Helfort's War: Book 1

by Graham Sharp Paul

  That was not to say that admirals and their staffs didn’t have to step in now and again; they did. It just didn’t happen quite as often as the action-adventure holovids would have you believe.

  So Kzela did his job, switching endlessly between the flag AI and the subordinate AIs controlling each of his ships with one eye watching the command, local, and threat plots like a hawk. But that was all he and his flag staff did. His captains knew what they had to do and needed no nagging from him to do it and do it well.

  But nobody had ever said it was easy just sitting there.

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  Hell-14

  As the final ops conference broke up into the usual noisy disarray, Michael waved Gerri Mangeshkar, his opposite number from 166, clear of the throng.

  “Hey, Gerri. One for the road?”

  “Damn straight, Michael! I feel like I’ve done nothing else but work since God knows when, so that’s just what I need right now.”

  Michael followed Mangeshkar as she turned right out of 166’s combat information center and down the narrow passageway to the wardroom. She waved him into a violently patterned armchair that had pride of place in the cramped compartment.

  “This is, without doubt, the ugliest fucking chair in all of humanspace, Gerri,” Michael said as he stretched out a grateful hand to take a small glass of Gabrielli single-malt cut with a dash of Jascarian spring water. It was pure mother’s milk, and Michael treasured every precious drop as it slipped down a throat dry and scratchy from a diet of too much recycled air.

  “So you say, Michael. But I’ll have you know it’s a treasured family heirloom belonging to our esteemed navigator.”

  “Balls, Gerri! Your previous skipper left it behind. I know. I checked.”

  “Bastard” was all Mangeshkar said as the two settled into a companionable silence. Michael and Mangeshkar were happy for the moment to do little more than stare into the depths of their drinks and let the seconds tick by unwatched.

  Michael finally broke the silence. “Four hours till the kick off, Gerri. How do you think it’ll go?”

  “Well, like you, I’ve been through the sims God knows how many times, and any way I look at it, I think Battle Group Delta is going to kick the Hammer back to join that damned Kraa of theirs.” Mangeshkar paused to take a long drink from her glass. “No, all in all I think that side of it’s fine. Jaruzelska should pulverize them, no problem. It’s us I worry about.”

  Michael nodded. “Funny you say that. The skipper was just saying how heavily we’ve drawn on our luck. Christ, I just hope it holds up another—what?—six hours. That’s not too much to ask, surely to God.”

  “I feel the same way, Michael. It’s almost like we’ve been tempting fate being here. Who would have thought it two months ago? Two light scouts spending nearly five weeks sitting on a piece of Hammer real estate only a couple of hundred thousand kilometers away from an entire Hammer flotilla. Shit, we’ve done exactly that, and it’s still hard to believe!”

  “It is. Still, we live in hope. Anyway, Gerri, much as I love you—and I do—we’ve got work to do, so I’ll say thank you.” Michael climbed out of the armchair, finishing his drink as he went. He took Mangeshkar’s outstretched hand. “It’s been an honor, Gerri. Truly it has, so let’s get through this, and hopefully I’ll see you on the other side.”

  “Take care, Michael. Let’s hope that the bastards are so busy fending off Jaruzelska and her overpaid staff that we can slip away without being seen.”

  “Let’s hope so. See you.” With that, Michael was gone.

  Mangeshkar poured herself another small drink and sat back down. Her department was well and truly under control, and if 166 wasn’t ready to lift off on schedule at 04:15, nobody would be pointing a finger at her. But the strain was killing her. She could see it in Michael, too. They’d both lost a good five kilos since Corona had started, and their faces sported the same dark black smudges under both eyes and the same tense, stretched look. The rest of 387’s officers didn’t look much better. Michael’s skipper in particular looked like a man about to be hanged, his face a drawn gray-tinged caricature. God only knew how he was coping. The final approach to Hell-14 must have been a killer.

  Mangeshkar gave herself a metaphorical shake. Fuck this, Mangeshkar, she chided herself. You’re getting far too maudlin. A final check of her department, a couple of hours of sleep, and then up to be ready for liftoff. Decision made, she downed her drink, slapped on an alc-suppressor patch to neutralize the two drinks she’d just enjoyed so much, and was on her feet, heading for the surveillance drone hangar.

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  Flag Combat Data Center, Onboard FWWS Al-Jahiz, Revelation System Farspace

  As Vice Admiral Jaruzelska settled into her seat to wait out the minutes until the final pinchspace microjump into Hammer nearspace, the flag combat data center was hushed. The only sounds were half-whispered conversations and the ever-present murmur of the air-conditioning.

  All around them, hunched over holovid screens and watched over by her chief of staff, the relentless Commodore Martin Li, a man she was convinced slept less than one hour a night, Jaruzelska’s flag staff checked and rechecked the final details of the attack.

  Not that there was anything that she or her staff could profitably do now, she reminded herself.

  Her job was the operations plan, and that had long been completed, worked and reworked, until every possible risk had been identified—eliminated if possible and managed if not. Now it was up to her captains, their ships, and the thousands of spacers under their command. If they got it right, she would be the hero of the hour. If they didn’t, her fall from grace would be savagely quick. Deservedly so, she thought. Everything she had asked for, she had been given. In return she had given her assurance that the mission would succeed, and she knew full well it was a bargain she would be held to.

  All of which was well and good, but it did nothing to suppress the nervous churning that was beginning to make its presence felt in a stomach she had been too busy to fill as often as she should have. She commed the galley for one last cup of coffee.

  The huge holovid screen that dominated the entire flag combat data center told the story.

  In loose formation around her were the seven heavy cruisers—Sina, Revenge, Damishqui, Zuhr, Arcturus, Searchlight, and Orion—which, together with the Al-Jahiz and eight light cruisers whose main responsibility was missile defense, made up Task Group 256.1, the primary assault force for the attack on the Hell system’s flotilla base, home to one Rear Admiral David Pritchard and the twenty warships of his Hell flotilla. To starboard and astern were the two light escorts attached to the Al-Jahiz task group, Crossbow and Bombard, providing casualty recovery and there to pick up the pieces if the cruisers made a mess of things.

  Ranged across hundreds of kilometers of space were the rest of her ships.

  The Hell Central attack force consisted of the four heavy cruisers Rabban, Al-Battani, Resilient, and Retaliate, together with two missile defense light cruisers and their casualty recovery ships, the light escorts Carbine and Arrow.

  The Hell-5 hostage recovery force was led by the heavy cruiser Repudiate and the heavy patrol ships Deflector, Democracy, Hatshepsut, and Fu Xi, followed up by Arbalest for casualty recovery, a ship so new that she had completed fleet acceptance in June and the fleet workup and operational readiness inspection in early October.

  There also were the ships tasked with recovering the Mumtazers from the outer mines together with the hijackers responsible for their capture: three heavy cruisers—Ulugh Beg, Resolve, and Khaldun—twelve heavy patrol ships—Ban Chiang, Akrotiri, Anjar, Eidetic, Denouement, Ecesis, Elegant, Hiradokoro, Djagaral, Dong Yi, Bampur, and Beaumaris—and the three light escorts for casualty recovery—Rifle, Destrier, and Mangonel.

  It was one hell of an outfit, Jaruzelska thought with considerable pride.

  Together with the two light scouts 387 and 166, s
he would command fifty-two ships for the attack on the Hell system, the best warships, combat systems, and spacers the Federated Worlds could assemble.

  And that wasn’t all of Operation Corona.

  Add in the heavy scouts tasked with dropping surveillance satellite killers and pinchspace drop decoys, the ships of Corinne Kawaguchi’s Task Group 683, whose swarm of pinchcomsat killers and ship simulators even now were driving their way into Hell nearspace, and the ships of Admiral Kzela’s Task Force 681, tasked with recovering the passengers and crew of the Mumtaz from Eternity, and Battle Group Delta was a hugely impressive force.

  All of which was well and good, but numbers never had been enough to ensure success. She hoped that the Hammer was impressed enough to get out and stay out of her way.

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  Ministry of Interstellar Relations, Foundation City, Terranova Planet

  Giovanni Pecora stood up as the perennially sour-faced Hammer ambassador was shown into the small meeting room that adjoined his office.

  Ambassador Yoon was well-known for his view that the Federated Worlds were nothing more than a filthy degenerate cesspit of heretics. From the day he had stepped unwillingly onto Fed soil, he had made little attempt to conceal that opinion from his unwilling hosts, an attitude that accounted for the open contempt in which he was held.

  “Sit down, Ambassador.” Pecora kept his voice as courteous as he could, even though in all his years of public service he had yet to deal with anyone as unappealing as the squat gray-haired man sitting in front of him. The only reward for his courtesy was a grunt as Yoon planted himself in the armchair on the other side of the small coffee table, with the registered observer seating herself unobtrusively to one side. Fuck you, then, Ambassador, Pecora thought, canceling his commed order for coffee.

  There was a moment’s silence. Pecora had seen more than enough of Yoon during the Delphic affair, though he had enjoyed Yoon’s obvious befuddlement over the ruse. Yoon sat in silence, obviously wondering what the Fed heretics were up to now.

  Pecora had no intention of keeping him waiting. “Thank you for coming, Ambassador.”

  Yoon’s face actually managed to turn even more sour.

  “The matter we wish to discuss is very serious, so perhaps the best thing I can do is to hand you”—Pecora paused to pick up a heavy bound document from the small table beside his chair—“this document. I think it will tell you everything you need to know. It makes our position quite clear.” Even to ill-mannered, superstitious primitives like you, Pecora thought as he settled back.

  Yoon half grabbed the document from Pecora’s outstretched hand. He rolled his eyes at the heft of the bundle. It was much too thick to be the usual complaint about some Fed commercial spacer being handled roughly by DocSec. Yoon sat back in his chair and started to read.

  From under hooded eyes, Pecora greatly enjoyed watching the blood drain from Yoon’s face as the implications of the diplomatic note and its declaration of limited military action sank into his shocked and disbelieving mind.

  At last, Yoon finished reading. He looked up, mouth working but unable to get the words out. Pecora just sat and watched, his eyes pitiless, his stare unwavering, as he saw Yoon struggling to come to grips with the enormity of what he had been given.

  Finally, Yoon managed to collect himself, clearly unable to believe what he had just read.

  “This cannot be true!” he blurted out. “You cannot be serious. Attacks on two Hammer systems! For an alleged hijacking? This is just lies. Unprovoked aggression. I don’t think you—”

  Pecora cut him off, rising to his feet, his voice brutal with barely controlled anger.

  “Frankly, Ambassador Yoon, neither I nor my government cares what you think. It’s all there in the statement of facts, chapter and verse, as required by the New Washington Convention. So unless you have any questions that the note does not answer, I suggest you leave now. I am sure your government would like to know of our declaration sooner rather than later. My staff will show you out. Goodbye.”

  With that, Pecora was out of his chair and gone. Yoon just sat, shocked into paralyzed immobility, the cheerful floral pattern of the armchair hugely at odds with the high drama of the moment.

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  The Palisades, Ashakiran Planet

  High in the mountains above the upper Clearwater Valley, the old man sat staring into the distance, the stress showing in stark lines cut across a face that had aged a decade in only weeks.

  The midday sun beat down relentlessly, bleaching the color out of the timber deck that looked toward the distant Karolev Ranges. The trees and mountains that framed the house were shimmering visibly as the heat of the day began to build up, the air trembling as it started its long climb thousands of meters into the sky. Behind the house, clouds already were building up as humid air started to fight its way across the Tien Shan Mountains.

  Andrew Helfort knew there might be a serious storm later in the day. The air was thick and heavy with the promise of it, but he did not care.

  Many minutes passed before he turned back to the young man sitting patiently beside him at the well-used table that had pride of place on the deck. The deeply varnished surface was immaculate, the deck around it pristine, kept that way by the habits of a lifetime of Space Fleet service. In the end, it had been all that had held the tortured mind, body, and soul of Andrew Helfort together.

  Andrew Helfort could barely speak, his voice coming out as a half-strangled croak. “You couldn’t be wrong about this, could you?” His voice cracked with doubt. The terrible, aching fear that the news of Kerri’s and Sam’s survival might not be true wracked his body.

  The immaculate young officer, his formal dress blacks at odds with the rough informality of the setting, shook his head emphatically. “Not a chance, sir, I can assure you. Federated Worlds forces are right now moving to recover your family and the rest of the passengers and crew from Eternity. Everything we know is available through the Corona persona. You have priority access, so please, see for yourself. Take all the time you need.”

  Andrew Helfort finally allowed himself to believe.

  The nightmare that had started that awful day when a police flier had arrived unannounced finally started to clear. The process was as slow and uncertain as the morning mist burning off the hills that surrounded the Palisades, tendrils of fear and doubt and grief coming back to wrap themselves around his mind, blotting out any newfound hope before disappearing as hope reasserted itself.

  He nodded.

  Reluctantly he commed the Corona persona. He half smiled as its avatar appeared. This one was a middle-aged woman clearly designed to radiate both sympathy and confidence in equal measure. He didn’t stay talking long. The holovids of Mumtaz in orbit around Eternity and the list of passengers and crew transferred dirtside, the names of Kerri and Sam there with all the rest, were all he needed. He broke the comm.

  “No,” he said. “There really doesn’t seem to be any doubt.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “When do they come home?”

  “The operation to recover them is under way now, and allowing for debriefing, they should be home in a bit over a week. But we’ll let you know an exact time as soon as we have one. But there’ll be no delays. We’ll be as quick as we can.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant, thank you. With all my heart, thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Believe me.”

  But then Andrew Helfort’s growing happiness collapsed as he suddenly realized that the Federated Worlds were in the middle of the biggest military action against the Hammer in almost twenty years and he had no idea where Michael was. His last message had been just before 387 had left for the Kashliki Cluster, and that had been weeks earlier.

  His mouth was suddenly dry, his heart thudding. “My son. What of him? Is DLS-387 involved? Tell me.”

  The young officer’s eyes skidded off Andrew Helfort’s face to look into the far distance. He
couldn’t help it as he was asked the one question he dreaded. “Well, sir, as you know, operational security means I cannot say…”

  The young lieutenant’s voice trailed off under the full force of Andrew Helfort’s best “I’m a Fleet captain and you’re not, so don’t fuck with me” look.

  “Er, yes, sir,” he stammered unhappily. “Well, as I was saying…”

  Andrew Helfort threw his hands in the air. “Young man, for God’s sake, get to the point. Is DLS-387 directly involved in Corona. Yes or no?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said reluctantly.

  “Right. Are you allowed to tell me in what role?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Fine. I don’t like it, but I do understand. When can I expect confirmation that DLS-387 is all right and on her way home?”

  “The operation is scheduled to complete no later than 09:00 UT. I can tell you that Fleet will be in touch with you as soon as they have received 387’s jump report.”

  Andrew Helfort nodded. He knew that was the best he could expect. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Now that the business is over, can I persuade you to stay and have some lunch?”

  “No, thanks, sir. Another time maybe. This is a great place you’ve got here.”

  “It might be, Lieutenant, it might be again one day,” Andrew Helfort said softly. But not until the whole family was back sitting alongside him. Which, God willing, they would be soon.

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  Eternity Base

  Digby settled down in the thinly padded seat of the big half-track as it swung out of the security compound and made its way down the road toward Eternity Base.

  The half-track splashed through the puddles of water left over from the day’s torrential downpour. What little twilight there was was fading fast, the setting sun obscured by thick gray-black clouds scudding across the sky, driven by a blustery swirling easterly wind; the humidity was about as bad as it ever got. Digby didn’t much care. Bad weather or not, it was now part of his routine to drive around the base, making sure that all was as it should be before climbing Humpback Hill to think about the day that just past and what the next day might bring.