* * *
SHAEF Headquarters
Lawrence City – Canaan
November 10th, 2462
Deep within the bowels of Coalition Defense Force HQ, the inner workings of the Canaan Alliance occupied several floors and tens of thousands of square meters of office space. In one such office, newly promoted Lieutenant General Benson Pipes toiled away at tasks others might view as trivial, but he, as a logistical officer now for fifteen years, knew would decide the war. At least he had until two nights before. An older man with fading hair and a face weathered from many years of active duty service, he was growing old. A knock on his door caused him to glance up from the report he’d been reading. “Enter!”
The door creaked open, and General Andrew MacIntosh strode through. “Benson, how are you doing? Don’t get up.” MacIntosh led the Victory Project, whose star achievement—the CSV Lion of Judah—gobbled up most of the press and attention, but there was much more to it than one large ship. “You look about as bad as I feel,” he remarked as he sat in one of the chairs.
“Of all the outcomes from the election, I never thought I’d live to see the day a man who calls himself a socialist and promotes peace with the League would win,” Pipes said with a downcast face. “It’s beyond explanation.”
“No, it’s not,” MacIntosh replied in his usual gruff tone. “We’ve been at war for thirty years. The civilians want a break, and they’re tired of family members coming home in a pine box.”
Pipes pursed his lips together. “My son came home in a coffin. It doesn’t make me a defeatist, or a coward.” My wife will never forgive me for it either. She thought I should’ve kept him off the front line.
“Privately, I completely agree with you, Benson. I detest Fuentes, the Peace Union, and everything they stand for. However—”
“We took an oath to follow the lawful orders of those appointed over us, and the President of the Terran Coalition is the commander-in-chief. I just recited the oath again last month when my promotion came through. I have it memorized.”
MacIntosh stared straight ahead then shook his head. “Me too, old friend. It’s ingrained in who we are. Now, what’d you ask me down here for?”
“I have some good news.” Pipes lifted an electronic tablet marked “Top Secret—Special Compartmentalized Information” and held it out toward the other man. “Have a look.”
Silence reigned in the office as MacIntosh dutifully unlocked the device with his fingerprint and an iris scan, then navigated using his finger.
Pipes stared at him as he did, knowing the report should make him happy. It contained the shakedown cruise and final checkout statements for all six anti-matter powered heavy cruisers that would form the backbone of the new CDF “Anti-Matter Force.” This was the end goal of the Victory Project; a mass-produced reactor, small enough for even a destroyer. They weren’t quite there, but the cruisers would do.
“Impressive,” MacIntosh said as he glanced up from the tablet and stared at Pipes. “My read of this is that everything went smoothly and you overcame all issues.”
“A shame they won’t get used now.”
A broad grin spread across MacIntosh’s face. “We’ve got two months until Fuentes gets into office. They’ll be used.”
“I wonder at times if Erhart had the right idea.” General Ulysses Erhart had been a well-respected CDF officer who went rogue and tried to steal a secret fleet of ships, intent on destroying League civilian population centers. “Not the bit about raining weapons of mass destruction down the core League worlds in the Orion spur, but about hitting the League hard. Now we’re not going to get the chance.”
MacIntosh scowled. “That man was a disgrace to the uniform. Need I remind you the Exodus Fleet is there in case of total League victory? It was our ace in the hole for the continuity of our civilization.”
“And the entire business with him helped Fuentes get elected,” Pipes said. He stood up suddenly and began to pace around the office. It was big enough to allow him to do so without being comical. “I’m considering resigning once he takes office.”
“Why?”
“Because as a uniformed officer, I can’t get involved in politics. Once I’m no longer in the service, I can. Someone ought to speak the truth.”
“There’s many people doing that, Benson. I need you here, and I’ll need you more than ever once he’s sitting in the White House. Especially with his vice president that promotes every anti-CDF conspiracy in the universe on her social media accounts.”
Pipes stopped suddenly and turned around. “Andrew, the League will rebuild the ships we’ve destroyed within twenty-four months. The only saving grace we’ve had is they’ve yet to deploy their home defense fleet. If we take our foot off their throats, when they come back to finish us off, we won’t be able to stop them.”
“I know.”
The quietness of how MacIntosh said the words bothered Pipes. It was as if the fight had gone out of his friend. “We should do something.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Erhart’s plan. It could work, but as I said, not in the way he thought. What if we hit the League’s ability to produce more combat vessels? Specifically, its shipyards. They provided the base of the enemy's military-industrial complex, and without those yards, they’ll be sidelined for decades. You can’t build new space elevators and orbital complexes in a year.”
“You’re not the first person to propose that, Benson. The risks are far too great.”
Pipes narrowed his eyes and stared down; his eyes bored into MacIntosh’s face. “Sir, with respect, we didn’t have a reason to take the risk. Now we do, and we’ve got the ships to execute it. Between our new cruisers and the advances in drone technology for small craft, the risk would be acceptable.”
MacIntosh held the look then let out a chuckle. “That’s why you called me down here, isn’t it? You’ve got a plan.”
“Professionals deal with logistics, sir. I’m a professional.”
“To say President Spencer is depressed is putting it mildly,” MacIntosh said as he stood up from the chair. “He needs a distraction. I’ll get you fifteen minutes with him. Come prepared, and don’t be surprised if everyone else in the room, shoots whatever you’ve come up with full of holes.”
It was Pipes’ turn to smile, a broad one that spread across his face. “I’ll be ready. Oh, I meant to ask, how’s David doing?” Especially after losing his son, David had become very important to Pipes. He’d never let on, except professionally, how much his success had meant.
“Good. He performed well on his last mission, but I think the entire CDF is a bit demoralized today. It’ll pass. Good day, Benson.”
Pipes stared at the door after MacIntosh had left before he sat down behind his desk once more. It crossed his mind he’d have to do an interactive holopresentation since the joint chiefs would likely be involved. He knew in his heart it was a long shot. Something must be done. I can’t live with myself if I allow the sacrifices of so many to be in vain.
2
League Navy Headquarters
Switzerland, Earth
November 10th, 2462
Even a couple of days after the election, Admiral Pierre Seville’s spirits were the highest they’d been in years, perhaps since right before his ill-fated mission to frame the Terran Coalition and bombard Canaan from orbit. Victory is within our grasp, and the Terrans don’t even realize it. He rounded the corner toward his office, receiving and exchanging salutes with several junior officers. The tall Frenchman, with his two bionic eyes, walked on.
As was his usual routine, Seville had arrived before his secretary and most of his staff. He strode into the ornately decorated office to find Director Dmitry Borisov waiting for him. A shorter man, he tended to blend into the background, as any good spy ought to.
“Admiral,” Borisov said as a greeting while he stood. “I didn’t get a chance to come down to see you yesterday. External Security kept me tied up with mee
tings.”
Seville pursed his lips together. The two of them had a love/hate relationship born out of convenience, forced upon them by internal League politics. His mouth curled up into a smirk. “Of course, Director. Please, can I get you anything? Tea, perhaps?”
“Ah, I’d love some vodka, but 0630 hours is too early, even for me. No, sit. I want to compare notes.”
It wasn’t lost on Seville that, while friendly, Borisov took every opportunity to remind him of who was in charge, down to telling him what to do in his own office. He kept up the charade and sat behind the ornate desk, itself a several-hundred-year-old antique. “I must confess, I lacked confidence in your plans to get a socialist elected to the presidency of the Terran Coalition.”
“I didn’t so much get a socialist elected as I helped steer the conversation of their so-called democracy. Once you understand that these capitalist dogs are driven by a short term, twenty-four-hour news cycle, it’s quite easy to manipulate them. We tricked them into voting for a man whose political beliefs are in the same strata as our own. The sad thing is, he’s probably too stupid to even realize it, much less his followers.”
Seville fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I see. Well, now that we have a favorable government on the other side, I trust the politicians will achieve decent terms for a peace treaty. At least, that’s what the few friends I have left are telling me.”
“Still being blamed for our defeats in the Orion Arm?” Borisov asked, his eyes staring through Seville as if he could see straight into his soul.
“Unfortunately, yes. I’ve tried to get the Public and Social Safety Committee to see reason and release our home fleet. But…”
Borisov snorted then laughed. “Those doddering old men cling to the past. They fear losing Earth, so our massive fleet sits there, doing nothing. In ways, they’re as backward as the Terran Coalition.”
“I do have my fears about the next few months. The Terrans system of government keeps the current president in power. He may try something.”
“Like what?” Borisov waved his hand in the air. “They can’t invade our core worlds, and with our agitprop going day and night, any major strokes against us will be labeled as being against the will of the people. All we have to do is sit back and enjoy watching them implode.” He smiled wolfishly. “I told you a year ago, Pierre, let me do what I’m good at. In five years, you will sit at the head of a three-thousand-ship fleet, crushing the last vestiges of resistance to the League. For now, we sit tight.”
Overconfident bastard; I hope he’s right. “Any movement on adjusting the committee members?” Seville asked, changing subjects mid-stream.
“Some. The peace treaty, when it happens, will help with this.”
Seville held up a finger. “Remember, we must get control of Unity Station to ensure success.”
“Patience, my dear Admiral.”
“That is easy for you to say. I’ve spent my life fighting these religious extremists and the toxic beliefs they spew. Freedom.” Seville made a sound akin to someone beginning to vomit. “I detest it. I will not leave this existence until I exterminate them and their ideology from the face of the universe.”
Borisov stood and flashed a smile at him. “Both of us will live to enjoy that day, Admiral. Until then, keep your head down. There are still many difficult days between now and then—mostly due to political machinations within our government. As always, I’ll protect you as best I can. You will still encounter some landmines.”
“Of course.” I’ve been defeating do-nothing politicians since you were in diapers, Borisov. “Good day, director.”
“You as well.” Borisov turned on his heel and left a brooding Seville at his desk, staring at the day’s work.
* * *
Coalition Defense Force - HQ
Lawrence City – Canaan
November 11th, 2462
Three days had passed since the election. Three days and three sleepless nights. It was the defining moment of Justin Spencer’s life, much to his chagrin. Part of him wanted to fade away into obscurity, say nothing on the matter and refuse all interviews between now and the inauguration of Edwardo Fuentes. I’m a better and bigger man than that. And so, here he was, in a richly appointed conference room inside of CDF HQ, listening to his weekly briefing on the status of the war. This one was for the Terran Coalition only. There was another briefing that contained the Saurians. We do love our meetings. Meetings about meetings, at times.
“As you can see, sir, we’re in a holding pattern along the front, mein President,” the deep, German-accented voice of General Wilhelm Becker said through the hololink to his flagship in the Orion spur. “We have multiple avenues on which we can continue to pursue contact with the League, but further planetary invasions are at least three weeks away from possible initiation.”
“Mister President, I’d strongly recommend we focus on degrading the League’s ability to project power toward our side of the Milky Way. Controlling ground does us little at this point,” another general, with numerous campaign ribbons and a chest full of medals, complained from across the room.
General Andrew MacIntosh cleared his throat. “The more ground we hold, the better the odds of getting a good treaty out of the League.”
“Any treaty made with the League isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on,” Spencer said darkly. “Our experiences with them should have proven that once and for all.”
The men and women in uniform said nothing; it would be improper for them to do so. The Uniform Code of Military Justice made it clear that officers and enlisted personnel of the Coalition Defense Force were not to engage in political campaigning. Still, there were slight nods of the head out of several.
“We have two months, Mister President,” Secretary of Defense Dunlevy said. He had served with Spencer during his entire term. He adjusted the tie on his civilian business suit. “What do you want us to do?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? What are my orders as the commander-in-chief? I’ve got the same choice with this war as I do for myself. I can sit back and ride it out—or I can do what I know is right. Spencer set his jaw and gazed around the room. “General Okafor,” he began, directly addressing the new chairman of the joint chiefs of staff. “I want your people’s best ideas on how to inflict maximum damage in the next sixty days. The gloves are off. Any target, aside from civilians, are valid. Do I make myself clear?”
Simon Okafor—a burly man with a deep dark-skinned complexion and the country flag of the African Union on his shoulder, spoke next. “Crystal clear, sir. We’ll have you a range of options by Monday?”
“No,” Spencer replied. “Tomorrow.”
A cloud passed over Okafor’s face before he responded, “Yes, sir.”
“If anyone else has ideas, toss them in. No egos here.” There was silence in the room after Spencer’s comment. “Okay. Are we done?”
“Yes, mein President. We have nothing else for you at this time,” Becker replied through the hololink.
“In that case, Godspeed and you’re all dismissed.”
There was a mad dash to the door as the dozens of CDF officers and civilians from the department of defense vacated the conference room. The protocol was for Spencer to remain behind with his security detail before exiting along a pre-cleared path. Today, Dunleavy, Okafor, and MacIntosh remained behind. The three of them traded glances before Okafor spoke. “Mister President,” he began, a rich lilt in his accented English. “Could we speak privately and frankly, sir?”
Spencer held up his hands and smiled. “Permission to speak freely, granted.”
“Sir, I’m concerned any poorly planned operations will carry significant risk. Risk that will carry forward to the next administration and beyond. The Coalition Defense Force isn’t able to absorb extreme losses and rebuild quickly.”
Dunleavy leaned forward. “I think what General Okafor is saying, sir, is don’t be rash.”
Spencer steeled his gaze toward the Se
cDef and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Rash… if the electorate hadn’t been rash by electing a man who wants to throw away—” He trailed off. “I’m sorry. My emotions are getting the better of me. Please accept my apologies, gentlemen.”
“To hell with Fuentes,” MacIntosh said gruffly, drawing sharp glances from Okafor and Dunleavy. “Oh, don’t even act surprised. We’re all thinking it, I’m just old enough not to care anymore—enough about him. My logistics chief, Lieutenant General Pipes, had a suggestion. In a nutshell, attack the League’s shipyard capabilities.”
“Out of the question,” Okafor interjected. “They’re in orbit of the enemy’s core worlds. The most heavily guarded locations in the entire League of Sol.”
MacIntosh crossed his arms in front of his chest and rumbled on. “He’s got a plan. Pipes has been with me long enough that I know it’s worth hearing out.”
It would sure set the League’s war machine back a decade or two. Spencer allowed a small smile to spread across his face. “He’s got until tomorrow afternoon to brief me.”
“Mister President—”
“General Okafor,” Spencer began. “You’ll have an opportunity to object. Hitting the League’s ability to make new ships would reduce their ability to project power into our space, would it not?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“Then I want to hear the plan. Get with my chief of staff and have something good ready. Dismissed.”
* * *
With most of the humans downcast and unpleasant to be around, Aibek decided to consume his midday meal in his cabin. It was expansive and not much smaller than David’s, though he—like most Saurians—was a minimalist. Lunch consisted of barely seared steak, with a side of potatoes. Between bites of food, he barely chewed—his stomach didn’t require it, so most Saurians didn’t—he pondered the events of the last few days. I hope the humans do not waver from fighting the good fight. They have shown much honor to me, but perhaps not all of them are the same.
Run the Gauntlet: Echoes of War Book Six Page 2
