She laughed. “At least you’re always ready in bed, my love. And that’s where I want you, when this operation of yours is over.”
Sean returned the laugh, then headed into the bath to get a quick shower, sending orders through his link for his personal steward to have a uniform ready for him, then a signal to his security detail to ready the underground tram to the Hexagon.
* * *
SECTOR IV SPACE.
“The star has gone supernova,” said Grand Fleet Admiral Len Lenkowski over the com holo.
“It wasn’t supposed to do that for another two weeks,” protested Grand Fleet Admiral the Duke Taelis Mgonda, sitting up at his desk. The two admirals were in different systems, separated by twenty light years. There were still gaps in their projected orders of battle. Gaps they expected to have filled in the coming weeks. Now I guess that won’t happen, thought the Duke.
“I said that very thing to Sondra, and she just told me the insubordinate son of a bitch just went off on its own, without her permission.”
“So we go,” said Mgonda. “Ready or not.”
“Oh, we’ll still have a couple of days before we have to boost to the targets,” said Len. “That will give us a chance to get some more of our logistics ships in place, if nothing else. And get the Emperor on board.”
“I still don’t like the idea of having him with the Fleet,” said Mgonda, raising a hand in protest before the other admiral, his true equal in rank, could speak. “I know. He’s good for morale. The boys and girls will follow him everywhere. And he’s finally getting enough sense through his thick head to listen, and balancing that with the judgment to take command when he needs to. I just worry that an errant missile will get through, and we’ll have a crisis of succession on our hands, just when we don’t need it.”
“He’s like that star, Taelis,” said the other Admiral with a smile. “He’s going to do what he wants, no matter what we try to do about it.”
Len looked off the holo for a second, then back with a grimace on his face. “I’ve got to go, Taelis. We’re expected to attend the conference at the Hexagon by holo. And you know how I feel about that.”
Mgonda laughed as he thought, knowing exactly what the other admiral was thinking about. Once we were our own lords and masters while deployed, days or weeks away from command. Now they’re on our ass all the time.
* * *
RUBY, SUPERSYSTEM.
“It’s on, Sam,” said Lt. General Lishnir, the Phlistaran commander of the Third Heavy Corps, which exercised command over Baggett’s division. “We need to get you deployed to Massadara post haste.”
“I thought we had another week,” protested Baggett, sitting up in bed, looking at his clock and realizing that he had only gotten three hours sleep. No rest for the wicked, he thought. But I’m a good boy. Or at least that’s what my momma used to say.
“Looks like the star had other ideas,” said the Corps Commander. “I just hope we have enough resources after this is over to keep that blast from sterilizing the nearest inhabited star systems.”
Baggett nodded, thinking of the damage those fast moving charged particles would cause to the beings of a living world. Since the nearest inhabited system was seven light years from the star, they had eight or nine years before the radiation wave reached it.
“Dagni will be disappointed,” said Baggett, thinking of his Assistant Division Commander. “She just got cleared for suit training, but not for combat.”
“Do you need her?” asked the Lt. General.
“Of course. And more importantly, the division needs her.
“Then bring her along on deployment, but keep her back at HQ, preferably with your logistics train. But start your boys and girls through the wormhole within the hour. It will take quite some time to get your entire combat strength through. Twentieth division will follow as soon as your last combat trooper is through.”
“And when do we fight?”
“You hide for now. And strike as soon as the first Fleet vessels make it into the system. And Samuel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once you start, don’t stop. For anything. You give them hell, and kick their slimy asses off that planet. You take it back for the Empire. It’s ours, and they need to learn that.”
“Yes, sir,” said Baggett with a smile, putting on the skin suit he would wear under his armor. “That’s a command I will be very happy to obey. As will my boys and girls.” And I’m finally in the main fight. No more sideshows, Sam. This time you get to pay the bastards back for Sestius.
* * *
“You’re going back to Sestius, Hunter,” said Major General (brevet Lt. General) Walther Jodel, The Preacher.
The Hunter, thought Second Lieutenant the Baron Cornelius Walborski, trying to keep the smile off of his face in front of his old mentor, and the current commanding officer of all special ops forces in Sector IV.
“How much training time will I have with my platoon, sir,” said Walborski, almost slipping up and calling the man Preacher. He wasn’t sure how well that would go over, a brand new second Louie calling a general by his nickname.
“One day,” said Preacher with a grimace, raising a hand to derail any protest. “I know. It’s not really enough time to learn your command, or for them to learn about you. But they know your rep, and I can bet they will be very glad to get an experienced Ranger to lead them, and not some shavetail whose only experience is some training.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cornelius, still not sure about leading forty Rangers, some of them long term NCOs.
“Look, Hunter. From what I read, you led Chief Petty Officers on the Donut, who all gave you glowing recommendations in their after action reports. The Naval Commandos are a rough bunch, and if they thought well of you, I don’t see how your own could think less. Just lead like you did on the Donut and you’ll be fine.”
Sestius, thought Cornelius. The Freeholders are still holding out there. His thoughts ran to his farm, his wife, his future. And then, her death in the jungle at the hands of the Cacas. And now I get to play in that jungle again. Not quite as bad as Azure, but bad enough.
“Can do, sir,” said Cornelius, snapping off a picture perfect salute.
* * *
CONUNDRUM SPACE.
“We have new orders from headquarters, sir,” said the Com Officer.
What the hell now, thought Suttler, coming to an instant awake state in his cabin. “What do they want us to do now?”
“Mostly just watch, sir,” said the officer. “And listen to hyper. They want to make sure that hyperspace is just a screwed up as they thought.”
Bryce sat up in his bed. “The supernova went off,” he exclaimed. “Kind of early, wasn’t it?”
“Command acknowledged that point, sir. They said it couldn’t be helped.”
Bryce almost laughed when he heard that last statement. Of course it couldn’t be helped. It’s a damned supernova. Not like we had any control over it.
“They also want us to keep tabs on the reactions of the Cacas, sir. And any signal intercepts we can achieve.”
“Very well. Do it.” And I bet the Cacas shit in their pants when they find they can’t track shit in hyper. And I’ll be happy to watch that bowel movement.
Chapter Twenty-two
A pint of sweat, saves a gallon of blood. George S. Patton
THE DONUT. DECEMBER 22ND, 1001.
“I hear we’re getting a new second Louie,” said Private First Class Everett Linsk, looking up from his cards. “I wish they would just let you lead us, Sarge.” He pointed with his cards at Sergeant First Class Rupert SanJames, the man who had been their platoon sergeant for the last six months. They had been missing their officer all that time, since the new platoon leader they had just received at that time had stepped in front of a Caca particle beam.
“This one might just surprise you, Linsk,” said the Sergeant in question. “I heard that Preacher has the highest opinion of him.”
�
��Great. So the Preacher likes him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He was a militiaman on Sestius when Preacher was there,” said SanJames, pointing a finger at the PFC. “And a Sergeant on Azure.”
One of the other men whistled at that. “That was some bad bush on Azure,” said the man, Corporal Quan Lee. “Everything on the planet trying to eat everything else, including us.” Lee looked down at his cards for a moment, then gave the Sergeant First Class an intense look. “What’s the name of this guy, anyway?”
“Cornelius Walborski,” said the SFC with a smile.
“Shit a brick,” exclaimed Lee. “Looks like we hit the jackpot this time.”
“So who the hell is he?” asked Linsk. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.
“Just the only man to win an Imperial Medal of Heroism as a civilian slash militiaman, then another as a Ranger. And he was on Azure alright. Took out an entire Caca command post by himself, with a little help from a nuke tipped rocket.”
“Fuck me, you say,” blurted out the PFC.
“I think my wife would take exception to my doing that, Ranger,” said a soft but strong voice from the doorway.
“Attention on deck,” called out the first man to turn and see the new platoon leader standing there.
Damn, but he’s quiet, thought SanJames, jumping up to attention.
“At ease,” said the officer with a smile. “I don’t really hold with that chicken shit so called courtesy when we don’t have to. And that means, when I’m the only officer here, I’m just like the rest of you. Only what I say goes. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said every man in the room, all ten of them.
“And what’s your opinion on cards, sir?” asked Linsk, his eyes looking over the uniform of the officer.
SanJames was making that same inspection, seeing the double award of the Imperial Medal of Heroism, a few lesser medals, and the emblem of knighthood hanging around his neck. The most important thing to the SFC was the combat infantry badge over his left breast pocket, that and the Ranger tab on his left shoulder.
“I’m fine with cards, as long as you deal me in,” said the officer, gesturing to the empty chair at the table. “No better way to get to know the people under me, I say.”
“Watch out, LT,” said Lee with a smile. “Linsk cheats.”
“Then he’s my kind of man,” said the Lieutenant with a broadening smile. “A man that doesn’t play to win has no business looking after the backs of his brothers.”
The night whiled away, the enlisted men drinking with their new officer, the bonding beginning, about the only bonding they would get, since the battalion was shipping out by wormhole in the morning.
* * *
CONUNDRUM SPACE.
“We are experiencing problems with hyperspace, Great Admiral,” said the Low Admiral in charge of the conquest fleet’s logistics.
“What do you mean, problems?” asked the High Admiral, not liking the sound of that at all.
“Ships are disappearing off the track while entering and leaving the system.”
“Destroyed?” asked the Great Admiral, a queasy feeling in his stomachs.
“Not as far as we can tell, Great Admiral. Incoming vessels are still coming through, but we are not tracking them by the usual means. Hyper seems to be reverberating with graviton noise. Nothing that moves can be tracked through it.”
“By the Gods,” hissed the supreme leader of the fleet. “Then we will not be able to track the human ships?”
“Nor they, us,” said the lower ranking male, giving a head motion of agreement.
“I don’t really care if they can track us,” growled the Great Admiral. “Because we are not leaving our systems while this phenomenon is going on. Not until we know what is going on.”
“We are running a database search right now,” said the Low Admiral. “Hopefully, we will come up with a solution.”
The holo went blank, leaving the Great Admiral with his own thoughts. He called up the holo of the distribution of his fleet, looking anxiously at the icons of his ships that were being accounted for as in transit. But are they still in transit? Or has something happened to them.
“My Lord,” said another voice over the com. “We have just had a catastrophic translation at the hyper VII barrier.”
“One of ours?”
“Actually, my Lord, it involved seven different vessels in a formation, based on the dispersion of the signals, which were damped almost to indetectability.”
What in the hell is going on? Some ships are coming in just fine, while others are unable to translate down before they hit the barrier. Is this some new human weapon. A chill ran up his spine as he thought that. If the humans have a weapon that powerful, we are doomed.
“Great Admiral,” came the voice of the Low Admiral over the com. “We have found precedent. From the early days of the race plying hyperspace.”
“And what was it? Speak up. I need to know, now.”
“There was a supernova near the edge of the early Empire, about a hundred light years out. None of our worlds were endangered, but several inhabited planets were sterilized, one with intelligent life.”
“And what does this have to do with our current situation?”
“Ships of that day had trouble tracking other vessels in hyper for almost a week after the explosion.”
“Anything else?”
“No, my Lord.”
Then this is only a temporary phenomenon. A supernova, one which we did not know about. But this is human space, so they had to know it was coming. But did they know the effects of such a blast on hyper. The smart way to bet is yes, which means they will have something planned. But what?
Several hours passed before more information came.
“One of the outgoing ships has returned,” said the officer in the com center of the flagship.
“Why did it do that?”
“They stated that when they tried to translate up into hyper VII from VI, something prevented the translation. They thought that was unusual enough that they deceled and returned.”
“So we aren’t able to get into VII at all.” And I wonder what happened to ships that are still in hyper VII? They simply can’t translate out, which would explain those ships that ran into the barrier. Or something worse.
“Orders, my Lord?” asked the officer.
“I want all ships to move into the system, as soon as they can,” ordered the Great Admiral, imagining a human fleet popping into existence at the hyper I barrier and bringing all his ships under fire before they could react.
“How far should I order them in, my Lord?”
“Fifteen light minutes should do it,” answered the Great Admiral, thinking that he could launch as soon as they appeared on visual, which would still be a quarter hour after they saw his ships, but still hours before the enemy missiles would arrive. “And station some light units right at the barrier. I need someone to tell any incoming ships what’s going on.” Except, if they’re already in VII, they aren’t coming here until this disruption is over. A week? Or longer? Whichever, it can’t be good for us.
* * *
SAURON SYSTEM, DECEMBER 24TH, 1001.
“Permission to come on board, Captain?” asked Sean, stepping out of the shuttle onto hangar deck three of the heavy cruiser Manila, his new flag. The ship had all of the command and control capabilities of the Augustine I, the superheavy battleship that had been his flag on the Congreeve operation. What it lacked was the combat capabilities, which was fine with the Admiralty, as they did not desire for their Monarch to go into the thick of things, like he had at Congreeve.
“Permission granted, your Majesty,” stated the Captain, the only response possible when dealing with the supreme commander, who could walk onto any ship of the fleet whenever he wanted to. The skipper of the ship saluted the Monarch, waited for the return of his salute, then offered his hand to the Emperor. “Welcome aboard, your Majesty. I am Captain Bertha Little
tree.”
Sean shook the tall woman’s hand, taking in her coppery skin tone and straight black hair. Native American descent, he thought.
“Your Steward and your pet are already aboard, your Majesty. I hope you will find your quarters satisfactory.”
“I’m sure I will,” said Sean, nodding his head. He already had a good idea what the quarters were like, since he had given the orders for their configuration himself. The cruiser was built as a cruiser squadron flag, the lead ship of six heavy cruisers. As such, she had a commodore’s stateroom, which had been fine with the Emperor, who didn’t see the need to have opulent quarters for himself aboard a warship. The Secret Service and the Fleet had insisted on some modifications, which were supposed to be minor, and specifically intended to increase his security.
“I’ll look at my quarters later, Captain. For now, you can get under way whenever Len gives the signal that his force is boosting. And I would like to see the command center, if I might.”
“Yours to command, Majesty,” said the Captain, motioning for a man to come over.
“Good to see you again, Jacobs,” said Sean, accepting the bow of the ex Senior Chief who was now his shipboard Steward.
“Your Majesty. It will be my pleasure to serve,” said the man, straightening from the bow. “And welcome, ma’am,” he said, giving a short bow to Special Agent Mays, the head of the Emperor’s security detail.
“I take it the Marines are already aboard?” asked the Secret Service Agent, speaking of the company of Sean’s personal bodyguard that would be traveling with him.
“Yes, ma’am. And I’ll lead you to the control center now, if that is your wish, your Majesty?”
“It is, John,” said Sean, following the Steward off the hangar deck and toward the nearest lift bank. “And how is Killer.”
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike Page 30
