The Short Victorious War hh-3

by David Weber

  The PSF man never finished his sentence, for seven assault shuttles of the People's Navy screamed over the People's Palace. Four five-thousand-kilo precision guided warheads scored direct hits on the Presidential Dining Room, and Sidney Harris, his wife, his three children, and his entire cabinet and all of his senior advisors, ceased to exist in a fireball of chemical explosives.

  Five seconds later, the Palace itself was little more than flaming rubble strewn across the cratered horror of its once immaculate grounds.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the Quorum, I am appalled by the scale of this act of treason." Speaker Robert Stanton Pierre shook his head sadly as he gazed out over the stunned faces of the People's Quorum and spoke into the dead silence. For all intents and purposes, the entire government of the Peoples Republic of Haven had been annihilated along with the heads of every Legislaturalist family that really mattered, and the full impact of the disaster was still sinking into the Quorum's minds.

  "The fact that Secretary Saint-Just's Internal Security personnel were able to intercept and annihilate the traitors cannot lessen the blow," Pierre went on sadly. "Not only have our leaders and their families been brutally murdered, but the traitors came out of our own military! Commodore Danton has confirmed that the shuttles which carried out the attack were covered by official orders—orders which would have been wiped from his data base by still other traitors if not for the prompt action of loyal members of his staff. I deeply regret the casualties those loyal men and women suffered in the gunfight which wrecked the Commodores HQ, but the presence of the traitors who provoked it, coupled with their readiness to resort to violence when challenged, must raise the gravest suspicions. Under the circumstances, we have no option but to assume the worst, at least until the most thorough investigation can sift these horrible events in detail."

  "Mr. Speaker!" A well-fed, beefy back-bencher stood, and Pierre nodded to him.

  "The Chair recognizes Mr. Guzman."

  "What do you mean 'assume the worst,' Mr. Speaker?"

  "I mean that we face the gravest crisis in our history," Pierre said softly. "This attack was launched by Navy personnel on the heels of the worst defeat our fleet has ever suffered. We must ask ourselves who had the authority to order those shuttles out on their 'exercise.' We must ask ourselves who had reason to fear the government's reaction to their failure against the Hancock System and the loss of Seaford Nine."

  "Surely you're not suggesting that senior Navy officers were responsible?!"

  "I am suggesting only that until we know who was responsible, we must consider every possibility, however terrible," Pierre replied in a level voice. "I hope with all my heart that I am doing our military personnel a grave injustice by even suggesting such a thing, but until we can be certain of that, we owe it to the Republic to guard against the chance that I'm not."

  "We owe it to the Republic?" someone else asked, without seeking recognition, and Pierre nodded grimly.

  "The government has been destroyed, ladies and gentlemen. Secretary Saint-Just and Secretary Bergren are the cabinet's sole survivors, and only Secretary Saint-Just is currently on Haven. He's already informed me that, as no more than Secretary Palmer-Levy's acting successor, he feels neither qualified to nor capable of assuming the burden of government. Which means that we, the people's representatives, have no option but to assume emergency powers until such time as formal government can be reestablished."

  "Us?" someone yelped, and Pierre nodded once more.

  "I realize our experience is limited, but who else is there?" He looked at his fellows appealingly. "We are at war with the Star Kingdom of Manticore and its lackeys. In a time of such peril, the Republic must not drift uncontrolled, and until we can know positively that the military is reliable, we dare not place ourselves at its mercy. In the face of those inescapable and overriding concerns, we have no choice but to face our responsibility to provide the stability we so desperately need by organizing ourselves as a committee of public safety to assume direction of the state."

  The Peoples Quorum stared at its speaker in shock. After so many decades of rubber-stamp approval of someone else's policies, barely a fraction of them had the least idea how to wield effective power. The very thought of it terrified them, yet none of them could deny the force of Pierre's logic. Someone had to assume control, and if there was the chance of a full-scale military coup...

  Pierre let the silence linger for long, endless moments, then cleared his throat.

  "I have, on my own authority, discussed our critical situation with Secretary Saint-Just. He has already moved to secure control of the essential administrative centers here on Haven and assures me of the loyalty of his own InSec personnel, but he has no desire to impose any sort of one-man rule on the Republic. In fact, he's practically begged me to explain the realities of our plight to you so that we can move quickly to establish the broad-based committee required to reassure our own people and the galaxy at large that no coup will be permitted to overthrow the Republic." Pierre shrugged helplessly.

  "I see no option but to honor his request, ladies and gentlemen, and organize ourselves as a caretaker government until public safety can be restored."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Amos Parnell sat in his office off DuQuesne Base's central war room and stared in sick horror at his terminal. The stocky, powerful CNO seemed shrunken, aged beyond his years, and his face was haggard.

  His task force had returned to the Barnett System less than ten hours ago after its agonizingly slow passage from Yeltsin and what he supposed historians would call the Battle of Yeltsin. "Massacre of Yeltsin" would be more appropriate, and it was his fault. He'd taken the Manties' bait hook, line, and sinker.

  He closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands, and knew he was a beaten man. Not just by the Manties, but inside. He'd gone into Yeltsin believing he had a three-to-one advantage, only to find himself facing a force even stronger than his own, and somehow the Manties and their allies had been able to preposition their powered-down wall of battle perfectly. It was as if they'd been clairvoyant, as if they'd been able to see every move he made in real time.

  Their opening broadsides had taken him totally by surprise. A quarter of his fleet had been crippled or destroyed almost before he knew the enemy was there, and he had no idea how he'd extricated anything from the deadly trap. He couldn't remember. No doubt he could replay the com records and flag bridge recorders and reconstruct his orders, but he had absolutely no coherent memory of giving them. It was all a hideous nightmare of lightning-fast decisions and desperate improvisation that had somehow fought clear of Yeltsin with barely half the ships he'd taken into it, and half of them had been so battered their return to Barnett had taken more than twice as long as the passage out.

  And now this. The President was dead. The entire government was dead, as were his own father, his younger sister, his brother, three of his cousins, and virtually their entire families, and Navy personnel had done it.

  He ground his teeth in agony at the thought. The Manties' Hancock trap had succeeded even more completely against Admiral Rollins than the Yeltsin ambush had against him. Sixteen percent—the best sixteen percent—of the Fleet's wall of battle had been wiped out, and even as the Navy bled and died on the frontiers, another faction of its personnel had committed mass murder against its own people. He ached with agonizing, personal shame and thought longingly of the loaded pulser in his desk drawer. All it would take was a single squeeze of the stud... but he owed the Republic more than that. He owed it whatever he could do to stem the tide of disaster.

  His office door opened, and he snatched his hands down and looked up. Commodore Perot stood in the doorway, and Parnell opened his mouth to demand the reason for the intrusion, then paused.

  The commodore wasn't alone, for two men and a woman stood behind him. They wore InSec's uniform, and Perot's face was a sickly, ashen hue.

  One of the InSec men touched Perot's shoulder, and he shambled i
nto the office, his eyes stunned. Parnell stiffened and opened his mouth once more, but the woman spoke before he could.

  "Admiral Amos Daughtry Parnell?" It came out hard and clipped, an accusation, not a form of address.

  "What's the meaning of this?" Parnell tried, to put iron into his voice, but he heard its wan, weary quiver.

  "Admiral Parnell, I am Special Undersecretary for Security Cordelia Ransom, and it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest."

  "Arrest?" Parnell stared at her, feeling anesthetized and numb, as she drew a crackling sheaf of paper from her pocket. "On what charges?"

  "On charges of treason against the people," Ransom said in that same, hard voice. She tossed the sheaf of paper onto his desk, and the admiral stared down at it dazedly, then picked it up in trembling hands.

  From its date, the standard InSec detention order must have been written within hours of his Yeltsin dispatch's arrival on Haven, and like all InSec DOs, its wording was vague. The charges were listed in bald, terse sentences, but no amplification or specifics were offered.

  He read the charges slowly, unable to believe this was happening, and then he came to the last page. It wasn't a standard detention order after all, for the signature block had been changed. The space which should have contained the Secretary of Internal Security's authorization of Parnell's arrest bore another name and title, and he stared at it numbly.

  "By order of Rob S. Pierre, Chairman, Committee of Public Safety," it said.

  Dame Honor Harrington stepped into the briefing room. She removed her white beret, and Nimitz swayed gently on her shoulder as she tucked the beret under her left epaulet and looked at the man awaiting her.

  Vice Admiral Sir Yancey Parks returned her gaze levelly. She felt his emotions through her link to the treecat, and there was still no liking for her in them. She wasn't surprised. She might not know what had prejudiced Parks against her to start with, but she'd come to the conclusion that it didn't much matter, anyway. They were simply the wrong personalities to like one another.

  Yet they were also professionals. They didn't have to like each other, and just as she felt Parks' dislike, she felt his stubborn determination to do his duty. It was a pity, she thought, that he couldn't feel her emotions. Perhaps that sort of understanding might have overcome their mutual dislike.

  And perhaps not.

  "I've just been reading your doctor's report on Admiral Sarnow," Parks said a bit abruptly. "I must say, I'm impressed. Very impressed."

  "Yes, Sir. Commander Montoya is one of the finest doctors I've ever known—as I can attest from personal experience."

  "So I understand." Parks' lips quirked in a dour smile, and he pointed at a chair. "Sit, Captain. Sit!" His voice had a testy edge, and he watched through wintry eyes as she obeyed.

  "I owe Admiral Sarnow—and you—a very great vote of thanks." Parks didn't like admitting that, but he did it. "Of course, you were technically in the wrong not to pass command to Captain Rubenstein, but in view of the tactical situation—and the result—I have fully endorsed your decision, and my dispatch to Admiral Caparelli fully approves your conduct and commends your skill and courage."

  "Thank you, Sir," Honor said quietly, and reached up to still Nimitz with a touch as the 'cat shifted on her shoulder.

  "I've also read your report on the... incidents of the engagement," Parks went on in a flat tone, "and taken statements from all surviving captains. In light of those statements and the com records from Warlock's data base, there is no question in my mind that Lord Young first ordered his squadron to scatter without authorization and subsequently withdrew his ship and its support against your specific orders. The situation is complicated by the fact that he was, in fact, senior to you, but he had no way of knowing Admiral Sarnow had been incapacitated. At the moment he made his decision, he did so against what he believed to be Admiral Sarnow's orders and hence in defiance of his lawful superior while in the presence of the enemy. As such, I have had no choice but to remove him from command and assemble a captains' board to consider his actions."

  He paused, and Honor watched him in silence. She'd known all about the board of inquiry. She might not like Parks, but she had to admit he'd acted both promptly and generously where the task group was concerned. Of course, she thought bitterly, there weren't very many people left to be generous to. Sarnow's force had suffered over twelve thousand fatal casualties, and none of them had been necessary.

  She knew she would never be able to forgive Parks for letting it happen, yet she also knew he'd done the best he could. He'd made a bad call, but he hadn't known about the Peeps' spy satellites when he did it. Once he'd discovered their existence, his actions had been both rapid and decisive. The proof was in the pudding, she supposed, and the conquest of Seaford Nine and the total destruction of the Peeps' military presence in his command area was a very substantial pudding indeed.

  But Parks knew how much he owed the task group. He'd been more than generous in his praise, and she'd already seen the honors list he'd proposed to the Queen. She was on it, as were Sarnow, Banton, Van Slyke, and at least a dozen other officers and twice as many ratings and noncoms. Too many of them were mentioned only posthumously, yet Parks had done what he could, and his report on his own actions pulled no punches. He'd fully admitted his mistakes—and been equally explicit in his praise for Admiral Mark Sarnow and the officers and enlisted personnel under his command.

  Except for Lord Pavel Young. Young had been relieved from command and placed under open arrest even before Parks moved against Seaford, and Commodore Capra had taken Honors own testimony in a recorded deposition for the board of inquiry. Now she waited to hear its verdict.

  "It is the opinion of the officers of the board," Parks said quietly, "that Lord Young has proven his total lack of fitness to command a Queen's ship. The board has also concluded that the confusion his withdrawal caused in your missile defense net was directly responsible for an indeterminate but substantial number of casualties to other ships of the task group. It is the board's recommendation, which I have endorsed—" Parks looked squarely into Honor's eyes"—that Lord Young be returned to Manticore, there to be tried by court-martial for cowardice and desertion in the face of the enemy."

  Honors nostrils flared, and Nimitz hissed. A savage sense of satisfaction went through her, cold and deadly, not exultant. Parks sat silent, watching her, and she inhaled and squared her shoulders.

  "Thank you, Sir. For all of our people."

  The admiral shrugged, but her link to Nimitz was still open, and she felt Parks' mixed emotions. His own actions, however successful, left him open to serious criticism. Young's family could be expected to play on them in any defense they mounted, and his endorsement of the board's recommendations would make the Earl of North Hollow his mortal enemy, whatever the trials outcome. He knew it, and it worried him, but he'd endorsed them anyway.

  "At any rate," he went on after a moment, "it's time you took Nike home for repairs, Dame Honor."

  Honor nodded. The repair base had patched up the most critical of the task group's hurts, but most of its units had already departed for Manticore. There were too many damaged ships for the base's capacity; the worst cripples, the ones needing the most yard time for complete repairs, had to be sent home, and HMS Nike would take months to heal.

  "You depart for Manticore within the next twelve hours," Parks said, "and I'm sending Lord Young home in your ship under quarters arrest."

  Honor stiffened and started to open her mouth, but Parks' gaze pinned her to her chair.

  "Yours is the next departing ship. Considering the serious charges against him, he is entitled to the promptest return—and trial—possible, and I will expect you to treat him with proper military courtesy. Until and unless he is tried and convicted, he remains a Queens officer and your senior. I realize the uncomfortable position in which this places you, but I expect you to do your duty—as you always have."

  His eyes softened, somehow,
with the final words, and she was puzzled by the surge of genuine apology she sensed through her link to Nimitz. It muted her own angry distaste for sharing the same air as Pavel Young., and she bit her lip for just a moment, then nodded.

  "I understand, Sir Yancey."

  "I thought you would, Milady." Her eyebrows tried to rise at his totally unexpected form of address, and he smiled. It wasn't an effusive smile, but it was genuine, and he rose and extended his hand.

  "Commodore Capra will transmit your formal orders to Nike," he said. "I will personally inform Captain Young of the boards recommendations—and my own— before I send him aboard."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Then I think that concludes our business, Dame Honor. God speed." He shook her hand firmly, and she braced to attention and turned toward the hatch. It hissed open before her, and she started to step through it, then paused as the admiral spoke again.

  "Oh, by the way, Dame Honor. I almost forgot to mention that you'll find another passenger waiting for you when you return to Nike."

  "Another passenger, Sir?" Honor turned in the open hatch, her expression puzzled, and Parks chuckled with genuine humor.

  "It seems Captain Tankersley was promoted from captain junior grade to captain of the list just before the Peep attack. As such, he's too senior to stay on as exec aboard the base here, and since he, um, did such a fine job of dealing with Nike's original engineering difficulties, I thought it only fitting to return him to Manticore for reassignment aboard her."

  Honor stared at him, trapped between amazement and sudden joy, and Parks gave her the first completely natural smile she'd ever seen from him.

  "I trust the two of you will find something to talk about during the voyage, Captain Harrington."

  APPENDIX: HONOR HARRINGTON'S NAVY

  NAVAL DESIGN AND DOCTRINE