Varis was fairly young and Shariati was not entirely familiar with that turn of phrase, but she took it to be equivalent to what her generation called a knickers flash. “Whichever you feel would be more effective, Lieutenant.”
“Breadcrumbs I think would be surer, ma’am, but they take longer too. Though I suppose we could moon them if they’re too slow on the uptake.”
“As you see fit, Lieutenant. I see no need to be culpably abrupt in our actions.” Shariati said it a touch coolly—she was finding Varis, in this new mood, a trifle unbuttoned.
The intel officer seemed not to notice. “Exactly where will we be sending them, ma’am?”
“Caucus with Commanders DeCano and Harmon when we break here and work out some options based when we’ve discussed this AM. Do you think you can have something by 1400?”
The three officers concerned exchanged a look. “Doable, ma’am,” Varis asserted.
“Excellent. Jan?” She queried the operations officer as she highlighted the Callindra 69 transit on the display. “On this axis, how soon could they be in position to launch a strike against us?”
“I’d say fifty-three hours, give or take four hours. If they use the Novaya Zemlya axis, that would add at least another twelve hours, but it does give them additional support options.”
Shariati tried to ignore him harping on his damn battleships. “True. But the Callindra axis is the more urgent problem. If can we rule it out, we have that half day to respond on the Novaya Zemlya axis, is that not so?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That gives us about forty-two hours to prove my theory correct.” The commodore turned now to her fighter boss. “Sonovia, what are our long-range recon assets currently?”
“They’re not what I’d call ideal—um . . .” Harmon cleared her throat, realizing a moment late that she was criticizing her absent CO’s dispositions to his spouse. “Apologies, ma’am. That is, we have Commander Huron’s wing here on Trafalgar and Concordia’s squadron.”
“Both full strength?”
“No, ma’am. Concordia’s squadron is a full flight short of its complement. Commander Huron’s wing is in no better shape: he’s light one squadron. The remaining two have all but three slots filled, though his Echo Squadron has two officers on semi-active status, one with provisional flight clearance.”
That was far less than optimal. “Display them, please.”
Harmon put the latest condition report for all the units up on the board. The commodore skimmed it. She would have been much happier with another squadron but at least she had Huron. Then her eyes narrowed in displeasure as she noted the numbers that Huron’s own Echo Squadron had put up. They had more kills, by far, than any other in TF 34; perhaps more than any other in the fleet. That would never do: recon squadrons were not supposed to act like strike forces or interceptors. In fact, Shariati was aware that Huron had been assigned to recon to curb his famously aggressive tendencies. Of course, he was also known for pushing things to the outer limits of his instructions, but she was still surprised that he’d been hotdogging it to this degree.
However, Huron was not her wing leader, and she could hardly rebuke an officer for his prior conduct, especially when his actual CO ranked her. But in view of her orders, she could see to it that he kept his horns in where they belonged while on her watch.
“Display the combat detail for Echo Squadron, please.”
The record appeared and one of Shariati’s dark level eyebrows rose as it revealed the real surprise: the flight’s elevated numbers were not primarily the work of Commander Huron, though he’d done his share. It was a junior member of Echo Squadron who’d been running up the total; one of the two on the walking wounded list. Shariati highlighted the officer and recognized the name Lo Gai had mentioned.
“This Ensign Kennakris—she’s the one who mixed it up with Jantony Banner?”
Harmon glanced up. “That’s affirmative, ma’am.”
“I see.” But the name also rang a different, and rather distinct, bell. “She’s been associated with Commander Huron for some time, has she not?”
A touch of color came to Harmon’s cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Link me her service record, please.” The file obediently appeared on the commodore’s xel. She opened it and almost immediately looked up. “Why does Kennakris have dual seniority dates in her file?”
“She served on active duty while at the Academy, ma’am,” Harmon answered. “They entered her as a midshipmen for three months after her first term. The reason’s not in her file but allegedly it had something to do with slaver ops. Apparently she has . . . expertise in the area.”
Ignoring the superfluous explanation, Shariati looked at the dates. An ensign’s seniority normally went by their class ranking. Skimming her academy record, she noted Kennakris had graduated near the bottom of the upper quartile due to mediocre course work in everything but tactics, math, and flight training. There were a few disciplinary issues, as well—a cryptic note about her hustling, of all things, low-gee racquetball—which, combined with her course work, put Kennakris about a third of the way down the list. But then there were her months of active service.
“That would make Kennakris the senior officer in her class then?”
“That’s not officially resolved yet, ma’am,” Harmon explained. “Since there haven’t been any other midshipmen entered since early in the last war, Ensign Kennakris is in a unique position and the Admiralty’s not keen on setting a precedent.”
Shariati nodded, reading deeper into the file. “So how have you been handling it?”
“Our general feeling, ma’am, has been that her active service should take precedence over her class ranking.”
“I see she got her combat wings early. Was her active service a consideration there?”
“Not really, ma’am. Her training squadron got jumped during a convoy op.”
That wasn’t as unusual as it should have been. Fighter groups usually had a squadron of new flight officers who were not yet combat qualified. They were employed on routine missions like convoy ops in pacified areas, and some CinCs were more optimistic about declaring an area ‘pacified’ than others. Admiral Tannahill was one of these, and Kennakris had been deployed in his area at the time. But it was unusual to award a flight officer her combat wings that early just for getting shot at.
“What happened there?”
“It’s reported in the annex, ma’am.”
The commodore fixed Trafalgar’s fighter boss with a withering look.
Harmon cleared her throat again. “Well, she scored three kills, ma’am.”
“Three?”
“And two probables.”
“Did she, indeed?” Shariati glanced back at the file, tapping her full lower lip. “Anyone else draw blood that day?”
“Ensign Basmartin was credited with one kill and a probable, and the squadron leader also got a kill.”
“That’s eight killed or damaged. How big was the opposition?”
“Sixteen fighters, ma’am.”
“Against twelve in this training squadron?”
“That’s correct, ma’am.”
“So two green ensigns accounted for close to half of a roving Halith squadron, with their leader batting clean-up? And Kennakris essentially made ace-in-a-day her first time out.”
“Two of those were just probable, ma’am.”
“Oh, certainly.” The pointed sarcasm was evident on the commodore’s face. “The Board sitting still for a young colonial ensign achieving that before she even had her combat wings? She’d have had to bring the heads of those last two home on pikes. I’m surprised they allowed her three.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well then.” Shariati pushed herself away from the table. “We seem to be in the presence of a phoenix. Has this ensign any other characteristics that might be pertinent?”
“Well, ma’am,” offered Commander DeCano, “the CinC once commented that she
scares the living shit out of people.”
“So I can believe.” The real question was: how could they use it? She killed the display and stood. “That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. We reconvene at 1400.”
* * *
Alone in her stateroom, Commodore Shariati keyed up a private line to Trafalgar’s recon wing leader. “Commander Huron, I should like to inquire after one of your flight officers.”
“Would that be Ensign Kennakris, ma’am?”
“Do you always answer the question like that?”
“Well, ma’am, she does have a way of getting people’s attention.”
“I’ve been told she scares the living shit out of people.”
“That’s one of the ways she gets their attention.”
“No doubt. Currently, however, she’s on the walking wounded list. Do you think she’s mission capable?”
“The medical director has given her clearance for light duties.”
“Does your reluctance to answer the question indicate a lack of confidence in your own judgment, Commander?”
“Apologies, ma’am. I would rate Ensign Kennakris is back to about eighty-five percent, except perhaps for her stamina.”
“And how would you rate that?”
“I’m afraid it’s too soon to tell, ma’am.”
“I see.” The commodore passed a finger across her lips. “I have in mind a surveillance op. I would like your candid appraisal of the chances that Ensign Kennakris could successfully undertake it.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Briefly, Shariati outlined her plan as Huron’s features took on a set look. “Well, Commander?”
“I would say there is a reasonable chance,” he answered, since surviving was clearly not among the success criteria. He did not voice this postscript, merely adding, “I cannot quantify it, however.”
“Have you some reservation, Commander?” Shariati asked, reading his expression.
Huron returned the commodore’s gaze, weighing his next words. “Not as to capability. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“I would like to point out that Ensign Kennakris is shaping up to be an exceptional officer.”
“Quite so. Is there another flight officer you feel would be better suited to lead this mission?”
“Yes, ma’am. I request that I be given personal command of this mission—”
“That is out of the question.”
“With respect, ma’am, no more so than shanghaiing my people for a suicide mission.”
There was clearly not one iota of respect in his look or his tone. He did, in fact, have great respect for the commodore—he even liked her—but trying to pull his people out from under him like this and send them off on a mission without a homecoming was beyond the pale. She obviously had her reasons—no doubt good reasons—but that did not mean he had to sit still for them.
He pressed the point—insubordination be damned. “I am Trafalgar’s recon wing leader, and I’m the best you have. Let me do my job.”
Shariati’s violet eyes went amethyst and just as hard. “I’m fully aware of your sterling service record, Huron. I’m also aware of certain—how shall I say it—rumors? But I would think an officer of your seniority and accomplishments incapable of letting personal feelings influence an operational decision. However”—a long curved forefinger with its elegantly polished nail traced a whorl on the desktop—“I do not claim to be infallible and perhaps I am mistaken. Am I mistaken, Commander?”
Huron could not avoid the deftly delivered thrust but he had the sense not to squirm on the blade, even as she gave it that final twist at the end. The set look deepened. “No, ma’am.”
“Most gratified to hear it.”
“Have you any further comments?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And of course, it is understood that undertaking this mission is strictly voluntary.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Shariati nodded; a clear signal the interview was at an end. “Thank you, Commander. Please extend my compliments to Ensign Kennakris and tell her I should like to see her as soon as convenient.”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe the ensign is at leisure and can report to you within the hour.”
“That would be excellent, Commander. Good day.”
“Good day, ma’am.” In hell. And the screen blanked.
* * *
“Be seated, Ensign.” Commodore Shariati gestured graciously to the chair on the other side of her desk. “This meeting is strictly informal and unofficial. I would like to solicit your opinions on a course of action I am considering and I expect to you to speak frankly. Is that agreeable to you?”
Kris did her best not to show the chill that skittered down her spine. As a rule, commodores never ‘solicited’ anything from ensigns, frank or otherwise. Huron had been guarded and uneasy when he’d conveyed the summons. That was a bad sign—this was worse.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Commander Huron speaks highly of you—not without reason.” She waved a hand at the desktop. “I’ve been reviewing your file. Most impressive. Ace-in-a-day, twenty-eight victories, a Distinguished Flying Cross, and you survived an encounter with Captain Banner. That’s more than most pilots could hope for in their entire career, and you’ve managed it in only five months.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been fortunate.”
“Napoleon supposedly thought it more important for a general to be lucky than brilliant.”
“Didn’t Napoleon lose, ma’am?”
“There is that.” Shariati smiled, a slender expression, deceptively mild, and glided on. “But what particularly interests me is your Academy record. You are the only cadet ever to defeat a boggart.”
It was true enough: she and two studymates, Ferhat Basmartin and Frank Tanner, had beaten a no-win scenario—a boggart in Academy slang—by literally going around it; exceeding the bounds of the simulation. An inquiry absolved Kris of cheating and promptly classified the findings on how she’d done it at a very high level, so Kris did not know if the commodore had access to the entire record or just part of it. But either way, she didn’t see how it could possibly be relevant.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And this note from Sergeant Major Yu—”
Kris felt a breath freeze in her trachea. She’d been in the sergeant major’s class at the Academy, and except for that op on Rephidim where she’d lost her head, fucked the mission, and gotten Marko Tiernan killed, they’d gotten along just fine—
“Is it true what he says here about no-win scenarios?”
“Ma’am?”
“He said,” the commodore enunciated carefully, “he thought you were unacquainted with the concept of a no-win scenario. Is that true, Ensign?”
“I—ahh—I wasn’t aware the sergeant major held that opinion, ma’am.”
“He has always been an excellent judge of these things, in my experience.” Shariati swept her desktop clean. “Some might feel—justifiably—we are facing a no-win scenario now. What do you think?”
Huron had given her a brief rundown on the tactical situation when he talked to her, and Kris wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
Seeing her struggle for a diplomatic answer, Shariati frowned. “I expected you to be frank, Ensign.”
“Yes, ma’am. Then I think that if we can’t find a way to keep the Doms off balance and confused, we’re well and truly f— . . . that is, we are . . .”
“Fucked is the word I believe you’re looking for. Am I correct?”
“Ah—I—yes, ma’am.”
“The medicos, I see, have cleared you for light duties. How would you rate your recovery? Do you feel flight-ready?”
Kris knew what Huron thought—he must’ve said it too, since Shariati had talked to him first. Had he been overruled? Or was she selling him short on his opinion of her?
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This is what I believe we may be facing.” The commod
ore activated the display in her desktop and gave Kris a succinct account of the situation. It added more details to what Huron had told her but the real story was expressed eloquently enough by the traces.
“I think you’ll agree that this chokepoint is the heart of matter,” Shariati said conversationally. Kris certainly agreed with that—and with the as-yet-unmentioned fact that it was well beyond twice a recon fighter’s normal operating range. She assumed the commodore would get to that eventually.
“Now what I propose,” Shariati continued smoothly, “is that a single flight positioned here”—she drew a box on the display—“with each element operating independently”—adding two ellipses with said box—“can accomplish a leakproof surveillance of both approaches.”
Not quite. “What about that gap in the middle, ma’am?” Kris interjected and instantly clicked her teeth together at the realization she’d just interrupted a flag officer.
The commodore merely gave her another of those thin smiles, like a scalpel blade. “Yes. The tender can be modified to cover that—there will, of course, be a tender to get the flight there and back.”
So much for the range issue: tenders could carry up to six fighters using external clamps. They were mainly used for ferrying operations and retrieving damaged fighters and their pilots, but they could also support long-range missions that were beyond a fighter’s limited jump capabilities, allowing them to refuel and rearm. The downside was that when fully loaded, they were slow and not terribly stealthy, making them easy meat in enemy space. And what they were looking at would certainly become enemy space, unless it was a wasted trip.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kris agreed tonelessly.
“The plan is to fly a two-phase nautilus search”—naval jargon for a search pattern based on a logarithmic spiral using two craft—“with the tender making a static fence along here. That will suffice, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The expected arrival window”—Shariati tapped the numbers on the display—“is seven hours wide. For myself, I’ve never thought much of the Doms’ time sense. So I would suggest widening it to nine, just to sure.” Kris nodded. “Lastly, when detection is made, it is vital that a complete order of battle be obtained. As complete as possible, I should say.” Based on the commodore’s look, as possible did not seem to encompass concerns for life and limb. “What do you think, Ensign? Is this plan feasible?”
Asylum (Loralynn Kennakris Book 3) Page 20