“None,” Curtis replied, shaking his head. “I just spoke to Admiral Carson. We're clear to launch our attack as soon as we get within range, then sweep around to join the rest of the Fleet for the final assault on Testament Station.” Looking around the deck, he added, “After which, in all probability, the war will be over, ladies and gentlemen.”
A brief murmur echoed around the room, Rojek stepping forward with a menacing glare in his eye to add, “Though until that, we all have an obligation to continue our duties as before. And regardless of the official ending of the conflict, we will likely be engaged in mopping-up operations for some considerable time to come.”
Curtis looked back at the black-uniformed officer, taking a quick step towards him, and said, “I'm trying to give these people something to hope for. Most of them are in the reserve. They didn't sign up for some sort of endless war.”
“And I'm telling them the truth, Commander. They're not going home for months. Even when the Rebel fleet has been wiped out, we're still going to be mopping up their frontier outposts and commerce raiders for a while. Polaris will be right at the heart of that effort.” Glancing at the monitor, he added, “Not to mention that we've still got to stop those troop reinforcements making it to Testament Station, or our assault force will be cut to pieces before they can press their attack.”
His face locked in a frown, Curtis replied, “If you ever contradict me in front of the crew again, Rojek, I will personally see you placed under arrest for mutiny, political connections or no. That isn't a threat. It's a promise. I strongly suggest that you take it as such. Do you understand?”
“Commander, we both have jobs to do. I understand that, and I hope that you do the same.” He paused, then asked, “Isn't your son graduating from the Academy next month?”
Curtis' eyes widened, and he said, “If that's some sort of threat...”
“No, no,” Rojek said, holding his hands up. “Not what I meant at all. What I was going to say was that even if Polaris is heading off on another mission, there's no need for you to go with her. I checked the records, and you've got more leave time saved up than anyone else on board. More than enough to go back to Earth for a few weeks, attend your son's graduation, take a little time to walk through a forest or something.”
“I'm fine. And my crew needs me.”
“Your crew needs you at your best, Commander, and you're beginning to slip a little. And before you bite my head off, monitoring your well-being is part of my job as well. I don't have any intention of submitting a written report...”
“That's a comfort.”
“As yet, but I might have to change my mind about that if you continue on this course. As soon as the current fighting is over, take some time off. And consider that an order.”
“You don't give me orders, Rojek.”
“In this specific matter, I do, and you know it. And that you are arguing about this only proves my point.”
“Commander,” Cordova said, gesturing him over to the sensor display. “Something interesting ahead. Our targets are altering course.”
“Where are they going?” Curtis asked, moving back to his position at the heart of the bridge, tapping controls to throw a holographic projection of local space into the air ahead of him, ships and moons flickering into life.
“Mareikuna, sir. Third moon of that gas giant up ahead. Big hunk of rock with enough atmosphere and gravity to be a real problem if we get too close. I think they're trying for a slingshot.” The young officer worked his controls, and a golden trail flashed onto the display, a projected course heading. “If they're trying to get far enough away from the gravity well to engage Tau Drive, that's where I'd go. Down towards the gas giant for a big, unpredictable boost. We'd have a hard time tracking them down.”
“Signal from Cygnus, sir,” one of the communications technicians, a gray-haired man named Dietrich, said. “Commander Caldwell reports enemy course change, requests instructions.”
“We could split the squadron,” Diaz said. “Cover all the bases. One ship should be able to tackle the three of them if necessary, or perhaps corral them to the others.”
“And if this is some sort of a trap?” Curtis asked. “A suicide run, like they tried at Sirius? No, Lieutenant, we're going to keep our defensive firepower interlocked.” He frowned, then turned to Cordova, and said, “Signal Engineering, Kit. I'm going to want full power to the engines on the double. Everything we've got. And contact the other ships and inform them to follow our lead.”
“Where are we going?” Rojek asked, moving in behind him.
“They want to do a slingshot? We're going to go along with that idea. An atmospheric skip.”
Rojek's eyes widened, and he replied, “That's a pretty risky maneuver.”
“You said yourself that bringing these ships down was of critical importance, and we take risks like that every time we go into battle.” He paused, then said, “Signal those ships when we get close, and offer their surrender.”
“Our orders are to destroy those ships, Commander.”
“You really think the Commerce Directorate will complain about getting three bulk transports back at the end of the fighting? Besides, I don't think they'll actually surrender, not for a moment. I just want them to believe that the hand we're holding is weaker than it really is.”
Nodding, Rojek said, “I should have learned from that last poker game.”
Turning back to the helm, Curtis said, “Lopez, I want a course to skip us off the atmosphere of Mareikuna. One that will throw us into any possible projected path of those three ships. We're not going to have long in the firing line, so we're going to have to disable those craft with a single salvo. Diaz, contact your counterparts in the rest of the squadron and arrange an optimum firing pattern. Target engines to begin with. If we slow them down enough, we can finish them off at our leisure.” He frowned, turned to Rojek, and said, “Make sure our troops are at their posts to repel potential boarders. If they've got eight thousand troops on those ships, their commander might decided to make some practical use of them.”
“Agreed,” Rojek replied, moving to his station at the rear of the command deck, issuing orders to a petrified technician. Curtis looked at the supposed guardian of his morals for a moment, his frown locked on his face. He didn't like the idea of the Political Directorate having an agent on his ship at the best of times, certainly not one with the ability to override his authority. Having said that, Rojek at least knew when to keep out of the way, and that was more than could be said for most of his colleagues. There'd been some notable disasters in the early days of the Uprising, battles lost because an untrained near-civilian had decided to intervene at the wrong moment.
He looked across at the display, checking over the course Lopez had locked into the system. Another officer too young for his rank. That had become the rule, these days, after the casualties they'd suffered at the start of the fighting, three ships lost to a surprise attack with countless other officers assassinated by the rebels. He'd had a near-miss himself, surviving only by the skin of his teeth in a firefight right here on the bridge that had wiped out three senior officers. The carpet was still stained with their blood, his direct orders to leave it where it was. As both a monument to the dead and a reminder of what they were fighting for.
Not that the Republic had been exactly pure over the last few years. Both sides had committed atrocities, and somehow the new generation of commanders had been more willing to use excessive force to get the job done. And the Central Committee had done nothing about it. There had been moments, more and more frequently over the last few months, when he had wondered what exactly they were fighting for.
Rubbing his forehead, he sighed. Rojek was probably right, much as it pained him to admit it. He did need some time off, and he hadn't seen his son since the Uprising began. A few scattered messages back and forth wasn't enough. As soon as
this battle was over, and the one the rest of the fleet was preparing to fight at 61 Cygni, he'd put in for that leave.
“One minute to closest approach, sir,” Lopez said. “Course locked into computer.”
“Signal from Caldwell,” Cordova said with a sigh. “He suggests that Cygnus could take high guard, the rear of the formation, in case the enemy ships are playing some sort of a trick.”
“That man loves his own skin, doesn't he,” Lopez replied.
“Mind your station, Lieutenant,” Curtis snapped, while inwardly agreeing with the young helmsman. “Kit, inform Commander Caldwell that I am in command of the formation, and that I expect my orders to be carried out without question. Further stress that all three ships will share the danger of the fight together, and that I expect his ship to fire with the rest of us.”
“Aye, sir,” Cordova said, turning to the communications technician, rapidly conjuring a way of translating a barked insult into a diplomatically-worded order. Caldwell had connections back home, another political appointee assigned to a command to tick a box on his career path, a route that would likely take him to the Central Committee in a decade or so. Curtis only wanted to stay in command of a ship, had made it quite clear to those who had attempted to push him onto a more ambitious trajectory that he had already attained his highest goal, and that all he wanted was to continue in his current role. He'd racked up enough favors over recent years to think that he had a shot. The last thing he wanted was for a political animal like Caldwell to steal his ship.
“All hands,” he said, picking up a microphone. “This is the Commander. We'll be going into action in a few minutes, and I expect each and every one of you to do your best. Let's make the last battle of the Uprising a clean victory. Good hunting.” He looked up at the trajectory plot again, data streaming in from the flanking sensor drones, and nodded in approval. The transports had been too slow to spot his actions, hadn't altered course in time. They'd only have a short window to bring them down, but it would be enough. Military-grade weapons against civilian hulls was no contest.
“Main batteries have a firing solution on the enemy ships, sir,” Diaz said. “All ships locked into combat sequence. Cygnus will be firing first, by a quarter-second, then Canopus, then us.”
“Very good,” Curtis said. “Make sure you have a defensive salvo ready, just in case.”
“All locked in, sir,” she replied with a beaming smile. Another ambitious officer, one with a realistic chance of getting a ship of her own in a few years. Had the fighting continued much longer, she'd have probably ended up with a command even sooner than that. Curtis had been the youngest commander in the Fleet at the outset of the Uprising, but that record had been shattered within months as the casualties mounted, officers who only knew peacetime conditions struggling to adapt to the harsher realities of war.
The moon seemed to rush towards them as Polaris led the way, alarms sounding as hull temperatures rose, skirting safe limits as it bit into the upper limits of the atmosphere, swooping into position to skip back into space, gaining speed and throwing the squadron onto a trajectory the enemy ships couldn't predict. They'd attempted to use this maneuver against them. Curtis was just stealing their idea, minutes earlier than they could manage.
“Got them, sir!” Cordova said, triumphantly. “Trajectory plot has an intercept course in fifty-five seconds. Firing in fifty.”
“All turrets ready, sir,” Diaz added. “All ships reporting that they have completed the maneuver and are prepared to engage at your command.”
“Fire at will,” Curtis said. “And get this right, Lieutenant. We're only going to have one chance to make this work. Take full advantage.”
“Sir?” Cordova said, breaking in. “One of our hackers has cracked into the enemy systems.”
“Good work, Lieutenant!” Rojek said. “That data could be invaluable.”
Cordova nodded for a second, listening to the voice chattering into his earpiece, then sprinted over to the far side of the command deck, racing towards Diaz, screaming, “Hold fire!”
“What?”
“Those aren't troop transports! They're carrying non-combatants out of the war zone. Women and children, Commander!”
“Twenty seconds to firing.”
“Our intelligence has soldiers on those ships, Lieutenant,” Rojek said. “I was personally briefed by Admiral Pryor. It must be some sort of trick.”
“Sir, we're getting camera pickups now,” Cordova said, diving to the nearest console and throwing them on the screen, flashing images of the interior of the ships onto the display. Bunks loaded with children, watching a monitor as their crew fought to save their lives. Fought to save their lives from his ships.
“Abort!” Curtis yelled. “Diaz, abort firing sequence! That's a direct order!”
“If this is a mistake, Commander,” Rojek said, menacingly, “they'll space you for this.”
Diaz turned to her console, her fingers stabbing controls, overriding the computer and disabling the turrets, silencing the primary armament of Polaris before she could open up. To her right, a technician struggled to open a channel to the other ships, spending the final seconds in a desperate bid to call off the other ships.
He reached Canopus with less than a second to spare, the cruiser veering off, unable to prevent her turrets from firing, instead spilling kinetic projectiles harmlessly into deep space. Cygnus was another story. Either Caldwell didn't hear them, or dreams of glory had prevented him from following the order. Her turrets fired on the pre-programmed sequence, hurling hundreds of projectiles into the fleeing transports.
“Impact in three seconds,” Diaz said, blankly.
Cordova tapped a control, sending the messages streaming into Polaris onto the ceiling speakers, a chorus of cries for help, rebel commanders knowing that they were doomed begging for a salvation they knew couldn't come. As the salvo from Cygnus hit home, tissues of flame raced across the sides of the ship. Diaz had been right, earlier. One ship was enough to bring them down, knocking out the engines of the three transports, sending them floating dead in space.
“Prepare rescue shuttles,” Curtis said, quietly.
“It's too late,” Cordova said, his voice empty of emotion, as though all of it had been spent in a desperate second. “They were too close to the moon. Within the gravity well. They'll be re-entering in less than four minutes. Our shuttles couldn't reach them in time.” The young officer slumped to the deck, looking up at Rojek with flaming eyes. “You knew.”
“No,” Rojek said. “No. No. No.” He turned to the console looking over the data from the hacking team himself, tears running down his face. “It can't be true. It can't be true.”
“They knew,” Lopez said. “They knew, all along. They must have done.”
“What have we done?” Diaz said, as the cries for help continued to echo across the command deck, the sensor display tracking the three transports as they slid helplessly into the atmosphere, three meteors that would briefly light up the sky of the lifeless world, a monument to the death of ten thousand innocent lives. “What have we done?”
“No, Lieutenant,” Curtis said, his eyes fixed on the nightmare unfolding before him. “I was in command. I gave the order. What have I done?”
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Secrets of the Sphere (Battlecruiser Alamo Book 27) Page 22
