Helfort's War Book III Page 11

  “Command, Warfare. Firing rail guns.” Tufayl trembled when her forward batteries sent a full salvo of slugs on its way, timed to arrive on target seconds before the missile salvo hit home.

  “Warfare, time to go.”

  “Stand by. Confirming ship’s mass distribution.”

  Michael nodded. If the navigation AI jumped the ship without an accurate estimate of the mass blasted off by Hammer rail-guns, the Tufayl might well end up anywhere in deepspace, including—though the odds were not high—inside something hard and unforgiving, such as an asteroid. He forced himself to sit still and watch Tufayl’s missile and rail-gun attack, backed up by the full weight of her forward laser batteries, fall on the heavily armored space battle station. He nodded his approval. It was a textbook attack, timed to the split second, accurate to a few meters, and focused on the station’s most vulnerable point: the huge air lock doors accessing the hangars where the station stowed its air wing.

  The strike dissolved into confusion. Too late, the remaining Hammer ships and the station shifted their focus from the dreadnought, concentrating their defense on hacking Tufayl’s missiles and rail-gun slugs out of space, their successes marked by vicious flares of wasted energy. Too few; their efforts were in vain. Michael stared at the holovid as the attack broke through the Hammer defenses. Rail-gun slugs and missiles slammed home, the battle station disappearing behind great sheets of incandescent armor blown off into space. He held his breath, cursing out loud when the station reappeared. Though its outer air lock door had been blown open, the hangar inside a blackened ruin, it seemed undamaged.

  “Command. Mass distribution model is confirmed. Request approval to jump.”

  Reluctantly, Michael dragged his attention back to the problem of getting Tufayl home safely, never an easy task. Tufayl was jumping from inside Faith’s gravity well; it was not far enough to risk the ship but far enough to make getting back to Comdur a challenging exercise in navigation. And if that was not bad enough, the ship was traveling faster than the optimum for an accurate pinchspace jump.

  Quickly, Michael confirmed that the ship was ready. He said a quick prayer that they would not end up in the heart of a wandering asteroid and gave the order.

  Tufayl jumped, the briefest of brief flashes of ultraviolet marking her leap into pinchspace.

  Only moments after Tufayl departed Faith nearspace, a small red flare flickered out of the battle station’s hangar air lock. In seconds, the flare grew into a raging jet, driving out into space and broadening out as it gathered power, red rapidly bleaching into white. The station shuddered, its millions of tons of mass shifted bodily planetward by the force of an explosion that spewed debris in an ugly red and black cloud. A second and a third explosion followed, their vectors perfectly aligned to push the station into a ponderous death roll out of orbit and down to the planet’s surface far below.

  In Faith farspace, Fed reconsats recorded the death of the Hammer battle station, the holovid transmitted by tightbeam laser through a network of relaysats to the mass tanker waiting patiently in deepspace for Tufayl’s arrival.

  Michael allowed himself to relax only when the navigation AI—after an agonizingly long wait—finally decided where the Tufayl had ended up after its desperate microjump out of Faith’s gravity well.

  “Command, navigation.”

  “Command.”

  “Ship’s position confirmed. On the screen.”

  Michael studied it carefully before nodding his approval, relieved that Tufayl would not be forced to send out a pinchcomm signal asking for help. The public admission that a ship’s navigation had not lived up to Fleet’s unforgiving standards was always an embarrassing business. No, Tufayl’s navigation AI had done well: Under the circumstances, it was not the best bit of space navigation, nor was it the worst. They had ended up a long way from where they were supposed to be, but they had enough mass for the ship to adjust vector before microjumping back to rendezvous with their mass tanker. Ordering the navigation AI to set vector, he handed the ship over to Ferreira with orders to stand down from general quarters and climbed wearily out of his seat.

  He steeled himself for the coming confrontation. He was out of time; it was necessary to deal with the problem of Rear Admiral Perkins. He made his way aft to where Bienefelt and Perkins sat.

  “Thank you, ’Swain. You can carry on.”

  “Sir!”

  Michael waited until Bienefelt left before addressing Perkins; the man had not said a word throughout the attack.

  “Sir,” he said, “Once you’re out of your suit, I think it best if we continue in my cabin.”

  Without a word, Perkins climbed out of his seat. He brushed past Michael and left the combat information center. Michael watched him go. A petulant flag officer was not what he needed. He was exhausted; the adrenaline-fueled high of combat was seeping slowly away, leaving him feeling flat and wrung out.

  “I’ll be in my cabin, Jayla.”

  “Sir,” Ferreira said.

  Michael did not have to wait long. He had just enough time to shower and change into a fresh shipsuit before Perkins walked into his day cabin, unannounced. Without a word, he sat down in one of the armchairs. Michael took a seat opposite him.

  “Something to drink, sir?”

  Perkins refused to respond, his face flushed with anger. “Well, sir,” Michael said, deciding on the spur of the moment to act as if nothing untoward had happened, “any feedback on the operation?”

  Perkins stared for a moment, his blue eyes flinty chips of disdain. “If you think I’m going to ignore your act of gross insubordination,” he said icily, “you are very much mistaken, Helfort. It seems you have no idea what military discipline is all about.”

  “Sir,” Michael said despairingly, hands out in a vain attempt to placate the man, “you knew the rules. We both had the order, a written order. I had absolutely no problem understanding it. None at all. The admiral’s order was unambiguous. You were here to observe, sir. Nothing more. So forgive me, but I fail to understand how my actions could be considered insubordination.”

  Why, Michael wanted to say, would an experienced, combat-proven commander disobey Vice Admiral Jaruzelska’s direct order, an order given—most unusually—in hard copy and written in language so simple that not even the most inept spacer could misconstrue it?

  “Because, Helfort, there’s a lot more to keeping the Federated Worlds secure than you will ever know. I don’t expect you to understand. You are only a lieutenant, after all,” Perkins said, his speech deliberate, his face split by a patronizing smile, “and a junior and an inexperienced one at that. For that reason, when I make my report to Admiral Jaruzelska, I am prepared to recommend that no further action be taken. Just this once.”

  That’s real decent of you, you sanctimonious bastard, Michael said to himself, stifling an urge to remind Perkins that yes, he was an inexperienced lieutenant, but he, too, had commanded ships in combat, and successfully.

  “Sir, I did not disobey the admiral’s orders. I trust that you will make that clear in your report.”

  “Don’t make things worse than they already are, Lieutenant”—Michael seethed at the insult; irrespective of his military rank, tradition required Perkins to address him as Captain or Lieutenant Helfort—“though that does seem to be one of your gifts.”

  Michael said nothing; if he did, he knew he would regret it. Unless he had misunderstood Jaruzelska’s orders—and he knew he had not—he was not the one at fault here; Perkins would be the one trying to explain to the admiral why her orders had not been obeyed.

  “That’s all that needs to be said.” Perkins stood up. “I’ll be in my cabin until we return to Comdur. I’d be obliged if you would send my meals there.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

  “Be sure that you do,” Perkins said dismissively. Michael watched Perkins leave. What a prick; the man might be an admiral, but Lieutenant Michael Wallace Helfort was the duly appointed captain
in command of a Federated Worlds warship. Jaruzelska’s orders had been crystal clear, and if Perkins had refused to follow those orders, that was his problem.

  An hour later, he had written up his report of the incident. He sealed it for Jaruzelska’s eyes only and turned in.

  Friday, December 15, 2400, UD

  Dreadnought Project Conference Room,

  Comdur Fleet Base

  “So to sum up, I think it is fair to say that the Faith operation was a stunning success. A well-conceived operation, brilliantly executed. A space battle station is the toughest target there is, and to take one out with a single ship is an outstanding result, something which no Fed cruiser has ever been able to pull off. Let’s be clear. The dreadnought has come of age.”

  Jaruzelska waited patiently while a mix of cheers and applause ran through the crowded conference room. She understood the enthusiastic response. For the spacers present, Tufayl’s stunning success represented much more than a long-overdue reminder to the Hammers that the Feds were staying in the fight. More important, Tufayl’s success validated their commitment to an increasingly unpopular cause.

  Slowly, the noise died away.

  “Before I call it a day, there is one more thing. Lieutenant Helfort, I’d like you up here with me, please.”

  Baffled, Michael made his way to the front of the conference room.

  “Right. I am pleased to be able to report that the commander in chief has issued a unit citation to the Tufayl and its crew for the Faith operation. My congratulations. I—”

  Jaruzelska stopped, her words drowned in an avalanche of cheers, every spacer present coming to his or her feet.

  It took a while, but the noise finally died away.

  “Okay, folks. Thanks. Things went well at Faith, but there are always lessons to be learned. I’ll release the after-action report today. Time of the follow-up review to be advised. That’s all, folks. Michael, with me.”

  “Sir.”

  Leaving the conference room, the two officers walked back to Jaruzelska’s office, neither saying a word. Closing the door, Jaruzelska waved Michael into a chair.

  “I don’t think I have to tell you why you’re here.”

  Michael shook his head ruefully. “I’m only guessing, sir, but let me see. Does it involve Rear Admiral Perkins?”

  “Yes.” Jaruzelska leaned back, hands running through her hair before rubbing eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. “I’m sorry to say it does. Anyway, let’s get this out of the way. I have forwarded my report on the matter to the commander in chief together with a recommendation that no further action be taken.”

  “Oh,” Michael said. For a moment he was at a loss for words. Had he heard Jaruzelska correctly? “Hang on, sir,” he said. “No further action? I don’t understand. How’s tha—”

  “Michael, that’s my recommendation,” Jaruzelska said. “No further action.”

  “Sir! I understand that, but I’m sorry,” Michael said doggedly. “The admiral disobeyed a direct order in the combat information center of a warship during combat … in the face of the enemy! Not my order, sir, yours. And I had to deal with it while the Hammers hurled missiles and rail-gun slugs at us”—Michael’s voice started to rise—“so how can there be no furth—”

  “Enough!” Jaruzelska snapped, cutting him off in midstream. “Goddamn it, Helfort, there are times …” She breathed carefully in and then out before continuing. “Look,” she said, her voice softening, “you have to trust me on this. I don’t want … no, that’s wrong. Right now, I cannot afford to get into an open fight with the antidreadnought faction, and that is exactly what I’ll get if I take any formal action in response to the admiral’s … um … the admiral’s behavior. Believe me, I don’t, and nor do you. I spend far too much time as it is fighting to keep them in their damn box. So you get back to Tufayl and forget it ever happened. Okay? That’s a suggestion, by the way. Don’t make me turn it into an order, which,” she said, her voice hardening, “I will if I have to.”

  Reluctantly, Michael nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Sorry. What happened was just … so wrong, sir.”

  “I know how wrong it was, so there’s no need to apologize. I’ll make sure it does not happen again.” She paused. “Michael, there’s something you need to understand.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The day you stop trusting me is the day we—you and me—fail. I don’t have another Michael Helfort, and you know as well as I do that we have to make dreadnoughts work. The Faith operation shows me we are just about there, but don’t underestimate the bull—” Jaruzelska stopped herself. “Well, let’s just say you’re not the only one fighting the good fight. You do your bit and let me do mine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael said, ashamed that he had doubted her, if only for a moment. “I trust you, sir. You must know that.”

  “I do. Moving on. It won’t happen again because Rear Admiral Perkins will not be space riding in Tufayl unless I am there, too, something I don’t have the time for.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Michael said with some feeling.

  “Don’t mention it,” the admiral replied. “One more thing. I’ve finally organized your Block 6 lander. Fleet will advise you exactly when, but it looks like it will arrive later this month.”

  Michael perked up. “Ah, that is good news, sir. Places we’re going, it’ll be good to have another way to get home. Attacking that battle station with just the one ship was a lonely business. If things had gone wrong …” Michael’s voice trailed off.

  “I know; sorry about that. Pity Elusory lived up to her name. Next time I’ll task two ships for casualty recovery … if I can find the ships to task, that is. By the way, not aborting the operation when Elusory went unserviceable? That was a gutsy call, Michael. Very gutsy.”

  Michael nodded. More than you know, Admiral, he said to himself. At the time, he could not shake off the awful thought he might fall back into Hammer hands; only his unshakable faith in Tufayl and her crew had persuaded him to push on without a ship standing by to rescue them if things went wrong.

  Jaruzelska broke what had turned into a long silence. “How will you use the lander?”

  “Well, sir. Without marines, it’s really there as a backup ship. As for live ops, I’ve been running through the options. The sims have confirmed that my best choice is to deploy the lander to one of the unmanned ships prior to an attack; that way, I can use it for casualty recovery if anything goes wrong with the Tufayl. Diversionary attacks, decoy work, and limited ground assault operations are some of the other things I’m looking at.”

  Jaruzelska’s eyebrow shot up. “Ah! Let me guess. If you’re going to send your Block 6 into harm’s way, you’ll be wanting to keep the old lander,” she said, “just in case. Am I right?”

  “Of course you are, sir,” Michael replied cheerfully. “To paraphrase an old saying, you never know when a spare lander might come in handy!”

  The admiral laughed. “I don’t know a spacer who would argue with that, so I won’t, and I don’t think Fleet will, either. I’ll authorize the change to the master equipment list. Unless there’s anything else … no? Right. I think it’s time for a drink, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the shuttle taking Michael back to Tufayl lifted off, Ferreira commed him.

  “Yes, Jayla?”

  “Com from Fleet, sir. Seems we are going to get our heavy lander at last.”

  “Ah, yes. The admiral just gave me a heads-up. When?”

  “Twentieth, sir.”

  “Good. What about the crew?”

  “I’ll com you the personnel files when I get them. The command pilot is a Junior Lieutenant Sedova, Kat Sedova.”

  “Know her?”

  “Of her, sir.”

  “And?”

  “All good, sir. Outstanding, in fact. She’ll be a real asset.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Well, sir. If the admiral had any say in her selection, I’
d be pretty sure she’s one of the best.”

  “I would, too. See you shortly.”

  Tuesday, December 19, 2400, UD

  Offices of the Supreme Council for the Preservation of the Faith, McNair

  Chief Councillor Polk tilted his chair back, the better to see out of the enormous plasglass window that filled one wall of his office. The view did nothing to lift his mood. It was a miserable day, rain sheeting down, the gardens’ brilliant colors crushed under a gray sky that was darkening with the approach of night. What a difference a few months made, he thought. Back in October, he believed the Kraadamned Feds were finished, he really did.

  Now he was not so sure.

  He scowled for a moment before an innate faith in himself reasserted itself. Maybe he should not be so pessimistic. Maybe the Feds were history. The armistice was a farce. The Hammers still had the whip hand over the Feds, and if his military was even half-right, it was just a matter of time before the Hammer flogged them back to the negotiating table. Since the Hammer fleet had lifted the operational tempo, the Feds had found themselves in trouble right across their sphere of influence: trade disrupted, citizens close to panic at the threat of mass destruction—the concept of mutually assured destruction did not sit too well with the average Fed—all compounded by hit-and-run attacks on targets of opportunity.