust out Guns to make way for the new chief of staff. “I’ll move the stations in there.” Ding quickly started the riggers tearing out what they’d just put in.
The sortie orders were given just as diffidently—a wave of the hand and a “Get us moving.”
Mattim doubted that was the Navy way, but he was too new to know for sure. He glanced at the chief of staff. “Repeat Admiral Hennessy’s orders,” he said. “They worked fine.” Mattim told comm to do so…and to keep the old message files with the last admiral’s orders handy. He suspected they’d get a lot of use.
Once the Sheffield was on its course for Gamma jump, Mattim left the bridge to do a second set of inspections. He was especially uncomfortable about the last delivery from the armory. The Sheffield was not designed for that kind of load; he’d post a 24-hour watch on it. He never thought as a captain he’d be glad to be quit of his own bridge. Today he was.
• • •
Ding shrugged as the captain beat her to an excuse to get off the bridge. He didn’t look any more comfortable sharing space with Admiral Whitebred than she was. She spent the time double-checking what she had already triple-checked. It was, after all, the Navy way and the best way she knew of to stay alive in space. Once the work crew reported the admiral’s stations were on line, she checked them out and dismissed the chief and his party. She was about to follow them when the admiral cleared his throat. “Could you demonstrate this to me?”
The Navy joked that every kid reporting for boot camp knew how to operate an admiral’s battle station; it looked just like a game station. Ding’s dad had plopped her down before a standard Navy-issue station on her sixth birthday. It was nothing like a regular education or game station. She’d spent the last thirty years figuring out how to squeeze the last ounce of data from each modified and updated version. No way could she tell him in five minutes what she’d spent a lifetime learning.
So she showed him how to turn it on. As she toured him through the most obvious features, he stood behind her. When his hands began making circles on the back of her shoulders, she decided he’d seen enough, tapped the help symbol, and stood up. “That ought to take care of any questions you have.”
“Doesn’t look that different from my first information station at corporate, ten years ago.” Ding would bet a month’s pay he was wrong. She kept her mouth shut and headed for the door. What did I think I saw in that empty bag of space?
“Colin, could I have a moment to discuss our mission?”
She paused, wanting very much to be gone. But she’d learned at her father’s knee that an admiral’s request was an order. She turned; he was pacing back and forth at a comfortable distance.
“This may take a while. Why don’t you sit down?” He waved distractedly at the couch. So long as he kept his distance, the couch should be fine. She settled in.
“We’ve got a tough assignment ahead of us,” he said, still pacing. “This war is gobbling up resources.” He paused. “Financially, it’s a disaster.”
“And it’s killing a lot of people, too,” Ding added.
“Yes. Yes, of course. And it’s only going to get worse. What we need is a strike that brings everyone to their senses. We can win this war in an afternoon if we cut through the crap.”
Ding’s study of military history told her such things sometimes happened. More often, a coup de main was full of surprises. Whitebred had stopped pacing and was suddenly on the couch beside her. His hand settled on her knee. In her black dress at the dinner party, that had been disconcerting. In her shipboard jumpsuit, it was damn distasteful.
“I need to know that when the time comes my orders will be followed to the letter. Will they?”
That hand was wandering her thigh. She tried to chuckle like her old man would have; it came out off-key. “We’re not shopkeepers, Admiral. When you give an order, we obey,” she quoted her dad. “Assuming, of course, the order is legal.”
Now why had she added that? That orders were lawful was a bedrock assumption that went without saying.
“Of course, of course,” Whitebred mumbled, “but if we pull off the endgame for this war, that will set us all up for life. We can write our own tickets.” His other arm had slipped unnoticed over the back of the couch. Now it was very noticed as it slid down to rest on her shoulder. She didn’t have much thigh left that the other hand hadn’t covered. “There won’t be anything you can’t have, if you play along with me.” While his hands held her like a toy, his eyes were focused far beyond her.
He wants my body, but will he even know it’s me? A month ago, Whitebred had been magnetic. But in the last month, she’d followed a real captain to the end of the galaxy and back.
Horatio was offering her a door into his life. All it would cost was her soul. A month ago she’d never seen a ship fought, a crew led quite the way this strange merchant captain handled his command. A month ago, the unknown of Horatio’s world had sounded pretty damn good against the known of her own.
But not now. Now she understood why her dad had toughed the Navy out for forty years. Now she knew what all the waiting and training was for. She’d fought and lived and opened up the galaxy. Damn, it had been terrifying—and fun! His hand was at the zipper of her jumpsuit. If she did nothing much longer—but there was no question what she would do. In one smooth motion, she fended his hand away from her neck and stood.
“Thanks for your thoughts, Admiral, but I’ve got a ship to run.” She didn’t look back, nor did she rush, striding calmly, an offi
cer returning to her duty. At the door, she couldn’t avoid a glance back. The man—and the emphasis was on the male part of the word—did indeed look frustrated. She left him.
Smoothly, she plugged herself back into the routine, moving from station to station, observing, checking. Only at Sandy’s station did she pause. “Trouble?” the jump master asked, nodding in the general direction of the admiral’s door.
“Nothing a big girl can’t handle. But the young middies might bear watching.”
“Even the one with a black belt?” Sandy’s eyes sparkled.
“But think of all the paperwork if she busts his arm.” Both women chuckled. But that did leave Ding with a problem. Did she tell the captain that Whitebred was out to win the war in an afternoon? How could she tell him that without also telling him the admiral had the morals of a tomcat and was on the prowl? While she liked the captain’s style and wanted to see how he solved most problems, how he’d react to the new admiral sexually harassing his XO was not on her short list of ways to spend an evening before battle. She’d let this one slide unless something more came of it.
• • •
Mary got exactly twelve hours to mount out a platoon for ship duty. Half of that she lost waiting for battalion to ship someone over to hold her pass. She was not amused.
The corps had its own way of moving an armed mob from point A to point B. It was a part of the manual Mary had been a tad too busy to read. They sent her the lieutenant to help her out.
It was embarrassing to have him salute her first.
“Congratulations, Captain.”
“I’m no captain.” Mary tossed off his salute.
“You are now. Admiral who wanted you insisted we cut your promotion papers.”
Interesting, but that didn’t answer half her questions. “What do we take, fancy Uniforms or antitank rockets?”
“Supply is doing a standard thirty-day package for you. Everyone takes their personal weapons and gear. The rest, brigade takes care of.”