Asylum (Loralynn Kennakris Book 3)

by Jordan Leah Hunter

  Captain Kristoff, CO of Delta company (who’d been shipped over from Daedalus to make room for the wounded) turned away, but Troy Anders, now commander of Alpha Company in her place, came over and leaned his head close to hers. “Y’know I ain’t shy, Captain. But you saw what happened, and we ain’t even got the weather goin’ for us this time. How the hell are we gonna do this without any more suppressing fire but what this here barge can lay down? We’ll be nothing but skeets out there. That monitor can put fire on anything with an RCS bigger than a ration pack!”

  Min, who (whatever her outward appearance) had been struggling with the same thought, paused in paging through the latest TAC data. She had been seeking an opening in the monitor’s defenses or, failing that, contemplating a truly desperate measure involving highly accelerated assault birds, but now her clouded expression cleared, transforming her handsome face into something not far from beauty.

  “That’s why I like you, Anders—you’re a fucking genius.”

  Captain Kellyn McKenzie was deep in animated conversation with her TAO when Min strode onto the bridge. Kell lifted her head, a scowl deforming her alluring features and said, “We’re gonna give you every goddamned thing we got, Lewis—but short of ramming, I can’t promise you more than ten minutes before we have to start tossing soup cans at ‘em.”

  Unexpectedly, Min laughed and Bellerophon’s captain gave her TAO a private look. Even for her best friend, Kell thought this was coming it a little high.

  “Thanks, Captain—I’ll get to that, but right now I need tight-beam links to Actaeon, Fidelia, Daedalus, Avenger and Medea.”

  “Okay, but they won’t come back in, except maybe Avenger—Fidelia’s lost her legs, Daedalus is loaded with wounded; Medea and Actaeon are too badly chewed up.”

  “No worries,” Min said, still smiling. “I don’t want them—I want their junk. Yours too.”

  With the tight-beams links established, the other ship captains listened expectantly as Min outlined her plan. She wanted them to take all the scrap and useless objects they could get their hands on: shot casings, ammo boxes, supply crates, water carboys, cargo lockers—“and yes,” she added, “ration packs, beer bottles, coffee cups and soup cans”—bundle it up and use tractor beams to boost it all at the monitor. The assault shuttles would coast in behind the wall of clutter, unpowered, drive signatures as low as could be and no emissions at all until the last moment.

  “And corner reflectors,” Lewis added, referring the open three-sided half-cubes that were used as targets. “As many as you have.”

  “What do we do with those?” Medea’s captain asked. “They’ll know right off they’re targets.”

  “Punch holes in them to break up the signature and then stick ‘em on the front of every missile case and torpedo crate you have. Then they ought have an RCS close enough to an assault bird to buy us a little more of time.”

  The captains nodded, the plan coming together in their minds, but McKenzie shook her head. “Tractor beams are fine for us, but they”—she gestured at the other ships—“won’t be able to adjust the acceleration enough to merge all this junk at the proper range. We may just end up pelting the monitor with a lot of debris in random clumps.”

  Min saw that Kell had a point, but before she could say anything, Avenger’s captain broke in. “Suppose I play garbage man, collect what we have and come in on a hot hyperbolic. I can lay it all down in a screen while you people ghost in behind it.”

  Min looked at her friend, who nodded. “That could work.”

  “Very good, “ She said, smiling dangerously. “How long?”

  The captains compared notes. “Fifty minutes—an hour at the outside.”

  “That’ll do. If this works, the beer’s on me.”

  Kell broke the link and turned to Min. “I’m holding you to that, y’know.” Min still wore that dangerous smile. “And you realize, of course, that pitching assault birds out with tractors like that is gonna make ‘em tumble like hell.”

  “Of course—making us look like the rest of the garbage.”

  “Okay.” Kell rolled her eyes. “I just hope your people haven’t eaten too much.”

  * * *

  On the flag bridge of Ardennes, Joss PrenTalien opened a tight-beam link to Admiral Wallace, his left-flank commander, on his flagship, LSS Cannae.

  “Jesse, we’re going to bat against the monitor again,” PrenTalien told him, his gruff voice belying the jocose wording. “I want you to touch up Adenauer there on the left some more—make it look like a pinning maneuver to cover a retreat. I’m gonna twitch Kim back as if she’s moving to secure the exit zones—see if the Bannermans are game for a chase.” If the Bannermans shifted forward at all, Kim Belvoir could get a good grip on them, giving Lewis all the more time. “Conserve at least thirty percent of your torps though, and be ready to break back to me if the marines put this one in the bank.”

  “Very well, Joss. We’ll keep them busy for you.”

  “Thanks, Jesse. Flag out.”

  “Best of fortune, Joss. Cannae out.”

  * * *

  Minerva Lewis hailed the CO, Bravo company, on Fidelia. The officer who answered, 1st Lieutenant Robyn Gomez, looked stiff, pale, and absurdly young. “Where’s Captain Talbot, Gomez?”

  “Copped it, ma’am.”

  “Captain Hartzheim too?” Greg Hartzheim had been a good friend.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you the senior officer present, Gomez?”

  “Yes. Ma’am.” Lieutenant Gomez hastily wet her lips. “Lieutenants Galovic and Martinez are here, ma’am. Lieutenant Galovic has Charlie company.”

  Min knew Chloe Galovic—a fine young officer. Benedict Martinez she’d hadn’t had much chance to form an opinion of yet. “How many assault birds do you have left?”

  “Nine, ma’am.” With the seven Delta brought back, that meant a total of sixteen had survived. Out of twenty-six. Damn.

  “Okay, Gomez. Get those birds hot for me—pilot and gunner only—and we’ll come get ‘em. I’ll link up details on the way.”

  “Pilot and gunner only, ma’am?” Gomez had a lovely, apple-cheeked face and it looked hurt. Min had read in Gomez’ file that her older brother, Sebastian Gomez of Nedaeman SOFOR 1, had been killed on Lacaille before war, leading an attempt to capture Nestor Mankho—in fact, that incident was considered the casus belli. So no doubt Gomez had stronger personal motivations than most. But the op she had in mind didn’t have room for a whole raft of shaken young troops—Bravo company had never been in action before and Charlie only once.

  “That’s the plan, Lieutenant. No reflection on your people.”

  “With all due respect, Captain, we’d like in.” Gomez darted her eyes at someone off-screen. “We didn’t even clear our weapons, ma’am—and there are still a hundred seventy-two of us fit for duty.”

  Good Christ, that’s forty-six percent casualties, Min thought. No wonder the kid’s pale.

  “More ain’t necessarily better, Lieutenant. Sometimes it’s just more.” The pretty face fell even as its owner tried to hide it. Damn it! As much as she didn’t like it, the kid had a point: sending home a unit that had been so badly mauled with its tail between its legs—especially a green unit—without even a chance to fire a shot in return was close to wrecking it.

  “But look here. Pick your best platoon from each company and saddle ‘em up. All the heavy weapons you can carry. You take Bravo, of course, and Galovic will take Charlie and leave Martinez to mind the store. Tell him from me, I’ll make it up to him later.”

  Gomez brightened amazingly. “You got it, Captain!”

  Youth, thought Min, recalling when she’d felt just the same. She had lived to get over and hoped Gomez would too.

  “Get ‘em ready to move out in fifteen, Lieutenant. I’ll catch you on the fly. Lewis out.”

  Lieutenant Gomez acknowledged with a jaunty salute and Min cut the link. She keyed up Bellerophon’s captain. “Kell, we got so
me passengers to pick up from Fidelia.”

  “How many?”

  “Only two platoons, but all their birds.”

  “Gonna get crowded around here.”

  “Yep, packed in like kippers—six to a rack. I’m hoping maybe they’ll think we’re rendering aid and comfort and have called it day.”

  “That’d be nice. I wouldn’t make book on it though.”

  * * *

  “Sir, it appears PrenTalien is retreating.” Captain Alexander relayed this news to his fleet commander aboard Marshall Nedelin.

  Retreating? Adenauer drew a finger along the strong angle of his jaw as he digested the statement. Certainly PrenTalien was shifting his right flank back, positioning it to cover the Outbound jump sectors, and Shima was being sharply engaged. It might well be the beginning of a pivot to withdraw . . . His eyes flicked the chrono. Was Tomashevich on schedule? He’d been engaged for two hours. It would be best to give him at least another hour before letting PrenTalien go. Was that feasible?

  Returning to the main plot, he noted Voorhees had already advanced his fleet and detached a shadowing force—on his own initiative. That was acceptable under the circumstances. If this retreat developed itself, he would turn the Bannerman loose to purchase what delay he could, though Voorhees might find his ardor more expensive than he expected. Adenauer was perfectly content with that outcome.

  “Thank you, Captain. Kindly convey to—”

  “Pardon, sir!” His aide’s voice, abrupt and strident, rang with disbelief. “Flash emergency from Admiral Shima. He says ships are coming out of the reef!”

  Out of the reef? How was such a thing possible?

  “In what force?”

  “Unclear, sir. The admiral urgently requests you will send immediate support.”

  Damn Shima for sending an incomplete report. His sensors could not resolve anything that close to the reef. What had PrenTalien conjured over there? It would waste precious minutes to request clarification. He made a quick decision.

  “Message to Jena. My compliments to Admiral Tallis: he will detach his division and move to the aid of Admiral Shima. How he does that is his affair—I leave it to his best judgment.” Ivan Tallis was a steady fellow; he could be counted on not to overreact.

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Signal the Bannermans. They are to stop immediately and extend themselves no farther than their current position. You may repeat that.”

  His aide-de-camp glanced up from submitting the messages to the comms officer to code and dispatch. “I shall do that, sir.”

  * * *

  Skip Coward led DESRON 6 out of reef, the heavy cruisers Shannon and Vanguard following, with DESRON 5 coming along behind.

  “Signal to squadron: all torps to be targeted on Orlan, then break to stations.” The big battleship was not just the second most powerful ship in Adenauer’s fleet, she was the critical node of the area-defense net for this whole flank. Destroying or crippling her would leave the other ships almost on their own, with little more than their point-defense systems. “Save your missiles for the supporting units. I’m going to break their formation ahead of Vardar. Mr. Porter”—to his TAO—“we’ll hold our torpedoes for whatever comes up, but you may salute Orlan with the guns as we pass by. Sixteen guns for a vice admiral, I think it is?”

  * * *

  As Bellerophon closed with Fidelia, and Avenger was completing her tour as junk collector, Captain Lewis waited for the last of her officers to board so she could brief them on her plan of attack. The op plan had already been distributed, but it was her unbreakable habit never to go into action without first meeting with her officers, all together and face to face. Nothing told you what was going on in someone’s mind like seeing their face before an op, and that was never more important than for a touchy lark like this.

  A hail appeared on her xel and she tapped it up. It was Lieutenant Gomez, doing her best to look deadly serious. “Lieutenants Gomez and Galovic reporting aboard, ma’am.”

  “Welcome to the party, Lieutenant. Meet us in the aft portside staging bay.”

  Now that Minerva Lewis had her team assembled face to face, their faces were about what she expected. Lieutenants Robyn Gomez and Chloe Galovic were excited and nervous and doing a decent job of not showing it. Alongside the two young lieutenants, Anders was wearing his pre-op smirk and Kristoff was looking reserved and stiff. Tallmadge was his usual calm self. Barnett and Drake looked hopeful, and Matt Henderson, another lieutenant and her demolition team leader, appeared eager to start ‘blowing shit up’. Her color sergeant, Gabriel Ulloa, rock solid in action and built like it, rounded out the group.

  Having learned what she wanted, Min invited her officers into a circle (a regimental tradition) and knelt to project the plan of a Halith monitor on the deck, with the key areas and junctions marked. Then she began to set out the heart of her plan, giving life and breath to the document she’d distributed.

  Her operational philosophy was based on one simple precept: Never give the enemy what they expect. They’d lost the element of surprise—now they’d have to find a way to get it back. The fellow commanding the monitor over there had shown every sign of being conventionally minded: he knew what they’d just tried and how it had failed; he’d expect them to try something completely different. And she was planning something completely different, which meant convincing him she wasn’t.

  Everything depended on misdirection and, once they got inside, small fireteams operating with perfect coordination. She was taking just her own Alpha company plus the heavy weapons platoon from Delta company and Gomez’s people. It was true that this meant that the monitor’s crew would likely outnumber her force—two hundred forty marines in all—by about ten to one, but she had no intention of coming to grips with whole crew, or even large part of it. The butchered assault had left them richer in shuttles than people, and this would allow her to play a shell game with the monitor’s defenders.

  That, along with the garbage caper, would help get them there alive, but she expected another benefit. Confusing the Doms as to the real point of attack would oblige them not to concentrate their defenders: they’d need to be able to move people rapidly once the attack was underway. That should limit their use of anti-boarding plasma. Plasma was mainly a delaying tactic, anyway—given time and equipment, you could beat it. However, the defenders would use that time to deploy where they were needed.

  Min intended to use it as the key to her misdirection scheme. If they had plasma rigged selectively, she could use her extra shuttles to stage random ‘assaults’ that would trigger it, pulling the defenders off on a false alarm. A few of those might convince the Dom commander that Gomez’s people—whom she would mass in front of the hanger in the traditional style—were the real threat after all, and react accordingly.

  Even if he didn’t, keeping the defenders off-balance should buy her teams an opening, by way of a lighting dash through small hatches. Then they’d have to take the critical junctions—on a monitor that meant the central junction on the main deck and the main junctions of the two spline passages running fore and aft along the port and starboard sides—to divide and isolate the monitor’s crew so she could move against the real objective: the weapons control spaces. There were three, all located forward: one for the main turret, and one each for the port and starboard turrets. To take the monitor out of the fight, she had to destroy the control spaces for the main turret and at least one side; that would allow PrenTalien to come up along the monitor’s ‘weak side’ and finish the job.

  At last, she did mean to take the hanger deck—but from the inside. Taking out the weapons control spaces would shut down the missiles and the main batteries, but not the light guns, so she wanted to preserve as many of the monitor’s small craft as possible. When it came time to make a quick getaway, the IFF on the monitor’s own craft would prevent its guns from locking, which would greatly increase their chances of getting clear. That was the kids’ assignment, once And
ers and Tallmadge let them in.

  If it all sounded a little desperate, recited here in the space where she’d lost that low-gee racquetball game to Kell three and a half weeks ago, it might be said to have the advantage of risking only half their remaining force. Not that everyone saw it that way, though. Captain Kristoff in particular did not like it—any aspect of it. It didn’t help that he was Kerr’s man. She knew he resented PrenTalien relieving Kerr and shared the young colonel’s view of their prospects. But Kristoff also objected to being left out and he probably didn’t like that his heavy weapons platoon leader, Lieutenant Randall Barnett, who was going, was known to be closer to her than to Kristoff himself. None of that bothered Min unduly, as long as Kristoff had the good sense to keep his mouth shut for the time being.

  He did, and Min swiftly completed the briefing. Straightening, she detailed their assignments.

  “Barnett, you’re with Anders. Gomez, give your pick of sections to Lieutenant Tallmadge—the heavier the better. Drake, Henderson, you’re with me, except your second team, Matt—they go with Anders.” That Color Sergeant Ulloa and his section would accompany her went without saying.

  Her gaze swept across the now mostly solemn group. “Any questions?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gomez unexpectedly spoke up. “If I may, what’s a Nelson’s Patent Bridge?” She was referring to the facetious-sounding title Min had given her op-plan: Nelson's Patent Bridge for Boarding Enemy Monitors.

  Min showed a smile and recited: “During the Battle of Cape St. Vincent—Valentine’s Day of the year 1797 by the old reckoning—Commodore Horatio Nelson of the Royal Navy in HMS Captain, a third rate of seventy-four guns, was engaged with the Spanish eighty-gun San Nicolas and some other ships. When Captain’s foretopmast went over leaving her unmanageable, Nelson ordered his ship to fire a last broadside into the Spanish ships and then put her helm over, hooking her port side to the starboard quarter of San Nicolás.