The Buchanan Campaign

by Rick Shelley

  Truscott watched Murphy’s image carefully through his explanation. Repulse’s captain started with a deep frown. It eased a little by the time Truscott finished, but it didn’t disappear completely.

  “I see the point,” Murphy said after a pause that was much longer than that imposed by the distance between Repulse and Sheffield. “Ten hours out of every fifteen, there would be at least a possibility that an arriving Federation fleet wouldn’t see us immediately, would perhaps assume that we had been sent elsewhere. Then, assuming that we were within reasonable striking distance, we could hit them from behind, perhaps do significant damage before they could react to us.”

  “If it looks as though I’m grasping at straws, you’re right,” Truscott said. “I’m looking for anything at all that might improve our chances by even the slightest percentage.”

  Murphy nodded. “May I ask if you have similar plans for Lancer?”

  “I haven’t made a final decision on Lancer yet. The other moon is farther out and I’m not certain that posting Lancer that far out offers any benefit. In any case, I have something else in mind for her first, once I finish tying the loose ends together.”

  That was, to say the least, an overstatement. The ends of Truscott’s plans for Lancer were loose all the way to the center. All he really had was a notion that he had to do something unorthodox, and preferably outrageously unorthodox, with his second frigate. Repulse was the cautiously unorthodox experiment.

  Lancer…

  “I think that’s all for now, Captain,” Truscott said. “I want you in position on this orbit.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Murphy replied. “I’ve already got my navigator laying in the course.”

  Outrageously unorthodox. Truscott rolled the phrase around his mind. He liked the sound, so he said it aloud.

  An officer in the CSF didn’t reach flag rank by being outrageously unorthodox—not in peacetime. There was no precedent for wartime. The sporadic colonial skirmishes that were all the CSF had ever been called on to fight didn’t count as war.

  The question was as simple as it was difficult to answer. What do I do with the limited forces I have available? Truscott knew that he couldn’t be so outrageous that he would risk either of his capital ships on a madcap gesture, not unless his position became extremely desperate, and there was no need to classify the fleet’s current position that way.

  Yet. We may come to it though, he reminded himself.

  Brilliant ideas didn’t come swarming. For a considerable time, there were no ideas at all. He got up, paced some more, and went back to the tea cart for a refill. He walked out to the flag bridge to ask after updates from the ground and from the other ships. He walked back to the wardroom to get a bowl of fruit cocktail, and sat there to eat it. He even considered going to the gymnasium to work out for a half hour, reprimanding himself for failing to keep up with his normal physical regimen through the time that this mission had already taken.

  You’re stalling, damn it, he told himself. He forced himself to return to the chart room of his day cabin.

  He sat down and used the screen to tour the Buchanan system repeatedly, zooming through and coming back from a variety of positions, varying scales occasionally, trying to spark ideas.

  “The answer’s just not here,” he said eventually. He pushed his chair back from the table. “Not here,” he repeated. That gave birth to the idea that had been eluding him for hours. “If I can’t come up with a better way to meet the Federation forces that come to Buchanan, I need to keep them from coming.”

  Since there was no way to detect or intercept ships in Qspace, there was only one way to affect ships heading towards Buchanan’s system.

  “I have to send Lancer to Union.” Union was the capital world of the Federation, one of the first worlds settled when men started the serious waves of emigration from Earth seven hundred years earlier. “A quick smash and run, back here at the double. Cut corners all around.” It sounded so simple and elegant, despite the risks. Truscott’s smile was very tight.

  “No telling what sort of hell you’ll unleash,” he told himself with grim relish.

  Once he had the outline, it was the work of no more than a few minutes to fill in the essential details. He called up a chart of Union’s system on his flatscreen, then brought back his notepad window at the corner, wrote and rewrote. This order had to be worded just so. It was likely to become a document of some notoriety. “After all,” Truscott muttered under his breath, “if this is to be the star exhibit at my court martial, I want it to be properly phrased.”

  The order was ready, and the admiral was about to put through his call to Lancer, when there was a knock at the door. Ian and the prince had returned from Victoria.

  “Ah, there you are,” Truscott said when his aide entered the cabin. “It’s about time you reported for duty.” When Prince William came in as well, Truscott nodded to him. ‘ ‘I trust your visit went well?”

  William smiled. “It was an experience, sir.”

  Truscott nodded absently, missing the hint of humor in the prince’s voice and the sudden grin on Ian’s face.

  “Ian, would you get Captain Rivero on the line for me, full holo?”

  “Yes, sir, right away.”

  Prince William excused himself and left.

  “I noticed that Repulse is moving,” Ian said while he put through the call.

  “I’ll brief you in a few minutes. Lancer will be moving as well. You’ll hear about that while I brief her skipper.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A holographic image of Arias Rivero appeared across the table from the admiral, where Captain Murphy’s image had been earlier.

  “I have a job of work for you. Captain,” Truscott said after cutting short the greetings.

  “We could use it,” Rivero said.

  “You may not think so when you hear what it is.” Truscott laid out the outline. “I want you to take Lancer out of Qspace as close to their high port facilities as possible, on a course that aims you toward the horizon. Immediately on exiting Qspace, you will take every target within range under fire, expending a maximum amount of ordnance. Feel free to launch missiles toward the government complex in their capital city as well. Then you will transit back to Qspace to return here. I don’t want you in normalspace in Union’s system any longer than ninety seconds.”

  “Ninety seconds between exit and reinsertion to Qspace?” Rivero asked, disbelief overwhelming any objections he might have to the mission.

  “Ninety seconds,” Truscott repeated. “Not one second longer. That means you’ll need to have your provisional insertion calculated before you arrive, and you’ll make the second transit the instant your Nilssen generators have cycled through from the previous jump.”

  “It’s never been done, sir. Nothing even close to that has ever been attempted.”

  “It’s never been necessary before. Here are your written orders.” Truscott hit a key to transmit them.

  “Unless you feel that you are incapable of the required performance?” Truscott said with a deceptive lightness.

  “There’s no call for that, sir,” Rivero said, straightening up. ” Lancer will perform her mission.”

  Truscott nodded. “You will also note that I expect you there and back within seventytwo hours, which will permit a lot less leeway between all jumps than the book calls for, though not nearly the minimum margin of the one jump in and out of Union’s space. We are learning about those margins, Captain, and mostly we’re learning that they’re unnecessary. Before this war is over, ninety seconds may well be the standard separation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rivero said, but he had to swallow hard first.

  “I want Lancer under way immediately, Captain. Good luck and good hunting.”

  After Rivera’s image disappeared from the room, Ian whistled softly. “An attack on Union. I never would have dreamed of something that bold, sir. I wouldn’t have dared.”

  Truscott turned in his seat and
looked up at his aide. “It’s a big gamble at long odds.” He shrugged. “It’s not Lancer that I’m concerned about, not particularly. I am, as they say, ninetynine and ninetenths percent confident that it’s safe to make Qspace jumps that close together, and Lancer won’t be in Union’s system long enough for anything to target them but energy weapons. Her hull is hardened enough to withstand beamers for that long. They’ll be back in Qspace before any missiles or cannon can touch them.”

  “You hope to keep the Federation from sending reinforcements here?” Ian asked.

  “I’ll settle for a delay just now,” Truscott said. “It’s still a long shot. They might have a fleet on its way before Lancer shows up. They could even have ships here by the time Lancer sends in her calling card.

  But if they haven’t dispatched that fleet yet…”

  “They’ll need time to recognize the attack as a oneship raid,” Ian supplied. “The politicos and Ministry of Defense will have to rethink their own defenses, perhaps make them hold back on sending any sizeable forces anywhere immediately.”

  “Perhaps. That’s partially why this is such a long shot. But the real danger is that Lancer will simply make them madder than hell. One frigate isn’t going to inflict any serious damage on Union in ninety seconds.

  In trying to take the pressure off us here at Buchanan, I may only make the war longer and more bitter. I may even be stirring up something that will take generations to mend.”

  “How do you think it will be received back on Buckingham, sir?”

  Truscott permitted himself a mirthless chuckle. “That depends entirely on the results, Ian. My orders give me the latitude, and responsibility, to take all measures ‘necessary and proper’ to liberate Buchanan. All the rope any man could need to hang himself. But I’ll know I’ve done my duty to the best of my ability, whatever comes of it.”

  30

  David Spencer had taken to eating his meals with the rest of his platoon, forgoing the slightly better service of the sergeants’ mess. It had been twoandahalf days since the ambushes in the Park had put the platoon out of action. This lunch would be their last meal aboard Victoria for an unspecified time.

  The last of the wounded had returned to duty, and the platoon would be returning to the surface shortly after the meal ended.

  “Eat hearty,” David told his men when some of them started to slow down. “You can’t tell when we’ll get our next decent feed.”

  ” This is decent?” Alfie asked, his mouth full.

  “Obviously close enough that you can’t tell the difference,” David shot back.

  “It looks as if most of the work’s been done down below,” Doug Weintraub said. He too had chosen to eat with the Marine other ranks, even though he had open invitations to dine in the Marine officers’ mess and in the naval wardroom. “There’s been precious little activity in the last day, and there don’t seem to be any Federation soldiers anywhere near Sam and Max.”

  “They’re still down there somewhere,” David said. “Six hundred or more. We have to account for all of them before the job’s done.” He spoke softly. “Unless the brainboys in command come up with a better way, it could all be like that lark in the Park, maybe a hundred times.” David could see the effect he was having on his men, but he wouldn’t lie to them.

  “There are special shuttles looking for pockets of the enemy,” David continued. “There’s some hope that they’ll be able to find any concentrations of Feddies even with their electronics switched off.” He shrugged. “But they’ve been looking since the morning after our little soiree and haven’t found any. It may be that they just haven’t searched the right places, but I don’t think we can count on the shuttles doing our work.”

  “We can’t cover this entire world one foot at a time,” Roger complained. “Not even one continent. We’d all be due retirement before we had ten percent of it done.”

  “I hear, unofficially, that the admiral sent for reinforcements,” David said. “I hate to spread rumors, but the scout ship’s been gone quite a time, and one of the frigates has gone off as well now.”

  “Maybe I should ring up the prince and ask,” Doug said, making it light.

  “Don’t bother,” Alfie said. “I’m happier with a rumor. It makes the work that much easier to bear.”

  The others initially assumed that Alfie was making a joke. There were a few halfhearted smiles, but the look on Alfie’s face convinced his mates that he was serious for a change.

  ‘ ‘Too much information can be worse than too little, at times,” David said, nodding. Doug looked from Alfie to David.

  “I guess I’m still not used to thinking like a soldier,” Doug said. “I’ve been at the other end of the data chain too long.”

  ‘ ‘If you do ask His Highness about it, please don’t tell us, one way or’t’other,” Jacky said.

  “Unless the rumor’s right,” Alfie chipped in brightly, and this time he did earn a laugh.

  “You’re a strange lot,” Doug said. “Sometimes I think I don’t understand you at all. I know I don’t understand why I decided to stick with you until the job’s done. But I will. You seem to understand what this is all about better than most*of the people who live here.”

  “When we fight, we still meet the enemy right up close,” Jacky said seriously. “It’s not all blips on our visors. We hear the screams. That’s the worst part. They stay with you, sometimes forever.”

  The platoon filed back to their barracks compartment and started dressing for the field. The light mood had evaporated before they left the mess hall, leaving the Marines all business now. They had run diagnostics on their helmets that morning, and the armorers had gone over their weapons. Once the men were dressed, they stood in line at the armory for weapons and ammunition. Doug drew a Marineissue automatic rifle and an officer’s pistol, a compact needier. Over the past day, David had been giving him lessons with the weapons, including two long sessions on Victoria’s firing range.

  “You’re still a rookie at this business,” David told Doug, softly, away from the rest of the men. “You’ve proved you’ve got the instincts, but you haven’t had the training. You haven’t had an old hand like me screaming at you twentyfour hours a day forever either. Just stick with our oldtimers, and if one of us screeches for you to do something, do it. Save the questions for later.”

  “Whatever you say,” Doug said. “I know how new I am at this.”

  “We’ll get through it, one way or another,” David said. “We’ve still got all the advantages.”

  When the last of the troops filed away from the armory, David whistled and told them to form up.

  “Just like a drill,” he said as the men started toward the shuttle deck. “We’ve been through this too often for any muddling. Right through to the shuttle, lads. The holiday’s over.”

  There was no idle chat on the shuttle. A few men sat with their visors up, but most had them down, closing themselves off into the solitary confinement of their thoughts. The only man in the shuttle who hadn’t gone through this routine at least once was Doug.

  I am the amateur here, he reminded himself. There had been little chance for nervousness before, but now a knot in his stomach churned and finally seemed to congeal his lunch. He gritted his teeth at a sudden cramp.

  Why am I here? Doug was suddenly full of reasons why he should have withdrawn gracefully while he had the opportunity. None of these people had expected him to remain with them. After all, he was a member of the Buchanan Planetary Commission, a leader, a politician of sorts. He was too old. He wasn’t trained for combat. But he had made his choice, and—once he forced himself to discard the nervous excuses of the moment—he knew that he had made the only choice that was possible… for him.

  “Live or die,” he mumbled under his breath, and only then did he remember to make sure that none of his complink channels were open.

  David sat with his visor down, looking at his men, alert to any clue that might mean that someone
had problems they hadn’t told him about. He also had information coming in over two complink channels, listening to the traffic between the pilots working the search pattern and the Combat Information Center on Sheffield. He was also monitoring Captain McAuliffe’s command channel.

  Seems fairly quiet, David assured himself. No firefights going on. But the quiet didn’t last. David heard an excited voice, one of the shuttle pilots, reporting to Sheffield’s CIC.

  “Bingo! We have fifteen to twenty targets on the ground, helmets inactive.” A string of map coordinates followed. David pulled out his mapboard and unfolded it. Almost as quickly as he located the site, a small blue circle appeared on the board as CIC updated it. The shuttle climbed to a wider orbit around the location, putting more room between it and possible surfacetoair missiles. The shuttle’s crew worked to keep track of the fuzzy targets, sticking around to make sure that the troops didn’t sneak off, and looking for more of them.

  Less than a minute later, David had a call from Captain McAuliffe. “You’re going straight into action, Spencer. The search shuttles just located a pocket of Feddies, twenty miles southeast of our position.”

  “I’ve been monitoring the traffic, Captain,” David said.

  “You’ll be dropped in a mile and a half south of the sighting. A Spacehawk is moving in now to provide backup, and the search team is looking to make sure that there aren’t any surprises between the drop zone and the located targets. You’ve got three minutes before you go in. Good luck.”

  David switched to his platoon frequency to warn the men. He gave the order to load weapons. “We’ll be going down the ropes in three minutes.” He then clicked over to the squad leaders’ frequency and had them slave their mapboards to his. There wasn’t time for much more. The pilot broke in on David’s briefing to set up the drop schedule, then it was time for the ropes.