"Good. What about that woman of his?"
"Lieutenant Cheung? Still in J-5209, sir. She's been kept in the dark, obviously, so she has no idea of the world of pain she's about to enter."
"Pretty young thing," Polk said, eyes casting about with feigned indifference.
"She is, sir. Very."
"I don't see any need for us to honor our promise to Helfort, do you, Councillor?"
"To leave her alone, sir? I don't think we promised that, ever."
"So much the better. I'll be at Mount Clear next weekend. I want her removed from that camp of hers and taken there. I think a few days with the young lady will do me a power of good, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. I'll get onto it tomorrow."
"Good. You do that. By the way, Councillor, if I find even so much as a single bruise on her, I'll have every one of the escort party shot. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," de Mel replied, his face a mask.
"Right, next matter. The deplorable state of DocSec's operational security." Polk threw his hands up in a theatrical display of frustration. "Really, Councillor, enough is enough," he said. "It seems the people we were after in last week's sweeps knew about the operations before the DocSec troopers involved did. This cannot go on."
De Mel shifted in his seat. "Ah, yes, Chief Councillor. Operational security inside DocSec is a problem, I admit."
"A problem?" Polk barked, sudden anger flooding across his face in a red tide. "I think it's more than that. It's getting out of hand. So what are you going to do about it?"
"Are doing, sir-what we are doing."
"Don't play games with me, Councillor!" Polk snapped.
"I don't mean to, sir. What I'm saying is that we are already addressing the problem. Section 40, our existing counterintelligence unit, is not up to the job, so the director-general has established a new unit, Section 99. I think you'll find they will get the results Section 40 has failed to."
"I expect them to and very, very soon, and you can tell the director-general that from me. Now, desertion."
De Mel blinked, a puzzled look on his face. "Desertion?"
"Yes, Councillor, DocSec's desertion rate. It's on the agenda."
"Oh, ah, yes. DocSec… desertion," de Mel said, flustered by the change of topic. "Let me see… Yes, up marginally last month, though there was a significant increase in the proportion of experienced NCOs deserting. It seems the remedial steps we've been taking have yet to have any effect."
"Why not stop DocSec personnel from taking leave on Scobie's World altogether?" Polk said. "That would kill the problem stone dead."
"Yes, Chief Councillor, it would kill the problem stone dead, but that would do nothing to improve morale. DocSec troopers are like everyone else. They like to take their holidays on Scobie's, so-"
"Listen, Councillor. I want something done about this. We cannot afford to lose people at the rate we are."
"True, Chief Councillor, but there's a reason. We don't get our hands on many deserters, but those poor bast… um, those we do get our hands on all tell us the same story. DocSec troopers have… how can I put it? DocSec troopers have to use a certain amount of force in the line of duty"-that had to be the understatement of the century, Polk thought-"and that they can live with. When the intensity of operations gets too high, when the level of force they have to use to get the job done is too high, they start to burn out, and when they do, desertion becomes a very attractive way out."
"Oh, for Kraa's sake, Councillor," Polk snapped. "Force! Is that what you call it? Animal brutality is what I call it, and that's what DocSec is all about. Always has been. Why do you think so many psychopaths end up in DocSec? Anyway, it's never been a problem before, so why now?"
De Mel squirmed in his seat openly, shifting his weight from side to side and back again. "Why now?" he said.
"Yes, Councillor. Why is it a problem now?"
"I think that… um… well, you know what the situation-"
"Spit it out," Polk barked.
"Yes, sir." De Mel took a deep breath. "It seems the Nationalists' political warfare cadres have moved beyond simply suborning DocSec members into providing information. Now they're actively encouraging desertions, telling people how easy it is, giving them advice on how to do it, which systems will take them, no questions asked. They've even established cells on Scobie's to give the deserters off-world identities. Money as well, it seems."
"I did not know that, Councillor de Mel." Polk's eyes narrowed to an angry squint. "When was I to be briefed?"
"Soon, sir. I just wanted to be sure of the facts."
"I don't like surprises, Councillor. You should know that by now."
"I do, sir."
"I hope so. How bad is the DocSec problem?"
"Bad, sir." De Mel's face had gone a nasty shade of gray. "We think the Nationalists may have penetrated the citizen identity knowledge base."
Polk sat bolt upright. "They what?" he shouted, voice a near scream, lips spittle-flecked, cheeks blood-red with anger. "How? When were you going to brief me on that little gem? DocSec cannot operate if people can wander around protected by false identities. You know that! By Kraa's holy blood, Councillor, I am beginning to wonder what else you're not telling me. What else, Councillor de Mel, what else?"
De Mel had cringed backward as Polk's rage poured over him, hands out and palms up, as if begging for mercy. "Nothing else, Chief Councillor, nothing. I swear it. We're just not sure yet. That's why I was holding back."
Polk forced himself back into his chair. He said nothing until the fury ran its course. "I want to know these things sooner rather than later, Councillor," he said, his voice still ragged. "Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir. I've already told the head of Section 99 that ensuring the citizen identity knowledge base's security is his highest priority."
"Kraa's blood!" Polk said with a shake of his head. "The Nationalists never give up, do they? Now listen. DocSec needs to be fixed. This government will only survive for so long as they are out there crushing all traces of heretic support. The moment they can't do that, the mob will be at our throats. That, Councillor, would not be good for either of us. Do I make myself clear?"
"You do, sir."
"Right, I want two things: Section 99's confirmation that the security of the citizen identity knowledge base has not been compromised and a plan to reduce DocSec's desertion problem to more manageable levels. A plan that will work, mind you, not one of your 'more in hope than expectation' snow jobs. And if that means sending the death squads to Scobie's to clean out a few Nationalists, then so be it."
"Yes, sir."
"Next, the riots in the Ronsonvale Island and Dechaineux gulags."
"Yes, Chief Councillor. As I said in my weekly report, we have identified the ringleaders, nine hundred seventy-eight in all. All were tried and shot yesterday. Emergency tribunals are now processing the rest."
"How many?"
"Close to nine thousand."
"Kraa!" Polk said. "That many? Go on."
"Yes, as I was saying, I expect…" Sunday, September 16, 2401, UD FWSS Redwood, Commitment farspace
Michael stared at the threat plot, a chaotic patchwork of red threat icons tracking the Hammer's space-based defensive assets and their projected vectors. Chaotic or not, he liked what he saw. The confusion was superficial; behind it all, the patterns followed by the Hammer's spaceborne defenses had become obvious to the point where Redwood's threat assessment AI had been able to predict when the space over Camp J-5209 would be clear. Based on those forecasts, Warfare had made its recommendations. Ferreira and the rest of Redwood's command team had concurred, and now it fell to Michael to make the final call.
Michael took his time, officers and avatars sitting in silence around him. He had to get this decision right. The stakes were too high to risk failure. His concentration absolute, he worked his way through Operation Gladiator from beginning to end, checking every assumption he and the planning teams had made i
n building the ops plan, questioning, probing, testing, the process interrupted now and again by a question to one of the team. Slowly, an ice-cold clarity suffused his thinking, and with it growing confidence that the plan was a good one, a plan that gave him and his people the best possible chance of pulling off a mission no rational spacer would even contemplate. With a deep breath, he made up his mind: Redwood and her sister dreadnoughts would hit the Hammers in the early hours of Monday morning. The timing was as good as they were going to get: darkness, a serious tropical storm bringing heavy clouds and torrential rain, most of the Hammers asleep, those on duty at their lowest ebb.
"Okay, guys," he said. "We're on. We'll hit them two hours before sunrise. I want final system status reports to me at 01:00. Final briefing will be here at 02:00, all hands to attend. If all's well, we'll jump in-system at 02:30, hopefully catching the Hammers tucked up in bed. Any questions? No? Okay, carry on, please."
Michael waved at Ferreira and Bienefelt to stay back until the rest of the Redwoods had left the combat information center.
"Last chance, Jayla, Matti. Tell me what I've missed."
Ferreira smiled. "I've seen my fair share of operations, but I've never seen one so well planned out. Yes, there'll still be surprises, but we'll cope."
"Matti?"
"I agree with the XO, sir. This will work."
"I think so, too. How are the troops?"
"Matti?" Ferreira said.
"Like me, sir," Bienefelt said. "Nervous, but they'll be happy we're getting under way. It's the waiting that's the killer."
"Tell me," Michael said with feeling.
"Knew you were doing it a bit tough." Bienefelt's frown made her concern obvious. "We've been a bit worried about you, I have to say."
"I'll be fine, Matti, though I will be happy when we get started. It seems like a lifetime since I received that scumbag Hartspring's surprise package. Shit, that was only a few months ago. Can't believe how much has happened since then. Anyway, I'd better let you get on. I'll see you both at the final briefing."
"Sir."
Michael watched the pair leave the combat information center, Ferreira dwarfed by Bienefelt's enormous bulk, then returned his attention to the threat plot, one eye locked on the time-to-jump counter while the seconds ran off.
***
His walk-around finished, Michael stood back to look at Widowmaker, trying to ignore the excitement forcing its way up through the tension. "Goddamn it," he murmured. "We are really going to do this; we really are." All of a sudden, it felt good to be standing there on the brink of the most insane mission ever planned, a mission no reasonable spacer would ever have countenanced. It felt good to be taking the fight back to the Hammers. It felt good even to be going back to Commitment, a planet he had sworn never to revisit, because to go back meant Anna would be okay. Best of all, it felt good because the days of waiting, of wondering how to keep Anna out of Hartspring's hands, were over.
And you, he thought, are just the machine I want to ride into battle. A matte-black, blunt-nosed wedge, the light ground-attack lander was no work of art. Like its big sisters, it was a lethal machine, designed to do one thing and one thing only: dump death on the heads of Hammer ground troops. He patted an armored flank, not out of any affection-nobody could love something so brutal, so ugly-but out of respect. Widowmaker deserved nothing less. "Take care of us," he whispered as he slapped Widowmaker's flank again, "because today, my butt-ugly friend, we jam it right up those Hammers' asses."
Half closing his eyes, he patched his neuronics through to the lander's AI. As tradition demanded, its avatar was that of a middle-aged woman, her pale hazel eyes set in a face the color of mahogany gazing at Michael with a directness he found unsettling.
"Mother," he said, wishing he had taken the time to get to know the AI in whose hands his life now rested, "all set?"
"Yes, sir," the lander AI replied. "All systems nominal, fusion plants are at standby, main engines at one minute's notice, reaction controls at immediate notice, weapons tight, all pax loaded and in position, cargo secured, lander's mass nominal for atmospheric reentry."
"Roger that," Michael said. "Anything else I should know?"
"No, sir. I have reviewed the operations plan and have found no errors or omissions. Widowmaker is ready."
"Good. One thing, though, Mother. I have not commanded a lander in combat… ever. So do not hold back. If you think something is wrong, for chrissakes say so. I'm a long way from being a command-qualified pilot."
"Yes, sir," Mother said, the hint of a smile creasing the corners of her eyes, "but you'll be fine."
"We'll see," Michael said, doing his best to ignore a sudden cramping that banded his chest with iron, "we'll see."
Giving Widowmaker another pat, this time to reassure himself that things really would work out, he pulled his awkward space-suited mass up the crew access ladder to Widowmaker's flight deck one step at a time as he dragged his damaged leg behind him. Shutting the hatch behind him, he squeezed past the crew stations and dropped heavily into his seat, nerves jangling, his stomach turning over and over with the feeling of sick dread he always felt before combat.
Time to get started, he said to himself. "All stations, command. Depressurizing in two, so faceplates down, suit integrity checks to Mother. We'll be jumping on schedule. Command out."
Michael commed Petty Officer Morozov, Widowmaker's newly appointed loadmaster.
"Tammy, how's my LALO team?"
"Shitting themselves, I think, sir," Morozov said from a jury-rigged seat atop a stack of cases holding shells for Widowmaker's cannons, a ghostly figure through the skeins of mist chasing their way through the cargo bay as the lander depressurized. "I know I'd be if I was them; I hate LALO. But they're ready to go. I have six personnel pods and four stores pods closed up, all nominal for launch, deployment system nominal. The only problem is Chief Bienefelt. She's not happy, not happy at all, sir."
"Not happy," Michael said with a frown. "That's not like her. Why?"
"Get this, sir. She's pissed because we insisted she's too big to share a pod, so she has one pod all to herself. She says she's lonely."
"Oh! Is that all?" Michael laughed, struggling to envisage Bienefelt feeling lonely. "Tell her I'll buy her a beer when we get dirtside. Assuming there's somewhere to buy beer, that is."
"Don't worry about that, sir. I don't know of a single system in humanspace where you can't get a beer."
"You're right. Good luck."
"Thanks, sir."
Quick comms to Sedova and Acharya confirmed that everything was ready to go. Fidgety and pale, Hell Bent's command pilot looked nervous; Sedova the exact opposite. Smiling, chatty, and bright eyed, she clearly relished the prospect of going back into action. He hoped all that cheerful anticipation would not be misplaced. He turned to Ferreira. "All set?"
"Am, sir. Mother confirms Widowmaker is nominal; we have all green suits. Redwood, Red River, and Redress are nominal. Alley Kat and Hell Bent are nominal. We're ready to go."
"Warfare?"
"Concur. Ready."
"Roger."
The seconds dragged past in silence until, an age later, it was time. "All stations, this is command. Stand by to jump. Weapons free. Warfare has command authority."
"Roger, Warfare has command authority. Red River and Redress jumping now… Stand by to jump… jumping… now!"
Twelve seconds behind her sister dreadnoughts, Redwood microjumped into and out of pinchspace. Michael jerked back in his seat, his heart battering at the walls of his chest as the vid from the external holocams stabilized, the ugly black mass that was Commitment planet filling the screen. They were committed; they had to go on. This deep inside Commitment's gravity well, any attempt to jump back into pinchspace would be instant suicide.
Warfare acted. Redwood shuddered as her main engines went to emergency power, lances of white-hot energy stabbing down toward the Hammer planet. Ahead of Redwood, Red River and Redress were
already decelerating hard, their Krachov generators spewing millions of tiny disks, chased into space by the first salvo of missiles and their protective shroud of decoys. Redwood followed suit; a crunching metallic thud announced the dreadnought's opening rail-gun salvo from her aft batteries, the huge swarm of tiny slugs racing toward Commitment. The dreadnoughts' forward rail-gun batteries joined the battle, their salvos of slugs dumped into space to form a cloud of confusion expanding away from the dreadnoughts.
Without knowing it, Michael's mouth tightened into a savage rictus of sheer animal ferocity. He watched as the rail-gun slugs smashed into Commitment's upper atmosphere, transforming it into an incandescent flaming mass of ionized air.
"Suck that, you bastards," he hissed, fierce joy engulfing his body in an exultant flood. After the stress of the last weeks, it felt so good to be striking back, even though he knew the slugs were too small to achieve much except a spectacular if shortlived fireworks show. But they would pressure the Hammer's inflexible and rule-bound commanders, commanders for whom the price of failure was always the same: a DocSec lime pit. Everything the dreadnoughts did was designed to make those commanders stop, wonder just what the hell was going on, worry that they had missed something important, keep the awful image of lime-filled graves in their mind's eye.
So he hoped. Michael needed all the confusion he could get; Gladiator's success depended on it.
"Command, Warfare, sensors," the AI responsible for integrating the dataflows from the three dreadnoughts' sensors arrays said calmly. "Multiple missile launches from McNair missile defense system. Estimate one thousand Goshawk ABM missiles plus decoys now inbound. Attack is designated Golf-1. Time of flight 3 minutes 40. Task groups Hammer-1 and Hammer-2 downgraded, assessed no threat."
"Command, roger," Michael said, thankful for small mercies.
That still left the missile defense shield protecting McNair, the capital of the Hammer Worlds and a scant 100 kilometers from Camp J-5209; it was the major threat. Funded by a Hammer leadership concerned to the point of paranoia that renegade officers inside missile defense command might launch an attack on the seat of all Hammer power, it was the most elaborate antiballistic missile defense system in humanspace. The damage they could inflict on his ships made Michael cringe; massive confusion was the dreadnoughts' only defense.
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