Without regard for their own lives, young men and women hurled themselves forward to overwhelm positions held by nervous and increasingly demoralized DocSec troopers. Each successful attack liberated the weapons needed to fuel the next wave of attacks. As the night wore on with violence flaring up all across the city and every DocSec building outside the city center in flames, it became increasingly clear that DocSec would not be able to contain the situation.
To add to the problems facing a progressively more worried Kaspar Herris, who was holed up in the planetary councillor’s residence, reports had begun to come in of incidents in the towns surrounding Kantzina.
Csdawa’s main DocSec barracks had fallen, and the body of its DocSec colonel had been dragged out, stripped, and hung by one foot in time-honored Hammer fashion from a tree. The placard around his neck read “Traitor to the People.”
In Jennix, panicked DocSec troopers had turned their guns on peaceful demonstrators, killing and wounding hundreds before the enraged mob, heedless of the risk, had turned on their attackers, with the troopers going down under a tidal wave of murderous humanity. In Fers, Morris, and Shiba, mobs had trapped DocSec troops in their barracks and security posts. In the other towns and cities across the country, anxious DocSec commanders reported steadily rising tensions and begged for support.
Just before midnight, Herris admitted defeat and called in the marines even though he knew he had just signed his own death warrant. As he had left the Supreme Council meeting, Merrick had made it abundantly clear to him what the consequences of failure would be, and if nothing else Merrick was a man of his word.
Not that it would matter what Merrick wanted, he thought with a humorless laugh, if the street scum got to him first.
The insistent bleating of the bedside phone dragged Merrick from the depths of sleep. Cursing softly, he checked the time as he reached across to take the call. Better be something damned important to wake me at 4:30 in the morning, he thought.
“Merrick!”
“Kato Miyasaki, duty secretariat officer, sir. I have a message from Planetary Councillor Herris. He’s advising that-”
Merrick cut the man off. “Let me guess. The situation in Kantzina has gotten out of control and he’s called in the marines.”
“Yes, sir. That’s it exactly.”
“Fine. I want you to call Jarrod Arnstrom and have him draw up a warrant for the arrest of Herris. I want the warrant and him in my office at 07:45.”
“Yes, sir. What grounds for the warrant?”
“Oh, yes, good question, Miyasaki. Let’s make it conduct prejudicial to the Doctrine of the Hammer of Kraa. That’ll do for the moment. But say to Arnstrom that if he can think of any better alternatives, he can draw up warrants for those as well. I’ll pick the one I like best when he briefs me. Got all that?”
“Yes, sir. Got it. Good night.”
Merrick grunted and hung up, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.
He could accept the fact that Polk’s star might be in the ascendancy and that his own days might be numbered, but by Kraa, he would take every chance he was given to cut away the bloody man’s support. Let him explain to the Council why Planetary Councillor Herris had been a man to be trusted.
Anyway, with a bit of luck, Polk would soon be history. All Merrick needed was enough time for Eternity to come online, and he’d be untouchable. With a small sigh of satisfaction, he rolled over and was back asleep in seconds.
Tuesday, September 29, 2398, UD
DLS-387, approaching Space Battle Station 4, in Orbit around Jackson’s World
As 387 decelerated in-system, Michael was almost euphoric at the thought that getting his mother and sister back could be only a few steps away.
In less than two hours, 387 would have completed a mission to remember. Not one but two Hammer of Kraa systems successfully penetrated, they had found what they were looking for, and more important, 387 had completed the tricky business of an underway remassing after it dropped into the Jackson system. But best of all, there was the prospect of some leave to look forward to, a chance to blow off steam and relieve some of the accumulated stresses of the last few weeks, and of course he’d be able to put Aunt Claudia’s mind at rest about his mother and Sam.
How he could do that without compromising operational security he hadn’t quite worked out, but there had to be a way.
Ribot had other plans.
As he walked around the ship, he realized that there would be a lot of unhappy people when he had to tell them the bad news that there would be no leave, a severe blow given Jackson’s hard-earned reputation as one of the more fun places to be. But Fleet’s pinchcomm had been emphatic and not open for debate.
Now Helfort had asked to see him. Even now, ten days after the Mumtaz had been declared overdue, probably lost with all souls, the holovids were full of tales of grief and anger that such a thing could happen in this day and age. Helfort would have assumed, not unreasonably, that he would have priority to get planetside to be with his stricken aunt and her family, and Ribot was not looking forward to telling him otherwise. But there was more bad news: So paranoid was Fleet about security, Helfort wasn’t even going to be allowed to get a vidmail off to his father. There was no way that the needs of a junior lieutenant, however worthy, could be allowed to compromise operational security. Ribot had no doubt that Fleet would have put huge pressure on the Sylvanians to keep 387’s arrival a secret.
So, as far as anyone who cared to inquire was concerned, it was situation normal and 387 was in pinchspace somewhere en route to the Kashliki Cluster.
For one moment Ribot wondered what had ever made him want to be the captain of a Fleet warship. He sighed as he decided how to handle the most pressing issues on his plate: Michael first, officers and senior spacers second, and announcing the bad news to the troops third.
Ribot groaned. What an evening he had to look forward to, and no doubt Fleet had a full debriefing team standing by, ready to talk all night if need be. Wonderful.
“All stations, this is command. Hands fall out from berthing stations. Revert to harbor stations, ship state 4, airtight integrity condition zulu.”
Strezlecki turned to Michael as the surveillance drone crew left without the high-spirited banter that normally accompanied berthing. “Not a very happy bunch of campers, sir.”
Michael nodded. “Not surprising, I’m afraid, under the circumstances. But what I want to know is what Fleet wants us to do next. You saw the Fleet supply ship berthed ahead of us? The Ramayana, I think. I’m sure that’s no coincidence.”
Strezlecki smiled. “Well, sir, for what it’s worth, I think the shit’s about to hit the fan and little old 387 is going to be in the thick of it. We did a good job, maybe too good a job, to get in and out the way we did, and I’m sure Fleet will want more of the same.”
“I won’t give you odds on that, Strez, ’cause I think you’re right. But let’s just wait and see. Shit! I’d better get a move on. I’m officer of the day.”
As Michael finished stowing his space suit, Mother commed him.
“For your information, Michael, Major Claudia McNeil is our Frontier Fleet liaison officer, and she’ll be onboard in five to confirm that we have everything we need.”
“Roger that.”
“And Captain Andreesen from Fleet has just confirmed that he’ll be arriving on the up-shuttle at 20:15. He should be here ten minutes after that.”
“Okay. Captain got all that?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, Mother.”
Strezlecki looked at him quizzically, left eybrow lifted inquiringly. “Developments?”
“Sure are. Fleet’s sent OPS-1 to talk to us.”
“Game on, I think, sir,” Strezlecki said with half a laugh. “I’m sure Fleet hasn’t sent OPS-1 to tell us to take a holiday.”
“Know what? I think you’re right.”
With some relief, Ribot and Michael saluted the backs of Captain Andreesen and his
two staff officers as they made the awkward and always undignified transition from 387’s grav field to the space battle station’s. Amazing, Ribot thought, how even senior officers refused to use the lubber’s rail. Turning away from the enjoyable sight of one of the hardest men in the Federated Worlds Space Fleet on his hands and knees, Ribot stepped out of the air lock into the drone hangar. He waved Michael closer. “All officers, Michael. Wardroom in five.”
Just as he was about to drop down the ladder, Ribot spotted Strezlecki huddled over one of the surveillance drones in the far corner of the hangar. Altering course, he wove a path across a crowded deck to where she was working. “Problem?”
“Oh, hello, sir. No, not really. Bonnie took some micrometeorite damage during her fly-by, and I was just double-checking the repairs. Ramayana has got hot spares if we need them, but I don’t think there’s any need. No damage, just cosmetic. The plasteel armor did what it was supposed to do.”
“Pleased to hear it. Michael?”
“Sir?”
“What are you waiting for? Wardroom now. You can trust me with Petty Officer Strezlecki.” Ribot’s tone was mock serious, but Michael was too flustered to pick up on it.
“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” With that, Michael shot across the hangar, dodging the closely packed drones before dropping down the ladder like a brick down a well.
He’s a good officer, Ribot thought, and he’s handled himself well despite what must seem to him an endless series of setbacks. Having to tell him that he couldn’t go planetside to be with his family was bad enough. Telling him that there was a complete embargo on all outgoing personal messages and that as a consequence he could not even talk to his father must have broken his heart. But he just seemed to absorb the blows, burying the bad news somewhere deep within himself and moving on. Ribot didn’t want to be the first Hammer that Michael met. It could be ugly.
He turned his attention back to Strezlecki. “Just a quick one, Strez. What’s the mood below?”
“Pretty unhappy, sir. Lots of grumbling ’specially from the young and single. But I think that’s no surprise. If the troops aren’t complaining, then that’s the time to be worried.”
“True enough, but do they understand why?”
“They do, sir. Don’t underestimate how they feel about the whole business. The idea that the Hammer would actually do what they’ve done is pretty hard to take. So as long as 387 is doing something to hit back, then things will be fine. And remember, sir, that there’s more than one person onboard who lost family in the last war even if they are too young to remember the details. Reis, for one. She lost both of her parents. She would happily give up six months planetside on Jackson for the chance to kick a few Hammers to death, and she’s someone the lower deck listens to. Mind you, the party animals are disappointed at missing out on the delights of Jackson, but they’ll get over it.”
Ribot nodded. It was what he had expected, but it was always good to get confirmation, particularly from a senior spacer as solid as Strezlecki.
“But sir, if I can add something?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Everybody’s figured out that Fleet has plans for us. The sooner everybody knows what’s expected of us, the sooner they’ll knuckle down and get on with things.”
Ribot nodded. The advice was, as ever, solid. “Them and me both. As soon as I can, Strez, as soon as I can.”
The wardroom felt crowded, the officers coming to their feet as one as Ribot entered.
“Okay, folks. Seats, please. Michael, close the door.”
Michael watched carefully as Ribot sat down at the head of the mess table. Ribot paused for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. Something big was coming, and he was pretty damn sure he knew what it was. He looked around, forcibly struck by the look of hungry anticipation he could see on their faces. The last mission had welded them into a team, and it was a team that wanted to do more.
“Well, no prizes on offer tonight for guessing what comes next,” Ribot said. “From what I’ve heard, everyone onboard has decided that Fleet has plans for us, and so they have.”
“Pretty hard to explain away a bloody great supply ship the size of the Ramayana berthed immediately ahead of you as just one of life’s little coincidences, sir,” Armitage said with a half smile.
“True enough.” Ribot smiled. “Well, anyway, enough tap-dancing around. We’re going back to Hell as part of the covert surveillance team to prepare for Operation Corona, a full-scale Fleet attack sometime around late November tasked with the recovery of the Mumtaz and her people. We don’t yet have exact dates.”
Ribot paused in some amusement as Michael punched the air, his emphatic “Yes, yes, yes” giving vent to every ounce of stress, frustration, and anxiety accumulated over the last weeks. Michael was ecstatic. Involvement in what came next, yes. He’d expected that. But after one of the most hazardous missions ever undertaken by a Fleet ship in peacetime, to be put right back in the front line of a major planetary system attack, well, that really was a shock. Not that he cared. They’d be taking the fight right to the Hammers, and that was what he wanted.
“And before you ask,” Ribot continued when Michael finally settled down, “let me just add that 387 has been awarded a unit citation for the last mission, which I think explains why we are going back. We are a known quantity to Fleet. Given what’s at stake, Captain Andreesen’s made it abundantly clear that they want the A-Team right up front. Captain Andreesen asked me to pass on the commander in chief’s personal appreciation for a job well done. And while we are on the subject, I’d like to add my own thanks. You all did well, and the unit citation is well earned, so thank you all.”
It took an orgy of handshaking, backslapping, mutual congratulation, and excited chatter before the meeting settled down enough to allow Ribot to continue. Michael in particular, his face flushed with a mixture of pleasure and anticipation, his heart pounding at the thought that 387 would be right back in it, had bounced around the wardroom like some sort of demonic rubber ball until Armitage and Hosani, laughing out loud at his hyperactivity, had grabbed him by the arms, pulled him down, and told him to shut up.
Ribot struggled to keep from grinning as he tried to adopt a more serious tone of voice.
“Okay, okay. That’s enough of that. We have a lot to do, and Fleet has scheduled us to depart in two days’ time, first thing on Thursday morning. That basically gives us one working day to get everything turned around. I’m going to comm you the operations order for phase 1 of Operation Corona. I want a preliminary plan from the operations planning team in twelve hours, let’s say at ten tomorrow morning.” Ribot paused as three heads nodded in unison. Not much sleep for Armitage, Hosani, and Holdorf tonight, Michael thought.
“Cosmo. The usual. If you have any probs, call the Ramayana’s XO directly. He’s been briefed to offer all the help you need, no questions asked.”
Cosmo Reilly nodded. Fast turnarounds were nothing new, and he would get this one done as efficiently as he did everything else. “Will do, sir. I’ll need some help with the strip-down of Weapons Power Bravo.”
“Just ask. John, we’ll be embarking a covert ops support team, and you’ll be their liaison and support officer. Warrant Officer Jacqui Ng is the team leader. Make sure they have everything they need. They are coming up on the 23:15 up-shuttle.”
“I know Ng, sir. We were in the old Zube together. A good operator. The Doc, people called her, God knows why.” Kapoor winced theatrically as he noticed the disapproving look on Reilly’s face and held up a placatory hand. “Sorry, Cosmo, my dear chap, so sorry. My deepest and most humble apologies. Federated Worlds Warship Zuben-el-Genubi, DHC-775.”
“That’s better, you young puppy,” Reilly said as laughter broke out around him.
“Ignore them, Cosmo. What do these babes know?” Armitage got her shot in while the going was good.
Reilly just snorted.
Ribot’s hands went up. “Enough, enough. Finally,
Michael, I think you’ve probably guessed what you’ve got to do,” he said with a smile.
Michael responded with a look of mock horror. “I think I have, sir. Off-load all DefGrav’s stuff and on-load all Warrant Officer Ng’s gear.”
“Give that man a banana. Got it in one shot. Right, that’s about it for now from me. Any questions? No? Okay, then. Jacqui, I want all hands in the junior spacers mess in five minutes, officers included. It’s time to tell the troops the good news.”
Wednesday, September 30, 2398, UD
DLS-387, Berthed on Space Battle Station 4, in Orbit around Jackson’s World
It had been a brutally long day, but finally everything had been done.
Michael’s team had worked like demons to off-load the DefGrav team’s containers, replacing them with Warrant Officer Ng’s stealth-coated containers plus something new from Fleet’s development labs: an experimental small-scale driver mass manufacturing plant, the whole thing squeezed into two containers together with a microfusion plant. Neat, was the consensus of Michael’s team, pleased with the idea that the boffins finally had done something about the perennial curse of independent light scout operations: lack of driver mass. Michael was even more pleased when Mother confirmed that Fleet had sent along two of the engineers responsible for the massive machine. Should maximize the chances of the damn thing working, he thought cynically, and give them someone to blame if it doesn’t.
There was a bit under an hour to spare before the presentation of the final operations plan to Captain Andreesen. Michael lay back on his narrow bunk, watching his personal holovid, the sweat and the peculiarly sour odor that came from working hard in a space suit for hours on end washed away by a luxuriously long hot shower. In the absence of any vidmail, he had set the holovid to cycle between his collection of family holopix and those of Anna. As he watched, he realized, what with everything that had happened, how little he had thought about Anna; a brief feeling of guilt shivered its way up his spine. He froze the holovid on his favorite picture of her.
The battle at the Moons of Hell hw-1 Page 19
