But I don’t have a choice, he thought. I have to rely on the spy.
He keyed his console. “Order a squadron of light cruisers to prepare for departure to Ringer,” he said. It would take at least three days to get the squadron there, more than long enough for the enemy to finish destroying the system’s industries and pull out. But he couldn’t leave the enemy in place, not when Ringer held so many discontented citizens. Who knew what they could do if they had time and willing help? “And then start working up a sphere showing where the enemy might be.”
“Aye, sir,” Captain Haran said.
It was the same enemy flotilla, according to the reports. There had been no attempt to disguise Lightning, let alone her older companions. That suggested, very strongly, that there was only one squadron of enemy ships behind the lines. Quite apart from the logistics issue, he was sure the Commonwealth Admiralty would be reluctant to cut entire squadrons of modern ships loose for raiding missions, not when they needed them for screening elements and convoy escorts. God knew the Theocracy had the same problem. And that meant . . .
He activated the star chart and considered the matter, carefully. Commonwealth ships weren’t any faster in hyperspace, as far as he knew, than anything from the Theocracy. Logically, assuming the enemy had departed just after the courier boat, they had to be somewhere within a sphere centered on Ringer. It looked good, but the sphere covered over a dozen light years, an area of space so vast as to be completely impossible to search. Every ship in the combined navies of the entire settled galaxy could hide within that sphere and remain completely undetected, save by the most extraordinary stroke of luck. But it did offer one possibility, at least. He could say which worlds might come under attack next.
Aswan is probably out, he thought. But there are other targets . . .
His intercom chimed. “Admiral,” Captain Haran said, “the staff meeting will start in ten minutes.”
“I’m on my way,” Admiral Junayd said.
He rose, then copied his conclusions to his terminal and left the office, walking through the corridors to the briefing room. This time, thankfully, the Inquisitor was taking his spite out on the planet’s inhabitants rather than Admiral Junayd or any of his staff. He wouldn’t have had anything to contribute, Admiral Junayd was sure, but he knew from bitter experience that anything resembling a “secret” meeting would be reported to his superiors, who would take a jaundiced view of the whole affair. No doubt the fact he had a cleric and several intelligence officers attending the meeting wouldn’t be good enough, if his enemies caught wind of it.
Good thing we invited the bastard, he thought, as he stepped into the briefing room. He can’t complain he wasn’t invited now.
He smirked at the thought, then sat down as the steward served coffee before withdrawing into a side room. Captain Haran closed and locked the hatch, then put the reports from the courier boat on the main display. The staffers, none of whom had seen them, watched with grim expressions. There would definitely be enough blame to go around if their ultimate superiors decided so.
“The enemy has struck again,” Admiral Junayd said when the recording had finished. “This time, however, we may have an advantage.”
He keyed a switch, displaying the expanding sphere centered on Ringer. “We know they have to be somewhere within this region of space,” he said. “Every red world”—he tapped another switch, altering the display—“must be considered a possible target. Therefore, it is my intention to move the squadron to a position where we can respond quickly to any attacks within this sphere.”
And be ready to set an ambush if the spy gets back to us, he added mentally. He didn’t want to share any information concerning the spy with anyone who didn’t already know about him, not when it might lead to trouble. Even if he doesn’t, we will be in position to respond.
“We’re going to move to here,” he said, tapping a location on the display. “I want courier boats to head to each of the suspected target systems to inform them of our current intentions and to be ready to summon us, if the enemy attacks. Another pair of courier boats is to be dispatched to Aswan. Commodore Malian will need to be prepared to support our deployment, if we do run into the enemy.”
He paused. “Are there any points that should be raised before we continue?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Commodore Isaac said. “If we leave Verdean, we may miss a message from Aswan or any other systems that come under attack.”
“I will be leaving two courier boats here,” Admiral Junayd said. “There is nothing else we can do about the problem.”
He sighed, inwardly. It was a valid concern, unfortunately, even though he was fairly sure that Isaac was buttressing his position in case their superiors took a dim view of his decisions. In the time it took for his couriers to inform Commodore Malian of his movements, the enemy could attack another system or he could receive new orders via the StarCom. However, there was nothing he could do about it, save for remaining in orbit and not bothering to respond to any of the attacks. Even the Theocracy couldn’t change the tactical realities that had bedeviled humanity since the first scoutships had ventured into hyperspace.
“I have requested—again—reinforcements from home,” he added. “I do not believe they will be forthcoming. Therefore, I intend to consider ways to set traps for the enemy. We do not have any armed freighters in the sector, but we may be able to modify several bulk freighters to serve as makeshift Q-Ships. It may be possible to lure the enemy into attacking a convoy. We do know they destroyed one convoy and they will certainly want to target others.”
There was a pause. “We may also be splitting up the squadron,” he warned. “In that case, the superdreadnoughts will be operating independently.”
Commodore Isaac cleared his throat. “Admiral,” he said. “Tactical doctrine clearly states . . .”
“Tactical doctrine assumes that it is we, not the enemy, who are perpetually on the offensive,” Admiral Junayd snapped. It hadn’t been a bad bet, back when the Theocracy had started its conquests, but they’d never actually had to fight a real war. A multistar political system had space to trade for time and ships that could be deployed to actually strike deep into Theocratic space. “I understand the dangers of parceling out our superdreadnoughts in penny packets, but we have no choice. Unless one of you is concealing a fleet of cruisers in your pockets, perhaps?”
He pushed on before anyone could say a word. “We will depart in one hour,” he said. “If you have deployed additional crew or janissaries to the system, recall them. I will not tolerate further delays. Dismissed.”
The compartment emptied quickly, leaving Admiral Junayd alone. He shook his head, then looked at the display. In truth, unless he got very lucky, he had to pray the spy came through and told him where to place his ships. Because if he didn’t . . .
. . . it could cost him all that remained of his career.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it was one that had to be faced. Someone always had to take the blame. God granted victory to the deserving, the Theocracy preached, and if victory was not granted the loser had to be undeserving. Admiral Junayd knew he’d been lucky to escape the first defeat—if Princess Drusilla hadn’t committed a staggering act of treason, he might well have been brutally executed for failure—and a second failure would kill him. Never mind that he didn’t have half the ships and crew he needed to protect the sector, never mind that the enemy could choose her targets with impunity . . . never mind that the locals had every reason to hate the Theocracy. It would be his fault.
He considered, briefly, defecting. If a lowly woman could do it, why couldn’t a man with thirty years of naval experience under his belt? It wouldn’t be that hard to come up with an excuse for boarding a courier boat and taking control, once he was deep in hyperspace. He could steer the boat to the Commonwealth . . .
. . . and then his family would be executed.
The Commonwealth had tightened up its security considerably since the war had begun, according to intelligence reports, but it still leaked. Admiral Junayd had no illusions; sooner or later, someone would figure out that he’d defected and take it out on his family. No, nothing short of walking to his execution with the proper attitude—the supplicant willing to pay with his life for his sins—would save everyone related to him. He was trapped, a helpless prisoner of his own society . . . a society he was starting to loathe.
And you hate it now, his own thoughts mocked him. Did you hate it when you were feted as the great naval hero who would carry the flag to Tyre and beyond?
He was too honest to deny it. He’d had a good career, right up until the moment planning met reality in the skies of Cadiz. His family connections had ensured he made it into the naval academy; his gift for memory had ensured he wasn’t held back for failing to recite his prayers perfectly . . . and, since his graduation, he’d risen steadily in the ranks. He’d even learned to handle religious functionaries who knew nothing about military matters, yet held the power of life and death over every officer and crewman on his ships. But he’d been blamed for Cadiz and only sheer luck had saved him from becoming the scapegoat for a simple failure of imagination. War was a democracy, after all, and the enemy got a vote. If the plans couldn’t handle a surprise like Princess Drusilla’s defection, what good were they?
And we did manage to hammer 7th Fleet, he reminded himself firmly. We jumped ahead of schedule, because we knew they couldn’t ignore a war fleet so close to their borders, but we nearly won. And we did batter the fleet into near uselessness. If they hadn’t had a fleet of reinforcements nearby . . .
He shook his head. The latest news from Tyre mocked him—and the entire Theocracy. It was impossible to fault Admiral Christian . . . but if he’d served the Theocracy, he would have been executed for his failure to destroy the enemy fleet. Charging right at the enemy formation, even if one was hideously outgunned, was regarded as a good thing, no matter if it was pointless and stupid. The idea of a tactical withdrawal was beyond the imagination of most of his officers . . . and if they did have the wit to conceive of the concept, they immediately buried it before they could be accused of defeatism. How could anyone win a war by retreating? And yet, preserving one’s ships instead of fighting a hopeless battle might lead to overall victory.
His terminal buzzed. “Admiral, the courier boats have been dispatched,” Captain Haran informed him. “Cleric Peter wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”
Admiral Junayd had to bite down a sneer. What was he supposed to tell the cleric? The truth? He wasn’t a child, indoctrinated to believe that clerics had a direct line to God . . . and that they would keep anything they were told to themselves, respecting the privacy of the confessional booth. No one with any wit believed that clerics kept secrets. A person who had doubts about God, about the Theocracy, about anything, would take his life in his hands if he dared speak to a cleric. There was no one Junayd could confide in who would not betray him.
“Inform the cleric that he can meet me in my cabin in ten minutes,” he said, standing. There was no point in hiding in the cabin, not when there was work to do. “Have the ships earmarked for Ringer been dispatched?”
“They’re being prepared now,” Captain Haran said. “Commodore Isaac insisted on choosing the squadron personally.”
I’m sure he did, Admiral Junayd thought nastily. He probably thinks he will be my replacement if the Speaker relieves me of command.
“Then have them dispatched as soon as they’re finally ready,” he ordered. There would be a chance to push the blame onto Isaac, if he wished . . . but the last thing the fleet needed, really, was a struggle over command authority. Besides, he had a feeling the light cruisers would discover nothing more than drifting wreckage and dead bodies. “Was there any message from the surface?”
“No, sir,” Captain Haran said.
“Good,” Admiral Junayd said. “I’ll see the cleric in ten minutes.”
He closed the channel, then pasted a cold expression on his face. There was no point in showing weakness, not when the wolves were already gathering. Commodore Isaac might be the first to take a step, to try to push himself forward as a potential replacement for his superior officer, but he wouldn’t be the last. A failure had no friends or loyal subordinates for fear it would rub off. It was just another thing he found himself envying in his nation’s enemies.
Gathering himself, he stepped through the hatch and walked down the corridor. The cleric was no doubt already inside his cabin, perhaps checking to see if there was anything incriminating hidden under the bed. Admiral Junayd wondered, absently, if Commonwealth officers had to put up with a glowering political watchdog, then shrugged, dismissing the thought. He had to make do with the system that had birthed him, no matter how much he envied his opponents.
He opened the hatch. The cleric was seated in a hard-backed chair, his fingers pressed together in prayer. He looked up as Admiral Junayd entered, then waved him to a chair . . . as if it were his own cabin, rather than the admiral’s. Admiral Junayd sighed inwardly, recognizing the power play, then took his chair. There was no point in irritating a cleric for nothing.
“I must say I’m quite concerned,” Peter said shortly. “This is the second major system to come under attack.”
“The enemy can choose targets at random,” Admiral Junayd said smoothly. It sounded as though he was making excuses, but it was the literal truth. “They can concentrate their forces against one world; we have to spread ours out to cover two dozen worlds.”
“That would appear to be true,” Peter agreed. “However, it is not particularly reassuring.”
Then we should have built better defenses instead of lavishing resources on the fleet, Admiral Junayd thought. But I can’t tell you that, can I?
Pushing the thought aside, he leaned forward and began to explain his plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“The locals claim they can provide transport for all ten thousand civilians,” William said as he stepped into the captain’s office. “However, with only a handful of freighters, it’s going to be a very tight squeeze.”
“Almost certainly,” the captain agreed. “Can we bring in the captured freighters to give us some extra capacity?”
“If we have the time,” William said. “We might be better off taking them in the freighters, then transferring them into the other ships once we reach the RV point.”
The captain didn’t hesitate. “Do it,” she ordered. “Are the inhabitants willing to go?”
“They don’t expect the Theocracy to be merciful once they return,” William said. “I think they were hoping for a way out before we arrived. They’ve actually got quite a few ideas on how to expand life support capability so we can take them all.”
He looked at the near-space display and frowned. A handful of asteroids with very limited living space and a sealed environment. The locals, it seemed, had strict rules on breeding; each couple could only have two children, unless they were lucky enough to win the breeding lottery and have a chance to get a third child. He’d been told that the population had remained remarkably stable for seventy years, even after the Theocracy had annexed the system. But then, the Theocracy had been more interested in using the locals than converting them. It had still been a hair-raising existence.
There was very little overt horror, he thought. But there were a great many implied threats.
“That cruiser is still out there,” the captain said, thoughtfully. “They’re watching us.”
“They probably want to try and track our exit vector,” William said. It was unlikely the Theocracy’s sensors were good enough to make any real headway, but they’d set off on a diversionary vector, just in case intelligence was wrong. “Do you want to try and chase them down?”
“It would probabl
y be a waste of time,” the captain said. “Did you manage to pull anything useful from the remains of the other cruiser?”
William shook his head. “Their surviving datacores were completely wiped and powdered, Captain,” he said. “It looks as though the ship was so badly damaged that it activated automated scuttling codes. They might not have managed to trigger the self-destruct, but it sure as hell wiped out anything useful.”
“The teams may still find something,” the captain mused. “But it probably won’t be anything particularly useful.”
She shrugged. “Once they have the freighters loaded, rig the asteroids with nuclear demolition charges,” she added. “Maybe we can arrange for them to explode in their face when they return to the system.”
“Aye, Captain,” William said. He paused. “It might be better, however, if we left the habitat asteroids alone.”
The captain raised her eyebrows. “The enemy could still make use of them.”
“We do have to destroy the industries,” William said. He’d been impressed, then alarmed, by just how much the locals had managed to do with such a limited supply of raw material. If the Theocracy had actually tried to learn from them, it would have been disastrous. “But the habitat asteroids belong to the locals. There’s no profit in destroying them when the destruction serves no useful purpose. And one day, the locals may be able to return.”
“The Theocracy may destroy them,” the captain said.
“Then at least the Theocracy will get the blame,” William said. “We’re taking ten thousand people away from the only home they have ever known. The very least we can do is refrain from smashing their homes into dust. They may be able to return after the war.”
“If their culture survives contact with the rest of the Commonwealth,” the captain said. She looked up at him. “Very well; mine the industrial platforms, but not the habitable asteroids, as long as there is nothing there the enemy can use for war material.”
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 2) Page 24