Brothers in Valor (Man of War Book 3)

by H. Paul Honsinger

  As a parting gift, the humans’ destroyer fired two extremely large, fast missiles, each aimed at the gravity generator for one of the cargo dumps. The commander smiled. A single warhead, even the 3.15-million explosive-yield unit (1.5 megaton) warhead on the Union’s Raven missile would do little more than destroy the gravity generator and something like a quarter to a third of the supplies that orbited it. Tugs would simply chase down the remainder as they slowly drifted out of formation, and the commander would very shortly be back in the business of provisioning the Hegemony’s warships.

  The two missile warheads detonated within a heartbeat of each other. The commander was shocked at their brilliance. He had never seen a 3.15-million unit warhead detonate before, but he had seen smaller weapons. He expected something two or three times as bright as the other detonations he had witnessed, while this one was vastly brighter, so bright in fact that the automatic polarizers had stopped down the transparency of the viewport by several steps. He pulled up a yield analysis of the explosions.

  The commander’s tail hit the floor in shock and despair. The Union destroyer had not fired two Ravens. It had fired two Condors. The preliminary analysis was that the enemy warheads had a yield of more than 180 million explosive yield units. He quickly used the computer to confirm what his mental estimate had already told him: that a yield of anything more than 155 million units or so would destroy virtually all of the dump and propel any surviving cargo containers into a set of high-speed trajectories spreading radially away from the center of the explosion, where they would almost certainly never be located, much less caught and recovered.

  The commander had presided over one of the greatest strategic disasters since the Hegemony had first reached out for the stars. Instead of a name of triumph, the commander was certain that he had today earned a name of disgrace. Henceforth, he would be known as something like “Allowed Enemy to Destroy Critical Materiel” or “Watched Humans Blow Up Supplies.”

  His shame would cling to him for the rest of his life and to his descendants for generations.

  The enemy fighters then veered away from what was left of the Hegemony installation and headed back to their mini-carrier, with the Union destroyer in their wake. The commander noticed that his tail was lying limp on the deck, a sign of almost inconsolable grief and dejection. As he willed the wayward appendage into a more appropriate posture, he told himself that he would not need to worry about his tail for much longer, as the theater commander, Officer Grade 37 Rammed Enemy Battlecruiser, would almost certainly cook it into his soup.

  “Warlike Commander, transmission in the clear from the enemy destroyer,” the Communications Officer said.

  “Display it.”

  The warlike commander didn’t have to wait the twenty or thirty heartbeats it took for the computer to generate a translation. While incompatible vocal and hearing organs meant that virtually no members of his race could understand any human spoken language and no member could speak it, the commander was well educated and fluent in written Standard. He had no difficulty understanding the text that appeared on his display, except that he needed the computer to provide the meaning of the mysterious term “y’all.”

  TO COMMANDER HEGEMONY FORCES IN THIS AREA FROM COMMANDER UNION FORCE, I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE GIFT FROM TASK FORCE 88C, THE ROYAL RASHIDIAN SPACE NAVY, THE 16TH ELEMENT OF THE 332ND FIGHTER GROUP, PFELUNGIAN SPACE DEFENSE FORCE, AND THE USS CUMBERLAND, UNION SPACE NAVY. WE APPRECIATE YOUR WARM HOSPITALITY AND ENJOYED OUR VISIT SO MUCH THAT WE WILL SOON BE PAYING VISITS ON MANY OF YOUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS. Y’ALL HAVE A NICE DAY. BEST REGARDS, LCDR MAXIME TINDALL ROBICHAUX, UNION SPACE NAVY. MESSAGE ENDS.

  A hundred or so heartbeats later, just long enough for this additional humiliation to sink in, a warning on his display alerted him that a routine internal radiated-frequency scan routine had spotted a series of anomalous signals being transmitted to all of the neural interface modules implanted in his brain and those of some of the senior officers on board. Out of an abundance of caution, he ordered the computer to disable all of the neural interfaces. For reasons the commander did not understand, the computer refused to accept this order. He immediately transmitted a similar shutdown order to the officer charged with computer-interface issues and then entered an order directing the computer to determine the nature and likely effect of the signals.

  As the computer was working on that request, the commander, along with the other officers with neural interfaces, felt a sharp pain in their heads, excruciating at first and rapidly escalating to a level beyond unbearable. The commander and the rest fell to the deck screaming, blood pouring from their noses and ears.

  Before any medical assistance could reach the commander, he was dead.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  04:27 Zulu Hours, 16 May 2315

  “Skipper, signal by lights from the RRS Makkah,” Chin said. “The Rashidian vessels, the Nicholas Appert, and the Pfelungian mini-carrier request leave to part company.” The Cumberland had completed filling her fuel tanks and transferring from the tender all of the provisions and matériel that she could cram into her holds only a few moments before. Under Admiral Hornmeyer’s orders, at this point Max had to relinquish the tender for the support of other operations.

  “Reply Permission granted and Godspeed.” A look of uncertainty crossed Max’s face. “Belay that.” He turned to Bram, who, as often happened, was sharing the seat at the commodore’s station with Clouseau. At the moment the doctor was giving the cat, who clearly was in no danger of malnutrition, a small brownish cube from an aluminized Mylar packet labeled: Union Space Navy Field Ration (FRFD-6-F), Feline Personnel Only, Supplemental Discretionary Ration (“Treat”), Nuggets, Fish with Shrimp Flavor (8). Note: IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT NO FELINE BE FED MORE THAN FOUR (4) NUGGETS PER DAY OR OBESITY MAY RESULT. Sahin had long ago gotten over his bemusement at the notation “Feline Personnel Only.” As for the note regarding “obesity” that “may result” from too many cat treats, Clouseau was far beyond the point at which such a warning had any preventive value.

  “Doctor,” Max asked, “is it appropriate to say Godspeed to a Muslim? Or a ship full of Muslims? I wouldn’t want to give offense to an outstanding officer such as Commander Hajjar, particularly over so small a matter as a farewell wish.”

  The doctor discreetly slipped the shiny packet of cat treats back into his pocket, hoping that none of the midshipmen had seen him violating his own lectures to them about overfeeding the cat. He contemplated the issue for a moment and used his console to pose two quick queries to the ship’s database. Sahin was a deliberate man and rarely spoke without due consideration, particularly on matters that bore on his faith. “I can assure you that no offense would be taken by any reasonable follower of Islam,” he said. “As I have just learned, Godspeed is a survival from the Middle English expression God spede, which meant May God grant you success. It is a perfectly devout wish. We Muslims even say it ourselves when speaking Standard, as there is no equivalent and equally economical expression in Arabic, Turkish, or Persian.”

  “But what about saying God instead of Allah?”

  “A reasonable question, Captain. Ordinarily we Muslims do not take lightly the substitution of God for Allah. But here we are dealing with a linguistically specific idiom, which Commander Hajjar will certainly recognize as being well meant. Besides, I’m certain that he would recognize—as do most Muslims—that when you refer to God, you are invoking the name of He Whom we call Allah. After all, your faith and ours both recognize that there is only one God, the God of Abraham.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You can be a very handy—if somewhat overly loquacious—man to have around. Chin, transmit by blinker Permission granted. Godspeed and good hunting.”

  Chin acknowledged the order and busied himself at his console to send the message. “Response from the Makkah,” he said a few moments later. “May Allah send his angels to guard and watch over you.”
r />   “Very well. Acknowledge the message.”

  As Chin acknowledged the order, Max looked at Bram, tilting his head expectantly.

  “In most circles that would be regarded as an exceptionally kind benediction to give to someone outside our faith,” Bram said, knowing what information Max wanted without being asked.

  “Sir,” Chin said as soon as the doctor stopped speaking, “message by lights from the Pfelung mini-carrier.”

  By unspoken agreement everyone on board the Cumberland referred to the vessel in question as the Pfelung mini-carrier rather than by its name in Pfelungian, which—as far as Max knew—no human could pronounce, or by the translation of that name into Standard, which he had recently learned was Bearer of Tiny but Ferocious Hatchlings Hungry to Attack and Eat the Entrails of All Evil Predators. Everyone on the Cumberland assumed that the name was much shorter and sounded a lot better in Pfelungian; otherwise they would entirely lose their faith in the bureau that named the ship—the Intermediate-Grade Naval Administrative Command for the Assignment to Warships of Names That Are Suitably Bellicose Yet Still Appropriately Dignified.

  “Let’s have it, Chin.”

  “I think I’d better give it to you on Commandcom,” he said, suppressing a snicker.

  “Very well.” Max instructed his console to access the Commandcom data channel, the one reserved for communications intended for the ship’s CO.

  TO ROBICHAUX FROM BRAKMOR-ENT 198. THANK YOU FOR THE FUN OF SNEAKING UP BEHIND THE KRAG AND STICKING NUCLEAR WEAPONS UP THEIR CLOACA. WE LOOK FORWARD TO THE HONOR OF SWIMMING WITH YOU AGAIN AND WISH YOU GOOD FORTUNE IN FEEDING MORE KRAG TO THE FOUL BOTTOM-MUD DWELLING SCAVENGER FISH AND SLIMY WORMS. MAY WE TOGETHER RIP OUT THE ENTRAILS OF THE LAST LIVING KRAG AND FLOAT GILL TO GILL AS WE WATCH IT THRASH IN PAIN BLEED AND DIE. MESSAGE ENDS.

  “Mr. Chin, acknowledge the message and tell Brakmor-Ent that a reply is forthcoming.” Max began typing.

  “Wow,” Levi said, “I’m glad the Pfelung aren’t pissed off at us.”

  “No argument from me, but there is such a thing as carrying hate too far,” DeCosta added from his place at the XO’s station.

  Max stopped typing. “True, XO, but I’m not sure that anyone’s carrying anything too far here. Given that the Krag came within half a millimeter of wiping out the Pfelung as a species, I can’t say I blame them.” Max turned to the Weapons Officer. “Mr. Levy, any chance of your people forgiving Hitler?”

  “Sir, as you are aware, that slimy little nutcase motherfucker blew his brains out 370 years ago. So, not yet,” he responded. “Check back in another thousand.”

  “Probably not even then. Hell,” Max said quietly to DeCosta and Sahin, “I haven’t forgiven him, and it wasn’t my relatives the sick, evil bastard was having herded into the gas chambers and shoveled into the ovens.”

  Max resumed typing for a few moments. “Okay, Chin. Send this by lights to the Pfelung.”

  TO BRAKMOR-ENT 198 FROM ROBICHAUX. OUR PLEASURE. IT IS ALWAYS AN HONOR TO SWIM WITH YOU. YOUR COURAGE AND SKILL ARE AN EXAMPLE TO ALL WHO FIGHT AGAINST THE KRAG TO PRESERVE THEIR FREEDOM AND THE SURVIVAL OF THEIR SPECIES. MAY YOUR ATTACK TEETH FIND THE SOFT WHITE BELLIES OF YOUR ENEMIES. I HOPE THAT WE ARE IN THE SAME WATERS AGAIN BEFORE TOO MANY TIDES HAVE EBBED. MESSAGE ENDS.

  “Message sent and acknowledged, Skipper,” Chin said a few moments later.

  “All vessels are engaging their sublight drives,” Bartoli reported. “Now running them up to FULL and shaping course for this system’s Bravo jump point.”

  “Very well. It’s time for us to make our exit as well,” Max said. “Maneuvering, may I safely assume that you’ve received the coordinates of the waypoints worked out by Messrs. DeCosta, Ellison, and Bhattacharyya to put us in place to intercept Admiral Birch?”

  “Yes, sir, you may,” LeBlanc answered in kind. If the form of the skipper’s question deviated from standard naval phraseology, custom on the Cumberland established since Max took command dictated that so should the answer.

  “Outstanding. Then set course for our first waypoint. Keep it very stealthy: make your speed 137 c. Let’s go see if we can catch us a legendary Krag admiral.”

  When LeBlanc had acknowledged the order and set about implementing it, DeCosta gazed at the icons in the 3D tactical display that represented the Rashidian and Pfelung ships as well as the tender. “I wonder where they’re going,” he said.

  “Hmpf. So do they,” Max said. “All they have right now are orders for the next two or three jumps, with no knowledge of their final destination. After that they’ll get their rendezvous orders by means of Hornmeyer’s new BBC-French Resistance embedded message technique: they’ll just monitor a different civilian entertainment broadcast for two or three different commercials for specific products, use the skipper’s voiceprint as the key to perform a decrypt on one of the metaspacial subcarrier signals, and watch as the computer pops out a set of detailed mission orders. It’s brilliant—Hornmeyer retains the flexibility of being able to give new orders to forces behind the lines without the enemy even knowing a coded message is being sent, much less what it says. And even if the Krag knew that the messages were in the broadcasts somewhere, there isn’t enough computing power in the whole Hegemony to perform an iterative decrypt on every minute of every commercial on every channel in time to be militarily relevant.

  “He infiltrated Commander Hajjam’s group and two or three tenders—I didn’t ask which, and Hajjam didn’t tell me—in Krag space five months ago more than a hundred light-years from here. I suspect that he slipped some other forces in as well, probably a few other destroyers like us, and he’s been sending them where he thinks they can do the most damage ever since.”

  Max turned forward. “Mr. LeBlanc, estimated time to the first waypoint?”

  “Nine hours, fourteen minutes, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  ▪

  00:43 Zulu Hours, 18 May 2315

  “I was greatly exasperated by the regrettable but obvious necessity of eschewing our planned attack on the admiral’s convoy,” Bram said between bites as he devoured a white bean and lamb dish, the name of which Max could never manage to remember but which even his Cajun nose could not help but conclude smelled delicious. “And given that your nature is considerably more bellicose than mine, I’m sure that your level of frustration is quite high at this particular juncture.”

  “I’m not as unhappy as you might think,” Max answered as he wolfed down a chicken-fried steak roughly the size of a hatch cover. “It was while we were shadowing that convoy that we picked up ship-to-ship chatter indicating that the admiral would be more vulnerable to attack at our next destination. Of course, I would much rather have already achieved our objective than have it still lie before us. Not only is a bird in the hand worth two in the bush, but Admiral Birch’s convoy is leading us deeper into Krag space, which, as I’m sure you understand, increases the danger to us and complicates an already difficult fuel and consumables situation. Nevertheless, I’m pretty confident that we are going to be able to get the bird in the bush in one of these systems he’s about to visit.

  “The admiral inspects a base or meets with a local commander or whatever he does, and then his convoy takes him at sublight to the system’s jump point. We get a shot at him when he’s going to or from the jump point, or when he’s crossing from one jump point to another in one of the systems between stops on his schedule. If we can’t get at him at one of these attack opportunities, we’ll just run ahead on compression drive to the next system or the one after that. That’s one of the upsides of having his itinerary—we know where he’s going. So, since he’s got to travel in system at sublight, we can always get ahead of him.”

  “Then I will allow my exasperation to abate somewhat, conditionally at least, provided we are able to blow that other bird to flaming atoms. I find that I derive more pleasure than perhaps I should from watching the destruction of our enemies on the displays. But what of our earlier conce
rn that the laurel-laden rodent admiral is not embarked on this convoy and that it is nothing more than bait for an elaborate trap?”

  “I’m really not worried anymore about the convoy being a trap,” Max said, “at least in the conventional sense of the word. Having a whole library of old Krag encrypts makes it easier to break the new ones, which has helped Batty, Bales, and the gang in Crypto break the encrypt this convoy is using. We monitored enough of the rat-faces’ comms in these last few systems to know that the real Admiral Birch actually arrived at those systems when the convoy arrived, left when the convoy left, and has been communicating with his headquarters as well as systems on his itinerary from the VIP transport in the convoy. My gut tells me that Birch is in that convoy, which explains why it has that new multiship sensor signature-suppression system, probably bolted onto that huge tanker they’ve got. It’s making it far more difficult to find the convoy, resolve the sensor contact into individual ships, and ID the ships. If we didn’t have the itinerary, we’d really be screwed. Anyway, Ensign Bhattacharyya’s analysis of the SIGINT to and from the convoy says that Birch is on that convoy. I ask you, do you ever remember my gut and Batty’s intel analysis to be wrong about the same thing at the same time?”

  “I can’t say that I have,” Bram said. “But if he is actually on or in or with that convoy and if it is as lightly protected as I understand it to be, isn’t the admiral quite dangerously exposed to attack? Why would the Krag risk so valuable a military asset?”

  “I don’t know, Bram. There are only three things I can think of. One, Batty and I are both totally, unprecedentedly wrong about the admiral’s location. Two, Admiral Birch is protected from attack in some way that I am not aware of. Or three, the Krag for some reason are supremely confident that we won’t attack the convoy—maybe they think it’s too deep in their space, or we have no hope of finding it, or we have no idea that the admiral is even out here in the first place.”