Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)
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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX “Admiral,” the operator said, “the enemy fleet has detected us.” Zaskar ignored the cleric’s sharp intake of breath. He’d hoped to get into firing range without being detected, but he hadn’t counted on it. The Commonwealth’s sensors were just too good. And now the enemy fleet was bringing up its shields and slipping into combat formation. They were ready for him. Did they know we were coming, he asked himself, or were they just being paranoid? He pushed the thought aside and leaned forward. “Decloak the fleet,” he ordered, concentrating on projecting an impression of calm confidence. “Raise shields, bring up the tactical datanet and prepare to engage.” “Aye, sir,” the operator said. Zaskar nodded, studying the enemy fleet as it moved slowly into position. The first battle had proven costly, but the enemy clearly hadn’t suffered too badly. Their crews were trained to reestablish their datanets and realign their formations on the go without waiting for orders from high
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN “I feel naked,” Sergeant Bones commented. Pat nodded in grim agreement as marine platoons surveyed the farmhouse from the forest. They couldn’t bring their powered armor with them, not if they wanted to sneak up on the farmhouse without being detected. Instead, they’d donned camouflage rural combat uniforms, knowing the outfits wouldn’t provide nearly enough protection if they were caught in an ambush. Pat had plenty of experience fighting with and without the armor, but he felt naked too. The enemy could have prepared all sorts of surprises for anyone who stumbled across the farmhouse. But it didn’t look as though they had, he noted. His marine team didn’t have any active sensors, but passive sensors weren’t picking up anything more than a pair of heat sources in the lower bedroom. The farmhouse itself looked more like a vacation home than any of the farms he’d seen elsewhere, like the country resort Kat had once taken him to, instead of a place where people lived
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Kat rose to her feet, two weeks later, as the marines escorted the five Theocrats into the conference room. She saw their faces stiffen, just slightly, as they saw her, their eyes tracking across her chest before fixing firmly on her face. They didn’t seem to know where to look, she noted. She would have found their reactions amusing, she admitted to herself, if Pat had been there to share the joke. But he was gone. She still felt numb. “Be seated,” she ordered. She’d been tempted to have them stand, but that seemed mindlessly cruel. “Please.” She took a moment to survey them as they took their seats. Speaker Mosul, rescued from one of the Inquisition’s jails; Speaker Farah, the sole survivor of the post-coup Theocratic government; Lord Cleric Rather, the senior surviving cleric. And behind them, Admiral Junayd and Administrator Nestor. Between them, they made up the closest thing Ahura Mazda had to a provisional government, their authority recognized, perhaps relu
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE “Welcome home, Commodore,” the pilot said. Kat nodded, shortly. Her brother Peter had insisted on sending one of the family’s shuttles for her, rather than allowing her to use a military shuttle. She wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid or not, but the enemy cell that had killed her father remained undiscovered. Who knew where they’d strike next? The war might be over and the occupied worlds now liberated, yet Tyre had not yet relaxed. It would be a long time before the Commonwealth lowered its guard again. She rose and stepped out of the hatch. The scent of blossoming flowers greeted her, bringing back a wave of memories. She’d grown up on the estate, spending her days studying with her father’s tutors or running and climbing around the gardens. The treehouse she’d built years ago was long gone, but the treehouse her father’s staff had put together for the children was still visible, poking out of the trees. Her nieces and nephews were running around it, laughing a
CHAPTER FORTY Kat couldn’t help thinking, as the empty casket was placed into the ground by the marine honor guard, that Pat would not have appreciated the sheer number of reporters who’d turned up for his funeral, although he might have been amused by his former comrades flatly refusing to allow them into the cemetery. The hovering crowd of vultures was on the far side of a security fence, lying in wait for the handful of guests to leave. Someone, probably one of her uncles, had told them that Kat and Pat had been engaged before his death. The media had promptly turned the story into a love affair to rival Romeo and Juliet. Bastards, she thought. It isn’t as if we killed ourselves because we were too stupid to wait and see what happens. She pushed the thought aside as the ceremony finally came to an end. Pat’s will had specified a minimal service, with no more than a handful of his fellow marines and friends in attendance. His sole surviving relative, a sister, hadn’t been able to ret
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, Christopher G. Nuttall became an avid reader of science fiction, fantasy, and thrillers at an early age, checking Tom Clancy novels out of the library before his tenth birthday. Chris began a prolific writing career in 2005. As an indie author, he has published more than fifty novels through Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing, including the nine-volume Ark Royal series. He has also published twenty-nine novels with independent presses. These novels make up The Royal Sorceress series, the Bookworm series, and the eleven-volume Schooled in Magic series. Chris now lives in Edinburgh with Aisha, his partner, critic, and muse. Visit his blog at www.chrishanger.wordpress.com and his website at www.chrishanger.net.
Professionally Published Books by Christopher G. Nuttall
Angel in the Whirlwind
The Oncoming Storm
Falcone Strike
Cursed Command
ELSEWHEN PRESS
The Royal Sorceress
The Royal Sorceress (Book I)
The Great Game (Book II)
Necropolis (Book III)
Sons of Liberty (Book IV)
Bookworm
Bookworm
Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling
Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans
Bookworm IV: Full Circle
Inverse Shadows
Sufficiently Advanced Technology
Stand Alone
A Life Less Ordinary
The Mind’s Eye
TWILIGHT TIMES BOOKS
Schooled in Magic
Schooled in Magic (Book I)
Lessons in Etiquette (Book II)
Study in Slaughter (Book III)
Work Experience (Book IV)
The School of Hard Knocks (Book V)
Love’s Labor’s Won (Book VI)
Trial By Fire (Book VII)
Wedding Hells (Book VIII)
Infinite Regress (Book IX)
Past Tense (Book X)
The Sergeant’s Apprentice (Book XI)
The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire
Barbarians at the Gates (Book I)
The Shadow of Cincinnatus (Book II)
The Barbarian Bride (Book III)
HENCHMEN PRESS
First Strike
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781612185064
ISBN-10: 1612185061
Cover design by Ray Lundgren
Cover illustrated by Paul Youll
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
<
br /> CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
“I refuse to believe,” Lord Cleric Eliseus snarled, “that we are losing the war.”
Speaker Nehemiah kept his face carefully blank as the Lord Cleric ranted in front of the entire Speakers Council, the nine men who ruled the Theocracy, accusing an unfortunate intelligence officer of everything from making up figures to outright heresy and unbelief. The Lord Cleric didn’t want to accept what he was being told. None of them did. The thought of losing the war, the war which had begun with such promise eighteen months ago, was unthinkable. But they had to face it squarely.
“Enough,” Nehemiah said sharply.
Eliseus spun around to face him. “Speaker, do you believe that we are losing the war?”
Nehemiah looked back at the Lord Cleric evenly. Eliseus was a fanatic. There was no one more determined to uphold the Theocracy and the True Faith than himself. And Nehemiah would be the first to admit that fanatics had their uses. But when contemplating the cold hard numbers—and the possibility of losing the war—fanatics were nothing more than dangerous liabilities.
The Speaker ignored the question. “Continue,” he ordered the intelligence officer. “Summarize the data for us.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Commodore Durkheim said.
He swallowed hard and continued. “Over the last eighteen months, the Commonwealth has switched its economy onto a war footing and commenced mass production of warships, gunboats, freighters, and everything else necessary to sustain a war. Despite our best efforts, we have been unable to impede their production to any significant extent. In addition, they have recruited vast numbers of starship crews and soldiers from their subject worlds, ensuring that their manpower shortage is a thing of the past. We had hoped that integrating so many personnel from so many worlds would cause them problems, but they appear to have coped with them admirably.”
Nehemiah kept his face still even as he felt a flicker of discontent. The Commonwealth had been having problems as it struggled to integrate so many worlds into its political and economic union, but the war had pushed those problems aside. In hindsight, the Theocracy had made a mistake by moving to the occupied worlds as soon as possible. There might be strife between the Tyre-born and the colonials, but both sides knew that they had to work together or be destroyed. The Theocracy wouldn’t give them a peace they could live with, and they knew it.
“Our own economy is on the verge of imploding,” Durkheim continued. His voice was carefully flat. He did not look at the Speakers charged with overseeing the economy. “Our war production has shrunk remarkably in the last six months; production of everything from starships to missile warheads has declined sharply. Indeed, we only managed to launch four superdreadnoughts since the start of the war; the enemy, damn them to hell, has launched twenty. And, thanks to enemy raiding parties operating behind our lines, we have problems getting supplies to the war front. We simply cannot afford to keep losing freighters at this rate.”
“The crews are treacherous,” Speaker Adam snapped. “They cannot be trusted!”
“They’re unbelievers,” Nehemiah said. “What do you expect?”
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. The Theocracy had poured resources into its battle fleet, building up the largest military machine it could . . . but it had neglected the sinews of war. Supporting the vast fleet hadn’t been easy before the war; now, it was almost impossible. The Commonwealth’s tactic of raiding transport convoys was paying off for them. Either the Theocracy recalled ships from the front to escort convoys, thus weakening the defense lines, or the freighters were blown out of space. The Commonwealth won either way.
And hiring outsiders to transport our supplies has backfired, he thought. They start planning to leave as soon as they get a good look at our system.
Durkheim kept talking. “Our sources within the Commonwealth agree that the enemy intends to begin a major offensive within the next three months,” he said. “They will start by evicting us from the occupied worlds, followed by a thrust through the Gap and into Theocratic Space. I do not believe that they have grasped our current weakness, or just how far ahead of us they are, but they will find out when they begin their offensive. We are in no state to keep them from achieving their goals and stabbing deeper into our space.”
He paused. “The war will soon come to an end.”
“No,” Eliseus snapped. “Our men will fight . . .”
“And they will lose,” Durkheim said.
Nehemiah held up a hand before Eliseus could say a word. “Explain.”
Durkheim bowed his head. “Our forces are weakening fast,” he said. “We have significant shortages of everything from spare parts to missiles and other weapons systems. Worse, we have been unable to run basic maintenance cycles. As a result, too many of our remaining superdreadnoughts are not at full combat efficiency and won’t be without a long stay in the yards. There have been accidents—long strings of accidents—that have cost lives and destroyed morale. Our forces are brittle, Your Holiness. When the enemy attacks, and they will, our forces will break.”
“Impossible,” Eliseus snarled.
“The figures speak for themselves,” Durkheim said. He spoke like a man who had nothing left to lose. “We cannot counter hard numbers with faith.”
He leaned back slightly. “We could kill ten of theirs for every one of ours,” he added, “and we would still lose.”
“The Commonwealth is weak,” Eliseus said. He turned to Nehemiah. “They could not endure such losses.”
“Assuming we could inflict them,” Nehemiah said.
“We can,” Eliseus insisted.
Nehemiah ignored him. The war had been intended to be short and victorious. Instead, it was turning into a long war of attrition . . . a war they couldn’t hope to win. Already, rumors were spreading through the Theocracy, rumors that couldn’t be stopped no matter how many unbelievers were purged. The population outside was starting to doubt their leaders . . . and resent the demands placed on them by the war effort. And there were rumors of resistance cells on planets that had been quiet only two years ago.
And we can’t even send additional troops to reinforce the occupying forces, he thought. We don’t have the shipping to transport them any longer.
He closed his eyes for a long moment as the table started to babble. The fanatics, like Eliseus, would demand that the war be continued, despite the cost. Their faith in ultimate victory was unshakable. But others would be considering their own futures. They’d profited hugely through their positions, and they wouldn’t want to lose them.
Speaker Adam leaned forward. “Perhaps we should sue for peace.”
“Impossible,” Eliseus roared.
Nehemiah allowed the council to finish shouting its outrage, each man practically competing to denounce the idea as loudly as possible, then looked at Durkheim. “Can we sue for
peace?”
Durkheim grew even paler. “Your Holiness, they will not accept peace on any terms we would consider acceptable,” he warned. “They want to ensure that we will no longer be a threat to them.”
And we don’t have any leverage to convince them otherwise, Nehemiah thought. Or do we?
He thought rapidly as the table erupted once again. Now that the suggestion had been made . . . it could not be withdrawn. The thought of ending the war on any terms other than total victory was unthinkable—no, it had been unthinkable. Now . . . Nehemiah would be happy to end the wretched war and return to the status quo ante bellum, but the Commonwealth would not. And why should it? The Commonwealth was on the verge of winning the war.
Unless we can force them to pay a high price for victory, he told himself. The idea was gelling in his mind. It was a gamble, but they had nothing to lose. Besides, God was on their side. And if the price is too high, they might accept a compromise peace.
He cleared his throat, bringing the argument to an end. “We have to convince them to agree to a truce,” he said. The members of the council would listen to him, in the end, because they were desperate. The war had to be ended on acceptable terms. “This is what we’re going to do.”
CHAPTER ONE
“Transit complete, Captain,” Lieutenant Matthew Gross said. “We have entered the system.”
“No enemy contacts detected,” Lieutenant Commander Cecelia Parkinson added, studying her console carefully. “I’m not detecting any starships within sensor range.”
Captain Sir William McElney sucked in his breath. HMS Thunderchild had slipped out of hyperspace on the very edge of the system, where there was no reason to expect to encounter enemy warships on patrol, but it was just possible that the Theocrats might have installed extensive deep-space monitoring arrays. They were immensely expensive, even by the Commonwealth’s standards, yet the Theocracy needed them. Hebrides was right in the middle of the war front.