"Damn, the whole fleet's here," Janice announced, and she pointed out CVA Trafalgar, cruising astern of the flagship, the four carriers surrounded by a swarm of corvettes, destroyers, cruisers, supply ships, minesweeps, and light battle frigates.
"A balloon is definitely going up," Doomsday said quietly. "There hasn't been a fleet gathering like this in half a dozen years. There's gonna be a whole hell of a lot of killing."
"And somebody's called Tarawa in for the show."
"Time to go folks," Jason said, and his two comrades looked at him enviously.
"Give my regards to the old crew," Doomsday said, "tell 'em that contrary to all my predictions I'm still alive out here."
Jason left his friends and headed out to the flight deck.
Repairs were still under way for the craft damaged in the assault on Vukar Tag. He saw Chamberlain under his Rapier, covered in soot, helping out his crew chief. It was the type of spirit he liked in a pilot. A crew chief, more than anyone else alive, knew all the ins and outs of a fighter, and helping on the repairs could teach a pilot a hell of a lot. The rest of the pilots were standing down, some of them sleeping, the ones who thought they knew it all, the others were in the flight simulators, or studying the gun camera holos of their strikes to try and figure out how to do things better. They had a hell of a long way to go, but with only one gunner and one copilot lost and two injured while covering a major landing, he had to admit that their record was a damned sight better than average, though he would never tell them that.
He walked down the flight line, scanning each ship as if trying to sense if everything was right. At last he reached the Sabre that would serve today as a shuttle. O'Brian was waiting.
"You're three minutes late, mister."
Jason, unable to contain his growing dislike, made a show of checking his watch and then nodded an apology.
"We can't keep the admirals waiting, mister."
"After you, sir."
O'Brian climbed up the ladder into the cockpit of the fighter-bomber and settled into the front seat.
"Ah sir, that's the pilot's seat," Jason said quietly.
O'Brian looked up at him coldly, climbed back out and then moved to the backseat. Jason followed him in, sat down, and snapped his harness in place. He looked back at O'Brian, who was fumbling with the straps.
"Need help, sir?"
O'Brian looked at him, and Jason felt a flash of sympathy for the man. He was completely out of his league, not only in the cockpit of this plane, but on the bridge of an escort carrier as well. He looked at O'Brian with a friendly smile, as if willing to offer far more than just advice on how to strap into a cockpit. Damn, if only this man would get off his high horse for a moment, quietly admit his shortcomings and try to learn from the handful of combat veterans aboard ship. It was a lesson he had learned when still a second class flight deck mate on his first cruise and he never forgot it—listen to the old hands no matter what their rank.
"I can do it myself, mister," O'Brian snapped in reply.
"Sir, if you connect that part of the harness up that way, when you eject you'll get kicked out of the chair and have your legs ripped off on the way out."
"Don't you think I know that?"
"Sir, honestly," and he forced a friendly smile again, "I don't think you do know, but that's OK. There's nothing wrong with that."
"When I need your advice I'll ask for it."
"Have it your way, sir," Jason said quietly, his features flushing with embarrassment. He found that he was actually feeling sorry for the man.
"One thing though, sir. If something goes wrong, and I shout eject three times, all you have to do is reach down between your legs, grab hold of the D ring, and yank."
O'Brian looked at him wide eyed.
"That's not going to happen?"
"Of course not, sir, but standard procedure requires that I make sure you're aware of how that works."
O'Brian was quiet, and he nervously reached down to touch the ring.
"And just make sure your suit is fully pressurized, sir, before we launch."
Without waiting for a reply Jason pulled his helmet visor down, ran through a final check and then looked over at the deck launch officer giving the thumbs-up.
Since it was not a combat launch he simply nudged his throttle and the ship slowly drifted down the launch ramp and poked through the airlock barrier at a stately two meters a second. He provided a touch of vertical lift and rose up off of the Tarawa. When safely cleared he couldn't resist the temptation.
"Hang on, sir."
He slammed on full throttle and then kicked in the afterburners for good measure.
"Damn it, Jason."
"Sir, you said we were three minutes late. I'm making the time up."
He knew it was cruel, but damn it all, he just couldn't help himself. Tapping his stick over he quickly snapped the Sabre through a 720-degree spin, pulled a sharp wing over, then banked up hard, snap rolling again to level out on Concordia, calling in for clearance. The flight was over in less than three minutes and as they taxied to a stop and he pulled his helmet visor back up he detected a rather unpleasant sourish smell in the cockpit. For the sake of a captain's dignity he felt it best not to look back.
"We're on time now," Jason said quietly, as he stood up. He climbed out of the Sabre and looked around the flight deck. It was like coming home. After weeks aboard the Tarawa it was damned good to be on a real flight deck again, spacious, plenty of landing, hangar and work room, everyone moving about with an air of calm efficiency. Other fighters and shuttle craft were coming in, a steady stream of brass dismounting, moving purposefully across the flight deck.
O'Brian, his knees wobbly, came down on to the deck and looked over at Jason.
"Was that deliberate?"
"Oh, no, sir. I had to check the engine and controls out on the run over; the ship's regular pilot said that the throttle and stick were mushy. It's standard procedure to do that, sir, I assure you."
"Oh."
"I think you need to freshen up a bit sir. The head is over against that far bulkhead; I'll meet you in the briefing room."
Glad to be rid of the rather foul smelling O'Brian, Jason set off, knowing the way so that he could do it blindfolded. Everywhere there were familiar faces and he felt a warm tug of nostalgia at each greeting. He had never known much of a home life before the military, his older brother and he fending for themselves most of the time while their mother worked. Lying about one's age to join at sixteen, and then working up through the ranks, leaping from 2nd class flight deck hand to a wing commander in eight years was no mean feat. But almost all that time had been aboard either the Gettysburg or the Concordia and he felt like a kid coming back home who had finally made good.
He hit the main deck and reached the briefing room. He hesitated for a moment; it was crawling with brass and he suddenly felt very junior indeed at the sight of so many captain's stars, and the gold insignias of commodores and rear admirals. He took a deep breath and plunged in.
"Jason."
"Admiral Tolwyn, sir."
He came to attention and the Admiral, smiling, motioned for him to be at ease.
"You're part of the brass at this little briefing, so relax, son."
"Thank you, sir."
"How do you like being in command?"
"A challenge, sir."
"I knew you were the right officer for the job. Tarawa's crew is young, mostly fresh scrubbed lads out for their first look at the madness. I thought it best that they have a young fellow like you running them and from what I've picked up, I was right. So what do you think of the Tarawa?"
"It's a fine ship, sir."
Tolwyn smiled.
"Listen, son. First commands sometimes turn out to be like your first really true love. Not the infatuation with a beautiful young girl type of thing, I mean the first really true love of your life. In the beginning you can never understand what anyone might see in her, she's not flashy or anyth
ing, and then one day you get hit over the head, and for the rest of your life you'll never forget her. I think you'll feel that way about the Tarawa if things work out."
He hesitated, as if he had suddenly said too much.
"I'll be talking to you later, son. Admiral Banbridge is coming in now."
"Banbridge?"
The call for attention swept the room, and Jason stood rigid, a bit surprised at the sight of Admiral Tolwyn standing as stiffly as everyone else.
The Admiral was old, balding, his remaining hair long since gone to white. But his carriage was trim, still spry and erect as he strode down the length of the room. As he gained the podium he smiled.
"All right folks, stand at ease and be seated."
His voice was pleasant, holding a touch of an American southern accent, but filled with a certain determination.
He walked over to the holo screen and held up a small hand controller and pointed it. The screen snapped to life, and Jason looked at it with surprise. It was the Vukar Tag Sector.
"Gentlemen, this is Vukar Tag," Banbridge began. "Three days ago, nine regiments of marines, supported by two of our new escort carriers, stormed the planet and seized it."
"This, gentlemen, is the opening move in Operation Back Lash."
So something bigger was afoot. Jason looked around the room and saw Big Duke One, the marine commandant, and by his side were Svetlana and Colonel Jim Merritt, commander of the First Marine Commando battalion. So Big Duke had come back with the Bangor. If he was leaving the mop-up operation on the planet, it meant that there was definitely some larger plan at work. He settled back and listened as Banbridge ran through a brief review of the assault, swelling a bit with pride when mention was made of the ground support provided by Tarawa. From the corner of his eye he saw Tolwyn look over at him and nod his head with approval.
"I should now clarify something here. Our objective was not, and never was, to seize this planet. As a jump point into the Kilrathi Empire it is but a secondary approach, a single line of jump points with no branch-offs. To approach this way would be a slugging match and we simply don't have the resources. Our main objective was this."
He turned back to the holo screen and the image shifted to the ancient palace which was destroyed in the assault.
"Eight months ago intelligence ascertained that this building was the ancestral home of the Emperor's mother, the Dowager Empress Graknala. Our Kilrathi Psychological and Societal Profile Sector reported that such sites are considered to be sacred and out of bounds in time of war. The Kilrathi Empire has been wreaked by numerous civil wars down through its history, but never have such historic sites been violated. We have changed that approach."
He clicked the screen again and the ancient home disappeared in a fireball flash.
"We allowed a Kilrathi comm center to stay in operation throughout the assault and we are certain that this same image, of the Empress's home going up in flames, has already been viewed by the Emperor himself."
"We knew that the Empress was back on her home world of Kilrah at the Imperial Palace, but the Kilrathi don't know that we are aware of this. They can only assume that we came to destroy that sacred place, and perhaps to seize or kill the Empress as well."
He paused for a moment.
"Needless to say, we can assume that the Emperor is now rather thoroughly pissed off."
"We'll make his palace a low-rent district as well before we're done," a rear admiral growled from the back of the room, and there was a chorus of cheers at his comment.
Banbridge smiled and nodded.
"Our action has caused a tremendous loss of face for the Imperial family and has undoubtably struck at a raw nerve. It is a defilement undreamed of. Our Psych Profile people have assured my staff and me that the only response possible will be a sortie of the entire home fleet, a crushing display of force to retake the planet as quickly as possible and to slaughter any and all humans who dared to step foot on the planet. We've noticed a standard profile that when a deep insult has been offered, the only response possible is a crushing retaliation; to do otherwise is to show a lack of strength and resolve."
"Deep space drone surveillance has already detected a threefold increase in sub space transmissions on their fleet channels. Gentlemen, the Kilrathi fleet will move and it will come straight here."
He paused and pointed back at the holo screen, "straight in to Vukar Tag."
He smiled softly.
"And we shall be there to meet them with this entire task force."
There was a nervous shifting of chairs, a low hum of whispers.
"We have spent half a year planning this campaign, making sure ever piece was in place. Here at this rendezvous point we have assembled the largest task force in nearly a decade, four major carriers and over seventy other ships. We will position ourselves one jump point back from Vukar Tag. A number of drones and several corvettes are already being vectored over to the Enigma Sector to establish a heavy pattern of false transmissions, to lead the Kilrathi into believing that our fleet is weeks away from Vukar."
"They'll strike with everything they have. The marine regiments will be down there, and well dug in. We will be sending in a number of supply ships with heavy ground armor, and a construction battalion to help with the fortifications and to create the impression that we plan to stay and convert the planet into a main base. We want the Kilrathi to think that we are there to stay and that a counterstrike must hit as quickly as possible. The mission for the marines now is simply to hold out against a concentrated and deadly assault from the finest ships and troops the Empire can throw at them."
"Let the bastards come, Wayne," the marine commandant snapped. "Hell, even without your fleet we'll kick their butts. In fifteen days we'll be dug in so deep it'd take ten legions of Imperial Guards to even make a dent."
"Believe me, they'll come, Duke," Banbridge said, "but this fight's going to be shared out to us blue suits. We want their fleet in the bag as well. Just as the Kilrathi start to launch their own ground assault, with what we expect to be a fair portion of their Imperial legions, this entire task force will jump into the sector, move at flank speed, and engage the enemy at close range in a battle of annihilation. It will be an attack dependent on total surprise. If all goes right we'll catch them with their fighters and bombers committed and configured for ground assault, their attention focused in on the planet.
"Gentlemen, I expect to tear the guts out of the Kilrathi Home Fleet, smash their carriers, and shatter their ground assault legions in their transports or while trapped in their landing assault craft."
He stopped and looked around the room.
Jason settled back, stunned by the audacity of the plan. The Confederation was just barely holding on, losses had been horrific over the last year and now Banbridge was talking about wagering most of the remaining fleet in an all or nothing throw of the dice.
"How many carriers will we be facing?" a rear admiral, the commander of the Trafalgar, asked.
"Intelligence estimates eight, possibly as many as ten."
"Damn," a voice whispered from the back of the room.
Jason settled back, his stomach in a knot. The Tarawa in such a fight would be dead meat. He listened quietly, sensing that though the assembled officers were game for the mission, they had their doubts that any of them would survive. It was a desperate long shot, but the way the war was going, a desperate long shot was what they needed.
At the end of the hour briefing, Banbridge called for any final questions. The room was silent.
"All right then, gentlemen. We'll break for section briefings by ship's class. This assault must go like clockwork; one slipup and we're all cooked. This fleet will be positioned for action in exactly six days and eight hours standard time. We've got a lot of work ahead of us. Good luck, and good hunting."
He strode down from the podium and everyone came to attention. Jason looked around, not quite sure of where to go next. Ship's captains were heading off
to their separate briefing rooms but there were no other wing officers present. Suddenly he found himself wondering just why in hell he had been invited to attend in the first place.
"Lieutenant Commander Bondarevsky?"
Jason turned around to face an attractive young staff officer.
"Yes."
"I'm with Admiral Banbridge's staff. You are requested to follow me."
"What's it all about, Ensign?"
"Sir," and now her voice was all seriousness, "just follow me please."
Jason did as he was told and followed the young ensign, trying not to notice the rather provocative sway to her walk. He suddenly felt as if he was being watched in turn, and looked back over his shoulder to see Svetlana following him.
Damn, she must have known I was checking the ensign out and he felt his features flush with embarrassment.
They weaved their way through the ship and entered a section guarded by a detachment of marines. The ensign stopped at a door blocked by a lean muscular marine, armed with a laser rifle and wearing full body armor. She showed her identification.
"Your ID card, sir," the marine asked, his voice firm and direct. Jason handed him the card. The marine checked a printout list, then held the card up, looked at it closely, then looked at Jason, studying his features for several seconds.
"Your mother's maiden name, sir."
"Houston."
The marine looked back at the list and then stepped away from the door.
"Pass sir."
Jason took his card back. The door slapped open and then slammed shut behind him with a metallic clang. He took a deep breath. Banbridge and Tolwyn were in the room, which was nothing more than a bare unpainted cubical. He noticed a voice distorter attached to a wall, which would pick up every word spoken in this room, and send out a vibration that exactly countered the sound. If anyone was attempting to listen in from an adjacent room with a laser vibration detector they would get an absolute flat line. This had to be major to go through such extreme precautions.
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