by David Weber
Llyn watched on the Volsungs’ main tactical display as the ship accelerated toward the hyper limit, a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. With Captain Katura on his way, the die was cast and the plan set firmly in stone.
Llyn had thought it through as best he could. But the uncomfortable fact remained that the scheme had been conjured up on the spur of the moment, relatively speaking. That kind of haste, he knew all too well, could leave any number of unnoticed flaws and unconsidered contingencies in its wake.
But for good or bad, he had no choice but to see it through. Gensonne knew about the Axelrod connection, and for that bit of cleverness alone the self-proclaimed admiral had to die. Along with anyone and everyone else he might have told.
In other words, the entirety of the Volsung Mercenaries.
Getting Gensonne to split his force had been the first step. Sending Pacemaker and Katura’s secret message to Haven was the second.
And for the third…
Casually, Llyn let his eyes drift to the point on the tactical where Captain Rhamas’ calculations said Shrike should currently be located in its hyperbolic orbit through the system. Nothing. As per the tight-beam orders Katura had sent on Pacemaker’s way out of the system, Captain Vaagen would continue to let his ship coast, with none of the Volsungs the wiser, until he reached the hyper limit at the other side of the system.
By then, of course, the Volsungs’ mightiest warships would be gone. The handful of light cruisers, destroyers, and frigates Gensonne would leave behind would undoubtedly never notice Shrike’s hyper footprint as it headed out for its own rendezvous.
The Volsung Mercenaries were on borrowed time. They just didn’t know it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“So there it is,” Admiral Locatelli said briskly. “Do you have any questions?”
Captain Clegg looked down at her tablet, her pulse thudding in her ears. Did she have any questions?
Damn right she had questions.
What idiot thought it was a smart idea to send one of the Navy’s most advanced warships way the hell over to Silesia for who knew how long on this fool’s errand?
Who had signed off on the plan to put a civilian aboard a military mission?
And worst of all, was she really supposed to take orders from a Tactical Officer and a Chief—a Chief!—if one of them decided it was necessary?
“No questions, Sir,” Commander Alfred Woodburn said from Clegg’s right.
“None here, either,” Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Norris added from her left.
Clegg pursed her lips. So her new Exec and Chief Engineer were going to wimp out? Fine. She could carry this one herself.
“Yes, Sir,” she said. “I have a few.”
Locatelli glanced at Lady Calvingdell, seated quietly at his left, and seemed to settle himself more sedately in his chair. “Proceed, Captain.”
“Let’s start with a few concerns, Sir,” Clegg began, choosing her words carefully. “Personnel and chain of command are the two biggest. You said SIS is a largely civilian organization, Yet this mission is under their auspices instead of ONI’s?”
“The relationships here are a bit complicated,” Locatelli conceded. “Part of that’s due to the fact that SIS is freshly-minted and no one is yet entirely sure how it fits into the existing structure. But be assured that ONI—and System Command—are going to be solidly in the loop.”
“It’s actually a bit more complicated than that,” Calvingdell spoke up calmly. “For the moment, anyway, ONI doesn’t know SIS exists.”
Clegg shot a look at Woodburn. “Excuse me?” she said.
“There are certain political aspects that still need to be worked out,” Locatelli said reluctantly. “As far as ONI is concerned, the underlying purpose of your voyage is to use Casey’s new sensor suite to check out the various vessels and defense stations you’ll be encountering, with an eye toward friend-or-foe analysis. That data will be Chief Townsend’s responsibility as head of the new department of Signals Intelligence. At the same time, he and Mr. Long will be working the third layer: to gather information that will hopefully bring us to Tamerlane and the group that attacked us.”
“I see,” Clegg said. Not that she did, really. This whole cloak-and-dagger thing was bizarre, not to mention ridiculously complicated. “And aboard Casey it’ll just be the three of us, along with Long and Townsend, who are in on this?”
“And Mr. Hauptman, yes,” Calvingdell said. “The current Special Intelligence Service chain of command runs through me to the Minister of Defense.” She looked at Locatelli. “With System Command also in the loop, of course.”
“I see, My Lady,” Clegg said.
“And I see you have more reservations,” Calvingdell added.
Clegg took a deep breath. Since she’d asked…
“You spoke just now of chain of command,” she said. “There’s also the fact that the orders you’re giving me are vague and open-ended. Furthermore, ultimate authority is vested, not in the Captain, but in two crewmembers who are unaccountable to anyone aboard the ship.” And crewmembers, she added silently, whose actions could be disavowed with the flick of a stylus.
“It’s not quite that bad, Captain,” Calvingdell said. “Authority is invested in Lieutenant Commander Long only in certain very specifically defined aspects of the mission. Certainly not in any situation that would endanger the ship.”
“I understand, Sir,” Clegg said. “That doesn’t mean he might not make a catastrophic error somewhere along the line that then puts the ship in an untenable position.”
Again, Locatelli and Calvingdell looked at each other. “You are the commander and ultimate authority aboard Casey, Captain,” Locatelli said. “If Long or Townsend seeks to invoke these secret orders, and you don’t think it’s justified or safe, you can certainly override them.”
“And face whatever consequences might come of that?”
Locatelli smiled faintly. “Or face the consequences of letting them go ahead,” he said. “That’s the bottom line for every captain on an extended mission.”
“If it helps, we wouldn’t have chosen Long and Townsend if we didn’t think they were smart and level-headed enough to know their limits,” Calvingdell said.
“Just as you wouldn’t have been given this ship and this assignment if everyone from Admiral Eigen on up didn’t think you were an outstanding commander and could handle any situation,” Locatelli added.
Despite her reservations, Clegg felt a brief warmth trickle through her. She’d hated to leave Vanguard—hated even more leaving Bertinelli in pole position to take command someday—but Eigen had been absolutely glowing about both her abilities and how Casey was the fast-track to admiral and possibly even beyond.
Of course, Eigen hadn’t mentioned she was going to be saddled with a cloak-and-dagger contingent for her first time out. But then, he probably hadn’t known that himself.
“So,” Locatelli said into her thoughts. “Was there anything else?”
Concerns about the workability of her mission. Convinced the command structure was too complicated and likely to go flying off in all directions. Concerns about having spies aboard. Concerns over having a civilian aboard.
“No, Sir,” Clegg said. “I think that’s all. Thank you.”
“Then I’ll let you get back to your duties,” Locatelli said, all brisk business again. “You have three weeks, and I have no doubt there’s still a lot of work to be done.”
“Yes, Sir, there is,” Clegg agreed. She stood up, her two colleagues standing with her. “I trust Commander Long and Chief Townsend will be presenting themselves aboard ship at their earliest convenience?”
“They will,” Calvingdell promised. “They’re undergoing some last-minute training of their own, but they’ll be aboard shortly.”
“Good,” Clegg said. They’d better, she added silently.
“Then good day to you all,” Locatelli said. “And if I don’t see you again before you sail, good luck.”
Clegg waited until she and her two senior officers were back in their aircar before speaking. “Comments?” she invited.
“I think it’s all a crock, Ma’am,” Woodburn said. “I don’t know how anyone can tell a Silesian quad from a Havenite quad. Or whatever.”
“There are ways,” Norris said. “I’m more interested in this Long character. I’ve read the reports, Alfred, but you actually worked with him on the bridge. What’s your assessment?”
“He’s clever, in his way,” Woodburn said. “He can also be a pain in the butt when it comes to regs, though he’s getting better at that. I suppose if Calvingdell had to grab someone for this, she could have done worse than Long.” He snorted. “No guarantees on Townsend, though. Everything I’ve heard suggests he’s a royal pain in the butt.”
“Hauptman can be that way, too,” Norris said. “Though he does know a hell of a lot about ships and shipbuilding.”
“Well, it looks like we’re stuck with them,” Clegg said reluctantly. “I’ll be counting on you gentlemen to help me ride herd.”
“Absolutely, Ma’am,” Woodburn promised. “Back to the ship?”
“Back to the ship,” Clegg confirmed. “As our System Commander said, we have a lot of work to do.
* * *
For once, and against all past performance, the weekly Cabinet meeting had been calm. Maybe even—if one dared use the term—friendly.
Breakwater and Dapplelake hadn’t gotten into any arguments. Education Secretary Broken Cliff had merely asked for more money instead of demanding it. Prime Minister Harwich was settling nicely into his job of riding herd on the proceedings without being perceived as leaning too hard on any person or faction. It was as if the Battle of Manticore, followed by the unexpected deaths of the King and Crown Princess had finally effected a change in Manticoran politics.
Elizabeth didn’t believe it for a minute. In her experience, it was the times when things were going smoothly when one needed to be extra alert.
Sometimes, though, the surprises still came from unexpected directions.
Her first indication that something was amiss was as she approached the Royal Sanctum—the Palace staff’s term for her private office—and saw Colonel Jackson standing stiff guard outside the door. Normally, she seldom saw the commander of the Queen’s Own except on special occasions, given that he was usually buried away in his office or out overseeing the advance security sweep of some area she was scheduled to visit.
“Your Majesty,” he said as she approached, bowing his head toward her. “Your visitor is here.”
An unpleasant feeling tingled the hairs at the back of her neck. Visitor? She wasn’t expecting anyone.
But there was something in Jackson’s face that strongly suggested she not ask about it even in the relative privacy of a Palace hallway.
“Thank you, Colonel,” she said instead. He opened the door as she approached, and she stepped through.
To find her father waiting on the couch in the conversation area. “Hello, Elizabeth,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Much better now,” Elizabeth said, picking up her pace as she crossed the room. No matter how many times he dropped in to see her, it never seemed like enough. “You’re looking good, Dad.”
“I’m looking old, you mean,” he corrected as she reached him and flung her arms around him. “Easy—easy. I’m much more breakable than I was in the pony-ride days.”
“Oh, come on—you’re a strong as an ox,” Elizabeth scoffed as she hugged him.
But he was right, she realized with a sinking feeling. She could feel the thinness of his body, and sense the frailness there. He was only eighty-seven, but his aura was that of a man in his nineties. Clearly, the past few months had been harder on him than she’d realized.
“What brings you here today?” she said as she extricated herself carefully from his hug. “Can I get you some tea? Scones? The baker found the recipe they were using when you were a boy, if you want a taste of history. How about lunch? We could have an early lunch.”
“No, thank you,” Michael said. “I had a good breakfast, and I’ll be returning to the Tower before lunch. Mostly I’m here to deliver some news.” His face hardened a little. “And a warning.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said. She took his hand, and they sat down on the couch together. “Shall I call in Colonel Jackson?”
“No, it’s not that kind of warning,” Michael assured her. “You’re not in any physical danger, at least as far as I know.”
“That doesn’t sound very definitive.”
“Interestingly, that’s the same word Jackson used while he was walking me to the Sanctum.”
“He takes his duties very seriously,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, he does,” Michael agreed quietly. “I’m sure he still blames himself for the accident.”
Elizabeth’s stomach tightened. The public report on the disaster had glossed over the details, merely stating that Sophie’s jetboat had suffered a malfunction.
But Elizabeth and the top government officials knew the entire truth. Sophie had run into something floating just below the surface of the water, possibly a piece of a cheap cooler. The object had jammed into the screen of the starboard jet intake, blocking some of the flow just long enough to decrease the thrust from that jet and start the boat into a slight yaw. A split-second later, as the object disintegrated and the intake cleared, the resulting counter-surge had reversed the direction of the yaw, kicking the boat in the other direction. Both effects were small; but in combination, and at the speed the boat was making, it was enough to destabilize the craft and send it into a devastating crash.
Protected by her safety cage, Sophie might still have survived if the leaks from her fuel and emergency oxygen tanks hadn’t mixed near a damaged and sparking circuit. But they had mixed, and they’d ignited, and the resulting explosion had killed her.
And the King, more intent on rescuing his daughter than saving himself, had joined her in death.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Elizabeth murmured.
“I agree,” Michael said. “But as I say, I doubt he does. He’s aged a lot in the past few months.” He waved a hand. “But that’s neither here nor there. My point is that our good Lord Chancellor of the Exchequer and a couple of his friends came to see me about an hour ago.”
“Really,” Elizabeth said, wrinkling her nose. Jackson would have any information that was relevant to her, of course, and normally it would have been passed on to her staff at tomorrow morning’s briefing. Apparently, this was important enough for her father to short-circuit the process by bringing it straight to her.
And if there was one person in particular besides Breakwater who seemed determined to be a permanent thorn in her side—“Let me guess. Was one of those friends Winterfall?”
“I knew you were going to ask that,” Michael said. Apparently, he’d noticed the young baron’s annoyance factor, as well. “And oddly enough, no, Winterfall wasn’t among them. This time Breakwater just brought Castle Rock and Tweenriver. In a nutshell, they wanted me to consider the idea of taking back the Throne.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “Taking back—? Is that even possible?”
“I have no idea,” Michael said. “But I’m guessing not. Oddly enough—or maybe not so oddly—when we were assembling the Constitution, we never considered adding a provision for an abdicated King to change his mind.”
“Do you want me to screen New Bern and ask her to do a quick write-up?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Michael said. “The fewer people who know about this, the better.” His lip twitched. “Especially considering Breakwater’s alleged reason for broaching the subject in the first place.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “The marriage thing.”
“And your lack of an heir.” Michael hesitated. “And to be perfectly honest, Elizabeth, he does have a point.”
“Fine—I’ll get one,” Elizabeth ground ou
t. “Carmichael left some frozen sperm. I can have that brought in—”
“Except that Carmichael was a noble,” Michael interrupted gently. “The Constitution says that—”
“I know what the Constitution says,” Elizabeth cut him off. “And I am not going to get married again—or have someone else’s baby—just to cover some half-assed rule that never anticipated my situation.”
He tilted his head a little. “Really? Constitutions and laws are established precisely because you don’t want everyone simply claiming unique circumstances in order to justify doing whatever they want. You know that.”
Elizabeth clenched her teeth. But he was right, of course. “Why does Breakwater have such a hat-hornet about this in the first place?” she growled. “For all he knows, if I die without an heir maybe they’ll make him King.”
“Don’t even joke about things like that,” her father said severely. “That’s also not in the Constitution—I think we all assumed the Winton line would last forever. You dying without an heir would precipitate a major Constitutional crisis. So don’t do it.”
“Right. I’ll try.”
“Good,” Michael said. “As to why he’s hammering on the subject…well, I get the distinct feeling you’ve proved a disappointment to him.”
“A disappointment?”
“As in not being nearly as malleable as he expected,” Michael explained with a small smile. “He probably figures a doddering old fool like me will be easier to manipulate, so he’s trying to banish you to the doghouse until you learn your lesson.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “And, yes, probably have a baby or two.”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands, still holding her father’s. Prim, proper, and serene, the way she assumed a Queen ought to look.
Only what she really wanted to do with those hands was throttle the life out of Breakwater.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, looking up at her father again.
“Do?” Michael shrugged. “Not really much I can do. I’m certainly not going to petition Parliament to give me back the Kingship, and without my cooperation Breakwater’s campaign goes nowhere. Not unless he wants to make this whole thing public.”