Because she couldn’t tell them why, it had taken considerable cajoling on Kerri’s part to get the escape committee together. The very idea of escaping had become more ludicrous as each day passed, as the vision of a green and fertile Eternity took root in the minds of more of the Mumtaz- ers, as lives past were written off and consigned to the rubbish bins of history, as the sheer impossibility of escape had finally sunk in.
But she had persisted quietly but emphatically until, with great reluctance, the escape committee had agreed to meet.
As usual, they had been waiting for Colin Mendes, former FedPol chief inspector on Anjaxx and a man so incapable of being on time for anything that Kerri often wondered how he had survived in the police service. But he’d finally turned up with his usual mumbled apology before taking his place in the circle around the coldlamp. While the group settled, Kerri reached into her coverall and pulled out a small gray box, placing it on the rock next to the lamp and pressing a small switch.
It took only a moment for the implications of that simple and outwardly unremarkable action to start to sink in. Everyone present knew an electronic shroud when he or she saw one. More to the point, they knew that Kerri hadn’t had one before. In an instant there was pandemonium as the sharper members of the group worked it out, and it took a while before Kerri, a broad grin splitting her face under her breather mask, was able to quiet the group. But finally she had the undivided attention of the escape committee.
“Well, everybody, I still have trouble believing it, but it’s true. All being well, we’ll be going home and…” Kerri couldn’t continue as emotion overwhelmed her and every other member of the group. All were of an age at which they had too much invested in the past to contemplate a new life, at which it was too late to start again, and the thought that all that was precious and dear to them might be restored was almost too much to take.
But finally, the group settled down and Kerri was able to start again. She was pleased this time to see emotion slowly replaced by a steely determination to do whatever it would take to make their escape from Eternity happen.
“Okay. Here’s what we have to do, and we don’t have a lot of time to do it in, so pay attention. First up, meet a friend of mine.”
The shock was total as the leading edges of two small mounds of rock just outside the pool of light lifted to reveal the smiling faces of two marines. The mouths of the escape committee members were hanging as far open as breather masks would allow, and the silence was total.
Major Anschar Shao, Federated Worlds Marines (retired), was the first to recover.
“Christ,” she said, “chromaflage certainly has come a long way since my day. But it’s good to see you, by God. I can’t tell you how good.”
“Likewise, Major,” replied the first marine, “Lance Corporal Jensch and Marine Maziz at your service, sir. Now, please, our time is limited because we need to be safely tucked up by moonrise. Two things. We need to get all of your neuronics modified so you can talk securely among yourselves and to us. When that’s done, we’ve got some holocams we’d like placed and some whisker laser rebroadcast units to cover some blank spots in our neuronics network, and when that’s finished, we’ll hand over to Commodore Helfort. That gives us less than three hours, so if I could have you, Major, and you, Captain Zuma. Just sit down with your backs to us and leave the rest to us.”
Monday, November 16, 2398, UD
Task Force 683, Revelation System, Hell Outerspace
One after the other in quick succession, the four deepspace heavy patrol ships of Task Force 683 dropped into normalspace over 30 million kilometers out from Hell, their arrival announced only by the briefest flashes of ultraviolet.
The Atsumi’s combat data center was quiet as Commodore Kawaguchi and her staff watched the ship’s three consorts-Almohades, Ashanti, and Akkad-take loose station 2,000 kilometers apart, the ships invisible on the holovids against the brilliant tapestry of stars that curtained the skies. Within one minute of dropping, BattleNet was up and Atsumi, using the 6,000-kilometer baseline provided by the four ships’ sensors, started the slow and painful process of scanning the huge volume of space ahead of them before slowly rotating the line to cover the space to port and starboard of the original line.
This was a very unpopular maneuver, with captains understandably concerned about exposing their ships’ poorly armored sides to any loose rock or debris in their path as the ships coasted in-system at 150,000 kph. But it had to be done.
Slowly the ships’ sensors sucked data from every part of the electromagnetic spectrum and from every direction. The massive sensor AIs crunched terabytes of data a second as the threat plot located and displayed every ship, every satellite, and every fixed installation in the Hell system, all prioritized by proximity and threat.
Kawaguchi could see it all, feeling godlike as she looked down on the Hammers going about their business, unaware that they were being watched.
Even from more than 30 million kilometers away, she could see the characteristic signature of a Hammer mership. Judging by her vector as it boosted out-system en route, it was bound for the planet Faith in the Retribution Star system 3.75 light-years away. Farther out, a Hammer warship boosted out-system. It was an old Constancy class light escort judging by its electromagnetic profile and was identified by Mother as the Conciliator. Not a problem.
The long drawn-out process went on, the sensors gradually sorting the electronic chaos into an orderly picture of Hammer activity across trillions of cubic kilometers of space. Most important, Kawaguchi was relieved to see the threat plot turn and stay a uniform orange. Her orders were very specific. She was to jump back into pinchspace immediately irrespective of vector the instant the threat level escalated to red.
“Command, command AI.”
“Go ahead.”
“Threat plot is orange. Mission prime directive met. Ready to commence deployment.”
“Command, roger. Deploy.”
For five minutes, the local plot showed nothing more than the four warships, now back in a loose line abreast, coasting in-system. And then, from each ship there began to emerge a growing line of little dots, each dot representing a single Sandfly deepspace starship simulator, all shepherded clear by unseen EVA teams.
With a flattened, stealth-coated ovoid cross section broadening sharply out into a blunt bow making it look like a hammerhead shark, the Sandfly was the Federated Worlds’ latest and most sophisticated deepspace ship simulator. It was able to replicate any ship, from the most dilapidated tramp mership running the trade routes to the Far Planets up to and including the Feds’ latest, the Seagirt class deepspace heavy cruiser.
The Sandfly came complete with a boost engine aft, double redundant microfusion plants amidships, and banks of transmitters forward capable of simulating almost any active emitter ever built, from the 10-meter VHF radio band through all the radar and satcomm bands, military and civilian, up to 400-nanometer ultraviolet comms lasers. Together with Krachov microshrouds, active jammers, radar echo enhancers, AI-controlled voice spoofers, pinchspace drop simulators, and all the other tricks of the electronic countermeasures world, the Sandfly was an impressive piece of equipment.
Today, Task Force 683’s job was to send 120 of them straight down the throat of an unsuspecting Hammer.
Not that the starship simulators would look like FedWorld warships when the time came. No, that would be too obvious. When they went active, they would look like no warships the Hammer had ever seen, and then, when their job of thoroughly confusing matters was done, they would explode into dust. Probably the most expensive dust ever, Kawaguchi thought cynically.
Three hours later and the deployment was complete. The starship simulators were arrayed in a rectangle 8,000 kilometers across and 2,000 high, the classic heavy battle fleet formation for a direct attack on a heavily defended planetary system.
As the starship simulators took up station, they were followed by a cluster of pinchcomsat killers, each one
a small football-sized black sphere mounted on top of a small boost engine and carrying a fuel cell, a close-range attack laser, an integrated star/inertial navigation system, and a tiny low-power optical targeting system.
“Command, command AI. Ready to launch.”
“Command, roger. Launch.”
And with that, 136 stars flared into existence as booster rockets smashed the starship simulators and pinchcomsat killers on their way toward their targets and then, just as quickly, winked out, their job done.
“That was pretty,” Kawaguchi murmured.
Five minutes later, Kawaguchi and her ships jumped into pinchspace.
Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD
Eternity Nearspace
The usual gut-wrenching jump delivered the seven ships of Rear Admiral Kzela’s Task Force 681 safely into Eternity nearspace 525,000 kilometers out. That was far enough for the low-grade sensors on the only Hammer military warship in orbit to have no chance of detecting their arrival.
Kzela sat in the flag combat data center deep inside his flagship, the deepspace heavy cruiser Seagirt. With its sister ship Searchlight, Seagirt was one of the Fleet’s newest heavy cruisers, both ships having been accepted into Space Fleet service from the massive orbital starship yards of Suleiman’s World only months earlier. It was so new in fact that Kzela would have sworn that he could smell the fresh paint. He had little to do but watch as, without any fuss, the task force quickly and efficiently came online and within seconds had rebuilt the threat and tactical plots.
“Good,” Kzela grunted, pleased that the threat plot confirmed that everything was as it should be, that nothing had changed.
Kzela zoomed the Seagirt’s massive holocam array in on the only Hammer threat, the Myosan. For all the world so close that Kzela could reach out and touch it, the Hammer ship hung in low orbit around Eternity like a brilliant silver and gold pebble. Its highly polished hull, its gold trim, and the massive gold Kraa sunburst on the upper side of the bow vouched for its membership in the chief councillor’s personal flotilla. The only signs that the ship was alive were the brilliant orange anticollision lights that flashed from every side and the occasional flicker-flash as Myosan’s Ka-band radar-controlled short-range lasers vaporized another small piece of space debris in its course.
Stupid bastards, Kzela thought. Myosan wasn’t even bothering to radiate its long-range search radar. Well, they’d find that was a mistake before very much longer. Its India band search radar would have no chance of picking up the ships of the task force so far out, but Kzela couldn’t begin to imagine not at least trying. Too damn confident, that was what they were. Either that or they didn’t care.
“Sloppy,” said Kzela’s chief of staff from the seat alongside, as if reading his mind, “though I’m happy to have it so. He won’t see either of us until it’s much too late for him to do anything about it.”
Kzela nodded. “No, he won’t.”
A small tremor in the holovid as the flag AI switched holocam arrays was the only indication that Seagirt, the best military warship technology in humanspace, was rolling ship in preparation for its scheduled deceleration burn. As the Myosan slipped out of sight behind Eternity, the faintest of tremors marked the firing of Seagirt’s main engines, the maneuver intended to put the heavy cruiser in a position to bring its main rail-gun and missile batteries to cover the heavy scout Groombridge as it ran in on Myosan. After a quick check with the flag AI had satisfied Kzela that all was going according to plan, he switched the holocams in quick succession to the rest of the task force, which was pulling slowly ahead of Seagirt as she began to decelerate.
There was little for him to do now but watch as the heavy cruiser Firnas headed into low orbit carrying the main ground assault force, the 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the 78th (President’s Own) Regiment of Marines. Farther back, the heavy scouts Draconis and Aquila ran in to intercept Mumtaz while the three remaining heavy cruisers, Regulus, Ishaq, and Recapture, adjusted vectors to put themselves into high orbit, the first line of defense if Eternity turned out to be the trap many still feared it might be.
Kzela felt like a spectator as he watched the elaborately choreographed movements of his ships.
He sighed as he reminded himself that if he had done his job right, he should feel just like a spectator. Contrary to popular belief, an admiral’s role was mostly before the event and not during it. His job was to make sure that the operational planning was sound, the sims were realistic and relevant, all possible scenarios had been assessed, and his subordinate commanders were both able and willing to discharge the responsibilities they had been delegated. The idea that modern space warfare with all its speed and three-dimensional complexities might allow him to pace some metaphorical quarterdeck while directing the activities of the thousands of men and women under his command in real time was utterly ludicrous.
More to the point, Space Fleet spent a great deal of time and effort ensuring that its senior commanders were able, as one of Kzela’s peers had memorably put it after a particularly harrowing command sim, to watch as everything went to shit and then, against all instinct and intellect, do nothing about it because there was nothing they could have or should have done.
That was not to say that admirals and their staffs didn’t have to step in now and again; they did. It just didn’t happen quite as often as the action-adventure holovids would have you believe.
So Kzela did his job, switching endlessly between the flag AI and the subordinate AIs controlling each of his ships with one eye watching the command, local, and threat plots like a hawk. But that was all he and his flag staff did. His captains knew what they had to do and needed no nagging from him to do it and do it well.
But nobody had ever said it was easy just sitting there.
Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD
Hell-14
As the final ops conference broke up into the usual noisy disarray, Michael waved Gerri Mangeshkar, his opposite number from 166, clear of the throng.
“Hey, Gerri. One for the road?”
“Damn straight, Michael! I feel like I’ve done nothing else but work since God knows when, so that’s just what I need right now.”
Michael followed Mangeshkar as she turned right out of 166’s combat information center and down the narrow passageway to the wardroom. She waved him into a violently patterned armchair that had pride of place in the cramped compartment.
“This is, without doubt, the ugliest fucking chair in all of humanspace, Gerri,” Michael said as he stretched out a grateful hand to take a small glass of Gabrielli single-malt cut with a dash of Jascarian spring water. It was pure mother’s milk, and Michael treasured every precious drop as it slipped down a throat dry and scratchy from a diet of too much recycled air.
“So you say, Michael. But I’ll have you know it’s a treasured family heirloom belonging to our esteemed navigator.”
“Balls, Gerri! Your previous skipper left it behind. I know. I checked.”
“Bastard” was all Mangeshkar said as the two settled into a companionable silence. Michael and Mangeshkar were happy for the moment to do little more than stare into the depths of their drinks and let the seconds tick by unwatched.
Michael finally broke the silence. “Four hours till the kick off, Gerri. How do you think it’ll go?”
“Well, like you, I’ve been through the sims God knows how many times, and any way I look at it, I think Battle Group Delta is going to kick the Hammer back to join that damned Kraa of theirs.” Mangeshkar paused to take a long drink from her glass. “No, all in all I think that side of it’s fine. Jaruzelska should pulverize them, no problem. It’s us I worry about.”
Michael nodded. “Funny you say that. The skipper was just saying how heavily we’ve drawn on our luck. Christ, I just hope it holds up another-what? — six hours. That’s not too much to ask, surely to God.”
“I feel the same way, Michael. It’s almost like we’ve been tempting fate being here. Who would have t
hought it two months ago? Two light scouts spending nearly five weeks sitting on a piece of Hammer real estate only a couple of hundred thousand kilometers away from an entire Hammer flotilla. Shit, we’ve done exactly that, and it’s still hard to believe!”
“It is. Still, we live in hope. Anyway, Gerri, much as I love you-and I do-we’ve got work to do, so I’ll say thank you.” Michael climbed out of the armchair, finishing his drink as he went. He took Mangeshkar’s outstretched hand. “It’s been an honor, Gerri. Truly it has, so let’s get through this, and hopefully I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Take care, Michael. Let’s hope that the bastards are so busy fending off Jaruzelska and her overpaid staff that we can slip away without being seen.”
“Let’s hope so. See you.” With that, Michael was gone.
Mangeshkar poured herself another small drink and sat back down. Her department was well and truly under control, and if 166 wasn’t ready to lift off on schedule at 04:15, nobody would be pointing a finger at her. But the strain was killing her. She could see it in Michael, too. They’d both lost a good five kilos since Corona had started, and their faces sported the same dark black smudges under both eyes and the same tense, stretched look. The rest of 387’s officers didn’t look much better. Michael’s skipper in particular looked like a man about to be hanged, his face a drawn gray-tinged caricature. God only knew how he was coping. The final approach to Hell-14 must have been a killer.
Mangeshkar gave herself a metaphorical shake. Fuck this, Mangeshkar, she chided herself. You’re getting far too maudlin. A final check of her department, a couple of hours of sleep, and then up to be ready for liftoff. Decision made, she downed her drink, slapped on an alc-suppressor patch to neutralize the two drinks she’d just enjoyed so much, and was on her feet, heading for the surveillance drone hangar.
Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD
The battle at the Moons of Hell hw-1 Page 27
