“Thank you,” Jean-Luc said. “But when will our world be liberated?”
“I wish I could give you a timetable,” the captain said. “We need to keep them off balance while we gather our forces, then take the offensive and ram straight into their territory. I hope it won’t be long, but . . .”
“We understand,” Perrier said. “Any help you give us will be very welcome.”
Beside him, Jean-Luc nodded in agreement.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It had been years since Admiral Junayd had visited the Aswan System, back when he’d been supervising the border defenses before the Theocracy started preparing for war in earnest, and he hadn’t been too impressed at the time. Aswan existed as little more than a forward operational base, a minor shipyard and industrial node; too far from the border to support the offensive, too close to be transformed into a major industrial base. Even now, with a war on, it didn’t seem to have been improved. A single squadron of superdreadnoughts held station orbiting the planet itself and another squadron drifted near the shipyard, while several dozen smaller ships flitted around the system or dropped in and out of hyperspace at will.
He stood on the bridge of the light cruiser God’s Faithful and felt cold anger congealing inside his heart. Aswan hadn’t been one of his responsibilities while he’d been planning the offensive against Cadiz, but he’d been expecting better from the commodore in command of the base. It was depressingly clear that he’d allowed standards to lapse: the light cruiser, which had dropped out of hyperspace twenty minutes ago, hadn’t been challenged, even though it was on a direct course towards the planet itself. The superdreadnoughts, which should have been on alert, seemed to have been stood down. He hoped he was wrong, but experience suggested otherwise.
It’s Cadiz in reserve, he thought. He had no idea why Admiral Morrison had cared so little for even basic precautions, but he would make damn sure that the commodore got the punishment his Commonwealth counterpart had earned. And if the enemy attacked, all hell would break loose.
“Admiral,” Captain Erith said, “we are being challenged.”
“Finally,” Admiral Junayd snapped. “Send them my command codes, then inform Commodore Malian that I wish to see him the moment I board.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Captain Erith said.
Admiral Junayd ignored him, concentrating on the display. The defenses looked formidable, at least, and the sensors were active . . . but why hadn’t his ship been challenged? Had they been so confident that he was friendly? Or were they merely being idiots? If Admiral Junayd could take a spy ship into enemy space, there was no reason the Commonwealth couldn’t do the same. He ground his teeth with anger. It was bad enough that he’d been made the scapegoat for the Theocracy’s failure to close the trap properly, a problem caused by Princess Drusilla, but to have to cope with incompetence . . .
He swore under his breath, then turned to look at the captain. “Order my staff to be ready to board the station as soon as we dock,” he said. “I don’t want to waste any time.”
A dull shiver ran through the ship as it docked. Admiral Junayd steadied himself, then walked down to the airlock, ignoring the sharp glances Captain Erith threw at him. It wasn’t hard to guess that Erith was worried about his career too, but Admiral Junayd found it hard to give a damn. Right now, he had a far more important problem to worry about. Unless his guess was very wrong, those superdreadnoughts were in poor repair.
And should be at the front, he thought as he stepped through the airlock. The thought of what he could have done with an extra squadron of superdreadnoughts—let alone two—was thoroughly unpleasant, but unavoidable. He could have trapped and destroyed both Commonwealth fleets, then ripped through the defenses of a dozen worlds. But there’s no point in worrying over what might have been.
A small party met him at the airlock, led by Commodore Malian and his cleric. Admiral Junayd studied both of them for a long moment; the commodore looked alarmingly fat and happy, while the cleric had the dimwitted expression common to men who’d been promoted above their level of competence. Junayd felt another surge of hatred and then fought it down; he believed, but he hated men who thought their belief made them more competent than those who had studied war for decades. There was no point in making a second enemy right now.
“Admiral Junayd,” Commodore Malian said. “Allow me to welcome you . . .”
“You will take me to your office at once,” Admiral Junayd said, cutting him off. He had no interest in an extended series of welcoming speeches that would be long on flowery religious references and short on anything useful. “The rest of your staff can return to their duties.”
The commodore gaped at him, then hastened to obey. Admiral Junayd muttered orders to his staff, then followed the commodore through a series of twisting corridors and up to his office, which was surprisingly luxurious. A warrior was meant to have a bare office, Admiral Junayd had been taught, but the commodore had clearly gone soft. The bulkheads were decorated with paintings, the chairs were sinfully comfortable, and the desk was made of real wood. What had his cleric been doing? Maybe the idiot was smart enough to understand his own ignorance, but surely he could have noticed everything in plain view? Or had the commodore merely convinced him that it was vital for the war effort that the CO was allowed to decorate his own office?
“Sit,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “Explain. Now.”
Commodore Malian stared at him, his eyes wide. “Explain what, sir?”
“Your command failed to challenge my ship until we were already alarmingly close to the planet,” Admiral Junayd said. “Your starships appear to be concentrated here, rather than on patrol or scattered over the numerous potential targets in the sector. Your superdreadnought squadrons look to be in very low readiness; indeed, the only area where you can reasonably be said to have lived up to regulations concerns planetary defenses. Explain.”
He lowered his voice. “And you can also explain,” he added, “why I shouldn’t be sending you back in chains, charged with corruption and gross incompetence.”
“I am not incompetent,” the commodore protested.
“This system reminds me of Cadiz,” Admiral Junayd said coolly. “It is important to learn from our mistakes, but learning from the enemy’s is a great deal cheaper. Explain.”
The commodore took a long breath. “Admiral,” he said, “I was ordered to keep my forces concentrated here.”
“You were?” Admiral Junayd asked. “Ordered by whom?”
“The War Council,” Commodore Malian said. “They believed that my ships would serve as a reserve force, to be deployed to the front if necessary. I couldn’t deploy them at a moment’s notice if I had them spread out over the sector.”
“I imagine not,” Admiral Junayd sneered. “But why did you allow the superdreadnoughts to fall into such disrepair?”
“Most of my repair crews were sent forward,” the commodore said defiantly. “I am forbidden to train new ones, while all my requests for replacements have fallen on deaf ears.”
“I see,” Admiral Junayd said coldly.
He took a long moment to study the older man. Malian had had a decent record until recently; indeed, no one had realized there were problems at Aswan until now. But if Malian hadn’t had the tools to fix the problems, he couldn’t really be blamed for them. How could Junayd himself resent his own treatment at the hands of the War Council and blame Malian for his failures at the same time?
“Then we will have to work on your problems,” he said. “Give me a breakdown of your smaller ships. I intend to use them to patrol the sector.”
Malian blinked. “But they might be called forward at any moment!”
“Only an idiot”—or a cleric, he added silently—“would expect them to be ready to depart at once,” Admiral Junayd said firmly. “We do have a network of courier boats here, do we not? I can use them to recall th
e smaller ships if necessary. In the meantime, we will begin repair work on the superdreadnoughts. I do have the authority to conscript repair crews and to train others.”
“There are regulations against it,” Malian pointed out.
“This is war,” Admiral Junayd countered. The repair crews wouldn’t be left alive, not after the war was over, but for the moment they were needed. “Get a training program sorted out, then start looking for recruits. I’ll send a request back for other repair crews on the StarCom.”
“But they’ll know there’s a problem,” Malian whined.
“They will also know that your repair crews were summoned to the front,” Admiral Junayd pointed out with heavy patience. “I dare say they will be understanding of any requests you made for replacements—and, also, why I made a request as soon as I took command of the station.”
“Yes, sir,” Malian said.
“Good,” Admiral Junayd said. He sat down behind the desk, silently resolving to have the chair replaced with a properly uncomfortable design as soon as possible. “Now, I am willing to let your previous conduct go unpunished, provided you give me your all. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Malian said. It was better than he could reasonably have expected and they both knew it. “I won’t let you down.”
“Glad to hear it,” Admiral Junayd murmured. He cleared his throat loudly. “Now, I want you to draw up a schedule for a series of patrols through threatened systems—and for courier boats, in the event of us needing to recall the ships at short notice. Let me see it before you issue any actual orders.”
“Yes, sir,” Malian said.
“It would be much easier with a set of StarComs,” Admiral Junayd mused. “We could send messages from system to system practically instantly, not rely on courier boats away from communications nodes.”
He sighed. If he’d needed proof the Commonwealth was considerably richer than the Theocracy, he didn’t really need to look very far. They’d managed to give just about every inhabited system, even Cadiz, a StarCom, even though they were staggeringly expensive. The Theocracy hadn’t managed to do nearly as well; there were only three StarComs in the entire sector, despite the fact it was on the front lines. He would have traded one of his superdreadnought squadrons for a dozen StarComs and the freedom to choose their locations for himself.
Given time, they will outproduce and overwhelm us, he thought. We have to win the war within the next two years, or . . .
It was called defeatism, he knew, to even suggest there was a possibility of anything but triumph. No one would spare him, this time, if he openly discussed the prospect of losing the war. Everyone knew that God favored them, that He granted the Theocracy the help it needed to win the war . . . if they remained faithful and devout, praying every day for victory. And yet . . . while the Inquisition preached that God was on the side of the faithful, Admiral Junayd had long since come to realize that He was on the side of the big guns. The only real question was who had the bigger guns.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “I will review the rest of your records,” he added flatly. “You will report back to me in two hours. By then, I’m sure we will have a great deal more to discuss.”
Commodore Malian bowed low, then retreated from the room. Admiral Junayd sighed, then glanced at the latest set of reports. All seemed well in the sector, but that proved nothing. A dozen worlds were permanently on the verge of exploding into hopeless rebellion against the Theocracy, draining troops and ships from the war front. If he’d been in command of the enemy’s forces, he would have taken a leaf from the Theocracy’s plans for war and supplied weapons to the insurgents on worlds that had yet to bow the knee to God. It was unlikely any of them would actually be able to win, but they would provide a distraction at a crucial moment.
The sooner we start regular patrols, the better, he thought. We need to keep our finger on the pulse of the sector.
The intercom chimed. “Ah . . . Admiral?”
“Yes,” Admiral Junayd said. The voice sounded young and nervous, unsurprisingly. No doubt the speaker was on his first posting. “Report.”
“The courier boat for Convoy CAD-362 is overdue,” the speaker said. “It’s probably nothing, but . . .”
“Nothing is ever nothing,” Admiral Junayd said. It was something he’d been taught in training, back when he’d spent his days memorizing tactical formulations and his nights reciting religious texts from memory to please the clerics. “When was it due to arrive?”
“Two days ago,” the speaker said. “Ah, there was a period of leeway before it could be declared overdue.”
“I know the procedure,” Admiral Junayd said patiently. CAD-362 . . . it would have headed directly to Cadiz, once it met up with the courier boat. It was possible, he had to admit, that the courier boat might have had an accident somewhere along the way, but he disliked the thought. A convoy heading into a war zone would be a very tempting target. “Did we receive confirmation that it had departed?”
“Yes, Admiral. We were sent a message via StarCom from Cadiz, confirming the courier boat’s departure.”
We might have outsmarted ourselves, a little, Admiral Junayd thought. He hadn’t devised that procedure, thankfully, but that might not be taken into account when the investigation began. Someone was always at fault. And if something has happened to the courier boat, what happened to the convoy?
“Send a signal to Cadiz, asking them to inform us the moment the convoy arrives,” he ordered. It didn’t seem likely that the convoy would arrive, but he had to hope for the best while preparing for the worst. “And detach a pair of destroyers. They are to fly directly to the convoy’s RV point and investigate; no, one of them is to investigate, the other is to hang back.”
“Yes, Admiral,” the speaker said.
“Good,” Admiral Junayd said. “Inform me the moment the destroyers are on their way.”
He sat back in his chair, then closed the channel and brought up the star chart. As he’d suspected, CAD-362 had been due to meet the courier boat at UNAS-RD-46785 before proceeding to Cadiz, while the courier boat headed onwards to Aswan. But the courier boat hadn’t arrived, which suggested . . . what? Accident? Or deliberate attack? And if the latter, what had happened to the convoy?
At least it happened before I took formal command, he told himself. The sooner we start reestablishing patrols, the better.
Lieutenant Lars Rasmussen hadn’t expected to earn command after five years in the Royal Navy, certainly not of anything larger than a gunboat. Indeed, when he’d been told that there might—might—be a prospect of command if he transferred to a secret mission rather than being posted to a battle cruiser, he’d been half inclined to believe his CO was playing a complicated joke on him. And when he’d laid eyes on his new command, he hadn’t been able to keep himself from wondering if someone had deliberately set him up.
No, he told himself firmly, as HMS Mermaid drifted through the Aswan System. That isn’t fair at all.
HMS Mermaid was an odd duck, a strange cross between a military-grade warship and a cutter intended for nothing more than customs duty. He’d actually checked her file and discovered she was the sole representative of her class, a design that was neither fish nor fowl and had never worked well in practice. But as a spy ship, once some of her older equipment had been replaced, he had to admit she was matchless. The Theocrats didn’t have the slightest idea she was there.
“That’s definitely a second superdreadnought squadron,” Midshipwoman Grace Hawthorne reported from her console. Her voice was very quiet, as if she thought the enemy could hear her words. “Either they’re keeping the drives stepped down for some reason or they’re in desperate need of repairs.”
“Not that we want to tangle with them anyway,” Lars said, peering over her shoulder. “A single superdreadnought could swat the entire squadron, minus Lightning, wit
hout breaking a sweat.”
“Lightning wouldn’t last much longer,” Grace agreed. She frowned as more data poured into the starship’s sensors. “I’m thinking this place is definitely the center of operations in this sector.”
“It looks that way,” Lars said. The POWs had said as much, yet it never hurt to check. “But it also looks like they’re preparing to deploy forward.”
He paused. “Do we know those superdreadnoughts?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” Grace said. Her brow furrowed as she bent over the console, comparing the sensor readings with her records. “Their drive fields aren’t recorded in our database, but they might have retuned the drives. It wouldn’t be too hard for them to change the drives enough to give them a completely new profile.”
Lars nodded, slowly. According to the files, which he had only been allowed to read after they crossed the border, the Commonwealth had recorded the unique characteristics of nine enemy superdreadnought squadrons. Assuming that no one had messed with the drive signatures, he was looking at two more . . . and no one had any idea of just how many other superdreadnoughts there were, waiting for their chance to attack the Commonwealth.
Unless they have been modified, he thought. Or is that wishful thinking?
“Keep us on course,” he ordered. Mermaid would slip through the system, then jump back into hyperspace once they were well outside sensor range. “Captain—Commodore—Falcone will be delighted to have this information.”
“If only to know this system shouldn’t be attacked,” Grace said. Her face twisted with grim amusement. “I wouldn’t care to attack those defenses without a superdreadnought squadron of my own. And they have a StarCom, worse luck. They could call for help.”
“That does raise a different question,” Lars said. If Aswan was the local Sector HQ, where else would the enemy base ships? “From where?”
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 2) Page 16