“What?”
“He won’t see it,” Herrera said quietly. “With the lockdown, it’s mostly under wraps, but Elysium was reported lost this morning. Admiral Roberts is MIA, presumed dead.”
“Damn,” Russell echoed. “This one’s for absent friends, then, isn’t it?”
Herrera shook his head.
“No, CAG. We’ll avenge Roberts while we’re at it, but this one is for everybody. The Alliance never wanted this war. None of us did.”
“The Commonwealth did,” Russell agreed. “And now we get to show them why they shouldn’t have.”
IT SEEMED THAT ADMIRAL ROTHENBERG, like many of the crew and officers aboard the thirty-eight starships under his command, had grown sick of a view of steel walls and speed-shifted stars. The virtual conference software used to allow the Captains, XOs and CAGs of almost forty starships each traveling in their own inviolate bubbles of warped space didn’t need to show a plain military conference room.
It usually did, because that was easier to make certain everyone was comfortable. After twenty-five days under Alcubierre-Stetson drive, however, the Admiral had clearly decided on something different.
The hundred and thirty officers who commanded the warships and sub-groups of Alliance Seventh Fleet found themselves taking seats in a stone amphitheater built on at the top of a sandy beach. The glittering blue of a warmly lit ocean glittered behind the dais Admiral Rothenberg stood on.
If the air was too perfectly controlled, the sun too perfectly positioned, and the acoustics too good for the place to be real, well, some sacrifices had to be made.
“This seemed appropriate,” the Admiral told his people, gesturing at the vista around them. “This is the refurbished amphitheater on the island of Cyprus—on Earth.
“Tomorrow is probably the closest any of us will ever come to the homeworld, and we’d all rather we came for different reasons and in a different time,” he continued sadly. “But we have our mission, and the nations we are sworn to defend have called on us.
“Please, be seated.”
Like the rest of the gathered officers, Russell was already sitting in his own office, but the virtual presentation had taken over his senses. The stone was warm as he sat, a false sun warming a place that didn’t actually exist.
“We’ve all gone over this roughly, what, a million times?” Rothenberg asked to a responding chuckle. “I ask you to be patient with me as we do it one last time. Twelve hours, people, until we fight one of the largest space fleet actions in human history.”
He gestured and a projection of the Sol System appeared above the amphitheater, spinning in the air as the officers looked over their target.
“We have three individual targets, and the intent is to hit all three at once,” the Admiral noted. “The first target is here, hidden in the upper atmosphere of Uranus.” Sol’s third, oft-forgotten gas giant flickered in the display.
“This q-com switchboard station isn’t officially acknowledged and is the Commonwealth’s emergency continuity-of-government system. Only warships and system governments have entangled-particle blocks from this switchboard, and they don’t even know they have them.
“It exists to counter the exact type of attack we are about to launch,” Rothenberg concluded. “It is also, like the rest of Uranus, only lightly defended.”
As the projection zoomed in on the gas giant, Russell reflected that lightly defended was a relative term. There were dozens of fortresses orbiting Uranus to defend the gas-extraction industries and civilian populations.
The problem—for the Commonwealth!—was that all but a tiny handful of those fortresses predated the first Commonwealth-Alliance war.
“There are forty-four defensive stations,” the Admiral continued. “Four are Zions. Our understanding is that they are currently equipped with Scimitar-type fighters, but it is not unreasonable to assume they have been supplied with Katanas and Longbows.
“The other forty stations have been lightly retrofitted, but their primary weapons systems are obsolete. Their only true threat is the four hundred or so missile launchers they have between them.”
As the stations were highlighted, four ships appeared in the display at the minimum distance from Uranus.
“We will open our attack at T-minus ten minutes with Summerlands, Portage, Invictus, and Horatio, constituting Task Force Seven-Three under Rear Admiral Annegret Novacek, arriving at Uranus.”
Two modern carriers, a modern battleship and a modern battle cruiser. TF 7.3 was half-Imperial, but the CO was a Trade Factor Admiral aboard Portage.
“It should not be necessary for Admiral Novacek’s people to destroy most of the fortifications,” Rothenberg noted, “but their Falcons, Arrows and Vultures should be able to handle the fortresses if needed.”
The Trade Factor hadn’t had a seventh-generation starfighter design ready when the war started, so they’d bought the Federation’s. There were several reasons the Falcon was the most numerous starfighter in the Alliance’s inventory now.
“The Uranus portion of this operation is primarily predicated on surprise: the Commonwealth doesn’t think anyone knows that switchboard station exists. We are hoping for Seven-Three’s attack to draw enemy forces out of position, but ten minutes isn’t enough for any detachments to move out to Uranus and engage them.”
The asteroid belt now flashed.
“The second target of this operation, for Task Force Seven-Two, is the Ceres Military Complex,” he continued. “Ceres is the primary off-planet military headquarters for the Terran Commonwealth, and is protected as such. While the defenses include a significant number of refitted old fortresses with mass drivers, the asteroid itself has been equipped with bays and launch tubes for approximately one thousand starfighters.”
The rotating form of the planetoid anchor for the spaceborne complex now filled the sky above the virtual amphitheater, its defending fortress glittering stars around the massive metalwork that covered the planetoid’s surface.
“Ceres is not Seven-Two’s target,” Rothenberg stated. “That honor goes to this station.” A tall, spindle-like platform orbiting amidst the fortresses flashed and became the focus of the hologram.
“That is Terran Commonwealth Navy Communication Relay Alpha-One,” he explained. “One of two dedicated military q-com switchboard platforms. The destruction of Alpha-One will dramatically reduce communication bandwidth for all military craft and stations in the TCN, and render a not-insignificant portion of their Q-probes completely noncommunicative.
“Of course, to attack Alpha-One, we will have to fight Ceres’s defenses. Those fighter bases and fortresses are a serious threat, and we have reason to believe that the Commonwealth’s first Ambrosia-class super-battleships have been assigned to defend Ceres.”
Russell winced. He wasn’t the only one. The fact that the Castle Federation had been the only people to break the sixty-five-million-cubic-meter mark for Stetson stabilizers had given the Alliance a solid advantage in the war. It didn’t cost that much more to build an eighty-million-cubic-meter starship than a sixty-million-cubic-meter one, but the bigger ship was a more powerful combatant in every sense.
If the Ambrosias were actually rolling out…
“The good news is that Ambrosia and Manna appear to be the only eighty-million-cubic ships the Commonwealth has built, and both of them are at Ceres,” Rothenberg reminded them. “They also have no starfighters aboard, and while I’m planning based on Ceres being fully loaded out with Katanas and Longbows, those bays might also still be filled with Scimitars.
“That said, we can’t take any chances,” he said grimly. “I’m sending our entire Trade Factor and Star Kingdom detachments, under Vice Admiral Lux Salvail, against Ceres. That’s three Magellan-class battleships, two Traveler-class carriers, two Vigilance-class and two Fearless battlecruisers and two Indomitable-class carriers.”
Three modern battleships, four modern carriers, two modern battlecruisers and two older battlecr
uisers. It was a powerful force, but…
“I also intend to detach all four of our Last Stand-class battlecruisers, as well as Righteous Voice and Righteous Star, under Admiral Salvail’s command,” Rothenberg noted. “Regardless of what types Ceres’s thousand starfighters are, Admiral Salvail will have them outnumbered and outgunned.
“There will be at least two other starships at Ceres, and we don’t know who they are,” he admitted. “It will fall to Salvail to make certain that Relay Alpha-One is destroyed.”
The hologram shifted again, to the only place left for it to go and the place that utterly terrified Russell to be attacking.
“Our third target is the crown jewel of Operation Medusa, the linchpin of the Commonwealth’s communication network, and contains the very first q-com switchboard ever constructed,” Rothenberg said calmly.
“The Central Nexus is fourteen kilometers long, two kilometers wide, and contains an estimated seven-point-six-trillion entangled particles. It is entirely unfortified but has been placed in orbit directly between Earth and her moon, well inside the protective enclosure of the homeworld’s defenses.
“Like most of the Sol System’s security, that enclosure is badly out of date. A modernization program was commenced a year ago but has suffered delays and problems all along.” He paused. “We do not know with one hundred percent certainty how much of Terra Fortress Command has been updated to modern weapon systems.
“We estimate that at least forty platforms have been replaced with Zions, basing a total of two thousand starfighters, and that at least forty more have been upgraded with positron lances and modern missile launchers. The other eighty platforms will have the ability to launch modern missiles, but their mass drivers are not a serious threat.
“In addition to the one hundred and sixty fortresses of the TFC, a minimum of ten capital ships are kept in orbit of Earth at all times. Currently, we believe this force consists of two Saints, four Herculeses and two Volcanoes, plus two older vessels.
“We will be meeting them with our largest force: Task Force Seven-One, under my direct command from Righteous Fire.”
The network of fortresses and defending starships glowed crimson above Russell’s head.
“Seven-One will consist of seventeen Imperial and Federation warships, led by two Invictus-class battleships and ten Imperial and Federation carriers.”
Rothenberg looked up at the hologram above his head.
“We have a limited ability to redeploy ships once we’re in the system,” he admitted. “If anyone sees problems, now is the time to raise them.”
Russell wished he could see better answers. Attacking Earth seemed crazy enough. Doing it with just seventeen warships?
Well, it had to be enough. They couldn’t magically conjure up more now.
40
Leopold System
19:00 October 9, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
BB-285 Saint Michael
THERE WAS a loud thud as the escape pod slammed onto the deck of the shuttle bay of whatever ship Kyle and his staff had been brought aboard. The “sensors” on the pod were a joke that didn’t deserve the name, though he was reasonably certain they’d been brought aboard a Saint-class battleship in Bogey Bravo.
Given that they’d passed a carrier and, indeed, at least one more battleship on the way in, Kyle was quite certain they’d been brought to Walkingstick’s flagship. The Commonwealth knew who they’d caught.
With a soft hissing sound, the hatch to the escape pod slid open. All he could see outside was the plain metal of a starship’s interior. It could be anything.
“If you have any weapons, leave them inside the pod,” a voice barked. “Any resistance will be met with all necessary force.”
Kyle leveled a firm glare on the four Marines standing closest to the exit.
“You heard them,” he said quietly. “Disarm. Completely.”
He waited for the troopers to lay aside their sidearms and carbines, following suit with his own almost-never-used Navy-issue pistol. Once everyone had laid aside their standard weapons, he turned his gaze back on the Marines.
“And the rest, people,” he told them. “We’re prisoners of war now. We play by their rules. Leave them in here.”
The Marines looked mutinous…but another dozen knives, concealable pistols and one-shot anti-armor penetrators joined the pile of weapons. As he continued to look levelly at them, the pile increased in size by another half-dozen.
“All right,” he conceded. “I think we know who’s waiting for us, people. My turn to go first.”
He walked across the pod, squeezing past Marines and his flag staff to the door, and stepped out onto the metal deck of the first Commonwealth warship he’d ever set foot on.
He’d worked with a Commonwealth officer out at Antioch, but every time they’d met in person, it had been aboard Kyle’s ship. He’d never been in a Terran ship before, and he was somewhat surprised by how much it was identical to a Federation or Imperial ship.
There were Commonwealth Marines standing right outside the exit, waiting for him.
“Hold right there,” the same speaker, a harsh-looking woman with Lieutenant’s insignia, snapped at him. “Corporal, search him!”
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice with a cultured Terran accent cut through the orders, and Kyle looked up to meet the gaze of the Marshal of the Rimward Marches.
James Calvin Walkingstick was a big man, matching Kyle’s own towering two meters in height. He wasn’t as broad across the shoulders or as muscular, and his hair was dark and tied into long braids instead of Kyle’s short-cropped bright red.
“It’s their job, Admiral Walkingstick,” Kyle said quietly. “After all, many would think trading their lives for yours was worth it.” He nodded to the Marine who’d stopped at the Marshal’s bark. “Carry on, Corporal.”
Walkingstick smirked, but allowed Kyle’s voluntary sacrifice. The Marines quickly patted him down, finding nothing, then waved him through.
“Welcome aboard Saint Michael, Admiral Roberts,” Walkingstick told him. “I’d hoped that we’d get a chance to meet, rather than simply blowing each other to pieces along the way.”
“I appreciate your willingness to allow us to evacuate,” Kyle replied, bowing his head slightly as he heard his people exit the pod behind him, each undergoing the search in turn. Every second of this false courtesy grated on him, but Walkingstick hadn’t had to spare his people’s lives.
“There is a point, Admiral Roberts, where further conflict becomes a mere massacre,” the Terran Admiral said. “Other men have crossed that line and paid the price for it. I will not become them.”
Somehow, Kyle was quite certain that Walkingstick wouldn’t hesitate to bomb worlds if he thought it would meet his objectives. Kyle couldn’t say much, though. He was the man who’d drafted Operation Dragon, after all, grateful as he was that it hadn’t been executed.
“We have confirmed pickup of all of your escape pods from both Elysium and your starfighters,” Walkingstick continued. “We’re still working on a proper headcount or list, but your wounded are being taken care of.
“We have no reason not to be civilized about this, after all.”
Kyle smiled bitterly.
“Evidence suggests, Admiral Walkingstick, that we have different standards for civilized.”
The Marshal chuckled.
“That, my dear Stellar Fox, is always a matter of perspective and discussion, isn’t it?”
He stepped back, gesturing for the Marines to escort Kyle.
“I’ve arranged quarters for yourself and your senior staff, separate from the rest of the prisoners,” Walkingstick told Kyle frankly. “We will speak at more length shortly.”
“I doubt you’ll find I know anything of use,” Kyle told him. More accurately, his implant would probably lobotomize him before he could reveal anything of use.
The Terran Admiral made a throwaway gesture.
“I have n
o interest in what you know, Admiral,” he admitted. “The end of your Alliance is coming. But I am intrigued, I must admit, by the man who has caused me so much trouble.”
JAMES WALKINGSTICK LINKED his office to the ships surrounding him and let a victorious smile spread over his face as Tasker and Gabor appeared in his office. The projection was entirely in his head, there wasn’t even a hologram of the two officers there, but it looked real enough.
“Where are we at?” he asked briskly.
“My fleet wasn’t even scratched,” Tasker told him. “We shot off about fifteen percent of our missile magazines, but we’re otherwise ready for combat.”
“Hopper’s reinforcements were from my fleet,” Gabor pointed out. “Losing those ships hurt. The rest of my ships are still scattered around the region. Should I be recalling them here to or to Niagara?”
“Thirty-Eighth Fleet has shot off over seventy percent of their magazines,” James told his subordinates. “Leopold has some missiles and I have ammunition colliers in the system, but we’re probably better off withdrawing to Niagara to rearm our ships.
“I’m absorbing both of your fleets into Thirty-Eighth,” he continued. “You’ll continue to command your existing formations as Task Forces Thirty-Eight-Two and Thirty-Eight-Three, but we’ll move on from Niagara as a single force.”
Any disappointment at losing independent command was invisible as the two officers leaned forward to hear his plan.
“Where are we going?” Tasker asked.
“What’s left of Forty-First Fleet remains an extremely powerful force,” James told them. “We only actually took out Roberts’s flagship, after all.”
“In trade for Hopper’s entire fleet,” Gabor added bitterly.
“Indeed. A poor trade on the surface,” James allowed. “Except that we crushed their fighters and damaged most of their ships.
“We will return to Niagara, rearm and reconsolidate our forces. I’ve issued orders for most of our defensive formations to send half of their units to Niagara as well—if we can eliminate their Forty-First and Seventh Fleets in one strike, the Alliance has nothing left to carry out offensives with.”
Operation Medusa (Castle Federation Book 6) Page 26
