The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack

by David Drake (ed)

“Well, we seem to be in total agreement on that point.”

  “You bet your ass we are.”

  “Therefore, I’m certain you won’t mind going on an immediate 800-calorie-per-day diet.”

  “What?”

  “Just until you’ve lost twenty-five pounds or so,” said the doctor. “And of course, the tobacco and liquor will have to go.”

  ‘’’They’re not going anywhere!’ snapped O’Neal.

  “Really, Mr. O’Neal, a man with your blood pressure should try not to get so excited. I think a brisk three-mile walk every morning and evening is also called for.”

  “Then you take it.”

  “Please, Mr. O’Neal—your health is my responsibility.”

  “Not unless the Khalia can get high blood pressure by visiting my planet, it isn’t.”

  “This is most awkward,” said the doctor. “You are calamitously out of condition, Mr. O’Neal. I really must insist that you follow my instructions.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Then I shall have to use my authority, under Section 34 of—”

  “You have no authority! I’m the goddamned king!”

  “Under Section 34 of the Occupying Army Specifications,” continued the doctor doggedly. “‘If, in the opinion of the presiding medical officer,’” he quoted, “ ‘there is just and ample cause for . . .’ ”

  “Never mind,” said O’Neal wearily.

  “It’s for your own good,” said the doctor. “Some day you’ll thank me.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” muttered O’Neal.

  “I won’t,” said the doctor agreeably. “But with luck, and a considerable amount of self-discipline, you may someday be able to hold yours.”

  * * *

  “What now?” demanded O’Neal as Reinhardt approached him.

  “It’s time for you to leave,” replied Reinhardt. “The Khalia are expected within the next ten hours.”

  “So what? It’s my planet. I’m curious to see what they look like.”

  “We can’t have you representing the human race dressed like that! When was the last time you wore a pair of shoes?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? For all you know, the Khalia don’t even wear clothes.”

  “They may not, but humans do,” answered Reinhardt severely. “You’re simply not presentable.”

  “Then I’ll get a pair of shoes.”

  “And a whole new outfit.”

  “Right,” muttered O’Neal wearily.

  “And a shave.”

  “What? No manicure?” said O’Neal sardonically.

  “I was about to suggest that,” agreed Reinhardt.

  “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

  * * *

  The Khalia came and the Khalia went, accusations were hurled back and forth, and nothing very much was resolved, to nobody’s great surprise.

  “Thank God that’s over!” muttered O’Neal thankfully as the last of the Khalian ships departed.

  “I should think that you, of all people, would be delighted,” remarked Reinhardt. “After all, you made a million credits.”

  “I also lost sixteen pounds, I haven’t had a drink or a woman in three weeks, my feet are covered with blisters, my suit is too tight, and I don’t recognize my home.”

  “Well, one can’t have everything.”

  “I had everything a month ago. Evidently one can’t keep everything as long as you military bastards continue to play your idiot games. Which reminds me,” added O’Neal, “when are you clearing out?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” said Reinhardt.

  “What’s to understand?” snapped O’Neal. “When are you taking your men and going away?”

  “I have absolutely no idea. It depends on headquarters.”

  “But the meeting’s over, for all the good it did you.”

  “True,” admitted Reinhardt. “But we do have an option to renew our lease.”

  “What the hell for?” demanded O’Neal. “You’re never going to make peace with those bastards.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Reinhardt, “Still, I don’t see why it should bother you in the least. You’ll get a renewal fee.”

  “I don’t want your money! I just want to be left alone!” He stood up. “Look at me. I’m in danger of turning into you!”

  “Then you shouldn’t have leased us the planet in the first place.”

  “You came to me, damn it! I didn’t come to you!”

  “I can’t see what difference that makes.”

  “Look,” said O’Neal desperately, “why don’t you just buy the damned world from me?”

  “Oh, we couldn’t do, that, “ said Reinhardt. “Then it wouldn’t be a neutral planet any longer.” He paused. “No, we’re quite pleased with our present arrangement.”

  * * *

  Reinhardt was sitting in the bar of the Angel’s Anus, sharing a drink with the General, when the speaker on his wrist beeped twice.

  “Yes?” said Reinhardt.

  “He’s gone, sir.”

  “He took all his possessions with him?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did you remember to put a tracer on his ship?”

  “As you ordered.”

  “Good. Let me know where he winds up.” Reinhardt deactivated the speaker and turned to the General. “A pity that we’re going to have to freeze his account. One could almost feel, sorry for him, if he hadn’t tried to hold us up.” He allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “I do love dealing with an amoral man!”

  “Where do you suppose he’ll wind up?”

  Reinhardt shrugged. “Who knows? Wherever it is, it’ll be as far from us and the Khalia as possible.” He grinned and leaned back comfortably on his chair. “The perfect place for another Switzerland, once this world has outlived its usefulness. I look forward to negotiating its use with him.”

  Rank has many privileges. Among these is the right to hear first both the good and bad news. It also carries with it responsibility, often over events for which the officer in question has little or no control. After Admiral Eronica’s sudden resignation, Isaac Meier found himself the newly appointed Chairman of the Strategy Board. It was after his election that Meier realized who would be holding the bag if the relief of Bethesda turned into a fiasco . . . him.

  Two sleepless days later Meier hurried into his old office. Smythe, bent over the computer console, looked up as he entered.

  Smiling nervously, the Admiral held up a memory chit. “The first battle reports from Bethesda,” he announced. “Thought you’d like to view them with me.”

  Smythe gestured for him to sit down. To Meier he appeared frustratingly unimpressed.

  “The battle report,” Meier repeated for emphasis. Smythe had to be as anxious as he to see the report.

  “Yes, I know,” Smythe agreed, still entering something into the computer. “Here, I’ve analyzed some bits of it. Let me show you—it supports our theory completely.”

  It took a moment for the Admiral and Chairman of the Strategy Board to realize Smythe must have had access to the battle report for several hours in order to analyze it. He was about to say something when the image of a Khalian cruiser appeared on the screen.

  THE KHALIAN WARRIOR was sprawled over the partially melted barrel of a plasma cannon. Whatever killed him had torn a fist-sized hole in his back. The short, tan fur was scorched and, near the wound, matted with blood. The alien’s lips were drawn back in a snarl. The teeth in his short muzzle were impressively long.

  Cadet Officer Auro Lebarie found the image made him uncomfortable. Even dead the creature reminded him of the Khalia’s vicious efficiency. He had studied too many recent battles the Khalia had won with sheer ferocity for even a dead weasel to be anything but threatening.r />
  Even listening to Buchanon’s lecture was preferable . . . maybe.

  “To defeat the Khalia, I have created a new tactic. One so innovative, so unique in military history that it will revolutionize warfare.”

  Senior Tactician and Fleet Captain Ginga Buchanon was obviously enjoying himself. At the start of the session he had literally bowed, swinging his arm in a wide arc. Since then, every phrase and gesture the staff officer made included some sort of theatrical flourish. Those were primarily inspired by the overblown antics of Omni game show hosts.

  Ensign Auro Lebarie was unimpressed. He slouched lower in the heavily padded, acuform seat. It murmured, adjusting to his new posture. Might as well be back at the Academy, the cadet grumbled to himself.

  For the last hour Auro’s reflexive boredom had been battling with growing nervousness. In navigation class they had worked out the estimated location of the ship. Auro’s pleasure at obtaining the correct answer had been balanced by the significance of the location itself. They were now in a sector occupied by the Khalia, and decelerating.

  A few meters away Captain Buchanon finally had reverted to his normal style, a sleep-inducing drone, only occasionally remembering to emphasize some pronouncement with a new gyration. Auro wondered how so many great battles could be made to sound so dull.

  The lecture hall was laid out in the traditional sloping half-circle. Each officer candidate sat or reclined in a workstation complete with terminal, an array of recording devices, and a small food dispenser. Every conceivable comfort or device needed to maximize learning had been provided, except a teacher who could hold his audience’s attention.

  From where Auro sat there was no indication of how this particular classroom was part of the Hamilton, a Fleet battlecruiser. It alternated as the briefing room on those rare occasions when there was time for the captains to gather before an action.

  Never an outstanding student, Auro had chafed badly under the strict requirements of his filth year as a Fleet cadet. With two years still remaining until graduation, he had concluded the situation was intolerable.

  As the son of an Alliance Senator, he had learned young how to handle people. As a boy the cadet had absorbed negotiating techniques through the same osmosis all children employ to adapt to the alien culture of the adult world. Returning to Novo Veneto he had presented his father with a “decision” to leave the academy. They had spent a long night in heated discussion. At the time Auro was sure that facing his father was the bravest thing he would ever be called upon to do. Finally, his father had consented to use his influence to get Auro an assignment to the field.

  Auro had been proud of this negotiating success. Next time he’d read the fine print.

  He was reassigned, all right—to a command intern’s billet with Admiral “Dynamite” Duane. He had escaped from Port over a month ago, but the drudgery continued, made worse by Buchanon’s constant harassment and Duane’s volatile temper. The only other change was that he now had to share quarters with three other interns. Neither situation could be judged in any way an improvement over his life on Port.

  Buchanon’s voice rose several octaves in another pronouncement.

  “I have found, therefore, that we have a totally new tactical situation.” He paused for a long five count. Taking the hint, Auro stabbed the “notes” button to store the last two minutes of the lecture for review.

  “The Fleet has never faced an enemy like this,” the officer continued. “By their very disorganization and reckless courage, the Khalia thwart most traditional tactics. You will no doubt remember from my last lecture how Admiral Harrigan collapsed the defensive globe of the Abruzzi Federation through the use of a locally strong penetrating attack. A similar tactic was employed by Admiral Stone three months ago.”

  Auro tensed; he had heard about this battle. Forgetting he was already recording, he stabbed the notes button a second time.

  “As future admirals yourselves, you should realize that even negative information is important. The survivors of the battle recovered the command recorder from what remained of Stone’s bridge.”

  The Omni behind Buchanon was suddenly filled with ships clawing at each other. The subliminal murmur, the type generated by any group of bored students, died. On the screen the image skipped from one ship to another as the flagship, the Morwood, automatically scanned each nearby vessel visually.

  The generally smaller, but more numerous, Khalian vessels were firing constantly at whatever target or targets were closest. The ships of the Fleet carefully coordinated their fire to overwhelm a single ship at a time. This stream of pictures was occasionally impaired by waves of colors slipping across the images. This was the Morwood’s screen:, only inches above the cruiser’s cameras.

  In the lower left corner of the projection was a reproduction of Stone’s command display. Little blue sparks represented ships of the Fleet; red, the Khalian. Every ten seconds symbols appeared briefly by each blue spark, identifying the vessel and giving its condition. On this display Admiral Stone’s tactics were obvious. The Khalia had formed into a very rough plane, obviously hoping to envelope the more compact Fleet formation. As they approached, it began to break down with individual Khalian ships accelerating ahead of the line and rushing past the Fleet ships, firing rapidly. These did little damage but were each in turn subjected to the disciplined fire from the Fleet. Some survived, more were transformed into drifting hulks, their spark vanishing as they became irrelevant.

  Stone had formed half of his command in a similar plane.

  The rest of his flotilla was tightening into a cone whose point faced the Khalia. At the tip was Admiral Stone, and the Morwood herself.

  “You will note how the late Admiral showed admirable courage, if less than sound judgment.” There was no soundtrack to the recording. Even if there had been, sound was not carried through the vacuum of space. The most violent explosion spread and faded in total silence. Buchanon’s voice seemed loud. Auro wondered if he would have had the courage to lead such an attack. The war had seemed more appealing back on Port.

  “Stone led the cone into an area where Khalian command signals were most frequent. Correctly deduced this to be the location of their flagship.”

  A dozen ships were suddenly visible as the cone drove into a tightly formed swarm of Khalians. The Morwood’s screen threw off waves of darkening sparks as the combined firepower of three dozen ships slammed into it. The vessels of the Fleet returned fire and the screens of the largest Khalian ship glowed brightly, and then the ship simply wasn’t there anymore. More Fleet ships entered at pointblank range and concentrated on half a dozen targets. A second, smaller Khalian raider disappeared in a flash so bright the overload blanked the screen.

  On the command display the cone of blue sparks slid into the wall of less densely packed red sparks and passed through. It took less than a minute, but no red sparks were left where it had passed.

  The Khalian commander’s ship was either dead or too badly disabled to register as anything but debris. The ensign waited for the Khalian formation to collapse outward and regroup, the tactic Auro would have followed in a similar situation. Instead, the Khalian formation simply dissolved, each ship attacking those closest to it. The cadet suddenly found his seat uncomfortable and squirmed unconsciously.

  “By destroying the command vessel, Stone, may have defeated his own strategy,” the Tactics Expert pronounced with the sure wisdom of hindsight.

  By virtue of being a smaller target, the densely packed cone attracted relatively few attackers. The other thirty Fleet warships were swarmed by over three times their number and began to take serious losses.

  On the Omni the visual scan resumed, stars arced wildly as the flagship turned at full emergency acceleration. On the display the cone dissolved into individual ships scrambling to reverse their direction.

  Stone’s carefully orchestrated engagement had de
volved into a swirling melee. In this type of free-for-all the Fleet’s superior fire discipline and training were less important than the greater numbers of the Khalians.

  The Omni filled with the sudden image of the flagship’s bridge. Evidently the missile that wrecked the bridge struck somewhere behind the camera. Waves of debris washed past the camera and then hurried back carried by the air rushing out through the hole it had made. As the air thinned the torrent slowed. An arm torn off at the shoulder, its staff officer’s patch apparent, floated toward the lens.

  The Omni went neutral and Buchanon used his central control panel to increase the lights over all the workstations. His own face passive, the training officer watched the reactions of his cadets.

  Auro dragged himself mentally back to reality. He was surprised to discover his palms moist and fingers sore from being clenched in a tight fist. By the time he felt oriented, the Tactical Officer had begun his analysis.

  “. . . sustaining losses of over forty percent, almost entirely in the chaotic fighting immediately following the portion of the battle you observed. This can only be described as a defeat. We simply cannot afford to trade the Khalia ship for ship.

  “Strategically, the battle fares better. The Khalia did retreat without raiding Castleton’s World, the only inhabited planet in the system. A strategic victory, but a tactical defeat.”

  The Captain’s voice deviated from its accustomed drone and was suddenly heavy with emotion. “Among those who died valiantly were Admiral Ernest Stone and the entire crew of the Morwood.”

  Auro made a mental note to sneak a look at Buchanon’s service record. He’d bet a month on half-pay in Port the Tactics Officer had served with Stone. Buchanon recovered, and reverted into his typical lecture voice drone once more.

  “I have spent the last weeks studying this and other battles.” Once more he paused.

  “Out with it,” Auro demanded under his breath, “or we’ll all be at Bethesda before you let us in on the secret.” The thought brought with it a new tensing of his stomach muscles. He realized that he needed to use the head. Perversely, his mouth felt dry. He took a sip of water, realizing that it could only aggravate his other discomfort. Buchanon wasn’t ready to give his conclusions just yet. He was obviously enjoying the attention too much.