by Jay Allan
“Keep me posted on any changes, lieutenant.” He turned from Hooper back toward Carp. “Commander, advise Colonel Winters to have one of his platoons report to me in the shuttle bay in fifteen minutes.”
Carp hesitated for a few seconds before answering. “Yes, sir.” His voice was tentative, concerned. He paused again before finally turning toward his workstation and relaying the order. “Colonel Winters acknowledges, sir.” A short silence. “Admiral, are you sure it’s wise for you to go down to the surface? You are in command of the entire fleet. I can go if you…”
Jacobs put up his hand, waving off Carp’s argument. The young officer was right, and he knew it. Jacobs had no place in the landing party. It was an unacceptable risk, one that offered little tangible reward. But Jacobs didn’t care. “I’m going.” He paused before adding, “It’s something I have to do, commander.”
Carp looked unconvinced, but he understood. It had been hard for Jacobs to pass through the system without even checking to see if anyone was still alive. Duty had left him no choice, but that didn’t ease the guilt. Carp felt it himself, though he knew it was worse for Jacobs, who’d been the one in command. Still, he found that he, too, wished he could go to the surface.
Jacobs knew Carp understood…and also that he still didn’t think the admiral should leave the flagship. But there wasn’t going to be any debate on this. It was just something Jacobs felt compelled to see to himself, and he was the only one who got a vote. He had to find out what happened to those people, to his friend Cooper Brown, and he owed it to them to do it in person.
“Advise Captain Cavendish that he is acting commander of the fleet while I am on the surface.” Cavendish was the commander of the fleet’s cruisers, and Jacobs’ exec. With the demands from the rapidly coalescing Grand Fleet, Jacob’s force was seriously short of command staff, and he was the only flag officer present.
“Yes, admiral.”
“And commander?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Keep an eye on things for me.” Cavendish was second in the chain of command, but he was new to Jacobs, and Carp had been to hell and back with him. This posting was likely to be a hard one…Scouting Fleet was going deep into enemy space, and no one knew what they would face. Jacobs knew Carp understood…he understood because they’d lived it together already. And he’d seen Carp operating under pressure.
“Yes, sir.” Carp’s answer was sharp and reassuring. He knew what Jacobs was thinking, that much was obvious. “You can count on me, admiral.”
“We’re getting an intermittent scanner contact, admiral.” Colonel Winters’ voice was firm and crisp on the comlink. Jacobs had expected a lieutenant to lead the escort party, but when the fleet’s Marine commander heard that the admiral was going to the surface he insisted on coming along to direct security personally.
Jacobs twisted his body, squeezing his way out of the narrow hatch and onto the surface of Adelaide. Winters had asked him to remain behind while his Marines set up a perimeter, but his patience was proving limited. Michael Jacobs wasn’t the sort to stay behind while others did the work…even when they had powered armor and he just had a navy survival suit.
“Deploy around the contact location, and investigate.” Jacobs felt a wave of excitement…and concern. They could be detecting energy output from surviving colonists – or a scanning device left behind by First Imperium forces. Dozens of ships had passed through the system when the enemy retreated from the Line. Even if Brown’s people had survived, any one of those vessels could have found his refugees.
“Yes, sir.” Winters paused. “Admiral, I repeat my suggestion that you remain in the shuttle.” His scanner displayed the locations of all personnel, including the blue blip that represented Admiral Jacobs moving toward his position.
“Negative, colonel.” Jacobs had done all the sitting he was going to do. “I’m en route to your location now.”
Jacobs’ tone hadn’t left much room for argument, but Winters tried one last time anyway. “Sir, I’m responsible for your security. I must ask ag…”
“Colonel, I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” Not really true, he acknowledged to himself. Any one of Winters’ Marines was far more prepared to deal with a hostile surface contact than he was. “I assure you I won’t hold you responsible if I am killed or injured.” Jacobs immediately wished he could rephrase that. Winters was only trying to do his job.
“Yes, admiral.” The Marine’s response was sharp and professional. He’d taken the unintended rebuff in stride. Winters was a veteran who’d served in more than one tight spot, including under Erik Cain on the Lysandra Plateau. He knew how to take orders, even ones he didn’t like.
Jacobs walked slowly, looking around for the egress points from the underground shelters. He knew were right around him, but he didn’t have exact coordinates. Hornet had purged all information on Adelaide before she set out for deep space. There was no way to know what data the enemy might have been able to extract from her shattered systems and broken hull if things had gone badly. Now Jacobs was going by memory…and a lot had happened since he’d last set foot on Adelaide.
He could see four blips approaching on the tactical display. He was startled for an instant until he realized they were Marines. He suppressed a small laugh. Winters couldn’t make him stay in the shuttle, but he was well within his authority to assign bodyguards. Jacobs had the momentary urge to inform the good colonel that he did not need babysitters, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t fault the Marine officer for doing his duty. And, he figured, it was probably a good idea.
Jacobs was moving slowly toward the last reported scanner contact. He was excited to pick up anything at all. He’d been prepared to find a completely dead planet…no life signs, no energy levels. They were still a long way from finding anyone alive, though. Most likely they were picking up some damaged piece of equipment that was still marginally functional.
The four Marines moved to his side and stood rigidly at attention. Jacobs turned his head toward the leader. “Hello, sergeant. Escorting me around?”
“Sergeant Harold Warne, sir.” The Marine’s voice was loud and sharp…parade ground perfect. “We have been assigned as your protective detail, sir.”
Jacobs couldn’t help but be impressed by the precision and professionalism of the Marines. He had nothing but veterans assigned to Scouting Fleet, hand-picked by General Holm himself. Most of them had served all the way back to the Third Frontier War, before the rebellions…and before the demands of the recent crisis had caused a degradation in Marine training and efficiency. These men and women were the real thing.
Holm hadn’t given him a group from his dwindling pool of veterans for nothing. Jacobs’ ships were going into deep space, into enemy territory, and they were doing it alone. Grand Fleet would come later, assuming it came at all. There were political issues to face before the invasion could launch, and Jacobs was far from certain those obstacles could be overcome. Scouting Fleet would have to be ready to face anything with no idea when support would arrive. He needed the best and brightest at every position, and he was pretty sure he had it.
“Very well, sergeant.” Jacobs decided to go along with Winters’ idea of necessary security. He was an admiral now, and he’d have to start thinking like one. Admiral Garret would have had a stroke if he knew Jacobs had even come down to the surface. When you are fifty lightyears from your replacement, there is no place for heroics by the commander. Sooner or later, even real heroes learned that lesson.
“Bogies!” The call came over the comlink. Jacobs’ suit didn’t have the extended tactical display the Marine armor had, and he couldn’t see who was issuing the warning. “Armed personnel exfiltrating at coordinates 340/029.”
There was chatter all over the field. Jacobs had total com access, so he heard everything. The Marines had battlefield AIs filtering the confused chatter, prioritizing data as it came in. But Jacobs just heard a swirling mass of voices shouting out barely
intelligible (to him) battlefield commands.
“Attention all units…” It was Winters, his voice roaring above the others, a model of authoritative command. “…no one fires without authorization from me. These may be friendlies, and if they are, they’ve been through a lot. The last thing they need is their own Marines firing on them. So keep cool…or your ass is mine.”
Jacobs was impressed at Winters’ instantaneous grasp of the situation…and slightly intimidated by the colonel’s cold, confident orders. He realized he had a lot to discover about command, and not a lot of time to do it. You can learn from this man, he thought. Jacobs had been acclaimed a hero for leading his ship back from enemy space, but that was one incident, driven by self-preservation, he reminded himself. Winters has been leading men and women on battlefields for 20 years.
He quickened his pace, moving toward the reported location. He felt his stomach churning, his legs tingling. Excitement, fear, anticipation. Were they about to encounter an enemy garrison? Or colonists still alive against all the odds?
A staticky voice crackled on the comlink. “Identify yourselves.” The connection was bad; there was something wrong with the broadcaster’s transmitter. But there was something vaguely familiar to Jacobs. He knew that voice.
“Cooper?” Jacobs spoke loudly and clearly, interrupting Winters, who had begun his own response. “Cooper Brown…is that you?”
There was a pause, no more than a few seconds, really. But to Jacobs it was an eternity.
“Mike?” The voice was still broken up, but Jacobs could hear the emotion. It was Brown. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. “Captain Jacobs? Is that really you?”
Jacobs sat on the makeshift bench, really an old shipping crate modified for the purpose. He’d popped his helmet and set it down alongside the table. He almost wretched when he got his first breath of the air in the shelter, but he hid his reaction the best he could. The atmosphere was fetid, a combination of sulfur, burning hydrocarbons, and the smell of too many people living in too little space.
“I still can’t believe you’re back.” Brown looked across the table at his friend, allowing himself a weak smile. He looked like someone trying to be happy who’d forgotten how.
“I told you I’d be here.” Jacobs felt guilty even as he said it. He was back, yes, but almost a year later than he could have been and clad in his fancy new uniform with a shiny platinum star on each shoulder. Brown, on the other hand, looked like hell. Jacobs remembered a tall, muscular ex-Marine, but the gaunt, stooped figure in front of him bore little resemblance to the Cooper Brown he’d left behind. Brown had lost at least 20 kilos, and his skin hung in loose folds. His eyes were dark and sunken deeply in his lined face, long strands of greasy brown hair hanging down raggedly. “I’m glad to see you, Coop.” Jacobs was fighting to hold back his emotions. “I didn’t know if you’d made it.”
“Mike…” Brown’s voice was soft, and he looked over at his friend with dull, lifeless eyes. “…I understand why you didn’t stop on your way back.” Jacobs had told Brown the story of Hornet’s journey. “Stop blaming yourself. You did the right thing…I would have done the same. The war comes first.” He paused and coughed, clearing his throat so he could continue. “It wouldn’t have made a difference, Mike. There was nothing you could have done anyway. We were behind enemy lines, and you didn’t have supplies for us or transport to evacuate the colonists.” Brown was struggling, his mind reeling at the recollection of the past three years, but Jacobs could hear the sincerity in his voice.
“Maybe not, Coop.” Jacobs appreciated his friend’s comments. It didn’t take away the guilt, but it helped. “I still wish we’d been able to get you help sooner.” The two sat quietly, neither speaking a word for several minutes. Finally, Jacobs broke the silence. “You want to talk about it, Coop?” He looked over at Brown, his eyes wide, expression one of sympathy, demanding nothing…but ready to hear whatever might come.
Brown shifted slowly in his chair, his tattered boot making a scraping sound on the rough plasti-crete floor. “Someday, Mike.” His voice was quiet, barely audible, the fatigue in it overwhelming. “But not today.”
Jacobs took a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. “Any time, Coop.” He smiled thinly. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there.”
Brown looked over silently. His head bobbed slightly, a grateful nod of appreciation to his companion. Someday he’d want to talk about what had happened, what he’d had to do on Adelaide. One day he’d have to let it all out or it would tear him apart. But not now. He wasn’t ready yet.
The door creaked loudly as a metal-clad hand pushed it open. Chuck Winters ducked his head and squeezed his armored body through the hatch. “I have two companies on the way down, admiral.” Winters’ tone was sharp and by the book, but there was a gentleness there too, one Jacobs had never heard in his Marine commander. “We have med support and food inbound as well.” He sighed softly, almost imperceptibly. “It looks like we’ve got 7-10,000 survivors, sir.” Another brief pause. “It’s a miracle.”
“Eight thousand, four hundred twenty-seven as of this morning.” Brown recited the figure robotically, emotionlessly.
“Thank you, Major Brown.” Winters spoke softly, soothingly. Definitely something new to Jacobs. “Relief is on the way to all of your people.”
The admiral sat, looking at Brown but trying not to stare. “Yes, Coop.” Jacobs nodded as he spoke. “We’ll make sure everyone gets whatever they need. We’ve got transports to take them someplace safe. Behind the Line.” That would be better than exposed out here on Adelaide, Jacobs thought, but there wasn’t really any place safe anymore. Maybe there never had been.
Brown looked up, first at Winters then back toward Jacobs. “Thank you…thank you both.” The fatigue was still there, dense and aching. But a bit of the weight was gone…Jacobs could see that. Brown was grateful to have someone else shoulder the burden.
“Admiral, your people are waiting for further orders.” Winters glanced over at Brown as he spoke and back to Jacobs. He could see the admiral’s hesitation and the concern in his expression. “It’s OK, sir. We’ll take care of Major Brown.” There was a slight pause, and then the big Marine added, “He’s one of ours, sir.”
Chapter 3
Alliance Intelligence HQ
Washbalt Metroplex
US Region, Western Alliance, Earth
Gavin Stark sat alone at the head of the table, drumming his fingers nervously on the exquisitely polished wood. Could it be, he thought…is it truly possible events have played right into my hands?
He stared down the length of the Directorate table, currently empty, its plush leather chairs lined up neatly. All save one, which was askew. Stark felt a flush of anger at the sloppiness, and he made a note to check which maintenance crew had last been there.
The Directorate wouldn’t gather again for another two weeks and, even then, Stark would occupy the meeting with trivialities, just enough to keep the Directors busy and out of the way. The members of Alliance Intelligence’s managing body had long worked behind the scenes of its government, wielding considerable power, but serving as a set of checks and balances on each other as well. The scheming of the individual members kept any of them, even the enormously powerful Number One, from wielding uncontrolled influence. That restraint was about to end, Stark thought to himself with grim satisfaction, and until it did he would make sure no one found out what he was planning.
As soon as the Shadow project was launched, he was going to rid himself of the troublesome Directorate once and for all. Then there would be nothing to stop him from seizing total control…and ruling the Alliance with absolute power. Nothing at all. Certainly not the bloated, complacent members of the Political Class, now transfixed by their own fear of the First Imperium. They had long considered their positions sacrosanct, their perquisites and prerogatives untouchable. The last thing any of them would expect was a move from within…not with their attentions focused outwa
rd, on the threat from beyond the Rim.
But Stark’s mind worked differently. Almost a perfect sociopath, he was capable of disregarding his own fear and reviewing the situation with pure, perfect analysis. The First Imperium was a grave threat; that much was certain. If the war was lost; if legions of enemy warships burst into human-occupied space, civilization would be destroyed. Mankind would be hunted down and exterminated. Stark knew that, but he also realized he had very little control over how the war progressed. There was little point in devoting time and attention to pointless fear. He chose to prepare…to be ready to move if the military somehow managed to defeat the First Imperium. He would gamble now, and throw the dice for the ultimate prize.
Stark figured the odds of winning the war at 50-50. The enemy was larger and far more advanced. But he knew Augustus Garret was a genius, a man capable of adapting to face any adversary. Stark hated Garret - and Holm and Cain too - but he refused to underestimate any of them. He’d done it before, and he’d suffered the consequences. Never again, he swore to himself. Never.
No, Stark wouldn’t cower in useless inaction. He would leave the First Imperium to Garret and his band of military protégés. And he would be ready…ready to ensure that their victory served him and not them.
He glanced down at his ‘pad, reviewing the governmental surveillance reports his operatives fed him. Stark ran the most extensive intelligence organization on Earth, and he had people highly placed in every nation. What he was reading concerned him. Though gratified that the enemy invasion had been stopped at the Line, the governments remained terrified of the First Imperium. Despite the fact that the military was almost universal in its insistence that an attack against the enemy was the essential next step, it looked like all of the Powers were firmly supporting a defensive posture. All except the Martian Confederation, but that was no surprise. Their Council would never stand up to Roderick Vance, and Vance was in bed with Garret and his crew.