by David Weber
"I know. But you and I have done that before, haven't we?"
He nodded again, remembering the horrific damage he'd helped her put right after they'd beaten off Operation Stalking Horse's assault on his home star system.
"Well, then," she said, and squeezed his shoulders. "On your way, High Admiral. And"—she looked into his eyes once more—"God bless, Judah."
* * *
"Ladies and Gentlemen, please find your seats," Fleet Admiral Rajampet invited loudly and, Daoud al-Fanudahi thought, completely unnecessarily. As far as he could tell, not one of the astronomically senior flag officers in the briefing room was out of his or her seat, and he found Rajampet's instruction symptomatic. The Navy had been spending quite a bit of time passing lots of other totally unnecessary orders back and forth, after all. When it hadn't been too busy either panicking, at least. Or, even worse, posturing.
He wasn't absolutely certain which of the latter this particular meeting was going to do, but he had a bad feeling about it.
He himself, along with Irene Teague, was seated well back from the main conference table, as befitted their monumentally junior rank. And that, too, he found symptomatic. They were probably the only two people in the entire room who actually had a clue what was going on, so of course they were seated as far from the decision-makers as the physical limits of the briefing room permitted.
You know, he told himself a bit severely, this tendency of yours to perpetually look on the dark side of things may be one of the reasons certain of your superiors think of you as an incurable pessimist—not to mention just a bit of an alarmist.
Maybe it is, another corner of his mind replied, but the real reason is that this pack of idiots doesn't want to face the fact that they've gotten their collective asses in a crack—and all the rest of the League along with them—because none of them have the least idea what they're up against. They're not about to admit that by actually asking questions that might give them a glimmer of reality. Especially not when asking would only prove how monumentally they screwed up by not asking sooner!
Rajampet's unnecessary order had at least one beneficial consequence; it brought the whispered side conversations to an abrupt halt. The CNO looked around the other officers, eyes bright in their nest of wrinkles, and let the silence linger for a moment, then cleared his throat.
"I'm sure none of us need to recapitulate the events of the last several weeks," he began. "Obviously, all of us are dismayed by what happened to Admiral Crandall's task force at Spindle. And I think it would be fair to say," he continued in a deliberately judicious, soberly thoughtful tone, "that the efficacy of the Manticoran Navy's weapons has come as a most unpleasant surprise to all of us."
He allowed himself to glance—briefly—at Karl-Heinz Thimár and Cheng Hai-shwun. Other eyes followed his, but Thimár and Cheng had obviously realized this, or something like it, had to be coming. They sat there calmly, apparently oblivious to the looks coming their way. The bureacratic infighter's number one rule, ''Never let them see your fear," was well known to everyone around the table, but the two men ostensibly responsible for the SLN's intelligence arms were giving a bravura demonstration of it, and with very little sign of strain. Which, al-Fanudahi reflected, said a great deal about how highly placed their various relatives and patrons actually were.
"It would appear, however, that we aren't the only ones the Manties have pissed off," Rajampet continued after a second. "Intelligence is still working on determining exactly who was responsible for the attack on their home system. I'm sure we'll see some progress on that front quite soon."
Precisely what prompted that confidence on his part eluded Daoud al-Fanudahi, who happened to be the person who was supposed to be doing the progressing and who still didn't have even a glimmer of proof, whatever he might know instinctively had to be the truth.
"In the meantime, however, we have to consider how to respond to the Manties' blatant imperialism and arrogance," the CNO went on in that same, measured tone. "I don't believe there can be much doubt—especially in light of the Manties' decision to close all wormholes under their control to Solarian shipping—that what we're really looking at here on their part is a comprehensive strategy which they've been contemplating for some time. On the one hand, they've revealed their new weapons' capabilities; on the other, they're threatening our trade and economic life's blood. Both of those, obviously, are pointed suggestions that the League should stay out of their way instead of objecting to their expansionism in and beyond the Talbott Cluster."
Lord, don't any of these idiots read our reports? al-Fanudahi wondered behind an impassive face. "Imperialism"? "Expansionism"? I don't know what the Manties are up to in Silesia, but that's the last thing that was on their mind when they got involved in Talbott! But do any of our lords and masters want to hear about that? Of course not! After all, it would never do to dispute Kolokoltsov's and Abruzzi's version of reality, would it?
"Given that attitude on their part," Rajampet said, "it's unlikely they'll be inclined to respond favorably to the government's diplomatic initiatives. At the same time, however, they have to be reeling from what's happened to them. Let's face it, Ladies and Gentlemen—we got reamed at Spindle. But compared to what's happened to the Manties' home system, what happened to Admiral Crandall's task force was only a minor inconvenience, as far as the Navy and the League are concerned. Even with her entire force off the table, we still have over two thousand of the wall in full commission, another three hundred in refit or overhaul status, and better than eight thousand in reserve. Task Force 496 represented less than half of one percent of our total wall of battle and our support structure is completely unscathed, whereas the Manties have just had their entire industrial base blown out from under them. There's no meaningful comparison between the relative weight of those losses. They represent totally different orders of magnitude, and it has to be psychologically even worse for the Manties because it happened so soon after Spindle. From what had to be an incredible peak of confidence, they've had their feet kicked out from under them. At the moment, no matter how much money they have in the bank, and no matter how big their merchant marine—or even their remaining navy—may be, they're effectively no more than a fourth-rate power in terms of sustained capabilities, and don't think for a moment that they don't know that as well as we do."
The briefing room was silent, and even al-Fanudahi had to admit that, looked at from the perspective Rajampet had adopted, there was something to be said for his analysis. While al-Fanudahi wasn't even tempted to assume the Manticorans were simply going to obediently lie down and die for the League, he was forced to concede that their position was ultimately hopeless. It had probably been that way from the beginning, given the difference in size between the potential opponents, but the catastrophic destruction of their industrial base was decisive. He wished he had some idea of how big their ammunition stockpiles had been before the mysterious attack, but however big they'd been, that was all the missiles the Manties were going to have for a long, long time. So, in the end, they were going to lose if the SLN chose to press home an offensive.
Unfortunately, al-Fanudahi was unhappily certain they had more than enough missiles to make the price of the League's final victory almost unbearabe And that price, as Rajampet seemed to be forgetting (or ignoring) would be paid in the lives and blood of men and women who wore the same uniform he and al-Fanudahi did, not just in millions upon millions of tons of warships.
"What most of you are not aware of, however," Rajampet continued, "is that we have heavy forces considerably closer to Manticore than you may have believed. And far closer than the Manties could ever have anticipated. In fact, Admiral Filareta is currently in the Tasmania System, conducting a major fleet training exercise—Operation East Wind—with just over three hundred of the wall. Which means, of course, that he's only a very little more than four hundred light-years from Manticore and that he could reach that star system within a little over six weeks from recei
ving his orders . . . or approximately two and a half months from the date we dispatch them. Which means he should be in position, barring unanticpated delays, by May twentieth."
From the sudden stir which ran through the audience, the news of Filareta's forward deployment had come as almost as much a surprise to them as it had to al-Fanudahi. But Rajampet wasn't quite finished.
"In addition to the forces already under Admiral Filareta's command," he said, "we have the equivalent of another ten squadrons within approximately two weeks of Tasmania, all of which could be ordered to join him and arrive within that same window. Concentrated with his present units, that would give him a strength of almost four hundred of the wall. He'd still be considerably understrength—by The Book, at least—in screening units, and he doesn't have the logistic support Admiral Crandall had as part of Operation Winter Forage, but he's far closer to the Manties' front doorstep than they could possibly be anticipating."
Al-Fanudahi's heart sank. He'd hoped—prayed—that Rajampet would abandon this notion after his own briefings to Kingsford, Jennings and Bernard.
"What the Strategy Board and I propose," Rajampet told the gathered officers, "is to concentrate the units I've mentioned under Filareta's command and send him to Manticore."
The room was hushed, and he paused long enough to survey the faces looking back at him, then shrugged ever so slightly.
"I fully realize—as does the Strategy Board—that there's a degree of risk in the action we're contemplating. In our opinion, however, the potential gain vastly outweighs the risk. First, the Manties are quite probably going to be so disenheartened by what's happened to their home system that much of their truculence will have been hammered out of them before Filareta ever arrives. Second, even if they should be so foolish as to attempt to resist him, their capacity to do so must have been seriously damaged in the course of any attack capable of penetrating to their inner-system space stations as this one did. Third, having a second fleet, six times the size of the one they confronted at Spindle, arrive in their home system this promptly has to drive home the totality of our quantitative advantage in any protracted struggle. And, fourth, Ladies and Gentlemen, we are currently redeploying the remainder of our active wallers towards Manticore and simultaneously beginning the largest activation of the Reserve in the Navy's history."
Al-Fanudahi wouldn't have believed the silence could get even more intense, but he would have been wrong. He wondered if any of those assembled flag officers were thinking about the constitutional implications of what Rajampet had just said. Even the broadest interpretation of Article Seven's "self-defense" clause had never been construed to cover a general mobilization of the Reserve without formal authorization from the civilian government. Kolokoltsov and his cronies, however, clearly doubted they could get that authorization without touching off a political dogfight such as the League had never seen. So at the moment, he and his fellow bureaucrats were simply going to look the other way and carry on with their "diplomatic efforts to resolve the crisis" while Rajampet did the dirty work. Which meant that, ultimately, the Navy was going to carry the can if it all blew up even half as catastrophically as al-Fanudahi was afraid it might.
Not to mention the millions of more men and women in Navy uniform who were going to get killed along the way.
"My own belief, and that of the Strategy Board, is that the Manties will realize we aren't going to be bluffed or blackmailed, even by something as painful as Spindle, into simply giving them the blank check they want. Faced with Filareta's squadrons as the proof of our determination that their actions are not going to be allowed to stand, it seems most likely to us that they'll surrender to the inevitable rather than risk suffering even more fatalities and damage to their home system.
"At the same time, however, we realize there's no way to be certain of that, and we're prepared for the possibility that the Manties may be insane enough not to surrender. We're even prepared for the possibility that they may have sufficient of their new missiles available from existing stores to beat off Filareta's attack, at least temporarily. Which is why the redeployment of our active wall is designed to concentrate no fewer than an additional five hundred wallers on Tasmania—this time with complete logistical support and a powerful Frontier Fleet screen—within two and a half months. In three months' time, that total will reach six hundred. Which means we'll be able to dispatch a second wave, substantially larger and even more powerfully supported, against Manticore within a maximum of five months—long before they will have been able to restore sufficient industrial capacity to reammunition their own ships."
He looked around the briefing room once more.
"One way or the other, Ladies and Gentlemen," he said very quietly after several moments, "what happened at Spindle is not going to be allowed to stand. And, for the Manties' own sake, I hope they realize how serious we are before they make things even worse."
* * *
Chris Billingsley poured the final cup of coffee, set the carafe on the small side table, and withdrew without a word. Michelle Henke watched him go, then picked up her cup and sipped. Other people were doing the same thing around the conference table, and she wondered how many of them were using it as a stage prop in their effort to project a sense that the universe hadn't gone mad around them.
If they are, they aren't doing a very good job of it, she thought grimly. On the other hand, neither am I because as near as I can tell, the universe has gone crazy.
"All right," she said finally, lowering her cup and glancing at Captain Lecter. "I suppose we may as well get down to it." She smiled without any humor at all. "I don't imagine any of you to be any happier to hear this than I am. Unfortunately, after we do, we've got to decide what we're going to do about it, and I'm going to want recommendations for Admiral Khumalo and Baroness Medusa. So if any of you—and I mean any of you—happen to be struck by any brilliant insights in the course of Cindy's briefing, make a note of them. We're going to need all of them we can get."
Heads nodded, and she gestured to Lecter.
"The floor is yours, Cindy," she said.
"Yes, Ma'am."
Lecter didn't look any happier about the briefing she was about to give than her audience looked about what they knew they were going to hear. She spent a second or two studying the notes she'd made before she looked up and let her blue eyes circle the conference table.
"We have confirmation of the original reports," she said, "and it's as bad as we thought it would be. In fact, it's worse."
She drew a deep breath, then activated the holo display above the conference table, bringing up the first graphic.
"Direct, immediate civilian loss of life," she began, "was much worse than any pre-attack worst-case analysis of damage to the space stations had ever suggested, because there was absolutely no warning. As you can see from the graphic, the initial strike on Hephaestus—"
* * *
"I never realized just how much worse a victory could make a defeat taste," Augustus Khumalo said much later that evening.
He, Michelle, Michael Oversteegen, and Aivars Terekhov sat with Khumalo and Baroness Medusa on the ocean-side balcony of the governor's official residence. The tide was in, and surf made a soothing, rhythmic sound in the darkness, but no one felt very soothed at the moment.
"I know," Michelle agreed. "It kind of makes everything we've accomplished out here look a lot less important, doesn't it?"
"No, Milady, it most definitely does not," Medusa said so sharply that Michelle twitched in her chair and looked at the smaller woman in surprise.
"Sorry," Medusa said after a moment. "I didn't mean to sound as if I were snapping at you. But you—and Augustus and Aivars and Michael—have accomplished an enormous amount 'out here.' Don't ever denigrate your accomplishments—or yourselves—just because of bad news from somewhere else!"
"You're right," Michelle acknowledged after a moment. "It's just—"
"Just that it feels like the end of the worl
d," Medusa finished for her when she seemed unable to find the words she'd been looking for.
"Maybe not quite that bad, but close," Michelle agreed.
"Well, it damned well should!" Medusa told her tartly. "Undervaluing your own accomplishments doesn't necessarily make you wrong about how deep a crack we're all in right now."
Michelle nodded. The Admiralty dispatches had pulled no punches. With the devastation of the home system's industrial capacity, the Royal Manticoran Navy found itself—for the first time since the opening phases of the First Havenite War—facing an acute ammunition shortage. And that shortage was going to get worse—a lot worse—before it got any better. Which was the reason all of Michelle's remaining shipboard Apollo pods were to be returned to Manticore as soon as possible. Given the concentration of Mark 16-armed units under her command, the Admiralty would try to make up for the differential by supplying her with all of those they could find, and both her warships and her local ammunition ships currently had full magazines. Even so, however, she was going to have to be extraordinarily circumspect in how she expended the rounds available to her, because there weren't going to be any more for quite a while.
"At least I don't expect anyone to be eager to poke his nose back into this particular hornets' nest anytime soon," she said out loud.
"Unless, of course, whoever hit the home system wants to send his 'phantom raiders' our way," Khumalo pointed out sourly.
"Unlikely, if you'll forgive me for sayin' so, Sir," Oversteegen observed. Khumalo looked at him, and Oversteegen shrugged. "Th' Admiralty's estimate that whoever did this was operatin' on what they used t' call 'a shoestring' seems t' me t' be well taken. And, frankly, if they were t' decide t' carry out additional attacks of this sort, anything here in th' Quadrant would have t' be far less valuable t' them than a follow up, knock out attack on th' home system."
"I think Michael's probably right, Augustus," Michelle said. "I don't propose taking anything for granted, and I've got Cindy and Dominica busy working out the best way to generate massive redundancy in our sensor coverage, just in case, but I don't see us as the logical candidate for the next sneak attack. If they do go after anything in the Quadrant, I'd imagine it would be the Terminus itself, since I can't see anything else out this way that would have equal strategic value for anyone who obviously doesn't like us very much. And that, fortunately or unfortunately, we're just going to have to leave in other peoples' hands."