Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm

by Doug Dandridge

  Fleet dispositions, personnel records, battle plans, all here. Of course, he knew they were limited aboard this ship. The commander of a task force might have the clearance to know everything in the sector, but not the need to know. He had the ultimate need to know, and as soon as he made it back to Sector Headquarters he would have even more information, all that the sector commander had access to.

  This looks interesting, thought the Monarch, looking at a file structure on the holo that showed recent communications. There was the log of his talk with von Rittersdorf. Task group communications during the battle with the Ca’cadasans. Communications with the arriving task group. Sean clicked on that one and looked over the subfiles that opened up. One caught his eye, the one with the word Sestius on it. He remembered that system vaguely. The Sergiov had gone through there around the time of the investiture of its Archduke. A frontier farming world, of little importance to anyone that had not settled there with hopes of making a new life. And it had been invaded by the Cacas. Not near as big a force as had taken Massadara, but then the force opposing them had been so weak it couldn’t have stood up to a single capital ship, much less four of them.

  The other task group met up with a passing courier while on patrol, thought Sean, looking over the record of that communication. The enemy was landing troops on the planet, and Sestius IV had a respectable garrison. One that might still be fighting on the planet.

  His mind made up, Sean got to his feet and stormed out of the office, across the living room, and to the outer door, which swished open on his approach.

  “Your Majesty,” said Gunnery Sergeant Johanson, snapping to attention. The two sentries brought their rifles to present arms.

  “I wish to go to the flag bridge and talk with the Admiral,” said Sean, stepping off toward the nearest lift while the Marines followed. One of the sentries ran in front of the Emperor, taking up the forward position, then checking out the lift.

  “May I signal the Admiral that you are coming?” asked the Gunnery Sergeant.

  “You may,” said Sean.

  The doors to the lift closed and it started to move. The Sergeant stood there with an expression of one listening to a com. “Can I tell the Admiral what it is about?”

  “I’ll tell her myself when I get there,” said the Emperor, a feral smile on his face. And I don’t think she’s going to like it. Well too damned bad.

  * * *

  “He’s not saying, ma’am,” said Gunnery Sergeant Johanson over the com link. “But he has fire in his eye, like he means business.”

  “Wonderful,” said the Admiral, wondering what hair had gotten up the Imperial ass. “The Emperor is coming to the bridge, people,” she called out from her chair. There really wasn’t much to do, the bridge was always in tip top shape. She would have it no other way, and her officers knew it.

  “Emperor on deck,” yelled the loud voice of the Gunnery Sergeant as soon as the doors opened. Even the Admiral jumped to attention, feeling kind of silly doing so on her own bridge to a man who had been a lieutenant SG just a couple of days before. And now outranked everyone in the Empire. But still uncrowned, thought the woman as she waited for the Emperor to walk onto the bridge, wondering what that really meant.

  “At ease,” said the young man in a calm but commanding voice.

  The genes and the training coming through, thought the Admiral. And of course, we are all conditioned to respond to it.

  “How soon till we jump,” said Sean, looking at the viewer holo.

  “About fifteen minutes, your Majesty,” said the Admiral, looking at the young man as he turned and feeling a chill run up her spine. He looks so much like his father. “Most of the destroyers have already jumped, and will be waiting for us in Hyper.”

  “I need to talk with you before we jump,” said the young man, gesturing toward the door that opened on the conference room.

  “Just myself,” said the Admiral, raising an eyebrow.

  “You can invite your Flag Captain along if you feel you need a witness,” said Sean, glancing over at that officer.

  “Then follow me, your Majesty,” said the Admiral, turning and walking toward the indicated door.

  The room itself was spacious, as were most rooms on modern warships. What need for cramping when multimillion ton capital ships could carry ten times the number of people needed to run the ship, and still only use a small fraction of their capacity. The table had seating for twenty officers, and there were more seats along the wall for assistants.

  “Would your Majesty care for a drink?” asked the Admiral, gesturing at the bar in the corner. And how different we are from those old militaries in the past, when drinking on duty was considered dereliction of duty. Not with nanotech, when we can sober up in an instant.

  “No thank you, Admiral. I would like to have my say, so we can carry on with business. Please, have a seat.”

  Montgomery sat down, Greenefield taking the seat to her right, while the uncrowned Emperor took the seat directly across the width of the table from them. By the Goddess, what is going on here, she thought.

  “I was looking over the dispatches from Commodore Basingee’s force, and came across something of interest,” said the Emperor, looking over steepled fingers.

  “The dispatches?” said the Admiral and Flag Captain in unison, looking at each other. “What could have driven you to look at the dispatches, your Majesty?”

  “I hope I was not overstepping my bounds,” said the young man with a smile, looking into the Admiral’s eyes. “Not that I thought there were any where I was concerned.”

  “Of course not, your Majesty,” said the Admiral, feeling more confused by the moment.

  “I was very interested to discover that Commodore Basingee’s task group received a transmission from a passing courier. And that information was received about the enemy attack on the Sestius system.”

  “And?” asked Greenefield.

  “I would like to propose a rescue mission using this task force.”

  “A rescue mission,” croaked the Flag Captain. “Your Majesty, this is a scout force, not a battle fleet.”

  “And from the information from the courier, this will not require a battle fleet.”

  “Your Majesty,” said the Admiral, looking at the young man and wondering if he had lost his mind. “I have orders to get you back to base. With dispatch. We need you back at the Capital so you can be installed as Emperor, officially and in front of witnesses.”

  “Have you not already acknowledged me as Emperor, Admiral?” said the young man, another enigmatic smile on his face.

  “Of course, your Majesty. The Fleet acknowledges you as the heir to the throne, and upon the death of your father, Augustine, you are now ruler of the New Terran Empire. But the civilian government still needs to see you officially installed. Before Parliament tries to put some idiot cousin on the throne. Er, pardon me, your Majesty.”

  The young man barked a laugh. “No, Admiral, there are a lot of idiots in the Imperial family. And I don’t count my distant cousin out there on your bridge as one of them.”

  “I would hope not,” said Captain Greenefield, nodding. “That young lady is as good an officer as I have ever had serve under me.”

  “The point is, your Majesty, that I have orders from the sector commander to get you back to Conundrum forthwith,” said Montgomery. “And I am not in the habit of disobeying six star flag officers.”

  “How long to get to Conundrum?” asked Sean, looking thoughtfully into the air.

  “I little over three days at our best acceleration profile,” said Greenefield.

  “And to Sestius from here?”

  “That would be about a four day journey,” said Greenefield, frowning.

  “Look, your Majesty,” said Montgomery, reaching over and putting her hand on his. “I know you want to help out here. To do some good. The Goddess knows I wish I had the force to push these murdering bastards back to where they came from. But there is too muc
h going on right now. Can’t you see that? This would be a nice gesture, and that is all it would be.”

  “Not to those people on Sestius IV,” said Sean. “To them it will be salvation.”

  The Emperor stood up, walking to the end of the room, his hands behind his back. He turned and walked back the other way, while the two officers looked on.

  “I can’t do anything for most of the people out here on the frontier,” said Sean, stopping and turning toward the two officers. “I can’t do anything for my comrades who are left behind at Massadara, at least not yet. I know the Ca’cadasans are too powerful there. But I can do something for these people.”

  “But my orders,” said the Admiral, knowing she had already lost this battle.

  “Am I Emperor or not?” shouted Sean, hands on his hips. “If not, then it doesn’t matter when I get back to the capital. But if so, then I demand your obedience.”

  Hard to believe he was just a junior officer less than a week ago, thought the Admiral, a feeling of admiration coming over her. She had always loved the stories of the old masters of warfare. Caesar, Khan, Napoleon, Stuart, Patton, of Bull Halsey, and Admiral Ishimora. The one thing they all had in common was that fleeting attribute of great leaders, audacity. And this was an audacious mission if she had ever heard one.

  “You have our obedience, your Majesty,” said the Admiral, raising a hand to keep her Flag Captain from speaking. “And our loyalty. Though I can only imagine what Admiral Mgonda will have to say about this.”

  “You let me worry about him, Duchess Montgomery,” said Sean with a smile “I’m his boss too, after all.”

  “Of course you are, your Majesty,” said Montgomery, the words the Emperor had just uttered finally penetrating her brain. “Duchess?”

  “Of course, Admiral,” said Sean, his smile widening. “Something I learned from my father was to always reward loyal subjects.”

  “But, your Majesty. That is not necessary. I serve because of my oath.”

  “And that is why you should be rewarded,” said Sean. “Because you serve loyally without asking for it. Now let us plan this mission, so we can get under way.”

  He really has turned into a manipulative little shit, thought Montgomery as they went over the logistics of the mission. Exactly what we need in an Emperor in this time of troubles. And Mara Montgomery knew she would go through Hell for this man.

  * * *

  MASSADARA SYSTEM, MARCH 25TH, 1000.

  “We have something interesting here, sir,” called out the watch officer, Lieutenant SG Walter Ngovic.

  “I’ll be right up,” reply Commander Bryce Suttler, coming awake in an instant.

  As he came on the bridge Ngovic, the Tactical Officer, gave up the Captain’s chair and headed for his station, while Suttler looked at the tactical plot and spotted the interesting things right away. “Are those tankers?” he asked as he looked at the large ships that were heading toward the enemy space station.

  “I do believe they are, sir,” said the smiling Tactical Officer. “I was thinking we might finally get to have a little exercise, after playing watchers for so long.”

  “Those look like antimatter containment spheres on the hull,” said the Duty Helm Officer.

  Suttler nodded, thinking of a way to turn these carriers of antimatter into a big inconvenience for the enemy.

  “We have to get approval from headquarters,” said Bryce, looking over to the com station, where a petty officer was filling in. “Contact HQ, PO, and let them know what we have here. And what they want us to do. Include my recommendation that we attack the tankers while they’re close in to the station.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the rating, going to work on his com panel.

  “How far are we out from the station, Helm?”

  “About a half light hour,” said the officer. “Just beyond their pickets.”

  Bryce did the math in his head, coming up with a preliminary answer in a few minutes. It would be risky, but doable. And they weren’t being paid to play it safe.

  It seemed to take forever to get a reply, but the clock said sixteen minutes. Still enough time that Bryce knew it must have been kicked around a bit at headquarters, or waited until someone high enough up made the decision that wouldn’t jeopardize their career. They were already doing important work, and if they were caught or destroyed the intelligence they provided would be gone. But they could also strike a blow that would really hurt the enemy war effort in this sector.

  “It’s a go, sir,” said the petty officer, looking back at his Captain with an expression that fell between a smile and total terror.

  Don’t blame him, thought the Captain. We all want to strike a blow, but we also want to get back home. He pushed the intercom button on his chair arm.

  “All crew to battle stations,” he called out. “We have a target, and we are going in after it.”

  Within minutes the primary bridge crew were all at their stations, some still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes after taking stimulants to become awake.

  “Take this profile,” ordered Suttler, sending the data over to the Helmsman. “Everyone stay alert, and we’ll get into firing position.” Getting out might be a different proposition, but we’ll worry about that when the time comes.

  The Sea Stag, stealth fields at maximum, moved ahead at ten gravities, making nary a ripple in the space surrounding the huge enemy station. The grabbers did produce some grav waves, lost in the background of the larger enemy vessels moving to and from the station, or patrolling around her. The Captain watched the plot carefully, counting on the Helmsman to keep a close watch and maneuver when needed, still ready to provide the guidance needed if the unexpected occurred.

  Enemy scouts ships were sweeping the perimeter, moving back and forth, questing with active sensors to cover the sphere around the station. Suttler held his breath a few times going through that perimeter. The pings of incoming sensor sweeps rattled the nerves of everyone aboard the bridge.

  The stealth ship had the best of human technology in light bending fields and sensor absorbing materials. None of that would have been worth anything without the ability to get rid of ship generated heat before it could radiate out into space, giving the ship away. Older ships used a portal into subspace that allowed them to get rid of the heat into that dimension, but had limitations as to how far it could operate in a gravity well. The portal also gave out a signal which could be detected from light minutes away. The wormhole, connected as it was to a heat sink, was much better at pulling infrared radiation away from the ship, while producing no tell tales.

  Still, a direct and sustained hit by a sensor beam could generate a return, no matter how tenuous, enough to show that something was there. Even a close visual examination of the space the ship occupied could reveal that something was there. The invisibility field was not perfect, and there were momentary distortions that hinted at the presence of something. So it was still a nerve wracking experience to be slipping through a cordon of enemy ships. The odds were in Sea Stag’s favor, but they were just probabilities.

  “Whew,” said Lieutenant SG Ngovic, looking up from his station. “I’m glad that part’s over.”

  Suttler nodded as he looked at the plot, showing the perimeter ships falling behind. But there were still plenty of vessels sitting inside that perimeter, and they could still be spotted. “Everyone stay sharp,” said the Captain, his eyes darting from screen to screen, taking in everything that might pose a threat. And soon everything out there would be looking for them.

  It took five hours to work their way toward the station, and every second was filled with sweat and worry. Suttler noted that two meal times passed, but he didn’t feel hungry. Adrenaline was taking care of his appetite for him.

  There was one tense moment when a four million ton cruiser cut in front of the Sea Stag. The Helmsman had seen it coming from a long way off, and a few minor maneuvers had made sure that it missed. It was still anxiety producing to see any ship a
pproach within a light second, and everyone breathed easier when it moved away.

  “Range to targets, twenty million kilometers,” called out the Tactical Officer. Both tankers were on the screen, the farthest less than a light second off the side of the space station. The nearer tanker had a cruiser in tight, and was in the process of transferring antimatter cylinders to the warship. The far tanker was servicing two of the scout ships, and other ships sat nearby, awaiting their turn.

  “Bring her to a stop at half a light minute,” Suttler told the Helmsman. “And get ready to take us out of here, fast. But still stealthy.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the Helmsman, setting the parameters into his board.

  “All weapons are fully charged,” said Ngovic. “No indication of electromag screens on either of the targets.”

  “I want all lasers and particle beams into target one,” said the Captain, highlighting the further tanker on the plot. “All targeting on their outer antimatter pods. Time on target with the beam weapons. At three seconds into the firing sequence I want you to switch to that second target, and fire a missile into the station. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir,” responded the Tactical Officer.

  “Full stop, sir,” said the Helmsman.

  “As soon as we open fire begin to back us out of here,” said Suttler, feeling the almost oppressive tension on the bridge. “One hundred gravities, straight out. Prepare to cut accel at my command.”