Falcone Strike
Page 20
The tactical display flickered, then updated. “Captain,” the XO said. “The squadron has entered hyperspace.”
And let’s hope they don’t run into the enemy fleet, Kat added silently. Encounters in hyperspace tended to be dangerous for all involved, but the Theocracy wouldn’t hesitate to try to run the squadron down if they thought they could. Their pride—and their reputation for being invincible—would have taken a severe dent, thanks to her. They’d want revenge as well as the mere destruction of my ships.
“Deploy the ECM drones,” she ordered. “And then take us away from the planet, as planned.”
“Aye, Captain,” the XO said.
She forced herself to relax, studying the latest reports from her tactical staff. Verdean might not have had a military-grade industrial base, but its workers had known a great deal about the local sector before the Theocracy arrived. The intelligence staff had done their work well. Four other potential targets had been identified, three of them promising enough to have her planning to detach the remaining patrol boats to scout their defenses. The fourth . . . might be nothing more than a waste of time, if the reports were to be believed. But it might confuse the Theocracy if she attacked . . .
“Gateways,” Roach snapped. Alarms rang through the ship. “I say again, gateways!”
Kat nodded, feeling her heart starting to pound. Twelve gateways into hyperspace had opened, disgorging an enemy fleet. Nine superdreadnoughts led the way, flanked by two squadrons of destroyers and a handful of light cruisers. Her squadron wouldn’t have stood a chance in a straight fight. But then, she would have been surprised if the enemy hadn’t responded with overwhelming force. They needed to make a statement as much as she did.
“I have a tentative ID on the superdreadnoughts, Captain,” Roach reported. “They’re one of the squadrons located at Aswan.”
“Good,” Kat said. She frowned as the enemy fleet spread out, orienting itself. It wouldn’t be long before they locked onto her ship and the false sensor images, even though she was boosting away from the planet. “Keep us on our current course, then jump out on my command.”
* * * * *
Admiral Junayd couldn’t help feeling a sickly sense of defeat as his fleet emerged from hyperspace and started to scan the surrounding region of space. Verdean looked untouched, but the network of satellites, defense platforms, and industrial bases in orbit were gone and the handful of bases on the local moon had clearly been nuked. The bases on the planet, the ones charged with educating the locals in the true faith, weren’t even trying to contact him. It suggested, very strongly, that they’d been destroyed.
“Admiral, the enemy squadron is pulling away from the planet,” the tactical officer reported. “They’re well out of engagement range.”
Unless we want to risk wasting hundreds of missiles on ballistic trajecto ries, Admiral Junayd thought. It struck him as a pointless exercise, spitting in the face of the inevitable. They’ve timed their departure very well.
“Detach the light cruisers,” he ordered. “They are to enter orbit and attempt to make contact with any forces on the ground.”
“Aye, Admiral,” the fleet coordination officer said.
“The remainder of the fleet is to go in pursuit,” Admiral Junayd added. “Best possible speed.”
It was futile, he suspected. He would be surprised if the enemy stuck around long enough for him to overrun their ships, let alone bring them to battle, but it had to be tried. Someone would have to take the blame for the failure, and he hadn’t been so politically naked since before the war had begun. Besides, the officer in charge of the defenses—along with the forces on the ground—was probably dead. And if he wasn’t, given the Theocracy’s attitude to defeat, he would soon wish he was. He’d be hung, drawn, and quartered.
Long seconds passed as the fleet altered course, the ponderous superdreadnoughts advancing towards their foe. The enemy fleet held its course and speed; Admiral Junayd had to admire their nerve, even though it worried him. Were they planning to draw the superdreadnoughts into a trap? A minefield, perhaps? Or hidden missile emplacements? Or . . .
“Admiral, the cruisers have made contact with the senior surviving officer on Verdean,” the communications officer reported. “His base was hidden, as per protocol; he reports that every base and formation on the planet was wiped out from orbit once the enemy took the high orbitals. Any survivors were picked off by the locals.”
“Duly noted,” Admiral Junayd said. It was important to reestablish control of Verdean, but for the moment he had other problems. “Is he in any danger?”
“No, sir,” the communications officer said. “His bunker was designed to remain undetected.”
“Then tell him to wait,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “We’ll be back for him once we’ve overrun the enemy squadron.”
Or they’ve jumped into hyperspace and fled, he added silently, in the privacy of his own thoughts. They have to know they can’t match us in a straight fight.
* * * * *
“The enemy ships will be within firing range in seventeen minutes,” Roach reported. “I don’t think they’ve seen through our ECM, but they’re launching probes and it’s only a matter of time.”
Kat nodded shortly. “Take us into hyperspace in ten minutes, unless the situation changes,” she ordered. She was mildly surprised the enemy had bothered to give chase, although if she’d been in the enemy CO’s shoes she would probably have wanted to claim she’d done everything she could to catch the imprudent raiders too. “And launch a flight of our own probes back at them. I want a complete breakdown on that squadron before we leave.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said. We could outrun the bastards with ease if it was just us , Kat thought sourly. Lightning wasn’t the fastest thing in space, but she was certainly faster than a bunch of lumbering superdreadnoughts. The enemy destroyers were the only ships that could keep up with her and they’d be reluctant to tangle with a heavy cruiser on their own. Of course, they might try to delay us long enough for the bigger boys to catch up and smash us into atoms.
“Probes away,” Roach said. He frowned. “Captain, the enemy probes are closing in sharply. I don’t know how long the ECM will hold up.”
“Hold our course and speed,” Kat ordered. As far as the enemy could see, they were facing the whole squadron, not a single heavy cruiser and a handful of ECM-projecting drones. What would they do when they finally realized the truth? Push the destroyers forward? Give up? Something else? “And watch for the moment they burn through the ECM.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said.
The XO opened a private channel. “Captain, they may not tip us off,” he said. “If they hold their nerve, they may try to slip into firing range without revealing that they know there’s only one real starship present.”
“I know,” Kat sent back. It was frustrating; she could fire on the enemy probes, but that would reveal she had only one starship capable of mounting weapons. It wouldn’t be hard for the enemy to guess the truth. “But I want to learn as much as we can about them before we have to take our leave.”
“Captain,” Roach said. “The enemy ships are picking off our drones. Their targeting is unfortunately good.”
“So it would seem,” Kat agreed. She’d hoped the enemy training schedules had suffered along with their maintenance cycles, but apparently not. Perhaps Verdean was a trap after all. Or, perhaps, their CO had been doing the best he could with the tools he had on hand. It didn’t seem as though there was any point in sticking around. “I want to jump out in five minutes.”
“Aye, Captain,” Weiberg said.
* * * * *
Lightning’s tactical processors ran through the entire ship, a redundancy built into the system to make it hard for a single lucky hit to disable the datanet and cripple the ship’s ability to fight. At worst, the designers had planned it that other elements of the datanet could abandon their regular tasks and assume control of the ship’s defenses. It had n
ever occurred to them that a program, slipped into the datanet in the tactical department, could make its way—undetected—into the communications system, then order a signal blister to send a single message to one of the enemy ships. But then, the human element had always been the weakest of any secure system.
The spy uploaded the program, then waited. It sent its message, then erased all traces of its passage before wiping itself from existence. And no one knew what it had done.
* * * * *
Kat took a breath as the enemy ships lumbered closer. “Jump us out,” she ordered. “And then generate static as we go.”
“Aye, Captain,” Weiberg said.
A gateway blossomed to life in front of Lightning. The ship shuddered, then plunged forward into hyperspace, followed by the ECM drones. Kat braced herself, half expecting to run into an ambush, but there was nothing more than the flickering lights and energy storms of hyperspace waiting for them. The drones switched to static mode, generating tiny disruptions to make it harder for the enemy to follow their mothership, then started the countdown to self-destruct. Light ning picked up speed rapidly, looping around the nexus of gravimetric force representing the primary star, then headed away from the system on an evasive course.
Kat allowed herself a moment of relief. She had assumed the Theocracy would give chase, even through hyperspace, yet it seemed the enemy had other ideas. Perhaps they had a point. She knew, from bitter experience, just how easy it was to lose an advantage if one fought in hyperspace.
“We appear to have broken contact successfully, Captain,” Roach said.
“Keep us on our evasive course, for the moment,” Kat ordered. There was no point in taking chances. “We’ll head around to link up with the rest of the squadron in a day or two.”
“Aye, Captain,” Weiberg said.
We gave the Theocracy a bloody nose, Kat thought, settling into her command chair. She couldn’t help feeling torn between glee and a bitter helpless guilt. But they’ll take it out on the planet, now that we’re gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“The enemy fleet has escaped, Admiral,” the tactical officer said. He sounded nervous, no doubt expecting the blame. “We could follow them into hyperspace . . .”
“That won’t be necessary,” Admiral Junayd said. Hyperspace would give a small squadron advantages against his fleet, advantages he would be foolish to ignore. “Reverse course and take us back to the planet, best possible speed.”
“Aye, Admiral,” the fleet coordination officer said. “They sent us a message,” the communications officer added. “It was encoded; standard intelligence protocols, identifying the sender.”
“Route it down to the intelligence staff,” Admiral Junayd ordered. He’d expected the enemy to taunt him, but an encoded message? Had God blessed them with a spy on the enemy ship or was it nothing more than an attempt to bait a trap? Intelligence scheming lacked the beautiful simplicity—and openness—of space warfare; it was quite possible that their spy had been turned, if he’d ever been theirs in the first place. “And then forget you ever saw it.”
“Aye, Admiral,” the communications officer said.
Admiral Junayd nodded curtly, then switched the display back to the live feed from the light cruisers. The Commonwealth ships had hammered the occupation forces on Verdean into the ground, he noted; he would have been impressed, really, if it hadn’t been a major headache for him to solve. He didn’t have the ground forces sufficient to regain control of the surface, nor could he reasonably slaughter the entire planet. They were, after all, potential believers.
“Get me a direct link to the bunker as soon as you can,” he ordered. They’d be within effective communications range in twenty minutes. “And then see if you can raise anyone else.”
He shook his head, knowing it was probably futile. The industries of Verdean had been smashed, along with the colonies on the outer worlds and the cloudscoop. There was literally nothing left, apart from the population—and they were largely useless. He had a feeling that the Commonwealth, which could be as ruthless as his own people, had either kidnapped the trained workers or simply killed them. It was what he would have done.
The planet won’t starve, he thought, but losing the cloudscoop will cause fuel prices across the sector to rise.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. The Theocracy had used its monopoly of HE3 to keep planets under control, as well as supervising the handful of independent shippers allowed within its territory. Now, dozens of planets would suffer shortages, which would provoke unrest and even riots. In hindsight, it might have been wiser to copy the Commonwealth’s practice of establishing a cloudscoop in every system, but that wouldn’t have been good for keeping those worlds under control. The weakness of that policy had come back to bite them in the rear.
And it would be damn near impossible to establish a replacement cloud scoop now, in wartime, he added mentally. The technicians who would put one together have been diverted to support the offensive.
He cursed inwardly. Years ago, he’d been taught an old rhyme about the loss of a nail. It was hardly significant in itself, but if the loss of a nail could spell the loss of a horseshoe, and if the loss of a horseshoe could spell the loss of a horse, and if the loss of a horse could spell the loss of a messenger, and if the loss of a messenger could spell the loss of a battle . . . he couldn’t help wondering if the attack on Verdean would trigger a similar series of disasters that eventually led to the loss of the war. Or perhaps he was just panicking over nothing. HE3 was stockpiled; there were freighters that could ship fuel from Aswan to a dozen other worlds . . . a few worlds might go cold for lack of fusion power, but by then the war would be won or lost anyway. They could endure.
Our ancestors endured hardships when they first spoke the words of the true faith, he reminded himself sternly. How can we endure any less? It’s not a fair comparison, his own thoughts mockingly replied. Your ancestors didn’t have to keep the galaxy’s mightiest military machine going . . .
“Admiral,” the communications officer said, “I have a direct link to the bunker.”
“Put the CO through,” Admiral Junayd ordered.
He groaned inwardly as a face appeared on the display. Bearded, unkempt—a sure sign of a fanatic or an Inquisitor. “Admiral,” the man said shortly. A line of text under his image identified him as Inquisitor Frazil. “Bombard the enemy positions at once.”
“I believe that I am the sector commander,” Admiral Junayd said. It was hard to keep the surge of anger from his voice, but he kept his tone under firm control. “And we have yet to locate any enemy positions. There seems to be a lack of tanks or mobile guns or anything else that might draw the eye.”
The Inquisitor glared at him. “It is your duty to reassume control of this world so that the great work may continue,” he snapped. “Years of patient work have been destroyed overnight. Many believers have been lost to unbelief.”
“We will target enemy positions when they are located,” Admiral Junayd said firmly. “However, I do not have the manpower on hand to replenish the occupation force. I will merely take control of the high orbitals, then wait for my superiors to dispatch reinforcements.”
“There’s no time,” the Inquisitor insisted. “I will not see our work wasted!”
“I am in command here,” Admiral Junayd said, feeling his temper snap. “You are under my orders. If you refuse to obey, place yourself under arrest on the charge of disobeying orders in the face of the enemy. I suggest”—he allowed his voice to harden—“that you do as you’re told. We do not have the resources to engage in a bloody pacification campaign and I will not waste what little I have without reinforcements. Do you understand me?”
There was a long pause. An Inquisitor might get away with disobeying orders . . . but someone would have to take the blame for the disaster. Admiral Junayd waited, his dark eyes daring the younger man to cross the line. The Inquisitor scowled, then lowered his eyes, conceding the point.
“We will do what we can to protect them,” Admiral Junayd said. “Now, once we enter orbit, I will send a shuttle for you. I expect to see you on my ship shortly afterwards. Bring with you a complete report and a tactical breakdown. Both of them will be added to my report.”
He closed the channel without waiting for a reply, then sighed. “Captain Haran?”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“I want a full report within an hour,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “And make sure you put it together independently of our friend below. He will not hesitate to try to make himself look good.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Haran said.
* * * * *
Commander Amman was a slight young man, too thin and effeminate for Admiral Junayd’s tastes. Or, perhaps, that was a reaction to his lifelong disdain for intelligence analysts; they either got it right, in which case they would brag about their cleverness until he just wanted them to shut up, or they would come up with excellent excuses for getting it wrong. But Commander Amman came with good references, including some from one of Admiral Junayd’s old comrades. It made him wonder why the commander had been assigned to Aswan in the first place.
“The message was designed to identify the originator, Admiral,” Amman said. “Any intelligence section could decrypt the message, but only the person with the private key could have encrypted it. However, we lack access to the files that would do more than identify the spy as one of ours.”