Falcone Strike

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Contact Commodore Malian,” Admiral Junayd ordered. He was dead. He knew he was dead. This failure would guarantee his execution. But maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to catch the enemy. “Get me a full tactical download, now!”

  Admiral Junayd glared at the helmsman’s back. “And set a pursuit course,” he added. “I want them under our guns before they can escape!”

  “Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.

  It wouldn’t be fast enough, Admiral Junayd thought. Some of the remaining enemy ships were clearly damaged—unless they were ECM drones posing as starships—but they could still break free and jump into hyperspace before he caught them. He’d have to follow them out of realspace if he still wanted to intercept them . . . and he had no choice. Besides, it might be time to concede defeat and put his contingency plans into operation.

  He cursed under his breath as the tactical download appeared in front of him. They’d been tricked, somehow; the enemy had captured the StarCom convoy, then turned it against the defenders. He couldn’t understand how they’d done it, unless someone had deliberately tipped off the enemy, but his orders had backfired on him. He’d told the convoy crews to do nothing, absolutely nothing, that might damage the StarCom and, clearly, they’d taken the orders to heart. If they’d blown their ships instead of surrendering . . .

  It doesn’t matter, he told himself as the download came to an end. The enemy had attacked Redemption too, landing shuttles and liberating the Inquisition’s prized prisoners. That mistake, at least, couldn’t be blamed on him, although he had no doubt the Inquisition would try. They’d been determined to refuse anyone else access to their captives. And now their secret compound has been discovered and raided. They’ll need a scapegoat too.

  “Admiral,” Captain Haran said. “The enemy ships are preparing to leap into hyperspace.”

  Of course they are, Admiral Junayd thought bitterly. How like a woman to fight and run.

  He shook his head. The enemy commander had carried out a brilliant plan and accomplished her objectives . . . even though he’d overloaded his drives trying to get back in time. Male or female, such an accomplishment deserved respect. Not that she’d get it, of course, from the Theocracy. The propaganda departments would probably work overtime to either erase her from the record books or turn her into a puppet, handled by her XO.

  “Take us in pursuit,” he ordered flatly.

  “Admiral . . .” Commodore Isaac said. He stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “I must remind you of the dangers of pursuing an enemy fleet in hyperspace.”

  Admiral Junayd drew his pistol in one smooth motion. “And I must remind you of the dangers of questioning your superior’s orders during a combat situation,” he said. The commodore might already be measuring his back for the knife, but Admiral Junayd was damned if he was going to let him get away with it. “Return to your station and handle your duties or die, right here and now.”

  He smiled inwardly as the commodore paled, then sat. Had he forgotten, so quickly, that the commander of any task force had the right to execute his subordinates for questioning or disobeying orders? Admiral Junayd might be in deep trouble as soon as word got back to the homeworld, but he hadn’t been stripped of his authority yet. No one would raise a fuss if he blew Isaac’s brains over the bridge.

  “Take us in pursuit,” Admiral Junayd ordered, resting his gun in his lap. After that little play, no one was likely to side with the commodore against him until orders arrived from their superiors. By then, the issue would be settled, one way or the other. “And order the squadron to prepare to spread out once we’re in hyperspace.”

  He tapped his console. The enemy hadn’t gone after the Aswan StarCom, probably with the intention of ensuring that reports of the disaster—no, the debacle—got back to the homeworld and his superiors. Thankfully, some of his personal staff were still keeping the device in lockdown rather than allowing Commodore Malian to use it. He sent a string of orders, one commanding his staff to send a very important message back home, the others ordering them to wipe the system afterwards, burying their traces. If nothing else, his family would have a chance to go into hiding and survive . . .

  It wasn’t much, Admiral Junayd knew. But after this failure, after the second confirmation that God had withdrawn His favor, there was no chance that either he or his family would be granted mercy. They’d be tortured to death, slowly and painfully, in payment for their sins . . .

  . . . and if he returned home, there would be no way to escape.

  * * * * *

  “Captain, the enemy superdreadnoughts are moving in pursuit,” Roach reported. “I don’t think the ECM will fool them for much longer.” “Direct the remaining automated ship to engage them,” Kat ordered. There was no point in remaining where she was, not any longer. “Helm, open a gateway. Get us out of here.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Weiberg said.

  “Send the self-destruct code to the drones,” Kat added. The drones couldn’t pass through the gateway and she had no time to recover them. Besides, watching a dozen ships vanish like soap bubbles would humiliate the enemy still further. “They are to destroy themselves just after we enter hyperspace.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Roach said.

  Kat allowed herself a cold smile as the gateway spiraled open in front of her ship. The enemy would never forget this day. Nor would they trust their convoys, no matter what codes they had. They’d insist on inspecting them all before they reached attack range, adding further delays to their already overstretched logistics network. Lightning shuddered as she slid into hyperspace, then accelerated away from the planet’s gravity well. If the enemy had the nerve to chase her into hyperspace, she would still have an excellent chance of escaping . . .

  “Captain,” Roach said. “The enemy ships have entered hyperspace.”

  Kat frowned. Lightning could easily outrun the superdreadnoughts, but the smaller ships would be a problem. The Theocratic vessels would have trouble locating her ship, given how easily hyperspace distorted even short-range sensors, yet it only took one of them getting lucky to slow her escape. And she couldn’t exchange missile fire with a light cruiser, let alone a superdreadnought. She’d practically shot herself dry.

  “Find a patch of distortion and steer us towards it,” she ordered coolly. If they broke contact, even for a few minutes, she’d have a very good chance of evading them long enough to make her escape. Even if they didn’t, they’d have to be insane to start a fight near a distortion. The resulting energy storm might destroy both sides. “And then take us onwards, towards the RV point.”

  She looked down at her display, thinking hard. The rest of the flotilla had steered a different course, assuming they’d broken contact; they’d go to the RV point, then make their way back to the Reach if Kat didn’t meet up with them. No matter what happened to Lightning, they’d make their escape, taking with them the former POWs, a defector, the prisoners . . . and a working enemy StarCom. The operation, by any realistic standards, had been a great success.

  And even if it costs the Commonwealth a heavy cruiser as well as the outdated ships, it would still be worth it, she thought. With what we now know about the enemy, targeting future offensives and winning the war will be a great deal easier.

  She settled back in her command chair as the red icons grew closer. If they were caught, if they were pinned down, Lightning would give a good account of herself before the energy storms swept both sides out of existence. And if they escaped . . .

  We’ll be back, she promised herself. And this time we will be here to stay.

  * * * * *

  “They were drones, Admiral,” the sensor officer said.

  “So they were,” Admiral Junayd said. The only explanation for twelve starships popping out of existence was that they’d never existed as anything more than false sensor images. “Take us into hyperspace.” He kept his face impassive as his squadron slid into hyperspace and spread out, searching for the enemy. It wasn�
�t easy to track the ship, but she hadn’t put quite enough distance between them before it was too late, even though hyperspace was producing a dozen alternate possibilities. Admiral Junayd nodded to himself as his ships altered course, feeling more and more confident as he realized the enemy craft was rocketing towards a distortion eddy. No one would take that kind of risk unless they felt they had no choice.

  But it will be enough to save them, he thought bitterly. I dare not take a full squadron of superdreadnoughts into the eddy.

  “Signal the smaller ships,” he ordered. “They are to press the enemy closely, while the superdreadnoughts spread out and surround the eddy.” Commodore Isaac tensed, but said nothing, no doubt aware of the prospect of immediate death. Admiral Junayd smiled coldly, keeping his thoughts to himself. Spreading the squadron out raised the possibility of friendly fire, of accidentally mistaking his ships for the enemy and opening fire, but there was no real alternative. Apart, of course, from using one of his contingency plans . . .

  He keyed his terminal, uploading a specific set of orders into the datanet. Thankfully, most of the crewmen who’d get them were too junior to do anything more than follow orders, even if they had heard rumors of impending disaster. They’d do what they were told . . . . . . and, in doing so, lay the groundwork for his final break with his superiors.

  * * * * *

  “The enemy superdreadnoughts are spreading out,” Roach reported. “But the smaller ships are still chasing us.” Kat nodded grimly. The enemy was taking a chance, but it might well pay off for them. If she kept moving through the eddy, their smaller ships might catch up with her; if she altered course, she might run into one of the superdreadnoughts. The distortion affecting her sensors, growing stronger with every moment she advanced towards the eddy, would keep her from seeing an enemy ship until she was right on top of it.

  Or worse , she thought. We’d see so many false sensor images that we wouldn’t realize it when we ran into a real superdreadnought.

  She closed her eyes, knowing there was only one option left.

  “Prepare to launch missiles,” she ordered. “I want the warheads to detonate”—she tapped her console—“here, here, and here. As soon as the missiles are launched, ramp up our speed as much as possible.”

  “Captain,” Roach said. “That will trigger an energy storm for sure.”

  “I know,” Kat said. “They have nine valuable superdreadnoughts chasing us. I can’t imagine they’d want to fly them into an energy storm.”

  She looked down at the console, biting her lip. No matter what she said, there was a strong possibility that the storm would overwhelm them too. It wasn’t considered a wise tactic because it could threaten both sides. But she was badly outgunned . . . and besides, killing nine superdreadnoughts would only help her side. Lightning’s loss would be barely noticed.

  “Fire,” she ordered quietly.

  Lightning’s drives hummed as the ship surged forward, her acceleration revealing her presence to the enemy hunters. Kat sucked in her breath, then smiled as the enemy ships hastily fell back. It was too late; the warheads detonated, energizing hyperspace and generating a whole new energy storm. It raged behind them, a primal surge of energy that would smash any starship to atoms if it were caught in the storm, throwing sheets of disruption and distortion in all directions.

  And even if they manage to evade the storm, she thought, they sure as hell won’t be able to track us through the chaos.

  “Keep us moving,” she ordered. Storms were notoriously unpredictable. It was quite possible the storm behind them would vanish as quickly as it had appeared. “And don’t look back.”

  * * * * *

  “Admiral,” the sensor officer said, “they deliberately triggered a storm!” Commodore Isaac leapt to his feet. “Drop us out of hyperspace, now,” he snapped. “I . . .”

  Admiral Junayd shot him through the head.

  “Belay that order,” he said. It was the right order, but not the one he wanted to give. “Reverse course; best possible speed.”

  The helmsman glanced at the body, then did as he was told. Admiral Junayd watched, keying more commands into his console, as the superdreadnought struggled to put as much distance between itself and the storm as possible. It didn’t look as though it was working; the storm was exciting hyperspace, which was—in turn—reacting to the starship’s drive fields. The remainder of the squadron had already dropped out of hyperspace, saving themselves from potential catastrophe.

  “Admiral, the storm is disrupting our drive field,” the sensor officer reported nervously. “It needs to be shut down, if we can’t return to realspace.”

  “Then shut it down,” Admiral Junayd ordered calmly. “Inform the crew that we are powering down all nonessential systems to preserve ourselves from the storm.”

  “Aye, sir,” the security officer said.

  “And urge them to pray too,” Admiral Junayd added. Having all nonessential personnel gathering to pray would save time. “Order the Cleric to lead prayers in the shuttlebay.”

  He smiled to himself as the lights dimmed, then rose to his feet, striding casually over towards the rear of the compartment, where a large display showed the ship’s current condition. The storm was causing power surges, but, thankfully, the redundancies built into the starship were preventing it from taking any serious damage.

  Admiral Junayd turned, silently noted the position of everyone on the bridge, then lifted his gun and opened fire, targeting the security officer first.

  Several crewmen jumped to their feet, but they were merely the next to die. By the time the clip was empty, everyone on the bridge, apart from him, was dead.

  “May God keep you,” he said as he reloaded his gun. He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of regret, as if he’d crossed a line he hadn’t known existed. He hadn’t had any particular loathing for most of the crew— and Captain Haran had been a decent young man—but he couldn’t leave them at his back, not now. “And may He take you to your final resting place.”

  He tapped a switch, triggering a ship-wide lockdown, then strolled off the bridge, making his way down towards the docking ports. Thanks to the command to pray, all personnel either would be making a show of their piety or manning essential stations, leaving the interior corridors deserted. He saw no one by the time he stepped through the hatch and into the courier boat. It was a tiny ship, with only two crewmen. They turned to stare at him as he stepped into their ship.

  “Admiral,” one said. “The boat is ready . . .”

  “Good,” Admiral Junayd said. He’d considered coming up with a lie, but there was no way he could take them with him. They’d know something was badly wrong the moment he ordered them to set course for the nearest Commonwealth fleet base. “And I thank you.”

  He lifted his gun and shot the first man through the head. The second stared, then jumped at him; Admiral Junayd shot him twice, then stepped aside and watched as the body crumpled to the floor. He hadn’t hated them either, but they still had to die. Gritting his teeth, he dragged the bodies to the airlock, then linked back into the superdreadnought’s datanet one final time. He couldn’t trigger the selfdestruct without Commodore Isaac or his flag captain, but he could do something almost as good. Destroying the ship’s datacores would leave her drifting through hyperspace forever.

  No way back now, he thought. He felt an odd urge to giggle, which he suppressed firmly. I don’t think they’d want me any longer.

  He stepped back into the courier boat, closed and locked the hatch, then took the command chair and brought the ship’s drives online. The hyperspace storm was abating now, as he’d hoped; he said a silent prayer, then cast off from the superdreadnought. Unless someone was feeling very brave, none of the other ships would return to hyperspace for at least an hour, giving him plenty of time to make his escape. And it was unlikely they’d ever be able to locate the superdreadnought. They’d probably assume the worst and give the crew a hero’s funeral.

  And n
ow all I have to do is wait, he thought as he triggered the drives. There wouldn’t be much to do on the courier boat—he had no idea how the crews tolerated their lives—but he’d endured worse. Wait and see if what I have to offer is enough to convince the Commonwealth to take me in.

  * * * * *

  Kat couldn’t help feeling relieved as Lightning reached the RV point and linked up with the rest of the squadron. The engineers had already dismantled the StarCom, although they’d warned that it might not be possible to put it back together again, and readied it for transport back home. She’d have to read the reports later, Kat knew, but for the moment all she wanted to do was set off as quickly as possible.

  “Captain,” the XO said from Oliver Kennedy. There was something in his voice that chilled Kat to the bone. “There’s a POW I’d like to bring back to Lightning. I think you have to see him personally.”

  “Very well,” Kat said, slowly. “Who is it?”

  The XO took a breath. “Admiral Morrison.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “I wish I was,” the XO said. Kat had met him, Davidson, and a Marine escort in the shuttlebay. “I had his DNA checked against the files, Captain, and it’s definitely Admiral Lord Buckland Morrison, late of 7th Fleet and Cadiz Naval Base.”

  Kat stared at the man in disbelief. The last time she’d seen Admiral Morrison, he’d been at ground zero of a major attack on the Occupation Force HQ, on Cadiz. She’d honestly assumed he was dead, even though she hadn’t seen the body. The Theocracy hadn’t gloated about taking him prisoner, or offered to trade him for another prisoner, or even used his survival as a propaganda tool. It wouldn’t have been hard to claim that Admiral Morrison had been a deep-cover agent all along, undermining the Commonwealth’s faith in the Royal Navy at the worst possible moment. Hell, Kat knew there were people who believed that Admiral Morrison had been a traitor. He’d certainly been a fool. And someone ensured he got the post, she thought, recalling her father’s words. Someone important and powerful, powerful enough to use Admiral Morrison without leaving traces even someone as capable as her father could track. Someone put him in a position where he could do a great deal of harm.