Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  They made an odd couple, she had to admit. There was definitely something rough about Pat—Kat’s sister had called him ugly, back when she’d been trying to set Kat up with someone more aristocratic—but she didn’t care about his appearance. She, on the other hand, was tall and thin, almost willowy. Her long blonde hair hung down until it stroked the top of her breasts. And yet she was damned if she was letting him go. She’d learned enough about politics, ever since becoming a teenager, to know that a true friend and lover was worth his weight in gold.

  Which isn’t that much these days, she thought wryly. Asteroid miners produce thousands of tons of gold every month.

  She reached for her terminal and checked for updates. Task Force Hebrides was still holding station in hyperspace, two light-years from its destination. There wasn’t much risk of being detected, but she’d been careful to keep the squadron off the shipping lanes as much as possible. The last report had stated that at least one squadron of enemy superdreadnoughts was orbiting Hebrides, utterly unaware she was coming. And she didn’t want them to know she was coming until she actually arrived. After spending so long matching herself against superior enemy firepower, having the decisive advantage herself would be a breath of fresh air.

  And besides, she told herself, destroying an entire squadron of superdreadnoughts is a worthwhile goal in itself.

  Pat stirred, his eyes opening sharply. “What time is it?”

  Kat made a show of glancing at the terminal. “You were meant to be in Marine Country two hours ago,” she said in a deadpan. “And there have been no less than five official complaints filed already.”

  “I hope not,” Pat said. He elbowed her as he saw the terminal. “I’ve still got an hour.”

  “Yeah,” Kat said. She let out a long breath. “Thunderchild hasn’t returned.”

  Pat sat upright and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Sir William is a good man,” he said. “And he has strict orders to avoid all enemy contact. He’ll be back.”

  Kat snorted. Only an idiot, or a politician, would imagine that Thunderchild could carry out her mission without any prospect of being detected. She had to slip right up to the planet, for crying out loud! Thunderchild was a good ship, far better than Uncanny, but her cloaking systems would have problems compensating for the moment she deployed her recon platforms. William might have real problems escaping the system without engaging the enemy, if they caught a whiff of his presence.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. “I’m going for a shower,” she said. “Ask Lucy to send in some coffee, would you?”

  Pat nodded. “And breakfast?”

  Kat smiled wanly as she strode across the compartment and into the shower. Being a flag officer in the navy was like staying at an expensive hotel with a giant bed, immense washroom, and room service. But no one staying at a hotel had the same responsibilities as a flag officer on active duty. She might no longer be in command of her own ship—she’d had to resist the temptation to peer over Captain Fran Higgins’s shoulder—but she was responsible for the entire task force. Fifty-seven ships, eighteen of them superdreadnoughts . . . she was responsible for them all.

  And yet, she would never know them. They would never be truly hers.

  She turned on the water and sighed in relief as it ran down her body. It was hard not to worry about Thunderchild, let alone the other ships and crew under her command. Her promotion hadn’t been a surprise, but she would have refused it if that had been an option. She cared too much about her ships and crew, she knew. She’d handled squadron command before, yet this was different. A single superdreadnought would take over a thousand spacers with it if it were blown out of space by enemy fire.

  The captains have their job, she told herself firmly. And I have mine.

  She finished washing herself and turned off the water, feeling oddly guilty for using so much. The water was recycled, naturally, but none of the lower decks had the time to just luxuriate under the flow. They’d already be heading to their duty stations as the shift changed, after catching enough sleep, she hoped, so that they’d be in tip-top condition for the coming battle. She couldn’t have tired men and women manning her ships. Exhaustion had killed more spacers than anything else outside an actual engagement.

  “Coffee on the table,” Pat said. “And a full breakfast, which you are going to eat.”

  “Yes, mother,” Kat said, dryly. She’d never found it easy to eat before a battle, although the genetic improvements spliced into her DNA ensured that she didn’t put her ship at risk through starvation. “I’ll see how much of it I can choke down.”

  “Try choking down marine rations,” Pat said as he climbed out of bed. “If you can stomach those, you can stomach anything.”

  Kat stuck out her tongue childishly. “I thought that was why you had your stomach modified?”

  “It was,” Pat said.

  He turned and walked into the shower. Kat watched his nude body for a long moment, wondering if this was what it was like to be married. To be with someone, to relax with someone . . . her parents had been married for over sixty years, but she knew they didn’t always spend time together. But then, family politics would never let them divorce, even if they had grown to hate one another.

  But they still seem to like one another, she thought as she sipped her coffee. How do they do it?

  Lucy Yangtze, her steward, had outdone herself, Kat decided as she tucked into the scrambled eggs and bacon. The food was the same reconstituted crap everyone else ate, but that of flag officers got special flavorings to make it almost completely indistinguishable from the real thing. Or so Kat had been told. She might have grown up among the aristocracy, yet she’d never developed the gourmand tastes of some of her relatives. Their lives were meaningless. They’d never accomplished anything on their own, ever. And they knew it.

  She glanced up as Pat stepped back into the compartment, a towel wrapped around his waist, then nodded to the covered plate on the table. Pat sat down and began to eat, wolfing down the food in a manner Kat knew would earn the highest levels of scorn and disdain in aristocratic society. She didn’t care much for fine dining, but at least she knew how to comport herself at table. Yet she didn’t blame Pat. He’d been taught, time and time again, better to eat quickly, whenever one had a moment, rather than risk being caught by surprise. The thought of a platoon of marines having a formal dinner under enemy fire . . .

  Pat glanced at her. “What’s so funny?”

  “A random thought,” Kat lied. “I . . .”

  The intercom bleeped. “Commodore, this is Gaston in Tracking,” a male voice said. “HMS Thunderchild has returned to the fleet. She’s copying her files over now.”

  “Understood,” Kat said. “Inform the commanding officers that I am calling a general meeting in”—she glanced at the chronometer—“twenty minutes. They are to attend via hologram.”

  “Aye, Commodore,” Gaston said.

  Kat closed the connection, feeling a surge of warm relief. Thunderchild had returned! She hadn’t run into trouble or been blown out of space. But now it was time to go to war. Kat took one last swig of coffee, rose, and hastily started to dress. The meeting might be holographic, but they’d be heading straight for Hebrides in less than an hour. She doubted she’d have time to go back to her cabin and change.

  “Here we go, then,” Pat said. He rose and dressed with lightning speed. “Do you want me to attend in person?”

  “If you would,” Kat said. “Or do you have to go back to Marine Country?”

  “Not yet,” Pat said. “I’ll have to give them the final briefing after we download the recordings from Thunderchild.”

  They shared a grin, and then Kat turned and led the way out of her cabin, down towards the flag bridge. Stepping into the compartment felt odd after spending so long in command of her own ship, but she knew she’d probably never command her own ship again. Shaking her head, she took one look at the tactical display as she walked
by and into the conference room. A handful of ghostly holographic images were already present, waiting for her. More were blinking in all the time.

  She took her seat and smiled. She’d known admirals who’d insisted on everyone attending in person, something that caused all sorts of delays and irritations for their subordinates. She could see the value, she supposed, but it was a pain in the ass when time was pressing. There was no way to be entirely sure Thunderchild had escaped without detection, and even if she had, the enemy ships might change their positions anyway. It was what Kat would do if she’d been charged with defending a useless planet.

  But I wouldn’t try to defend the planet in the first place, she thought. It contributes nothing to the war effort.

  “Gentlemen, be seated,” she said, once the last of the holographic images had flickered into existence. “Sir William?”

  William’s image took a step forward. “Commodore,” he said. A tactical display blinked up, hovering over the conference table. “As you can see, the enemy fleet is numerically strong, but there are excellent reasons to believe that their ships are not in good condition.”

  “They look like Uncanny,” Captain Hemlock Jones said.

  “Worse,” William said. “We suspect that two of the superdreadnoughts cannot move under their own power.”

  Kat studied the display for a long moment, flicking through the more detailed reports William’s staff had put together. Finding a second superdreadnought squadron orbiting Hebrides was a nasty surprise, but if the analysts were right, Kat still had a crushing advantage even without the new weapons. Indeed, there was no logical reason to keep the superdreadnoughts at Hebrides unless the enemy couldn’t put them to use elsewhere. She would have expected them to be pointed straight at the nearest Commonwealth world.

  Because tactical retreats don’t seem to be included in their tactical manuals, she thought wryly. All they want to do is attack, attack, attack.

  “They look like easy targets,” Captain Smith said. “Is it a trap?”

  “If so, it’s a very odd one,” William said. “We detected no hints that there were any other ships in the system, save for the ones on the display.”

  Kat knew better than to take that for granted. Space was vast. Every starship in the entire galaxy could be hidden within a single star system, as long as elementary precautions were taken. But William was right. It was a very odd trap. If nothing else, she could be relatively sure of getting her ships back out of the system if indeed three or four more superdreadnought squadrons were lurking in the interplanetary void.

  “The presence of a second enemy squadron changes nothing,” she said when William had finished giving the briefing. “We will proceed as planned.”

  She waited for an objection but heard none. Her officers wanted to go on the offensive; they wanted to give the Theocracy a bloody nose. They were sworn to defend the Commonwealth, but they had failed to keep the Theocracy from occupying the system and landing a colossal force on Hebrides. And besides, they knew they had a decisive advantage over their foes. Even if the new weapons failed, they still had plenty of other tricks up their sleeves.

  “We will engage the enemy ships as quickly as possible,” Kat continued. “We don’t want them trying to escape into hyperspace.”

  “Fat chance,” Captain Jones muttered.

  Kat was inclined to agree. The Theocracy rarely ran, even when the odds were stacked against them. And they might assume that two squadrons of superdreadnoughts had a reasonable chance of inflicting serious harm on another two squadrons of superdreadnoughts, even if some of their ships were in poor condition. But Kat knew that didn’t matter. There were so many new warships coming off the slips now that she could lose her entire fleet without inflicting any harm on the enemy . . . and it wouldn’t matter. The balance of power would remain firmly on the Commonwealth’s side.

  Unless they come up with a new weapons system of their own, she thought. But that isn’t likely either.

  “Once we have secured the high orbitals, we will commence bombardment of enemy positions while landing the marines,” she said. “If the enemy attempts to surrender, we will of course accept it, but we cannot assume that they will surrender. The marines will land around Lothian and ready themselves for an advance on the PDCs. Hopefully, we will link up with resistance forces on the ground during the advance.”

  They weren’t a very specific set of instructions, but she knew better than to micromanage her subordinates. There was no way to know what would happen on the ground, at least until the marines landed. Pat would be in command. He knew his objective; Kat might have issued the orders, but he would be the one to determine how the mission would be carried out. There was no way Kat could hope to steer events from orbit.

  “Assuming the enemy does surrender, we will make certain to separate them from the civilian population as quickly as possible,” she added. “Enlisted men will be separated from officers, the latter transported to orbit for interrogation before they are sent to a holding camp. Those charged with war crimes will be put on trial after the war is over. The remainder . . . we’ll have to see what happens, after the war.”

  She shook her head bitterly. Too many atrocities had been committed over the last two years for anyone to be enthusiastic about treating prisoners gently. She knew, all too well, that some politicians had even proposed simply executing every POW without bothering with the formality of a trial. And her own darker side found it tempting. What was the point of being the good guys, of trying to treat prisoners well, when one’s own personnel were treated barbarically? Wasn’t retaliation enshrined in the laws of war?

  But that assumes that the other side gives a damn, she thought. The Theocrats wouldn’t care if we tortured their captured personnel until they were in permanent agony.

  “We move out in thirty minutes,” she concluded. Thankfully, her ships and crews were ready to move with ten minutes’ notice. “And we’ll give the enemy hell.”

  A low rumble of agreement ran around the chamber. The Commonwealth had been on the offensive before, raiding deep into enemy space, but this was different; the first thrust aimed at liberating an enemy-held world. And it would be the first of many. Kat had seen the plans drawn up back on Tyre. The Theocracy would be smothered ruthlessly, crushed under the colossal weight of Commonwealth war production. The fight wouldn’t be fair, but she couldn’t even begin to feel sorry for the bastards.

  “Good luck to us all,” she said. “Dismissed.”

  The holographic images winked out, leaving her alone with Pat. She glanced at him, then looked back at the display. Hebrides hung in front of her, surrounded by twenty-five red icons. Perhaps it was her imagination, but they seemed to be glaring angrily at her. They knew she was coming for them.

  “Try and protect the civilians,” she said without looking at him. “Please.”

  “I wish that were possible,” Pat said. “But they put most of their bases close to civilian population centers.”

  Kat gritted her teeth. The Theocracy had killed thousands of civilians, and she was about to kill thousands more. But Kat had no choice. The enemy could not be allowed time to go underground. The Commonwealth would need years to root them all out, even with the locals helping. She didn’t have the time.

  “Good luck,” she said. She turned and gave him a tight hug. “Come back to me, all right?”

  “I will,” Pat promised.

  He kissed her once, then turned and strode out of the compartment. Kat looked back at the display, silently considering the more detailed reports. The enemy ships did seem to be in very poor condition. But Uncanny had seemed in poor condition too.

  But they’ll want to intimidate us, she thought coldly. Looking like wounded gazelles will merely invite attack.

  She dismissed the thought as she turned and headed for the hatch. It no longer mattered. She’d find out the truth, sooner or later. But now . . . ?

  Now was the time to make war.

  CHAPTER
THREE

  “I have the latest reports from Saladin,” Commander Farad said. He held out a datapad, the report glowing on the screen. “Her commander insists the ship can handle her duties.”

  Admiral Ashram took the datapad, struggling to hide his displeasure. He’d grown to hate Hebrides over the last two months, ever since he’d been assigned to replace the previous officer. That worthy had been brutally murdered in a local brothel, the whore who’d killed him vanishing into the underground before the Inquisitors could catch up with her. Ashram had no idea how the underground had even managed to slip someone into the brothel, but he had to admit the unbelievers were very good at exploiting the Theocracy’s weaknesses.

  “Let me see,” he said. “Does he really feel he can take his ship into combat?”

  He groaned under his breath as he scanned the report. The superdreadnought had lost two of her four fusion cores, ensuring she could barely limp back to the shipyard. There was no way she could take on an enemy ship, even something as puny as a light cruiser, with a reasonable hope of victory. In a sane universe, she would be dispatched back to the yards for a total refit, along with a third of his other ships. But the Theocracy didn’t have time. He’d been asking, begging, for permission to take some of his ships out of the line of battle, yet he’d always been refused. The demands of the war came first.

  We’re on the war front, he thought, turning his gaze to the greenish orb floating in the main display. And we’re nowhere near ready to fight.

  He glowered at the orb, feeling a surge of naked hatred. Hebrides was tough, tougher than any other world the Theocracy had overrun. Its population was stubborn as hell, resisting his forces when and wherever they could. Even in the more civilized places, the handful of cities, the unbelievers were just waiting for a chance to harm his men. And all of the usual means of social control had failed. There wasn’t a boy or girl on the planet who didn’t know how to forage for food, even if the farms were occupied or destroyed; outside the cities, controlling the countryside was a nightmare. The occupation forces were fighting with holy zeal and barely holding their own. They would lose, and lose fast, if they couldn’t call on his ships for support.