When the Guns Roar

by Eric Thomson

  “Where I would sit alone and unloved. Pass. But if you don’t want me in your CIC, please say so.”

  “Perish the thought. I couldn’t think of a better way to harass the boneheads than with you breathing down my neck.” He grinned at her. “That was a joke, by the way. I know you’ll be a low maintenance flag officer and considering Task Force Luckner’s mission, it’s the logical approach.”

  “Glad we still agree on things, Zeke, considering you’re also my de facto second in command and chief of my non-existent staff. The promotion and appointment orders from SOCOM should be here by now. Admiral Mensall held them back only so he could act on Admiral Xi’s behalf and inform us of our respective assignments. Why don’t you log them and read yourself in as Iolanthe’s captain?”

  “And the rest of the task force?”

  “Would you be so kind as to set up a command conference in an hour? I’d rather tell everyone in person.”

  “Done.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll remove my personal effects from your day cabin.” She gave him a sly smile. “Should I leave you the chess set?”

  “Emma’s not much of a player, so I won’t be using it to browbeat her as my former captain used to do.”

  “Browbeat? Really, Zeke?”

  Holt raised both hands, palms facing outward, in surrender.

  “You’re the one who considers chess a blood sport, Commodore, not me. And just as a side note, I really enjoy calling you commodore.” He glanced around and asked in a low voice, “How did Lena take it?”

  “Better than I thought. But if there ever was even an infinitesimal chance of us becoming, if not friends, then at least comrades before my promotion, it’ll never happen now. Not even if we live until the end of all things. She’s taking the one of those staff job at Fleet HQ they give officers whose chances at promotion are over.”

  “Because of Hawkwood and Tamurlane?”

  Dunmoore made a dubious face.

  “I might merely have confirmed what Admiral Xi and the rest of the senior SOCOM staff suspected about Lena. I added a confidential note for Admiral Xi’s eyes only to the patrol report, explaining why the destroyers took so many hits when our plan called for them to shoot and scoot. With Petras out of commission, there was probably no one left at SOCOM willing to speak for her.”

  Holt shrugged dismissively.

  “That’s what happens when you let careerist ambitions override everything else. Piss enough people off, or simply make them figure you’re an asshole behind that insincere smile, and they won’t say boo when you really need a friend.”

  Dunmoore gestured toward the passageway.

  “We should move along. Mind you, I feel sorry for her in a way. She didn’t distinguish herself as a frigate captain, but very few of us who held commands in the war’s early years came across as great naval tacticians. Not when the Shrehari were hammering us with enthusiasm. You may recall the price I paid for losing Shenzen because, as the court-martial said, I showed too much aggression.”

  Holt fell into step beside her.

  “And you might recall my testimony at that court-martial absolving you of recklessness.”

  “Yes, and I’ve always believed it ensured my exile to Toboso as second in command rather than burial in an obscure staff branch at Fleet HQ, where I’d have spent the rest of the war as a terminal lieutenant commander.”

  “You give me too much credit, Commodore.”

  Dunmoore stopped and placed her hand on Holt’s upper arm.

  “No. I think I’ve not given you enough credit over the years, Zeke.”

  A lazy grin spread across his face.

  “SOCOM didn’t give me Iolanthe just because of my rakish good looks. The efficiency reports you wrote praising me to a higher heaven than I deserve surely played a role in Admiral Xi’s decision. Think of it this way, your last two first officers were promoted on your watch and given their own commands. What does that say about your leadership? And the way you take care of us?”

  “All right,” Dunmoore growled. “Let’s not get maudlin. Help me move my stuff out of your office and into my quarters. And you will keep the chess set as my promotion gift.”

  “Yes, sir, Commodore. And thank you.” Holt let out a comical bark of laughter. “I still enjoy saying that word. Commodore. Oh and be prepared for Emma’s invitation to eat your meals with Iolanthe’s officers — once she finds out about her promotion and concomitant appointment as president of the wardroom. She’ll make a superb first officer, but I’m sure the efficiency reports you wrote are the main reason she’s moving into my former cabin.”

  “Shall I preside over Emma’s promotion?”

  “Absolutely. She’ll be delighted.”

  “Then let’s get you sorted and decide where and when. But you will pin her new stripes on.”

  As they entered what was now Holt’s day cabin, Dunmoore checked her step so she didn’t instinctively sit behind the desk. After a moment of hesitation, she pointed at the captain’s chair.

  “Try it.”

  Holt obeyed, smiling with unfeigned pleasure.

  “Nice. I’m enjoying the view.” He reached for the intercom. “Commander Cullop to the captain.”

  A few seconds passed, then, “Cullop here, sir. Congratulations. I just heard the commodore pinned on your new rank badge.”

  “And she told me my old rank badge needs a new home on my first officer’s collar. Congratulations, Emma. You’re it. Assemble the crew and soldiers on the hangar deck in fifteen minutes. We’ll do this properly.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Captain, out.”

  Dunmoore pointed at his desk display.

  “Read yourself in as Iolanthe’s captain, Zeke. Otherwise, you can’t promote Emma.”

  “Of course.” He retrieved the orders from SOCOM, logged them, and then said, “Computer, I am Captain Ezekiel Sebastian Holt, NO201553.”

  “Identity acknowledged,” Iolanthe’s primary AI replied in its smooth, androgynous voice. “Congratulations on your promotion and appointment, Captain.”

  “I hereby take command of the battlecruiser Iolanthe, hull number BCQ2400.”

  “I have logged your assumption of command and keyed all functions to your identity. The official notice is posted in every compartment.”

  Holt sat back and gave Dunmoore a pleased look.

  “There. The Furious Faerie is mine now.”

  “I wish you joy of your time as her captain. She’s the finest ship I ever sailed, with the finest crew in the entire Fleet, bar none.”

  “Thank you.” Holt climbed to his feet. “Let’s shift your dunnage. Do me a favor for Emma’s promotion. Let me enter the hangar deck first and call the ship’s company to attention. You received the eleven whistle salute at the airlock, but there are a lot of folks aboard who want to honor your promotion as well.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. And even if I tried giving you one, Chief Guthren would make me regret it for the rest of my natural life.”

  Dunmoore snorted. Iolanthe’s redoubtable coxswain was a legend in his own right and another old shipmate who’d experienced her victories and defeats in equal measure.

  “Understood.”

  **

  “Ship’s company, Atten-SHUN.”

  Captain Ezekiel Holt’s command echoed across Iolanthe’s cavernous hangar compartment. Several hundred booted feet stomped on metal plates, giving birth to a secondary echo no less deafening than the first.

  “Commodore on deck.”

  That was Dunmoore’s cue. She stepped through the inner doors and marched down the heart of the formation. It was composed of two elements facing each other — spacers to her left and E Company, 3rd Battalion, Scandia Regiment on her right. Holt stood in the middle, hand raised to his brow in salute. She stopped three paces from him and returned the compliment.

  “Commodore,” he said in a voice pitched to carry, “on behalf of my crew and soldiers, I wish to expre
ss our pride at hoisting your broad pennant in Iolanthe.”

  “I couldn’t ask for a finer flagship, Captain.” Dunmoore dropped her hand and asked in a normal tone, “May I address the formation?”

  “Certainly, sir. They’re also your crew and soldiers.”

  “In that case, please put them at ease.”

  “Sir.” He raised his voice again. “Ship’s company, stand at EASE. Stand easy.”

  She turned on her heels and let her eyes roam over the assembled ranks. Everyone present was watching her with interest, or perhaps examining the single gold star on her collar, to make sure they weren’t seeing things.

  “I cannot adequately express my feelings at standing among you no longer as your captain, but as the flag officer commanding Task Force Luckner. Iolanthe is the deadliest weapon of war our navy ever commissioned, and my turn as her skipper was an honor unmatched by anything in my career. I doubt I shall ever serve with more professional spacers and soldiers. Captain Holt’s promotion and appointment as my successor are richly deserved. I know he will keep the name Iolanthe shining brightly among the stars just as I know you will serve him with the same dedication you showed since I came aboard. As your former captain, I thank you.”

  She took a breath before continuing.

  “As your new flag officer, I can assure you we will return to the fight, and soon. Those bloody noses we gave the boneheads so far are nothing compared to what we will do now that we’ve put them off balance. And we’re not alone. While we were raiding deep inside enemy space, other formations attacked the Shrehari forces occupying our star systems and resupplied the resistance movements that are giving their ground troops not a single moment of respite. The winds of war are turning, and we will do our utmost to make sure they turn fully against the enemy, so he cries for mercy under the roar of our guns.”

  She raised her hand in salute again and spoke the Q-ship’s motto, “We strike without warning.”

  Hundreds of voices shouted back with raw enthusiasm, “We strike without warning.”

  Dunmoore turned to Holt.

  “I believe we have a new first officer to promote and appoint, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir. Commander Emma Cullop, front and center.”

  — Twenty-Three —

  “Commodore?” Holt stuck his head into Dunmoore’s quarters. “Your captains are present in the conference room.”

  “Present?” She looked up from her reader. Something about his tone roused her suspicions. She cocked a questioning eyebrow at Iolanthe’s new commanding officer. “Why does your pronouncement fill me with dread? What did you do?”

  “I’m hurt, sir.” Holt placed his hand over his heart. “When I convened the conference, they unanimously asked to come over and congratulate you in person. Since we’re orbiting within a few kilometers of each other, it seemed a simple request to grant, especially since there’s plenty of parking space on the hangar deck.”

  Dunmoore shook her head in mock exasperation, though she allowed herself a pleased smile.

  “Agreed.”

  “Emma laid on a little cocktail hour in the wardroom for afterward. It would be a shame if we brought them here and didn’t raise a glass in your honor.”

  “And we’re deviating from the path of amicable agreement.”

  “You’ll love it, sir. Were you perusing our orders?” Holt nodded at the reader in her hand.

  “Yes, and you’ll enjoy them. But they’re sealed until we leave this star system, lest the slightest hint of our destination reaches enemy ears.”

  A piratical grin lit up Holt’s face.

  “Mystery orders. The best kind. Since you don’t seem dismayed, I gather you consider our next mission well within Task Force Luckner’s capabilities.”

  “Not only within our capabilities, Zeke, but an inspired imitation of a raid carried out during Earth’s second global conflict, though we will make it a round trip, not a one-shot deal.” She placed the reader on her desk and wiped its screen before climbing to her feet. “And you’ll have to wait the same as everyone else before finding out.”

  Holt led her up the spiral staircase and along the command deck passage to the conference room. As they neared, the open door, Dunmoore’s ears picked up a subdued rumble of mixed conversation, but it ceased instantly the moment Holt entered.

  “Captains, the commodore.”

  He stepped aside and ushered her in. Task Force Luckner’s commanding officers were standing at attention behind their chairs, arrayed by order of seniority on either side of the table. Dunmoore saw nothing but pleased smiles, though Gregor Pushkin wore the biggest grin of all.

  “At ease. Sit, and thank you for attending my first command conference in person.”

  “It was the right thing to do, sir,” Pushkin replied. “I know I speak for everyone when I express our pleasure at your promotion and appointment. We couldn’t wish for a better flag officer now that Admiral Petras is on the injured list.”

  Vigorous nods greeted his statement.

  “Try to remember that sentiment when we face the enemy’s guns in a few weeks, Gregor.” When she saw the gleam in his hooded eyes, Dunmoore said, “Yes, I received orders along with my promotion. They’re the sort that can’t be shared until we’re well away from prying eyes and intrusive ears. But if our mission meets with success, Task Force Luckner might end up as more than just a footnote in the annals of naval history.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Farren Vento of Narses replied. “But I can’t for the life of me come up with a mission more tailored to our abilities than what we’ve been doing so far, Commodore.”

  “She mentioned something about imitating a pre-diaspora raid,” Holt interjected. “Second World War on Earth, if you’re inclined to sift through your ship’s historical database.”

  “I might just do that.”

  Dunmoore cleared her throat to end the sidebar before it went any further.

  “Once we cross the heliopause, before our first jump in interstellar space, we will reconvene — via holographic projection this time — and go over those orders. Right now, I want to discuss how I’ll run Task Force Luckner.”

  “Without a flag captain, I hope,” Vento said, proving he still smarted at Corto’s glory hound comment before the attack on FOB Tyva.

  “Without a staff, period, Farren. Commodores running a task force don’t rate one. Zeke has kindly offered to provide what support I need and arrange for a second command chair in Iolanthe’s CIC. Since I don’t expect to direct my ships’ actions once the battle is joined, I won’t need a dedicated flag crew and bridge.”

  “Especially if said bridge sits next to one of the main shield generators,” Kirti Midura added with a bitter smile. “Given enough enemy fire, they can fail spectacularly, as Hawkwood’s new and highly irregular skylight proves.”

  “Since you broached the subject, did the dry dock’s chief engineer give you a sense of how long for repairs?”

  She gave Dunmoore a so-so shrug.

  “Initial estimate based on my damage report is six days of continuous, around the clock, work. They hadn’t begun the physical survey when I left Hawkwood just now.”

  “And can they handle around the clock?”

  “So he says.”

  Dunmoore turned to Tamurlane’s captain.

  “What about you, Idris?”

  “Three days tops. The damage was mostly confined to my shield generators, and we pulled the burned-out units during our jump inward from the heliopause, so it’s just a matter of fitting and testing replacements. They promised me delivery from the engineering stores within the next six hours.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “Sir, do our orders give you the leeway to wait for the completion of Hawkwood’s repairs?” Midura asked. “I’d rather we didn’t miss out on becoming more than just a footnote in naval history.”

  “See her out of dry dock within the next one hundred and forty-four hours, and you’ll sail with the rest of the
task force.”

  “I’ll make sure it happens, even if it means putting the crew out on the hull in spacesuits so they can push.”

  A few amused chuckles greeted her heartfelt declaration, not least because of the absurd imagery it evoked.

  “Fair enough. About my operating procedures. I will keep most of Admiral Petras’ instructions as-is. They make sense, we’re used to them, and they leave us enough flexibility. Where I will deviate is in the realm of tactics. Though beyond breaking the wolf pack into individual ships rather than pairs or trios, so we can patrol a larger area, I’m afraid it will be improvisation on the spot, depending on the enemy’s tactics or their adaptation to ours. That being said, when in doubt, remember the words of Admiral Horatio Nelson — captains cannot do very wrong if they place their ships alongside those of the enemy.” She paused. “Except for our scouts and transport. They should lead the enemy on a fruitless chase and thereby clear the way for our rated warships to seize the day.”

  Dunmoore waited for the inevitable chuckles to subside before continuing.

  “So much for my command philosophy, which will no doubt evolve as I settle into the job. Our next mission, however, which I cannot discuss until we’re well away from here, will require us to operate as a regular battle group once we reach the target, but only for a brief period. My own orders will cover the necessary contingencies.” Another pause. “The deck is open for questions.”

  **

  “Is everyone ready?” Holt asked, looking around the wardroom where Task Force Luckner’s captains had joined Iolanthe’s off-duty officers for a small celebration after the command conference.

  “We’re good, sir,” Commander Cullop said raising a stemless glass filled with wine so rich its deep red coloration seemed almost black. “You can go ahead.”

  “Captains of Task Force Luckner, officers of the gallant Q-ship Iolanthe, I propose a toast to our new commander, Commodore Siobhan Dunmoore. Long may her broad pennant fly.”

  “Hopefully not too long,” she said in a stage whisper, triggering a few grins. “I count on raising a rear admiral’s flag someday.”

  Holt winked at her.