Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Take us into cloak,” he ordered quietly. The tactical display updated again. A handful of freighters were making their way to and from the system’s largest gas giant, but otherwise the system appeared to be empty. He knew it was an illusion. “And then set course for Hebrides.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Gross said. “Course laid in.”

  “Take us there,” William ordered.

  He leaned back in his command chair as the starship picked up speed. Hebrides had never had the industrial base of Tyre. His homeworld had been a stage-two colony before the Breakaway Wars, but his people were industrious. The loans and equipment the Commonwealth had offered them, during the first few years of membership, had been used to establish a whole network of mining stations and industrial nodes. They’d even produced a second cloudscoop to match the one the Commonwealth had installed years ago. But now the system was as cold and still as the grave. The installations his people had produced were gone.

  They wouldn’t have let them fall into enemy hands, he thought. The battle for Hebrides had been savage, but the outcome had been preordained from the start. They’d have destroyed everything that couldn’t be removed before it was too late.

  He couldn’t help feeling a wave of nostalgia mixed with an odd sense that he no longer fit in on his homeworld. Decades had passed since he’d left, decades since he’d joined the Royal Navy . . . he’d thought about retiring and going home but never very seriously. Only a handful of his family remained alive on the barren rock—his only surviving brother, Scott, had left too—and he hadn’t been very close to any of them. He’d hated the planet’s leaders with a passion . . .

  . . . but they didn’t deserve to be occupied by the Theocracy.

  No one does, he thought. The bastards couldn’t even bother to wait for the end of the war before they started converting the population.

  He shuddered at the thought. He’d seen the recordings from Hebrides, from Cadiz, from a dozen other unfortunate worlds that had been occupied by the Theocracy. And he’d listened as countless refugees told their stories, warning the Commonwealth’s population of the fate that was in store for them if they lost the war. The entire planetary government would be slaughtered, along with all military and religious personnel; men would be expected to learn to pray, women would be forced to remain in their homes, children would be educated in Theocratic schools . . . even if Hebrides was liberated tomorrow, William thought, the damage to her society would take generations to fix.

  But my people are tough, he thought. They will resist.

  The Office of Naval Intelligence insisted that Hebrides was still resisting the Theocracy. And, while William had learned to take ONI’s pronouncements with a grain of salt, he had to admit that Hebrides was definitely well prepared for a long-term insurrection. The population was composed of stubborn men and women, most of whom had weapons and knew how to use them. And while other planets might be cowed by the threat of orbital bombardment, Hebrides had few population centers that could be threatened. There would be a planet-wide resistance, William was sure, but such a movement couldn’t hope to do more than sting the Theocracy without outside help.

  Which is why we’re here, he reminded himself. It’s time to drive the bastards out of the system, once and for all.

  He couldn’t help feeling a surge of very mixed emotions. He knew the Commonwealth had needed time to build up its navy, he knew the Commonwealth needed to protect the stage-four and stage-five worlds ahead of the others . . . but he still couldn’t help feeling as though his adopted government had left Hebrides to suffer. Hebrides had nothing, save for location, and realistically, it didn’t have enough of a location to make up for its other defects. Liberating his homeworld had always been a very low priority.

  But we’re coming now, he thought.

  The hours ticked by slowly as Thunderchild slipped towards the planet. William cursed under his breath as new icons flickered to life on the display: two enemy superdreadnought squadrons, holding station in high orbit. They didn’t seem to have many flankers, he noted; there were only five destroyers and two ships that resembled converted freighters. But then, the Theocracy was running short of escorts. They probably hoped the superdreadnoughts could take care of themselves.

  Which is careless, William thought. Every missile taken out by a flanker is one that won’t threaten the superdreadnought itself.

  He rose and paced over to the tactical console. “Analysis?”

  “They’re not in good shape, Captain,” Cecelia said. She tapped an enemy icon on the display. “They’re running constant near-orbit scans, but their sensor emissions look a little ragged; I’d say they’re trying to keep their system constantly ramped up and some of their components are burning out. And this ship”—she pointed to a second icon—“has some very odd fluctuations in her drive fields. I’d bet good money that she’s lost at least one, perhaps two, of her nodes.”

  “No bet,” William said. “And the freighters?”

  “They’ve got mil-grade drives,” Cecelia said. She sniffed rudely. “It’s impossible to be sure, Captain, but I think there’s a very real risk they’d rip themselves apart if they brought their drives up to full power.”

  William wasn’t so sure. The Theocracy’s starship designers were inferior to the Commonwealth’s, but they weren’t stupid. They wouldn’t have put such a drive in a freighter unless they were sure she could handle it. And that meant . . .

  He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “What do you think they are?”

  “I’d guess they were Q-Ships,” Cecelia said after a moment. She looked up at him thoughtfully. “But they’re a bit obvious for Q-Ships. They might be gunboat carriers.”

  “Perhaps,” William said. He’d bet on the latter. Unless the Theocracy was trying to intimidate potential raiders . . . but really, the raiding parties that had been sent into enemy space wouldn’t be particularly intimidated. Capturing enemy freighters was all very well and good, yet the Commonwealth’s objectives would be served just as well by blowing the suspect vessel out of space from a safe distance. “Keep a sharp eye on them.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said. She smiled thinly. “My overall analysis is that both squadrons are in trouble,” she added. “I think they really need a few months in the yard.”

  William nodded. As a general rule, a starship, particularly anything as big as a superdreadnought, required at least three months in the yard per year. Even in the Commonwealth, where engineering crews knew what they were doing and why they were doing it, the ships needed to spend time in the yards. But the Theocracy was running its fleet ragged. William had a feeling that his opposite numbers aboard the enemy ships were just waiting, biting their nails, to see what failed next.

  And to think I thought Uncanny was bad, he thought. These ships are in worse condition.

  “See if you can pick out any specific weaknesses,” he ordered. “If you can, add them to the tactical matrix.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said.

  William felt a flicker of pride as he turned and walked back to his chair. He’d never been a father, but he couldn’t help feeling a certain paternalistic pride in the officer Cecelia had become. The young midshipwoman he’d met on Lightning had turned into a confident, capable woman who would probably be on the shortlist for a command of her own after she served a term as Executive Officer. And she’d probably do a good job of being an XO too.

  He sat down and studied the report from the analysis department. The team largely agreed with Cecelia’s conclusions, although there were a few refinements. The enemy ships seemed to be permanently on combat alert, even though the Commonwealth hadn’t raided the system in months. William had no idea if the enemy was being paranoid or merely trying to make a good show, but he knew pushing themselves too hard couldn’t be good for their equipment . . . or their crew. No crew could remain on alert indefinitely. By now, the poor bastards would be worn down so badly they’d probably be falling asleep at their stat
ions.

  And getting flogged when they’re caught, he thought. He’d heard enough about what passed for discipline in the Theocratic Navy to be very glad he didn’t serve in it. The poor bastards are treated like shit by absolutely everyone.

  “Captain,” Cecelia said. “I have an update on the planet itself.”

  “Show me,” William said.

  He felt an odd pang as a holographic image of the planet appeared in front of him. Hebrides was a greenish orb. Unusual for a life-bearing world, most of her surface area was land rather than sea, patches of greenery broken by towering mountains that reached up towards the skies. He remembered climbing some of them as a child, back before the pirates had started to raid his homeworld. Even now, there were mountains that had never been successfully climbed by anyone. But they’d claimed dozens of lives as people tried . . .

  “A number of settlements have been destroyed,” Cecelia said. “And the enemy appears to have installed a couple of Planetary Defense Centers near Lothian.”

  “That’s bad,” William said. Two PDCs couldn’t hope to defend the planet alone, not without the fleet, but they could make life difficult for the landing force. “Can you determine their current status?”

  “No, Captain,” Cecelia said. “They’re not emitting any sensor radiation.”

  William shook his head. Task Force Hebrides had more than enough firepower—and marines—to deal with two PDCs, even if the defense centers did put up a fight. The real danger lay in the enemy superdreadnoughts, but they would still be massively outgunned. In their place, William would retreat the moment Task Force Hebrides showed itself. Nothing was gained by sacrificing two squadrons of superdreadnoughts in a futile attempt to keep a useless world. Hell, he wasn’t sure why the Theocracy hadn’t cut its losses years ago. Hebrides wasn’t going to pose a threat to its rear.

  He leaned back in his chair. If there were any other enemy ships or installations within the system, they were very well hidden. But they were also irrelevant. Hebrides was the sole prize . . . and besides, the opportunity to crush two squadrons of superdreadnoughts was not one to miss. Task Force Hebrides had more than enough firepower to smash them.

  “Helm, take us to the first waypoint,” he ordered. “Tactical, start preparing to deploy the first set of sensor platforms.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Gross said. A low quiver ran through the light cruiser as she altered course. “ETA seven minutes.”

  William kept a sharp eye on the display. The recon platforms were heavily stealthed—he knew from experience that they were almost impossible to detect, even at point-blank range—but Thunderchild would never be more vulnerable than when she was deploying the platforms. A vigilant sensor officer might just pick up something that would alert him to Thunderchild’s presence, and, if his commanding officer took him seriously, he might dispatch a couple of destroyers to sweep local space. William had no doubt he could avoid contact long enough to make a clean getaway, but the enemy would be alerted. They’d know the Commonwealth was planning an offensive.

  And they might have a chance to capture one of the platforms too, he thought sourly. That would get us all in deep shit.

  His face darkened at the thought. The Theocracy was unlikely to be able to reverse engineer anything they captured, at least quickly enough to matter, but there were other multistar political entities out there. ONI had warned, in considerable detail, that certain powers were negotiating with the Theocracy, trading weapons and supplies for samples of Commonwealth technology. William wasn’t sure just how seriously to take the reports, but he had to admit they were a valid concern. The Commonwealth-Theocracy War was the first true interstellar war fought between peer powers. Every naval force worthy of the name would be frantically studying the conflict and trying to determine what lessons could be learned from it before they too had to go to war.

  Starting with not allowing a complete idiot to take command of a major fleet base, William thought, feeling a flicker of cold amusement. If Admiral Morrison had done his fucking job . . .

  “Captain,” Gross said. “We have reached the first waypoint.”

  “Very good,” William said. The enemy squadrons didn’t look to be any more alert, but it was impossible to be sure. He wondered if the enemy ships would decay into complete uselessness if left alone. “Deploy the recon platform.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said.

  William tensed. He would have preferred to deploy the platform much farther away from Hebrides, but his briefing clearly stated that they needed the platform as close to the planet as possible. It wasn’t just a recon platform, not really. Many of the details were classified well above his pay grade, but he’d picked up enough hints to know that the platforms connected to a whole new weapons system. And if it worked . . .

  Another good reason to test the system here, he thought. No one will notice if the system fails.

  “Platform deployed,” Cecelia said. “No sign of enemy reaction.”

  William wasn’t reassured. In his experience, a crew needed time to convince a commanding officer to investigate a potential disturbance . . . longer if the commanding officer needed to speak to his commanding officers. And if the enemy commander decided to play it smart, he might be careful not to do anything to warn William while the enemy ships readied themselves for action. But there was no time to wait and see what the enemy did.

  “Establish the laser link, and then move us to the second waypoint,” he ordered. “Do not lose contact with the platform.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Gross said.

  William had to smile at the flicker of indignation in Gross’s voice. He was a very good helmsman. But then, stealthed platforms had been lost before, and while there was an omnidirectional radio beacon mounted on the platform, triggering the beacon would alert the enemy to Thunderchild’s presence. The platform would have to be destroyed instead of recovered.

  “Laser link firmly in place, Captain,” Cecelia reported.

  “Reaching second waypoint,” Gross added.

  “Deploy the second platform,” William ordered.

  He kept a wary eye on the enemy ships as Thunderchild deployed the remaining platforms, one by one, but the enemy showed no hint that they were aware of his ship’s presence. They didn’t even seem to be exercising, although that proved nothing. The vast majority of shipboard functions could be practiced through simulations, even though there was no true substitute for a live-fire exercise. But if half his suspicions were accurate, the Theocratic ships were in no state for anything. A live-fire exercise might end in tragedy.

  Just like it nearly had for Uncanny, he mused. The thought of his first command caused him a pang, even though the heavy cruiser had died well. And they don’t have the ships or men to spare.

  “Captain!” Cecelia snapped. “One of the superdreadnoughts just fired on the planet.”

  William swung around to stare at her. “At what?”

  “A town, five hundred kilometers from Lothian,” Cecelia said. Her voice was tightly controlled. “They dropped at least seven KEWs, midsized weapons.”

  Bastards, William thought. Seven kinetic energy weapons would be more than enough to utterly devastate the town. If anything, such a move was massive overkill. What are they doing down there?

  He had a feeling he knew the answer. The Theocracy’s theology insisted that anyone who resisted, anyone who did not cheerfully accept the True Faith as soon as they heard it, was nothing more than a devil-spawned heretic. Unbelievers weren’t just wrong, they were willfully wrong. William didn’t care to follow the logic—or the complete lack of it—but he didn’t need to follow it to know where it led. Anyone the Theocracy classed as a heretic could be enslaved or killed at will.

  And there will be an awful lot of heretics on my homeworld, he thought. We don’t give in that easily.

  The assault looked bloodless on the display, falling icons touching the planet and flickering out of existence. But he knew what it was like to be under
enemy weapons when they struck the surface. The entire town would have been smashed flat, anyone unlucky enough to be inside was killed before they realized that they were under attack. And enemy kill-teams would follow up, sweeping the surrounding area to catch anyone who might have managed to escape. He knew, all too well, what they would do to anyone caught. Or, for that matter, anyone unlucky enough to live too close to the blast zone.

  We’re coming, he promised the planet silently. You will be free soon.

  “Take us back into deep space,” he ordered. There was nothing they could do now, but once they linked up with the remainder of the task force . . . the Theocracy was in for a nasty shock. “We’ll slip back into hyperspace once we’ve crossed the system limits.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Gross said.

  Ten hours later, HMS Thunderchild departed the system as stealthily as she’d arrived.

  CHAPTER TWO

  If there was one advantage of being promoted to commodore, Kat Falcone considered, it was that she had a truly palatial suite onboard HMS Queen Elizabeth. Her compartment on the superdreadnought was still smaller than her rooms in the family mansion—and she couldn’t help feeling as though she was rattling around like a pea in a pod—but there was plenty of room for two people. And hardly anyone cared if the task force’s commander was sharing a bed with her Marine CO.

  She sat upright in bed, turning her head to look down at Patrick Davidson. It was rare, very rare, for her to wake without disturbing him, but he barely even stirred as she moved. She smiled as she studied him, fixing his features in her mind. Dark hair cut close to the skull, a shaved face, muscular body . . . before Pat, she’d never met anyone who made her feel safe. But then, she hadn’t been looking.