Fleet Action wc-3

by William R. Forstchen

  If he delayed, his military strength would grow, and the humans would weaken, lulled by the false peace. That they would be so stupid had caused him to lose whatever respect he had once held for them as foes worthy of the testing of steel.

  There was the chance as well that some in the Confederation military might try to get the hard evidence regarding the new fleet and its intended target. That they even had suspicion of its existence had been a blow, the information revealed by their all so foolish traitor.

  Turning her had been so easy, he thought with a cold smile. Her only son had been captured during the Third Enigma campaign. That was a prize to be sure. Her discontent with the war, and her political ambitions to replace the president were known. The discreet passing of a holo of her son alive, and in confinement had broken her will. To have a Foreign Minister of the enemy working for you was indeed a great thing. She had been promised much and if, when the Confederation was destroyed and she was still useful, they would keep her as a puppet. The only problem with her was that it appeared that she was under suspicion and thus blocked from certain key information, especially regarding the reports of a Confederation secret project to build a new class of weapons. That was a concern as well, for if their side delayed, they might reach their goal and shift the balance of the war. It was another argument against delay, even though every passing day made the Confederation weaker and the Empire stronger.

  Yet if he delayed, the discontent in the Empire at the humiliation of peace would grow as well, and be focused upon the Emperor by the maneuvering of the Baron.

  It was a balancing act which had to be played out delicately, and he sat in the silence of his war room, lights dimmed, and quietly formed his plans.

  Prince Thrakhath returned to his desk and settled back down, punching up the latest reports on his screen. From the ambassador all was still going well. The Confederation government was starting to protest more loudly about the endless minor violations of the truce.

  "Look, it's all perfectly legal, you've got the papers, the titles are transferred, now get off this bridge," Jason snapped.

  The lieutenant looked down again at the sheaf of paper in his hand and back up at Jason.

  "Ah, Mr. Bondarevsky, I've been ordered to have you wait until the peace commission has fully reviewed this matter. You and your people are to leave this ship at once."

  Jason turned away and punched into a ship comm line.

  "Gloria, how's reactor?"

  "Up and cooking, sir."

  "Masumi, we on line yet with pulse engines?"

  "Can give you maneuvering thrust."

  Jason looked back at the lieutenant.

  "Mister, if you don't want to go for this ride, you'd better clear the bridge."

  The lieutenant looked at him and a thin smile crossed his features.

  "Good luck, sir," he whispered, snapped off a salute, and left the bridge.

  Jason went over to his old command chair, and sat down, a light puff of dust swirling up around him. He looked around at his skeleton crew which were manning the bridge. Normal ship's complement was just under five hundred personnel — he had only thirty-five. Nearly three quarters of a full crew were either support for the three squadrons the ship would normally be carrying, or for the weapons systems, but even without them, running the ship was going to be a chancy operation. And with only three Ferrets, and a Sabre on board that had yet to be transferred off, he felt very naked.

  "The Lieutenant has cleared the landing bay," Sparks announced on the comm, "and is back aboard the docking station."

  "Close off the docking collar, Sparks, and disconnect external power."

  "Already done, sir, docking collar disconnected, external power cut and withdrawn."

  Jason looked over at his helm crew.

  "Take us out of here."

  A barely perceptible vibration ran through the ship as Masumi tapped into the reactors, lighting up the nuclear pulse maneuvering engines. He felt a cold shiver run down his back.

  "Velocity at 225 meters per second," helm announced, "heading 31 degrees, negative 8."

  "By God, we're on our way," Jason laughed, coming to his feet

  A cheer went up on the bridge, the crew laughing, slapping each other on the back.

  "Ship 2291, respond please."

  It took a moment for Jason to realize that the incoming message was for him, the caller using his ship's decommissioned identification number.

  The communications officer looked over at him and Jason raised his hand, signaling for her not to open a line.

  "Ship 2291, you are in violation of peace commission procedures for title transfer. You are ordered to turn your vessel about and return to the decommissioning yard at once.

  "Ship 2291, you are . . ."

  "Turn that damn thing off, Jason snapped and the communications officer switched the speaker off.

  "Helm, set course for jump transit point 17A and let's get the hell out of here."

  "Come on, you two," Jason said, looking over at Ian and Doomsday and they followed him off the bridge.

  Picking up a small package he left the bridge and started down the corridor out to the hangar bay. Reaching the bay he paused and looked around. It actually looked big for a change. It was, of course, almost empty of fighters, and it seemed strange to see it like this. He opened the package up and unfolded the commissioning flag of Tarawa. He hung it back up in its old spot, next to the roll of honor. A light film of dust was on the honor roll and using his shirt sleeve he wiped it off, stepped back and without any feeling of self-consciousness, he came to attention and saluted

  He heard a light clicking of heels and looked over his shoulder to see Sparks at attention, saluting as well. She came to at ease and smiled.

  "It's good to be back with our friends, Jason."

  He smiled, realizing that for the first time since he had known her she had called him by his name. It took him a moment to even recall hers.

  "It certainly is, Janet."

  Her features flushed a bit

  Ian coughed in a very self-conscious manner and nudged Doomsday.

  "Come on, buddy, let's go clean up the pilot ready room," and the two left.

  "Funny, folks back home called me by my name of course, but you know, I can't remember the last time somebody didn't call me Sparks."

  She had changed so much since becoming an officer, the hard edges polished into a smooth professionalism, the dirty coveralls and oil-smudged face long since gone. She was wearing a standard B class jump suit and he realized yet again that it made her look awfully damn attractive. But he had to push that away. Even though they were not part of the Confederation Fleet anymore, he still wanted his ship run by Fleet rules, and one of them was that no personal relationships were allowed between commanding officers and those serving under them.

  He lowered his gaze for a second and then looked back and her smile faded a bit

  "Sorry, Jason, I guess we're back to the old routine, aren't we? Funny, I couldn't wait to get back, but I knew if I did, I'd have to give up something to do it, a chance for you.

  He nodded. He knew she was interested but maybe it was simply that the sharp edge of pain in losing Svetlana still cut a bit too deeply. The few encounters since her death had left him feeling cold and empty.

  Before he could say anything she drew closer, leaned up, and kissed him lightly on the lips, the kiss lingering. Startled, he looked at her and saw the sparkling in her eyes. He suddenly felt so tempted to put his arms around her — but she drew back.

  "I'd better get to work, sir," she said, sniffling slightly. "This flight deck is filthy and I'll be damned if I'll allow a launch from it before it's been cleaned up,"

  "I'm glad Tolwyn let me take you as my maintenance officer, Janet," he hesitated, "and I'm just glad to have you with me as well."

  She looked at him, shrugging a bit awkwardly, and went across the deck, leaving him alone.

  He exhaled hard and shook his head. />
  "Captain?"

  "On the flight deck."

  "We've got a laser hookup from CVE 6 Normandy."

  "Patch it through to flight operations bridge."

  He double-timed over to the flight bridge and climbed up into the empty room. The control positions were all empty and it seemed eerie with not a single soul around. He switched on a comm channel and a holo image formed.

  "How're you doing, laddie?"

  "Little complaining from the decommissioning crowd but we're away and clear."

  Paladin smiled.

  "Even though those papers are nice and legal like, we are bending a couple of the rules a wee bit," he said with a laugh. "I'm coming up now off your starboard beam, Iwo and Wake and Crete are clear as well. How's Tarawa look?"

  "Everything nominal. We got a bonus of four fighters on board her as well. The mothball maintenance seemed pretty damn good, all things considered, but I feel awfully naked without at least one squadron aboard."

  "One thing at a time, laddie. I've got to get off the line now, I'm getting a bit swamped here with calls from those peace commission buggers, and even one now from ConFleet. I tell you it'll be right good fun telling an admiral to go to hell. They've got a couple of frigates out at the jump point who might try to stop us, but we've got a dozen lawyers out at headquarters arguing away right now that the sale is legal. Hopefully nobody'll shoot. Hell, by the time they get it resolved we'll be on the other side of the universe. And then what are they going to do, sue us?"

  Laughing, he shut down the laser link and the holo screen went dead.

  Stepping down from the flight bridge Jason saw the pinpoint of light of Paladin's ship moving against the eternal night of space.

  "Captain, this is helm."

  "Go ahead."

  "Cleared of near Earth orbit, ready to power up to full pulse drive on course heading for jump point 17A."

  "Get us out of here, then."

  He felt the surge of power rumble through the ship as nearly all reactor power was fed straight into the engines. The ship turned to line up on the jump point and as he walked up to the hangar bay's magnetic airlock, Earth drifted into view, a crescent blue-green ball hanging in the eternal darkness. It gave him a curious sort of feeling. It was, after all, the home world of his entire race, the Russia of his ancestors clearly visible even from half a million clicks out, and yet now, he felt strangely detached from it. He was a product of space, born on a world five hundred light years away. If he had a home, it was this ship, a family, the people aboard her. He knew that this insane adventure he was setting out on was motivated in part by his allegiance to the Confederation and for the protection of the world in front of him, even for the protection of those people who were so ready to reject him and the military that he served. He knew that perhaps that was always the lot of a warrior, to be turned to when trouble loomed, and to be rejected and hidden away when it was believed that peace had returned.

  He was fighting for them but he realized as well that if he were fighting for anything it was for his ship, his comrades, and the fleet which they had so loyally served and now faced the most serious crisis in its history, a crisis created not so much by their enemies, but rather by their friends.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In a swirling cloud of dust, Hunter switched off power on his engines, shut down the emergency ejector system, and cracked the canopy open.

  A choking swirl of hot dry air rushed into the cockpit, taking his breath away as he unsnapped his helmet.

  "Damn, even worse than the outback," he mumbled, standing up to stretch.

  A ground crew team strolled over, lazily pushing a ladder as he waited. There was no sense in getting upset by their lackadaisical attitude, this wasn't ConFleet — the base belonged to the Landreich Colonial Air Guard and a crew working in one hundred twenty plus heat had his sympathy.

  The crew hooked the ladder against the side of his Sabre and he scrambled down out of the cockpit

  "Where's fleet headquarters?" he asked

  "Over there," one of the crew announced, trying to be heard above the cacophony of ships landing and taking off, and the sudden sonic boom of a Ferret snapping by overhead, the shockwave causing him to wince and instinctively look for cover.

  He looked up and saw the Ferret climbing straight up, standing on its tail. The Ferret punched a hole through the high thin overcast and then he was gone, the ship's vapor trail climbing and then winking out as the Ferret crossed into the far reaches of the upper atmosphere. The crew barely noticed the show and obviously weren't running to combat positions.

  "Is there a scramble on?"

  "Nay, Charlie Boys just having a little fun."

  "Who's Charlie Boy?"

  "Why, he's the head of the squadron here."

  Ian wanted to comment that at any fleet base punching sonic without a scramble on would have cost Charlie Boy a month's pay and a possible grounding. He had a feeling it was, if anything, a thumbing of the nose at all the outsiders gathering on the base and he started to smile. Hell, he might even like this place after all.

  The ground crew looked at him and Ian was suddenly aware his old ConFleet flight suit made him stick out like a sore thumb.

  "A lot of you Fleet boys showing up here today," one of the crew drawled.

  "The usual gab session," Ian replied. "You know how it is, ConFleet or Colonial, the big wigs always like to have their meetings."

  "And I suppose we oughta salute you, is that it, captain?"

  Ian laughed and replied with a universal rude gesture.

  One of the crew members smiled, reached into a tool box and pulled out a can which was dripping with moisture.

  "Have a cold one on us, cap'n."

  Ian grinned with delight as he popped the lid. Landreich beer was rated almost as good as the Outback Lager and Fosters of home. He took a long deep pull on the can and then another, draining it off. With a contented sigh he tossed the empty back to his benefactor.

  "Ah, thanks, mate, now take care of my ship and by the way, if you don't tell those customs people, you'll find a pint of Vega's best stashed in the carry bag strapped behind my seat and I don't want to find it there when I get back." The crew grinned.

  There was nothing like a little gift giving with the locals to make sure that things were taken care of right.

  Turning, he started across the landing field, eager to get to the shade. The twin suns of the planet were murder when both were at noon, the red giant and white dwarf combining to cast a strange pattern of colored shadows. He looked around, realizing that this military outpost of the Landreich colonial worlds was definitely at the butt end of the universe. There were a few modern buildings on the base, made of the standard poured plasta-concrete. But most of it, and the small garrison and mining town beyond the base, was made of either adobe or rough sandstone. If it wasn't for the rich titanium deposits underneath the surrounding mountains this world would have been bypassed except for the usual crop of hermits, crazy cults, and freebooters looking for a place to hide. Buford's World they called this place, after the first prospector to land here, but it was more commonly referred to as the Hell Hole. Its inclination of axis was exactly at zero degrees and there was no season except red hot summer with 90 degrees passing as a cool day.

  It had but two jump points in the system, one heading away from the demilitarized zone towards the capital world of Landreich, the other leading off on a long lopping pattern through half a dozen uninhabited systems into the flank of the Kilrathi Empire. Both in a strategic and tactical sense it was nothing more than an outpost at the very edge of the war and totally ignored by the main fleets of both sides. Thus space in this region was controlled, if at all, by colonial guards of both sides, and more often by freebooters which, in the eyes of the Confederation, was what the Landreich system was anyhow.

  He passed a plasta-concrete bunker, the lid partially open to reveal a cluster of surface-to-space point defense missile-anti-missiles, the late
st Sprint 8s, no less. He paused to look in at the crew which was running a service check.

  "Got a lot of those, mates?"

  "Who the hell wants to know?" and a tech sergeant wearing the tan coveralls of a colonial guard non-com looked up at him, shading his eyes.

  "Hey, just curious, that's all."

  "Curiosity like that will get you in the brig right quick," the sergeant growled.

  The sergeant turned back to his work and Ian realized that maybe it was best to simply move on.

  Tucked into the hangars lining the field was a bizarre assortment of ships. The heaviest was a medium corvette and it took Ian a moment to recognize it as an old Granicus-class, a line discontinued more than twenty years ago. The ship, however, was refitted with a couple of E-8 engines attached to anchor points on the side of the hull, with half a dozen mass driver turrets patched on as well. It was a hell of a smuggler's craft with the firepower of a light frigate thrown in. A number of fighters were on the field as well and it was easy to see which ones had ferried in the staff attending today's meeting, their Confed insignia simply painted over with standard fleet gray.

  It was the other ships, however, that caught his eye. It looked like the Landreich was planning to set up a museum, with some of the fighters actual prewar ships of more than thirty years vintage. All of them, however, were no longer spec in any way whatsoever. An early Ferret A had a new engine housing with of all things a Mark 10 engine off an old Falcon light corvette. It looked absolutely absurd, like nothing but an engine with a cockpit up front, with a gatling mass driver gun strapped on underneath. It'd be a hell of a ride, he realized.

  Most of the ships were painted Stealth black without identification numbers or even the blue circle and red Saint Andrew's cross of the Landreich. He slowly walked past the hangars, noticing the less than friendly stares of most of the crews. He wanted to take the time to go up and chat, to ask about the specs on the strange array of ships, maybe even try a climb into the cockpits but thought better of it. Ever since the armistice the uneasy cooperation of the Confederation with the colonials was now strained even further. He couldn't blame them, for when the stuff finally hit the fan, it would be the outpost worlds that would get covered by it first.