Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “That won’t be easy,” General Winters said. “But I take your point.”

  He shrugged. “And it does, of course, raise the question of precisely where we land.”

  Pat understood. He’d read every last intelligence report on Ahura Mazda that he could find, but none of them had been particularly detailed. Ideally, the landing zone should be within easy reach of the Tabernacle, yet far enough from any enemy garrisons that they could get down on the ground and dug in before the first enemy counterattack materialized. Spacers and government officials rarely understood that planets were big. A landing on the other side of Ahura Mazda might go unopposed, but it would take months to march around the planet to reach their final destination, giving the Theocracy plenty of time to prepare its countermoves.

  “We may have to wait until we get there to make a final decision,” he said. “Do you have a prospect in mind?”

  “I have five,” General Winters said. “But the facts on the ground will determine just how we proceed.”

  “We simply don’t have enough data,” Pat agreed. “Do we have any infiltration units handy?”

  “Just a few,” General Winters said. “But we don’t know how well they’ll fit in with their surroundings.”

  Pat couldn’t disagree. The refugees had been more than willing to discuss the ins and outs of Ahura Mazda, their words making it very clear that nonconformity rarely went undetected for more than a few days. Homosexuals were sniffed out and executed; women were kept uneducated—even teaching one’s daughters to read was against the law. And yet some women seemed to rise high in the science fields. It was a contradiction he couldn’t even begin to unravel.

  Maybe they’re less concerned about enforcing the law on upper-class women, he thought. It isn’t as if the scum at the bottom know how their betters live.

  “They’ll do the best they can,” he said.

  “Of course,” General Winters said.

  He paused, turning to face Pat. “I understand that you requested the honor of leading the first landing force?”

  Pat hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

  General Winters studied him for a long moment. He was an experienced officer, one of the most experienced in the corps. Pat knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that General Winters would have rejected him out of hand if Pat hadn’t been able to do the job. And yet, even with experience in landing on hostile worlds, General Winters might not want to bow to any form of political pressure. That would set a bad precedent.

  “You’ll have it,” General Winters said finally. “I just hope it doesn’t kill you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Pat said.

  “Thank me when you get home,” General Winters said. “Not a moment before.”

  He turned away. “I expect a detailed plan for the landing by the end of the week, one that can be modified, updated, or scrapped at a moment’s notice,” he added. “You understand, better than anyone else, the importance of getting a large force down as quickly as possible. Make sure you get the logistics officers involved immediately. They’ll tell you what you can get down without a spaceport.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pat said.

  “And don’t fuck up,” General Winters added. “It’ll get a lot of people killed.”

  Despite the awesome responsibility that had been dropped in his lap, Pat couldn’t help a flicker of anticipation as his superior strode away. Landing on the Theocracy’s homeworld, taking the first step towards ending the war—he couldn’t resist the challenge. And yet, failure would be disastrous, personally and politically. The only consolation was that he probably wouldn’t be alive to see it.

  He walked out of the training zone and straight towards his office. Hundreds of newly arrived militiamen were running around the racetrack or carrying their rifles to and from the firing ranges. He could hear an endless stream of gunshots in the distance as the newcomers sighted their weapons and then practiced their aiming. They’d be going onto the main training field in a few days, he knew, once they were ready. For most of them, the giant facilities on McCaughey would be their first true taste of combat.

  Or as close to it as possible, Pat thought. He’d been in real engagements that had been less violent than some of the simulations. But hard training tended to lead to easy missions. And when they’re ready, they’ll be boarding the transports for their first target.

  He paused as the sound of shooting grew louder. Those taking accounts would be furious when they realized just how many millions of rounds had been shot off in the last few weeks, although the giant industrial nodes orbiting McCaughey hadn’t had any trouble keeping up with demand. Bullets were relatively cheap, after all. They were certainly cheaper than militiamen. Better to expend thousands upon thousands of bullets preparing each unit for war than risk losing the entire unit because it didn’t know how to handle itself in battle.

  Pushing the thought out of his mind, he stepped into the building and made his way to the office he’d been given. It was a featureless cubicle, barely larger than a midshipman’s cabin, but he didn’t need anything more. The corps tended to frown on luxury, even to the point of banning photographs of one’s family. But then, a photograph could be captured by the enemy and used to break prisoners. And who knew what could be learned from something so seemingly harmless?

  He sat down and keyed his terminal, bringing up his personal database. As he’d expected, copies of the preliminary order of battle and other important details were already waiting for him, marked for his personal attention. He’d be charged with securing a landing zone, then getting two entire divisions of marines to the surface as quickly as possible. At that point, someone more senior would take command. He wondered just how quickly General Winters would wrangle a trip down to the surface. The older man had clearly not been happy behind a desk.

  But we couldn’t have him killed by the enemy, Pat thought. It would be devastating.

  And yet, General Winters would know the dangers. They all knew the dangers. And if he were killed, there would be a successor waiting in the wings. The marines couldn’t afford a dispute over command in the middle of the war. There was always a clear chain of command.

  And that will be true of the militia too, he promised himself. We’ll be ready for anything when we land.

  But he knew, deep inside, that they might still be surprised when they finally touched down on Ahura Mazda.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Admiral Junayd had expected an uncomfortable trip from Tyre to McCaughey. He’d never served on a courier boat, but he’d spent a good percentage of his time as a commanding officer shuttling from place to place in a tiny ship, and he’d expected nothing better. Instead, he’d been pleasantly surprised—and yet dismayed—by the sheer extravagance of the naval liner that had carried him to McCaughey. If the Commonwealth could afford such a luxurious ship merely to move its admirals from place to place, how large a war fleet could it afford?

  He saw the answer as White Swan dropped out of hyperspace and glided towards the waiting fleet. There were thousands of warships surrounding McCaughey, backed up by dozens of giant orbital fortresses and entire swarms of gunboats and automated weapons platforms. He didn’t even want to imagine just how many PDCs might be mounted on the planet’s surface, ready and waiting to engage anyone foolish enough to claim the high orbitals. Details were sparse—he hadn’t been given more than basic access to the sensor feed—but he was sure he was looking at a fleet with more firepower than the entire Theocratic Navy. The sight humbled him, even as he welcomed it. The sight was proof that he’d joined the right side.

  Assuming they fight to the finish, he thought.

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Public opinion meant nothing in the Theocracy. A crowd of protesters could expect to be gassed, beaten, and then shipped to the work camps, assuming they survived the experience. Brutal repression was the order of the day, a repression enforced by millions of spies and self-righteous monitors. Anyone who put a foot out of line could expect to have
it chopped off.

  But the Commonwealth was different. He’d had real problems following the terms of the debate simply because such dialogue was completely alien to him, but the prospect of peace seemed very attractive to a large part of the population. And they were just being allowed to have their say, without anyone stopping them. No sense at all. What sort of leader would allow his people such freedom? But their freedoms seemed to have worked out for the Commonwealth, he had to admit. The giant fleet in front of him was proof of that.

  “Admiral,” Janice said. She and Grivets had traveled with him, although they’d generally left him in his cabin while they’d been elsewhere. Junayd didn’t mind. The liner had plenty of delights, and he’d sampled as many of them as he could. “We will be shuttling over to Queen Elizabeth in five minutes.”

  Junayd nodded. A lesser man would have objected to leaving the comfortable liner, but real power would always rest with the warships. His comfort was less important than doing everything he could to build up influence, influence he could turn into power. He rose, picked up his knapsack, and followed Janice through the hatch. There was nothing else in the cabin he cared to take with him.

  He wondered, as they walked down to the shuttle hatch, why they hadn’t simply docked with the giant superdreadnought. Docking would have been easy, particularly when the liner was so much smaller than the superdreadnought. But he assumed they had their reasons, even if they didn’t make sense to him. Navies often collected traditions that didn’t make sense to outsiders.

  “You’ll be meeting Commodore Falcone,” Janice advised him. Grivets followed them into the shuttle, banging the hatch closed behind him. “I suggest that you stay on your best behavior.”

  Junayd nodded, not trusting himself to speak as the shuttle detached from the liner and headed for the superdreadnought. He’d faced Captain Falcone in battle, several times, but they’d never actually met. The Commonwealth’s propaganda had made a big song and dance about how the mighty Theocracy had been defeated by a girl; the Theocracy, in response, had smeared her as the puppet of her male XO and hinted, loudly, that she’d only risen so high because she’d offered her body to her superiors. And yet, he’d read her record when he’d been granted provisional access to some files. Woman or not, she’d snatched a limited victory from the jaws of a crushing defeat and gone on to ruin his career. Kat Falcone had never met him, but she’d played a major role in his life.

  He pushed the thought aside as the shuttle flew through a force shield, shuddering slightly before landing neatly on the deck. It didn’t matter if he liked her or not, if he wanted to be near her or stay as far from her as possible. All that mattered was taking what few cards he had and playing them to make sure his position remained secure. And if that meant being polite to someone who’d ruined his career, he could do it.

  The hatch opened. A gust of warm air blew in. Junayd wrinkled his nose, reminding himself that all starships smelled different. He followed Janice out of the hatch. The gravity seemed to flicker around him, something he knew to be purely imaginary and yet impossible to dismiss completely. And then he looked up. Three people, two of them women, were waiting for him. Behind them, there were four men who were very clearly armed guards.

  Junayd pulled himself up to his full height and saluted the flag and then Kat Falcone. She was instantly recognizable: tall and blonde, her hair framing a heart-shaped face that was the height of fashion in the Commonwealth. Her white uniform couldn’t hide the contours of her body, even though she was decently covered. He couldn’t escape the sense she was younger than his daughters, if only because her face was completely unmarked. But her DNA had been extensively modified to grant her a long lifespan his daughters would never know. He had to clamp down hard on the flash of bitter envy. The Theocrats had never told their people what they were leaving behind on Earth.

  “Commodore,” he said, extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “Admiral,” Kat said. She took his hand and shook it, firmly. It felt odd to touch an unrelated woman, even for a mere handshake. “Welcome aboard.”

  She didn’t look pleased to see him, Junayd noted. His wives and daughters had become very practiced at hiding their thoughts and emotions over the years, a survival skill for women in the Theocracy. Kat Falcone was surprisingly transparent compared to his relatives. But then, she hadn’t spent her early years being told that she was good for nothing, apart from bearing and raising the next generation of children. And she wouldn’t have been thrashed to within an inch of her life every time she stepped a millimeter out of line.

  “My flag captain, Fran Higgins,” Kat said. “And my aide, Bobby Wheeler.”

  Fran looked several years older than Kat, Junayd thought, although he couldn’t be sure. She had a thinner face, with long dark ringlets of hair that fell down to her shoulders, and eyes so dark he felt he could lose himself in them. Her body was stockier too, as if she hadn’t been given so much enhancement during her early years. Behind her, Bobby Wheeler looked alarmingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, his eyes studying Junayd with frank curiosity. No Theocrat would be willing to obey a woman, Junayd knew, but Wheeler didn’t seem to care that he had two female superiors. Junayd wasn’t sure if that was a sign of weakness or strength.

  “A pleasure,” Junayd said.

  “My crew will show you to your quarters,” Kat said, nodding to the men behind her. Junayd had no trouble recognizing them as soldiers, experienced soldiers. “We’ll discuss the future after you’ve had a chance to freshen up.”

  “Of course,” Junayd said. He nodded to Janice. “I assume there are quarters for my escorts too?”

  Kat gave an odd little smile. “Right next to yours,” she said. “We’ll speak soon.”

  Junayd bowed. “Of course,” he said again. “I look forward to it.”

  Kat had asked, several times, if she could visit Admiral Junayd after his defection from the Theocracy. ONI, who’d taken him into custody, had always turned down her requests, citing security concerns. They still hadn’t quite forgiven her for some of her decisions during Operation Knife, although they’d refrained from trying to file any official complaints. But she knew they hadn’t kept their mouths shut for her own good, but for theirs. An official complaint would have required a public discussion of facts ONI wanted to keep hidden.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of her adversary, now that they’d actually met face to face. He was statuesque and slim, an inch or two taller than she, his arms and legs not particularly muscular even though she’d been told the Theocracy prized physical strength among its commanding officers. Beating crewmen for stepping out of line didn’t come easily, after all. And, even after defecting, he had a commanding presence that surprised her. But then, he needed to keep as much credibility as he could.

  And he looks crafty, she reminded herself. Junayd had sworn blind that Admiral Morrison hadn’t been working for the Theocracy, but he’d certainly taken advantage of Morrison’s weaknesses.

  She dismissed Fran and Wheeler and then looked at Pat. Three of his marines were escorting Junayd to his quarters, just to make sure he didn’t get lost along the way. Kat was fairly sure he wouldn’t do anything to harm the ship, not when he needed the Commonwealth to rescue his family, but she didn’t trust him. The Theocracy could have easily programmed him, perhaps without his knowledge, to serve as a triple agent. Or he might have goals of his own that conflicted with hers.

  And she didn’t like him.

  “He’s not going to have a chance to harm the ship,” Pat promised. “He’ll be under constant supervision at all times.”

  “I hope so,” Kat said. “As long as he stays in his quarters, I don’t mind.”

  She shook her head as they strolled back towards the conference room. Junayd had been . . . impressive. She hadn’t wanted to shake his hand, but he’d offered. She hadn’t expected that, not from a Theocrat. Some of the refugees who’d made it out still had problems shaking hands with women. And yet, sh
e didn’t trust him. Junayd had been a loyal Theocrat for over sixty years, climbing the ranks until they’d put him in command of their most powerful formation. Surely, he couldn’t have changed allegiances that quickly.

  But they would have killed him for failure, she thought. Execution wasn’t something that would happen to her, not unless she screwed up deliberately. She might be dismissed from the service, she might be cashiered, but she wouldn’t be put to death. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  “The training is going well,” Pat said. “I think the militiamen are getting better all the time.”

  Kat nodded as they sat down and waited. “Are they going to be good enough?”

  “I think so,” Pat said. “But we have had a couple of breakdowns. I’m just praying that the simulations are worse than the real thing.”

  “Naval simulations are,” Kat said. She smiled, remembering the days when she’d had to fend off an infinite supply of missiles, their drive speeds set firmly on impossible. “Although the Theocracy may feel otherwise, once we get more of the new missiles online.”

  “If the war lasts long enough,” Pat warned. “We’ll be fighting the coming engagement with the older missiles.”

  Kat nodded. “I know.”

  Admiral Junayd was surprisingly quick, she decided, as the marines showed him into the conference room. He’d changed into a tunic that made him look like a common spacer, although the lack of any rank insignia was enough to reveal that he was a guest. He certainly wasn’t wearing anything that might identify his origins. But then his handlers would have insisted on nondescript attire. There was a good chance that some of Kat’s crew would have lost friends or family during the war. They’d want a little revenge.

  And while beating up Junayd wouldn’t get them anything more than a court-martial, she thought, it would be very satisfying.

  “Admiral,” she said, keying her terminal as soon as Junayd’s handlers had joined them. A star chart appeared in front of her, hovering over the table. “Have you been briefed on Operation Hammer?”