“Deal.”
“He was a hero, Milly. The kind that doesn’t seek aggrandizement. Just the right man in the right place doing the right thing at the right time. If he hadn’t done what he did at Gettysburg—the Confederates had just about convinced the North they were more trouble to keep around than they were worth. If the Rebels had won at Gettysburg that day … nothing could stop them from taking Washington, imprisoning Lincoln, and solidifying the Confederate States of America as a separate country. England might’ve even come in on their side…. It was Lawrence that kept that from happening. Oh, I know, it was a three-day battle. But day two, honestly, was really the deciding day. And keeping the Confederates off Little Round Top, securing the Union’s left flank—that was the deciding factor. If it weren’t for him—”
“We’d all be speaking with a Southern drawl?” drawled Milly.
Quentin grinned. “Something like that.” Then his expression faltered. “Those genes are in me, Milly. Somewhere.”
Her other hand found his shoulder. Her faith in him found his eyes. Some people saw weakness of character when they looked at his face, Quentin knew. But when she looked at him, what he saw reflected in her eyes was an intelligent man with the moral drive to do the right thing.
“Yes, they are. And you didn’t need the Reserve tonight to find them,” she said softly.
He stiffened at first. He wanted to become indignant and deny it. But her voice reassured him and her hands remained soft, so he relaxed again. His breath. It was on his breath.
Some wily politician you are.
“I’m sorry. I lied earlier about—”
“Don’t be sorry. Be sober. Lawrence was sober, right?”
Quentin’s smile returned. “During the battle, anyway.”
“Right. And that’s all I ask, too.”
A knock came at the door. Quentin glanced at the clock beside the bed. 4:20 a.m. What crisis now?
“Come,” he said, squeezing Milly’s hand and standing up.
The door opened slowly and Rob Francis, his chief of staff, wedged into the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. President.”
“Not at all. We were already awake.”
“Good too-early-morning, Rob,” said Milly and yawned.
“Ma’am.”
“What is it, Rob?” asked Chamberlain. “Media conspiracy theorists up early this morning?”
Francis shook his head. “No, sir, Mr. President. It’s the Swarm. They’re back.”
Quentin’s stomach dropped. “Are you sure?” he asked, suddenly wishing for his nightmare to return. At least he could wake up from that.
“Confirmed by long-range sensors, sir. We just got a meta-space transmission from Churchill Station at Britannia.”
Quentin nodded, a cold chill creeping up his spine. From the corner of his eye, the Kentucky Reserve sang to him.
Just for the battle, Quentin, Milly said in his mind. Then I’ll pour it for you.
“Course?”
“Hard to tell yet, sir. But they’re coming this way for sure.”
Coming this way, he repeated in his mind. Like the Confederates charging up Little Round Top. And no one else to stop them. Just Chamberlain and the men he could muster. They were all that stood in the way of extinction. And none among them named Ivanov.
“Get the Cabinet to the Situation Room. Half an hour, tops,” he said. “And get me Ivanov and—who’s the current Chinese premier again?”
“Wei, sir. Wei Mao.”
“Right, Wei. Put in a call to him, too. Whoever answers first—” That’d likely be Wei, he knew, but maybe the new threat would inspire Ivanov to pick up his goddamned phone. “—put them through to me immediately. And see if you can get Masoud el-Hashem of the Caliphate too. God knows we need everybody we can get.”
“Yes, sir.” Francis backed out and shut the door behind him. The president stood still for a moment, caressing the decanter from afar.
“What are you thinking, love?” asked Milly.
Quentin forced himself to take his eyes from the whiskey and look at his wife. “I’m thinking this battle is already too long for my liking.”
Chapter 4
Britannia Sector
Churchill Station, Upper Orbit, Britannia
Rear Admiral Sir Henry Pierce’s Office
Captain Addison Halsey stood in Rear Admiral Sir Henry Pierce’s office analyzing the 3D tactical display of Britannia Sector in the center of the room. On the lower left side of the map, Britannia—a world of two billion souls and second only to Earth in population—revolved around its yellow sun. Above the planet, Churchill Station, the British Fleet’s headquarters in the sector and Pierce’s seat of command, stood guard. One planet farther out in the solar system from Britannia, the gas giant Calais, tracked its own solar orbit with the hundred or so superstructures of the Wellington Shipyards scattered around it. The UEF had other shipyards to be sure, but Wellington was the workhorse of the Fleet’s production yards.
Captain John Richards of ISS Endeavour walked in briskly, asking, “What’s the estimated time of arrival, sir?” He’d been at the Shipyards overseeing Endeavour’s resupply when recalled to the admiral’s office with the other ship captains in the sector, so it had taken him a little longer to oblige the admiral’s orders to report. Because Endeavour was the only Constitution-class British vessel in the area, Pierce had insisted they wait on him. Most of the British fleet was scattered to hell and gone on maneuvers as far out as Francia Sector. Some kind of morale-building exercise across fleet lines. Endeavour and her support ships were the skeleton crew left on duty at Britannia.
No one had expected the Swarm to return so quickly.
“Military Intelligence tells us less than an hour,” explained Pierce. His nasal tone seemed to combine suspicion with impatience.
“Now there’s an oxymoron,” said Halsey, expelling her own indignance. “Military Intelligence, I mean.”
“Captain Halsey, please refrain from expressing any of that American sass in my presence. It’s a pointless waste of time. Especially now.”
She returned her gaze to Pierce. “Of course, Admiral.” When she was XO of Invincible, it had more often been Captain Baltasar’s place to deal with the upper echelons. Now she was learning one of the less-appreciated duties of a captain’s job: politics.
“Less than an hour?” scoffed Noah Preble, captain of Independence. “How the hell could they slip inside our long-range sensors like that?”
“The Swarm has infiltrated our ranks, Captain Preble, from top to bottom, it seems,” said Pierce. “Something I know you’re intimately aware of.” His tone almost sounded accusatory.
“I am, sir,” he said, sharing a glance with Halsey. Together they’d stopped Baltasar’s attempted subjugation of Earth, and with the news the Chinese premier himself had been a Swarm agent, too—no one trusted anyone anymore.
“Then it will not come as a shock to you to suspect that perhaps our own intelligence service has been infiltrated,” said Pierce. “And feeding us misinformation.”
The admiral’s proclamation hung in the air. Of course that could be the case. Would be the case, were the roles reversed and the IDF planning an invasion. First rule of warfare—feed false intelligence to the enemy.
“So, the Swarm seeded bad intel with IDF Command to lull us into a false sense of security,” said Halsey.
“It would seem so, Captain,” said Pierce. His face became determined. “To date, they’ve exhibited a single-minded strategy of overwhelm and destroy. But we’ll best them yet, ay?”
With Pierce’s eyes holding her at attention, she didn’t dare look at her fellow captains. What she wanted to say was, Well, sir, that strategy almost worked. What she said was, “Yes, sir.”
Life as an XO had been so much simpler.
“Right. Now, we haven’t much time. These are my orders. Captain Richards will command the defenses of Wellington Shipyards until a relief fleet from Earth can reach us
,” explained Pierce. He pointed at a red blip that was now blinking on the sector map. “We anticipate the Swarm will enter Britannia Sector here. Captain Richards?”
“Thank you, sir.” Richards stepped forward. His accent spoke more of Liverpool than London, and for some reason, that brought Addison comfort. “We don’t have much time, I’m afraid, so I’ll get to the point. Endeavour and her escorts will take point over Wellington Shipyards.” Richards’ voice had a decided cadence of recitation as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Keeping those facilities intact will no doubt prove crucial to the war effort. Captain Preble, your Independence and Halsey’s Invincible will hold here at Churchill Station until we ascertain the exact entry point and strength of the enemy.” He finished up, looking uncomfortable.
“My orders to the letter, Captain Richards.” Pierce was positively beaming. “Well done, indeed.”
“But sir,” said Halsey, “everything we’ve seen from the Swarm indicates a tendency to overwhelm the enemy, just as you said. By splitting our forces, we’re inviting—”
“Thank you, Captain Halsey,” said Pierce, his staccato English a crisp acknowledgment. “But this plan protects both of the major assets in the sector—not to mention the billions of UEF citizens on this planet—as best we can until help arrives.”
“Sir, if I may.”
“Yes, Captain Preble?” Pierce’s tone hinted at forced indulgence.
“I have to agree with Captain Halsey. Britannia and Calais are nearing their farthest orbital arcs from one another. One force reacting to the needs of the other, especially at intrasystem speeds, would be slow. If we stationed our entire task force halfway between Britannia and Calais, we could essentially achieve the same coverage while keeping our firepower concentrated.” He looked at Richards. “John, surely you see the tactical advantage of combining our forces.”
“Captain Richards has agreed, after some discussion, to my plan, Captain Preble,” said Pierce. His patience for debate was clearly waning.
Ah, thought Addison. So that’s it. A glance at Richards found a sympathetic expression but one shackled by the chain of command.
“Sir, if I may—” began Halsey.
“You may not,” stated Pierce. “We don’t have time for this. I’m in command here, and these are your orders.” His words spat forth like mag-rail slugs. “Am I clear?”
Halsey brought herself to attention, and Preble followed suit. She found a spot on the wall just over Pierce’s left shoulder.
“Crystal clear, sir.”
“Very well. Dismissed. Get to your ships and your assignments.” As the others saluted and he returned it, Pierce added, “And best of luck, Captains. We’re the dam holding back the flood.” Whatever his flaws, Pierce felt the mettle of the moment. He was obviously trying to inspire his command.
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Halsey turned on her heel and followed Richards and Preble.
“I’m sorry, chaps,” said Richards after the door slid shut behind them. “I’ve been arguing with him over comms for half an hour. He thinks this is a good plan.”
“At least you’re in charge of the sector task force,” muttered Preble as they walked to the shuttle bay. There was no more capable captain in the IDF than John Richards.
“Thanks, Noah. I’m lucky to have you two here. Bloody stupid, scattering the fleet to the four winds like that. Integrated training my pimply, tight Liverpudlian ass!”
Hearing those words expressed with the lazy vigor of a Liverpudlian mouth made Halsey laugh. “How’d Pierce get his job anyway?” she asked. Churchill was alive with preparation as personnel fast-walked here and there. Pre-battle systems checks droned over comms station-wide.
“His papaaaaa,” said Richards, affecting an upper-class tone. “Bought him a rank too, when the admiral was a wet-behind-the-ears military school grad. He’s served in backwaters until a year ago, but the British Admiralty installed him here to finish out his career with at least the appearance of distinction. So he could have something to crow about at the club, I expect.”
Preble rolled his eyes as they reached the shuttle launch bay.
“Well, I guess this is it. Good hunting. Put that American sass to good use, ay?”
“You too, John. Watch your tight Liverpudlian ass out there.”
As their fleet commander headed off to Endeavour, Preble turned to Halsey. “Take care of yourself, Addison,” he said. “Make that ship of yours live up to its name.”
“You too, Noah. You too.”
Chapter 5
Britannia Sector
Bridge, ISS Invincible
“Captain, the Swarm just jumped in,” announced Zoe Proctor, sensors officer. She turned to Halsey. “Six carriers. Right where the admiral thought they’d be.”
Damn, thought Addison. And we’re out of position to help. John’s on his own. “Very well, Lieutenant. Mr. Jameson,” she said to the Helm, “plot a course to intercept on my command.”
“Captain? Our orders are to remain at Churchill until further—”
“I’m well aware of our orders,” she said to her XO. “I also want to be ready to move.”
“Aye, Captain,” acknowledged Ethan Blake. He was a good man, she knew, a solid executive officer capable of carrying out any order from what she’d seen in the past month. But he had the creative thinking of a garden slug.
“Captain, I have the visual from Wellington.”
“On-screen, Lieutenant.”
The viewscreen shimmered, and the peaceful grace of Churchill’s rotation was replaced by the chaos at the Shipyards. Half a dozen Swarm carriers had entered local space at the sector’s edge, slowly moving forward like sharks approaching prey. Hundreds of enemy fighters streamed forth as the Swarm capital ships crawled into heavy weapons range of the Shipyards. In response, Endeavour’s own fighters launched to meet them.
“Captain, Independence is calling.”
Halsey nodded to patch them through. It might be a conversation better had in her ready room, but she knew they didn’t have time for that. Her bridge crew was tough. They’d have to get tougher before this battle was over.
“Go ahead, Captain Preble.”
“You seeing this, Addison?” There was no greeting from Preble. Just angry impotence, a need to move into action. “John’s a sitting duck out there.”
“I see it, Noah. He’s got Wellington’s fighters to support him, and their heavy guns.”
Preble scoffed. “Wellington’s fighters are trainers with rusty barrels. Pierce is an—” He stopped short, perhaps remembering he was on a public channel. “So far, our sensors show no other forces threatening Britannia. It’s just those ships hitting Wellington.”
Just those, thought Addison with irony. “We concur,” she said absently. The images on the viewscreen enthralled her. Wellington’s cameras showed the Swarm fighters making their attack runs on Endeavour and her dozen escorts, destroyers and frigates. The strongest task force in the sector looked like a pee-wee league facing a pro team out there. John Richards was a good captain, but numbers were numbers.
“Let’s see how things unfold, Captain,” said Preble. “But I’m getting ready to engage. To hell with orders.”
“Acknowledged,” said Halsey. “Invincible out.”
The Swarm was coming on just like they had before. The six carriers prowled forward, content to have their fighters harass the enemy, distract them like skirmishers on a Napoleonic battlefield, probing for weakness. Endeavour maneuvered forward in a graceful arc to port, unloading its starboard mag-rail guns on the incoming fighters. Addison imagined John’s working-man’s-hero voice barking orders that became firing solutions. The space between Endeavour and the Swarm fighters streaking toward Wellington was infested with slugs as fighter after fighter exploded briefly, then winked out in the airless void of space.
They don’t care, Addison realized. She watched what appeared to be an endless stream of enemy fighters exit the carriers, replacing
their dead comrades. They don’t give a damn how many of their own they kill to defeat us.
“Richards will run out of slugs before they do fighters,” said Blake at her right arm.
“Let’s hope not, XO.” She turned to Communications. “Can we tap into Captain Richards’ feed, Lieutenant?”
“Aye, ma’am, they’re livestreaming.”
Standard protocol, Addison remembered. It wasn’t something she’d had to think about since memorizing regulations at Fleet Academy. To preserve the record of a battle when the mission seemed suicidal, a captain had standing orders to stream events on an encrypted channel to CENTCOM. Who knew if the captain under fire would ever have the chance to launch a buoy with the battle logs? Or, if they did, if it would be tracked and blown up by the enemy.
“—bring Surprise and Atropos in behind us to guard our engines,” came Richards’ voice. He sounded calm to Halsey, relaying orders at a pace his officers could understand the first time. Not excited, not frightened for sure. Facing down death was just business as usual for Richards. She wondered if she would be that calm if it were her. “And get those bloody starboard guns reloaded!”
Endeavour’s port mag-rail guns had made a hole in the cloud of Swarm fighters, and two frigates began maneuvering to guard Endeavour’s engines as the bigger ship swept wide to port. Two broad, green beams leapt out from the leading Swarm carrier. They sawed through the first of the frigates, splitting the ship in half, and its forward section angled downward. Driven by the engines, the frigate’s stern continued forward before erupting into a fireball of ignited fuel. The second frigate nearby was caught in the blast, and a chain of multiple explosions ripped it apart.
“Jesus—” said Proctor.
“Steady, Lieutenant,” said Halsey, trying to inject some of Richards’ composure into her words. What she’d wanted to do was gasp in grief. To tally the crew lives that had just been lost. What she needed to do was lead by example. “That goes for all of you. Remember, you’re officers of the UE—of the IDF. And the cumrats are animals. No better than animals.”
Legacy Fleet: Avenger (Kindle Worlds) (The First Swarm War Book 2) Page 3