“Destroyed?” he repeated, his voice level.
“Destroyed,” James Walkingstick confirmed. His own control over how much emotion made it into his voice and face was ironclad. He might be a soldier, but to end up as one of the Commonwealth’s Marshals, he’d been a politician, too.
Hell, he’d built a damn cult of personality in both the Navy and Congress to get this far. James Walkingstick had no illusions about what he’d done to get there, or what he was prepared to do to go further.
Marshal was the most directly personally powerful position the Commonwealth offered, but it was also simply one more step. The Committee on Unification was the final target, but to get there, he had to win a war of conquest and get elected to the Senate.
He could do the latter.
The former was starting to give him a headache.
“There were survivors,” he noted after a moment’s silence, “But Rear Admiral Vasek wasn’t one of them. She died with her flagship. The rest of her fleet died with her.” James shook his head. “The Fox mousetrapped them and ambushed her fleet with bombers at point-blank range.
“Our starfighters hit his fleet hard, and he’ll have to withdraw for repairs now, but…”
“You know what the Senate’s response is going to be,” Burns told him. “Three systems raided? A Commonwealth fleet not merely defeated but destroyed? A world in open revolt?”
“Finishing this war requires pressing the offensive,” James replied firmly.
“That doesn’t matter right now,” the Senator snapped. “You must end this Stellar Fox’s depredations. Whatever plans or offensives you had ready to trigger, your priority must be stopping these raids.”
James stared at the Senator stonily.
“Am I or am I not the Marshal of the Rimward Marches?” he demanded. “I was promised I would not be interfered with.”
There’d been enough delays and issues with his reinforcements, but for Burns to actually order him to recall his fleets…
“That was before this damn war took two years when it was supposed to take two months,” the Senator snapped. “You are the Marshal, but if you do not act to defend the systems under your protection, you won’t be the Marshal for very long!”
That managed to shock James to silence. He had not realized that his position was so precarious.
Burns shook his head.
“I have faith in your skill, Admiral,” he told James. “But others are starting to waver. We were promised a quick victory—one that has turned into a two-front war with the only powers in the galaxy even close to our weight class.”
“We will overcome,” James insisted.
“I know,” Burns agreed. “But the Senate is nervous, and watching Roberts rampage along the frontier like this… Deal with him, Marshal.”
“He’ll retreat to Via Somnia next,” the Commonwealth Admiral concluded. “He’ll replace his starfighters, do what repairs on his ships he can within whatever timeline he’s working on. With their Seventh Fleet at Via Somnia as well… I’d need both Tasker’s and Gabor’s fleets to take them down.”
“But that would turn the war, wouldn’t it?” Burns asked. “If you smashed that many of their capital ships in one shot.”
“At the risk of giving up any chance of winning the war for at least three or four years,” James said quietly. “After losing Vasek’s fleet, if I lose Tasker’s and Gabor’s ships, I won’t have the capacity to carry out any major offensives without further reinforcement.”
That would be over sixty capital ships gone.
Burns chuckled grimly.
“James…if you lose three damned fleets in as many weeks, you won’t need to worry about how much capacity for offensives you have.”
JAMES WALKINGSTICK ALLOWED himself ten whole minutes to breathe and calm himself before he started the next conference call. Everything to this point had proceeded along lines of possibility he’d at least allowed for.
Well, everything except the war with the League. He hadn’t expected that, and it had thrown a major wrench in his plans, but he’d adjusted his expectations and moved forward. He’d thought he had the Senate and their reactions dialed in, but this new threat via Burns—a man who was his ally, in most senses—warned him he was on shakier ground than he’d guessed.
But he’d deal. He’d always deal. That was the job.
“Andrea, get me Tasker and Gabor,” he ordered his secretary. “Priority One.”
According his mental schedule, Tasker was mere hours away from entering Alcubierre drive on her way to Michelangelo. Since Gabor was already in Renaissance Trade Factor space, he had less distance to go and needed to be present in Da Vinci to keep the system under Commonwealth control.
Priority One meant drop everything. And if Tasker was already accelerating away from Midori, he needed that level of priority!
The two Admirals appeared quickly enough. At least someone still respected his authority.
“Sir, what’s going on?” Tasker demanded immediately. “I’m less than ninety minutes from entering warped space. I was going over plans with my people.”
“This is a full abort,” he said bluntly. “Our political masters have decided to override our operational planning for internal reasons.”
“An abort?” Gabor asked. “I’m guessing we’re going somewhere else?”
“You’re both returning to Niagara now,” James told them. “Get your fleet moving, Admiral Gabor.
“From here, we’re going to work out our best guess of where our dear Admiral Roberts is, and then we’re going to take sixty or so warships out to meet him,” the Marshal said grimly. “Our political masters have made it clear that raiding our territory cannot be tolerated, so we’re going to blow the ‘Stellar Fox’ to furry stardust.
“Hopefully, we’ll pin another fleet or two down at the same time. If we can remove the Alliance’s forward concentrations, having our entire force in one place opens up additional possibilities.”
He didn’t want to assemble a hammer and drive for the Alliance core systems. There wasn’t going to be much of said hammer left by the time he was done—but if the Senate was getting twitchy, then he was unfortunately going to have to trade his people’s lives for speed of victory.
Unification was inevitable—but if didn’t happen soon, someone other than James Walkingstick would reap the benefits.
30
Presley System
06:00 September 28, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Alliance Forty-First Fleet
KYLE HADN’T SLEPT since the battle, his time consumed by the thousand and one tasks required to get Forty-First Fleet ready to move again. The last of the Marines had finally reported aboard. Search-and-rescue shuttles had swept the debris of both Righteous Light and the Commonwealth fleet.
They’d delivered just over fifteen thousand prisoners to what had been a residential district of Ambrose’s capital city and was now a prisoner of war camp, secured by Open Ocean militia and attached to the only spaceport the locals had left intact.
That was a significant number…until you realized that seventeen warships and their associated starfighters carried over eighty thousand people.
It wasn’t the worst losses the Commonwealth had suffered in a single battle even in this war…but it was probably the most one-sided victory the Alliance had won in the last two years.
That didn’t make the five thousand-odd dead from Kyle’s fleet any easier to swallow, but it was true nonetheless.
“All of our small craft and starfighters are reporting less than an hour to report aboard,” Sterling told him. “What’s our next step, sir?”
“I’ll talk to the locals,” Kyle replied. “But once everyone is aboard, we need to get moving immediately. Our course is for Via Somnia.”
“We need a lot of work, sir,” his chief of staff warned him.
“And Via Somnia won’t be able to do it all,” Kyle agreed. “But they’ll be able to do enough. The time
line is the problem.”
“Time line, sir?”
“Our next attack has to go in by October eighth,” the Admiral replied. “We need to make certain that Walkingstick’s attention and his fleets are oriented towards Commonwealth space when Medusa goes down.”
Sterling shivered.
“Yeah, I can see how it could be a problem if one of his fleets is already on its way when that happens,” he replied.
Sterling was one of the few people on Kyle’s bridge who knew the full details of Medusa, but he’d been part of JSOC.
“Get the orders passed to get the fleet moving,” Kyle told him. “I’ll be in my office, talking to the dolphins.”
His chief of staff chuckled.
“Enjoy, sir.”
TO KYLE’S SURPRISE, however, the image that appeared on his screen when he opened the link to Open Ocean wasn’t a holographic dolphin. Instead, it was a startlingly gorgeous woman with pale skin and raven hair, wearing a brilliant smile and a dark green business suit.
“Admiral Roberts,” she greeted him in a smooth voice. “I’m Lisa Excelsior, the designated head of the caretaker government that’s taking over for Open Ocean.” She winked. “I was also Green Dolphin.”
Kyle chuckled.
“Funny, I thought Green Dolphin was a man,” he pointed out.
She giggled in response.
“All of the Dolphins used male voices,” she replied. “Only four of us were actually men, but it helped keep our identities secret.” The giggle faded into seriousness.
“It wasn’t enough after the first uprising failed,” she said sadly. “My husband was killed. I only survived because I officially ‘died in a car accident’ shortly after his capture. The Pacification Corps figured it was suicide to avoid capture and let it go.”
Kyle shivered.
“And what now, Ms. Excelsior?” he asked.
“We caretake the government,” she replied. “I have a press conference in about an hour where I’ll lay out our promises. Basically, we keep everyone safe, and we have free elections in six months in which none of the caretaker government will stand.”
She grimaced.
“Keeping everyone safe is going to be the hard part, but you’ve already done more for us than we ever expected from anyone. Thank you, Admiral.”
He shook his head.
“You were almost a trap that destroyed my fleet,” he pointed out. “But I’m glad we were able to help.”
“The Commonwealth has lost one fleet in Presley now,” Excelsior said. “I hope we’ll be able to trade the prisoners you’re leaving with us for a degree of peace.
“And what happens with your fleet now?”
“We’re moving out immediately,” he told her. “Falling back to Alliance space to rearm before resuming our attacks. I’m sorry, Ms. Excelsior, but there’s nothing more we can do for Ambrose.”
“You’ve already done more than we could hope,” she repeated. “Thank you, Admiral Roberts. Without your arrival and intervention, this couldn’t have happened…and I’m not sure how many more would have died before the Pacification Corps decided we were ‘secure’ again.”
“Good luck, then, Madame President,” he told her.
She smiled again and nodded.
“And to you, Admiral Roberts. No matter what happens from here, remember this: we remember you. And we owe you.
“Thank you for everything.”
MICHELLE WILLIAMS-ALVAREZ LOOKED at the calmly worded memo on the screen, signed by both surviving Imperial Flight Colonels and all of the remaining Federation Wing Commanders.
Lakatos had been senior to her, but he hadn’t survived Turkey Shoot. Technically, both Flight Colonels were senior to her, but that was what the memo was about.
They were officially yielding to her authority, making the senior Federation officer the official Fleet CAG.
She shook her head, studying the numbers. They’d lost almost half of their starfighters now. If she was Fleet CAG, she only had six hundred ships left, roughly one third each Arrows, Falcons, and Vultures.
The bombers had taken relatively light losses throughout everything. The Federation Falcons from the two Sanctuaries and the Conquerors had borne the worst of the losses. Elysium had half of her fighters left, but Avalon was down to a single forty-eight-ship wing—and the two Conquerors didn’t muster much more between them.
The Righteouses probably didn’t feel as empty as the Federation ships, but that was only because they’d lost a carrier along with over a third of their starfighter strength. She wasn’t sure how many starfighters were at Via Somnia after Seventh Fleet had left, but she doubted it would be enough to replace her losses.
“Ma’am, Flight Colonel Gunther is on the q-com asking for you,” Eklund interrupted her thoughts. Her gunner wasn’t supposed to be acting as her secretary—but her actual secretary’s girlfriend had died in the Battle of Presley.
Allowances had to be made.
“Put him through.”
Flight Colonel Xun Gunther was a stereotypical resident of the Coraline Imperium’s homeworld, with the stocky build of the planet’s German colonists and the dark skin and slanted eyes of its Chinese colonists.
“Vice Commodore,” he greeted her, saluting.
“You’ve got, what, two years in rank on me?” she replied. “Can the salutes, Gunther. What’s the deal?”
He grimaced.
“The memo doesn’t give much reason, does it?” he asked.
“No. Though I see the Admiral already signed off,” she told him. “Not that fleet commanders tend to argue when the starfighter crews say that someone is going to be Fleet CAG.”
“It’s a simple tradition, Commodore Williams-Alvarez,” Gunther replied. “You’re the O-6 with the largest fighter contingent. You’re the Fleet CAG. When you and Lakatos both commanded Sanctuary fighter groups, it went to his seniority.
“Now it goes to you.” He shrugged. “That you are also the CAG aboard the flagship and have served with the Admiral helps. He trusts you.”
“Roberts doesn’t mistrust a lot of people,” Michelle pointed out. “Usually, you have to literally have tried to kill him to get that distinction.”
Gunther chuckled.
“My understanding is that it takes less than that,” he replied dryly. “There are stories in the Imperial Navy about his first joint operation with our people. The phrase ‘discipline your dogs or I will make you put them down’ stuck in our institutional memory for some reason.”
Michelle blinked.
“I…hadn’t heard that story,” she admitted.
“Believe me, every Imperial fighter commander has,” he replied. “One glory hound screwing up in front of our allies was enough, trust me.”
“So, that makes me CAG?”
He shook his head.
“No. That you command Elysium’s fighters makes you Fleet CAG. You haven’t done anything that would you lose you our trust, either. We’ll follow you, Williams-Alvarez. And we’ll follow the Fox.”
“Be careful with that one,” she warned. “He’s led more than one fleet into the fire.”
“I know.” Gunther shook his head. “But he led one of them into the cauldron to save a quarter million mostly Imperial POWs. No, Vice-Commodore, the Imperial Navy will follow Kyle Roberts wherever he leads.
“Our honor demands it.”
31
Via Somnia System
06:00 October 3, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Alliance Forty-First Fleet
TO THE CASUAL OBSERVER—AND hopefully to the inevitable stealthed Commonwealth sensor platforms—the Via Somnia System buzzed with life. Starships orbited the fleet base like watchful sentinels and starfighters swarmed the space above it.
To an Alliance officer, able to read the encrypted IFFs and ping q-com beacons as their ship approached, the truth was quite different.
Seventh Fleet and Admiral Rothenberg’s thirty-plus capital ships were long
gone. A pair of old Star Kingdom of Phoenix Fearless-class battlecruisers remained, mothering the thousands of ECM drones that flitted around Via Somnia to give off the impression that the fleet remained.
The starfighters, at least, were real. A hundred Templars and a hundred Falcons flew high guard over the fleet base. A quick consult with his implant, however, told Kyle the truth there: that was all of the Phoenix Templars in the system and half of the Falcons. Many were being flown by backup crews lacking the skill or implant bandwidth capacity to actually take the fighters into combat.
Via Somnia looked like an impenetrable fortress against any foe, with fleets and battle stations and starfighters to guard her flanks. In truth, however, the fleets were ghosts, the battle stations were undermanned, and the starfighters were stretching themselves thin to give the impression of more strength than they actually possessed.
“Who’s in command now?” he asked Sterling.
“Captain Laureline Hardy, sir,” his chief of staff replied. “Royal Phoenix Navy.”
Kyle nodded.
“Can you get me a q-com channel?”
“Already linking in.”
The Admiral gave his staff an approving nod, then turned his attention to the communication feed “knocking” on his neural implants.
“Captain Hardy, this is Admiral Roberts,” he greeted the tall and somewhat chubby blonde who appeared in his mental vision.
“Admiral Roberts. We’ve been expecting you,” she confirmed. “From the report on your damages, though, I’m not sure how much help we’re going to be. We’ve got repair slips open for your ships, but we don’t actually have crews for the fleet base’s repair systems.”
“We’ll do what we can with our own people,” Kyle told her. “We don’t have much choice—we need to be on our way again in thirty-six hours.”
Operation Medusa (Castle Federation Book 6) Page 20
