“That was far too hackneyed a line,” she said. They’d spent five days laboring to put everything in place for the attack on Aswan. Tomorrow, they’d know if the plan would work or if the enemy would refuse to take the bait. “You could just try to pull me into bed.”
Davidson shrugged. “I thought bad romantic lines were funny,” he said. He looked past her, at the display. “You might have made a good Marine.”
“I doubt it,” Kat said. “I never liked crawling through mud.”
She smiled, remembering her childhood. It might have been lonely, but it hadn’t been bad. There had been the estate, a private garden easily large enough for a hundred children, and countless trees to climb. But she’d rarely seen her parents . . .
And if we don’t manage to survive the action tomorrow, she thought as she turned and took him in her arms, I won’t see them ever again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Admiral, a courier boat has arrived from Porcupine,” Commander Annam said. “The spy sent another message.”
“That’s nice,” Admiral Junayd growled. It was hard enough coming up with excuses for not reporting the loss of the convoy, not when he didn’t have anything to balance the scales. “And what did your spy have to say?”
“The enemy intends to make one final attack, on Salvation,” Commander Annam said. “They’re going to be hitting the planet in just under two days, then returning to the Commonwealth.”
Admiral Junayd blinked in surprise. Salvation? The planet wasn’t heavily defended because it was largely worthless, the population sullenly bowing the knee to the Theocracy and ignoring them wherever possible. It would get a full settlement of Theocrats soon enough, he was sure, but until then the system could be ignored. And yet . . . an enemy attack would be embarrassing, particularly after the loss of the convoy.
He keyed the terminal, bringing up the star chart. It would take a day, at best speed, to reach Salvation, just long enough to get there first and set up an ambush. This time, he was sure, there would be no mistake. They’d get into point-blank range and overwhelm the enemy’s defenses by sheer weight of fire. And the complete destruction of their fleet would be enough to make up for the convoy. He could report a victory to his superiors and bury the bad news at the back of the report.
“Inform Commodore Isaac that the squadron is to ready itself to depart in an hour,” he ordered. “Commodore Malian is to remain in command of the base.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Commander Annam said.
“And tell Isaac to attach three flanking squadrons to his ships,” Admiral Junayd added. “This time, we’re going to be ready for them in hyperspace too.”
Commander Annam looked doubtful but nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Admiral Junayd dismissed him with a wave of his hand, then started to close down his terminal. He’d save his work, board the superdreadnought, and head off to Salvation, accompanied by enough mobile units to chase the enemy down if they fled back into hyperspace. It was a risk, but he needed a victory. Another defeat would mean the end of him.
He keyed his communicator thoughtfully. “Captain Haran, ensure that a courier boat is attached to the squadron,” he ordered. “I have an idea.”
And that, he thought quietly, is very true.
“That’s them on their way,” Grace said. “Nine superdreadnoughts, twenty smaller ships . . . vector suggests a direct-line course to Salvation, although they might change course.”
“I see them,” Lars said. On the display, one by one, the enemy ships jumped into the vortex and vanished. “And the base itself?”
“Still got another squadron of superdreadnoughts and a dozen smaller ships,” Grace said. “They’re even deploying a handful of armed shuttles.”
Lars stroked his chin thoughtfully. The shuttles weren’t gunboats, but if gunboats weren’t available, shuttles would have to suffice. Someone was either clever or desperate . . . mounting weapons and sensor packs on shuttles wouldn’t make them harder to hit, yet it would give the defenders some additional warning if there were more cloaked ships skulking around.
“Pull us back,” he ordered. “Prepare to slip back to the squadron.”
“Aye, sir,” Grace said.
“The enemy ships have departed,” Linda said. “Mermaid reports that an entire fleet of ships has left the system.”
“Show me,” Kat ordered. It felt odd to be going into battle without her XO on the bridge, but there was no choice. “Put them on the main display.”
She watched, grimly, as the enemy ships slipped into hyperspace. They might be trying something clever, but she doubted it. Salvation wasn’t anything like as important as Aswan, not to them. They’d be insane to risk leaving the planet’s defenses weakened if they believed the system was going to come under attack.
“Very well,” she said. It was important that the enemy didn’t have any time to think. “Order Mermaid to return to the system, then raise Commander Horsham. He is to send the message in one hour; I say again, he is to send the message in one hour.”
“Aye, Captain,” Linda said.
Kat sucked in her breath. They’d done everything they could to make the message look authentic, to make it clear that the local commander had no choice but to comply as quickly as possible, yet she knew that far too much could go wrong. If the enemy questioned orders, if the enemy sent back a demand for clarification, the entire plan would fall apart. She wanted to send the message immediately, but the enemy would have a chance to recall the second squadron of superdreadnoughts. All she could do was wait for them to put enough distance between themselves and Aswan before she tried to trick the defenders into sending away their remaining ships.
At least we know the StarCom works, she thought. She’d linked to Admiral Christian and sent a complete report, including everything they’d learned and the coordinates for the enemy superdreadnoughts. Maybe, just maybe, he’d have a chance to set a trap. Whatever happens, the intelligence is already on its way home.
“Mermaid has jumped out,” Roach said quietly. “They’re on their way.”
Kat felt sweat trickling down her back as she waited for the hour to tick away. She hadn’t been so nervous at Cadiz, had she? Not when the enemy had attacked the crippled system and not when the Navy had mounted a counterattack . . . ? But she hadn’t had time to be nervous during the first battle and she hadn’t planned the second battle herself. This time, the glory of victory—or the shame of defeat—would fall squarely on her head. The XO had been right. Too many things could go wrong.
“Commander Horsham is sending the message now,” Linda reported.
Here we go, Kat thought.
“Hold the fleet at ready stations,” she ordered. They would need to give the second squadron a chance to move away from the system too. “We jump in thirty minutes.”
Or fall back, her thoughts added, silently.
Commodore Malian knew he wasn’t considered a zealot, not like the senior officers who commanded the attack fleets that were clawing their way into the Commonwealth. Indeed, he’d been surprised to receive promotion at all, even if it had been to a naval base that had long since lost most of its importance. No one had seriously considered the prospect of the enemy raiding behind their lines, even though in hindsight it was blindingly obvious. He had expected to spend most of his time doing as little as possible while enjoying the fruits of his links to the smugglers. Being on the front lines hadn’t been part of his plans.
“Commodore,” his aide said. “We picked up an urgent message from the front.”
Malian took the datapad and read the message, feeling his eyebrows lift in surprise. It was direct, straight to the point; he was to send his superdreadnoughts and any ships that could be spared to an RV point within occupied space, where they would receive further orders. He’d had a feeling he would have received such orders, sooner or later, but getting them now was unfortunate. Admiral Junayd had taken the other superdreadnought squadron with him and regulations strictly
forbade cutting the defenses of a naval base any further.
But it’s an order from the front, he agonized bitterly. It had been made clear, back before the war, that the demands of the front took priority. He’d be lucky if he was only executed if he refused to send his superdreadnoughts upon demand, despite the risk. And yet, if he did send the ships, he’d be in trouble for breaking regulations. Damned if he did, he thought, and damned if he didn’t. What do I do?
He stared down at his hands helplessly. Admiral Junayd would be furious to discover that he’d lost his second superdreadnought squadron, and he might take it out on Malian, but orders were orders. He considered, briefly, asking for clarification, but Admiral Junayd had ordered him to keep the StarCom under tight control. Nothing was allowed out without the admiral’s permission. The only way he could please both of his superiors was to let the superdreadnought squadron go, then send a courier boat after Admiral Junayd. He could bring his ships back to fill the holes.
“Contact Commodore Perkin,” he ordered slowly. A tap on the datapad uploaded the navigational data into the superdreadnought’s datanet. “His ships are to depart immediately for the preselected RV point.”
“Aye, sir,” his aide said.
“And dispatch a pair of courier boats,” Malian added. “One to fly directly to Salvation; one to follow the admiral’s track in hyperspace. They are to inform him of this development.”
And he can decide what to do, Malian thought. He can take the blame if things go wrong.
Grace let out a harsh bark of laughter. “That’s the superdreadnoughts gone, sir,” she said. “I didn’t think it was possible!”
“Have a little faith in the commodore,” Lars advised. He peered down at his scanner, then smirked. “We’ll give them a few moments, just to make sure they’re not trying anything clever, then slip back and jump out. And then all hell can break loose.”
“Aye, sir,” Grace said.
Kat looked down at the report, feeling cold ice congealing in her stomach. “Sound red alert,” she ordered. One way or the other, the die was cast. “Force One will advance and engage the enemy, as planned. Force Two will remain here for five minutes, then advance itself.”
And hope to hell we don’t screw up the timing, Kat thought as she forced herself to relax. If Redemption manages to get out an alert before we attack Aswan, we may be in some trouble.
“Captain,” Roach said. He’d effectively taken over the XO’s job, although there was relatively little for him to do. “The makeshift squadron is ready to depart.”
“Then open the vortex,” Kat ordered. “Take us to Aswan.”
She braced herself as the eerie lights of hyperspace flickered around the freighters and the crippled warships. Her engineering crews had worked for days rigging their ECM, if only to make them look like enemy ships, but she knew they wouldn’t stand up to a close examination. A single shuttle flying past the squadron would let the cat out of the bag. She closed her eyes as shudders ran through the cruiser, then opened them as the gateway blossomed to life in front of her. The squadron streamed through, back into realspace.
“The lead freighter is sending the codes now,” Roach reported. “They should be up-to-date.”
Kat nodded. They were entering the danger zone, the moment when they could neither retreat instantly nor lunge forward in a suicidal attack. Commonwealth doctrine placed most emergence zones in that region, if only to prevent smugglers and raiders from doing anything stupid; looking at Aswan, Kat saw no sign the Theocracy disagreed. But then, they had fewer shipping concerns than the Commonwealth. Their spacers probably hadn’t noticed any additional security measures . . .
“Receiving confirmation now,” Roach said. “They’re trying to raise the cruiser.”
Shit, Kat thought. They’d gone through every scrap of recovered data, but there simply hadn’t been enough to fake a convincing message from the destroyed ship. Perhaps it would have been wiser to claim the convoy had been attacked, that the escorts had died saving the freighters, yet it would have forced the Theocracy to inspect the ships before they managed to get anywhere near a sensitive target. Now what?
“Hold the ships on course,” she ordered. The enemy shuttles were already departing the repair yard, heading towards the freighters. Even assuming the ECM held, and that was doubtful at close range, it wouldn’t be enough to stop the Mark-I Eyeball. “Send them back a message suggesting communications problems.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said. “I could have the freighter CO inform them that the cruiser lost most of her communications arrays.”
“Do it,” Kat ordered. The enemy wouldn’t be fooled for long, if at all, but it might just win them some additional seconds. “Do you have passive locks on your targets?”
“Yes, Captain,” Roach said. “Enemy facilities, not enemy ships.”
“Commodore,” the tactical officer said, “Freighter Number 5 is claiming that Holy Word has lost her communications arrays.”
Malian hesitated. The freighters were important, immensely so. They needed the weapons and equipment they carried, particularly the StarCom. Being able to coordinate their activities across the sector would make it easier to hunt down the raiders. But, at the same time, the freighters were behaving oddly and their escorts were showing a complete disregard for regulations. They’d sent their IFF pulses to the defenders, as they should, yet they hadn’t bothered to send anything else. He didn’t like it.
“Open direct links to the destroyers,” he said. If the cruiser had lost her communications arrays, he could at least speak to her escorts. And if he couldn’t . . . it suggested a number of unpleasant things, none of them reassuring. “I want to speak to their commanders personally.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.
“Captain,” Roach said, “the enemy CO is demanding to speak to the destroyer commanders.”
“That’s torn it,” Kat said. She’d hoped to get closer before the enemy smelled a rat, but if they weren’t already suspicious, they would be the moment the destroyers also claimed to have communications problems. She glanced at the timer, then back at the main display. A dozen shuttles were closing in on the formation, their sensors probing at the ECM. “Are the missile pods online?”
“Yes, Captain,” Roach said. “They’re ready.”
“Fire,” Kat ordered.
It wasn’t common to bolt orbital missile pods to freighters, let alone warships. The pods rarely survived the launch sequence, while the missile drives could do considerable harm to the starship’s hulls. Indeed, Kat had seen several concepts for towing missile pods that had come to grief on the simple fact that any interaction with the starship’s drive field would be utterly disastrous. But if she didn’t care about losing the motherships, she could bolt hundreds of missile pods to their hulls and fire at will.
“Missiles away, Captain,” Roach reported. His voice turned darkly humorous. “I think the shuttles flinched.”
“Ramp up the drives, as planned,” Kat ordered. Her unmanned ships were unlikely to reach the orbital facilities before they were destroyed, but they’d give the enemy a fright. “And take out the shuttles before they get into engagement range.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said.
Commodore Malian stared in horror at the display, unable to move or speak. One moment, the convoy had been advancing into orbit; the next, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of red icons appeared, each one representing a missile heading towards his facilities. Most of them would burn out before they could enter terminal attack range, but there were so many missiles that it was unlikely his facilities would remain unharmed. And even if they went to purely ballistic trajectories, without a hope of altering course, they were still certain to hit the planet.
“Commodore,” the tactical officer said. “Request permission to engage with point defense.”
Malian had to fight to compose himself. “Granted,” he said. He’d never been in combat before. Was it always like thi
s? “Take as many of them out as possible.”
He watched, grimly, as the red icons roared closer. Most of them appeared to be targeted on the repair yards, although a handful were definitely aimed right at his station. That made sense, he reluctantly admitted; wrecking the yards and the industrial nodes would render Aswan completely unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. His handful of ships was forming up into a single unit, but it was too late. The only good news was that none of them appeared to have been targeted.
“The shuttles are being engaged, sir,” the tactical officer said.
Malian glared at him. Compared to the storm roaring down on his facilities, bringing with it certain death for him personally, who cared? Admiral Junayd would order his immediate execution once he heard the news. If he’d kept the superdreadnoughts an hour longer . . .
But I sent the courier boats after the admiral, he thought. It was something to cling to, even as his command was ripped apart. At least he might make it back in time to take revenge.
“The cripples are engaging the enemy ships,” Roach reported. On the display, one of the cripples vanished, followed rapidly by a second. “I don’t think any of them are going to get through.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kat said. None of the ships were manned, save for Lightning herself, and she had no hope of getting them back home. And even if she did, they were too old and expensive to repair. Better they soaked up a handful of missiles rather than being scrapped or sold to poorer worlds. “Just keep watching the missiles.”
She smiled coldly as the stolen missiles homed in on their targets. The enemy point defense crews were good, she had to admit, and her missiles were starting to go ballistic, which made them easier to hit, but there were just so many of them. If only she had antimatter warheads, when even an intercepted missile could be deadly.
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind #2) Page 35