by Jay Allan
Of course, they have their hands full right now anyway…
Villieneuve had hoped to hear back from his ambassadors, or even from the fleet he’d stationed at Pollux, a display of strength he’d hoped would secure an alliance with the Hegemony. He’d been patient, and distracted by news of Marieles’s death, and later of the initially unconfirmed rumors that Lille himself had also been killed…but now, he was becoming truly worried. He should have heard something by now.
Why hasn’t Denisov sent a routine report, even?
Villieneuve had pulled his new fleet commander from virtual obscurity, but him in a position of power he could never have achieved on his own, with no base of influence. He’d figured the officer retained some level of pointless idealism, but he’d also bet that Denisov would be loyal to his patron. Now, he began to have doubts, based not on logic or analysis, but simply on his own—usually accurate—paranoia.
Denisov is not a rebel, nor a mutineer. Besides, he is watched. Even the watchers are watched.
Villieneuve had made sure the fleet was well staffed with spies, a bewildering array of Political Division officers and outright undercover agents from the Peoples’ Protectorate. If Denisov had done anything unauthorized, even if he failed to make regular reports, Villieneuve would know.
But, he didn’t know. He hadn’t received a word, not from his admiral, nor from the watchdogs he had surrounding the admiral.
Something was wrong.
He didn’t know what, but there were two possibilities. First, some kind of Confederation action, as unlikely as it seemed while the Confed fleet was so heavily engaged with the Hegemony. Maybe they’d discovered more about Marieles’s operation that he’d thought. He could see anger from that, even calls for a punitive strike. But, from what he knew of the fighting, the Confeds had their hands full already. They certainly didn’t have the forces free to strike at the Union’s main fleet.
That left the Hegemony. Villieneuve had intended to do whatever he could to secure an alliance with the mysterious new force, but failing that, he’d planned to stay totally neutral. He couldn’t imagine any power, even one as strong as the Hegemony appeared to be, would want another enemy when they were already dealing with the Confeds and the Alliance.
Now, he began to wonder. Was is possible the Hegemony had moved on Denisov’s fleet? If so, the admiral had clear instructions to withdraw to Montmirail.
So, where was he? Where was the fleet? He would certainly have received word if the fleet as on the way back to the capital.
“First Citizen, I am sorry to interrupt, but we have just received a communication from the fleet.”
The sound of his aide’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he felt the tension inside him relax a bit. You’re just too impatient. You knew Denisov would report…though I will discuss timeliness with him when he gets back to Montmirail.
“On my line.”
“Yes, First Citizen. The transmission is encoded to Delta-Yellow protocols.”
The relaxation he’d felt for a few seconds was gone. Delta-Yellow wasn’t military encryption. It was an old Sector Nine code.
The message wasn’t from Denisov. It was from one of the political officers or agents in the fleet.
He felt his stomach tighten. His operatives had instructions to remain in cover unless something was seriously wrong.
He slipped his headset on—whatever he was about to hear, it was very likely highly sensitive information. His office was secure, of course, but it wouldn’t hurt to take some extra care.
He heard the voice as the message began. Decrypted messages sometimes lost some of the recognizable parts of the sender’s tone, but Villieneuve knew at once who it was. Regina Descortes was one of the most senior agents with the fleet, and just about the most deeply implanted. He knew before she’d spoken a dozen words that her risking a communique could only mean something was disastrously awry.
He listened as the agent spoke, and as she did, he felt his insides tighten with near panic. The Hegemony forces had attacked the fleet. Indeed, they would have caught and utterly destroyed it if Denisov hadn’t acted quickly and decisively to pull his ships out. Losses were heavy, but the fleet remained a force in being, and that had been almost entirely due to Denisov’s skill and talent as a commander.
Villieneuve felt a burst of satisfaction and pride. He’d finally found a capable commander and freed himself of the entrenched fools that had cost the victory in the Confederation War. He thought to himself he would reward Denisov, when the admiral returned, even as he pushed him to prepare to defend the Union’s inner systems, and Montmirail itself, if necessary.
But, that feeling lasted only seconds before it was replaced by utter disbelief, followed almost immediately by unbridled rage.
He tapped the controls on the side of his headset, pausing the transmission, giving himself time to catch up to what he’d just heard. Denisov had indeed pulled the fleet back from destruction…but he’d taken it not on a course toward Montmirail, as he’d been ordered to do, but instead on a direct line across the border, and even into the Confederation itself.
Treason!
The word rattled through Villieneuve’s mind, even as the fury within him grew, and came out in a quivering rage. What the hell was Denisov thinking? Villieneuve had always thought of the officer as naïve, without the political instincts to maximize his prospects in the absence of outside help. But, he’d been sure Denisov detested the Confeds as much as he did. More, even. Villieneuve was a pragmatist, a man who would accept and believe anything that furthered his acquisition of power. Denisov was burdened by an integrity of sorts, and a blind loyalty to those who served with him. His hatred of the Confeds had its foundation deep in fallen comrades and battles lost, but it was genuine nevertheless.
What could have made Denisov disobey his orders and move toward the Confederation?
Villieneuve’s anger turned to confusion, and he wondered if there was a reason. Was it possible Denisov didn’t have a choice? That the route he’d taken was the only one that allowed a chance of escape.
That was possible…but then again, no it wasn’t. Regina Descortes was one of his best people, an agent with a long track record of success and loyalty. She wouldn’t have broken radio silence, risked her cover. Not unless she was sure there was treachery.
Her orders…
He remembered the commands he’d given Descortes before the fleet left, her instructions in the, then seemingly unlikely, event that Denisov violated his orders.
It was very simple, and an agent like Descortes would almost certainly carry out her orders. She was to confirm her suspicions, satisfy her own judgement that something was indeed happening. Then, she was to do what had to be done.
She was to kill Andrei Denisov and assume custodial command of the fleet…and return to Montmirail.
Villieneuve hated the idea of losing the first truly talented commander he’d found in years, but even more disturbing was the realization that the fleet’s return to Montmirail was now very likely blocked by the Hegemony fleet.
Descortes would almost certainly carry out her orders. She would kill Denisov, and that would leave the entire Union fleet cut off from home and pursued by a deadly new enemy.
Without the one man who could command the fleet, stay ahead of the pursuers, and find a way to survive the desperate struggle that had come upon them all.
Chapter Twelve
250,000,000 Kilometers from CFS Dauntless
Olyus System
Year 318 AC
The Battle of Megara – The Horsemen Attack
Stockton brought his fighter around, slicing across the line of advance most of his wings had taken toward the enemy battle line. Federov and Trent were leading their wings in even as he angled his own vector to the side, instead of straight ahead toward the main strike force.
He called his senior commanders the ‘Four Horsemen,’ a wink to a mysterious bit of pre-imperial literature he’d read
at the Academy, and now he vowed to himself he would trust in the reason he’d given them the moniker…his complete faith in their abilities and their loyalty. Anya Federov and Johannes Trent could lead the waves of bombers against the enemy battleships, as both had done before. But, the cluster bomb armed ships were blazing a new trail, employing a weapon they’d never used before. They needed him, and even though his own ship carried a torpedo, and not a pack of cluster bombs, he’d resolved to follow them in, to stand with the small force of his pilots who’d thrown themselves at the deadly escorts, with almost no concern for personal safety.
The losses had been severe, almost catastrophic…but the cluster bombs had proven to be enormously effective. Squadron after squadron had cut in, ripping toward the escorts, defying the deadly fire from the small ships. Dozens of fighters were hit. Some of their pilots managed to eject, and preserve at least a chance of rescue and a return to the fight, but most joined the ranks of their fallen comrades, the thousands of Lightning jocks who’d paid the ultimate price in the battles against the Hegemony.
The escorts were tough, even more effective than they’d been months before at Ulion, a fact that Stockton burned into his brain. If he survived the battle at Megara to fight again, he would never assume the enemy’s tactics or equipment would be the same as the last time. The Hegemony was too quick to adapt, too advanced, and too capable at putting new system into action.
But, two can play at that game…
He’d watched for the last twenty minutes as the assigned squadrons delivered their payloads. The cluster bombs carried smaller warheads than plasma torpedoes…but a Lightning’s Bombay carried payload of ten. They could be launched all together, vastly increasing the chance of scoring a hit…or, the most experienced pilots could blast them out individually, or in groups of two or three, vastly extending the time they could continue their attacks.
There was just one drawback. Minimizing the size of the weapons had reduced their range dramatically. The cluster bombs had to be fired point blank, and that meant taking an attacking ship right into the teeth of the target’s defensive fire.
Stockton had left it to Federov to choose which of her squadrons would fight the holding action against the escorts, and as he watched, he realized she’d selected some of her most experienced people. The fighters sliced in and out of the disordered ranks of the escorts, hitting them while they were still coming out of the minefield, trying to regain some level of cohesion in their formations.
And, they slammed into that disorganized mass of ships with a fury almost unimaginable. Fighter losses were restrained by the disorder in the Hegemony ranks…but increased again by the repeated attack runs, fighters going in three, four, even five times against enemy ships, enduring the withering point defense fire each time.
Stockton’s ship raced forward, his thrust still blasting hard and he followed the last of Federov’s bomb-armed squadrons in. His eyes scanned the display, checking damage assessments, looking for a target that didn’t have a squadron coming at it. He had a plasma torpedo, and he was damned sure going to put it to good use.
He nudged the throttle to the side, adjusting his vector slightly, bringing it in line with the escort he’d selected. It was one of the new ones, the cruisers. The thing seemed untouched, by either mines or by cluster bombs. Its defensive fire was utterly devastating, and Stockton felt the adrenalin flowing into his blood stream as his ship moved directly toward it. The plasma torpedo was a powerful weapon, strong enough to take out the cruiser, or at least cripple it…if he could bring it in close enough and plant it directly amidships.
He jerked the controls back and forth, throwing his ship into a wild series of evasive maneuvers, even as he maintained a course on the chosen ship.
Laser blasts ripped past his ship, lighting up his scanner board…a few almost making his hair stand on end they were so close. But, his combination of AI-assistance, talent, experience, and intuition held, even as he blasted toward the target ship alone.
He knew by then, every system on the Hegemony vessel had identified him as the sole close threat. Every gun on that ship—and the cruiser had a lot of weapons—would be aiming at him.
He swallowed hard, once again casting aside the notion that he was somehow immune to fear. He was scared to death, but, as he had so often done in the past, he was able to segment his mind into sections. His focus was like iron, even as some part of him wanted to break off and run. Wanted to live.
His hand tightened on the controls, his index finger laying lightly on the firing stud. The torpedo was armed and ready, and he was well within range. But, he wasn’t in the range he wanted to be. Not yet.
He saw the symbol on his screen growing, the range figures dropping rapidly, his hands tightening as he slipped under five thousand kilometers. His ship was gyrating wildly, but as he moved in under four thousand, the fire almost seemed to cover every meter of space. His confidence, so often the foundation on which his success was built, began to fail him, and he expected a shot to hit him, despite his greatest efforts to dodge the fire.
Still, somehow, he avoided every deadly bolt, every burst of high-powered laser energy directed toward his ship. The crew of the Hegemony vessel knew what to expect, he was sure of that now. They understood the threat his tiny ship presented, and they were doing everything possible to take him down. But, he held firm, locked unshakably on the target, even as a pair of lasers bracketed his ship, the closer of the two near enough to overload his port side scanning antenna.
He gasped to recover his breath, to hold his stone hard mental state, even as he plunged toward what had begun to seem like a dance with almost certain death.
He thought about Stara, wondered how she would feel about him sacrificing himself to take out one more enemy escort. He tried to push the thought away, but the image of her face, covered with bitter tears, remained, stubborn, unmoving. She would be angry with him, and devastated at his loss.
Assuming she survived the battle, something he realized was far from a certainty.
He could feel the sweat pouring down his body, the inside of his flight and survival suits a slick mess. Still, he ignored the discomfort. He even managed to ignore Stara’s image for a brief instant…and he pressed the firing control.
His ship lurched hard, even as he pulled back on the throttle and struggled to get away from the rapidly-approaching enemy ship. He’d scored a hit. He knew that much the instant he’d let the weapon fly, before the torpedo had even closed the distance. But, it remained to be seen if he’d managed the critical shot he’d needed, the killing strike that would take out one of the enemy’s strongest escorts, and probably save some of Federov’s people on their trip back.
The ship remained on his screen, even as he decelerated to bring his fighter back around to return to Dauntless. He felt disappointment. Ever one for the pilot’s love of the dramatic, he’d imagined a massive explosion, a thermonuclear display, as his torpedo cut right through the vessel’s hull and broke through its containment.
But no such visceral pleasure was to be his, not this time. The ship remained on his display, even as his Lightning began to come around to establish a return vector. He felt disappointment, though as he continued to stare at the screen, he saw the energy output of the target.
It wasn’t quite zero, but it was damned close. Close enough to render the cruiser a cripple, useless in the rest of the battle. Stockton had wanted to see an explosion, he’d wanted the raw animal excitement of blasting the Hegemony vessel and its crew to atoms. But, he would settle for knocking the ship out, for saving some number of his comrades from the vessel’s formerly deadly guns.
“Yes…” he said to himself, with some restraint, but no shortage of satisfaction for what he considered, for all practical purposes, yet another kill to add to his roster.
He looked up, checking the long-range scanners. Hundreds of his ships were still in action, even as many of their comrades headed back, bound for their motherships and
as quick a turnaround as the flight deck crews could manage. He felt the urge to head back toward the front line, to join the ships still going in…but his discipline slammed down and won out. He hated leaving any of his people in action while he returned to Dauntless, but the sooner he could get back and refuel and rearm, the quicker he could return to the fight.
And, he intended to keep fighting until there was no enemy left.
Or no Jake Stockton.
* * *
“Updated assessments coming in, Admiral. It looks like the enemy battle line has taken considerable damage.”
Barron turned his head toward the captain’s chair, even as Atara Travis finished her report. He nodded his acknowledgement. Between the two of them, that slight gesture, and a quickly exchanged glance, signaled complete understanding.
He knew she was working him, too, though, trying as she always had to protect him, even as he bore the responsibility of leading forty percent of the fleet’s hulls into battle. She’d avoided passing on the latest fighter reports, no doubt because the losses had been catastrophic. The enemy escorts had been hit very hard, but, despite the mines, and the vicious attacks of Federov’s squadrons, they’d managed to dish out the punishment as well as taking it. No fewer than a third of the bomb-armed fighters had been shot down or damaged, and a quick estimate suggested a solid fifteen percent of the pilots who had launched with cluster bombs would never return to the bays of their base ships.
Barron leaned back in his chair, analyzing the hordes of tiny dots, some still advancing on the enemy battleships, others breaking off, returning to base for resupply. There would be time for another strike, almost certainly. But, there would have been a respite before the returning bombers hit. Time the enemy could use to reorder themselves, and push their line forward, steadily toward Megara, forcing Barron’s battleships to engage them shortly after the second bomber assault…and risk the fury of the surviving railguns.
