Something to think about.
Contact: -7 hours
“Sir, we’ve got chatter from the port authorities on High Wardhaven,” the Duty Lieutenant reported. The Admiral came to look over his shoulder as he looked over the shoulder of his three technicians.
“Play it for me, son.”
The Admiral listened. Yes, things were happening. More than just loaded passenger liners getting away from his target.
Saris came to stand by his elbow. “They are not letting them boost for Jump Point Adele.”
“No surprise. They want them to swing around Wardhaven.”
“And make a suicide dive at us?” the Duty Lieutenant said.
“Did you message our Captains?” the Admiral asked. Saris presented a message board to read. The message was clear: nip the engines, don’t slaughter the passengers. “Even an iron-headed dofbert could understand that. Good.”
The Admiral settled into his chair at his battle board and eyed the space around Wardhaven. “Plot a course for Jump Point Adele from High Wardhaven with an orbit around Wardhaven.”
The board did.
“Lieutenant, talk to me about that station.”
“The defensive lasers are charged. A dozen passenger liners are powered up. Also merchant ships. Private yachts. The entire station has merged into one huge magnetic flux, sir.”
“Radar.”
“Jammed, sir.”
“Visual? Laser? Can’t anybody see anything?”
“Nothing, sir, the station has been venting water, intel assumed from its sewage system, for the last twelve hours.”
“Before the ultimatum was issued?”
“Yes sir. We assumed, with the evacuation, that there was a problem and no one to look at it and, well, it was just venting.”
The Admiral shook his head. “And with the evacuation, who was pissing to create a sewage problem to vent!” He snorted. Did you have to be brainless to be assigned to intel?
Then again, hindsight was so much better.
“Should we power everything up, sir?” Bhutta asked.
“I don’t know what they have. Why should I let them know what I have? No, we are just standard President-class battleships. Let them assume that is what they face until it serves our interests to tell them different.”
The Admiral studied the board that told him no more now than it had four days ago. “No. Now we hurry up and wait.”
Contact: -6 hours 45 minutes
Kris watched as the line of transports grew longer. Now it included more than just huge passenger liners. There were hastily converted general cargo ships, some container ships rigged for human occupancy, and most of the yachts Kris hadn’t walked off with. She’d heard on-line some rather nasty comments by owners who’d shown up to find their yacht not at its assigned berth. They’d been accommodated on other people’s yachts, the converted ships, somewhere. And their complaints had been kept to a minimum. At least Kris hoped they had. No one had actually mentioned that their boat was armed. Not on net.
It was time to wake up the rest. “Task Force Light Brigade, second inning. This is your five-minute warning. Prepare to detach from the station and join up in five minutes.”
“About time.” “Just a minute, our skipper’s ashore,” and “But I so wanted to see who got the girl.” “Teach you to start a long vid,” came back at Kris.
She waited four minutes, gave a one-minute warning, then ordered them to detach in the order she’d assigned. Fourteen of them made it away from the docks with only one minor bump. Just as Kris was about to order one of the Seventh Division boats into the missing slot, the dock spat out the missing boat.
“Sorry to be late,” was all the excuse she got.
“Glad you could make it.”
By divisions, the yachts and system runabouts threaded their way through the line of transports, then the Navy ships, and joined up with Squadron 8. “Remember, when we start this thing, you stay with us until we hit two g’s. Then you fall back. We go ahead and knock some sense into the battleships.”
“And we pick up the pieces,” they repeated together.
Kris prayed they were very little pieces.
Contact: -6 hours 35 minutes
Sandy glanced around the Halsey’s CIC. Every station was manned and ready. Every face showed eager in the dim light. How did I let another Santiago get talked into following another Longknife into another mess?
Because there really is no other option, Sandy gave the answer her great-grandfather must have given.
“Well, at least I’m not opening a damn briefcase bomb,” she muttered to herself.
“Ma’am?” her XO said, beside her.
“All hands,” Sandy said, mashing her commlink. “This is the Captain. You know our mission. We’re decoys to draw fire away from the little boys. And that’s what we’ll do. But I haven’t forgotten, any more than you have, that the Halsey packs ten big pulse lasers of her own. Once we’ve done the job we came for, and once the fast stuff has done their tap dance, we’re going to nail some of that battleship butt to our own yardarm.”
That got a cheer in the CIC that echoed through the ship.
“Transports, this is convoy lead. You are cleared to begin a deceleration burn on my mark. You will make one partial orbit of Wardhaven before accelerating for Jump Point Alpha or Beta.”
That got Sandy several different levels of remarks from sincere thanks to reeking sarcasm to “Who’d be crazy enough to mess with Beta?”
When silence returned, she said simply, “My mark is in five, four, three, two, one. Mark.”
Beside her, the transports began their burns. Ahead of her, the Naval task forces began the same burn even as the Halsey did likewise. As one, civilian, Navy, Naval volunteers, all slowed to fall away from the station into a lower orbit that would swing them around Wardhaven and out into space. While the transports applied straight deceleration vectors, the Navy ships did some fancy footwork. They not only slowed but tucked themselves in close to the civilians, much closer than the five kilometers allowed by defunct Society regulations and insurance companies. But there was a war on, and hard times called for hard risks.
There were exceptions. The last two ships in Task Force Custer, the half-loaded container ships, waited a moment to begin the descent burn, waited until the end of the transport column was even with them, then did their burn with a bit of a wiggle as well and fell in line, unnoticed by those busy keeping station.
Since Sandy wasn’t looking in that direction, she failed to notice the other exception. Three armed runabouts, the ones Kris had designated Division 7, started their burn, but their club leader spotted the lack of burn by the two container ships and thought they might need help. Then he thought it might be fun to join them in whatever it was they were doing. Three more runabouts joining the mob of yachts and runabouts at the end of the transport line were hardly noticeable, even if these did have rocket launchers welded to their skin.
Kris watched the station fall away. She’d done that so many times as she rode the elevator down. This was different. Today, home wasn’t at the other end of this ride. Today she was headed for a fight that would either leave her planet still free or slagged and enslaved. Either end might leave her and a lot of the people she loved dead.
There wasn’t any other choice, she told herself. I hate that option, she added. If I live through this, I swear to God that I will do everything within my power to never be left with no other choice ever again. I will have choices. I will make my own decisions, and not because I’m in a box with no good place left to go.
Kris rode the PF-109 as Wardhaven’s gravity swung it around and slung it at Milna.
Contact: -5 hours 25 minutes
“Admiral, the convoyed liners are coming around Wardhaven,” the Duty Lieutenant announced.
The Admiral did not look up from his battle board.
“The convoy commander is authorizing the liners to start their burns for jump points. Note the use of the plur
al, sir.”
“Noted, Lieutenant. Do we know anything about this convoy commander? Where is he located?”
“He appears to be a she, sir. Wardhaven has one destroyer in system. The Halsey, sir, is commanded by a woman.”
“One of their Amazons, huh,” grunted Saris. “Maybe she will escort the liners right out of the system. Assure that they are safe, huh.”
“I would rather hear more about their use of multiple jump points. Is anyone heading for Jump Point Barbie?”
“We can not yet tell, sir.”
“Let me know immediately.”
The Admiral drummed his fingers on the battle board. It showed him his six battleships on a vector that now passed between High Wardhaven and the planet. He’d have to adjust his deceleration at some point. What held his attention was a formless glob of electromagnetic flux crossing the face of Wardhaven. “Can you get me a visual or radar picture?”
“Radar is still being jammed, sir.”
“A convoy of luxury liners is jamming our radar!”
“So intel tells us, sir.”
“Get me the best visual you can on the screen. Have they started boosting? Can’t we spot their engine burns?”
“They’re boosting at a ninety-degree angle, sir.”
“Get me an infrared.”
“They’re working on it, sir, but it comes back all fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy? Will someone put something on-screen for me to use my own MK I eyeball on? Saris, get that data up here.”
Minutes later, the Admiral stood, hands behind his back, and paced between two different screens.
“It is very confusing, sir,” Saris said.
“Yes, it is. Infrared is all fuzzy. The laser range finders are confused. This looks like a string of merchant liners. First ship looks like a Sovereign-class. Next in line has to be a standard Pride series type. But the electromagnetic signals from the next ship are confusing. The laser return has strange echoes, and the infrared is off.”
“At least they are not headed for us, sir,” the Duty Lieutenant said. “They are all headed for Jump Point Adele.”
“And these,” the Admiral said, pointing to a small group at the tag end of the line.
“They seem to be a bit off course, sir.”
“Let me know when you figure out what course they are on.”
The Duty Lieutenant nodded. Then his eyes went out of focus as he listened to his commlink. “Say again,” he said, then swallowing hard, “Ah, sir, intel thinks the stray ships are heading for Jump Point Barbie.”
“Where is Division 7?” Kris said, trying to keep her voice low, calm, and properly commanding when all she wanted to do was scream.
“There, Kris, over there with those two freighters from Custer. And don’t ask me what they’re doing. They were just following along with all of us until a minute ago, then suddenly they took off at one-g acceleration.”
“Where are they headed?” Kris asked.
Her workstation immediately showed a course for Jump Point Beta. “They’re heading for the battleships,” Nelly said.
“Van Horn said he had something special planned for those ships. But how did Division 7 get attached to them?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t tell them. Can we order them back?” Tom asked.
“They were the last to get added to the force. They aren’t on the Navy net, are they?” Kris said, looking over her shoulder at Penny and Moose. The raven shook his head.
“You’d have to talk to them on the commercial net and in the clear. And the battleships could home on you as well. Me, I wouldn’t issue them any new orders. As I recall, your last words to them were to stay close and listen up. Looks like they chose to hang loose and wander off, ma’am.”
Kris couldn’t argue that, but still something in her command had gone horribly wrong. She couldn’t have any more like that. She mashed her commlink. “Light Brigade. Listen up. Stay in line with me. Do not acknowledge.”
Kris heard no replies, just as she wanted. At least the ones she had left could obey small orders like that one. She eyed her board. The transports now accelerated at a comfortable one g, much to the relief of their passengers, no doubt, for Jump Point Alpha. The Navy task forces would slowly separate from the civilians—and the cover they offered—as the warships headed for the moon. Still, for the moment, Horatio and Custer stayed close in the cover of the transports . . . and the Light Brigade hung tightly to the cover of them both.
Meanwhile, two lone freighters and three system runabouts boosted at one g for Jump Point Beta with no apparent intention of ever getting there.
The Admiral studied the battle board. It told him far too little. “Talk to me about those five vessels,” he demanded.
“Two of them are standard container ships. From visuals, they are partially loaded with standard containers. The others are small system runabouts, not cleared for star jumps, sir.”
“So what are they doing making for a star jump?”
When the silence stretched, the Duty Lieutenant stepped into it. “Sir, if someone was desperate enough, they might think they could do a jump, then buy more fuel in the Paula system, do another jump, keep going until they found someplace that would take them in. It’s risky. If they ran out of fuel . . .”
“But when you’re running for your life,” Saris finished.
“Makes me want to talk to whoever has access to ships like those and feels the strong need to run,” said the future governor of Wardhaven, entering flag plot unannounced.
“A good reason to include corvettes with this force,” the Admiral pointed out, not for the first time.
“But we must present only a hard, armored fist. Nothing weak about us.” Harrison Maskalyne again was quoting Henry Peterwald. That might be a good negotiating position for a businessman. It overlooked much from a naval perspective.
“Well, these little fish will not be caught in the net we do not have,” the Admiral said with finality. “Assuming they do not threaten us.”
“Freighters and runabouts threaten us!” the governor said.
“How close will they pass?” the Admiral asked.
The Duty Lieutenant looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Sir, each ship is having trouble setting and maintaining a course. I don’t think the runabouts really know where the jump point is.” Jump points appeared to wobble in their orbit around a star, part of the process of them maintaining a relationship with the several stars they were in contact with. Starships used a full set of sensors to find a jump as they approached it.
“I suppose the runabouts were planning on following the freighters through, but at least one of the freighters’ sailing masters is a bit unsure of himself,” Saris snorted.
The Admiral nodded. Things like that happened when people panicked. When you grabbed ships that had been tied up to the pier too long, merchant officers tied up to the bar too long . . . Then again, it also provided a cover.
“When will they pass closest to us?” the Admiral repeated.
“In about two and a half hours, sir.”
“Establish contact with them in two. Warn them to stay twenty thousand kilometers from us. They come any closer, and we will respond with deadly force.”
“Yes, sir,” the Chief of Staff said.
The Duty Lieutenant, however, was studying the overhead like a stargazer who might really see his future there. “Sir, there is activity among the transports. Sensors are starting to clarify the situation. There are warships among the liners.”
The Admiral chuckled. “Tell me something I wasn’t expecting, boy.”
16
“They just lit up like a Christmas tree,” Moose said.
Kris unstrapped and stepped around to study Sandy’s and the raven’s boards. Multicolored bar graphs danced everywhere, circles made sweeps, and lists grew as fast as cryptic letters could appear in small windows.
“He’s searching us, full active,” Penny said.
“Active with everything
he’s got,” Moose said softly. “And he brought the whole friggin’ farm with him. Before he was pinging us with some off-the-shelf stuff I could have picked up in any secondhand ship store on Earth. No-account stuff that said nothing. This new stuff says he’s good. He’s very good.”
“Too good?” Kris whispered.
Moose glanced up from his board, a tight grin on his face. “Not as good as me and my raven buddies. No, he’s not as good as he thinks he is. If he was, he’d have brought this stuff up a bit at a time. Tickled us with one, see how we react. Play with us, the way a good fly fisherman plays a wily trout. Let it run a bit, pull to set the hook, then run, pull, run, pull.” He shook his head. “This fellow is all brute force.”
Kris hoped brute force was not all it took to win. “Young man, I understand you have a song for the battle net, a song to cheer us on our way and make it harder to crack our communications,” Moose said.
“Just a moment,” Tom said, and tapped his board. “Battle net going active . . . now,” he announced.
Drumming began, then a distant pipe, growing closer. A woman’s voice, husky with confidence, filled the bridge.
Axes flash, broadsword swing,
Shining armour’s piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield,
Fight Those Bastards till They Yield
Midnight mare and blood red roan,
Fight to Keep this Land Your Own
Sound the horn and call the cry,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!
Follow orders as you’re told,
Make Their Yellow Blood Run Cold
Fight until you die or drop,
A Force Like Ours is Hard to Stop
Close your mind to stress and pain,
Fight till You’re No Longer Sane
Let not one damn cur pass by,
Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant Page 31
