Mission of Honor

by Дэвид Вебер

  "Which I might find rather more reassuring if they hadn't pinned Crandall's ears back with nothing heavier than cruisers ," Filareta observed rather caustically.

  "I know I just said myself that I wish we had more information about what happened at Spindle," Burrows said. "But from the way I read what data we do have, I think what she really ran into was a bunch of missile pods deployed in the system-defense role."

  "And your point is?"

  "My point is that they were probably system-defense pods —I mean a specialized design specifically optimized for that role. Sure, all they showed us was cruisers, but as you just pointed out, Admiral Crandall never was the sharpest stylus in the box, and Manty stealth systems seem to be better than anyone thought they were. It's entirely possible they managed to get an entire dispersed defensive array emplaced without her spotting it. And the minimum powered envelope estimates I've seen are a hell of a lot higher than the range at which they took out Jean Bart . So I'm inclined to think that what they'd really managed to do was to deploy a specialized area-defense version of their pods, probably with substantially larger missiles to get that extra range. Think of them as . . . oh, old-fashioned mines with three or four normal drives shoved up their asses. It's the only way I can think of that they could've gotten the range, but missiles that big simply wouldn't be practical for shipboard weapons." Burrows shrugged. "Where the hell would you put the magazines?"

  Filareta started a quick reply, then paused at Burrows' last question. He thought for a moment or two, then nodded.

  "I hadn't really thought about that," he admitted. "If they've gone to missile-dominated combat, then they have to have struck some kind of balance between missile ranges and missile size , don't they? They've got to have enough rounds onboard to do the job."

  "Exactly." Burrows grimaced. "I'm willing to concede that even their shipboard weapons will have a substantial range advantage, but it's not going to be as great as the advantage they had over Crandall. And the second point about their being a specialized system-defense variant is that the only 'proof' they polished her off with 'nothing heavier than cruisers' comes from the Manties . If I were they, and what I'd really used was a sophisticated, integrated system-defense weapon—one that probably did have an FTL component—I'd do my best to convince the League I'd done it with a scratch force of light ships, too . . . if I thought I could get away with it. But everything I've seen from our own intelligence and R&D people says that any kind of broadband FTL is going to require humongous platforms. The smallest estimate I've seen suggests that nothing much smaller than a waller could carry the system and a worthwhile weapons load. So since they obviously were using FTL against Crandall, they sure as hell weren't doing it from something as small as a heavy cruiser. To be honest, that—coupled with the size requirements for the missiles themselves—is why I'm convinced it had to be a system-defense set up. Crandall crapped out because they managed to get the dispersed platforms in-system and up and running before she got there."

  Filareta nodded slowly, his eyes intent, but there was something else behind those eyes. Burrows could see that, even though he didn't have a clue what else the fleet admiral was turning over in his mind.

  "So what you're saying is that whoever"—that "something else" behind Filareta's eyes flickered more strongly for a moment—"blew the piss out of their system infrastructure has to've done it through that same kind of defensive system."

  "That's what it sounds like to me," Burrows confirmed. "And to do that, they have to have either crippled the system, or else at least run it out of ammunition. Frankly, it seems more likely that whoever it was had better intel on the Manties than we do and figured out a way to go after the remote platforms, which probably means the Manties' command net has just been shot full of holes. Even if they did it just by running them out of ammunition, though, it seems more than a little unlikely that the Manties will have been able to replace their expended missiles with their industrial structure so trashed. And even assuming that they've been able to replace their expenditures this time around, there's no way in hell they'll be able to take us out and be able to reload again before the next wave arrives."

  "I'm sure our ghosts will take great comfort from that fact," Filareta said rather dryly, and Burrows snorted.

  "I agree it would be a . . . suboptimal outcome, Sir," he acknowledged. "My point, though, was that the Manties have to be aware of the same facts. So when we turn up so unexpectedly, even if they have the physical capability to repel our attack, I actually think the Strategy Board's right about whether or not they'll have the intestinal fortitude to actually try doing it. And if we point out to them that the next wave's already in the pipeline, and is going to be even more powerful, I think it really is likely they'll recognize the writing on the wall and give it up."

  "Um."

  Filareta frowned, obviously pondering what his chief of staff had just said. He still looked a far cry from anything Burrows would have called cheerful, but his expression was at least a little lighter than it had been.

  "I hope to hell you're right," he said frankly at last. "If you're not, then we're going to get reamed, even if we wind up taking them out in the end."

  He paused, as if inviting Burrows to respond, but the chief of staff only nodded. After all, Filareta was absolutely correct.

  "All right," the fleet admiral said finally. "Go ahead and bring Bill and Yvonne inside on this." Admiral William Daniels was the task force's operations officer, and Admiral Yvonne Uruguay was the staff astrogator. "I want our movement planned by the time our reinforcements get here." It was Filareta's turn to grimace. "There's no way we're going to make our specified schedule, but let's see how close we can come."

  "Yes, Sir," Burrows agreed. Frankly, he'd be surprised if they could hit within a T-week of the operations schedule included with their orders from Old Earth. On the other hand, allowances for that kind of slippage were built into any interstellar fleet movement orders. They had to be.

  Filareta turned to look back at the smart wall again, contemplating it for several moments. Then he inhaled deeply and nodded to the distant solar furnace which dominated the view.

  "All right, John," he said again, never turning away from the wall. "Go talk to Bill and Yvonne. I want their preliminary reactions in time for lunch. And go ahead and schedule a full dress staff meeting for tomorrow morning."

  * * *

  The "private yacht" was about the size of most navies' battlecruisers, and almost as heavily armed. Which didn't prevent it from being one of the most luxuriously appointed vessels in the galaxy . . . as well as one of the fastest. It had made the passage from the Mesa System forty percent more rapidly than anyone else's ship could have managed it.

  Albrecht Detweiler reflected on exactly what that implied as he stood to one side on what would have been the flag deck aboard an actual warship and watched the enormous space station, gleaming in the reflected light of the F6 star called Darius, growing larger on the visual display as MANS Genesis approached it. The station—known officially as Darius Prime— orbited the planet Gamma, Darius' only habitable world, and at the moment, it was over Gamma's night side, just approaching the terminator. The planetary surface below it sparkled with lines and beads of light, and there were four other stations to keep it company, although none of them were remotely the same size as Manticor's' Hephaestus or Vulcan .

  Or the size they had been, at any rate.

  His eyes moved to the ships taking form in the shipyards Darius Prime supported. Eventually, those ships would become the first units of the Leonard Detweiler class, he knew, although it wouldn't happen anywhere near as soon as he wished. The much smaller units of the Shark class in parking orbit beyond Darius Prime were visible evidence of why he wished that. Most of the still far from complete Detweilers were already larger than the Sharks —in many cases, substantially larger. When they were completed, they would be far, far tougher—and far more dangerous—than their smaller predecessor
s, and he was going to need the capability they represented as quickly as he could get it. Unfortunately, wishing couldn't change anything.

  His lips twitched briefly at the thought, and he turned his attention to the Sharks. Genesis had arrived almost three hours before her scheduled ETA, yet it was evident the fleet was already home and waiting for him. Well, that was fine with him. No doubt the Mesan Alignment Navy would someday acquire the taste for formal reviews of the fleet—and the punctillious timing which went them—which seemed to be a part of every other navy in space. So far, it hadn't, and given how little use he had for pomp, he'd prefer for that to take as long as possible.

  Not that they don't deserve a formal review . His face hardened with mingled satisfaction and a degree of apprehension as he reflected upon the reports of Oyster Bay's effectiveness. I don't think anyone else in history ever managed to pull off this successful an operation. Certainly not against someone as good as the Manties!

  The casualty count had been higher than projected, and part of him regretted that. He supposed that was foolish of him, given where all of this had to lead eventually, yet there it was. He couldn't quite avoid thinking about all the children who'd never even seen it coming. Funny how that bothered him when thinking about all of the other millions who were going to be killed eventually didn't. He wondered if that was because those other millions were still an abstraction for him, still only a potential, whereas the dead from the Manticoran space stations and in the city of Yawata Crossing weren't. He hoped that wasn't the reason. All of those additional deaths were coming—he couldn't have changed that at this point even if he'd tried—and he couldn't afford to brood over them this way when they finally arrived.

  Well, you won't , he told himself. By the time they come along, you'll have enough emotional scar tissue to keep you from losing any sleep. And, be honest with yourself, Albrecht—you'll be damned glad you do .

  "We'll be docking with the station in about thirty-five minutes, Sir," Genesis ' captain told him.

  "Thank you," Detweiler replied, suppressing the urge to smile. Hayden Milne had been his yacht's skipper for over three T-years, during which time he'd been firmly trained to never—ever—refer to him by name. He'd been simply "Sir" to every member of the crew for as long as anyone could remember, and Detweiler's temptation to smile faded as he thought about that. He was doomed to stay in the shadows for at least a while longer, after all.

  At the same time, there was no point hiding from the men and women of the MAN. Every one of them knew Benjamin was their commander and that Albrecht stood behind Benjamin, although the fact that the two of the were Detweillers had been carefully concealed even from most of them. They knew Benjamin and Albrecht as their leaders, however. Which, after all, was the reason both he and those orbiting Sharks were in the same star system this afternoon.

  "I suppose I should wander back to my quarters and tell my wife," he continued out loud.

  "Of course, Sir."

  Detweiler nodded to the captain, then turned and headed for the lift, followed even here by Heinrich Stabolis, his enhanced bodyguard.

  They stepped into the lift car, and Stabolis pressed the proper destination code, then stood back with his hands folded behind him. Detwiler couldn't begin to count the number of times he'd seen Stabolis standing in exactly that posture over the years, and it was amazing how seeing that familiar sight always helped bolster his confidence.

  "So far, so good, Heinrich," he said.

  "As you say, Sir," Stabolis agreed, and Detweiler grinned.

  "You know, Heinrich, you don't say a lot, do you?"

  "I suppose not, Sir." There might have been the faintest glimmer of an answering smile on the bodyguard's face.

  "But you're always there," Detweiler continued more seriously. "If I haven't mentioned it lately, I appreciate it."

  Stabolis ducked his head in mute acknowledgment, and Detweiler reached out to rest one hand lightly on his shoulder for a moment. Then they reached their destination, the doors opened, and Stabolis stepped out into the passage, glancing both ways before he moved to allow his charge to leave the lift. They walked down the wide, tastefully decorated passageway to Detweiler's private suite, and he pressed the admittance buttoned himself.

  "Yes?" a pleasant soprano voice said after a moment.

  "It's me, Evie," he said. "Time to go in about thirty minutes."

  "Then should I assume Heinrich's managed to get you down here without any gravy on your shirt?"

  The door opened, and Evelina Detweiler looked out at her husband. Behind her, Albrecht saw Ericka Stabolis, Evelina's bodyguard, trying hard not to smile at her principal's comment. Ericka had been with Evelina almost as long as Heinrich had been looking after Albrecht, and she had the same black hair, blue eyes, and regular features—a bit more delicate in her case—as her brother. Indeed, people were often struck by the extraordinarily close physical resemblance between the Stabolis siblings. They shouldn't have been; Ericka and Heinrich were clone twins. She was every bit as deadly as her brother, and the only significant difference between them was that she had two X chromosomes.

  "No," Albrecht said now, mildly, as his wife inspected him. "I not only managed not to spill the gravy, but I've actually had two cups of coffee without dribbling any of it down my chin."

  "I am impressed," Evelina told him with a chuckle, then stood back to let him through the doorway. He smiled and touched her lightly on the cheek. The Long-Range Planning Board had known what it was doing when it paired the two of them, he thought. Sometimes the LRPB's choices resulted in pairings that couldn't stand each other. Officially, that didn't happen, of course, but unofficially everyone knew it did. Fortunately, mistakes like that could usually be fixed, and in the case of an alpha line pairing like any of the Detweilers, the Board's members put special effort into trying to pick compatibles.

  "Just let me change my jacket," he told her.

  "Fine. But not the red one," she said firmly.

  "I like the red one," he protested.

  "I know you do, dear." She shuddered. "On the other hand, I'm still hoping they can do something about your taste in clothing in our grandchildren."

  * * *

  "Attention on deck!"

  The command rapped out as Albrecht Detweiler, his wife, and his son Benjamin stepped out onto the stage at one end of the spacious compartment.

  In one sense, there was no real pressing need for them to be here. Albrecht could have addressed the senior officers of the returning Oyster Bay fleet electronically, and he doubted they would have minded or felt slighted. But they deserved better, and whether they ever actually realized it or not, he knew they would never forget that he'd come all the way out to Darius to greet them on their return. It wasn't exactly a trivial trip from Mesa, even with the streak drive, but that wasn't what they were going to remember.

  He walked across to the podium, flanked by Evelina and Benjamin, and stopped, looking out across the assembled faces of the men and women in the maroon and green uniforms of the MAN. He stood there for the better part of a full minute, taking the time to look at each of those faces, then, finally, he nodded.

  "Please, be seated."

  Feet scuffed on the space station deck as the naval officers obeyed his invitation, and he let them settle themselves once again.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said after several seconds, his voice quiet, "I came out to Darius to greet you and to tell you how extraordinarily well each and every one of you have performed. I can tell you now that Oyster Bay was a complete success."

  No one actually seemed to move, yet a stir went through his audience. Shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly, eyes brightened, and he nodded again.

  "All three major Manticoran space stations were totally destroyed," he told them. "They've been less forthcoming about the damage to their dispersed yards, but there was no way they could conceal what had happened to Hephaestus and Vulcan , given how many witnesses there were. Weyland 's destr
uction has also been confirmed by official Manticoran sources. As I say, there's been no official word on damage to their dispersed yards, but all unofficial sources indicate near total destruction there, as well.

  "The attack on Yeltsin's Star was equally successful. Their Blackbird Yard was totally destroyed, along with virtually its entire workforce. We have confirmation that every ship under construction at Yeltsin's Star was also destroyed or too heavily damaged to be repairable. Given that the Manties' missile production was concentrated in their space stations and that Grayson's missile production was concentrated at Blackbird, we've succeeded in destroying their ability to replace ammunition expenditures for the foreseeable future."

  He could actually feel the satisfaction of the assembled officers, and they deserved it. Still—

  "The only aspect of the entire operation which can be considered less than a hundred percent success was no one's fault," he said gravely, and the bodies shifted slightly. "We'd hoped to destroy the Manties' entire next generation of capital ships still in the yards. Unfortunately, it appears we'd underestimated their construction speeds. You did, indeed, destroyan entire generation of capital ships, but the one before it had already been launched, and the majority of their new construction was safely at Trevor's Star, working up, at the time of your attack."

  The faces looking back at him were extraordinarily sober now, and he shrugged very slightly.

  "As I say, you carried out your orders perfectly, ladies and gentlemen. The fault—if there was a fault—lies in our own original estimates of the Manties' building times. And, to be completely honest, we recognized at the time we sent you out that it was possible we were going to catch less of their new construction in the yards than we might have wished. So, while that portion of the operation was less successful than we'd hoped, the overwhelming effectiveness of the rest of Oyster Bay more than compensates. Given that virtually all of the Manticorans' combat advantages depend upon their advances in missile warfare, the fact that you've destroyed their missile production lines has dealt a much more significant blow to their war fighting capability than we would have achieved even if we'd caught the rest of their ships under construction. Once they've expended their existing missiles , it won't matter how many missile-armed ships they have."