Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “What is that stuff?” she asked when he finished with her arms and started massaging her left thigh where the ghost of the burn was being exorcized by his ministrations. It had a mild, slightly piquant, unfamiliar scent with just a hint of sweetness.

  “Just a medium-chain triglyceride with some phytosterols.”

  “Huh?”

  “Coconut oil.”

  “What’s a coconut?”

  “A bad thing to have fall on your head. I don’t care for it in chocolate, either.”

  “Huron . . .”

  “That help?” His hands were on her ribcage now, rubbing firmly and quite expertly. Her assent was three-quarters moan. “Roll over.”

  She rolled. The things his oil-rich fingers did were not things it had occurred to her that fingers could do. They sank deep into her overused muscles and it hurt as he seemed to pull the stress out by the roots—but it hurt in this marvelous way that left warmth and lightness and something even more astonishing behind: a kind of release that made her bite her lip even as it dissolved everything all the way down to her toes.

  And when he finished, she rolled on her back and looked at him, though her eyelids had grown terribly heavy, and in the dimness of the cabin she could not make out his expression at all. With an effort just short of infinite, she reached up and pulled him close until their lips touched, and she took the pressure of that kiss openly, nuzzling his lips apart and sharing a lazy caress that asked nothing but promised much.

  At last, her hands slid down his neck to his shoulders and her head fell back against the pillow.

  “Rafe?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something . . . would it be okay if—? I mean, I’d like it if you’d . . .”

  “What?”

  “Get me some potatoes. Real potatoes.”

  She saw the gleam of his smile in the shadow now.

  “How would you like them?”

  Nothing could prop her eyelids open anymore and she gave up trying; the lassitude was swamping her in an overwhelming, resistless tide, and it was all she could do to whisper mashed as she fell asleep.

  Chapter Three: First Blood

  Z-Day +7 (0500)

  LSS Ardennes, deployed center;

  Wogan’s Reef, Hydra Border Zone

  “They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters”—so ran the old quote. And ever since they had—probably ever since someone first paddled a log canoe, thought Admiral PrenTalien—others had likewise gone down to the sea in armed ships, to “sink, take, or destroy” those who did business in great waters (as the ancient naval sailing orders put it—or so his flag lieutenant claimed). In each age, these attempts to sink, take, or destroy had seen their signal innovations—from the new strengthened bow that allowed for a effective armored ram, to the rotating gun turret, to railguns and modern missiles—along with their epic victories: Themistocles luring the Persian fleet to its death at Salamis; Nelson’s pell-mell triumph at Trafalgar; Tōgō crossing the Russian ‘T’ at the Battle of Tsushima Strait; Nimitz outthinking and outfighting Yamamoto at Midway; Kiamura surgically dissecting and then crushing piecemeal the combined Halith fleet at Anson’s Deep. Each rewrote both history and doctrine, providing a ‘last war’ to be fought over again—a new dogma to be repeated to death.

  Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat its mistakes. Those who do learn will find new mistakes to make. He was fond of that well-worn maxim, which he liked to connect with another: Victory in battle goes to him who makes the next-to-last mistake.

  Who would that be today?

  As if to address his admiral’s unspoken question, the Captain of the Fleet gestured at the broad forward screen that showed the Halith fleet coming out from the cover of the plasma disk. The video they were watching telescoped the last five hours of observations. The Doms had arrived that long ago (at midnight, ship-time) and the fleets were still about ninety minutes from contact.

  “It’s a cool customer we have over there,” Bolton opined, as the evolutions unfolded.

  PrenTalien could not but agree, and Adenauer’s deployments filled him with professional admiration. He was taking things judiciously, no reckless hurry, maneuvering with methodical precision. With another commander—Vansant for example—he might have hoped for some complicated, artful-looking maneuver, such a pincer movement to attack the rear area which PrenTalien had no intention of defending. That would’ve played right into his hands. Adenauer knew he had a strong hand; he didn’t need to flaunt it.

  His deliberation had another cause, as PrenTalien well knew: the strike against Outbound and the chimerical tanker fleet. Adenauer needed to bide his time, and hopefully let PrenTalien exhaust himself with his initial attacks—then push hard, forcing Third Fleet back to Outbound where he would be ‘trapped’ (in the Doms’ estimation) and Adenauer would have the use of his carriers. (He could not bring the monitor with him, having no way to retune the multiple grav plants here.)

  That’s why PrenTalien figured Adenauer was leading with the monitor. Otherwise, it would’ve seemed a peculiarly brash move, exposing the monitor to assault. It could be tactically justified by saying that putting a strong screen out ahead would mask the monitor’s firepower, and Adenauer was there to attack, not defend. But in essence, the monitor’s role here was defensive: it was to anchor the center of Adenauer’s position. Still, defense could be active.

  By sticking it out there, Adenauer was using it as bait, inviting his opponent to hit him with his best shot. Based on everything he knew, the chance PrenTalien could land a knockout blow was slim. Adenauer expected to absorb it and then counterpunch.

  It made impeccable sense in the Doms’ overall strategy. But PrenTalien knew something else Adenauer didn’t know: the state of the ‘weather’. PrenTalien had turned his astrogation section into ‘weathermen’ and ever since they’d known where the battle would be, he’d had a small section deployed just out-system observing Wogan’s Star. They’d gotten a good handle on its behavior and they were predicting a burst of weather at about 0800. That would nicely mask his planned assault on the monitor, scrambling sensor data and shutting down lightspeed communications. His weathermen gave it only a seventy-percent chance of happening, but he was willing to gamble on it. (The star had been quite active for the past couple days, which meant it was due for a nap. So this was probably the only shot at helpful weather they were going to get.)

  It appeared Adenauer hadn’t considered this angle, or he didn’t think it important. PrenTalien disagreed with him on that. If Lieutenant Colonel Kerr had his people up to the mark, he had every intention of scoring a knockout with his first shot.

  And there was another thing. PrenTalien had been examining Adenauer’s right-flank, and from the way they initially cuddled up to the safe edge of the plasma disk, the way they were now being tucked into the reef, and especially because Adenauer had shifted his force to support that flank when they’d maneuvered into their current formation, PrenTalien had concluded that whoever held the right flank over there, Adenauer didn’t fully trust him.

  That was interesting. It opened up the possibility of applying pressure there by threatening a close engagement. If the right flank contracted in response, that would create a gap in Adenauer’s position, allowing Admiral Jesse Wallace (on PrenTalien’s left) to make a hard thrust between Adenauer’s right and center, freeing Admiral Belvoir to swing around the Bannermans in a deep flank attack.

  On seeing PrenTalien chart this option out, Geoffrey Reynolds, his historically minded flag lieutenant, had likened it to Admiral Rodney breaking his line at the Battle of the Saintes. Whether that was an apt comparison to not, it would isolate the monitor and allow more time to neutralize it.

  Or it would be a colossal mistake. Like ignoring the weather? Or basing an entire strategy on independent battles in different systems without the ability communicate? Or trying to defeat that strategy with half a carrier task force and some slig
ht of hand with a phony tanker fleet?

  Those might all be mistakes. So the question was: which would be next to last? And who was making it? Him? Or his unusually tall and grave opponent over there?

  * * *

  Over there, Admiral Adenauer was in his quarters, sipping tea, and observing his opposite number’s dispositions was every bit as much keen interest as PrenTalien was examining him. If he was not privately expressing quite the same degree of admiration for PrenTalien’s actions, it was because PrenTalien had not yet tipped his hand.

  Temperamentally, the two commanders could not be more different—at least by reputation. Adenauer, who had studied his opponent for years, believed PrenTalien’s penchant for being bold to the point of rashness was overstated. He was aggressive, certainly, and if he had a weakness, it was not taking much care with his lines of retreat. But then, he hadn’t yet had occasion to retreat.

  Adenauer’s one unshakeable rule never was to delegate the drafting of battle plans to his staff. Nine hours ago, as soon as he’d received the final estimates of the opposing forces, he’d set to work. Finishing, he had summoned Vice Admiral Shima and the Bannerman commander, Admiral Romaan Voorhees, to explain his plans and solicit their comments.

  That had led to a painful two hours as Shima had offered his comments and offered them again. Admiral Voorhees had little to say, or maybe just had trouble getting a word in edgewise. Adenauer at last shut down his prolix deputy and the plan was approved, with Shima citing one substantive concern: he was not happy with his torpedo loadouts, which were light in view of the forces they were facing. It was agreed that Shima’s combatants would keep enough torps in their ready hoists for three salvos, and save the rest for engaging the Ardennes Strike Force when it entered the battle. With that, the two admirals returned to their flagships, and final copies of the plan were beamed to the fleet. (Aware of his deputy’s habits, Adenauer had already ordered advance copies distributed to his captains, so they and their staffs might familiarize themselves, awaiting the final version to put it into effect.)

  Remaining behind, and with him now, were Captain Raoul Alexander, Adenauer’s aide-de-camp, and Marshall Nedelin’s captain, Armand DuPlessis, sharing tea and a platter of biscuits. He knew both men well and liked them. Raoul, especially, who’d been with him for years. Nonetheless, strict protocols were observed at an admiral’s table, and even senior captains were not at liberty to speak out of turn. Since the end of the meeting, Adenauer, lost in thought, had said very little, casting the stateroom into silence.

  Perhaps feeling this, he raised his head, smiled down the table and reached for a biscuit. They were perfectly ordinary biscuits, and something of a tradition with him. Dipping it in his tea, the admiral spoke casually. “I do not like to count game that has awhile yet to run, but I think we may do rather well today.”

  “I have every expectation of it, sir,” replied Captain DuPlessis.

  “That is not to say it will be easy,” the admiral added, consuming the moistened biscuit.

  “Certainly not, sir. I have no doubt Admiral PrenTalien will give us a most satisfactory encounter,” his aide put in, with an echoing smile. “I also look forward to our broadening his horizons.”

  “Quite so.” Adenauer refreshed his tea. “Yet I would not be so forward as to beg a dispensation from Providence.” The admiral rarely engaged in humor, and his choice of the word forward—for he was indeed a most forward admiral, while some others they knew were decidedly rear, whatever their rank—was about as close as he ever came to a joke.

  The rest of the sentence they understood to mean that no plan ever survived contact with the enemy. The adage was profoundly true, but they felt that perhaps today they might get as close to it as Providence would allow. The plan was simple enough: they had to hold PrenTalien here and string him along until CARDIV I had done their work. Then a hard, sharp thrust would knock him off balance and force him back to Outbound. Once there, they’d combine forces with CARDIV I to finish the job.

  As Adenauer had maintained all along, CARDIV I’s role was the heart of it and he had confidence in Admiral Vitaliy Tomashevich. It was true he could be high-strung and irritable at times, but Adenauer respected his abilities as a carrier admiral. At Miranda, Vansant had put him in a next-to-impossible position and considering that, he hadn’t done too badly. But CARDIV I had two new light carriers, and Tomashevich was unfamiliar with the division, so coordination would undoubtedly suffer. Not badly enough to spell defeat, but it could affect their timing. It was imperative that the tanker fleet be destroyed and Outbound taken out of the equation in accordance with the schedule for his main assault.

  He looked at the chrono. By the schedule, Tomashevich should have launched his first strikes an hour ago, and they ought to be arriving at their targets now. Still, it might be wise to allow some extra time. The issue was he couldn’t know how much. He had no way to monitor the progress of the battle at Outbound: as the first and greatest military historian put it, he had to abide the outcome in the dark. If he waited until news of that outcome could be transmitted to him, PrenTalien would also receive word.

  That absolutely would not do: if PrenTalien learned he was trapped before Adenauer could consolidate all his forces, there was no telling what he might do. He might even attempt to break out and attack Novaya Zemlya—there was a fuel depot there. And then, refueled—

  Adenauer shook his head at the thought. No, PrenTalien must be forced back to Outbound, where lack of fuel would render his fleet unable to embark on any such desperate measures. He could afford to stretch the timeline another fifteen percent—perhaps twenty—even though it meant accepting higher losses. Another twenty percent . . . How would the Bannermans hold out? Would PrenTalien choose to risk a close engagement?

  Lifting the thermal carafe, he gauged the remaining contents. “Anymore tea?” The two other men smiled and demurred. “Very well. Take a biscuit with you. That’s the last of them.”

  Ceremonially, each man selected a biscuit, rose and made his bow before turning to leave. His aide stopped just short of the entrance. “Sir?”

  Adenauer lifted himself out of his study. “Yes, Raoul?”

  “I’ve already secured your effects, sir. Is there anything you should like me to add?”

  “Oh yes.” The admiral put down his teacup and slipped off his wedding ring. “This, if you would.”

  His aide re-crossed the carpet to the table and accepted the plain band of white metal. “Very good, sir.”

  “Thank you, Raoul.” As the man left, Adenauer poured the last centimeter of tea into his cup.

  No, not twenty. But fifteen percent—that was tolerable. He would inform Shima and Voorhees personally.

  Right now, however, the main thing was the monitor. He’d set the bait. Would PrenTalien take it?

  * * *

  “This is it, people.” Lieutenant Colonel Kerr’s amplified voice filled Bellerophon’s hanger deck easily. “This is what you’ve trained your whole mind and body for . . .”

  Pre-battle exhortations weren’t Kerr’s strong suit. But to be fair, thought Minerva Lewis, standing behind and to one side of him, wearing an expression of appropriately grim-lipped resolution, this was probably the first real one he’d given. Kerr had come along better in these past weeks than their first meeting had suggested, and he had a decent XO in Major Bradshaw, now standing on Kerr’s right, looking especially tall and impressive. The physical dissimilarity of the two men—with his fine blond hair and smooth (almost glossy) skin, Kerr couldn’t look anything but dandyish—probably wasn’t helping Kerr’s nerves, which were on edge. She thought Bradshaw sensed it too, from the overly rigid set of his shoulders.

  Of course, Bradshaw would be leading this op, not Kerr—there’d been no more of that follow-me-once-more-into-the-breach bullshit since that ill-fated exercise back in Tenebris—and that also might have something to do with it. Kerr, warming to his text, exhorted away.

  Professional deco
rum demanded that she not move a muscle of her countenance, and by now that was second nature to her, but the activity of her mind more than made up for her immobile visage. Motivational speeches were best kept short and to the point—the St. Crispin’s Day speech might sound great in the theatre, but it didn’t help anyone focus. That wisdom seemed to have been lost on Kerr (and what she was hearing was about as far away from Shakespeare as it was possible to be), but what was worse, he sounded like he was losing the thread. After a particularly painful pause—did he think it was dramatic?—Kerr dropped his voice into what he must’ve thought was a sterner register.

  “Now, this op is gonna go smooth and by the numbers,” he declared solemnly. Then her heart sank further as he proceeded to reiterate what those numbers were.

  In one sense, the word numbers could be taken literally. Over the past half-century, the tactics for attacking a monitor had become as formalized as a classic three-act play in which the outcome was preordained. The generally approved script went like this (as Kerr was now explaining):

  Act I was The Approach. This involved a complicated dance of agile ships firing so that their shots struck the same place at the same time while maintaining missile defense. This suppressing fire targeted the monitor’s point-defense systems to keep them from engaging the assault shuttles. The problem was that the dance’s pattern could usually be predicted after five or six volleys and then the monitor’s return fire would decimate the supporting ships. To avoid this, the assault forces had to follow through their own ships’ railgun fire, which meant taking casualties from it. In fact, the tactics manual stated that if at least ten to fifteen percent of the total casualties sustained by the assault forces were not due to friendly fire, they had not moved through the barrage aggressively enough.