“There’s no time,” the Inquisitor insisted. “I will not see our work wasted!”
“I am in command here,” Admiral Junayd said, feeling his temper snap. “You are under my orders. If you refuse to obey, place yourself under arrest on the charge of disobeying orders in the face of the enemy. I suggest”—he allowed his voice to harden—“that you do as you’re told. We do not have the resources to engage in a bloody pacification campaign and I will not waste what little I have without reinforcements. Do you understand me?”
There was a long pause. An Inquisitor might get away with disobeying orders . . . but someone would have to take the blame for the disaster. Admiral Junayd waited, his dark eyes daring the younger man to cross the line. The Inquisitor scowled, then lowered his eyes, conceding the point.
“I understand you,” he said. “But the believers on the surface will probably be killed!”
“We will do what we can to protect them,” Admiral Junayd said. “Now, once we enter orbit, I will send a shuttle for you. I expect to see you on my ship shortly afterwards. Bring with you a complete report and a tactical breakdown. Both of them will be added to my report.”
He closed the channel without waiting for a reply, then sighed. “Captain Haran?”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“I want a full report within an hour,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “And make sure you put it together independently of our friend below. He will not hesitate to try to make himself look good.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Haran said.
Commander Amman was a slight young man, too thin and effeminate for Admiral Junayd’s tastes. Or, perhaps, that was a reaction to his lifelong disdain for intelligence analysts; they either got it right, in which case they would brag about their cleverness until he just wanted them to shut up, or they would come up with excellent excuses for getting it wrong. But Commander Amman came with good references, including some from one of Admiral Junayd’s old comrades. It made him wonder why the commander had been assigned to Aswan in the first place.
“The message was designed to identify the originator, Admiral,” Amman said. “Any intelligence section could decrypt the message, but only the person with the private key could have encrypted it. However, we lack access to the files that would do more than identify the spy as one of ours.”
“Of course,” Admiral Junayd said. Intelligence officers had a terrible habit of telling him things he already knew. Had he not worked closely with intelligence assets during the planning stage of the attack on Cadiz? “Do you know if this spy is a true believer, someone under threat, or an enemy agent?”
“No, Admiral,” Amman said. “There was no warning in the files that this particular private key might have been compromised, but that may be meaningless. The enemy would not wish to advertise that they have turned one of our spies.”
“Not if they wished to use him against us,” Admiral Junayd muttered. “And what are the odds of one of the spies being assigned to a deep-raid mission?”
“Impossible to say,” Amman said. “We know nothing of how the mission was put together, or what criteria they used to choose personnel. The spy might have engineered his transfer to put himself somewhere useful.”
“Or his handlers might have put him there so he can mislead us,” Admiral Junayd commented. “And without knowing much about the spy, we cannot guess if he may have been turned or not.”
“No, sir,” Amman said.
Admiral Junayd shrugged. “All right,” he said. “What did the message actually say?”
“Very little,” Amman said. “I think there wasn’t much time to compose and send the message without risking detection. It basically warned us that the enemy squadron intended to hit Ringer next . . .”
“I see,” Admiral Junayd said. He tapped his console, bringing up the star chart. Ringer was nothing more than a bunch of asteroid settlements; indeed, if they hadn’t built up a small industrial base of their own, the Theocracy might have either ignored the settlements or transferred their population to an occupied world. “A logical target, would you not say?”
“Yes, sir,” Amman said. “Ringer has very little in the way of defenses, beyond a handful of ancient destroyers. However, they do play an important role in providing support to commercial activities throughout the sector. They also have a standing agreement to help train our technicians in exchange for largely being left alone.”
“Which means they are vulnerable,” Admiral Junayd said. “But they could also be a diversion . . .”
He looked up at the star chart and groaned inwardly. It hadn’t been hard to isolate a number of potential targets, but guarding them all was going to be sheer hell. If only he had a dozen StarComs . . . hell, he’d be happy with a couple of dozen additional courier boats! And if he spread his forces too thinly, there was a very real risk of the enemy concentrating their forces, then bringing them to bear against his dispersed units.
And if they launch a major attack on Aswan itself, he added, we might lose the base and its facilities before anyone outside the sector knows it’s under attack.
His terminal bleeped. “Admiral, this is Captain Haran,” a voice said. “Inquisitor Frazil has come aboard and is waiting in Briefing Room A.”
“Understood,” Admiral Junayd said.
He looked at the intelligence officer. “We have a chance to set an ambush here,” he said, “but we don’t dare disperse our forces unless we know the spy can be trusted.”
“Yes, sir,” Amman said.
“I’ll detach a couple of cruisers and a courier boat,” Admiral Junayd said after a moment. “It would make sense to check on Ringer, particularly after the attack here. They can take up station there and wait. If the enemy shows up on schedule—or within a reasonable space of time—our forces are to engage or retreat, depending on the situation. We would then know, wouldn’t we, if the spy was to be trusted?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Amman said.
Admiral Junayd nodded, then rose to his feet and walked through the corridors to Briefing Room A. The Inquisitor was sitting at the table, looking grim; beside him, Cleric Peter looked surprisingly alert and Captain Haran was expressionless. Admiral Junayd waved them back into their seats as they started to rise, then sat down facing them.
“Captain,” he said. “Your report?”
“Every base on the planet, save for the hidden bunker, has been smashed,” Captain Haran said. “The devastation is quite extensive. I believe that collaborators, converts, and others who sided with us have either been killed or removed from the planet. In short, Verdean has returned to its pre-conquest state.”
“There will be converts who have hidden their faith,” the Inquisitor insisted. “We must protect them . . .”
Admiral Junayd held up a hand. He hadn’t expected any change, not given the sheer scope of the enemy bombardment, but he’d had to check.
“I will detach a couple of destroyers and a regiment of janissaries,” he said firmly. “They will be charged with securing the capital city, nothing else. Once reinforcements arrive, the remainder of the planet can be secured. I see no reason to waste my limited resources trying to fix a broken world.”
“The world is not broken,” the Inquisitor insisted. “It has been battered, but remains unbowed.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Admiral Junayd said. “Verdean is no longer important. There are no longer any industries here to be guarded. Nor is there a major force that requires orbital bombardment support. I do not believe the enemy will return and, even if they do, it will make no difference. It will not have an impact on the war if we control every last square inch of the planet or not—or if we surrender control to the resistance. There will be time to deal with the local unbelievers later, once the war is won.”
The Inquisitor stared at him in shock. “Admiral . . .”
Privately, Admiral Junayd felt a surge of elation. It was an article of faith, among the Theocracy, that territory, once occupied, could not be surrend
ered. The mere act of taking it made it theirs; abandoning it, even for tactical purposes, was a challenge to their faith. He felt an odd sense of liberation at accepting the concept, even though it might get him into more trouble. There was truly no need to keep Verdean.
“This world is unimportant,” he said firmly. “What matters, right now, is an enemy fleet in our rear. It is going to do a great deal of damage before it can be stopped. Captain Haran?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Liaise with Commander Amman,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “I want to dispatch a pair of cruisers and a courier boat to Ringer. After that, copy a full set of reports to a courier boat and send it back to Aswan. I will be requesting reinforcements from the homeworld, both starships and ground troops. The latter can be dispatched to Verdean when they arrive.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Haran said.
Admiral Junayd nodded, then turned to the Inquisitor. “I will detach a couple of ships, as I said, but no more,” he said. “You are under strict orders, which I will give you in writing, to merely hold your position and nothing else. The world will not be truly abandoned as long as we maintain a presence on the surface. These orders will not change until the reinforcements arrive.”
Unless we get ordered to flatten the planet’s remaining cities, if only to remind everyone else of just what happens to rebels, terrorists, and insurgents, he thought. And then the entire planet will be largely depopulated.
“My tactical staff will locate a handful of targets for punishment strikes,” he continued. “I believe those should cow the enemy, at least long enough for reinforcements to arrive.”
And hopefully slake the urge for bloody revenge, Admiral Junayd added silently. If the Inquisitor manages to convince the Speakers to authorize a general bombardment . . .
“You will return to the surface and assume command,” Junayd concluded. “My fleet will move in two days; less, perhaps, if we receive word of another attack. Until then, I will be in position to support you, if necessary.”
“Yes, Admiral,” the Inquisitor growled.
Admiral Junayd would have felt sorry for the man if he hadn’t been a complete bastard who was willing to bathe the planet in blood just to compensate for his mistake. Hell, it wasn’t even his mistake. He’d been twelfth in the chain of command when the Commonwealth forces had attacked; his commander had died in the opening seconds of the battle and everyone else had died when the enemy had started hitting targets on the ground. Logically, he couldn’t be blamed . . .
. . . but logic meant nothing when the Speakers were searching for a scapegoat.
“Good,” Admiral Junayd said. “Go.”
He looked at the cleric, motioning for him to remain behind. “I assume you’ve had a chance to speak to the crew?”
“They’re very motivated,” Peter assured him. “But there is one problem.”
Admiral Junayd’s eyes narrowed. “A problem?”
“I asked them not to mention it until you and I had a chance to discuss it personally,” Peter said. “We managed to get an ID on the heavy cruiser. It’s Lightning.”
“I see,” Admiral Junayd said. Somehow, he wasn’t too surprised. The commanding officer who’d been tapped for the first known covert probe into Theocratic space would be an excellent choice for the first deep-strike raid. “And this is a problem . . . ?”
“The defenders were beaten by a woman,” Peter insisted. “A girl!”
“Disastrous,” Admiral Junayd said dryly. “We already knew that some women from the Commonwealth were very unwomanly indeed.”
He wanted to roll his eyes in exasperation. The vast majority of his crew would find the concept of being beaten by a woman embarrassing . . . and there could be no pleasure in beating a woman, because she was only a woman. But Admiral Junayd knew better; he’d spent enough time monitoring the Commonwealth to realize that, in many ways, the Commonwealth made far better use of its manpower than the Theocracy. Female spacers could be just as deadly as their male counterparts—and being able to use female labor gave the Commonwealth a far greater pool of trained workers.
“I suggest we keep this to ourselves,” he said. Stupid or not, the cleric had a point. It would affect morale. “And if the issue is raised, make it clear she is only a puppet, with her strings pulled by men.”
“Of course,” Peter said. He sounded as though he had solved a complicated puzzle to his satisfaction. “And it would be true.”
No, Admiral Junayd thought, coldly. It wouldn’t. But if you want to cling to a delusion . . . then cling to it. But it won’t make any difference at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“There is no greater honor, so we are told, than that earned by those who put their bodies between their homeworlds and the devastation of war,” Kat said softly. A third of the cruiser’s crew stood in front of her, in the shuttlebay, but the remainder were listening through the intercom. “The crew of HMS Juno died in battle, fighting to defend the liberties we take for granted, the liberties that would be stolen from us if we lose this war. They died as heroes and, as such, we salute them.”
She took a breath, feeling a sudden ache at her throat. Juno’s crew had been reduced to atoms; there weren’t any coffins to be launched into space, or to be shipped back home to their grieving families. They’d deserved better, she thought, than to die at the hands of the Theocracy, but they hadn’t been able to choose the time and place of their deaths. And all she could do was remember them, to speak in their honor and fight on in their name.
“We are from many different worlds,” she continued, “and we have many different ways of honoring the dead. But all that matters today is that they were part of our band of brothers and sisters, men and women who fought beside us to hold the line against the enemy. We do them honor, and pledge that their lives and deaths will be neither forgotten nor pointless. We will not forget them.”
There was a long pause, then she started to list the dead. “Commander Alum Roebuck, Lieutenant Commander Angelica Ossa, Lieutenant Gage Mosher . . .”
She finished the recital, then bowed her head. “Let us not forget them,” she said, quietly. “Dismissed.”
The crew saluted, then headed for the hatches. Kat waited until the last of them was gone, then looked down at the list of dead men and women again. She’d watched people die before, knowing there was nothing she could do to save them, but this was different. She was the squadron commander, the commodore, even though she wouldn’t hold the rank in anything more than name, and those deaths were on her hands. Maybe she hadn’t killed them herself, maybe she hadn’t fired the missile that had blown their ship to dust, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she’d murdered them personally. They had died following her orders . . .
“Captain,” the XO said gently. “It never gets easier.”
“That’s a good thing, I suppose,” Kat said. She didn’t want to think about the number of innocent civilians who were dead on Verdean, either through her bombardment or the retaliation she knew the Theocracy would launch. Their deaths, too, were on her hands. “But I can’t help feeling responsible.”
She shook her head, tiredly. What sort of mind would cold-bloodedly plot a war? Or deliberately launch a surprise attack on an enemy world that would be sure to make the war completely merciless? Or even crush prospective allies because there could be no room in the galaxy for two competing belief systems? It was absurd, she sometimes thought; how could anyone accept a single religion dominating the entire galaxy? And yet, she’d studied the Theocracy’s past. Their enemies had tried to strangle their religion in the cradle. They had good reason for wanting to secure their position by all means necessary.
“You cannot help it,” the XO said. “Everyone on the squadron understands the dangers, Captain. We all know we may die out here, with no one to recover our bodies, but we accepted the risks when we donned the uniform. The universe is not a safe place at the best of times.”
“No,” Kat agreed morbidly. “I
t isn’t.”
She cleared her throat, pushing her doubts, fears, and all-pervading guilt to the back of her mind. “I assume you spoke to the observer?”
“She wishes to remain on the ship,” the XO said. “Her mission, apparently, has not yet been completed.”
“Brave or foolish,” Kat said. “What do you make of her?”
“She has a job to do,” the XO said. “And it wouldn’t sit well with her superiors if she took the easy way out, or you kicked her off the squadron. My homeworld expects one to roll with the punches, not waste time denying they ever happened. She might not have expected to end up here, but . . . well, she did. My people wouldn’t respect her for not making lemonade out of the lemons someone handed her.”
Kat took a breath. “Then she can stay here,” she said reluctantly. It would be easy enough to contrive an excuse to send Rose MacDonald home, but it would be obvious that it was nothing more than an excuse. “As long as she isn’t causing trouble.”
“I don’t think she’d earn respect by causing trouble, not in the middle of a war zone,” the XO said drolly. “And you’d have every excuse to put her in the brig until the ship returned home.”
“True,” Kat agreed. She gave him a sidelong look. “Assemble a meeting of the command staff in the briefing room, twenty minutes from now. Ship commanders can attend via hologram. I’ll be here until then.”
The XO frowned, then saluted and walked through the hatch, leaving her alone. Kat held herself steady until she heard the hatch close, then sat down in front of the dais and stared down at the black coffin. It was symbolic, nothing more than a place to center one’s prayers, yet it was important. Humans needed something to represent the dead.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She’d barely known any of Juno’s crew. Sure, she’d had dinner a few times with Commander Roebuck, but there hadn’t been time for more than a handful of exchanged words. They’d spent more time planning the operation than getting to know each other. “I wish I’d known you better.”
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind #2) Page 21