Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind #2)

by Christopher Nuttall

  They paused outside a wooden door, which opened slowly to reveal a conference room. A large table dominated the space, with five men sitting on the far side and a handful of wallflowers standing against the wall, under a large portrait of King Hadrian. Kat felt her blood run cold as she recognized the prime minister, the Leader of the Opposition, and Grand Admiral Tobias Vaughn, the First Space Lord. It was starting to look as though she was in real trouble. A room hadn’t felt so ominous to her since she’d attended a court-martial, after the incident on HMS Thunderous . . . and she had been a witness, not the one facing the full weight of military justice. It took all the discipline she had to hold herself steady as her father walked forward, then bowed politely to the prime minister.

  “Duke Falcone,” Arthur Hampshire said. He looked at Kat. “Captain Falcone. Please, be seated.”

  Kat obeyed, feeling as if her mouth was suddenly dry. She was barely aware of Sandra stepping backwards until she was standing against the wall, joining the other wallflowers. She had to force herself to look at the prime minister, meeting his gaze as steadily as she could despite her growing nervousness. He looked back at her, his face expressionless, as she hastily tried to recall everything she knew about him. She didn’t know him that well, although she’d met him at a couple of formal functions she would have preferred to avoid. He would have the confidence of the king, as well as the houses of Parliament; now, in wartime, he would have to gather and hold the confidence of the opposition as well.

  “This meeting of the Commonwealth Defense Committee is called to order,” the prime minister said. “I must state for the record, here and now, that while we are currently serving as an informal fact-finding committee, our decisions will have a very real impact on the war.”

  Kat had to fight not to clench her fists, silently cursing her family. Any other naval officer who shot their mouth off in public would be severely reprimanded by his or her superiors . . . or put in front of a court-martial, if the offense was serious enough to merit more than a verbal reprimand and a nasty note in their file. But she, the daughter of the Minister for War Production himself, couldn’t be handled gently, not when she’d accidentally kicked a political hornet’s nest. They needed to make it clear that she was being punished for her thoughtlessness before the opposition started feeling the heat from some of their supporters.

  An informal committee, her thoughts mocked her. Of course it will have an impact on the war.

  She glanced at her father, feeling suddenly out of place. If she’d been put in front of a court-martial, she would have known how to react; if she was being chewed out by her superior, she would have held herself steady and waited for him to run out of unpleasant things to call her. But this . . . the men in the room were the most powerful men in the Commonwealth, excepting only the king himself. They could wreck her career with a thought.

  The prime minister met her eyes. “Perhaps, Captain Falcone, you could enlighten us as to what you were thinking last night?”

  Kat winced inwardly. The Commonwealth Defense Committee couldn’t have expected to be summoned to deal with her; hell, her father wouldn’t be the only one whose schedule had been badly upset by the incident. But with a gadfly like Justin Deveron buzzing around, failing to deal with the problem as quickly and decisively as possible would cause all manner of problems. She’d been right . . .

  . . . but she knew enough about High Society to know that being right was no defense.

  “I was defending a fellow officer,” she said, finally. There was no point in trying to deny anything, not when most of the guests would have been using their implants to record the entire party for later analysis. “Mr. Deveron’s attacks on Admiral Christian were quite beyond the pale.”

  “They are also not taken seriously,” the Leader of the Opposition said. “There was no need for you to defend the admiral.”

  Kat met his eyes. “If I had failed to rebut the accusations,” she said, “it might have lent them credence.”

  The prime minister smiled, humorlessly. “There is little so conspicuous as a man ducking for cover,” he said. “Your knee-jerk defense of a fellow officer might have lent credence to the charges against Admiral Christian . . . particularly, I might add, as you were trying to defend a position that seems flawed, even if it was entirely accurate. It was lucky, I suppose, that you didn’t indict Admiral Morrison. That would have set the reporter among the politicians.”

  “It was not my intention to cause a political crisis,” Kat said, after a moment. She had difficulty in believing that any political crisis could be caused by ticking off a gadfly, but politics was a funny business. Maybe Deveron had friends who needed to stick up for him, if only to avoid being thought fools for believing his armchair theorizing. “If I have caused a problem, I sincerely apologize.”

  “You have created a major headache,” the prime minister said. “Do you have anything you wish to say in your own defense?”

  Kat hesitated, then took the plunge. “Merely that I should be on the front lines, not here,” she said. It was hard to keep the bitter frustration out of her voice. “I am profoundly unsuited to serve as a political or military spokesperson—or anything, apart from a starship commander.”

  The prime minister nodded, then looked at the First Space Lord. “Tobias?”

  Grand Admiral Vaughn nodded curtly. “Captain Katherine Falcone,” he said. “It is my obligation to inform you that your active duty career has been suspended, prior to a full investigation by a board of inquiry and possible court-martial proceedings. During this period of time . . .”

  Kat barely heard him. The world seemed to fade out around her for a long moment, leaving her feeling dizzy and unwell. If she hadn’t been seated, she knew her legs would have buckled. Her career was doomed. Even if the inquiry decided in her favor, she would never hold command again. Telling off a gadfly had cost her everything and . . . and the best she could hope for was either to find private employment or remain stuck on Tyre.

  “That won’t be necessary,” a commanding voice said.

  Kat glanced up sharply. One of the wallflowers had stepped away from the wall, coming into the light. But who would dare to interrupt the grand admiral?

  “It is remarkably hard to blame Captain Falcone for pointing out the many flaws in Deveron’s position,” the wallflower continued. “I do not see any reason she should be penalized for it.”

  “Your Majesty,” the prime minister said. “There are political concerns . . .”

  Kat stared. The king? She’d seen King Hadrian a few times, but he’d always been wearing robes or uniforms . . . both of which had drawn attention away from his face. He’d been able to blend into the wallflowers easily, simply because it would never have occurred to her to think of them as anything other than part of the furniture. But, now that she knew who it was, it was easy to match his face to the portrait hanging from the wall. Her father rose and bowed; she followed hastily, then returned to her seat. She’d never met the king formally outside court!

  “But those political concerns pale in importance compared to winning the war,” King Hadrian said. He didn’t seem concerned about the lack of protocol. “Victory salves many wounds, Arthur, while defeat renders them immaterial.”

  He took a seat at the end of the table, then smiled. “Captain Falcone, it is my very great pleasure to offer you command of Operation Knife,” he said. “I believe it would be ideally suited to your talents.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kat forced herself to think coldly and logically, despite the multitude of shocks. Her career had been ruined—she knew that for a fact—and then saved by the improbable appearance of King Hadrian himself. But she hadn’t heard him enter the room after the door had shut, which meant he’d been watching her ever since the meeting had started. Had he planned the whole thing? And, if so, why? To see what she would do if confronted with the prospect of losing everything? Or merely to make it clear to her just how close she’d come to complete di
saster?

  “I would be honored,” she stammered.

  She knew nothing about Operation Knife but it had to be better than being put in front of a board of inquiry. It crossed her mind that the king might have planned matters so she’d feel obliged to accept, but he’d hardly need an elaborate charade to convince her to take the job. She’d been so bored on Tyre that she would have happily accepted a mission that involved returning to Cadiz or one of the other occupied worlds. Given how many times she’d pestered the Admiralty for a new assignment, the king had to know she wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

  “Very good,” King Hadrian said. He looked at the grand admiral. “By the authority vested in me, under the War Powers Act, I am assigning Katherine Falcone to Operation Knife. We will, of course, play up the fact she is a hero to convince the grown-ups to keep any threat of a political crisis under control. I refuse to sacrifice an officer to a moron’s delusions of grandeur.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the grand admiral said.

  King Hadrian smiled, then winked at Kat. She couldn’t help smiling back. King Hadrian was only two years older than her; indeed, he was one of the youngest monarchs ever to take the throne, wielding very real power. God knew her mother had sometimes whispered that Kat would make an ideal princess, then a queen, even though it was unlikely in the extreme. The king had obligations, after all; he would have to marry a commoner to keep the bloodlines strong and prevent inbreeding. There had been no real chance for a relationship even if they’d spent plenty of time together.

  “Sonja,” the king said. “Why don’t you brief us on the current situation?”

  Kat looked up as another wallflower stepped into the light. She was a tall woman, wearing a naval uniform without any rank insignia, suggesting she was almost certainly an intelligence officer. There was something about the way she moved that suggested she’d been seriously injured sometime in the past, as if her body had been completely regenerated and she had yet to recover all of her facilities. Or she might have actually been on active service, once upon a time, and had her body altered to meet certain specifications . . . Kat pushed the question aside, absently. There was no way she’d ever know.

  “Your Majesty, Honored Sirs,” Sonja said. Her voice was calm, perfectly controlled. “The war situation is bad, but not disastrous.”

  She tapped a switch and a holographic star chart appeared in front of them, hovering over the table. Kat felt her insides clench as she saw a handful of stars shaded red, including both Cadiz and Hebrides, homeworld of her former XO. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Commander William McElney had been reassigned shortly after Lightning had limped back to Tyre and she hadn’t heard anything from him since, not even a brief electronic postcard relayed through the StarCom network. It suggested he was doing something secret . . .

  . . . and, given what she knew of his family connections, she had a feeling she knew precisely what he was doing.

  “The current situation,” Sonja said. “There are five star systems currently under enemy occupation; six, I should add, if one counts Cadiz. In addition, two more star systems are under siege and enemy-raiding formations have struck deep into our territory. Our current analysis suggests that the enemy is intent on reducing the defenses of Castor and Pollock before proceeding any further, although it is possible they will eventually decide that neither world is worth the effort of conquering while the main body of our fleet remains intact.”

  Kat frowned. Neither Castor nor Pollock was an industrial behemoth, although she had to admit that Pollock had a sizable space-based industry to protect. The Theocracy might want to bring its religion to as many worlds as possible, but there was little point in wasting time and effort seizing two immaterial worlds while the Commonwealth was scrambling to tighten the defenses and launch a counterattack. She had a feeling the Theocracy was hastily preparing a second series of offenses to be launched as soon as it could.

  “There is some disagreement among the analysts about the true state of the enemy’s fleet train,” Sonja continued. “One school of thought believes that the enemy wouldn’t have launched a major offensive before assembling its supporting elements, while the other points to the data and claims that the enemy has been having major supply problems from Day One. What is clear is that the Theocracy has been moving supplies forward in heavily guarded convoys, as if it fears even minimal losses. My personal opinion is that the second school of thought is correct.”

  And we know they were caught on the hop, Kat added mentally. They probably wanted to wait to launch the offensive; we merely caught them by surprise and forced them to jump their plans forward.

  “Overall, however, we are forced to remain on the defensive until we have completed our transition to a war economy,” Sonja concluded. “This has obvious weaknesses, starting with the fact it leaves the initiative in their hands. They may overcome their problems before we overcome ours, and resume the offensive.”

  “Thank you,” King Hadrian said. “Admiral?”

  The grand admiral cleared his throat. “Operation Knife has two major objectives,” he said. “First, to force the Theocracy to react to us for a change, diverting their strength from the front lines and buying us time to gear up for war. Second, to make contact with resistance movements within the Theocracy itself and provide assistance, as well as gather intelligence on the true nature of the enemy. We have very few insights into the enemy’s sphere, as you know well, and we need to know more about them.”

  Kat nodded wordlessly.

  “You will be given command of a small squadron of starships, mostly older models we can spare,” the grand admiral added. He didn’t use the word expendable, but Kat heard it regardless. “For this, you will be given the brevet rank of commodore, although I’m afraid you will not receive the salary or the staff. You will take your ships into enemy space and proceed as you see fit: attacking convoys, trading posts, industrial nodes . . . everything you can find, provided it belongs to the enemy. Your overall task is to disrupt the enemy’s ability to resupply the front lines and go on the offensive, while gathering intelligence and making contacts we can use to continue to undermine the Theocracy and take the offensive into their territory. You will continue your operations as long as reasonably possible.”

  Kat glanced at her father, whose face was completely impassive. The operation would be a challenge, but it was one she would enjoy; it certainly wasn’t a punishment. But, on the other hand, they would be deep within enemy space. If something went wrong, they would be trapped and unable to retreat . . . and no one would ever know what had happened to them, at least until the war was won. Hell, even getting into enemy space would be tricky. The Seven Sisters Hyper-Route was likely mined or guarded by now.

  And if we run into formidable defenses, she thought, we might be wiped out before we realize just how badly we’ve fucked up.

  “You will also be given a handful of fully loaded freighters as your fleet train,” the grand admiral informed her. “We do not expect you to be able to maintain operations for longer than six months once you arrive on station, unless you manage to capture enemy weapons and turn them against their masters. Depending on your success rate, we may manage to ship additional supplies to you, but that may prove chancy.”

  Kat nodded. There would be no StarCom, no FTL transmissions; she would be unable to request supplies without actually sending a ship back to the front lines and demanding assistance. It was highly unlikely that any reinforcements would reach her in time to make a difference, even assuming they were dispatched as soon as the message arrived. She would have to be careful, very careful. If there was one thing both sides had learned from the Battle of Cadiz, it was that the consumption of missiles in wartime had been grossly underestimated; both sides had practically shot themselves dry. And it was unlikely she’d be able to adapt any enemy weapons to shoot from her missile tubes.

  The Theocracy fired our missiles, but they parked them in open space, she thought. Firing the
missiles wouldn’t be a challenge; the trick would be luring the enemy to engagement range in the first place. Maybe if we attach them to the hulls . . .

  She pushed the thought aside as the king spoke. “Captain Falcone, do you accept the mission?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Kat said, quickly. If nothing else, it would get her away from Tyre and back into deep space. The prospect of death hadn’t bothered her since she’d nearly been killed on her first cruise. Being captured, she suspected, would be far worse. The Theocracy wouldn’t hesitate to kill her as unpleasantly as possible, then bombard the datanets with recordings of her final moments. “It will be my honor.”

  “You will receive formal orders tomorrow,” the grand admiral said. “Until then, I suggest you remain in your mansion, away from the media. Publicly, you will have been sent to Hammersmith to assist in developing war-winning strategies. It will look like a punishment, I believe, to Deveron and his ilk.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kat said.

  “You may return to your home now,” the prime minister said. “Duke Falcone, if you would care to remain . . . ?”

  “Of course,” Kat’s father said.

  Kat nodded, then rose to her feet and saluted, formally, to the table. The king winked at her while the prime minister and the Leader of the Opposition merely nodded back as Kat turned and walked out of the room. An equerry met her as soon as the door closed and beckoned her to follow him into a smaller waiting room. Kat glanced around in surprise, then tensed automatically. It felt very much like a trap . . .

  “Captain Falcone,” King Hadrian said as he entered through another door. “It’s a pleasure to talk with you in private, at last.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kat said. Up close, the king looked surprisingly normal, but there was an inner stubbornness that reminded her of herself. His short dark hair topped an angular face that was both handsome and charismatic, although she had the feeling he had yet to grow into his looks. The smile he gave her was both warm and rakish. “And thank you . . . thank you for earlier.”