The first shuttle took off, rocketing into the sky above the dome. A second one was already landing, extending its airlock towards the hatch. His men were well trained, thankfully; they hadn’t had any time to practice. He watched as two more prisoners were helped into the light, then half carried towards the waiting lines. They’d be taken onto the next shuttle and boosted to orbit, where they would be put in stasis. The next thing most of them would know, he hoped, was that they were back home.
He glanced at the timer. Seven minutes left . . .
“Get a move on,” he snapped. Another shuttle landed, ready to take the next consignment of former POWs. “Time is not on our side.”
“The Marines report that some of the prisoners were high-value targets,” the tactical officer said. “So far, they’ve recovered two colonels, a commodore, and a general. None of them are in good shape.”
“Get them into stasis tubes when they arrive,” William ordered. He suspected the Theocracy would have wanted to interrogate the prisoners, but most senior officers were equipped with implants designed to counter the effects of interrogation or, as a last resort, to kill them. “I don’t think we have time for a complete breakdown.”
He scowled as he looked at the near-space display. It was empty, but he knew that could change at any moment. Even if Captain Falcone had managed to distract the enemy, they could still spare a ship or two to respond to a distress call. There were five minutes left before they ran out of time.
“Tell them to hurry,” he ordered, finally.
William forced himself to relax, thinking hard. There was something about the whole system that didn’t make sense, not to him. If the POWs—or some of them, at least—were high-value targets, they should have been kept somewhere with more security. Or had the Theocracy assumed that no one knew where Aswan was? Or would dare to attack it if they did? He fretted for a long moment, then tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. The puzzle would be solved, sooner or later, perhaps after the prisoners were interrogated. Their captors might have had good reasons for wanting to keep them near the front lines.
But anything they knew would be outdated quickly, William thought. We’d deactivate their command codes from the datanets, even if we thought they were dead. Trying to use a deactivated command code would sound the alarm.
The timer bleeped. “Commander,” the tactical officer said. “We’re out of time.”
“Keep moving the shuttles,” William ordered. There was little else they could do, not when they needed to wait for the Marines. “And see how many more shuttles there are to come.”
“Three more,” Patrick said. “I’ve got fifty-seven prisoners still to move, then the guards and us.”
He cursed under his breath. The broken and battered prisoners had been moved onto the shuttles, thankfully, but many of the remainder were still waiting for a slot. His men had searched the entire complex, finding very little of any use. The Theocracy hadn’t mistreated anyone who had not been in the last barracks, as far as he could tell, but they hadn’t been very accommodating either. Even Commonwealth POWs were granted books and other forms of entertainment.
At least we took the datacores from the guard complex, he thought. He had a feeling they would be next to useless, but intelligence might be able to produce something interesting from them. And the guards themselves may be able to shed light on the complex and its purpose.
He watched the remaining prisoners depart, then motioned to his Marines to transport the guards into the final shuttle. None of the guards had recovered; they were secured, tossed into the shuttle, and finally latched to the deck to keep them still. Patrick took one final look at the POW camp, then followed his men into the craft. Moments later, the shuttle’s drives surged and the craft threw itself into the air.
“Mission accomplished,” he said, keying into the datanet. “All POWs recovered, sir; the POW camp is empty.”
“The POW camp is empty, Commander,” the tactical officer said.
“Smash it,” William ordered, shortly.
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said. “KEWs away; I say again, KEWs away.”
William nodded. The last of the shuttles was climbing through the atmosphere now, racing to catch the tiny squadron before it withdrew. Everyone else had already docked with their motherships; teams of medics and volunteer crewmen were helping to move the POWs into pre-prepared holds or sickbays depending on their condition. He smiled to himself—he hadn’t expected everything to go so well—then swore out loud as two gateways appeared in high orbit. A pair of destroyers dropped back into realspace, their weapons already searching for targets.
Too late, he thought triumphantly. The destroyers were modern; they might be able to give his squadron a very hard time, even though he had two light cruisers and a destroyer under his command. But he had no intention of standing his ground, let alone allowing them to enter engagement range. You’re far too late.
“The final shuttle is coming into dock now,” the tactical officer said.
“Jump us out as soon as she’s latched on,” William ordered. “Signal to Mermaid; she is to jump back to Aswan and inform Captain Falcone that the mission has been completed. The remainder of the squadron is to make its way to the first RV point.”
“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.
“Enemy vessels are launching missiles,” the tactical officer reported.
Too late, William thought again. We’re already on the move.
“Gateway opening,” the helmsman said. On the display, it seemed to lunge forward and swallow the flotilla, dragging them into hyperspace. “We’re gone, sir.”
“Then set course for the RV point,” William said.
He forced himself to watch the display as the squadron swept away from the planet, knowing he was leaving his commanding officer behind. Her orders were inflexible, yet . . . yet he felt guilty for daring to abandon her. He wanted to loop back around the star and come to her aid, even though he knew it would be futile. She’d escape . . .
“Commander,” Davidson said through the intercom. “I’ve unloaded the prisoners from the shuttles, sir; we’re currently checking them against the records.”
“Good,” William said. Busywork would keep Davidson from pestering him about his commanding officer—and his lover. “Make sure you keep a sharp eye on them. Some of them may have been conditioned.”
“Yes, sir,” Davidson said.
William nodded, then closed the channel. For better or worse, he’d completed his half of the mission. Now . . . all he could do was wait and pray that Captain Falcone escaped.
“Captain,” Linda said. “Mermaid has jumped out of hyperspace. Mission complete; I say again, mission complete.”
Kat smiled, relieved. She had only two warships left, both badly damaged. The enemy ships were on their way, picking up their courage to confront the squadron . . . and, perhaps, guessing that some of the ships on their sensors simply didn’t exist. If the POW camp had been raided successfully, the mission was now complete and . . .
“Captain,” Roach snapped as alarms howled through the ship. “Nine gateways; I say again, nine gateways!”
Kat sucked in her breath as an entire superdreadnought squadron slid back into normal space, escorted by a handful of smaller ships. She glanced at the text in the display; it was the enemy squadron that had been lured to Salvation, not the one heading to the front lines. And while they seemed surprised to see her, they were already charging weapons . . .
“Evasive action,” she ordered. “Charge the generator. Prepare to get us out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Admiral Junayd stared in horror at the nightmare unfolding in front of him. He’d pushed his ships to the limit from the moment the courier boat had caught up with them, but it had been too late to prevent the enemy from attacking Aswan. The facilities had been sm
ashed, the giant orbital fortress was damaged . . . and the enemy ships were already falling back from the planet.
“Contact Commodore Malian,” Admiral Junayd ordered. He was dead. He knew he was dead. This failure would guarantee his execution. But maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to catch the enemy. “Get me a full tactical download, now!”
Admiral Junayd glared at the helmsman’s back. “And set a pursuit course,” he added. “I want them under our guns before they can escape!”
“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.
It wouldn’t be fast enough, Admiral Junayd thought. Some of the remaining enemy ships were clearly damaged—unless they were ECM drones posing as starships—but they could still break free and jump into hyperspace before he caught them. He’d have to follow them out of realspace if he still wanted to intercept them . . . and he had no choice. Besides, it might be time to concede defeat and put his contingency plans into operation.
He cursed under his breath as the tactical download appeared in front of him. They’d been tricked, somehow; the enemy had captured the StarCom convoy, then turned it against the defenders. He couldn’t understand how they’d done it, unless someone had deliberately tipped off the enemy, but his orders had backfired on him. He’d told the convoy crews to do nothing, absolutely nothing, that might damage the StarCom and, clearly, they’d taken the orders to heart. If they’d blown their ships instead of surrendering . . .
It doesn’t matter, he told himself as the download came to an end. The enemy had attacked Redemption too, landing shuttles and liberating the Inquisition’s prized prisoners. That mistake, at least, couldn’t be blamed on him, although he had no doubt the Inquisition would try. They’d been determined to refuse anyone else access to their captives. And now their secret compound has been discovered and raided. They’ll need a scapegoat too.
“Admiral,” Captain Haran said. “The enemy ships are preparing to leap into hyperspace.”
Of course they are, Admiral Junayd thought bitterly. How like a woman to fight and run.
He shook his head. The enemy commander had carried out a brilliant plan and accomplished her objectives . . . even though he’d overloaded his drives trying to get back in time. Male or female, such an accomplishment deserved respect. Not that she’d get it, of course, from the Theocracy. The propaganda departments would probably work overtime to either erase her from the record books or turn her into a puppet, handled by her XO.
“Take us in pursuit,” he ordered flatly.
“Admiral . . .” Commodore Isaac said. He stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “I must remind you of the dangers of pursuing an enemy fleet in hyperspace.”
Admiral Junayd drew his pistol in one smooth motion. “And I must remind you of the dangers of questioning your superior’s orders during a combat situation,” he said. The commodore might already be measuring his back for the knife, but Admiral Junayd was damned if he was going to let him get away with it. “Return to your station and handle your duties or die, right here and now.”
He smiled inwardly as the commodore paled, then sat. Had he forgotten, so quickly, that the commander of any task force had the right to execute his subordinates for questioning or disobeying orders? Admiral Junayd might be in deep trouble as soon as word got back to the homeworld, but he hadn’t been stripped of his authority yet. No one would raise a fuss if he blew Isaac’s brains over the bridge.
“Take us in pursuit,” Admiral Junayd ordered, resting his gun in his lap. After that little play, no one was likely to side with the commodore against him until orders arrived from their superiors. By then, the issue would be settled, one way or the other. “And order the squadron to prepare to spread out once we’re in hyperspace.”
He tapped his console. The enemy hadn’t gone after the Aswan StarCom, probably with the intention of ensuring that reports of the disaster—no, the debacle—got back to the homeworld and his superiors. Thankfully, some of his personal staff were still keeping the device in lockdown rather than allowing Commodore Malian to use it. He sent a string of orders, one commanding his staff to send a very important message back home, the others ordering them to wipe the system afterwards, burying their traces. If nothing else, his family would have a chance to go into hiding and survive . . .
It wasn’t much, Admiral Junayd knew. But after this failure, after the second confirmation that God had withdrawn His favor, there was no chance that either he or his family would be granted mercy. They’d be tortured to death, slowly and painfully, in payment for their sins . . .
. . . and if he returned home, there would be no way to escape.
“Captain, the enemy superdreadnoughts are moving in pursuit,” Roach reported. “I don’t think the ECM will fool them for much longer.”
“Direct the remaining automated ship to engage them,” Kat ordered. There was no point in remaining where she was, not any longer. “Helm, open a gateway. Get us out of here.”
“Aye, Captain,” Weiberg said.
“Send the self-destruct code to the drones,” Kat added. The drones couldn’t pass through the gateway and she had no time to recover them. Besides, watching a dozen ships vanish like soap bubbles would humiliate the enemy still further. “They are to destroy themselves just after we enter hyperspace.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said.
Kat allowed herself a cold smile as the gateway spiraled open in front of her ship. The enemy would never forget this day. Nor would they trust their convoys, no matter what codes they had. They’d insist on inspecting them all before they reached attack range, adding further delays to their already overstretched logistics network. Lightning shuddered as she slid into hyperspace, then accelerated away from the planet’s gravity well. If the enemy had the nerve to chase her into hyperspace, she would still have an excellent chance of escaping . . .
“Captain,” Roach said. “The enemy ships have entered hyperspace.”
Kat frowned. Lightning could easily outrun the superdreadnoughts, but the smaller ships would be a problem. The Theocratic vessels would have trouble locating her ship, given how easily hyperspace distorted even short-range sensors, yet it only took one of them getting lucky to slow her escape. And she couldn’t exchange missile fire with a light cruiser, let alone a superdreadnought. She’d practically shot herself dry.
“Find a patch of distortion and steer us towards it,” she ordered coolly. If they broke contact, even for a few minutes, she’d have a very good chance of evading them long enough to make her escape. Even if they didn’t, they’d have to be insane to start a fight near a distortion. The resulting energy storm might destroy both sides. “And then take us onwards, towards the RV point.”
She looked down at her display, thinking hard. The rest of the flotilla had steered a different course, assuming they’d broken contact; they’d go to the RV point, then make their way back to the Reach if Kat didn’t meet up with them. No matter what happened to Lightning, they’d make their escape, taking with them the former POWs, a defector, the prisoners . . . and a working enemy StarCom. The operation, by any realistic standards, had been a great success.
And even if it costs the Commonwealth a heavy cruiser as well as the outdated ships, it would still be worth it, she thought. With what we now know about the enemy, targeting future offensives and winning the war will be a great deal easier.
She settled back in her command chair as the red icons grew closer. If they were caught, if they were pinned down, Lightning would give a good account of herself before the energy storms swept both sides out of existence. And if they escaped . . .
We’ll be back, she promised herself. And this time we will be here to stay.
“They were drones, Admiral,” the sensor officer said.
“So they were,” Admiral Junayd said. The only explanation for twelve starships popping out of existence was that they’d never existed as anything more
than false sensor images. “Take us into hyperspace.”
He kept his face impassive as his squadron slid into hyperspace and spread out, searching for the enemy. It wasn’t easy to track the ship, but she hadn’t put quite enough distance between them before it was too late, even though hyperspace was producing a dozen alternate possibilities. Admiral Junayd nodded to himself as his ships altered course, feeling more and more confident as he realized the enemy craft was rocketing towards a distortion eddy. No one would take that kind of risk unless they felt they had no choice.
But it will be enough to save them, he thought bitterly. I dare not take a full squadron of superdreadnoughts into the eddy.
“Signal the smaller ships,” he ordered. “They are to press the enemy closely, while the superdreadnoughts spread out and surround the eddy.”
Commodore Isaac tensed, but said nothing, no doubt aware of the prospect of immediate death. Admiral Junayd smiled coldly, keeping his thoughts to himself. Spreading the squadron out raised the possibility of friendly fire, of accidentally mistaking his ships for the enemy and opening fire, but there was no real alternative. Apart, of course, from using one of his contingency plans . . .
He keyed his terminal, uploading a specific set of orders into the datanet. Thankfully, most of the crewmen who’d get them were too junior to do anything more than follow orders, even if they had heard rumors of impending disaster. They’d do what they were told . . .
. . . and, in doing so, lay the groundwork for his final break with his superiors.
“The enemy superdreadnoughts are spreading out,” Roach reported. “But the smaller ships are still chasing us.”
Kat nodded grimly. The enemy was taking a chance, but it might well pay off for them. If she kept moving through the eddy, their smaller ships might catch up with her; if she altered course, she might run into one of the superdreadnoughts. The distortion affecting her sensors, growing stronger with every moment she advanced towards the eddy, would keep her from seeing an enemy ship until she was right on top of it.
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 2) Page 37