“My heart bleeds for the pricks. Is there a list of survivors?”
“No, not yet. The Stick’s AI is doing the best it can, but routine administration is not one of its strong points.”
Michael chuckled softly. Assault landers were never designed to fly without a human crew; of course they could, but some of the finer points of command tended to fall by the wayside. “Fine. Ask it nicely to let us know if it can find the time. Even better, see if it can patch us through to one of the survivors. Next question: We can’t go back, so where the hell do we go?”
“I was afraid you’d ask me that, sir. The bad news is that we have just one option, I’m afraid. I’ve checked and rechecked. Serhati is the only non-Hammer world we can reach with the driver mass and consumables we have onboard. I’ve done a navigation plan to get us there.”
“Shit,” Michael said softly with a shake of his head; Serhati did not appear on any list of friendly systems he had ever seen. “What’s the transit time?”
“Not good, sir. It’s … let me see … yes, a thirteen-day transit.”
Michael winced; the cramped confines of a heavy lander would make for an uncomfortable trip. “Can we do that?” he said, trying not to look concerned.
“Assuming Cleft Stick recovers no more than 200 survivors, yes, we can … just,” Sedova said. “Assuming 250 souls all up, consumables are the problem: We’ll be out of food, our carbon dioxide scrubbers will be on their last legs, and we’ll be critically low on oxygen and water. And that’s even after we’ve stripped Cleft Stick bare.”
“Umm,” Michael said after he took a long look at Serhati’s profile. “Yes, you’re right. It has to be Serhati, so that’s where we’ll go. And yes, it’ll be damn tight. But I think we can do it if we keep the troops in their bunks twenty-two hours a day to reduce oxygen consumption. The big problem is that Serhati is a Hammer client. Not officially, of course; it pretends to be a Kalici Protocol world, but scratch the surface and it’s not. According to the intelligence summaries, Serhati is a covert remassing stop for Hammer ships. So I think we’re in for an interesting time. Set vector for Serhati and let the troops know that’s where we’re headed.”
“Sir.”
Michael ignored a momentary flash of panic: Going to Serhati meant giving the Hammers the best chance they would ever have to get their hands on him. But what choice did he have?
“Anything else of note?” he said.
“No, sir.”
“Roger. I’m going below. Keep a close eye on the Hammers. Let me know when the Stick has finished rescuing pods and gives us a definite rendezvous time.”
“Sir.”
His body saturated with fatigue, Michael dropped down the ladder into the cargo bay. He walked across to where Ferreira sat, head back, her injured arm—liberally decorated with orange leak patches and smeared black and green with dried blood and woundfoam—resting on a convenient power box. “Jayla. How’s the arm?”
“Bloody sore,” she said. “That fucking woundfoam is ten times worse than getting shot in the first place. Don’t care how good it is. Shit, it hurts. My neuronics say the wound’s nothing serious, and anyway, I now have the combat wound stripe I’ve always wanted.”
Michael laughed. “We have about four hours before we pick up Cleft Stick. You ready for a load of uninvited guests?”
“We are, sir,” Ferreira said, a broad grin clearly visible through the plasglass of her helmet’s faceplate. “It will be one hell of a squeeze, but we’ll manage. A five-star establishment this is, and Bienefelt’s agreed to be concierge while I sit around feeling sorry for myself.”
“Can’t see you sitting around, Jayla. Marine Mehraz, how is she? Good work, by the way, getting her out.”
Ferreira’s head bobbed in embarrassment. She waved her good arm in protest. “Shit, sir. Somebody had to do it. Marine Mehraz is safely in one of the regen tanks. She’s in pretty bad shape; her legs took a lot of rounds, and she’s suffering lung damage from explosive decompression of her suit, but the medical AI says she’ll be okay until we get to Serhati.”
“I hope so. As soon as we’re sure the Hammers won’t bother us, I’ll tell Kat to get the lander repressurized.”
“That would be outstanding. I am sick of this crappy space suit, and the medibots want to clean up my arm, though what I really need is a long, hot shower. How good would that be?”
Michael laughed. “Better than good, Jayla. Right, I’ll leave you alone. When I’m done here, I’ll be back on the flight deck if you need me.”
“Sir,” Ferreira said, closing her eyes and slumping back, face pale with shock.
Concerned, Michael patched into the medical AI to make sure Ferreira was better than she looked; it assured him she was, so he turned to study the Ghost’s cargo bay. He nodded his approval. Chief Bienefelt had wasted no time getting the place organized—loose gear stowed, bunks rigged up, fresh clothing broken out, and hot drinks laid out on a side table. He picked a beaker up and plugged it into the drinks port of his suit, grateful for the coffee’s sudden lift, the grinding fatigue easing a touch. He made his way across to where Kallewi and his marines were sprawled out across the deck.
“Hi, sir,” Kallewi said, setting his assault rifle aside and getting to his feet.
“No need to ask the Federated Worlds Marine Corps if things are under control.”
“Sir!” Kallewi protested. “The green machine never sleeps; you should know that.”
“Bloody marines!” Michael snorted. “Full of it.”
“Come on, sir. You need us, and you know it.”
Michael shook his head in mock despair. “Sad but true. Back to business. Jayla tells me that Marine Mehraz should be okay.”
“We think so, sir. The AI says she’s stable.” Kallewi paused for a second. “You know what, sir?” he continued, voice soft.
“Tell me.”
“We were screwed, totally screwed. All our egress routes were blocked. The Hammers had finally gotten their shit together, and there were heavy weapons squads on their way. Another ten minutes and the bastards would have overrun us. We had no chance. So thanks for sending in the cavalry. Wasn’t in the plan, you didn’t need to, and you probably shouldn’t have. But you did. Without them we were dead meat”—Kallewi shook his head—“so tell your exec that she’s welcome in any marine mess, anywhere, anytime. She did well.”
“She sure did.” There was a pause, and Michael reflected on the appalling risks they had all taken that day. “Okay,” he said at last, “need anything?”
“This ship repressurized so we can get out of these space suits, then a hot shower, a clean shipsuit, something to eat, and some serious sack time.”
“You and everyone else,” Michael said, laughing, “and don’t worry. You’ll be sick of your rack by the time we get to Serhati.”
“Sick of my rack? Never happen!”
Michael laughed, not least because he knew what Kallewi had said was true. Making his way back to the flight deck, he was relieved to see that the red icons that had infested the threat plot had been downgraded to a reassuring orange: hostile but no threat. There was no doubting it. Obviously, the Hammers had more on their plate to worry about than a fleeing lander, so he commed Sedova to repressurize the lander.
“Captain, sir, pilot.”
“Yeah, go ahead, Kat.”
“Cleft Stick is on final approach.”
“Roger.”
Comming Ferreira and Bienefelt to join him, Michael stood patiently at the Ghost’s starboard personnel air lock. After an age, a gentle bump ran through the lander, followed by a metallic thunk when the docking interlocks slammed home. Cleft Stick had berthed. Green lights came on over the air lock door, the Ghost’s loadmaster slapped the handle, and the door swung open and up. A short pause followed to allow the outer hatch to open with a tiny swirl of air when the two landers equalized, and there she was, Vice Admiral Jaruzelska in person.
“Attention on deck! Commander
, Battle Fleet Lima,” Chief Bienefelt bellowed in her best parade ground fashion.
“Thank you, Captain,” Jaruzelska said, acknowledging Michael’s salute. “Chief Bienefelt, good to know that you’re not allowing standards to slip even though we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bienefelt said.
“Lieutenant Ferreira.”
“Welcome aboard Caesar’s Ghost, sir.”
“Glad you stayed to give us a lift. What’s with the arm?” Jaruzelska said.
“Flesh wound, sir,” Ferreira replied, lifting a heavily bandaged arm. “I’ll live, which is more than I can say for the Hammer sonofabitch who shot me.”
Jaruzelska laughed. She took Michael by the arm and pulled him clear of the procession of survivors that followed her across from Cleft Stick, their faces tight with fatigue and delayed shock. Michael had never seen such a sorry bunch, the strain of what they had been through etched deep.
“I know I’ve already said this, Michael,” Jaruzelska said, “but I’ll say it again, anyway. I always had faith in dreadnoughts. More to the point, I always had faith in you. You did well. About time we stuck it to those damn Hammers. Something tells me that they are going to miss that antimatter plant of theirs.”
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said. “They sure will. Hammer scum. But, um … there are a few things you need to know. We had a few, er … a few issues along the way.”
Jaruzelska rolled her eyes. “Why is nothing ever easy with you, Lieutenant Helfort? Okay, when you’ve gotten rid of that ludicrously named lander of yours and we’re on our way, I’ll want a full brief. And when I say full,” she said sternly, “I mean every last detail.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” Jaruzelska said, “Captain Tuukkanen and I have been through your report in detail, along with the records downloaded from your AIs. Way we see it, this is pretty much open and shut. So, speaking as your commanding officer, my formal response is this.”
She paused, weighing her words with obvious care. “Rear Admiral Perkins will take disciplinary action against you. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. However, that action will be stayed until the board of inquiry into Operation Opera finishes its work. The board will review your report of proceedings along with those of all the other commanders, along with statements from everyone else who thinks they have something worthwhile to say, not to mention every datalog they can get their hands on. Given that dreadnoughts were involved”—a hint of bitterness crept into her voice—“and, more significantly, given that you disobeyed a direct order from none other than the flag officer in charge of Opera, I think there will be plenty of people wanting to be heard. Until the board reports its findings, it would be premature to speculate any further. Suffice to say, what happens after that will depend upon the board of inquiry’s findings of fact, as well as its conclusions and recommendations.”
“I imagined that’s how it would go,” Michael replied, his stomach tightening as he sensed the nightmare that lay ahead.
“So,” Jaruzelska said, her voice firm, “that’s my formal response. Let me give you the informal one. Put simply, you were 100 percent right and Rear Admiral Perkins was 100 percent wrong. If you’d complied with his order, Operation Opera would have failed. It’s that simple, and I intend to say so.”
Relief flooded Michael’s body: Even after hours of agonizing self-analysis, he still believed he had been right, but it was good to have a combat-proven vice admiral come out and say she saw things the same way. “Thanks for that, sir.”
Jaruzelska shook her head. “Don’t thank me. That’s the only conclusion to draw from the evidence. But”—why is there always a caveat? Michael wondered—“disobeying a direct order in battle is a serious matter.” She looked Michael right in the eye. “Let me tell you this, Michael. If you failed, if you’d not destroyed SuppFac27, a court-martial stacked with your best friends would have found you guilty of disobeying the admiral’s order. Nobody would have asked whether or not the order was right or wrong. Failure has no friends, none at all.”
“I knew that, sir,” Michael said. “The moment I ignored Perkins’s order, I knew I was laying my life on the line.”
“And yet you still did it?”
“Well, to quote you verbatim, Admiral, if I may: ‘It will be up to one of you to do whatever it takes to reduce that damned place to a ball of molten slag.’ I had not forgotten. So, yes. I still did it. Anything else would have been dereliction of duty.”
“It was still one hell of a big call, but one I’m glad you made. So don’t worry. I’ll be with you every step of the way. It’ll be a bloody business, but we’ll get you through it. So,” Jaruzelska said briskly, “let’s have a look at Serhati, a real shithole if ever there was one. Took the old Dependent there back in ‘85; the place was the pits then, and I’d be surprised if it’s improved any. We’re going to need a damn good plan if we’re to stop those scum-sucking Serhati vermin from handing us all over to the Hammers.”
“I’ll second that, sir,” Michael said fervently. “I think the Hammers are going to wet themselves when they find out.”
Saturday, March 31, 2401, UD
Serhati nearspace
With a stomach-churning lurch, Caesar’s Ghost dropped into normal space.
“Nice one, Kat,” Michael murmured while he scanned the command plot, happy to see that they were not about to crash into some sucker entering Serhati nearspace at the same time.
“Thanks, sir. Main engines to full power … now. Transmitting ID and flight plan to Serhati nearspace control. Ground links will be online in seconds … stand by. Okay, sir, links are up.”
Sedova had dropped the lander right at the leading edge of the drop zone for nonmilitary traffic, as close to Serhati as she could get it, the Ghost’s blunt stern facing planetward, ready for an immediate deceleration burn. Michael had crossed his fingers at that part of Sedova’s plan; dropping into a strange system ass first, unannounced, and without the benefit of up-to-date traffic schedules was generally considered a bad idea. The chances of surviving an impact nose first were not great; ass first, they were nil. But survive they had.
Michael turned to Jaruzelska. “Admiral, sir. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes rolled up under half-closed eyelids while she commed the Federated Worlds ambassador to the Sovereignty of Serhati. Michael left the admiral to spoil the woman’s morning cup of tea: When the poor sap had woken up that morning, she could not have known that her day was to be wrecked in quite such spectacular fashion.
The face of the Serhati duty controller appeared on the command holovid, eyes narrowed with concern. “Caesar’s Ghost, this is Serhati nearspace control.”
“Go ahead, Serhati.”
“There are irregularities in your ship data. We have no record of any Federated Worlds mership matching your registration, nor have you filed any flight plan. For that we will be lodging a code violation against you. Terminate your deceleration burn immediately and adjust vector to take station on space battle station SSBS-45. Transmitting approved flight plan to you. Any deviation off vector risks use of deadly force. Acknowledge. Serhati nearspace control, over.”
Sedova kept her voice noncommittal, matter-of-fact. “Caesar’s Ghost, negative, negative. We are non-combat-effective Federated Worlds lander registration PHLA-442566, carrying wounded urgently in need of medical attention. We are also critically short of life support supplies, and our driver mass levels are dangerously low. In accordance with the Hague Convention, essential we land to receive immediate assistance. Request you designate landing field as matter of extreme urgency. Federated Worlds embassy has been advised of our arrival.”
The Serhati duty controller sat bolt upright and leaned forward; he stared open-mouthed. “Ah, um … Caesar’s Ghost, stand by,” he said in a strangled croak. The man had never seen a problem like this before, Michael guessed. Judging from the color of his face, the excitement was a bit too much for
him.
Michael glanced across at Jaruzelska, who was still deep in her com to the ambassador. The ambassador’s job was to make the Serhatis believe the Feds would wipe Serhati off the face of the map if they laid a finger on the Ghost before it landed safely. Michael was confident she would: The Federated Worlds might not be the power it once had been, but it possessed the military grunt to destroy a puissant planet like Serhati without breaking a sweat, and he would bet good money that the Serhatis knew that.
If the Serhatis called the bluff, the Ghost would be forced to stay in orbit. That meant circling Serhati until the Hammers came and scooped them up. Of course, the Serhatis would protest furiously at the Hammers’ abuse of their neutrality, but it would be too late by then. He would be on his way to Commitment and an appointment with a DocSec firing squad while the rest of the survivors headed for a Hammer prisoner of war camp.
Michael did the only thing left to him: He crossed his fingers and prayed hard. It was not much of a plan, but it was the best they had.
At last Jaruzelska’s eyes opened.
“Done,” she said. “Ambassador Sharma will do her best, so we’ll keep going.”
“Roger that, sir. Bet she was surprised.”
“More stunned, I would say,” Jaruzelska said. “I think I’ve spoiled her day.”
Sedova did not wait for the Serhatis to decide whether to allow Caesar’s Ghost to land. Shaking as main engines at emergency power reduced her speed for reentry, the Ghost started its fall dirtside, the planet’s largest continent—a dark sprawling mass under scattered clouds tinged gold and pink in the early-morning sun—opening out below them. Sedova ignored the Serhati controller’s increasingly hysterical bleatings of protest as she fine-tuned the lander’s vector for reentry.
“Go for it, Kat,” Michael said.
“Roger, sir … Serhati nearspace control, this is Caesar’s Ghost. Life support status now critical. Estimate one zero, I say again one zero minutes remaining. Main engine flameout in five. Will attempt v-max reentry. Request immediate clearance into Norton Field. We don’t have the driver mass to go anywhere else. Wish us luck, Serhati”—nice touch that, especially the panicky tremble Sedova injected into her voice; or maybe it was for real, Michael thought—“we’re going to need it. Caesar’s Ghost, over.”
Helfort's War Book III Page 29