Goddess of War (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 4)

by Blaze Ward

  “Bloodhound?” she called into the comm.

  “Tracking,” a man’s voice called back. Patrol Centurion Park sounded a little harried, but that was the perfectionist in the man, not the panic of a newbie in combat.

  Even with the heavy suspension of a tank, Rebekah Kim felt the impact as the DropShip slammed into the forest clear across the valley. The trees were a little thinner there, rockier soil and less rain keeping things more grassland at this elevation. Still, it was a small earthquake.

  “Contact,” Bloodhound’s Commander followed up a moment later.

  Rebekah’s scanner screen lit up with a feed from the other tank’s better sensors, showing a big red circle on a semi–distant hillside, smoke ebbing away in the light breeze.

  Even as thin as the cover was, there were too many trees in the way for her tank or its cohorts to do anything at this range. Except blow up more trees than the big, red DropShip had just done. That was the downside to energy weapons.

  “I have a reverse trajectory,” Park continued with a cold, vicious snarl. “Engaging.”

  Rebekah watched a feed from Bloodhound on one screen while she scanned for charging infantry on another. There was nothing in the sky right now, so whoever had shot down Cayenne didn’t have any heavy artillery to back it up. They were about to learn what a dumb idea that was.

  Bloodhound’s guns began to cycle, like two T–Rex–sized woodpeckers attacking a tree. Eight rounds per second went downrange, just fast enough to type the letters on a keyboard if she wanted to follow along.

  Long range. Slight tail wind. Mid–day warmth making the air lighter than night. Minimal cover except camouflage.

  After three seconds, Bloodhound fell silent, twin barrels still sniffing the sky, daring someone, anyone, to try something else.

  The first autocannon rounds impacted on the distant slope. Explosive rounds, not armor–piercing.

  A tree was engulfed in flames, for just a moment, before the next several rounds in line shattered it. Explosions started on the slope behind it. Small ones. Fifty millimeter explosive rounds set to proximity detonation, finding ground, or trees.

  Or someone’s ammunition stores.

  That was the only thing that Rebekah could think of that would make a secondary explosion that big. Maybe someone reloading a missile launcher when incoming fire hit the armoured storage shed with the door open.

  The whole top of the hill turned into a very small, very short–lived volcano, spewing fire and wood chips in all directions.

  “Choe,” Rebekah called into the relative quiet. “Full speed. Get us to the wreck now.”

  “On it,” the call came back as Freefall’s engines suddenly screamed.

  “Dash. Vo. Freefall has point,” she called into the unit–wide comm as the vehicle lurched into motion.

  In this terrain, the horses might be able to outrun her, but only if they went full–tilt into unknown territory that might be crawling with Imperials. But they could keep up, and if it was another ambush, better to have the heavy armor taking fire. Men and women with sabers would do a fine job on infantry coming out of holes to shoot at her going by.

  Chapter LXII

  Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Edge of the Thuringwell Gravity Well

  “All units assume attack formation,” Saveliy intoned gravely into the air of the room. “Hokkaido and Europa, launch your wings.”

  His Flag Bridge was ordered, calm, prepared. A single master display showed the system, with every vessel color–coded and established with a vector. Other screens zoomed in on various elements he wanted tracked close at hand. His men were all poised over their screens, ready to move the entire fleet like a rapier seeking his enemy’s heart.

  Saveliy Kozlov was the Sword of Vengeance today.

  Everything had been planned except the actual disposition of Aquitaine’s vessels when Fribourg’s scourge arrived. And in the ten minutes or so it would take for the combined A and B wings to launch and assemble, everything else would be organized.

  Saveliy would have liked extra time to hang perched at the distant edge of the system, a light hour or more out, listening to traffic and taking the temperature and measure of the system. It was a technique Keller herself had mastered. All other commanders were, of necessity, forced to mimic her now, in an arms race that had no end save death.

  Even today, it was too risky to attempt. From the waypoint, they had jumped less than a single light year, having completed a quick tuning and calibration check on all vessels, so that the entire fleet would arrive in–system nigh–simultaneously.

  Landing farther out, the risk was that they might have blundered into someone intent on spotting them, someone who might then jump down to the edge of the gravity well and sound the alarm, a midnight rider to ruin the surprise.

  No, better to come out in a fighting stance, right atop his foe. He did not expect her to run, not the woman who had charged into certain death with Wachturm so many times during the Battle of Ballard. But he might be able to catch her out now, vessels orbiting at different velocities that left them awkward as he arrived.

  Not that it would help, with the edge he had in mass and firepower, but he preferred a clean death for the woman.

  This would be the last time he spoke directly to the assembled vessels. All future orders would be routed through his command staff and broken down into vectors and firing assignments.

  “Our foe has gambled everything on one bold stroke,” he said, speaking as much to eternity as to the men under him. “She believes that she can drive back the entire weight of the Fribourg Empire here at Thuringwell. The Emperor has chosen us to dissuade her. We shall not rest until she has been driven back across the border, or destroyed. The choice is hers.”

  On the screen, six blue lights separated from the two Fleet Carriers at the top of the gravity well. Six more would be launching close behind them, until sixty–six craft were arrayed like raptors around a pack of hunting wolves, racing downhill at the Aquitaine squadron in an avalanche of destruction.

  “All vessels prepare to engage.”

  Chapter LXIII

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 SC Auberon. Above Thuringwell

  “Aquitaine Squadron, this is Tamara Strnad, aboard Auberon. I have the Flag,” the voice emerged calmly from the wall speaker in her day cabin. “All hands to battle stations.”

  Jessica had been expecting them yesterday. She didn’t even bother running to the Flag Bridge. It was just across the main corridor from her suite, another advantage of helping design this vessel from the keel up.

  Instead, she made sure everything was in place and that she exuded an air of calm as she put on her slippers, strode across the hall, and looked around.

  Enej had probably taken his Flag Centurion role a little too seriously. Other than trips to the head and shower, he hadn’t left the Flag Bridge in several days, with food being delivered regularly and naps in a nearby office.

  At least now his own staff would be able to pry him loose.

  “Bridge, Keller,” she called out as she entered, letting the systems route the call. “Tamara, what’s our status?”

  “Enemy fleet just dropped out of JumpSpace, Commander,” the big ship’s Executive Officer replied instantly. “Right at the edge of the well, forming up, and getting ready to head this way. Ballard’s hammering them with her sensors and I expect updates shortly.”

  Jessica smiled. The cruiser force that accompanied a Star Controller into battle was supposed to be a well–balanced thing, according to all tactical and strategic theory. Three to five light and heavy cruisers that could be moved around like interchangeable knights on a chessboard.

  Instead, she had brought a massively over–gunned, experimental heavy cruiser, with Alber’ d’Maine commanding and no missiles whatsoever, and a veteran Battlecruiser under Robbie Aeliaes. Solid castles to hold the corners of the chess board against any comers. And far more firepower than she was supposed to have.
r />   Instead of matching and balancing, she had added a knight and a bishop.

  First, the Light Missile Cruiser Ishfahan. Two generations ago, her class had been heavy cruisers, and she, a weapons platform capable of unleashing her own version of Agincourt. She could still put up a staggering flight of birds, compared to anything else on the field today.

  And lastly, the Survey Cruiser Ballard. The very vessel Tomas Kigali had turned down command of, since they didn’t kill things, to quote him. And he was right. Even as light cruisers go, desperately under–armed. Instead of primaries, she had extremely expensive sensor arrays at least an entire order of magnitude better than anything any other warship carried. Often much better than that. But she was a fantastic escort when tucked in close around the carriers and not expected to carry her tonnage in combat.

  And the rivalry with CR–264 along those lines had just served to make both crews strive that much harder to be better at their jobs.

  “First scan coming up, Fleet Centurion,” Tamara called.

  As Jessica reached her chair at the big table and settled in, all of the projectors came live with their different bits of visual information.

  In the center of the enemy formation, just starting to turn in her direction, one blue star stood out, made her double–take.

  No. Not the Blackbird.

  That had been her one fear. That somehow she and Fleet Intelligence had guessed wrong. That the Emperor had changed his mind and returned the Red Admiral to active duty, Nemesis come down to settle their score finally.

  Instead, the battleship Varga, along with two Fleet Carriers spewing fighters into the night like fall oak trees firing acorns hither and yon. Two cruisers. A swarm of frigates. Even a double pair of close escorts circling the carriers like hummingbirds.

  For the briefest moment, Jessica knew a spike of utter jealousy. First War Fleet would have a field day, raiding a frontier with so much firepower pulled off the line, just to face her here.

  Hopefully, they were making the best of it. The Red Admiral would put a stop to this sort of nonsense at some point. All he had to do was convince the Fribourg Emperor to offer a five or ten–year truce, and make the man honor it.

  Fribourg was hurting far more than Aquitaine right now. The Senate might even accept the offer.

  “Squadron, this is Keller. I have the Flag,” she said quietly.

  All the planning had come down to this. All the nights and weekends spent gaming out various political and military scenarios and storing the results where she could get to them instantly, cataloged and broken down for her commanders. All the possible permutations, based on the levels of aggression of the Imperial commander facing her.

  Every sneaky trick she or Moirrey could come up with, along with Nina Vanek, Robbie Aeliaes, or Oz down in Engineering. And Command Centurion Enfys El–Amin, commanding the Republic Minesweeper Wombat.

  Nobody used mines offensively.

  But Jessica stopped being on the offense five minutes after the last of the little gunboats had surrendered instead of being annihilated in the face of the invading fleet. Three months of quiet execution had passed, atop nearly a year of planning.

  The Red Admiral would have never fallen for it. Not a second time. Qui–Ping had nearly done him in. He had learned a great deal more care in where he flew, after that.

  He wasn’t here today.

  “Jouster,” she continued speaking conversationally, knowing her words now were going fleet–wide. A good team knew what everyone was doing, or going to do, so they could plan accordingly.

  “Two Imperial Fleet Carriers have arrived with the enemy formation,” she said. “Expect four squadrons of melee fighters and two of heavier units. Launch everything and ignore defending the station. Leave that to the two cutters. Remember that Wombat is holding your moat.”

  “Roger that, Flag,” came the reply. “Flight Wing, execute Formation Six. Repeat, Formation Six. Form on 3rd Wing.”

  “Enej,” Jessica turned to see his disposing of the last of his coffee and buckling himself in. “Where’s Alber’?”

  “Dark, Commander.”

  Jessica cursed under her breath. When things were boring, having him out there sneaking up on people was a useful thing. Certainly, Merryn Teke had been surprised, and she was probably the closest thing to a smuggler this system ever saw.

  Now, an Imperial Admiral had arrived, and done so with what he thought was enough force to make her give way. Without Shivaji on the line, he might be right, depending on what Ballard had to say about the closing force.

  This would require finesse. Shivaji could do a great deal of morale damage, especially if Alber’ got lucky, but there was trouble coming.

  Just once, she would like to walk into a battle with overwhelming firepower on her side. The original attack on Thuringwell didn’t count. Nor did most of her Long Raid four years ago. Those were anti–pirate forces facing a small battle fleet.

  This was another Imperial Admiral. Not Emmerich Wachturm, but someone probably trained by him.

  She would have to settle for damaging the man’s morale, his certainty. His battle plan designed to go up against someone like Jessica Keller.

  She would keep Alber’ d’Maine shadowed.

  Dark.

  Stealth games in a heavy cruiser. A creature in the night, suddenly howling for blood, where there had been only darkness before.

  Jessica shared a smile at him.

  “Have Kigali vector him in on the carriers first,” she said. “They ought to be sitting ducks out there.”

  “On it,” her Flag Centurion said as he started typing.

  That might be an awful surprise. It might even turn into a Surprise Reversed version of Third Iger.

  If she was lucky.

  Now she just had to hold on long enough.

  “Squadron, this is Keller,” Jessica continued. “Execute Primary Plan Warspite. I repeat, Warspite. Situation Three. Prepare to receive a charge.”

  He had that look about him today, this new Imperial Admiral. The force wasn’t as organized as they would have been, if they had short–jumped down in tight from somewhere farther out in the system. But they were quickly forming up with a line of frigates barely preceding the heavier vessels. Everyone would start to range with heavy weapons at about the same time.

  This was going to be messy.

  Jessica leaned back and scanned the faces around her. On the Strike Carrier, she had shared her Flag Bridge with four other people. Here, more than a score, all of whom would contribute to Auberon’s legend, her legend, in some vitally important way.

  Rather than say anything at this moment, she just smiled. The most rousing speech she could have made was the one simply reminding them that they were the Republic of Aquitaine. The Fleet. Those men and women standing atop the wall, to quote First Lord Kasum, and protecting the innocent from the darkness.

  Instead, she nodded. Most nodded back. They understood.

  They had volunteered for this duty, to be here, doing this.

  To face this with her.

  “Bridge, Keller,” she said simply. “Take her out.”

  Chapter LXIV

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 CAX Shivaji. Above Thuringwell

  “Aquitaine Squadron, this is Tamara Strnad, aboard Auberon. I have the Flag,” the voice emerged calmly from the very bones of the vessel. “All hands to battle stations.”

  The sound filled Shivaji’s bridge with an energy someone else, a stranger, might classify as excitement.

  Alber’ knew better.

  His instincts had stood him right. Up until an hour ago, a relatively junior Centurion with a very bright future ahead of her had held the bridge, gaining useful experience in the everyday decision–making that went into eventual command. She had even begun to impress his own people with her competence.

  Not an easy thing to do.

  Right now, Centurion Komal MacInerney would be grabbing some coffee on her way to the Emergency Brid
ge, where she would hopefully wait patiently for nothing to happen to the ship that would require her to take charge.

  Alber’ still made his people re–fly variations of the battle of Qui–Ping in simulators, just so the Emergency Bridge folks were prepared to engage an enemy battleship at short range, while tumbling oblong. Tobias Brewster, Emergency Tactical Officer aboard Auberon that day, had certainly taught everyone the benefit of being able to do that. And he still held the high score.

  But there was no need for excitement. Today, he had command from the moment the flag went up.

  “Science Officer,” he growled quietly. “Passive read only. It will take time for Ballard to identify everything and route it to us.”

  “Roger that, Shivaji,” she replied. “Coming up now.”

  Alber’ smiled. It was out of tune with the modern age to refer to the Command Centurion simply by the name of his vessel. Had been for a generation or more, except in a few, isolated pockets of the Fleet.

  Every day, Zoya Najafi reminded him why she belonged on his deck.

  Alber’ smiled at the heavens and made sure he was secured in his command chair and his emergency suit was charged.

  One of the other goddesses of war in his life emerged from the day office and looked around.

  “Bridge, this is Bösch,” his First Officer announced with a challenge in her voice as she moved towards her station. “I have Tactical.”

  The chorus of assents might have been mistaken for a pack of wolves growling.

  By a stranger.

  Alber’ made eye contact with Bösch across three meters of space.

  “Navigation,” Alber’ said conversationally. “Plot us a course up and over them, outside the gravity well, so we can drop like hawks from the darkness. Nobody should be looking this way until it’s too late.”

  Bösch shared his smile.

  Shivaji turned like a leopard seal and slid away under the pack ice.

  Chapter LXV

  Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Thuringwell Orbit