by J. S. Hawn
“Yes..yes Lt. Captain no need for any of that nonsense, I know who you are and what you are doing here. It was me after all who sent the Provost out to find you. Besides we’ve met before haven’t we, after you nicely kept one of my ships from going up in flames.”
Jonathan nodded. Hopper, at the time a Rear Admiral before his appointment to command of the 5th Fleet, had been Jonathan's superior officer when the fire broke out on Valiant, and according to Admiral Keys it was Hopper who recommended Jonathan’s promotion to Lt. Captain and command of the Titan.
“Now,” The Admiral said practically glaring. “I have one question for you, are you stupid?”
Jonathan didn’t quite understand the question. “I am sorry sir..I..”
“Don’t understand? Let me put it another way are you dim, dumb, touched, foolish, or just a bit slow. It seems to me you are, because on the same night 500 Solarian spacers and Marines were laying down their lives on LP-115, you for some reason were putting in an appearance at Senator Halman’s First Planting party. It remains to be seen as to why you would want to provoke a man, who rumor has it was bitten by a hedge snapper at a garden party only to have the poor poisonous beast die in convolutions afterward. Perhaps you took complete leave of what remains of your greatly diminished senses? Or perhaps you are just a bit touched, and I was remiss in my recomendation for you to be promoted to command of a war ship.”
“Sir, I was invited by..”
“I don't care if the old bastard’s latest fluzzy welcomed you her own self you great git! What did you think was going to happen?”
“Sir I....”
“Oh shut it El-Cap, whatever you wanted it worked oh too well. Here we are on the cusp of war, and a certain good Senator has been on the coms all morning asking anyone, who would take his calls, why we aren't giving that bright young Pavel lad, one of our most accomplished Captains, a new posting worthy of his status.”
Hopper ground the fumigin cigar in his mouth as he spoke his frustration apparent.
“Twenty four hours is all you would have needed. After this shit kicked off, I would have had you in the 5th leading one of my wolf packs, but no. As it happens, Rear Admiral Ling, Deputy Director of Office of Personnel Assignments and Command, and a bureaucrat in uniform if there ever was one, has put you forward for command of the Sound of Fury.”
Jonathan blinked searching his mind, “I am sorry sir, I don't recognize the name of the ship. Is she a new build?”
Hopper glared, “Oh no El-Cap, quite the opposite. In fact, Fury is almost thirty years old. She’s a Horatio class light cruiser that just finished being pulled out of mothballs last month. She's been slated to be under my command's jurisdiction, and I was going to send her with a detachment of destroyers to escort a convoy of valuable supplies. It would also include reinforcements for the garrison to Kratos Naval Station at the far end of the Free Worlds League. Once the convoy is delivered, the destroyers will return to Task Force 1 in the Sagus system, and participate in the main assault on the Colonial’s Northen Systems when the war becomes official. Fury, meanwhile, will replace the Andromeda, which is well overdue for a refit as the flag of the Kratos squadron, and sit out the war patrolling the League’s Northern Systems and playing peek-a-boo with the ETO and Commonwealth fleets.”
Hopper’s face had been turning a deeper and deeper shade of purple as he’d been seething.
Jonathan braced. The Admiral's famous temper looked ready to erupt.
“YOU HAD TO DARE THE OLD BASTARD DIDN'T YOU!!!” Hopper bellowed.
Hopper rose half out of his chair as he shouted, causing Jonathan to cringe not the least because the Admiral’s yelling caused a bolt of pain to shoot through his head.
“DAMN YOUR IMPERTINENCE !!”
The Admiral glowered at Jonathan for what seemed like a full ten minutes, and then resumed his seat the color draining from his face as the storm of his rage subsided.
Shaking his head and lighting a new stogey, Hopper looked at Jonathan, “You know Pavel, I wouldn’t have had you pulled in if I wasn't irritated. You’ve shown yourself to be very, very good at leading spacers into combat. You saved Valiant, and stopped the invasion of New Helsinki single handed, by most measures you are a goddamn hero, and I know you’re not a novice at these political games son, so why do you insist on playing with men who so far outclass you?”
Jonathan did his best to straighten. “Sir, I was drunk, depressed, and out of options. There is no excuse sir, but if the Admiral thinks I was going to pass on the opportunity to support my friend during his proposal the Admiral is mistaken, sir.”
Hopper looked at Jonathan, then briefly something resembling a smile ghosted across his lips.
“You know lad there's a pool on whether you're the luckiest or unluckiest bastard in the fleet. Right now, I’d put money on both. You're going to be wasted at Kratos, but who knows? Wars rarely go as predicted. if there's going to be a war at all. At the end of Fury’s deployment, perhaps we'll find a way to put you back at the sharp end.”
“Permission to speak freely sir?” Jonathan asked.
“Go ahead,” Hopper replied.
“Sir, I am gratified that you were working to see me restored to an active command, and I am truly sorry my actions screwed it up.”
Hoppers mouth quirked and his eyes flashed before he replied.
“Glad to hear I am appreciated. If you head up to command, your orders should be cut and waiting for you. Now get the hell out I’ve got a fleet to run, and Pavel...”
Jonathan stopped and turned back.
“The next time we speak it had better not involve any panny-anny political bullshit, now get.”
Jonathan saluted and exited as quick as he could trying not to slam the door. He strode past the waiting senior officers who filed back into Hopper’s office and stalked up the stairs. His head pounded, his stomach roiled, and in his soul rage boiled and churned. He should have left well enough alone in retrospect, or at the very least he shouldn't have dared the old bastard to do his worst, but he did and he had. Jonathan knew he needed to head up to operations, but instead he turned and left the Admiralty and was confronted by a bright and clear day. Fresh air wafted and Solaria’s sun burned bright in the sky. For most, it would have been a relaxing sight, but suddenly Jonathan’s terraphobia flared. His brow grew sweaty and his heart raced. He managed to make it to the edge of the staircase before he puked into the bright greenery below.
“Oy... you all right sir?” Jonathan turned to look at the Marine guard who had asked. He was a lanky, straw haired lad. Despite the Premier’s Own surrounding the building in full combat kit, the Marine sentries were still in dress uniform. The Solarian Marine Dress Uniform consisted of white trousers and white hat with a black jacket, and a thick red stripe running up either side of the trousers. A third thick red line encircled the hat with the Marine corps sigil - a star cupped by a wreath and mounted by a Crag Dragon. In the dragon's mouth was a banner which read, ‘Fidus ad Ultima’ or loyal to the last. For some reason the sight of that young man eased Jonathan’s anger and cooled his anxiety.
“I am fine son, thanks. Just a bit too much of a good night last night,” he said.
“Oh aye sir, shall I call you a medic?” the lad asked.
“No thanks private, um Dalbur.”
“Sir.” The young man saluted and resumed his post allowing Jonathan to gather himself and pop one of his Oxitanie tablets. What did he have to be upset about really? He had been given what he wanted, a ship. Sure it would be far from the front lines in an on coming war, but that meant it would be safe. Jonathan didn’t fear combat. In fact, as a religious man he didn’t fear death, but if he led his ship into fire young men and woman like that Marine would be killed or crippled for life, and Jonathan would get a medal pinned to his chest to remind him. No this wasn’t so bad because he’d be back in space at least.
“Excuse me Lieutenant Captain Pavel?” Jonathan looked up to see a young warrant officer s
tanding in front of him.
“Sir, I looked for you in Operations, but I was told I could find you in Admiral Hopper’s office and a Provost told me you were here. I’ve been tasked to deliver you your orders,” the warrant officer said with a salute.
Jonathan took the gaudy package, which was heavily embossed with antique wax seals.
“Thank you Warrant, my orders are received.”
The Warrant saluted and turned without another word, probably pissed that he’d been called out to deliver orders. Well the wheels of bureaucracy ground to a halt for no man.
Jonathan took the envelope and meandered toward the Milestone and the Government Center metro station beneath. It was a thirty minute commute home to his small room above the Blue Moon and then to bed. He had his orders, and he knew what he was to do. Disappointment still rankled him, but it was slowly being smothered by a happy resignation. Walking down the marble steps, Jonathan paused in front of the statue of Ishan Whitaker. Perhaps Jonathan thought, looking at that stern marble visage, he’d won after all. He had accomplished the goal he had set out to achieve. He was going back to space. Old Ishan was said to have often remarked ‘if you can’t get what you want, take what you can get.’ Jonathan paused for a moment then resumed his stride. No need to go home, Bethany said she had the room at the Grand Horton for the rest of the week so... Jonathan's quirked lip became a smile at the thought, and by the time his train reached First Street and he was walking back to the hotel, that smile had become a grin. Many of the passers by, no doubt having heard the news of LP-115, wondered what he had to be happy about.
Chapter IV
Singking, Solaria Prime, Solarian Republic
Premier’s Residence, The Situation Room
September 21st 8:00am 844 AE
So long as there had been modern nation states, there had been rooms like this, Admiral Douglas Whitaker 1st Admiral of the Solarian Navy, reflected as he pretended to pursue the notes he’d already memorized. The situation room often referred to as ‘The Bunker’ was located one hundred feet underneath the east wing of the Premier's residence. It was meant to be a secure place to house the leader of the Solarian state in an emergency, and a nerve center in a time of crisis. The room itself wasn't very big, but able to fit a conference table which sat twenty, a full size five foot by ten foot video wall, as well as several smaller monitors, and half a dozen communication consoles manned by technicians, who had been so thoroughly vetted Douglas didn’t doubt their was a detailed file on their shoe preferences. ‘The Bunker’ was currently a who’s who of the Solarian Military, Security Services, and Civilian leadership. In addition to Douglas, there was his boss Admiral of the Fleet Ho, who represented the Navy. There was the Army Contingent led by Marshal of the Armies, Bernard Chung and his deputy General Lorilie Khan, Army Chief of Staff. Chung cut an impressive figure. He was a Landed of the oldest and bluest blood one could find on Solaria. He stood nearly six foot five, was rail thin, and at sixty-seven he was balding with black hair and crystal blue eyes. No one was quite sure why he insisted on wearing a ridiculous walrus mustache, or constantly having a tobacco pipe in his mouth which was almost never lit. Still, it was hard to argue with Chung’s competence, which more than made up for his eccentricities. Khan, on the other hand, was a short, stocky black haired, dark skinned Steader. She was an attractive woman in her mid-fifties with alert, brown eyes. She was someone of a barrack’s legend having risen to her current status from a lowly private. Across the table from Douglas sat Marika Enido the highest ranking Provo present, and Commandant of the Marine Corps. Marika’s parents had been refugees from the Xi Confederacy and her passion seemed to be bringing about the Commonwealth's ultimate destruction. In addition to being the highest ranking Provo in the Solarian Military, she was also the youngest senior officer present at forty-three. She was a short, well muscled woman with jet black hair that she wore in a bowl cut, and striking dark oriental eyes. Douglas, himself twice divorced, sometimes found himself fancying her in a highly unprofessional manner. In addition to the military heads, there was Jian Orbuckle, the overweight balding Minister of Defense, Enoch Tao, the tall, thin patrician faced Minister of Foreign Affairs, Desmond Kuat the shifty-eyed Deputy Minister for Client Affairs, and Atherton Gao the stone faced and calculating Minister of Public Safety. Gao was flanked by the Admiral-in-Chief of the Customs and Rescue Service and the Director of the National Police Interior Troops. Douglas knew their names, but in meetings he always focused on Gao. If the slimy prick spoke, you could bet both those sycophants would back him. Thankfully, Gao was seated opposite General Loretta Cain, the head of the Office of Military Intelligence. Though Douglas’s boss and Cain didn't get on personally, they at least had a working relationship. Gao and Cain, on the other hand, got along as well as alley cats got on with mangy dogs. Gao, who was a former delegate for New La Platta, was a big wheel in the right wing of the Nationalist Party, and after the Nationalist had won the election had expected to be appointed Director of OMI. By all accounts, he had been less than thrilled when the Premier chose to promote from within. Douglas regarded Gao with complete disdain. He was a politician, not a leader. It showed in how he conducted himself. He was one of the unique breed of Eastern Range Steaders that was financially well off enough to be nearly considered Landed. The only reason why he wasn't was the closing of the Rolls and the lack of ownership of actual land. Gao’s family had found wealth in La Platta’s high tech manufacturing and development industry as well as a great deal of offworld trading. Gao made no secret of his disdain for the Steaders who worked the farms, mines, or heavy industry, which were the beating heart of the Republic, or his dislike for the Landed who clung so sullenly to their traditions and inherited wealth. In his tenure as Minister of Public Safety, Gao had overseen a high number of flashy investigations, and a severe dip in morale among the ranks of the National Police and the CRS. Finally, the doors of The Bunker swung open and Tomas Banjour, Premier of the Republic by the ‘Will of the People’ and ‘Consent of the Senate’ entered followed closely by Benjamin Rutledge his Chief of Staff. Everyone stood until the Premier took his seat. Despite Douglas’s general disdain for puffed up political prats like Atherton Gao, Douglas rather liked the Premier both on a professional and personal level. Tomas Banjour in many ways encompassed the ideals of the Nationalist political party he headed. He was born to a Steader class family of Yeomen farmers who resided three hours from the Dressar Estate’s capital and the beating heart of Solarian Agriculture, Harvestfall. Instead of working the land as his forefathers had done, Banjour applied himself in school earning A Levels, which guaranteed entry to a Polytechnic University. Rather than attend a civilian school, however, he had enrolled at Parksung Military Academy and earned both a degree in Civil Engineering and a commission as a second Lieutenant in the Army. He’d served faithfully and well for ten years, seeing action during the Pajee Insurrection as a Captain with the 332nd Artillery Brigade. After doing his service, he’d retired from the Army and briefly opened a private engineering firm in his native Harvestfall. That was until Benjamin Rutledge, career wheeler-dealer and political strategist, forsook his roots with the Liberal-Populist Coalition and approached Banjour about running for a Quorum seat. Banjour had won in a landslide and six years later by the age of forty-eight was leader of the opposition, and as such the Nationalist candidate for the Premiership. That was eight years ago now. Banjour had led his party from the political wilderness and recaptured the ‘moderate center’ of Solarian politics, allowing them to retake the Quorum and by extension the Premiership. Banjour was now early into the second of his second six year term and his Nationalist Party maintained a slim majority in the Quorum, and a coalition in the Senate by caucusing with the Judicalist and ‘god forgive him’ the Conservatives. Although, both these parties remained outside of the cabinet. Banjour was not like the Honorable Atherton Gao who was prone to the spinless political wheeling-dealing that permeated the mentality of some politicians. Banjour applied
his engineering mentality to everything he did. Whether it be a financial bill or a military conflict, he sought to understand not just how the pieces fit together, but how each individual one worked. Little wonder why he was still hugely popular, and had been able to shepherd some fairly contentious legislation through both chambers. Despite this solid record, Banjour as a wartime leader was still untested, but Douglas had little doubt he would rise to the occasion.
“Be seated” Banjour said to everyone after he took his seat.
“First things first, what are we doing to get our surviving people from LP-115 back.”
Foreign Minister Tao leaned forward, “Sir, as per your instructions the Colonial Ambassador’s credentials have been revoked, and he and his staff have been unceremoniously put on the first flight back to Charlemagne. We’ve also recalled our ambassador so there is no direct diplomatic channel to the Colonial Government. Not that they would be taking our calls anyway. As such, we have accepted the offer of the Kingdom of Vinland to provide a conduit. The Colonials have offered to repatriate the 76 Solarians they are holding. However, they're also demand we apologize for violating the treaty that stipulated our borders remained demilitarized.”
The Minister glanced at Cain.
“The OMI informs us the Colonials are trumpeting to everyone who will listen that we had WMDs at LP-115.”
There was a collective mutter of disgust around the table.
“When exactly did a nominal democracy like the Colonial Confederacy start coming up with propaganda pronouncements that rival the Helvetians in ridiculousness?” Marshal Chung asked.
“The Confederacy is hardly a democracy these days. It’s more of a semi-democratic oligarchy. It’s been a gradual transformation over the last couple of decades,” Cain said.
“Our analysts point to a two fold causation. One, is the gradual economic decline because of populist protectionist policies by short sighted populist leaders. The other is a rise in xenophobia often spurred by those same leaders. The Colonials are a far more ethnically homogenous bunch than most nations, so it’s easier to blame the foreign ‘other’. Their political decentralization, which use to be a safe guard against overly powerful government has given way to a system that is dominated by personality and identity politics. The bottom line is their current crop of leaders, especially Louis Dupont and Simon Kisane, see war as a quick and easy way to secure their own power base, and fulfill their deluded dreams of territorial expansion. The propaganda is a by-product of their own self delusion. They know we don’t have WMDs on LP-115, and most of their voters know it, but a lot don’t. More importantly, it helps to justify their aggression.”
