“The Uranus portion of this operation is primarily predicated on surprise: the Commonwealth doesn’t think anyone knows that switchboard station exists. We are hoping for Seven-Three’s attack to draw enemy forces out of position, but ten minutes isn’t enough for any detachments to move out to Uranus and engage them.”
The asteroid belt now flashed.
“The second target of this operation, for Task Force Seven-Two, is the Ceres Military Complex,” he continued. “Ceres is the primary off-planet military headquarters for the Terran Commonwealth, and is protected as such. While the defenses include a significant number of refitted old fortresses with mass drivers, the asteroid itself has been equipped with bays and launch tubes for approximately one thousand starfighters.”
The rotating form of the planetoid anchor for the spaceborne complex now filled the sky above the virtual amphitheater, its defending fortress glittering stars around the massive metalwork that covered the planetoid’s surface.
“Ceres is not Seven-Two’s target,” Rothenberg stated. “That honor goes to this station.” A tall, spindle-like platform orbiting amidst the fortresses flashed and became the focus of the hologram.
“That is Terran Commonwealth Navy Communication Relay Alpha-One,” he explained. “One of two dedicated military q-com switchboard platforms. The destruction of Alpha-One will dramatically reduce communication bandwidth for all military craft and stations in the TCN, and render a not-insignificant portion of their Q-probes completely noncommunicative.
“Of course, to attack Alpha-One, we will have to fight Ceres’s defenses. Those fighter bases and fortresses are a serious threat, and we have reason to believe that the Commonwealth’s first Ambrosia-class super-battleships have been assigned to defend Ceres.”
Russell winced. He wasn’t the only one. The fact that the Castle Federation had been the only people to break the sixty-five-million-cubic-meter mark for Stetson stabilizers had given the Alliance a solid advantage in the war. It didn’t cost that much more to build an eighty-million-cubic-meter starship than a sixty-million-cubic-meter one, but the bigger ship was a more powerful combatant in every sense.
If the Ambrosias were actually rolling out…
“The good news is that Ambrosia and Manna appear to be the only eighty-million-cubic ships the Commonwealth has built, and both of them are at Ceres,” Rothenberg reminded them. “They also have no starfighters aboard, and while I’m planning based on Ceres being fully loaded out with Katanas and Longbows, those bays might also still be filled with Scimitars.
“That said, we can’t take any chances,” he said grimly. “I’m sending our entire Trade Factor and Star Kingdom detachments, under Vice Admiral Lux Salvail, against Ceres. That’s three Magellan-class battleships, two Traveler-class carriers, two Vigilance-class and two Fearless battlecruisers and two Indomitable-class carriers.”
Three modern battleships, four modern carriers, two modern battlecruisers and two older battlecruisers. It was a powerful force, but…
“I also intend to detach all four of our Last Stand-class battlecruisers, as well as Righteous Voice and Righteous Star, under Admiral Salvail’s command,” Rothenberg noted. “Regardless of what types Ceres’s thousand starfighters are, Admiral Salvail will have them outnumbered and outgunned.
“There will be at least two other starships at Ceres, and we don’t know who they are,” he admitted. “It will fall to Salvail to make certain that Relay Alpha-One is destroyed.”
The hologram shifted again, to the only place left for it to go and the place that utterly terrified Russell to be attacking.
“Our third target is the crown jewel of Operation Medusa, the linchpin of the Commonwealth’s communication network, and contains the very first q-com switchboard ever constructed,” Rothenberg said calmly.
“The Central Nexus is fourteen kilometers long, two kilometers wide, and contains an estimated seven-point-six-trillion entangled particles. It is entirely unfortified but has been placed in orbit directly between Earth and her moon, well inside the protective enclosure of the homeworld’s defenses.
“Like most of the Sol System’s security, that enclosure is badly out of date. A modernization program was commenced a year ago but has suffered delays and problems all along.” He paused. “We do not know with one hundred percent certainty how much of Terra Fortress Command has been updated to modern weapon systems.
“We estimate that at least forty platforms have been replaced with Zions, basing a total of two thousand starfighters, and that at least forty more have been upgraded with positron lances and modern missile launchers. The other eighty platforms will have the ability to launch modern missiles, but their mass drivers are not a serious threat.
“In addition to the one hundred and sixty fortresses of the TFC, a minimum of ten capital ships are kept in orbit of Earth at all times. Currently, we believe this force consists of two Saints, four Herculeses and two Volcanoes, plus two older vessels.
“We will be meeting them with our largest force: Task Force Seven-One, under my direct command from Righteous Fire.”
The network of fortresses and defending starships glowed crimson above Russell’s head.
“Seven-One will consist of seventeen Imperial and Federation warships, led by two Invictus-class battleships and ten Imperial and Federation carriers.”
Rothenberg looked up at the hologram above his head.
“We have a limited ability to redeploy ships once we’re in the system,” he admitted. “If anyone sees problems, now is the time to raise them.”
Russell wished he could see better answers. Attacking Earth seemed crazy enough. Doing it with just seventeen warships?
Well, it had to be enough. They couldn’t magically conjure up more now.
40
Leopold System
19:00 October 9, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
BB-285 Saint Michael
There was a loud thud as the escape pod slammed onto the deck of the shuttle bay of whatever ship Kyle and his staff had been brought aboard. The “sensors” on the pod were a joke that didn’t deserve the name, though he was reasonably certain they’d been brought aboard a Saint-class battleship in Bogey Bravo.
Given that they’d passed a carrier and, indeed, at least one more battleship on the way in, Kyle was quite certain they’d been brought to Walkingstick’s flagship. The Commonwealth knew who they’d caught.
With a soft hissing sound, the hatch to the escape pod slid open. All he could see outside was the plain metal of a starship’s interior. It could be anything.
“If you have any weapons, leave them inside the pod,” a voice barked. “Any resistance will be met with all necessary force.”
Kyle leveled a firm glare on the four Marines standing closest to the exit.
“You heard them,” he said quietly. “Disarm. Completely.”
He waited for the troopers to lay aside their sidearms and carbines, following suit with his own almost-never-used Navy-issue pistol. Once everyone had laid aside their standard weapons, he turned his gaze back on the Marines.
“And the rest, people,” he told them. “We’re prisoners of war now. We play by their rules. Leave them in here.”
The Marines looked mutinous…but another dozen knives, concealable pistols and one-shot anti-armor penetrators joined the pile of weapons. As he continued to look levelly at them, the pile increased in size by another half-dozen.
“All right,” he conceded. “I think we know who’s waiting for us, people. My turn to go first.”
He walked across the pod, squeezing past Marines and his flag staff to the door, and stepped out onto the metal deck of the first Commonwealth warship he’d ever set foot on.
He’d worked with a Commonwealth officer out at Antioch, but every time they’d met in person, it had been aboard Kyle’s ship. He’d never been in a Terran ship before, and he was somewhat surprised by how much it was identical to a Federation or Imperial ship.
&nbs
p; There were Commonwealth Marines standing right outside the exit, waiting for him.
“Hold right there,” the same speaker, a harsh-looking woman with Lieutenant’s insignia, snapped at him. “Corporal, search him!”
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice with a cultured Terran accent cut through the orders, and Kyle looked up to meet the gaze of the Marshal of the Rimward Marches.
James Calvin Walkingstick was a big man, matching Kyle’s own towering two meters in height. He wasn’t as broad across the shoulders or as muscular, and his hair was dark and tied into long braids instead of Kyle’s short-cropped bright red.
“It’s their job, Admiral Walkingstick,” Kyle said quietly. “After all, many would think trading their lives for yours was worth it.” He nodded to the Marine who’d stopped at the Marshal’s bark. “Carry on, Corporal.”
Walkingstick smirked, but allowed Kyle’s voluntary sacrifice. The Marines quickly patted him down, finding nothing, then waved him through.
“Welcome aboard Saint Michael, Admiral Roberts,” Walkingstick told him. “I’d hoped that we’d get a chance to meet, rather than simply blowing each other to pieces along the way.”
“I appreciate your willingness to allow us to evacuate,” Kyle replied, bowing his head slightly as he heard his people exit the pod behind him, each undergoing the search in turn. Every second of this false courtesy grated on him, but Walkingstick hadn’t had to spare his people’s lives.
“There is a point, Admiral Roberts, where further conflict becomes a mere massacre,” the Terran Admiral said. “Other men have crossed that line and paid the price for it. I will not become them.”
Somehow, Kyle was quite certain that Walkingstick wouldn’t hesitate to bomb worlds if he thought it would meet his objectives. Kyle couldn’t say much, though. He was the man who’d drafted Operation Dragon, after all, grateful as he was that it hadn’t been executed.
“We have confirmed pickup of all of your escape pods from both Elysium and your starfighters,” Walkingstick continued. “We’re still working on a proper headcount or list, but your wounded are being taken care of.
“We have no reason not to be civilized about this, after all.”
Kyle smiled bitterly.
“Evidence suggests, Admiral Walkingstick, that we have different standards for civilized.”
The Marshal chuckled.
“That, my dear Stellar Fox, is always a matter of perspective and discussion, isn’t it?”
He stepped back, gesturing for the Marines to escort Kyle.
“I’ve arranged quarters for yourself and your senior staff, separate from the rest of the prisoners,” Walkingstick told Kyle frankly. “We will speak at more length shortly.”
“I doubt you’ll find I know anything of use,” Kyle told him. More accurately, his implant would probably lobotomize him before he could reveal anything of use.
The Terran Admiral made a throwaway gesture.
“I have no interest in what you know, Admiral,” he admitted. “The end of your Alliance is coming. But I am intrigued, I must admit, by the man who has caused me so much trouble.”
James Walkingstick linked his office to the ships surrounding him and let a victorious smile spread over his face as Tasker and Gabor appeared in his office. The projection was entirely in his head, there wasn’t even a hologram of the two officers there, but it looked real enough.
“Where are we at?” he asked briskly.
“My fleet wasn’t even scratched,” Tasker told him. “We shot off about fifteen percent of our missile magazines, but we’re otherwise ready for combat.”
“Hopper’s reinforcements were from my fleet,” Gabor pointed out. “Losing those ships hurt. The rest of my ships are still scattered around the region. Should I be recalling them here to or to Niagara?”
“Thirty-Eighth Fleet has shot off over seventy percent of their magazines,” James told his subordinates. “Leopold has some missiles and I have ammunition colliers in the system, but we’re probably better off withdrawing to Niagara to rearm our ships.
“I’m absorbing both of your fleets into Thirty-Eighth,” he continued. “You’ll continue to command your existing formations as Task Forces Thirty-Eight-Two and Thirty-Eight-Three, but we’ll move on from Niagara as a single force.”
Any disappointment at losing independent command was invisible as the two officers leaned forward to hear his plan.
“Where are we going?” Tasker asked.
“What’s left of Forty-First Fleet remains an extremely powerful force,” James told them. “We only actually took out Roberts’s flagship, after all.”
“In trade for Hopper’s entire fleet,” Gabor added bitterly.
“Indeed. A poor trade on the surface,” James allowed. “Except that we crushed their fighters and damaged most of their ships.
“We will return to Niagara, rearm and reconsolidate our forces. I’ve issued orders for most of our defensive formations to send half of their units to Niagara as well—if we can eliminate their Forty-First and Seventh Fleets in one strike, the Alliance has nothing left to carry out offensives with.”
“With how they’ve reinforced Seventh Fleet…” Tasker trailed off.
“There will be fifty capital ships in Via Somnia once Roberts’s survivors arrive,” James said. “Fifty. The Alliance can’t lose fifty ships and sustain any significant offensive action, not without stripping their home-system defenses to the bone.
“I don’t intend to give them the time,” he told his subordinates. “It will take us a week or so to consolidate our forces at Niagara, and then I intend to move on Via Somnia with seventy-eight capital ships.”
That would leave most of the frontier lightly defended, but the Senate’s insistence that he pull Tasker and Gabor back to deal with Roberts, combined with the Alliance’s concentration of force at Via Somnia, gave him a chance to end the damn war.
“We will smash their fleet at Via Somnia and then move on to complete our operations against the Renaissance Trade Factor,” he laid out. “From there, we will reassess, but I expect to move against either Castle or Coraline.”
With the RTF and either the Federation or the Imperium out of the war, he was quite certain he could convince the rest of the Alliance to surrender.
“They have gathered the strength to make a serious attack on us but, in doing so, have given us a glorious target,” James Calvin Walkingstick assured his Admirals.
“The time has come. We will end this war.”
James had made certain that the quarters put aside for Admiral Roberts and his senior staff were better than the brig. They were junior officers’ quarters, smaller than the O-6s and above they’d kept out of the cells would be used to, but they were at least actual quarters.
If the new morning saw Marines outside each door in the hallway and power-armored fire teams at either end to make sure any escape attempt ended quickly, well, James had to take precautions.
He stepped up to the door of Admiral Roberts’s quarters and traded nods with the Marine guard before hitting the admittance button.
“Admiral Roberts?” he said. “This is Marshal Walkingstick. May we speak?”
The door clicked open in response, and James stepped into the room.
The Federation Admiral laid aside a datapad as the Marshal entered, looking up at his captor. The prisoners quite distinctly did not have access to Saint Michael’s datanet via their implants. Even the datapad was linked to a specifically restricted library, pretty much purely light entertainment to keep prisoners from going crazy.
“I’d say welcome to my abode, but I have no illusions about which of us owns this room,” Roberts said cheerfully, a surprisingly broad grin on the prisoner’s face. “It’s your ship, your room, Gods, even your chairs.
“So, you may as well sit down.”
James did, using amusement to cover his surprise at Roberts’s reaction.
“You seem to take captivity well,” he said dryly.
>
“Given the alternative is fire and ash, I’ll take it,” the Castle-born man told him. “I must repeat what I said earlier, though. You won’t learn much of use from me.”
“Implant security protocols being what they are, I have no intention of even trying,” James told him. Roberts almost certainly knew many things of value to the Commonwealth’s campaign—he would know what Seven Fleet’s exact strength at Via Somnia was. He’d probably even know why the surveillance platforms had been destroyed—potentially even how they’d been localized.
The stealthed Q-probes were, after all, supposed to be nearly invisible.
But he’d never give up that information voluntarily, and his implant would probably kill him before he surrendered that information under torture or chemical interrogation. Walkingstick’s implant would, in the other man’s shoes.
“If you’d care to share any exact details of Via Somnia’s defenses or what forces have been sent to reinforce the Trade Factor, I won’t complain,” he continued, “but I have a certain degree of faith in the Alliance’s security protocols.
“And I prefer you alive.”
Roberts chuckled.
“So do I,” he admitted. “Though I’m guessing I might regret that. Are we resurrecting the old Roman triumph? Parading me in chains through the streets of Terra?”
James echoed the chuckle.
“That would take a while. Terra has a lot of streets. You are roughly correct in your role, though,” he admitted. “You are a trophy, and a shiny one at that. When this is over, we’ll probably try and convince you to put on a Commonwealth uniform.”
His prisoner winced.
“Gods, you bastards would, wouldn’t you?” He shook his head. “Forgive me, Marshal, but I don’t expect this to end in a way that has you making generous offers!”
James smiled thinly.
“I doubt the Alliance would have fought as long and as hard as they have if you thought differently,” he admitted. “A lot of blood has been shed that perhaps didn’t need to be, for a war that will end much the same as if you’d surrendered.”
Operation Medusa Page 26
