Fleet Action wc-3

by William R. Forstchen

  Hunter clicked back on to the main commlink channel, knowing that his exuberant cry, "scratch one flattop," the fleet's traditional announcement that a carrier had been killed, had already been received by the combat information control officer and sent up to the other ships in the fleet.

  He found the word flattop to be rather interesting, it came from old English when carriers were ships of the seas, but in no way could it ever describe a modem carrier with its bristling array of defenses and landing bays covered over with heavy durasteel armor.

  Tradition, how the Navy loves tradition, he thought with a smile.

  "All attack squadrons, job well done."

  He stiffened slightly. It was the old man himself, Rear Admiral Sir Geoffrey Tolwyn.

  "All strike craft return to base."

  Return to base? Hell, there was still a major brawl going on down with the Marines.

  "Repeat, please?" Hunter clicked in.

  "That means you, Hunter, just like everyone else. All attack squadrons return to base," Tolwyn snarled.

  "Yes, sir," he said. There was nothing to be gained by arguing with an admiral. But it was certainly strange that the old man would actually allow a voice transmission on his part. A Kilrathi listening post could pick it up, figure out who he was, and perhaps even trace a fleet movement as a result. Tolwyn knew better and it bothered him.

  "What the hell is up, Ian?"

  He looked over at Griffin and could only shrug his shoulders. This was definitely not standard operation procedure. They had dumped the only capital ship in the sector, now was the time to go after the few corvettes and really smash up any ground resistance and save some grunt lives.

  "Say, Hunter."

  It was Kevin Tolwyn, Geoffrey's nephew.

  "Yeah go ahead, Lone Wolf."

  "I just heard the word on Tarawa's commlink to our two squadrons covering the ground assault. They've been ordered to break off engagement and withdraw out of the atmosphere."

  "Yeah, that's the word. You got any inside stuff? What the hell is the old man up to?"

  "Damned if I know, sir."

  "Follow orders, then," Hunter replied and then checked through his channels to make sure that the other squadrons were following orders as well. In the heat of a successful battle like this, it was tough at times to break an action off. There could only be one of two reasons for this, either some major Kilrathi reinforcements had been detected and Tolwyn was pulling in his fighters to rearm, or the other possibility. He pushed that thought aside as absurd.

  "Griffin, get us on Concordia navlock."

  "Already on, sir."

  "Let's go back and find out what the hell is going on."

  "Attention!"

  The squadron commanders, and section officers called together for the staff meeting leaped out of their seats and came rigidly to attention.

  Rear Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, strode into the briefing room. He reached the podium, lowered his head for a second and then raised it again to look out at the men and women in the room. He felt a tug at his heart at the sight of them.

  "Never, for God sake never, let your people get inside your heart, for your job is to use them, and if need be kill them," a voice whispered to him. It was his old mentor Banbridge's classic piece of advice.

  I guess that's what separates me from him, Geoff thought. With Clara and the boys gone this is my family. It was something he never let show, no matter what. He knew that behind his back he was "the old man," which was the gentlest of epithets; usually it was far worse and ofttimes even angry. They never really knew how he felt, especially when he looked into their eyes just before a strike went out, knowing that he was ordering some of them to their deaths. Well, at least that's finished for the moment.

  He clicked a comm button which opened the public address channel for the entire ship.

  "All hands, all hands, this is Admiral Tolwyn," his deep baritone voice, clipped with the refined touch of an Oxford education, echoing through the ship.

  "I have just received the following communication from C-in-C ConFleet, it reads, 'To Tolwyn, commanding, Task Force 45. Armistice agreement and cease fire has been reached with Kilrathi Empire, to be effective upon reception of this signal. All offensive operations to cease immediately and to withdraw to navigation point detailed below Repeat, all offensive operations to cease at once. Fire only if fired upon. Signed Noragami, commanding, Confederation Navy.'"

  He hesitated as if wanting to say something and then lowered his head

  "That is all," and clicked off the comm channel.

  He looked back up at his officers who stood incredulous. In the corridors outside the conference room distant cheering could be heard.

  "I'm only going to say this once," Tolwyn said quietly. "I'm proud of all of you for the job you've done. In the seven years I've been in command of Concordia we've taken out eight carriers, a score of capital ships, countless fighters and bombers, and fought in nine major fleet actions. Concordia is not just steel, guns and planes, in fact it is you, it is your flesh and blood and the spirits of all those who've served on her, living and dead."

  He hesitated for a moment.

  "When it comes time for her to fight again, I hope and pray that I'll be able to count on you all in our hour of need."

  "Dismissed."

  He started for the door, the room silent.

  "Damn, we're going home!" somebody shouted and the room erupted in cheers. Tolwyn stiffened his shoulders and walked out.

  He passed down the corridor, ignoring the cheers and the momentary lack of discipline, retreated to his office, closed the door, and for the first time in months poured a good stiff drink of single malt Scotch. Settling back in his chair he started to review the first holo tapes of the strike mission.

  The timing was masterful, the strike crews the finest professionals he had ever served with, nearly every Broadsword gaining lock and launching simultaneously. A successful strike like that was even more intricate than the most finely crafted ballet, and in his eyes even more beautiful.

  Damn it.

  A knock on the door disturbed him and he set his drink down on the table behind his desk.

  "Come."

  The door slid open and he could not help but allow a slight flicker of a smile to light his features at the sight of Captain Jason "Bear" Bondarevsky standing at attention in the corridor.

  "Come on in, Bear. What brings you over here anyhow."

  Jason came into the room and stood nervously in the middle of the room.

  "We'll wave regs and at least let you have a sip," and he poured out a thin splash of Scotch in a tumbler and passed it over.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Have a seat."

  Jason went over to the proffered chair by the admiral's desk and settled in . He sniffed his glass and tasted the Scotch.

  "Not bad, sir."

  "The best, saved for special occasions."

  "Like this one?"

  "No, not really, I just felt a need for it."

  Jason looked down at the floor and Tolwyn could feel the tension.

  "Come on, son, out with it."

  "Sir, something's troubling me, I thought I better come over and discuss it with you privately."

  "You mean this little thing called an armistice."

  "In part," Jason said quietly.

  "Well, what is it then?"

  "Sir, that communication from ConFleet announcing the armistice came through close to fifty minutes before our strike hit the carrier."

  Tolwyn exhaled noisily and leaned back in his chair.

  "How the hell do you know that, Bondarevsky?" he asked quietly, a threatening chill in his voice. "That message was directed solely to me."

  "Sir, Tarawa was the back up carrier for this operation. If something should have happened to Concordia it would have been my job to assume control of the air strikes. In that situation, I took it upon myself to monitor all ConFleet channels and that included yours. Suppose you w
ere hit, sir? It would have then been my job to know the entire picture. I didn't notice it immediately since it was simply decoded and stored in my personal data system. But after the action I was going through the signals to dump them off my system and I saw it."

  What Jason was confessing was somewhat outside the regulations but it showed careful planning and foresight on his part. If something had indeed happened to Concordia the young officer before him might very well have to take full responsibility for everything that transpired.

  There was an ancient cautionary tale told in the service academies, the incident dating back to a war once fought between England and America. In an encounter between an American and British ship the commanding officer of the American vessel was mortally wounded, and the junior officer took him down below deck to the surgeon. In the short interval that followed all the other officers were hit and, without his even being aware of it, the junior officer was now in command. By the time he returned to the deck his ship had already been battered into submission and forced to surrender after barely putting up a fight. The junior officer was held responsible, court-martialed, and found guilty of dereliction of duty, a duty he was not even aware had suddenly come to rest upon his shoulders. The lesson was part of the tradition and backbone of the fleet — there is no excuse for defeat

  Geoff looked at Jason and realized as well that he had made a crucial mistake in not assuming that Jason might very well be listening in.

  "And what do you think?" he finally said quietly.

  "I lost two crews in that attack, two pilots and a gunner. I'm wondering how their families would feel if they knew their kids got killed after a war was officially over."

  Tolwyn nodded and said nothing.

  "I don't give a good damn about the furballs," Jason continued, "but five hundred or more of them died when that carrier got cooked. I don't feel too good about that either, sir."

  "Neither do I."

  "Then why did you do it, sir?"

  "I'd rather not say, Jason, but let me ask you a question."

  "Sure."

  "If this was just another day in the war, how would you feel about taking out that carrier."

  "I hate losing people, but trading a Rapier, a Sabre and two of your Broadswords for a light carrier is a damn fine piece of work in my book. I wish it had always been that easy."

  Tolwyn nodded.

  "That's how I still feel about it, Jason."

  "But the war's over. We were hearing the rumors even before this attack started out. Something about a peace party coming into power in the Empire, Prince Thrakhath falling into disgrace, and Foreign Minister Jamison pushing for an armistice. Damn it, sir, they're saying it's finally over and we can go home."

  "And do you really believe it?"

  Jason hesitated.

  "Well, do you?"

  "I want to believe it, sir."

  "Damn it, man, that's exactly it. You want to believe it. Everyone wants to believe it. But there's a hell of a long stretch between wishing for something and actually seeing it come true. Anyone who believes something simply because it sounds good and he wishes it to be true is a damned fool and that's why I did what I did."

  "Sir?"

  "This war is not over by a long shot," Tolwyn growled, "and I'll kiss the hairy backside of the first Kilrathi I meet if they can ever prove it differently to me.

  "It's too pat, it's too damn straight forward and simple. I remember once hearing a great line about another war, 'this is such madness only an idealist could have started it.' Well, this peace offer is the same thing, only an idealist would be stupid enough to believe it. By God, son, we were finally getting an edge. We stumbled on the tactics of it all thanks to you, realizing just how under-protected and vulnerable their construction sites were. They haven't gotten a single new carrier on line in the last year. They still outnumber us, but they're hurting, hurting even worse with the loss of their transports. We just might be turning the edge in this war, and now the damn fool politicians go for this armistice offer."

  "So you disobey orders on your own and decide to keep the war going a little longer."

  "The target was there and I took it, a carrier that if we allowed it to get away might cost us fifty to a hundred pilots the next time around," Tolwyn said quietly. "And I think that even you, Jason, who once risked your career to try and save a ship load of Kilrathi civilians, even you down deep agree with me."

  Jason drained the rest of the Scotch from his glass and closed his eyes for a moment.

  "Yes, sir, I do."

  Tolwyn could see the struggle such an answer had created. From most other officers he would have dismissed it as brown nosing a superior but he knew that from Jason it came from the heart.

  "Why?"

  "Like you said," Jason replied. "It just doesn't smell right. I know that even after Vukar Tag, and the Third Enigma Campaign they still have the edge on us. For the Kilrathi, war is part of the core of their soul. This intel stuff about a shift in the power structure of the palace. If it's true, the new power behind the throne would have his throat ripped out if he tried for a serious peace after all the sacrifices they've endured. Now I don't know much about Kilrathi psychology other than what I got in the naval college while waiting for Tarawa to finish out her refitting, but I know enough that the seeking of peace other than after a total triumph is anathema to them.

  "Going for peace is impossible to their mindset. If they were losing there would be only one possible action, a suicidal fight to the end; if they were winning, a fight to ultimate triumph. There is no inbetween. Their society functions primarily through submission to strength, with the one in power gaining complete loyalty by refraining from killing the one who has submitted. But since we are not of the blood, we are therefore inferior, and as such it is impossible to submit to us. There might be exceptions, such as that warrior who serves Hunter, but that was through direct orders from his superior."

  "So if the emperor or whomever is behind the emperor orders it, then why not peace?"

  "Because the power at the top derives its strength through conflict. They know that if their aggressive instincts are not diverted outwards it will turn inwards and the families will eventually destroy each other. And besides, it's one thing for a lone warrior to submit, but for the highest of noble blood to do so, to submit to someone not of equal blood, is impossible."

  "Precisely," Geoff said quietly, inwardly pleased as if a favorite pupil or son had mastered an intricate question.

  He felt a flash of warmth for Jason, remembering the relief he felt when he had jumped into the heart of the Empire to pull Tarawa out and discovering that the ship was still alive. He felt the warmth as well because it was Jason who had taken his nephew out to war as a spoiled brat and brought him back as a man.

  "This whole thing is a set-up, I'm convinced of it; and I tell you this, Jason, if our government falls for it, all our butts will be in the wringer."

  "I best get back to my ship," Jason said quietly and he stood up, putting his glass down on the side table.

  "Jason?"

  "Sir?"

  "What do you plan to do about my violation of orders?"

  "If I'm asked about it, sir, I plan to tell the truth." He hesitated. "I have to tell the truth, that you launched an attack after knowing that the initial cease fire had been agreed to. To do anything else would be dishonorable."

  Tolwyn smiled.

  "You're a good officer, son. I've always been proud of you; I know I always will be."

  He extended his hand and Jason took it.

  "Let's hope I'm wrong about this armistice, but I know I'm not."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jason Bondarevsky winced from the glare of the lights. Damn, how he hated the press. He had endured "the treatment" before when he had brought Tarawa back to Earth for refitting after the raid to Kilrah. The press swarmed over the ship, poking cameras in his face, asking the same asinine questions over and over again, probing far too deeply
into parts of the raid he simply wanted to forget. When one had finally hit him with a question about the death of Svetlana, asking how he felt while watching his girlfriend die, he had to be restrained from punching the reporter's lights out, a fleet PR officer, all smoothness and charm, separating the two.

  The press madness flared up again when Jason was presented with the Medal of Honor and yet again when the absolutely ridiculous holo movie about his raid, First to Kilrah, came out. The film was a humiliating embarrassment, especially since the plot had little to do with the actual raid, spending most of its time focused on his doomed affair with Svetlana, with half a dozen steamy scenes padded in. It still made him boil that the holo spent precious little time on the hundreds of others who had fought, sacrificed, and died with him. He wanted to take the damn money the producer had given him and jam it down the lying scum's throat after seeing the film, which he had been promised would be shot as a straight forward documentary honoring those who had served. The only satisfaction he got out of the whole fiasco was in donating every dollar he earned from the film to a scholarship fund set up for children of the Marines and naval personnel lost in the raid.

  And now he was stuck under the lights again, all because he had taken a wrong turn while looking for a bathroom. The same lousy reporter who was far too curious about Svetlana had seen him first and rushed over, the others moving like a herd of cattle when the word spread that "the guy they made the movie about," was present as a staff officer for the armistice conference.

  "So whatya think of the war ending? It's Bondevsky, isn't it?" one of them shouted, aiming his holo recorder at Jason's face.

  "That's Bondarevsky," Jason said quietly, remembering how his old captain O'Brian had always mispronounced the name.

  "Yeah, sorry. So tell us what you think?"

  "First of all, negotiations for an armistice do not mean that the war has ended. There's a big difference between an armistice and formal peace, he tried to explain patiently. "Other than that, no comment," and he tried to shoulder his way through the crush.