In Death Ground s-2

by David Weber

  Hafezi's eyes didn't waver. "I respectfully disagree, Sir."

  They continued to lock eyes while the rest of the staffers tried to be inconspicuous and Sommers wondered why the chief of staff was so determined to make this a contest of wills. Could it be, came the unwelcome question, because I'm a woman?

  Feridoun came from a tradition of educated cosmopolitanism; serving under a Westerner wouldn't gall him. But a woman . . . ?

  It wasn't even that she was a Western woman. There was a strain in Islam which had always equated Western woman with whore, but he'd no more have any truck with that than Sommers would with the trashier elements of the West's past. Indeed, an Islamic woman might actually have been worse, summoning up from his mental background certain assumptions about the proper roles of the sexes that not even his austere and intellectualized form of Islam had ever entirely exorcized.

  But none of that mattered, for Sommers was in command, and she had to stay there if they were to have any hope, however forlorn, of survival. Attempts to command by committee-or COs who waffled when decision time came-were a prescription for disaster Aileen Sommers had no intention of following. And, she thought grimly, given that a Type Seven is our only real chance to get out of this system alive, I'm not about to debate logic-versus-instinct with anyone.

  "Your objection is noted, Commodore, and you may have it on record in any form you wish. Nevertheless, we will continue to conduct our survey as per my orders. Is that clear?" Sommers' final question was not just for Hafezi, for her eyes swept over the entire staff.

  Only one other pair of eyes wavered under that regard. Commander Arabella Maningo, the logistics officer, looked left and right as though searching for something that wasn't there. When she spoke, her voice was at first quiet to the point of inaudibility and level to the point of expressionlessness, only gradually taking on a high quaver. "What does any of this matter? Even if we do find a warp point and get through it, we'll just be one more system further away from home. And then we'll have to find another warp point, and then another, on and on forever, and eventually our ships will wear out and our life-systems will degrade-"

  "That will do!" The bullwhip crack in Sommers' voice brought Maningo's head jerking up, eyes blinking, and the fog of incipient hysteria in the compartment seemed to dissipate. "I know that pressing on into the unknown is a bleak option. But it happens to be the only option we've got! And it's not hopeless. Remember, the Federation and its allies comprise one hell of a lot of warp nexi. It's not at all out of the question that we'll happen onto one of them. And we're equipped for long-term independent operations. Our maintenance resources won't give out any time soon . . . assuming that you manage to do your job."

  Maningo's eyes flashed and her jaw clenched. Good, Sommers thought. Better anger than the lugubrious despair that would overtake them if they let the nightmare vision of suffocating in their own wastes, lost in an infinity of cold dark emptiness, take up residence in their heads. She found herself half-wishing that the Bugs would find them-this waiting was killing them as dead as combat could, and taking longer about it.

  She shook the thought away and met all their eyes again. "We will continue to pursue whatever avenue holds out any hope of survival. That is our minimal obligation to our personnel. Giving up is not an option we are permitted!" She made sure none of those eyes met hers, either in defiance or with a mute plea to let them all lie down and die, before she adjourned the meeting.

  * * *

  The Bugs found them midway into the second watch of the following day.

  Sommers and Hafezi were both on the flag bridge, maintaining a mutual politeness which was brittle in its frigidity, when the sensors erupted in electronic panic. A dozen gunboats, sweeping out of the blackness into close sensor range of Jamaica's own battlegroup. They were also within missile range of the group's two battle-cruisers.

  "Get them!" Sommers snapped as the gunboats turned tightly to escape with their news. But missiles were already arrowing forth from Jamaica and Roma as per standing orders. Nine were blasted apart, yet three got beyond the missiles' reach. Sommers and Hafezi looked at each other wordlessly, all differences forgotten. By unspoken consent, they turned to the system display in which the four tiny battlegroups and the skulking cluster of carriers and freighters swam. Of course there'd be no change in Bug dispositions yet. But as soon as those surviving gunboats' messages could speed across the light-minutes . . .

  She stared for a moment at the icon that represented her own little battlegroup-in addition to the battle-cruisers she had the Hun-class scout cruiser Uzbek and the CLE Marblehead-and then turned to Hafezi. "Feridoun, I want the battlegroup to proceed on this course." She used her remote, and a string-light grew in the holotank.

  "Away from the others, Sir?"

  "That's right. We're the only ones whose location the Bugs know. I want to draw them away from the rest of the flotilla."

  "We'd stand a better chance of defending ourselves if we joined forces, Sir. Especially with the carriers-"

  "Negative. Even combined, we wouldn't stand a chance against the Bug forces in this system. No, the other groups' best defense is invisibility. Which means, among other things, that the carriers are not to launch their fighters, in support of us or for any other reason. It would maximize the Bugs' chances of detecting them, and their lack of a command ship to datalink their point defense makes them peculiarly vulnerable." She gave the chief of staff a hard look. "Carry out your orders, Commodore."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Hafezi said without a perceptible pause.

  Jamaica's battlegroup swung into its new course, and as the minutes crept by the scarlet lights of incoming gunboats began to pop into existence on Sommers' plot like a rash breaking out. No way, she thought. They've got us. No self-deception. And no searching Feridoun's face for reproach. She straightened her back and gazed at the viewscreen on which the approaching death was, of course, not to be seen. At least the others will have more time for a search. It's still not impossible that some of them could-

  "Admiral!" The voice from the com station was almost unseemly in its loudness. "Priority signal from Thémis. They've found it, Sir!"

  "Found it? Found what?" Sommers blinked away her oppressively dark thoughts and fought to shift mental gears.

  "A warp point, Sir! A Type Seven, located . . . well, they're downloading it now, Sir."

  In the holotank, to the "east-northeast" of the primary star at a distance of about sixty light-minutes from it, the icon of a warp point winked into life like the electric signpost of a doorway out of Hell.

  "Admiral! You were right!" It never for an instant occurred to Sommers to suspect Hafezi of brown-nosing. There was nothing in his face but relief and unaffected congratulation. "We can turn around and make it out before any of the gunboats reach us."

  "No." Sommers' quiet monosyllable wiped the chief of staffs face clean of every expression but bewilderment. "Our other groups are all closer to it than we are-and we have no knowledge of the Bugs' strength in their vicinity." She shook her head. "No, we'll continue to try to draw the Bugs after us. Order all other elements of the flotilla to clear the system ASAP."

  For a moment that stretched, Hafezi stared at her. Then he spoke levelly. "Admiral, have you considered the effect this order will have on our personnel's morale? There's no way we can keep the rumor from circulating through this ship that a warp point's been found."

  And that I'm slamming that doorway out of Hell shut in their faces. She forced herself to smile. "Feridoun, you've been a naval officer long enough to know that the only antidote to rumor is forthrightness." (Although, her familiar imp reminded her, some officers never learned it.) "I'll address the crew, and have it patched through to the other three ships. I'll tell them the situation, and explain to them that this is the way to maximize the chance of survival for some of our people, and that it is therefore our duty."

  "With great respect, Admiral, are you sure it's our duty? Are you certain this does
n't go just a little beyond it? Is it possible that you're . . . trying to prove something?"

  "I'll ignore that last question, Commodore. But as to the nature of our duty . . . yes, this is my interpretation of it. And my interpretation is the one that counts, isn't it?"

  "Of course, Admiral. I'll give the necessary orders." Hafezi turned to go, then paused and faced her, and a smile flashed in the beard he'd managed through everything to keep as precisely sculpted as ever. (She recalled the Prophet's admonition to the faithful to grow beards so as not to be mistaken for Romans but to trim them so as not to be mistaken for Jews.) "By the way, I meant it: you were right and I was wrong, and those who do get out of this will owe their lives entirely to you." Then he was gone before she could think of a response.

  * * *

  The battlegroups led by Thémis and Belvedera had transited the newly discovered warp point, and both times Jamaica had rung with cheering that had promptly subsided as they'd all gone back to awaiting the approaching gunboats. Finally, the red and green icons crawled together in the holotank, and time seemed to accelerate.

  Twenty-odd gunboats swept in from the blackness, sprinkling the battlegroup with missile fire that point defense could deal with. Then they came on through a storm of second-generation close assault missiles, seeking self-immolation. Three of them survived long enough to find it.

  A starship's first line of defense against collisions-intended and otherwise-is its electromagnetic shields. Its second line of defense is its space-distorting drive field, without which any physical impact at such velocities would be totally and spectacularly fatal. It is only after both of these are overloaded that the occupants are affected in any way, for any violence-however horrific-that expends itself against them has no physical medium through which to transmit shock waves to the ship itself. Thus Sommers, Hafezi and the rest of the flag bridge's complement sat in their cocooning shock frames and felt no concussion as the gunboat that had approached far too swiftly to be seen was consumed. They also saw nothing, for the viewscreen went black at the moment of impact. When it came back on, a few bits of still white-hot debris could briefly be glimpsed as they spun away and were swallowed by infinity.

  "Roma got two kamikazes, Sir," Hafezi reported. "Fortunately, there was an interval between them, and there was no physical damage. A near thing, though; she took a lot more shield overload than we did."

  "Tell them to get the shields restored as quickly as possible," Sommers ordered. "Same goes for this ship. The next wave-" she waved at the plot "-isn't going to be nearly as easy."

  Hafezi moved away. But he was intercepted by the duty com rating. (In a quiet voice; he'd had words with them about blurting things out.) He turned back to Sommers with a frown.

  "Admiral, we've gotten a signal from Captain Kabilovic. They've detected a Bug gunboat force vectoring in on the carriers and freighters. In light of the overwhelming probability that they've been detected, he's asking for permission to launch his fighters."

  She had to smile. "Yes, that's the way Milos would put it. Permission granted, of course." She sighed deeply. "Well, Feridoun, there's no further point in trying to draw the Bugs off them, is there? Get us headed for the warp point at max. We'll rendezvous with Milos on our way."

  For an absurd instant, Hafezi actually looked embarrassed by the fact that the course of action he'd recommended had turned out to be the only viable one. But it only lasted an instant. Then he was off, and Sommers was left looking at the holotank in which the Bug battle-cruiser formations at the entry warp point had moved off station and proceeded to intercept this newly detected group of prey.

  * * *

  Even Hafezi was looking a little disheveled-he'd developed a nervous habit of running his fingers through his beard-as they approached their rendezvous with the carriers.

  It had been a terrifying chase. For a while it had looked as though the battle-cruisers that had been pursuing them-faster than Bug battle-cruisers had a right to move-would be able to swerve aside and intercept the carriers at a time when the fighters were otherwise occupied. But then the third survey battlegroup, led by TFNS Imperieuse, struggling to reach the warp point, had maneuvered into the Bugs' blind zone and given them a serious load of missiles up the ass. The subsequent degradation in Bug fire control suggested that they'd gotten the command ship-something had to go right every now and then-and the subsequent demolition of the unreasonably fast battle-cruisers had followed as a matter of course.

  Stung, the Bugs had diverted their available gunboats to the new threat, and TFNS Caio Duilio had vanished in multiple fireballs of kamikaze attacks. But Sommers had used the time that had been won and was now coming into datalink range of the carriers-

  "Incoming gunboats!"

  With practiced precision, they all flung themselves into their command chairs and locked their shock frames. Sommers and Hafezi had a chance to make quick eye contact before the flood of data and horror flowed over them.

  The gunboats were barely even bothering with extended-range missile fire anymore. With nightmarish persistence, they sought out ramming targets, and this time they came in a wave that swamped the little battlegroup's defenses. With almost physical pain, Sommers watched the readouts that told of Uzbek's cataclysmic destruction, of damage to Roma and Marblehead, of one course after another of Jamaica's own shields giving up in showers of sparks and clouds of acrid smoke as their generators overloaded . . .

  "Incoming!"

  As though struck by a war-god's hammer, Jamaica shuddered as a gunboat's death agony smashed down the last of her shields and rended hull metal. Sommers barely heard the apocalyptic noise, for her vision began to dim as she was whiplashed back and forth within the life-saving confines of her shock frame. Then came another hammer-stroke, and another, and another . . .

  Her next awareness was of shouting that seemed to come from a great distance. She shook her head to clear it, tasting the brassy tang of blood. Vision returned, and she found that the shouts hadn't been coming from so far away after all. In fact, Hafezi's face was only a few inches from hers, and those of the medics crowding in behind him weren't much further. At first she thought the ship was still shuddering, but it was only Hafezi, shaking her.

  "Aileen . . . er, Admiral, are you all right?"

  Why does he look so frantic? She wondered with a small fraction of her returning consciousness. Most of it took in the fact that she was still on Jamaica's flag bridge-a flag bridge that was still functioning. The next fact to register was that Hafezi's faceplate was open, as was hers. So they had air. She tried to sit up, and found she had to shake her head again.

  "Yes . . . yes, I'm all right. What about the ship?"

  "Damage control has things in hand," Hafezi reported. She wondered why he looked weak with relief, and decided it must be because the ship had come through. "Most of our internal systems are all right, and the rest will be soon. But we haven't much in the way of armor integrity left."

  "And the others?"

  "You know about Uzbek. Marblehead isn't much better off; she's got one engine room left, but not much else. Roma is in about the same condition we are."

  Sommers struggled upright and waved away the medics. "We won't survive the next wave," she muttered. She forced her brain to think and her voice to firm up. "I see we've got a little time left before that next wave's ETA. Let's use it. I want to incorporate the carriers into this ship's datagroup; we can use their point defense. That's our first priority."

  "Aye, aye, Sir. But . . . Admiral, you need to let them take you to sickbay and have a look at you."

  "No time. Now, our second priority is to get Marblehead's survivors evacuated. Send our small craft and Roma's. What's the status of the fighter groups?"

  "Staghound's squadrons are back aboard the carrier, rearming. Same goes for most of the Ophiuchi. But two of their squadrons got through to Imperieuse and her battle group. That's why three of those ships still live, although Imperieuse is badly damaged. The Ophi
uchi are still there."

  "Good. Signal Imperieuse and order them to make a beeline for the warp point. Move!" She stood up and smiled at Hafezi and the hovering medics. "See, I'm fine."

  They departed, still looking dubious. It was only then that she carefully lowered herself back down into the command chair and closed her eyes to shut out the swirling universe.

  * * *

  The situation was somewhat frustrating. Half the Fleet's available gunboat strength was still in the system's outer reaches, and could not arrive in time to be a factor. And after suffering that costly surprise, the battle-cruisers would be kept together-which meant the new fast ones wouldn't be able to take advantage of their speed . . . and that it would take the formation a long time to bring the enemy within missile range.

  But did they have that time? The enemy had obviously discovered a warp point; his headlong flight could have no other destination. But where was that warp point? There would be no way of knowing until the enemy ships began to vanish.

  So there was no time to organize the gunboats into a single overwhelming wave. The scattered elements must continue to make piecemeal attacks. Even if they couldn't destroy the enemy before he made transit, they must at all costs stay in contact so as to observe that transit.