When the dinner broke up, Jaruzelska waved Michael to stay behind. “I’ve just had a com from Fleet,” she said.
“Sir?”
“It’s good news, Michael, the best,” Jaruzelska said, her face split by a huge smile. “The International Red Cross has just supplied us with the survivors list from Salvation-”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Michael hissed.
“-and Anna’s on it. She’s alive, Michael, slightly wounded but okay.”
Michael lay in his bunk, unable to sleep, struggling to accept the fact that Anna really was alive. He had been so sure that she had not made it off the doomed Damishqui, that he would never again hold her, that he would never again bury his face in her neck to feel her warmth, to kiss her velvet-soft skin, to drown in the warmth and smell of her body, to revel in her unquestioning love.
But survive she had, one of only eighty-nine spacers to make it, a desperately small fraction of the heavy cruiser’s complement. The Hammers had reported through the International Red Cross: She had been captured, her status reported to be “Wounded-OK.” The problem, as Michael knew all too well, was how the Hammers treated prisoners of war, fit or not, and if she had fallen foul of DocSec for any reason …
He sent that awful prospect back where it came from. He had to stop thinking that way; if he did not, it would drive him over the edge, an edge he was already far too close to. He had to take each day as it came, live a normal life, and hope that Anna would get through. She was tough; provided that she was in a prisoner of war camp run by the Hammer Fleet and surrounded by hundreds of Fed spacers, she would survive.
After all, he had.
Monday, March 5, 2401, UD
FWSS
Reckless,
Comdur nearspace
“Well, folks. This is it. It’s come a bit later than we expected, but I’ve just received the warning order.”
A ripple of nervous excitement ran through the spacers and marines sitting in front of Michael.
“Operation Opera is on. There are no major changes to the operation order, so the mission time line stands. A few minor alterations, of course-there always are-but nothing significant. Jayla?”
“Sir?” Ferreira’s face flushed with excitement.
“Battle Fleet wants us to increase our holdings of regen tanks. I agree with their thinking; if there are casualties, and there will be, we may end up carrying more than our fair share given that dreadnoughts’ chances of surviving are that much higher. The authorization is on its way, so make sure Comdur’s logistics people get on it right away.”
“Sir.”
Quickly Michael ran through the rest of a long list of things the admiral’s staff wanted finished before departure. That done, he paused, eyes scanning the faces of the people he was responsible for.
“I don’t think,” he said at last, his voice somber, “that there is much more I can or need to say, apart from this. I give you my word that I will do everything I can to make this mission a success. We all know how important it is that SuppFac27 be destroyed. The future of the Federation rests on taking away from the Hammers the one thing that can beat us: their antimatter warheads.”
An angry murmur ran through the room.
“I cannot lie to you,” he continued. “Doing that may cost some, even all, of us our lives, and if that is what it takes to get this job done, so be it. But let me make this clear to you. My job is to do two things at once if I can. One, to destroy SuppFac27. Two, to bring you all home safely. And that,” he said softly, “is exactly what I intend to do.”
Michael paused again.
“Are there any questions … no? Good.”
Not a word was said. The faces of some betrayed that curious mix of fear, apprehension, excitement, and anticipation common to all about to go into battle; others showed a stony indifference. Then they were all on their feet.
“Remember Comdur!” they roared, the battle cry of the Federated Worlds Space Fleet.
Tuesday, March 6, 2401, UD
FWSS
Reckless,
Comdur nearspace
Michael stared at the holovid on the bulkhead. Battle Fleet Lima hung in space, motionless. The massed ranks of warships were a powerful reminder that the Federated Worlds might be down-and they were after the defeat at Comdur-but were not out. They were still a force to be reckoned with. The raw power projected by the ships struck Michael to his core, his chest tight with a nervous mixture of pride and apprehension.
Pride that for all the setbacks inflicted on the Federation, it could still send a full battle fleet into the field. Apprehension that the Hammers’ antimatter plant-on which the Hammers’ entire strategic advantage rested-might be a bridge too far. Suppfac27 was the Hammers’ single most important strategic asset; they would defend it to the death. And if it was a bridge too far …
“Captain, sir.”
A soft knock cut short what threatened to be a depressing review of the Fed’s future if Opera failed.
“Come!”
It was Ferreira. “Lander’s ready when you are, sir.” “Right, Jayla. I’ll be there. No ceremonial. You’ve got better things to do.” Ferreira smiled gratefully. “Aye, aye, sir. As you wish.”
“How do I look?” he asked.
Ferreira cast a critical eye over Michael. She nodded approvingly. “Sharp, sir. Very sharp.”
Michael turned to look at himself in the full-length mirror. Ferreira was right. He did look sharp. His uniform was immaculate, the ribbon around his neck holding the Valor in Combat starburst-a slash of rich crimson-rank badges, combat command hash marks, and unit citations, all brilliant gold against the black cloth of his dress blacks, thin gold strips of wound stripes above his left cuff, the single row of medals a blaze of color across his left breast.
“It’ll have to do,” Michael said. “I look like a goddamn tailor’s dummy.”
Ferreira laughed. “Tell you one thing, sir. You have more stuff on your uniform than most senior officers I’ve met.”
Michael knew that. What Ferreira had said might be true, but not for one moment did he like it. It made him stand out from the crowd, it provided a focus for all the resentment and anger churning around inside those less fortunate, and, worst of all, it offered the antidreadnought lobby a convenient target they were never slow to attack. He might as well walk around with a high-intensity strobe on his head; he was that obvious.
“Okay,” Michael said, “tell the gangway I’m on my way. You carry on. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Sir.”
Deftly, Lieutenant Kat Sedova drifted Cleft Stick-the replacement lander for poor old Creaking Door-into position alongside Seljuk, Vice Admiral’s Jaruzelska’s flag a blaze of white and gold above the personnel air lock. With a gentle bump, the lander berthed.
“Nicely done, Kat,” Michael said. As the saying went, a ship was known by its boats, and the old adage still applied even if it was landers these days.
“Thank you, sir. My pleasure. Give them hell.”
“Don’t know about that, Kat,” Michael said when he turned to leave the flight deck. “Low profile for me tonight. Too much brass around for my liking.”
“I’ll be here when it all gets too much. By the way, sir.”
“What?”
“You look sharp. Very sharp.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Junior Lieutenant Sedova! Not you, too.” He shook his head despairingly. “Just be here when I need to make a run for it.”
“Will do, sir,” Sedova replied with a grin.
Michael dropped down the ladder and into the lander’s cargo bay just as the lights over the air lock changed from red to green. The loadmaster, Petty Officer Amira Trivedi, slapped the handle, and the hatch snapped open.
“Clear to disembark, sir,” Trivedi said cheerfully, her singsong intonation betraying her Nuristani origins. “You look sharp, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, very sharp.”
Michael shook h
is head ruefully and laughed. Was this the start of a running joke? he wondered. Some had been known to follow an officer for their entire career. “Don’t be so bloody cheeky, Petty Officer Trivedi, but thanks, anyway.”
“No problem, sir.”
Steeling himself, Michael stepped into the air lock to be greeted by the time-honored ritual that accompanied the arrival of a captain in command, no matter how junior. The side party snapped to attention, bosun’s calls shrilled, and the officers assembled to greet him and the rest of the battle fleet’s captains saluted. Michael paused to return the salute. Seljuk’s captain, a dour-looking man, his dress blacks sporting a single combat command hash mark where Michael had three, stepped forward.
“Captain,” the man said curtly. He did not look happy, his perfunctory handshake a halfhearted welcome to the Fleet’s latest heavy cruiser, the ship so new that it positively sparkled.
Michael forced an unwilling smile into place. Another dreadnought hater; he recognized the signs. “Thank you, sir. Pleasure to come aboard.”
Seljuk’s captain ignored the remark; he waved one of his junior officers forward. “Cadet Hendriksen will show you to the admiral’s quarters,” he said before turning his back on Michael.
Well, thanks for nothing, Michael said to himself.
“Follow me, sir,” the cadet said. The boy made Michael feel a million years old. He knew he must have looked that young once, but that had been a long time ago.
They set off; not a word was said while they worked their way through and down into the enormous cruiser. “You, too?” Michael said softly.
The cadet stopped at the two marines standing guard at the doorway into the admiral’s quarters. “Here we are, sir. First door on your left.”
“Thank you, Cadet Hendriksen.”
His identity confirmed, Michael stepped through the heavily framed opening in the airtight bulkhead. The door into Seljuk’s flag conference room was open, a wave of conversation washing over him when he walked in. He plunged into the mass of black uniforms toward the only person he recognized, Vice Admiral Jaruzelska herself. She spotted him and waved him over.
“Michael,” she said, “welcome. First captains’ dinner?”
“It is, Admiral. All the other engagements under my command have been a bit more ad hoc. No time for formal dinners before battle.”
“It’s an old tradition,” Jaruzelska said, “but a good one. Sadly, we don’t often get the chance to do it even though it’ll be one hell of a scrum fitting everyone in. The air group commander’s not at all happy with what I’ve done to his hangar. Now”-she glanced around the crowded room-“there are some people I want you to meet.”
Despite Jaruzelska’s obvious support, Michael’s evening got off to a rocky start and never improved. He knew how passionately the antidreadnought lobby held to its views; what he had not understood fully was how vocal it was. Except for a couple, all the officers he spoke with opposed dreadnoughts, some bitterly, and they all felt obligated to tell him why-at great length-an experience shared by Rao and Machar, as he learned when he bumped into them in the throng.
Restrained by youth, rank, and a grain of common sense, Michael refused to argue his case, resigning himself to saying no more than good manners required.
Retiring from a verbal drubbing at the hands of a vindictive Rear Admiral Perkins and two of his cronies-he had not spotted them until it was too late to escape-Michael turned around straight into the well-rounded figure of Seigneur’s captain.
“Oh, sorry, sir. Didn’t see you there.”
“Lieutenant Helfort,” Captain Xiong said, shaking his hand vigorously and smiling broadly. “Good to see you again. It’s been a while.”
“And you, sir,” Michael replied. It had been a while. The last time he had seen Xiong had been after Adamant, Michael’s first-if brief-cruiser command, had captured the McMullins and Providence Sound and their precious cargoes of Hammer antimatter warheads.
“Let me guess,” Xiong said, waving a dismissive hand, lip curling with open contempt. “Forces of darkness and reaction giving you a hard time, are they?” He smiled again, the skin around green-gray eyes wrinkling in sympathy.
Michael grimaced. “They are, Captain. It’s fair enough, I suppose. They have their reasons.”
“I’m sure they have, but what they ignore is simple arithmetic. Without your dreadnoughts, we could not even think about Operation Opera, much less mount it. Well”-Xiong’s motherly face hardened-“not without stripping the home planets of what little protection they have left.”
“That’s what makes keeping quiet so hard, sir.”
“I know, but it’s best. Anyway, it does not matter what the naysayers think. It’s what happens on the field of battle that’s important. If I’m any judge of space warfare-and I should be; I’ve been in this business forty years-your dreadnoughts will be what gets Opera across the line. Old dinosaurs like me in our heavy cruisers cannot, and you can quote me, though please leave the ‘old dinosaur’ bit out.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir,” Michael said with a laugh.
“Easy for me to say,” Xiong said. “We won’t be in the thick of it like you.”
“The way Opera’s looking, I reckon covering the withdrawal is the best place for Seigneur to be,” Michael said with some feeling. “Oh! Sorry. No offense, sir,” he added hurriedly.
“None taken,” Xiong said, “and don’t worry, I share your sentiments. I’m too old to enjoy being shot at by the Hammers. Now, changing the subject, how’s the love of your life?”
“Sorry, sir?”
“You know, that Lieutenant Cheung of yours. The lovely Anna.”
Michael’s face reddened. “Oh, er, fine thank you, sir …” he sputtered before lapsing into an embarrassed silence. He was not used to discussing his love life with senior officers.
“Relax, my boy,” Xiong said with a chuckle. “My wife’s one of Anna’s many cousins. She’s expecting an invite to the wedding, by the way.”
“Oh, right,” Michael said feebly. “I’ll remember that. Far as I know, Anna’s okay. Still no vidmail from her, but the Red Cross’s monthly status reports say she’s fine.”
“Pleased to hear it. We were worried for a while. Bad business that. But to be serious for a moment. Opera. You and your guys ready?”
“We are, sir.” Michael’s face was grim. “Well, as much as we can be. The two new squadrons are good though still green, and I worry about how well they’ll hold up under pressure. But they did well at Salvation, we’ve simmed the operation every which way, and provided we stay focused on reducing the plant’s defenses, on getting through to the plant itself, we’ll be fine. It’ll be tough, but that’s the whole point of the dreadnoughts.”
“I agree. It’ll be a dirty business. The shit will be flying everywhere. Just ignore it, keep going, never lose sight of the objective, and I think you’ll get this done.”
Michael’s stomach did a couple of lazy somersaults at the prospect of facing the Hammers again. “I certainly hope so, sir,” he said.
Michael had had enough. More than anything he wanted the formal dinner to wrap up so he could get back to Reckless to concentrate on the business of destroying the Hammer’s antimatter plant. He turned his attention back to the podium, where, thankfully, Jaruzelska was winding up her speech.
“… and finally, remember this. It’s in the operation order in big black letters, but I’ll say it again for those of you who don’t read so well. Only one thing matters … destroying the antimatter plant.” Jaruzelska paused to scan the faces of the captains of Battle Fleet Lima’s ships. “Compared to that, nothing else does,” she said fiercely. “Nothing. I don’t, you don’t, your crews don’t, and your ships don’t, so you should treat what I am about to say as a direct order.
“Every other operation I’ve ever been part of has gone off the rails at some point, and Opera will, too. You can count on it, especially as we know the Hammers are certain to
send reinforcements; we just don’t know when or how many. And when those damned Hammers start turning up, it will be up to one of you to do whatever”-her voice slashed through the air-“and I mean whatever it takes to reduce that damned antimatter plant to a ball of molten slag. Do I make myself clear?”
Silence hung heavy in the air for a few seconds before the room erupted, the sound of chairs kicked back overwhelmed by roars of support.
Unmoving, Jaruzelska waited until the noise died down. “That’s all, folks. I look forward to seeing you all at the postoperation debrief. Until then … Remember Comdur!”
This time, the noise was deafening, the shout of “Remember Comdur” racketing across the hangar, an unstoppable wave of hate-fed energy.
Safely back onboard Reckless, Michael raised his mug of coffee. “Here’s to us; here’s to the Dreadnought Force.”
Rao and Machar raised their mugs in silent acknowledgment.
“You guys all set?”
“Apart from wanting to throw up all the time, yes,” Machar said with a crooked smile, his normally blue-black skin tinged with gray. “That dinner was too much. Admiral Lord Nelson has a lot to answer for.”
“Tell me,” Rao said. “Going head to head against a pair of Hammer light escorts in Aldebaran was bad, but that damn dinner was ten times worse.”
“We’ll come through,” Michael said. “Dreadnoughts are tough. I have faith in them, in their crews, and in you. Just remember what the admiral said. The one thing, the only thing, that matters is destroying the antimatter plant. When things go to shit, and they will, if the First gets blown out of space, you guys press on. Just keep going. One of us will get through.”
Michael took a sip of coffee.
“One of us will get through,” he said. “We have to.”
Four hours later, Battle Fleet Lima accelerated out of Comdur nearspace en route to Devastation Reef, 400 light-years distant.
The battle of Devastation reef hw-3 Page 22
