Star Marine!

by John Bowers

"No, sir. Thank you, sir!"

  Wade snapped his heels lightly, swiveled, and left the office, fighting the urge not to run. As soon as he found one, he did go to the bathroom, and a few minutes later made his way back to his own office. Kamada was watching for him and waved him inside, closing the door behind him.

  "How'd it go?" he asked, taking his chair.

  Wade stood at attention again, shaken to the core. Kamada grinned and waved him to a seat.

  "Sit down, for Christ sake! You're not in trouble here. At least not with me. What did Willard say?"

  "Gave me a lecture. A short one. Actually, it wasn't as bad as I expected."

  "He didn't cashier you, then?"

  "No. He even complimented me on the asteroid plan. I guess you could say I got off with a warning."

  Kamada shook his head, unable to keep the grin off his face.

  "God! I can still hear the pins dropping in the Strat Room. 'That's insane!' you said, and everybody in the room got an instant attack of the shits. Jesus, that was funny!"

  "I didn't think it was funny at all, Commander."

  "No? You just hide in the O-Club this evening and listen to the talk. Everyone will be repeating it. I mean, everyone."

  Kamada threw his head back and laughed out loud.

  "God! I am so glad it wasn't me!"

  Wade managed a grin, even though he hardly felt like it. Maybe, in the years to come, he would find the humor in it.

  "How does Admiral Boucher feel about it?"

  "Oh, he had the biggest case of shits. You were one of his people, and that's the most terrifying thing of all, that one of your people will gaffe like that. But he's over it. We already had a good laugh about it."

  "Thank god."

  "That doesn't mean he won't chew you out. Everybody down the line has to chew you out, just to cover their own ass. So consider yourself chewed out by me. In case anybody asks."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now, about the Gang-Bang operation … " Kamada was no longer smiling. "What do you think?"

  "Sir, if it works, General Willard will be the military genius of the century. But I don't think it will."

  "Neither do I. For that matter, neither does anyone else. Off the record, Willard's refusal to entertain discussion is absolutely unprecedented."

  "Can he just put the plan into operation all by himself?" Wade asked. "Doesn't he need Congressional approval?"

  "No, he doesn't. He does need a nod from the President, but he already has that. Basically, he submits several possible operational scenarios for executive approval. The President looks at them, doesn't understand shit about any of it, and says, 'Yeah, we need to proceed with the war against Sirius. Go ahead.' That's all Willard needs. He's Chief of Staff, his word is the law, as long as the President doesn't countermand him, which she won't."

  "And the details are left to him."

  "Literally, the details are left to the Polygon planning staff, but you explain the difference to me. If the top man flies in the face of majority opinion, he is still the top man. He'll get what he wants. As for Congress, all he has to do is notify the Defense Committee of his intentions, and I'm certain he's already done that, too."

  "And tens of thousands of Federation soldiers will die if he screws up."

  "That's about it." Kamada sighed. "Stinks, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, sir, I'd say it does. Can anyone talk him out of this? Does anyone on the planning staff have enough suck?"

  "Several, but I doubt any of them have the courage to openly oppose him. In a meeting like we had today, they would speak their minds freely. But once Willard has spoken, it's like Mt. Sinai and the Ten Commandments — it's written in stone. After that, nobody will take the risk."

  "Even if it puts the entire Federation at risk?"

  Kamada shook his head sadly.

  "Human nature being what it is, I'd be very surprised if any of the senior people will expose themselves even then. They have too much to lose."

  Wade's eyes were wide with alarm, his youthful idealism offended.

  "Too much to lose? What about losing the war? If that happens, we've lost everything!"

  Kamada shrugged.

  "Your best defense against that happening," he said, "is to put together an operational plan that will work. We've been given the parameters, and we have a target date. As much as we disagree with him, our job is to prove Willard right. The parallel operations are going to happen, so we have to make damned sure they succeed. See what you can come up with."

  Wade felt a burning anger deep inside, but he nodded. Kamada was right. They had no control over the cards they'd been dealt, but they did have to play them — and try to bluff it out.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Dismissed."

  * * *

  Wade Palmer sweated over his Gang-Bang operational plan, sitting up late and losing sleep as he struggled with different combinations of troops and supplies. Even with the help of his computer he found it increasingly difficult to believe the operation had a prayer of success, but that was the one option not open to him. Somehow, by hook or by crook, he simply had to find a way that might work.

  There was the possibility of additional carriers, he thought. Three more were under construction, but none was scheduled for commissioning until the following year. Unless they launched before their construction was complete, he thought. That was one possibility; Sadat had done that, when it was first commissioned, and as a result Mars had been saved from invasion. But that would be stretching things even thinner than they already were. He couldn't even suggest such an idea and be taken seriously.

  The problem wasn't men; the Star Marines and Federation Infantry had been recruiting for years, training feverishly, and had the people ready to go. They weren't all experienced, but they were ready. Nor were fighters a problem. Nakashima, Boeing-Nuclear, and LincEnt were turning out fighters in record numbers. Thousands were now tested and awaiting the opportunity to fight, and plenty of crews were ready to fly them. None of that was the issue. The issue, plain and simple, was starships.

  Starships were needed to transport the ground forces, supply the ground forces, and protect the supply lanes from enemy interdiction. There simply weren't enough ships to do that in a combined operation. The merchant fleet would be stretched thin just to support an operation on Alpha Centauri, but if they had to support Altair as well, the whole thing was bound to collapse; losses also had to be factored into the equation. Losses were inevitable, especially since there weren't sufficient carriers to get fighter protection where it was needed — and there was already a shortage of ships.

  Carriers were the biggest single shortage. With only five in the entire fleet, there was too much space to cover. One carrier could transport eight fighter squadrons, plus rescue and support craft. At maximum, then, forty squadrons could be sent to a single battle zone, and when that battle zone was a planet roughly the size of Terra, it was a sure bet the Sirians would have ten or twenty times that number of squadrons waiting. And if one or two carriers were diverted to Altair …

  God! It kept going around and around in his head. It wasn't going to work. It just wasn't! There was no way to make it work.

  He leaned back with a sigh, rubbed his eyes, and glanced at his wristwatch. One-thirty in the morning. Jesus! Thank god tomorrow was Sunday. He could catch up on his sleep, for one day at least.

  He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, already disheveled from his unconscious finger-combing. He was tired and bleary, literally exhausted. He felt as if the responsibility for the entire war effort rested on his shoulders. He needed a break, someone to talk to.

  He slumped into a chair, staring at the wall. His thoughts ran together. Blinking fatigue out of his eyes, he looked at the vidphone, reached for it, and for the hundredth time in the last few months, punched in Regina's number. He waited, staring at the little message on the screen that said DIALING …

  He let it ring twenty-five times.

  But Regina Well
s still didn't answer.

  Chapter 25

  Monday, 25 May, 0229 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  Rear Admiral Boucher faced his people around the conference table. Five days had passed since General Willard had declared emphatically that a dual operation would be mounted against the enemy. Boucher looked unhappy.

  "I worry about this one," he confessed to the room at large. "I 'ave reviewed the reports you 'ave submitted, and it appears that no one can think of a way to make this work. Yet we must come up with something; General Will-aird 'as scheduled the next strategy meeting for Saturday. 'As anyone any ideas?"

  He looked at them helplessly. Most averted their eyes; none could see a way to make it work. Boucher looked at Kamada.

  "Command-air? Perhaps you 'ave something?"

  "I'm sorry, Admiral," Kamada said. "I've been over it in my sleep. The numbers just don't come out right. We need more carriers."

  "Oui. That is 'ow I see it, too. But we cannot tell General Will-aird that."

  Silence hung in the room for a moment. Someone coughed, someone else rustled a few papers. Wade Palmer stirred slowly.

  "With the Admiral's permission?" he ventured, dreading to expose himself again, but compelled to try.

  "Palm-air, you 'ave something?"

  Wade shook his head slightly.

  "Nothing solid, Admiral. But as you said, we have to present something. Perhaps we can find a solution if we talk this thing through."

  "Be my guest."

  Wade frowned and stared at his notes a moment.

  "We don't have the carriers to support both operations," he said. "That's a given. We barely have enough for one. But we don't have a choice here, so I've been wondering if we could possibly conduct the Altair operation without any carriers at all."

  Heads turned, eyes grew wide. Boucher's head tilted back as he peered down his bony nose at the upstart junior grade across the table. Wade flushed slightly as he noted the reaction, but having said that, continued.

  "We have six fighter bases on the Altairi moons," he said. "They are subject to enemy attack, but things have been relatively quiet there for the past year. The war on the ground has been largely a civil war, with minimal participation from the major powers, so our squadrons have managed to keep a low profile. The Sirians base their fighters on the planet and don't venture out unless they have to.

  "If we were to run, say, three carriers to within a few light hours of Altair, cancel warp outside detection range, and launch about twenty squadrons of fighters … We could leave those fighters there. They can operate off the existing bases when the operation starts. The carriers dash back home without ever being detected, take on fresh squadrons, and we can use all five against Alpha Centauri."

  A few people blinked, as if they suspected it might actually work. No one spoke as all eyes turned back to Admiral Boucher. Boucher's eyes had narrowed — he hadn't taken them off Wade Palmer.

  "And munitions? 'Ow will we rearm those fighters? The Altair bases are running low on supplies already."

  "Supply is going to be a problem on both fronts," Wade agreed. "But when the assault starts, the Sirians are going to be very busy the first few days. I propose we open the campaign with a massive fighter assault on the planet. Tie up as many Sirian fighters as possible in the atmosphere while we simultaneously strike ground targets. While that's going on, we can warp in a supply convoy, offload it, and bring it home before the Sirians even notice it. That should replenish the stores for a few weeks, at least. Enough to get the operation off the ground. And when we open the assault against Centauri, we have our complete carrier force available."

  Wade shrugged helplessly.

  "It isn't much, sir, but it's one option."

  Boucher looked around at others on his staff. Several raised their eyebrows and nodded approvingly. He looked at Kamada.

  "Command-air?"

  "It's the best idea I've heard so far," Kamada agreed.

  Boucher peered at Wade again, his expression thoughtful.

  "It might work," he murmured. "It just might."

  After some discussion, Altair was tabled and the subject moved on to Alpha Centauri. Once again, Wade Palmer ventured forth.

  "Sir, we absolutely have to minimize our carrier exposure in this operation. We're going to face enemy superiority of staggering proportions."

  Boucher nodded expectantly. "Oui, I am listening."

  "Yes, sir. Sir, when the Sirians opened the war against us, they used carrier forces to strike at Terra, Luna, Mars, and the Outer Worlds. For many months the biggest question in everyone's mind was, where were they coming from? I think it's clear by now that they were keeping their carriers a few million miles beyond detection range, and using the warp capacity of their fighters to cover the remaining distance. I propose we do the same thing.

  "Alpha Centauri is the closest star system to us, which gives us the advantage now. We can position our carriers six or seven hours from the target and let our fighter squadrons cover the distance during their strikes. All the Lincoln fighters now have warp capability. It will increase their cockpit time considerably, and limit each ship to perhaps one mission per day. But it'll keep the carriers out of sight, and that's the most important thing."

  "Wait a minute," another junior officer objected. His name was Beck. "It sounds good in theory, but you're overlooking something."

  Wade looked at him.

  "You send a fighter that distance on a strike," Beck said, "and you extend his vulnerability exponentially. What if he gets hit? He can't limp home if home is six hours away! Especially if he loses his warp drive. That's how Johnny Lincoln bought it!"

  "I know. Losses will be higher than normal, but that's the price we'll pay to protect the carriers." Wade spread his hands helplessly. "We can't have it both ways; I'd much rather worry about the lives of those fighter crews, but as heartless as it sounds, the practical issue is the carriers. They have to be protected!"

  "I agree," Beck said, "but that's another thing — the losses you're talking about will decimate the fighter squadrons so fast they won't have any effectiveness. First, they're limited to one mission a day; second, they're taking extra losses! Hell, in four or five days we won't have any fighters left! So what's the point?"

  "I can answer that," Wade insisted. He looked around the room; every eye was glued to him, hoping he could make it stick, not really sure he could.

  "I'm all ears," Beck replied.

  "Six hours to the target, six hours back. Maybe one to three hours in the combat zone," Wade said. "A minimum of twelve hours, possibly fifteen. With twenty-four hours in a standard solar day, we can overlap our strikes. We send out a strike every six hours by quadrupling the number of squadrons on each carrier. Instead of eight squadrons, each carrier will service thirty-two. Three-quarters of them will be out at any one time, so parking space aboard ship isn't a problem. Eight squadrons will be servicing and rearming, their crews sleeping. Twenty-four will be either on the way to the target, at the target, or on the way back. Our troops on the ground will have maximum space support and the Sirians will think we're growing carriers like fungii. With five carriers out there, we can have forty squadrons over Alpha 2 at all times, with only a minimal lapse here and there."

  He paused, reading the expressions for their reaction. Once again, eyes had widened, and a few mouths had dropped open. Even Beck looked impressed. But he wasn't quite sold.

  "That's damned good!" he said. "But it still leaves one question."

  "Yes?"

  "Attrition. We're still gonna lose fighters at a higher rate than normal. After a week or so, isn't this plan going to suffer the same fate as I suggested earlier?"

  "No. That's where our proximity to Alpha C. comes to the rescue. Alpha is only four light years away, which is about three days at warp. As long as the squadrons are equipped with Lincoln fighters, we can replace our losses by letting the fighters warp out to the carriers. The crews won't
much like it, but it won't kill them. Once the carriers are on station, they won't have to move. They can act as stationary bases for servicing and rearming. The fighters will do all the traveling. All five carriers can be fully operational all the time. God knows, we have plenty of fighters and crews.

  "One more thing — if everything goes well the first few weeks, we should be able to capture enough bases on the planet to station fighters there as well. Then we can really start to beef up the space power around the planet."

  He stopped. It was on the table, for better or worse. There was little more he could add. He heaved a deep breath to still the trembling in his hands.

  "Mon Dieu!" Boucher breathed, staring transfixed at the junior officer. "I do not fucking believe it! Why did you not submit this before?"

  "I'm sorry, Admiral, but it just came to me over the past few hours. As of this morning, I hadn't thought it all the way through."

  Boucher sat back, relief written over his face. He wore the expression of a condemned man who's just won a pardon. He took a long, deep breath, and looked at those around him as he released it.

  "I am going to present this plan to General Will-aird immediately," he said. "Palm-air, I would like you to accompany me."

  Wade nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "This meeting is adjourned."

  * * *

  General Willard scowled as Boucher and Wade entered his office. Wade wondered if that was his normal expression, or if Willard was just unhappy to see him again so soon. Boucher did all the talking at first, explaining that he believed a solution had been found to compensate for the carrier shortage. Willard continued to scowl. Boucher asked Wade to explain.

  Mortified, Wade nevertheless did as he was told. Willard glared at him for ten minutes, saying nothing. Wade went through the entire scenario for both Altair and Alpha Centauri — Gang and Bang. He finally ran out of words, and stopped talking. Willard sat there another thirty seconds.

  "Is that it?" he growled.

  "Yes, sir. I realize it doesn't address the supply problem, but … "

  "It's goddamned brilliant!" Willard grunted.

  Wade's mouth dropped open. He looked at Boucher in astonishment. The French admiral merely smiled at him.