Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike

by Doug Dandridge

  “Well, your Grace,” asked Samantha, “what do you think?”

  “Like, as you said, a resource we need to cultivate,” said the Archduke, nodding his head. “And you have my approval as a member of the Intelligence Oversight Committee to proceed. Though I’m sure my other committee members might raise holy hell to find out this had been approved behind their backs. But, as I heard said in the Fleet, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. And you definitely have my forgiveness on this one.”

  “So happy to hear that, your Grace,” said Samantha with a smile. Now we won’t have to make you disappear, she thought as the smile widened across her face. Not that we would ever really do such a thing, but there’s no law against wishful thinking.

  * * *

  “We have a go, Director,” came the voice of the Regent, Samantha Ogden Lee, over the secure com.

  Good thing, thought Ekaterina Sergiov, the Director of the Imperial Intelligence Agency, the IIA. Since we already sent the information up the line. “That’s great news, ma’am,” the Chief Spy of the Empire told her surrogate boss, the one who ran the show when the Emperor was not in the loop. “So Marconi got on-board?”

  “So it seems,” said the Regent. “I believe he’s had a complete change of heart. But I’ve learned over the short period of time I’ve been in this position not to trust anyone too much.”

  Something I learned years ago, thought Ekaterina.

  “What did you send our friends?” asked the Regent.

  “We exaggerated the damage to the Donut,” said Sergiov, remembering the report she had approved. The Agent in Charge had wanted the Cacas to get the story that the station had been destroyed, but there were too many people in the Empire who knew that wasn’t true, and it was bound to leak. “According to the information they were given, the station will be out of operation for the next three months.”

  “That should give the Cacas some hope,” said Lee, smiling in the holo. “And probably cause some alterations in their plans.”

  Though I’m not sure that such an alteration would benefit us, thought Sergiov, nodding. But I’m just the spy, not the policy maker.

  “What else?”

  “We fudged the casualty figures from Congreeve,” stated the spy. “We inflated them to the point where it looks like we took double the losses we really did. And the expected reinforcements from our allies have not arrived. We were able to add information about Elysium going on a witch hunt of their own people, and that causing a delay in their expeditionary force arriving in our space.”

  “That should lead to some over optimistic thinking among their strategists,” said the Regent. “Just what we needed.”

  “We also gave them the other information, Regent,” continued Sergiov, grimacing at the thought of what she was about to say.

  “Other information?”

  “You know, the straight intel we had to put in with the disinformation.”

  “Oh,” said Lee, the expression on her face falling. “And that was really necessary?”

  “It was, Madam Regent,” said Sergiov, still feeling dirty from what she had had to do, feeling the betrayal of her own Empire. For the disinformation to be believed, some real information had to be sent up the line as well. Real information, the kind that led to people being killed. Just like Coventry, on the home world, in the Second World War, thought Ekaterina, like many in the government an amateur historian. And I don’t think Churchill felt any better than I do. Those poor people.

  “And what have our friends sent our way,” said the Regent, looking very uncomfortable with the whole concept of having to betray some of her own to gain advantage.

  Welcome to my world, Samantha, thought Ekaterina, as she called up the document they had received from the Maurid spymaster. “You understand that our man does not have access to all of their intel,” she told the Regent. “Like us, they compartmentalize their information on a need to know basis. So, he was able to get us what he could.”

  “And you’re sure of the veracity of this intel?”

  “As sure as I can be of any intel. Most times it’s impossible to really tell how accurate intel is until it has come to pass. But it seems to match with what we already know, within the constraints of time.”

  And that is really a major problem with trying to run an Imperial intelligence service. All the information we receive is weeks old. The wormhole system might help, some, but we have to pretend that the information we get is still creeping along at interstellar speeds.

  “And your evaluation of this intel?”

  “We’ve got some serious problems coming up the pike, ma’am,” said Sergiov, wishing for the moment that she did not know all the things she did. “I’m not sure what you people are going to do about it, but I’m glad it’s not something I have to make decisions about. My job is just to get you the intel, then depend on you and the Emperor to make what you can of it.”

  “And sometimes I wish that I didn’t have this burden placed on my shoulders,” said Samantha, a sad expression on her face. “It was so much easier just being the com officer on a battle cruiser.”

  “Just as it was so much easier being a field agent,” said Ekaterina, smiling. For all the gut wrenching fear involved, at least the decisions were easier.

  “Let me know if anything else of importance comes through,” said Lee, her face firming into a look of determination. “I may not like everything you have to tell me. But I am well aware of the importance and utility of you and your organization. Lee out.”

  The com died, leaving the Chief Spy with her own thoughts for a moment. They were not the kind of thoughts that she liked. Only one way to handle that, she thought, calling up the organizational chart of her fiefdom, losing herself in the day to day work that was the majority of her job. Soon her mind was wrestling with a way to use her limited manpower to cover unlimited possibilities. And she didn’t have time to think about the hopelessness or their situation.

  * * *

  “OK,” said Countess Zhee, looking at the other members of her committee, that of the Lords’ Military Appropriations and Contracts. While it was true that all funding bills originated in Commons, the actual contracting of services, who would get that money and what they would do with it, was the purview of the Lords. “It’s decided. The money that was going to the Gryphon conversion project could be much better spent putting more human crewed ships into space.”

  The show of hands was almost unanimous, all members of the committee being human, and all holding beliefs that humans should retain supremacy in the Empire. Not that aliens weren’t important. In fact, most of them had from thousands to millions of aliens living in the areas that they were responsible for. In Zhees case, a region of New Hanou, in Duke von Schlieffen’s, an entire continent of New Dresden. They were important, in the minds of the nobles, for their work ethic and desire to get ahead in human dominated society. But, as far as these elites were concerned, the Fleet should only be comprised of human operated warships.

  Damn Augustine and the other Emperor’s before him for giving the Phlistarans and Malticorans their own ships, thought Zhee. The Gryphons also had some ships of their own, and maybe three hundred vessels in the Fleet were manned by totally alien crews. Most were smaller units, though there were more than a score of battleships in that mix as well. The appropriations bill had called for funding conversions of another ten battleships to Gryphon crews, making the vessels something that they would find comfortable as far as living quarters, food services, medical bays, etc. The shipyard was already in a Gryphon system, owned by the family of the current Minister of Commerce and Industry, Lord H’rressitor. Zhee thought there was some favoritism going on with the contracts, not even considering that every military shipyard in the Empire was now operating at full capacity.

  “What about the funding of Gryphon ground combat equipment?” asked Duke von Schlieffen, nodding to the next contract on the holo. “Do you want to cut funding for them as well, Co
untess?”

  “I see no reason to not fully fund some more divisions of the aliens for the Imperial Army,” said the Countess with a sneer. “After all, they really can’t do much more than fight wherever the fleet delivers them. And each Gryphon in battle armor frees a human to continue producing at home.”

  “I agree,” said Count Warshawski, nodding at the holo. “Lord knows, I’ve lost enough people to the damned Army recruiter since this unpleasantness began. We brought civilization to the aliens. Let them die to defend it.”

  “But not in the Fleet,” said Zhee, looking from face to face.

  “No,” agreed the Duke. “Not in the Fleet. That, as the Count calls it, unpleasantness, that happened to the Brakakak should teach us not to arm our minority populations with ships capable of killing all life on a planet. No telling what they’re going to do if they get their hands on that kind of power, and the war ends.” Missing was the unspoken part of that statement, but everyone in the room thought the outcome of the war was a foregone conclusion. After all, humanity had never lost a war. So why would they start the second millennia of the Empire’s existence by losing one now.

  “So that bill is passed to the Lords,” said Zhee, who headed the committee. “With our recommendation for a positive vote.” The first bill, the one authorizing conversion of ships for alien use, would never see the light of day. As far as the Lords were concerned, it had never existed.

  “Next up is the appropriations bill for the expansion of the New Hanou shipyards,” said Zhee, forcing herself to hold her hand down. Everyone knew how she was going to vote, since the shipyards benefited her own home system, but decorum must be observed.

  “I think we can all agree on that one,” said the Duke.

  Especially since one of your missile facilities is coming up for an expansion contract, thought Zhee, looking at the Duke. You scratch my back, von Schlieffen, I’ll scratch yours. That was the way committee work had always been done, and none of the members saw any reason to change it now, just because of a little thing like a war.

  Chapter Twelve

  We are going to have peace even if we have to fight for it.

  Dwight D. Eisenhower

  FENRI SPACE. DECEMBER 4TH, 1001.

  “We’re coming up on orbital insertion,” said the Navigation Officer from the primary bridge of King Edward II.

  Len sat in his chair on the flag bridge, watching the viewer that showed the superbattleship and eight regular battleships sliding into orbit. They weren’t the first vessels to achieve orbit. There were already more than a hundred vessels in everything from low orbit, about five hundred kilometers, to past geosynch, over forty thousand kilometers. About half of the ships were logistics vessels and troop transports, and space was thick with thousands of shuttles falling into and coming out of the atmosphere.

  Thank God there were still some of our boys left, he thought, looking at one of the shuttles on a zoom from the holo. It was rising up, on a heading for this very ship. On-board was the highest ranking surviving officer from the expedition. Among the less than ten thousand from the initial ninety K that had originally taken the planet. We got here in time to save the survivors, and we paid a price to do it.

  The Fenri had been caught off guard by the twin punch of the inertialess fighters and the wormhole launched missile swarms. The inertialess ships had hit first, coming out of their bubbles about twenty light seconds from the enemy fleet. Far enough away for the enemy to have gotten off some shots. But too close to allow them to coordinate their defense against an enemy they hadn’t even known was coming. The attack craft had hit hard, knocking out almost three hundred of the enemy ships on their pass through. They had lost over a hundred and fifty of the very expensive craft. A trade off most commanders would have been ecstatic about. But not the family and friends of those people.

  The missiles had come flying out about fifteen minutes later, moments after the first of the ship launched weapons were nearing attack range. A thousand missiles came out at an unexpected angle, traveling at point nine five light. The Fenri defenses had been swamped by the two simultaneous waves, with only a hundred and four ships surviving. Most of those surrendered, their commanders and crews in complete shock.

  The fleet losses hadn’t been one sided. The Fenri missile swarm had taken out over a hundred ships, and damaged twice that many. The Margravi had been the most seriously hit of any of the contingents, their penchant for sacrifice for the good of the whole causing them to take more risks than any of the other species. But their sacrifice allowed more of our other ships to escape damage, thought the Admiral of the courageous insectoids. Or, is it courage, when fear is impossible for them to experience?.

  Now they controlled the system again. And, according to their intelligence, the Fenri fleet was finished as a fighting force. There were still some ships in their Empire, but no large forces. The New Terran Empire fleet had ravaged them here and in the other four systems they had struck. It would be years before they could start replacing their losses, while the Empire would take advantage of any breaks in the primary theater to keep hammering them.

  Starting here, thought Len, looking at the ship gate that was being put together in high orbit. That would allow the Empire to shift whatever resources they needed to this system if the Fenri tried to surprise them. You may have been theirs at one time, but you are ours now, thought Lenkowski, looking at another holo that portrayed the entire system, with the icons of his fleet showing on it.

  “Shuttle will be docking in four minutes,” came a call over Len’s personal com. “You said you wanted to know.”

  “Right,” said the Admiral, looking at the holo that showed the assault shuttle on final approach. Most would be heading straight to the transports, and then home through the ship gate, as soon as it was assembled. There they would be used as the cadre to rebuild the terribly eviscerated divisions, until the heavy corps was again ready for redeployment. “I’ll be right down.”

  The hangar was a bustle of activity, as a Marine honor guard and many of the ship’s officers made ready to greet the VIP coming aboard. The main hatch was open, fifty meter high by fifty meter wide double doors open. Beyond the opening was the vacuum of space, the only thing between the people and it the shimmering electromagnetic field, holding the cold plasma in place that kept the air molecules from leaving the hangar.

  The assault shuttle, as unlovely a ship as there was, pushed through the cold plasma field slowly, scarred nose leading. Its grabber units were glowing red with the heat of their operation, and the landing pads lowered as soon as it was in the hangar. With a clang, followed by a double as the two remaining pads thumped on the deck, the shuttle settled to the hard floor. A moment later the side hatch opened, and the naval personnel craned their necks to get a first look at the passengers.

  “Commander, XXXXI Heavy Corps, on deck,” called out the loudspeaker, and all of the naval personnel rendered a hand salute, while the gathered Marine company brought their ceremonial rifles to present arms. Len saluted like the rest, even though he was at least three ranks higher than an Army Lt. General. And he’s not even that, thought the Admiral, looking up the record of the man they were saluting. Only a Brigadier by permanent rank, brevetted to Major General to command a division when the commander was killed. And then taking over the corps when all officers above him were killed or otherwise incapacitated. But he still deserves our salute, after what he and his people have been through.

  He looks like hell, was Len’s next thought as the man stepped onto the deck. He had on a fresh uniform that had been flown down with the shuttle, and looked like he had showered. His face was clean shaven, probably taken care of by his battle armor nanites. But the face was what surprised Len. It was gaunt, to say the least. Like the man had lost ten kilos of mass while on the planet. And the eyes had a stare to them, a look that seemed to be light years away. Len had seen that look before, from naval crew and Marines who had gone through the hell of extended comb
at. This man looked the same. The officer stood still for a moment, looking confused, then rendered a perfect return salute, dropping it and stepping forward.

  “General Baggett,” he said to the officer, stepping out of line and offering his hand.

  Baggett snapped back to attention and saluted, and Len was beginning to think they had performed enough saluting here to last a lifetime.

  “Welcome aboard my flagship. I hope you will remain comfortable here on the trip home.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Baggett in a voice that sounded hollow with his exhaustion. “And we’re here to stay,” he said, motioning toward the hangar doors, which were in the process of closing. “We lost a lot of people holding this rock, and there are a lot of Fenri slaves down there counting on us to protect them.”

  “When we leave here, there will be four divisions on the planet, as well as four brigades of planet based antiship artillery. That, in and of itself, may not be enough to hold the planet if the Fenri decide to commit all the ships they have left in their totally trashed fleet. But the system is only a wormhole gate away from major reinforcements.”

  “And my orders, sir. Will I be staying with the corps, or at least the division?”

  “I don’t know what your final orders will be,” said Len, shaking his head and wishing he had some news to give him about his future disposition. “But I do have some good news for you, at least short term. You’re going to Jewel. The Emperor has you on his list of guests, and I am so happy I was able to recover you before his wedding.”

  * * *

  Major General Samuel Baggett, and the two star rank had just been verified by Imperial order, knelt in one of the chapels of the superbattleship. This one had been configured as a Reformed Catholic shrine, the largest denomination of the Empire. Baggett had not been much of a church goer in recent years, but his current experience, one that had taught him how truly fleeting life was, had convinced him that maybe it was a good time to return to the faith.