Legacy Fleet: Avenger (Kindle Worlds) (The First Swarm War Book 2)

by Chris Pourteau

  Her eyes traveled to Endeavour, in even worse shape. Her thoughts turned to the ship’s captain in the Infirmary in worse shape still. Next to Richards’ ship was her own Invincible. She owed Wellington’s work crews, every single man and women among them, a round or three of drinks. They’d worked double and triple shifts to bring Invincible’s internal systems, armaments, and engines back online in record time. They felt like they owed the old girl, one crew chief had told Addison. For shielding them. For saving them.

  Lastly, Avenger floated within its own berth, but unlike the other vessels, little activity surrounded her. While she’d suffered some damage at Heroic, most of her necessary repairs were internal from damage caused by Laz’s fighters landing hot on her deck during the retreat.

  At least he survived. I should’ve been there to help. But at least Laz made it.

  Small miracles were still miracles.

  Avenger’s crew was handling her refit with support from Wellington’s Supply Depot. The Shipyards’ resources were stretched thin, and the three more heavily damaged Constitution-class ships had been triaged first. But Avenger was also under informal quarantine until the traitor, Malcolm Brent, was found. Avery had ordered it herself.

  Halsey shook her head. Another traitor, like Baltasar, right under their noses. And who knew how many more Swarm sleeper agents lay in wait, like spiders ready to spring? People were growing distrustful of comrades they’d known for years. Every dropped tool, every imperfect performance at a duty station, every personal slight—all drew suspicion now.

  The comms beeped behind her.

  Maybe the Swarm doesn’t have to beat us in space. Maybe we’ll turn on each other like a pack of rabid dogs, slobbering with our own paranoia.

  “Captain? They’re ready for you.” Commander Olsen gave her a heartening smile.

  Maybe that was their plan all along.

  “Let’s get this over with, Commander.”

  * * *

  As Halsey came to attention once again before the panel, Kilgore didn’t waste time. “Consider yourself the luckiest officer in the fleet.” Addison shifted her gaze among them. Pierce looked pissed. Avery offered a covert smile.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Let me be clear, Captain. You haven’t been absolved of the charges. But Rear Admiral Pierce has agreed—after some convincing—to drop them.”

  She looked at Pierce and blinked. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he growled. “Don’t you dare. If I had my way, you’d be busted out of rank and into the brig.”

  “And you came this close to both,” said Kilgore. “But we cannot afford to lose a command officer of your caliber, Captain Halsey. Not now. The record will reflect the charges were dropped and that no official finding of guilt was made. Which happens to be true, since we never finished the vote.”

  “Can I ask how—”

  “You may not. I have a Russian strike force to receive. And everyone in this room has one priority, now—to make sure the fleet we have is prepared for the next Swarm incursion. This incident has played itself out, and I won’t speak of it again. Understood?” She was looking at Pierce, who nodded stiffly.

  Addison stood straighter, if that were possible. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

  Kilgore picked up the tiny ceremonial hammer and rang the brass bell three times. “This hearing is concluded.” No sooner had she said the words than Pierce leapt to his feet and exited the room.

  Still reeling from the sudden turn of events, Addison barely felt Olsen shaking her hand. As Kilgore approached, she said, “Captain, I meant what I said. You got goddamned lucky here. If there weren’t a war on … but between you and me? You did the right thing.”

  “You voted for acquittal, ma’am?” asked Olsen.

  “Oh, hell no. I was going to throw the book at her, spine first,” she said. Then, looking Addison in the eye: “But you still did the right thing.”

  With a silent thumbs-up, Vickers followed her out as Sam and Noah stepped over.

  “Congratulations, Addison. Pierce finally saw the light,” murmured Preble with a tired grin.

  “Yeah, about that….”

  “It was John Richards,” said Avery. “His testimony persuaded the panel—even Pierce—that we have more important things to worry about right now than strict adherence to the Military Code of Justice.”

  “And I think Sam’s argument helped just a little. Your friend here is quite the philosopher,” added Preble, stifling a yawn. “Okay, I’ve hit a wall—for the third or fourth time. I need to check in on the Indy’s repairs, then hit my rack. Maybe the Swarm will let me catch a few winks.”

  “Good night, Noah,” said Addison. She reached out and touched his arm. “And thank you.” He waved wearily and left the room. She turned to Sam. “So, what was it like in there? What’d you say?”

  “That’ll have to wait.” Avery grasped Halsey’s shoulder in friendship. “I’ve got a traitor to track down. I’ll tell you one thing, though,” she said, turning for the door. “You couldn’t pay me enough to go into politics.”

  Chapter 23

  Earth, Sol System

  Washington, D.C.

  The Situation Room, the White House

  “Are we friends again, Quentin? You have your ships.” Ivanov sounded both self-satisfied and generous, baiting the UEF president to express his gratitude.

  “Indeed, Mr. President.” Chamberlain made him wait a moment longer. “On behalf of the Britannia Sector and the UEF … thank you.”

  Ivanov nodded an it-was-nothing gesture. “Admiral Kilgore,” he said, looking at the lower-left corner of his screen, “how are things with Admiral Volkov? I made it clear he was to answer to your operational authority.”

  “The admiral has been very accommodating,” said Kilgore dubiously. “Thank you, Mr. President.

  Chamberlain caught the tentative optimism in Kilgore’s voice. He understood the reason for it. Until they’d actually reached Churchill Station, he hadn’t quite believed the Russian ships would show up, despite Ivanov’s assurances. Then Volkov had met with Kilgore and made it clear that while his internal command structure would remain intact, he would follow her orders as she coordinated Britannia’s defenses.

  Still, Quentin didn’t trust how well things were going. When humanity had first encountered the Swarm, Ivanov had been predictably nationalistic in his opposition to anything more than an informal alliance. Now he was willing to place his strike force under IDF command? It all seemed to come a bit too easily.

  “Very well,” said Ivanov, “and remember this about Leonid—never let him drink before noon, eh?” The Russian’s laughter boomed over the meta-space link.

  Kilgore smiled stiffly. “Sound advice for anyone, Mr. President.”

  Chamberlain maintained his composure but couldn’t help but wonder if Kilgore ascribed Ivanov’s rosy cheeks to the same cause he did.

  “Indeed, Admiral. Well, I will say goodbye, then. Quentin?”

  “Oleksiy?”

  “The best of luck in this endeavor. For all our sakes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Ivanov disappeared from the screen, and Kilgore’s image swelled to fill it. Chamberlain surveyed his National Security Council expectantly. Kathy Wakefield blew out a breath she’d held for a while, expressing their collective relief.

  “Keep your eyes on Volkov, Admiral,” said Winston Huxley. “He’s known for having greasy palms. But also for being a good party man. He’ll do whatever Ivanov tells him.”

  “That’s what worries me,” said Wakefield.

  “Me too, Kathy.” Chamberlain shrugged. “But the ships he promised are there.”

  “To fight for which side?” asked Kyla Torres.

  “I guess we’ll find out.” Kilgore’s wry answer was matter-of-fact and devoid of her earlier hopefulness.

  “The business with your captains, Admiral—resolved to your satisfaction?” asked the president.

&n
bsp; “Yes, thank God. Two distractions we didn’t need. Pierce has dropped his charge of mutiny against Addison Halsey, and after debriefing Preble and Wheatley, I’m satisfied that Sam Avery is not compromised. Avenger’s logs and crew interviews back up her story that it was the XO, Brent, who sabotaged the ship when Heroic called for aid. She’s currently leading a shipwide search for him now. What about the Chinese, Mr. President? And the Caliphate? I know el-Hashem doesn’t have a lot of ships, but….”

  “Premier Wei has his own problems at home, at the moment. I’m still hopeful he’ll lend us aid in some form, though,” said Chamberlain. “As for the Caliphate—all quiet on the eastern front.”

  “Typically taciturn,” grumbled Wakefield.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t send more ships to Britannia, Admiral?” asked the president. “I know you feel doing so would leave Sol too exposed, but….”

  Kilgore inhaled deeply. The question of where to muster the best defense clearly weighed on her. “Until we have better intel about the enemy’s intentions, sir, I’m doing my best to have my cake and eat it too. I’ve got three ships of the line in relatively good shape—or, at least, improving shape—commanded by three of my best captains. I’ve got a dozen destroyers and every fighter I could muster from here to Veracruz Sector, and I’ve got my own Intrepid. Churchill Station’s armament is nothing to sneeze at either. So far, the Swarm hasn’t attacked with more than half a dozen capital ships at one time. We’ll manage.”

  “How do you know they’ll hit you there again?” asked Wakefield. “I mean, they directly attacked Earth before. Then they went dark for a month. Then they hit Britannia, then Heroic, way out in the boonies. It’s almost like a reverse invasion. Their strategy seems pretty random.”

  “I agree that it’s unusual, Madam Secretary,” said Kilgore. “Which is exactly why I’m leaving the bulk of our fleet closer to home. I’m speculating, but I think the Swarm gambled on Baltasar’s ability to ensure a quick victory during the first phase of their campaign. When that failed, they decided to take a more measured approach. I think the first attempt on Britannia was the probe of an enemy still smarting from initial failure. Their current strategy seems more traditional and focused on taking out our strategic assets—perhaps as an attempt to ensure success when they hit Earth harder next time. The attack on Heroic is evidence for that theory. We’re now blind in that sector. They could be mustering a fleet there right now, preparing to launch from the ashes of the outpost. That’s what I’d do: everything I could to make sure the next attack on Earth assured total victory.”

  “But we can’t assume they think like us,” said Wakefield. “We can’t assume anything.”

  “Precisely,” replied Kilgore. “Which is why I’m keeping our forces concentrated around strategic assets. I can’t be sure where they’ll strike next, but if my theory is right, they’ll hit Britannia again. Take out the Shipyards, take out the planet—deplete our ability to respond and torpedo civilian morale through mass casualties, both at the same time. The homeland is our most precious asset of all, of course. So the bulk of the fleet stays home.”

  “Understood, Admiral,” Chamberlain said. He paused, then added, “Neither I nor my advisors are questioning your judgment, you know. I just want to make sure you have everything you need, where you need it.”

  “Oh, I know, sir. But sometimes it helps my own clarity to explain things to non-military types.”

  “To dumb it down, you mean?”

  “I’d never call you dumb, sir. Just not a subject-matter expert in this area.”

  Chamberlain grinned. “Ever consider running for office?”

  “Only when I’m depressed, sir.”

  Laughter around the table. “Don’t get yourself killed, Melinda. You’re one of the few military types who make me laugh.”

  “You should hang out with more of us then, sir. Kilgore out.”

  God go with you, thought Quentin.

  “What’s the status of the research on that alien metal?” asked Wakefield. “What are they calling it anyway?”

  “That alien metal,” said Torres with a straight face as she swiped her PADD several times. “There was a joke about calling it Addisonium after Halsey as its discoverer, but so far, no actual name.”

  “Let’s skip to the report part of your report, Kyla,” said Chamberlain.

  “Yes, sir. The metal, which seems to make up most of a Swarm vessel’s hull, has a unique spectrographic signature. One that makes their ships extremely resistant to traditional weaponry. Its base element—whatever we end up calling it—isn’t found anywhere on Earth. Or in the known universe, according to the tech team.”

  Wakefield cocked her head. “What does that mean, Kyla? Are you saying the cumrats don’t come from this universe?”

  Torres shrugged. “I’m saying our scientists have never seen the metal before. And its molecular composition precludes formation in this universe to the best of their knowledge.”

  “What’s the likelihood we could replicate the benefits of this metal in our own hulls?” asked the president. “Obviously, our shields are useless against those Greek fire lasers of theirs.”

  Torres shrugged again. “Reverse engineering recovered alien tech is one of the top priorities of IDF’s Science Division, sir. Nothing implementable yet, though.”

  “I’m still not sure I understand this whole ‘not of this universe’ thing,” said Wakefield.

  Chamberlain turned to Huxley. “What have the agents you’ve captured told you about the Swarm’s origins?”

  “Very little, Mr. President. Most of their rhetoric is repetitive and blue sky. They can’t seem to understand our persistence in resisting them.”

  “I assume you’ve tried, er, enhanced interrogation techniques?” asked Wakefield.

  “Oh, yes, Madam Secretary,” said Huxley. “We know we’re on the clock, here. Whatever the Swarm has done to indoctrinate them gives them the ability to suffer pain until death unless they choose otherwise. Some have spoken quite freely. But they seem content to die rather than answer certain questions.”

  “So, nothing new there,” said Chamberlain. “What’s the status of the project to reprogram GILD to target the alien metal?”

  “Admiral Shasta’s simulations are working well,” said Torres, scanning her PADD. “A few field tests and we should—”

  “Field tests?” Wakefield’s tone was incredulous. “We’re about to have a field test on our front doorstep!”

  “Admiral Kilgore left standing orders for Shasta,” Torres said, reiterating a fact everyone at the table knew well. “Until he can guarantee our own ships won’t be inadvertently targeted—”

  “Mr. President,” interrupted Wakefield, “we don’t have time for normal procedure. You can override Kilgore’s order and get GILD deployed in the Sol System immediately.”

  “Mr. President,” said Rob Francis, speaking for the first time in the meeting. “We can’t sustain another failure like what happened before. If GILD were to target our own vessels by mistake, public opinion—”

  “Public opinion?” growled Wakefield. “If we don’t deploy that damned platform, there won’t be a public left to have an opinion.”

  Quentin studied a blemish in the wood of the tabletop as the voices around him continued to thrust and parry. Deploy now, before it was too late. Wait until Shasta was sure of his tech or risk a military and very public disaster.

  His ancestor, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, came to mind. He’d seen the English teacher’s image captured in countless, romanticized portraits of that fateful day at Gettysburg. The Union colonel was dirty, tired, but standing tall on the ridgeline. The 20th Maine’s ammunition had run out but Confederates were plentiful, and they stalked toward the crest of Little Round Top, intent on overrunning the Union Army’s left flank and rolling them up all the way to Washington City. Lawrence had had a decision to make—charge downhill with bayonets fixed, an ancient, almost unheard-of-in-the-age-of-gunpowder
maneuver, or fight them hand to hand on the hilltop and likely lose to the much greater numbers of the enemy. And likely die. The Chamberlain of that era hadn’t had a lot of time to decide. And neither did his descendent, who stood at the crossroads of history in another time when all moments mattered.

  “Get the platform online,” he muttered distantly, still picturing his ancestor on that ridge.

  The debate among his advisors raged on.

  Quentin slammed his hand on the tabletop, and after a moment, the voices died down.

  “Mr. President?” said Francis.

  “Get GILD online,” Quentin said, more forcefully now. “Kyla, call Shasta. I want the platform operational within twenty-four hours.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  “And someone please … please … get me a goddamned drink.”

  Chapter 24

  Britannia Sector, near Calais

  Wellington Shipyards

  Engineering, ISS Avenger

  “You’re sure you’ve run him to ground?” asked Avery. “And everyone’s evacuated?”

  Commander Farrell nodded. “When we tracked him doubling back to Engineering, we put two-man teams in the accessways and sealed the bulkheads behind them. They’ll flush him into the main engine room. There’s nowhere else he can go now.”

  “Back to the scene of the crime,” muttered Barstow. One of the marines in the platoon behind him locked and loaded. Cocking his ear to the sound, Barstow cleared his throat. “Ma’am, might I suggest we enter with minimum personnel? We go in with a team of jarheads, he could spook.”

  “Hey, watch your mouth,” came an anonymous voice from the milling crowd of flak jackets and muscles behind them.

  “So what if he spooks?” asked Farrell. “The man’s psychotic, and he’s got nowhere to spook to. We should shoot first and ask questions later.”