by Jay Allan
“We all take our risks, Admiral. I have come to ask you to take another one.”
“I am more than ready to face the enemy, Mr. Holsten. But that is not my decision.”
“No, it is not…at present. Perhaps we have to do something about that.”
Striker felt his body tighten. He didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit. But he didn’t respond. Something made him listen.
“Well, you haven’t threatened to clap me in irons, so I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“If you’re going to suggest what I think you are, I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Admiral, what do you think of Rance Barron?”
“He’s the Confederation’s greatest hero.”
“Yes, thank you for that answer directly from a textbook. Now, tell me what you really think of the man, of who he was.”
Striker hesitated. “I suppose what has always struck me about the admiral’s history was his courage. Not just in the face of battle, but in doing what had to be done, in stepping up when the Confederation needed him.”
“And what do you think that means, ‘stepping up’?”
“Taking command of the fleet, of course. Convincing the Senate to go along, rallying the officers, giving the people hope.”
“Convincing the Senate? Is that what you think he did?”
Striker didn’t respond. He wasn’t a naïve man, and he’d always suspected Admiral Barron’s actions had been more aggressive than the fawning histories suggested.
“Admiral, I am going to tell you the truth. You will have to decide if you believe me, but I trust you will not find it surprising that Confederation Intelligence knows exactly what happened in the middle of the second war with the Union.”
Striker stood motionless, listening. Part of him wanted every detail, and part wanted to cover his ears, to flee the room.
“Admiral Barron seized control of the fleet. He was not appointed, he was not placed in command by a superior officer. He and a cabal of officers launched a carefully-planned operation to capture and imprison several of the fleet’s highest-ranked commanders, along with hundreds of members of their staffs. He did not seek to injure any of them, though there was fighting on several ships, and there were casualties.”
Striker moved to the side, pulling a chair over from the table and sitting down. He definitely didn’t want to hear anymore, but it was like a drug, and he couldn’t stop listening.
“Suffice it to say there were forged orders and a broad campaign of well-meaning deception. Many of the spacers—most perhaps—who followed Admiral Barron into that first resurgent battle did so under false pretenses. Had he lost that fight, there is little doubt he would now be regarded as the blackest traitor in Confederation history rather than the greatest hero. Assuming, of course, there would have been a Confederation without his victory.”
Striker wanted to say something, to argue. His mind reeled, trying to doubt what Holsten was telling him. But somehow, he knew he was hearing the truth.
“His victories legitimized his actions, Admiral. First with the fleet, which came to almost worship him as he led them from defeat and despair to victory. Then with the people, who anointed him the savior of the Confederation. The Senate was enraged, of course, at least at first. There were bills drawn, warrants of arrest, charges of mutiny and high treason…but it became a practical impossibility to move against the admiral as his triumphant campaign continued.”
“Are you saying that Admiral Barron threatened the Senate? That he dictated terms to them under the guns of the fleet?”
“No, Admiral, not precisely. Admiral Barron’s brilliant leadership changed the course of the war so quickly, the Senate could not oppose him openly. The politicians were irate, but they were afraid too. We’ll never know what Rance Barron would have done if he’d been pushed too far, if the Senate had declared him an outlaw and ordered the fleet’s officers to oppose him. Would he have sacrificed himself, surrendered to face trial and execution? Or would he have turned his forces on the Senate? There is little doubt most of his spacers and Marines would have followed him in any endeavor. It is a credit to him that he did not use this power. The Senate quietly ‘disappeared’ all the actions it had taken against him, and he remained the senior admiral of the fleet as the peace was negotiated. The people adored him, and those who had voted on proclamations of treason against him began to shower him with public honors.”
Striker looked across the room at the spy. “I understand why you have told me all of this, Mr. Holsten, and, while I find it all quite disconcerting, I do believe you. But I am no Rance Barron.”
Holsten didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He just returned the stare silently for a moment. Then he said, “Admiral…Rance Barron wasn’t Rance Barron, at least not what you know of by that name. He was a young admiral, sworn to follow the commands of those who outranked him. Until he realized that the Confederation he loved was on the brink of ruin. Then he acted.” Holsten’s stare was cold, fixed. “What will you do?”
“What do you expect me to do? I don’t have a network of support, especially in First Fleet. I don’t have the reputation Rance Barron had, the following. Am I supposed to move against Admiral Winston? Imprison him? Kill him?”
“I assure you, Admiral, I have no animosity toward Arthur Winston, nor any desire to see him harmed. He is a loyal officer, if one of mediocre skill. His legacy, I’m afraid has more to do with his good fortune in having been in the inner circle of a man of true capability. The loyalty he showed toward Admiral Barron was certainly commendable, as, in its own way, so is his longevity. But we have allowed the Union to prepare far too long for this war, and I confess on my part that our intelligence efforts failed to warn us of their true strength. Admiral Winston cannot stop the enemy invasion. Endless debate in the Senate cannot stop it. Any route through normal channels—any legal effort—is doomed to fail. If we are to save the Confederation, we must act…and we must act now.”
Holsten stood quietly for a moment, giving Striker the chance to digest what he was saying. Then he stood up and walked across the room, extending his arm. There was a small data chip in his hand. “This chip contains orders relieving Admiral Winston and appointing you as commander-in-chief of the combined fleet. It is, of course, a forgery. But it will be weeks before any confirmation can reach fleet headquarters for confirmation. Take command of the combined fleet, Admiral. Do what we both know must be done…now, while you can. Because after this, it is unlikely I will be able to give you a second chance. If our plan fails, you will have a chance to escape the consequences. You can claim I gave you the orders, and you believed them to be genuine. I, on the other hand, likely face an unpleasant result, whether you succeed or not.” He hesitated. “But it is of no matter…if you succeed, it is well worth my sacrifice to save the Confederation. And if you fail, I have no desire to outlive it.”
Striker reached out and took the chip. He held it in front of him, staring at it, a look of undisguised horror on his face. He didn’t react, didn’t say anything. He just sat there.
“So, Admiral,” Holsten asked softly, “what will you do?”
* * *
“I am sorry, Admiral Winston.”
The old officer stared back across the table. There was surprise in his expression…and anger, hurt. Striker thought he saw relief as well. Holsten had crafted the false orders well. Winston was being recalled, not in disgrace, but to take command of Third Fleet, to prepare it for the defense of the Core Worlds. It didn’t make sense, not really, but it was enough for Winston to save face, and that made it easier for him to accept. At least that’s what Striker hoped. He was all in now, and he had Marines loyal to him just in the next room, but he was praying silently that Winston didn’t push him to that.
“Why didn’t this come through normal fleet channels?”
Another good question, and one that Holsten’s ingenuity had anticipated. He had been standing behind Striker, silent, but now he answered.
“The document is clear on that, Admiral. Fleet channels have been compromised. That is why the order was entrusted to Confederation Intelligence at the highest levels. I considered it so important, I decided to deliver it myself.”
Striker watched and waited, his stomach twisted in knots. He was ready to face the enemy fleet, to fight the desperate battle to stop the irresistible Union advance. But he wasn’t entirely sure he had it in him to issue the necessary orders if Winston resisted…to watch his Marines drag the admiral away. And, even if he could, he was on Repulse. An attempt to arrest the admiral on his own flagship could go wrong in more ways than he could count, and any number of those could lead to open fighting between Confederation personnel.
“You will note, Admiral, that the document bears the Senatorial Seal. I urge you to request confirmation, though it will take some days for a communique to reach Megara, and as many more for the response to return.”
Striker stood silently, amazed at Holsten’s iron control. The intelligence director knew what would happen if that confirmation request reached the Senate, and yet he was inviting it, asking for it. Striker knew he faced the likelihood of death and defeat when—if—he was able to take over the fleet, but he still gave thanks his career had been in the military and not the spy services. He couldn’t imagine playing a role—lying—so well, with such rock-solid poise.
Winston sighed softly. “No, I don’t need confirmation, Mr. Holsten. The dispatch is in order, the seal valid. If the Senate feels I am needed more with Third Fleet, so be it. As I consider it, I begin to understand their thinking. First Fleet is lost, the remnants will have no choice but to retire toward the Core. This transfer will allow me to begin preparations for a last ditch defense.”
Striker watched in amazement. Winston’s suspicion, to the extent it had existed was being cast aside, his ego creating justifications, convincing him the transfer was a promotion of sorts, a final attempt to rely on him for salvation. He wondered how much Holsten had manipulated him into making the choice he had. He didn’t think he’d been led down any path against his own judgment, but the intel chief appeared to be a master at influencing peoples’ actions.
“I have a shuttle prepared for you, Admiral. There is a fast escort ship waiting to take you back to Megara to assume your new command. I’m sorry for the short notice, but the Senate was quite clear that they wanted you with Third Fleet as quickly as possible. With your permission, we can dispatch a steward to pack your things.”
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Holsten. And yes, that would be fine. If you can send my belongings to the cruiser before we depart, I would be appreciative.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Striker said softly. “I will see to it myself.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Winston looked over at Striker. “Take care of my people.”
“I will, sir. With my life. I hope you know that.”
“I do, Admiral Striker.” He paused. “Admiral, I beseech you to exert the greatest care in your command over the fleet. We are at a terrible disadvantage here. I beg you, do not throw our ships away in a hopeless attack. You must retreat from here…you cannot win a fight now. All you can hope to do is delay the enemy advance while I get Third Fleet ready to defend the Core.”
“I understand, sir.” Striker’s answer wasn’t exactly agreement, but it sounded enough like it to satisfy Winston. He’d almost argued, telling the admiral he had no intention of yielding system after system, abandoning billions of civilians to the invaders. But there was no point. Winston was broken, his spirit gone…but his body would be gone soon too, and then Striker could set his plan in motion. He knew his attack was a desperate act, and he was terrified about the battle, about its consequences. He was wracked by guilt, disgusted with the way he’d attained command. But he knew what he had to do, and by God, he would see it done.
Chapter Forty-Three
Bridge
CFS Dauntless
Varus System
308 AC
“The primaries are online, sir. Reactors at ninety-seven and eighty-eight percent capacity, respectively.” Fritz was rattling off her report, exceeding even Barron’s outsized expectations of her performance. “I can get you up to 6g from the engines, anything more than that is iffy. Damage control teams positioned around the ship ready to address any malfunctions or new damage…and we will have issues. These systems are cobbled together the best we could manage, but it will take days to get more secure repairs in place. I couldn’t get the bays operational, sir. We tried, but there’s just too much damage. Even if we could have gotten a launch tube working, the rail systems to move ordnance and the fuel lines are so much junk. It will take two days, at least, to get to even partially operational status…and longer to get back to anything approaching normal.”
Barron hated that half his force’s fighters were stuck inside his ship’s crippled bays, but he didn’t lose sight of the fact that Fritz had worked magic in getting the crippled ship back into the fight so quickly. The problem was somewhat alleviated by the fact—hope, actually—that most of the station’s fighters had already been destroyed. Most of what he’d seen had been destroyed, and nearly two hundred fifty fighters was one hell of a complement. But he didn’t know there weren’t more waiting in there.
At least Kyle’s over on Intrepid, with three of the best pilots from Dauntless…
“Commander, put me on shipwide comm.”
“Yes, sir…on your line.”
“Attention all personnel, this is Captain Barron. We are about to move against the enemy station. Ideally, we’d have spent time doing extensive scans and sending in probes, trying to get an idea of just what we’re facing. But you all know it’s been some time since we’ve seen anything that resembles ideal. That thing is sustaining the entire Union invasion force—it’s powering the advance that is killing the Confederation. If we can destroy it, or at least disable it, we can hurt the enemy far more than we can by destroying a few battleships. You all know the situation, you know the Confederation is in trouble. We can help. Fate has put us here, now…in the right place. So, whatever the station does, whatever weapons it fires or defenses it mounts, we’re going to keep at it. We’re going to stay in the fight until that thing is gone…or we are.”
Barron paused and took a breath. He believed there were some times when it made sense to sugarcoat things for the crew, to protect them from knowledge that could sap their strength and divert them from their focus. Manipulation wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t honorable, but sometimes it was necessary. Not this time, though. His people would fight here for nothing less than the Confederation itself, for their families and friends and loved ones back on whatever worlds they called home…and that was—could only be—a fight to the death.
“We have battled together before. I know your quality, your courage, and your fortitude. Now, let’s make sure the Union does as well!”
He slapped his hand down on the comm. He couldn’t see most of his people, but from the expressions staring at him on the bridge, his speech had achieved its desired effect.
He reached down to the comm, flipping on the ship to ship line. “Captain Eaton, is Intrepid ready?”
“We’re ready, sir.”
He looked over at Travis.
“Commander, are Cambria, Astara, and Condor ready?”
“All escorts report ready, sir.”
Barron sat silently for a moment, a fleeting thought of his grandfather drifting through his mind. I’ll try to make you proud.
“Commander Travis…all ships are to advance.”
* * *
“All right…we take down these fighters first. Not one of them gets away…not one. Then we re-form and hit that thing. Save your missiles…I want them launched at the station, not wasted chasing down these Union pilots.” Jamison watched the wave of enemy fighters approaching his wing. There were twenty-three, apparently all that was left of the over two hundred the station had housed before the fighting star
ted.
He had forty-six ships in his forces, and he’d have paired them off against twice that number of enemy craft. Still, his order about the missiles could cost some lives. His people could annihilate the enemy force with a barrage, but now they would have to endure the enemy warheads coming in with no answer of their own until they reached laser range. None of that mattered. The station had to be destroyed, no matter what the cost. And an interceptor’s lasers weren’t going to do much more than scratch the paint on that thing.
More than half of Jamison’s fighters were stuck inside Dauntless’s disabled launch bays, but there was nothing to be done. Be grateful you were on Intrepid, or you’d be hanging around pacing the corridors yourself.
“You all know how important this mission is. So, let’s do the work and get this done.”
He angled his throttle, just as he saw a cluster of tiny dots moving out from the nearest enemy fighters.
Missiles.
He altered his vector, bringing his bird around, giving the incoming warheads a wide berth. The enemy missiles didn’t have the range of the Confederation weapons, and the inexperienced Union pilots tended to fire too soon, before they had a good lock. The best tactic for evading them was to buy as much time as possible before they acquired, letting the warheads expend their fuel hunting around for a target.
The rest of his fighter wing followed his example, squadrons splitting up into small groups, individual pilots with one or two wingmen, moving away from the incoming missiles. An attack on an enemy battleship was often a carefully-choreographed effort, squadrons moving in tight formations, completing their runs before the next came in. But dogfights were wild, chaotic affairs, ships flying everywhere, evading enemies, chasing targets. Squadrons became hopelessly intermixed. It was the kind of thing that heavily favored skilled and experienced pilots, and Jamison knew that would benefit his people.