Shadow Strike

by P. R. Adams

  It came down to accomplishing the mission.

  Morganson bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet. “Fire when ready, Ensign Ostmann.”

  Lights dimmed until the only glow was that of the giant display, which tracked weapons fire with representative streaks from the Spear of Destiny and the remnants of the fleet. With no obvious threats, the ships had dropped their shadow cloaks and power had largely been diverted from shields and propulsion to weapons.

  All along the Valor, the giant display showed hits and damage. Armor or not, it was taking powerful strikes, and those were quickly adding up. The super-composites of the hull overheated and exploded or simply warped and cracked. In some instances, a beam weapon cut through. There were no shields to deflect or distort or in any way diminish the attacks.

  Rather than relax, Ostmann seemed to grow more excited. “The strikes, each one is causing considerable damage, Captain.”

  “So I see.” Morganson considered the doctrine officer with a tilt of his head. “Without using a single missile, Commander.”

  It seemed that she might have blushed if she could. “Missiles would have been more efficient. And safer.”

  “Safety from what threat? The Kedraalians are powerless.”

  “Yet you have lowered your shields. A missile barrage from distance would make that less of a risk.”

  “There is no risk. We have—”

  Confusion twisted Ostmann’s face. “Colonel?”

  Morganson frowned. The color had faded from the young man’s already pale cheeks. “What is it, Ensign Ostmann?”

  “The Grunwald reports strikes. The Roma and Danube as well.”

  “Strikes? From what? The display shows no weapons fire from the—”

  Lights dimmed on the bridge, and the Spear’s damage control reports scrolled suddenly: forward sensor and point defense arrays had taken serious damage and were going offline.

  Ostmann shook his head. “Explosions. All along the forward hull, Captain. And now amidship.”

  “Explosions? On the hull?”

  “Yes. More ships reporting damage, Captain.”

  Did the Kedraalians have ships of their own capable of slipping past the limited sensors in use by the fleet? “Divert all power to sensors. I want—”

  “Sensors are damaged, Captain.” Ostmann’s eyes darted over the weapons station. “Grunwald has some capacity still.”

  “Have them scan for the source of these attacks! Power to shields! Back us to a safer distance!”

  The damage reports continued flashing more updates. Their light armor was being warped. Unarmored weapons systems were being taken offline. Everything that had been repaired over what had seemed endless days appeared to be targeted by whatever had…

  The Valor!

  What was it that had seemed so odd about the ship when he’d looked at it?

  He brought the scans back up. The bulkiness wasn’t meaningful. Enough technology properly deployed compensated for the greater profile. The strange texture of the armor on the hull didn’t seem relevant, either. Their weapons dealt with it easy enough. And none of the Valor’s weapons seemed the least bit a threat—

  The holes! It had to be the holes! Mines!

  Ensign Mencias leaned over his communications console. “Antenna damage, Captain. We have limited communications.”

  Ostmann’s face twisted even more. “Mines. Captain, the Grunwald reports mines. Thousands of them. Tracking our signals.”

  “The damned patrol ships!” Morganson slammed a fist down on his command console. “They alerted the shipyard to our approach.”

  “And they launched mines, Captain?”

  “The holes on the Valor. Not uncompleted weapons or systems.”

  “Mine ports?”

  “It must be. Launched and waiting for us. Continue accelerating away.”

  Whether the Valor had launched the mines or the shipyard, they had managed to put thousands into the space surrounding Morganson’s targets.

  And he had stepped right into the trap.

  The pleasure that had been on the doctrine officer’s face disappeared. Her lips seemed colorless. “Missiles could have been fired—”

  “They would have been targeted by the mines as well.”

  “Better to lose a handful of missiles—”

  “The ship and shipyard would be still untouched. The end result would be the same.”

  “Would it?” Voegel’s pale eyes now studied the damage report on the captain’s command console. “You have lost defense systems, sensor systems, and—”

  “We have lost nothing we can’t repair quickly.”

  “A delay, though. A delay to destroy the Valor and the shipyard. A delay to attack the Home Defense Fleet and Kedraal.”

  She was right. It would be hours. Maybe a day. Possibly even two. There was no point in correcting her. She knew that the design of the shadow technology limited their sensors and shields. What she cared about was his use of the missiles when he should have conserved them.

  But he had been anxious…terrified.

  Morganson turned away. “Ensign Ostmann, all ships with functional point defense systems will move between the rest of the fleet and the mines. Clear this threat. Have the rest of the fleet fire on the Valor with weapons from range.”

  The weapons officer nodded. He didn’t challenge as he might have before—the weapons would be effective firing from longer range if they managed lock-on, but they would be less effective with power allocated to shields. They might do better to launch the last of their ready missiles into the pursuing mines.

  Because Ostmann himself had failed. He had shown a glaring hole in his thinking and planning. He had allowed his captain to lead the fleet into danger.

  But there would be no latching onto that, no deflecting blame. There was plenty to go around.

  Voegel sighed. “The mission should be abandoned. We should make full speed for Kedraal.”

  “No.” Morganson had already made too many concessions. The sound of his imagined welcoming parade was distant. When he thought of the Supreme Commander, he didn’t see someone frightened by the star that had grown too bright to snuff out.

  Unless I find a way to turn loss into victory, I am just another of the Children now.

  “You lose valuable time here, Captain.” There was a sternness to Voegel’s voice.

  “Missiles will be ready soon. We will destroy the Valor.”

  “Taking precious seconds.”

  The captain refrained from slapping his hand against the console. He refrained from raising his voice. He refrained from striking her. Because he needed her on his side again. “We will take away their hope with this act. The time is worth it.”

  Voegel bowed her head. She would let him finish his work, but she wouldn’t observe it. They would take away the Valor—Kedraal’s grand accomplishment—and the ability to reproduce it.

  That would be all, though. It wouldn’t be portrayed as a significant victory, not like it should have been.

  Only laying waste to Kedraal itself could save Morganson’s hopes now.

  24

  The smell of smoke clung to the walls and furniture of the parliament building. Repair teams glanced up from their work as Benson and the newly minted prime minister strolled past. The workers quickly returned to evaluating the damage done by the bomb blast and fire, muttering softly among themselves. A cool, damp breeze blew in from a section where one team tore out charred and shattered wood. They tossed it into a robotic dumpster that filled half the wide hall. The glistening material—still soaked from the fire suppression system—slapped wetly against the metal container.

  Bitter ash was sharp on Benson’s tongue. It was temporary. In a few weeks, the walls would be back up. But no amount of repair could undo what she’d witnessed. Worse than the building, she wasn’t sure anything could be done to save the political body or the Republic itself.

  And Sargota is just as much to blame as Prime Minister Zenawi.


  It was a bitter thing to swallow, realizing that the mother who had been inflexible and combative throughout a childhood that had seemed to stretch on forever could be just as destructive toward their nation as to their home.

  Light reflected off the top of Zenawi’s head—white arcs on his dark skin—as he twisted to look back at her. “I’d never had the chance to read up on you before, Commander.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, I’ve glanced over summaries and the like when promotion packages and medals came through.” He smiled broadly. “I remember you from before you went off to the Academy, after all. When you were just—” He held a hand up to just below shoulder height. “But your psych evals…?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  “This gloom. The way you act like it’s the end of the world.” He chuckled. “It’s the behavior of a sore loser.”

  A game. He saw it all as a game. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Chin up. It’s over now.”

  They turned down the hall that would take them to the office he had inherited through clever maneuvers. Her mother had made those maneuvers more desperate and the outcome more inevitable. Zenawi had offered compromise and resolution, Sargota had demanded…

  Pressure built behind Benson’s eyes. “I hope the prime minister understands that I don’t consider this a loss.”

  “Oh? That’s good to hear.” He waved her into the office.

  People had been quicker about clearing out the dead prime minister’s belongings than about repairing the damage from the bomb that had killed her. The glass desk and black leather chair were new, but they were a little musty after being pulled from storage. Someone had cleaned the windows that looked out onto a gloomy day. There was still a faint ammonia smell in the air.

  Zenawi circled the desk, dragging a finger along one corner, as if marking his territory, then tossed a command tablet onto the clear surface before settling into the chair. He squeezed the ends of the armrests with fingers that seemed more ideal for typing than the sort of knife work his brand of back alley politics had once required.

  “Close the door and pull a chair up, Commander.” His eyes glistened mischievously. “Please.”

  She did, fighting back a sense of dread. She couldn’t quite figure out the old man’s game. If he expected a resignation or planned to issue arrest warrants, a meeting seemed wasteful.

  “I’ll bet you’re asking yourself what this is about?” His eyebrows arched.

  “Actually, I was curious.”

  “Well, it would seem that after all we’ve been through today, problems have only grown worse. A few unexpected things have come up.”

  He tapped the command tablet, then mumbled something into it before setting it down on the desk.

  “Mayday! Mayday! This is Commander Tuompo of the Alexandria Shipyard! Mayday—!”

  Zenawi waved a hand at the device. “The Valor. The shipyards.”

  “You mentioned there was an imminent attack.”

  “Beyond imminent now. The last transmission indicated that the Valor was destroyed, and the staff that hadn’t already escaped by shuttle were…” The prime minister turned to the freshly cleaned windows.

  “You had your people arrest thousands of personnel, Prime Minister.”

  The man’s head whipped back around. “We had no choice but to do that, I’m afraid. Until we know exactly what happened in the bombing, we can’t afford for some hothead to turn the military against the civilian government.”

  Benson bit back the reply that wanted to jump out; she counted to ten. “You’ve made yourself the legitimate prime minister now.”

  “See? That sounds bitter.” He chuckled. “But you’re right.”

  “So have your defense minister order everyone back to—”

  The older man held up a hand. “These things require some finesse.”

  “Is that a euphemism for more hit squads removing enemies?”

  “One second now, Commander. I understand you might think—”

  “We were thrown into a remote prison, then SAID assassins tried to kill us.”

  “You have proof of that?”

  “I doubt it. I would imagine the dead SAID assassins and the Marines they murdered have been disposed of.”

  Zenawi pursed his lips. “If you have proof, Commander, I need to know. The SAID has become a problem. I’m well aware of that. But without evidence, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “You never did anything about it when you were defense minister, either.”

  “A profound lack of evidence. I can see I have some work to do rehabilitating my reputation, but I can assure you I’m as concerned as you about the outsized influence of families such as the Patels and of their dangerous ties to the organization. And I fear the Patels are hardly the worst of it. But…”

  “But you won’t risk anything without proof.”

  “Exactly that. But that’s a problem for another day.” The prime minister nodded at the command tablet. “The pressing problem—an existential one—is the Azoren fleet that did this.”

  She shrugged. “You have the remnants of the Home Defense Fleet and the Iwo Jima.”

  “Not all of them, I’m afraid. Some crews refused to stand down.”

  “You—”

  “We didn’t fire on them, if that’s what you’re thinking. But they’re not in orbit.”

  “What do you have left?”

  “The important ships—the Iwo Jima, the Kolkata. Some of the heavier ships of the fleet. And your task force.”

  “My task force—”

  “Everything I’ve heard says our ships were ineffective until you inserted yourself, Commander Benson.” Zenawi’s dark eyes had the look of someone curious and confused, not someone who had orchestrated an Azoren attack.

  “Are you aware of what transpired at the Azoren DMZ recently, Mr. Prime Minister?”

  The prime minister’s eyes dropped. “A lot of operations have been approved to counter Azoren aggression, Commander.”

  “An SAID operation to increase the scale of hostilities against the Gulmar.”

  “Better the Gulmar than our own military.” It came out fast. Defensive. “I don’t think I have to tell you that your mother’s efforts to defang the military have left us in the precarious position of being unable to properly defend ourselves.”

  He knows about the DMZ operation, but how much? “Were you aware that SAID planned to not only test our ability to sneak through the DMZ using stealth technology but to leave evidence that we had done so and that they destroy an Azoren ship in the process?”

  Zenawi blinked rapidly. Either he was a phenomenal bluff, or he had no idea of all the operations ongoing inside the organization that had put him in power. He swallowed. “You have proof?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Those are dangerous accusations to make.”

  “Maybe that’s why the SAID wanted me dead.”

  The prime minister steepled his fingers in front of his face. “This stealth technology—that’s how you were able to detect the Azoren ships?”

  “Yes. We used it when we re-entered Azoren space a couple weeks back.”

  “Re-entered Azoren—” There was a skeptical glint to the man’s eyes. “Another SAID operation?”

  “Special Agent Samir Patel.”

  Zenawi groaned. “The Patels. The influence they wield… It’s dangerous.”

  “What’s more dangerous at the moment, Mr. Prime Minister, is that Azoren fleet.”

  “Yes. Yes! Thank you. That’s what led me to ask you to join me in my office. As you said, thousands of personnel were detained for security reasons, and I’m going to need someone those people trust.”

  “What about Captain Finkel?”

  “No.” There was no mistaking the finality of that. “The captain will be putting in his retirement papers promptly. What we’re looking for is someone who can bring the crews togeth
er by virtue of success in the field and a solid track record.”

  “A solid track record? I’ve been aboard a search-and-rescue vessel for the last four years.”

  “Yet you’ve shown yourself capable of commanding disparate forces in an unexpected situation. And you’re a distinguished graduate of the Naval Academy.”

  “I think you might have a few of those at your disposal, Prime Minister Zenawi.”

  “We might. None of them managed to send a message to the imprisoned crews and have them demand their guards stand down.” Zenawi pointed to the command tablet again. “I told you a few things had happened.”

  “The crews ordered the guards—”

  “Apparently, you have a couple of very…fearless officers in your group. A Dr. Dietrich and a Commander Scalise?”

  “Are they all right?”

  “Do you really think Marines would fire on their commanding officers?”

  “They should never have been put in a position to where they had to even think about it.”

  The prime minister shrugged. “Water under the bridge.”

  “We had a very sick officer—Lieutenant Ferrara.”

  “There were several wounded in the infirmary.”

  “This was cancer. A relapse.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “He needs treatment. Immediately.”

  Zenawi nodded. “Understandable. But, here’s the problem I’m faced with: I have a fleet in need of crew. I have a small group of ships that refuse to rejoin the fleet until their commanders are reinstated. I have an enemy fleet en route that can apparently attack without detection. And I need a fleet commander who can plow through all the egos and get people to come together to stop this threat. If I asked you to name someone who might match that description, what name might come to mind? Commander?”

  There was a welcome familiarity about the Pandora bridge. Benson found herself actually enjoying the constricting space, the stuffy air, and the layout that gave her direct access to the helm and communications. The seat adjusted to her shape, making her feel more welcome. Someone had cleaned the console and replaced some of the more worn components.

  The commander had never thought she could find dealing with an actual bridge crew so draining, but Scalise had shown just how tiring people could be.