Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  Hansen called up the list and was saddened to see that nearly two dozen young Marines had lost their lives. Several others had been wounded, a number of them critically. Squad Sergeant Dylan E. Graves’ name appeared on that list, but he was expected to survive. Hansen sighed with relief. The sergeant was alive. “Thank you, Mister Thornton,” he said. “I appreciate you getting word to me so quickly.”

  “My pleasure, Admiral. Thornton out.”

  The wall screen went dark.

  ‘Severely wounded’, Hansen reflected, ‘but expected to survive.’ That was something at least. Liz’s trip might still be worthwhile. And just as importantly if not more so, the Marines had succeeded. The Cirran government had gotten its Crown Prince back alive. Now, hopefully, the situation in the Caldanran star system would stabilize enough to allow the Coalition to go forward with Operation Mass Eviction. The Joint Chiefs would be pleased to hear it.

  Speaking of which... He glanced at his watch and saw that he still had plenty of time before he had to head out to his meeting. He tapped the other recorded message and sat back to listen, coffee mug in hand, and was pleased when Roderick Johnson’s face appeared on the wall screen. He really did like that young man. His always professional demeanor was refreshing.

  “Hello there, Admiral,” the lieutenant began, seemingly fighting back a smile so as to maintain his air of professionalism. A smile? With everything that was going on in his sector? He must have had some very positive news to report.

  “I don’t have any footage to show you this time, at least not yet, but I wanted to report this to you as quickly as possible. The Rapier has found the last of the missing Tor’Kana vessels adrift in deep space and is engaged in rescue operations as I speak. It took a hell of a beating and several decks are proving very difficult to reach, but Captain Erickson reports his teams have found over a thousand survivors so far, including several hundred females.”

  “Excellent,” Hansen whispered aloud.

  “I’ve sent word upstairs to the sector commander so he can dispatch a recovery group as quickly as possible and get them to safety.

  “That’s all I’ve got on it for now, sir. I’ll update you as things happen. Johnson out.”

  The screen went dark.

  Hansen felt an almost physical lifting of his spirit. The last ship had been found, and over a thousand more Tor’Kana had survived the holocaust. That was very positive news indeed. Not only because it improved their chances of survival as a species, but also, looking at things from a tactical point of view, because it meant the Rapier was now available for reassignment to the soon to assemble Rosha’Kana task force. And that task force needed all the ships it could get.

  Mirriazu would want to know about this right away.

  Hansen tapped the intercom. “Vicky.”

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  “Get me the president.”

  Chapter 34

  Hoping to avoid the frustration and disappointment of the last time, Captain Erickson had made a conscious decision to anticipate the worst, so he couldn’t have been happier with what his people had discovered onboard the second Tor’Kana vessel they’d located. Especially after that gruesome discovery they’d made onboard the first one. Even though finding the ship in the first place had been sheer luck, and even though they’d had no control whatsoever over what they might find inside, having found over seventeen hundred uninjured survivors still made him feel like he and his crew had done an exceptional job somehow. This time.

  It wasn’t that he’d felt like they failed the last time...exactly. It was just that Solfleet Central Command had had a tendency since its inception to congratulate its field commanders for a job well done when their missions resulted in great success, even when those officers had no control over those results. The practice was actually an old tradition, if ‘tradition’ was the right word for it, mindlessly perpetuated by nothing more than simple human nature. When things went well, people tended to congratulate one another.

  They’d probably get three kinds of commendations for this one, he suspected as he sat staring at the now steady and under control derelict vessel on the viewscreen. And if they did he’d make sure that Lieutenant Junior Grade Lombardo got a fourth. That young man had been the first one to step up and answer the call, and had done an exceptional job under extraordinarily difficult conditions, at great risk to his own life.

  “Receiving new orders, sir,” O’Connor announced, startling Erickson from his reverie.

  Erickson, as well as everyone else on the bridge, he noticed, swung his chair around to face the communication officer with eager anticipation. “Are they properly encrypted using the new protocols, Ensign?” he asked first, restraining any visible sign of enthusiasm through sheer force of will. After all, no matter how relieved he might be to finally put this search and rescue mission behind him, it was still important he maintain his professionalism in front of the crew.

  O’Connor routed the message through his decryption algorithms. This month the fleet had changed its communications encryption protocols at least once and sometimes twice every week in order to continue to protect its forces against unknowingly acting on false orders. Next month, Central Command had already advised all field commanders throughout the fleet, they’d change them only once during the first, third, and fifth weeks, but up to three times during the second and fourth weeks. The specific days and times had yet to be determined and would be forwarded to the field on the first of the month.

  So far that procedure had proven successful. The fleet, and the entire Coalition once the rest of them adopted the practice, had been able to stay well ahead of the enemy’s attempts to crack their codes. The most recent change had just become effective at 0600 this morning.

  “Yes, sir,” O’Connor advised the captain as soon as his board displayed its results. “The message is properly encrypted.”

  “Very well, Ensign. Authenticate and verify.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  New orders, Erickson enthusiastically reflected as O’Connor carried out his instructions. He’d been waiting for a month to hear that short but most welcome phrase. Somewhat less than patiently, too, if he was being honest with himself, though he’d kept his impatience well buried. Those words sounded like a beautiful melody in his ears. Thank God their search and rescue mission was finally over! Rescuing the surviving Tor’Kana had been a very admirable, not to mention extremely important thing to do to be sure, but a pair of medium range corvettes could have done it just as well as they had. The Rapier was a warship, not an ambulance. Her job—hell, the very reason for her existence!—was to defend the Earth and her sovereign colonies, and their Coalition allies when necessary, by slamming the hammer down hard on the enemy’s head, not by picking up the pieces that enemy might leave behind. Rapier was a heavy cruiser and a heavy cruiser belonged in combat.

  “Orders authenticated and verified, Captain,” O’Connor advised him. Then he grinned and added, “I think you’re going to like these ones, sir.”

  “Let’s hear them, Ensign. Out loud, but you can dispense with all the usual formalities.”

  “Aye, sir. Orders summarized as follows.” He cleared his throat, then announced, loud enough for everyone on the bridge to hear, “Immediately upon surrendering custody and control of the derelict Tor’Kana vessel to the recovery ships, you are to proceed with all haste directly to the Caldanran star system where you will rendezvous with the assembling Coalition task force and participate in the Rosha’Kana counterattack, dubbed ‘Operation Mass Eviction’!”

  Cheers and applause and yelps of approval resounded from the newly motivated crew and filled the bridge. Erickson allowed it, welcomed it in fact—even discovering all those Tor’Kana alive and well hadn’t boosted their morale the way these new orders just had—then directed O’Connor to, “Confirm receipt and intent to comply.”

  “Yes, sir!” the young officer acknowledged enthusiastically.

  “Helm, what’s out E-T-A
to Caldanra?”

  “Approximately two days, sir,” the young woman answered.

  “We are going to kick some lizard ass!” someone from the Operations deck proclaimed.

  Erickson grinned at that...briefly. “Best speed just as soon as the recovery ships take possession of the Tor’Kana.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Indeed they were going to kick some lizard ass, Erickson reflected. But combat was no game. It wasn’t about action and excitement. He welcomed his crew’s enthusiasm, of course, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would perform their duties in a completely professional manner, just as they had during the first Rosha’Kana campaign last month. Just as they always had. But he also knew that there was a real good chance that some of them, or all of them for that matter, might not come out on the other side of it alive.

  This was going to be a tough one.

  Chapter 35

  The first thing Admiral Hansen saw when he strolled into his office’s reception area after the meeting with the Joint Chiefs was Vicky, squatting down in front of the coffee cart with her skirt hiked almost to her hips, leaning forward on one hand—at such an angle as to inadvertently give him a good view down the front of her blouse, of course—while she rummaged through the well stocked cabinet with the other. For one brief flash of a moment he imagined himself unfastening his trousers as he walked around behind her, pulling her skirt the rest of the way up over her hips, and...

  He shook his head and looked away, purging those thoughts from his mind. “Anything happen while I was gone?” he asked as he headed straight for his office.

  “Yeah, the coffeemaker behind your desk caught fire,” she answered.

  Hansen stopped and turned back, speechless, as she stood up with a pack of filters in her hand and tugged her skirt back down into place. “I’ve already called Facilities Maintenance, but they’re not going to be able to get to it until tomorrow, so I was going to make a pot out here.”

  “How the hell did it catch fire?”

  “I don’t know, Admiral,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “Short circuit, I guess.”

  “The fire suppression system...”

  “Didn’t even activate,” she answered without having to hear the rest of the question. “I was in there when it happened, so I was able put it out right away myself.”

  Hansen sighed, relieved beyond words, and said a simple, “Thank God for that.” If the fire suppression system had been triggered it wouldn’t have shut itself off until it had made a complete mess of his office. Everything in the entire room would have been covered in a thin layer of sticky, non-combustible mist residue. It would have been a fairly simple matter to have it all cleaned up afterwards, but it probably would have taken at least a couple of days, and having to find a temporary workspace, even for that short period of time, would have been damned inconvenient.

  Then again, it would have given him a good excuse to work at home.

  Vicky glanced at the pack of filters she was holding, then said, “I’ll bring a cup into you as soon as it’s ready.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Vicky.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.” And with that she turned her back and started to make the coffee.

  Hansen gazed at her for another moment, then went into his office. He checked to make sure the door didn’t lock behind him, then crossed to his desk—a few small black marks on the wall above his coffeemaker were the only evidence of the fire that he saw—and sat down. He loosened his collar, drew a deep breath and exhaled long and slow, then glanced at his comm-panel. No blinking light. No reports or other messages. Incredible. For the first time in longer than he could remember he had absolutely nothing scheduled for the rest of the day.

  Of course, that probably wouldn’t last very long. Inevitably, something would come his way. New reports would come in for his review, or a crisis would crop up somewhere and need his immediate attention, or at least that of someone in the agency. But for now at least, he had nothing to do.

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet up onto his desk to enjoy the most welcome respite, short-lived though it would likely be.

  Like it or not, there was no denying it. Vicky was an extremely attractive young woman, at least in his eyes, and he was definitely attracted to her. The way her hair flowed down over her shoulders like a waterfall of gold when she wore it loose, as she had today. Those short skirts she always wore that drew his attention to her long, shapely legs rather than covering them. While it was certainly true, as he’d reminded himself just this morning, that he didn’t have time for any kind of romantic relationship, or even for a strictly physical one for that matter, it was also true that deep down inside he was a very lonely man. In all the years since his wife’s tragic death he hadn’t even gone out on a date.

  What if he were to take a shot? While she was his secretary, and therefore in a sense his employee, she was also a civilian—in all actuality, an employee of the Federation government. He was her boss by virtue of position only. He was not her commanding officer. The regulation against fraternization didn’t apply and she didn’t work in an environment that required her to compete for raises or promotions. She received both of those benefits automatically at specified time intervals. So would any harm really be done if they decided to start dating? Might she be willing to quit her job, if necessary, in favor of pursuing a deeper relationship with him? If so, and if things worked out well between them—if they grew close and became intimate, what would Heather think about the possibly of her becoming her stepmother?

  He snickered and shook his head. What the hell was he thinking about? Romancing and marrying Vicky? Yeah, right. She was at least twenty years younger than he was. Maybe as much as twenty-five. What on Earth had made him think she could possibly have any interest in a man like him, a secretly disgraced officer in the twilight of his mostly deskbound career, when she could easily have any much younger and more handsome and energetic man she might want?

  “You need to get a grip on reality, Nick,” he told himself.

  The meeting with the Joint Chiefs. That was reality. Surprisingly enough, considering the way such meetings of the minds usually went, this morning’s meeting had actually been a very productive one. Much more productive than usual. While all tactical decisions would of course be left up to the task force commander—one lesson that mankind had finally learned from his own history, somewhere along the way, was that a war could not be successfully waged from the halls of government—a good number of final strategic decisions had been reached and agreed upon. Ships had been selected and orders had been issued, all in plenty of time for lunch, which he and the Joint Chiefs had all gone out for together afterwards.

  He’d almost felt like one of them. Talk about needing to get a grip on reality.

  The stage had been set. The countdown had begun. It would take several days, the whole of the Solfleet Naval Forces’ admiralty had determined, for all nine carrier groups and fourteen Marine battle groups that Solfleet Central Command had committed to the campaign—a hundred and one heavy vessels in all—to gather at Caldanra. Perhaps a day or two more for those of the other Coalition worlds who were contributing forces to join them, and then another day to a day and a half after that to complete whatever rearming and resupply operations might be necessary. And then, once all of that was done, the largest single Coalition flotilla ever assembled would begin its nine day voyage to Rosha’Kana—too bad they didn’t have a few hundred jump rings for them out there—and Operation Mass Eviction would finally begin.

  With all the red tape and cumbersome bureaucracy inherent in any large organization, most particularly the military, it had been quite refreshing to see that in the end, when push came to shove, the top brass could still damn that bureaucracy and get things done. Too bad the brand new Excalibur-II battlecarrier and a few of her sister ships weren’t ready for combat service yet. If anything could ever persuade the Veshtonn to give it all up and turn tail and run
, the sight of a few of those behemoths would certainly be it.

  Still, even without those immense new wonders of modern technology, he felt confident about their chances this time. There were never any guarantees in war, of course, and he was certainly no expert on interstellar fleet warfare—company-sized ground combat was the closest he’d ever come—but he did know one thing from the official reports he’d read. Despite the advanced warning that the Bokken’s discovery of the Veshtonn observation post had provided the last time, the Coalition as a whole had still been caught off guard by the sheer enormity of the enemy invasion. As luck or fate or whatever gods might be on high would have it, they hadn’t assembled nearly enough vessels in the region at the time to mount much of an initial defense. The loss of that star system, as he understood it, had been all but inevitable from the very beginning. But this time things would be different. This time they were ready. They would emerge victorious—they had to emerge victorious, not just for the Tor’Kana but for all the people of all their worlds—and the ‘Timeshift Resolution’ would quietly go away and fade into oblivion so that another operative wouldn’t have to.

  After what he’d learned in this morning’s meeting about the size of the assault fleet, he was beginning, finally, to truly believe that.

  “Excuse me, Admiral?” Vicky’s voice called from above, sounding a little tentative.

  So much for the respite. “Yes, Vicky?” he answered.

  “Sir, the uh... Heather’s school principal is on the line for you,” she told him reluctantly. Obviously, having worked for him for a while, she knew enough about Heather’s track record both in school and out to realize that her principal wasn’t calling with anything the admiral would actually want to hear.

  Hansen sighed as the live-transmission light on his panel lit up and began to flash. There was certainly no love lost between himself and Doctor Kessler, that was for sure. That egotistical jackass had always been far too full of himself to worry about treating anyone so far beneath his station as a mere military officer with anything even remotely resembling civility. But what could Heather possibly have done to get herself into trouble on the very first day of school? It wasn’t even a full day of school!