This basic understanding was elaborated on by CAT 5, who explained in detail who could walk on water and who didn’t have the sense to pour piss out of a boot, who crapped bigger than whom, who had their shit wired and who just wanted to engage in dick-pulling contests. There were discussions of various member’s personal relationships with ponies, sheep and goats (which seemed to need to be roped, for reasons Kris failed to grasp). Wojakowski enjoyed asking Burdette if she’d give ‘her kingdom for a sheep’, which clearly had something to do with her being from New South Wales, but beyond that made no sense whatsoever. Nonetheless, Wojakowski found it outrageously funny and Burdette, despite reminding the warrant officer of his mortality, did not really seem to mind (though Kris got even more confused: reference was often made to ‘nine lives’, but whether Wojakowski had already expended his, or was never blessed with them in the first place, she couldn’t make out).
It was all quite egalitarian and recognized neither rank nor origin, for CAT 5 had been together for years, and rank counted for little with CATs in any case. Sergeant Major Yu, as CAT Leader, did not engage in the verbal (and occasionally physical) roughhousing, but did little to rein it in either; the contrast with the punctilious Academy drill instructor could not have been greater.
Huron, as Officer in Tactical Command, was obviously also exempt, and so was Kris, beyond receiving the benefit of a somewhat dubious education. In other ways, they observed an odd delicacy around her: one evening, Sergeant Lopez checked Corporal Watkins when he began to speculate on the personal habits of colonists from the Methuselah Cluster at Corporal Gergen’s expense—the only time Kris saw that happen—and afterwards the corporal apologized to her and hoped she hadn’t taken offense.
She assured him she had not, and was none the wiser. The same could be said of exactly how the fireteams would be employed to capture Mankho. Operational details did not really concern her, but there was no such thing as a private conversation on a boat as small as Flechette. She’d heard Huron say “take it on the volley” once before, and now she heard it several more times, along with “play her as she lays”, “go with the flow”, “shoot the curl” and “ride the smooth air.” At one point it was suggested that they “dance with the girl what brung ‘em”, and Burdette even observed that Commander Wesselby “sure kept her cards tight to her tits.”
The overall feeling was the Nedaemans had gold-plated their plan to a fatal degree, relying on an elegant but complex script that the enemy was not obliged to follow. CAT 5 would have no such script, but they did have an ace in the hole, or actually a pair of them. Vasquez herself counted as the first, and the second had been supplied by Quennell. In an inspired bit of improvisation, he’d added 3D-modeling software to the chip Vasquez was fitted with, which was simple enough, but his techs had been able to link it to her visual cortex, so whatever she saw was immediately used to refine the basic layout of the compound, which Kris had supplied them with.
The symbol-based comms system they’d given her could not transmit the full model, but it could transmit vertices that would update a copy of the model on Burdette’s xel. Along with vertices, waypoints could be shared, and the chip included a pathfinder as well. This allowed for a high degree of flexibility, which was the cornerstone of their plan, if anything so ephemeral deserved that name.
CAT 5 displayed a faith in Vasquez that was second only to their trust in Yu. The Sergeant Major and the corporal had worked together for decades, and the others liked to enliven mealtimes with half-completed, wink-and-nod anecdotes about past adventures. Kris took it in with a large grain of salt. Practicing on green officers was a well-established marine tradition—at the same time, the stories could not be entirely dismissed.
However, she did dismiss the one about Vasquez making the sun stand still at Gideon so CAT 5 could finish an op in daylight. Gideon, along with Jordan, Goshen and Gilead, was a major settlement on Jericho, another colony in the Methuselah Cluster, and like them, it was on the lit side. Jericho was tidally locked with its red dwarf primary, so the sun hadn’t set there in over a billion years. As with half the things she’d heard on this trip, the story made no goddamn sense. (She also had a feeling Vasquez couldn’t really play the trumpet.)
Vasquez’s putative astronomical influences aside, on this op, everything hinged on getting her in a closed room with Mankho, once Kris picked him out, at least partly unrestrained and preferably not alone. They expected Mankho to have his muscle with him, and ideally they’d be able to wait until the noisier part of one of his ‘entertainments’. A roomful of frantic people would give Vasquez some cover, getting in the way of Mankho’s bodyguards more than they’d impede her. Kris had not been able to tell them how likely it was that the guards would be armed with more than spikers, but the consensus was that if they were, it’d only seal their fate faster. Vasquez was thought to be good against any six under such conditions, even eight. Yu was going in with Fireteam Alpha, which led to a spirited debate over who’d sell the tickets and who got the hotdog concession (coincidently introducing Kris to a couple of different meanings of the term ‘weenie roast’). And if things went south in a hurry, their snatch job would turn into a rescue mission.
If things tanked even more badly than that, Kestrel was the ace they could draw to. The stealth frigate had been detached from Captain Lawrence’s squadron as the most likely ship to support the mission, and unlike the Nedaeman op, there was no bullshit about calling in. Commander Constance Yanazuka, Kestrel’s captain, had been given private orders under CNO seal, authorizing her to “take any and all measures deemed necessary to extract our team,” and in the event that proved impossible, to “take any such measures as you deem necessary and proper under such circumstances as shall prevail at the time”—meaning that if they all bought it on “that fuckin’ rock,” Kestrel was authorized to give them one hell of a send-off. (That Rephidim, unlike Lacaille, was not affiliated with a major power may have played some role in granting this license.)
It was a source of great comfort to the team, for none doubted that Commander Yanazuka, who was known to be diligent in the extreme, if personally a bit of uncompromising, would carry out those orders to the fullest possible extent. All in all, with a pair of aces in their hand, and another in their stacked deck, CAT 5 figured they had good odds on coming back with a full house.
Kris listened to it all and wondered what the hell they were talking about. No doubt, Huron would clue her in, if she asked him, but she had no intention of doing that until they could be alone. In the meantime, at least she was confused on a much higher plane.
Chapter Thirty
LSS Kestrel, in company w/ LHC Flechette
en route to the Tarsus Gates, Outworld’s Border Zone
After a week crammed into Flechette, the accommodations on LSS Kestrel seemed positively roomy, though they might have come across as a trifle narrow, not to say cramped, under normal circumstances. Owing to her being a stealth frigate, Kestrel was on the small side; in fact, the smallest class of ship that could be rated a light capital ship—the lightest of the light, as it were. Elbow room therefore had to be sacrificed to pack into her the normal compliment of weapons and an extra helping of sensors. As the primary raison d'être for stealth frigates was to support intelligence collection and special ops, Kestrel’s sensor suite would have done credit to a battleship, and her data processing capabilities were even better, most especially her decryption suite.
And she was fast for a frigate and could deliver an outsized punch for her mass, which, coupled with her stalking abilities, made her a dangerous opponent. To her crew, all this made up for a lack of certain creature comforts. Frigates were not generally held in high regard in the Service, but stealth frigates were an exception: an elite service in their own right, along with the special forces they customarily supported. So the crew was older and more experienced than would otherwise be expected on a light capital ship.
They were also notably more relaxed, particular
ly in address and the matter of uniform. Kris, whose previous experience of CEF combatants was limited LSS Retribution, where full dress in the wardroom was the order of the day at least once a week (Captain Lawrence felt it contributed to an overall habit of smartness), was a bit surprised to see the crew working in tee-shirts and tank tops, and calling each other by their given names. In that sense, CAT 5 fit right in, although they did take the rambunctiousness down a notch or two.
Relaxed in appearance, however, did not mean relaxed in their duties, and Kris found the officers to be a quietly intense bunch, starting with Kestrel’s captain. Constance Yanazuka was on the older side, even for a stealth frigate skipper. She had reportedly refused promotion at least once to retain the command: captains could only command major combatants, which meant jumping her to a light cruiser and fleet duty, a prospect she did not relish.
Kris had seen her once or twice before, at Captain Lawrence’s staff meetings; a medium-height woman with a stocky build that made her seem shorter than she was, and a deceptively mild oval face. Her officers probably absorbed a good detail of their intensity from her, and she had an excellent reputation in everything but her ability to play well with others.
Of all of them, her Tactical Action Officer, Lieutenant Commander Vincent Caprelli was the most like her. Also of medium height, but wiry and bald, with blue-black skin and strange green eyes that were slightly mismatched, he was quick, in both mentality and movements, and this made him seem sharp tempered at times. Young for his post, the CEF had him pegged as a rising star. If he had a fault—outside of questionable people skills—it was a reluctance to be pinned down, coupled with a tendency to insist on the worst possible interpretation of the data. If there was anyone on the ship who viewed the universe through the opposite of rose-colored glasses, it was Vince Caprelli.
Lieutenant Commander Gregor York, the executive officer, was more low key. A precise and dutiful officer, one of his main talents seemed to be buffering interactions between fleet commands and his occasionally undiplomatic CO. Otherwise, he managed the ship’s departments easily and well.
If joviality was to be found among Kestrel’s officers, it was in the person of Lieutenant Josephus Ramses, the sensor lead, who reminded Kris of Basmartin. He was an ace operator and noted cryptanalyst, but Kris thought he’d be happier in a shore posting. He had a talkative streak that was somewhat out of place, and it seemed that Caprelli and his tendency to not be pleased oppressed him. His friendliness towards her had a guarded edge to it, and he showed a marked degree of deference to Huron.
The rest of the officers, Kris saw only at mealtimes, and not enough to form any firm opinions, other than they were quite capable, and jealous of their distinctions. With Rephidim a week on the far side of the Tarsus Gates, her time was spent with Huron and the members of CAT 5 getting her further up to speed on their operating methods, and familiarizing her with a standard weapon suite.
This latter began the AM after they embarked, when Huron requested her presence in the forward assault bay. When Kris met him there, he was holding a compactly-made heavy rifle with a folding stock and a short thick barrel, the whole weapon just over half a meter long. He held it out.
“Have you seen one of these?”
She had—and her heart quickened.
“This is the fabled MI-6 assault rifle—a CAT’s favorite weapon.” He stripped the action and handed it to her. Empty, it must have weighed five kilos. “Fires 12.7-mm multimode caseless; you get your choice of anti-personnel, light-armor piercing terminally guided, or armor-piercing mid-course corrected ammo. Effective range about twenty-five hundred meters, though an expert can push it to almost twice that. Carries one hundred rounds in a dual clip, selectable to three or five-shot bursts.” He smiled. “Even with light armor and recoil damping, unless you have a tripod, five hurts a lot.”
She hefted the bulky rifle. It was not sleek or elegant or beautiful, unless you found five kilos of compact, well-engineered, efficient lethality beautiful—which Kris did. She grinned like a kid having the best birthday ever. “For me?”
“Yep,” Huron replied with an answering grin. “Yu doesn’t want any deadweight on this op and I agree. Let’s get her loaded up and check you out on her.”
The first exercises were all simulation. Huron showed her the sight picture, the action, the controls; all manual on this one—some CAT members got theirs think-linked, but that obviously didn’t apply here and Corps was starting to frown on the practice anyway—and how to load, swap, and strip the thick curved dual magazine. Then he lined up some targets on the simulator range and described how the multi-wave sounder calculated windage and lead-angle, adding: “In a high-threat environment, you might not want to go active and risk giving away your position, especially if they have seekers or dragonflies about. That’s mainly what the TG rounds are for—they let you to stay passive. You can go passive with MC rounds too but it degrades their effectiveness somewhat.”
“How does the mid-course correction thing work?” she asked.
“It corrects once for windage, barometric pressure changes and target acceleration if it’s moving,” Huron explained. “Other than that, it’s all you.” He settled in on the bench and selected a target from the array of holographic bad guys menacing them. “First pressure designates the target, second pressure fires. It has a customizable trigger but I suggest you don’t fool with it.” And he calmly blew the head off a notional terrorist at a simulated two thousand meters. “Here, you try it.”
Once she was used to the weight, she got dialed in pretty well at fifteen-hundred meters. Beyond that, she was spotty. After the second clip, he nodded. “Not bad. Now let’s find an open firing port and break some pigeons. Nothing like a whiff of C-12 to focus the mind.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The Speaker’s Official Residence
Alexandria, District of Alexandria
Lower Nile Protected Zone, Terra, Sol
Back on Earth, Speaker Gautier’s mind was also focused, though in an altogether different and less pleasant way. She had just ended a highly unsatisfactory conversation with the Halith Ambassador, who had called to express ‘grave reservations’ about the ultimatum. He had information, he claimed, that showed the ultimatum to be no more than a blind for—here he paused and, adjusting his purely cosmetic spectacles (CID had verified this), said, “certain measures that did not tend towards the continued peaceful coexistence between their respective governments.”
The Speaker had no idea what he meant, but hid it well. She was less successful in convincing the gentleman that whatever he had heard, his source was most unfortunately confused, and they should be careful to avoid any untoward misunderstanding. There followed a steely silence, after which the ambassador begged that the Speaker would not take the situation lightly, and that he must seek direction from his government. In her turn, Hazen Gautier begged they would not act in a hasty or precipitous manner. That was received with no more than a cold smile, and the call ended with a rare display of artic cordiality.
Now the Speaker hurried through the splendid west wing of her official residence, the hot summer sun blazing through the noble span of tall windows, to her private office. Outside, the sunlight scattered a diamond brilliance across Alexandria’s Grand Harbor, with the towering replica of the Pharos Lighthouse on the great mole beyond—a fine day that made no impression. As she arrived at the office door, the security system recognized and admitted her.
She disliked the cramped, windowless space with its drab, utilitarian furnishings intensely; not so much because it was cramped, drab, or utilitarian, but because this had been her predecessor’s inner sanctum—his nerve center. She felt he’d never quite relinquished his grip here and she resented it. Those were private feelings; she thrust them forcefully into the background as she sat behind the unadorned gray desk. Keying on the hyperwave with her private code, she sent a connection request with a priority tag to her aide, who was at the capitol in Nereus ke
eping tabs on affairs. Mars was near opposition at the moment, and at that range the hyperwave would only support voice, not video, for which she was thankful. She knew herself to be quite broadminded, but the fact remained that she still wasn’t entirely used to Nowell being Noelle, and when she was tired or flustered—and today she was both—she was apt to make mistakes. Not having to talk face to face helped avoid them.
The problem was not so much the Halith ambassador: she felt she had the measure of him and was almost certain he was running a bluff. The problem was that things were transpiring which were hid from sight, and it was not impossible he’d gotten a hint of something somewhere, and was trying to parlay it into more. His Bannerman counterpart was a bit a buffoon, and thus probably not involved, except as a useful distraction. What then might he have heard? Or thought he heard?
She was well aware she didn’t enjoy the full confidence of several members of the Council, and of course they also had their own agendas (several of which she’d do well to puncture when the times were convenient), and she could well believe some staff person had been indiscreet. But not about anything that “did not tend towards the continued peaceful coexistence between their respective governments.” For a Council member to get that far out of bounds was inconceivable. And no one else, even a grand senator, had the necessary clout.
No—unless the Halith ambassador was fishing more randomly than was wise, the only plausible explanation for such a concern lay with the military or the intelligence organizations. She inclined towards the former. Admiral Westover, in particular, she thought a shade too smooth at times—his answers rather facile and too pat. The Service fairly worshiped him, as the vicar of the sainted Admiral Kasena, and that gave him a potentially uncomfortable degree of latitude. Nowell—Noelle, she corrected herself—had a good sense for these things.
Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks Page 42