Helfort's War Book III Page 7

  Taken by surprise, Michael snapped upright in his seat. “Sir?”

  “Given we’re commissioning the Tufayl on Thursday, this is something we need to get on to right away. Drafting the right people will be difficult …”

  In his head, Michael finished the sentence for her: “… which is why I proposed a crew of ten in the first place, you idiots.” Sometimes he wondered whether the people who ran Fleet had any brains at all.

  “… so I want you along with the systems engineering and tactics people to get together when we’re finished here to work out where real, live human beings can be most useful. We all know that Fleet is desperately short of spacers after Comdur, and especially those with navigation and warfare qualifications. There is no point asking for people they don’t have, so don’t. Okay?”

  “Sir.”

  “Good. Next, command and control. Today Fleet will be announcing the formal establishment of Dreadnought Force effective this Thursday. It will also announce my appointment as commander. That means—”

  Jaruzelska stopped when the room erupted, all of them coming to their feet, clapping and cheering. This was good news. Fleet canceled projects all the time. Forces in being could not be canceled—not easily, anyway—and that meant, for all the hostility they aroused, dreadnoughts were here to stay.

  Slowly, the noise died down, and Jaruzelska was able to continue. “I was about to say,” she said, “that means the future of dreadnoughts is assured, but I guess I don’t have to. I think you just worked that out for yourselves.”

  Jaruzelska joined in the laughter sweeping the room, but the good humor did not last long. “Fleet will also be announcing the appointment of Rear Admiral Van Perkins as Deputy Commander, Dreadnought Forces. He will join us in October.”

  In a flash, the mood in the room changed. Michael swore silently. The political fix was in. Perkins was no friend of dreadnoughts, though to say that was a more than charitable view of his unforgiving opposition. Just how in the hell having someone like Perkins—combat-proven commander though he was—around would make anyone’s life better, how it would make dreadnoughts work, he could not begin to imagine.

  “Now,” Jaruzelska continued, “those are the key points from my meeting. Before I hand over to Captain Tuukkanen, let me make one thing crystal clear. I will expect everyone posted to Dreadnought Force to be committed—nothing less than body and soul—to making dreadnoughts work. No, not expect … I demand that everyone posted to Dreadnought Force be committed to making dreadnoughts work, and I can assure you there will be no exceptions. None.”

  Sullen silence turned to stunned amazement. Michael whistled softly; Jaruzelska was being dangerously frank in response to the question everyone wanted an answer to: How committed would Perkins be? Afterward, Michael would swear that a surge of fierce loyalty to Jaruzelska had nearly overwhelmed him, and, not for the first time, he marveled at her ability to get the best out of her people.

  “Okay, folks. That’s it from me. Captain Tuukkanen?”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Jaruzelska’s chief of staff said, striding to the podium. “Turning to less exciting matters. First up …”

  Wednesday, September 20, 2400, UD

  Dreadnought Project Conference Room,

  Comdur Fleet Base

  Michael’s head hurt.

  When he was not having the stuffing kicked out of him in the sims, he sat in interminable meetings like this one, called to work out how best to meet Fleet’s demands that the Block 1 dreadnoughts carry an extra five crew members. He wondered about Fleet’s priorities sometimes: all this management effort over such a trivial matter just to placate the antidreadnought faction. It was nuts. But at least this meeting—unlike far too many he had been forced to attend—promised a result without spawning working groups, assessment teams, cross-functional impact studies, and all the other bureaucratic paraphernalia so loved by Fleet staffers.

  The meeting’s chair, Commander Andraschi, a systems engineering commander Michael did not know well, had the floor; thankfully she was summing up. “We’re agreed. We can ask for extra personnel all we like, but if Fleet cannot supply them, we’re wasting our time. That leaves us with landers. The marines were least affected by Comdur, so we have plenty of them along with assault landers and their pilots. Adding a lander will give our dreadnoughts capabilities—limited, I know—that they would not otherwise have. A single heavy assault lander with command pilot and minimal crew takes the complement to fifteen.”

  She turned to Michael. “This is your show. Can you live with that?”

  “Can, sir,” Michael said. “Beggars can’t be choosers, and we have more than enough landers to go around.” It was true; more by luck than by good judgment, the planetary assault vessels carrying the Fed marine expeditionary force tasked with the invasion of the Hammer Worlds had been out in deepspace when the Hammers attacked Comdur. An idea hit him. “Hang on a minute, sir. If I’m to carry one, why not a Block 6 lander? They’re pinchspace jump-capable. And that,” he added, eyes lighting up, “is a capability well worth having.”

  Andraschi glanced at everyone in turn. “Anybody see a problem with that? No? Me neither. A lander’s a lander’s a lander, after all, and I think the admiral will agree. If she does, I can’t see Fleet arguing the point. Right, enough talk,” she said firmly. “Decision made. The final report will recommend a Block 6 lander with a crew of five.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Michael said, pleased with the win, even if it was a small one.

  “Right, we’re done here, I think. We all have more than enough to be getting on with.”

  While the meeting broke up in a welter of noise, Michael’s neuronics pinged. He accepted the call. It was the personnel office.

  “Lieutenant Helfort, sir, Warrant Officer Morriset, Personnel. I thought you’d like to know that your crew has arrived. We’ve just finished processing them. They’ll be ready for you in Conference-3 in five minutes, if that’s okay.”

  “Thanks. I’ll meet them there.”

  “No worries, sir.”

  After he dropped the call, Michael forced air into lungs tight with anticipation. All of a sudden things were turning serious. Within a matter of weeks, he would be a full-blown captain in command, responsible for taking a warship and its crew into action against the Hammers and—far more important—for bringing them back alive.

  Taking another deep breath, he set off for Conference-3, his spirits rising with every step. It would be good to be part of a team again, and even better, he would have Chief Petty Officer Matti Bienefelt as his coxswain. If the world’s largest spacer could not keep him—and Tufayl—on the straight and narrow, nobody could. After all he and Bienefelt had been through together—in DLS-387, in Eridani, in Adamant when they captured the Hammer cruisers McMullins and Providence Sound along with their precious outfits of antimatter warheads—it would be good to have her back onboard.

  His executive officer was another matter. Junior Lieutenant Jayla Ferreira, barely months out of Space Fleet College, was one of the lucky few able to return to active duty after her first ship, the light cruiser Sailfish, was badly damaged at the Battle of Comdur. He hoped she was half the spacer Matti Bienefelt was.

  “Attention on deck!” his new executive officer barked when Michael entered the room, and the ship’s company of Tufayl leaped to their feet, snapping to attention. “Dreadnought Tufayl all present and accounted for, sir,” she said, hand to forehead in an impeccable salute.

  “Thank you. Take your seats, everyone.” Michael paused until the crew of Tufayl settled down. Nine faces stared back at him. Matti Bienefelt he knew, of course; as for the rest, all volunteers, he knew only what their service records told him. On paper, they appeared solid—Jaruzelska’s ruthless selection process had seen to that—but only time would tell how good they really were.

  “Right, I’ll be as quick as I can,” Michael said. “Welcome. Tufayl is a special ship, the first of a special squadron. I need a special
crew, and you’re that crew. Tufayl is the toughest ship in the Fleet, and she’s tough for a reason. It’s tough because we will get the missions other ships cannot carry out. Tufayl is tough for another reason. Those Hammer bastards beat the crap out of us at Comdur, no doubt about it”—an angry rumble filled the room, forcing Michael to raise his voice—“but now it’s our turn. It won’t be easy, and it sure as hell won’t be safe, but it’ll be the dreadnoughts that turn this war around, and you’ll be there every step of the way.”

  Michael waited until the noise died away. “Finally, you and me. I may be the youngest skipper in the Fleet, but I do have some experience in that regard.” He stopped to let the sudden burst of laughter run its course. “But I cannot get this done without you,” he continued, “without all of you. I am here for you, any time of the day or night. Of course,” he said, flicking a quick look at Ferreira, “give the executive officer a chance to fix things first”—another burst of laughter—“but if she can’t, I’m here.”

  “I’ll be knocking, sir. You can count on it. You owe me a beer, for one thing,” a voice said in a poor but passably menacing imitation of a Hammer accent.

  Michael laughed. “Chief Petty Officer Bienefelt! You’ll have to do better than that. And yes, I owe you a beer. I hadn’t forgotten. Okay, okay, settle down. I’d also like to say that unlike other heavy cruisers—sorry, dreadnoughts—you all have unrestricted access to Prime. I think you’ll like her, though she prefers to be called Mother, so that’s what I suggest you do. I’ve always believed the primary AI to be the closest thing a warship has to a soul, so I’d encourage you to talk to her. She’s been around awhile, so there’s not a lot she hasn’t seen. Bit like Chief Bienefelt, I’d have to say.”

  “Bet she’s prettier,” said an anonymous voice. Chief Chua, the senior spacer responsible for Tufayl’s main propulsion, Michael decided while he waited for the laughter to die down.

  “Okay, okay. One last thing, and this is probably the only difficult thing I have to say to you.”

  He forced himself to breathe properly; he had not been looking forward to this part of the welcome talk.

  “Some people think,” he continued, “that dreadnoughts are the spawn of the devil. If you don’t know that already, you soon will. You can expect people to give you a hard time, maybe even a very hard time, just because you’ve been posted to Tufayl. All I can ask you is to deal with it the best way you can, and please note that does not mean beating the crap out of anyone dumb enough to say they don’t approve of us. Right, I’m done here. Once again, welcome aboard. XO, carry on please.”

  “Sir! Attention on deck!” Ferreira called while Michael left.

  Thursday, September 21, 2400, UD

  Offices of the Supreme Council for the Preservation of the Faith, city of McNair, Commitment planet,

  Hammer of Kraa Worlds

  “… there’s nothing I can say. I need to get to the hospital. There’ll be a statement from my agent later. Thank you.”

  Sour-faced, Chief Councillor Polk watched the blood-spattered figure of Michael Helfort barge its way through the media scrum and climb into a mobibot before driving off. The holovid cut back to the network anchor, an immaculately dressed young woman looking for all the world like one of the impossibly beautiful models who filled the trashvids his wife liked to spend her life watching.

  “That was the scene this morning at Bachou Airport after an extraordinary night for young Michael Helfort and his girlfriend, Anna Cheung. Now we turn to Professor Nikolas de Witte for his assessment of the wider implications of this incident. Welcome, Professor.”

  “Good to be here, Amelie.”

  “First of all, the question everybody is asking. Who was behind this attack?”

  “Well, Amelie, I think that’s pretty obvious,” the professor said, his voice a studied mix of gravitas and concern. “This is the work of the Hammers; there can be no doubt about it. I think—”

  I really do not give a shit what you think, you pompous cretin, Polk thought savagely. He skipped the holovid back, pausing it at a frame of Helfort walking across the tarmac toward the onrushing media. Anger surged through him. By Fed standards, Helfort was an ordinary-looking man: not tall but heavily built, broad-shouldered, with penetrating hazel eyes set wide in a face tanned dark below windblown brown hair. Ordinary or not, Helfort was making a fool out of him and out of the Hammer of Kraa, and Polk did not like it one little bit.

  To worry about one Fed out of billions was beyond stupid. Polk knew that, but Helfort represented everything he hated about the Feds. Even Helfort’s understated good looks offended him. Testament to generations of geneering—an abomination long proscribed by the Faith of Kraa—Helfort radiated the same effortless air of arrogance and superiority all Feds gave off. Polk could not help himself; that was the one thing about the Feds that irked him more than anything else.

  He laughed mirthlessly. Helfort’s looks annoyed him even when splashed with blood from wounds inflicted by Hammer agents. But a bit of blood was not enough. If the chief councillor of the Hammer of Kraa Worlds could not deal with a single lowlife Fed, the damn job was not worth having. He flicked off the holovid and called his personal secretary.

  “Singh!”

  “Sir?”

  “Councillor Kando in town?”

  “He is, sir.”

  “Right. I want him in my office. Now!”

  Polk’s eyebrows were arching so far up his forehead that they nearly disappeared into his steel-gray hairline. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “So, just let me sum up, Councillor,” he continued, acid-voiced. “An unarmed man, asleep in his bed, aided and abetted by his girlfriend, held off an entire hit squad before killing two of them, hog-tying one more, disabling their flier, and leaving them for the local police to pick up. Oh, yes, everyone’s worked out who was behind the attack, so guess what? We are being blamed for it! How am I doing so far, Councillor Kando? Have I understood it right? Kraa! Incompetent does not even begin to describe it. What a shambles.”

  “Sir,” the councillor for intelligence protested, “I think I should point out—”

  “No, Councillor!” Polk snapped angrily. “I think I should point out that a bunch of temple novices armed with feather dusters could have done a better job than your covert operations people. Covert operations, my ass! Brain-dead clowns, more like it!” Polk said, voice betraying his frustration and anger. “How much did this mess cost us … no, no”—Polk’s hand went up—“don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

  “But Chief Councillor—”

  “Shut up! Shut up, Councillor. I’ve had enough of this little toe rag. I am sick and tired of having his exploits rubbed in my face by the Fed trashpress. Sick of it, do you hear? So”—Polk’s finger stabbed out across the desk at Kando’s face—“let’s try again, Councillor Kando. Get your people off their fat, overpaid backsides. I want them to organize a proper operation. Funding no object. Just get it done. This is personal. I want Helfort dead. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hope you do, I really hope you do. Get out!”

  Monday, October 2, 2400, UD

  Secure Repair Facility Golf Five, Comdur Fleet Base

  “All stations, stand by for the cold move.”

  The voice of Tufayl’s executive officer was steady. Michael was impressed. It was time for the dreadnought to go to work, for Ferreira to take the ship out of the yard’s hands and into orbit around Comdur. True, he would be sitting there watching every step of the way, but by longstanding Fleet tradition, cold moves—moves handled by hydraulic rams and space tugs without any assistance from the ship’s engines—were always controlled by the ship’s executive officer, her sole assistant the ship’s maneuvering AI. Cold moves: easy to say, hard to execute. Tufayl was an enormous ship, certain to be unwieldy and uncooperative, and more than a few executive officers made a complete hash of them.

  With another reminder to himself to stay
out of Ferreira’s way, Michael stood back to watch, offering up a short prayer that Junior Lieutenant Jayla Ferreira would do as good a job in reality as she had in the sims. Around him, the rest of Tufayl’s crew did not even come close to filling the combat information center. For such a large ship, it carried a ridiculously small crew: Carmellini and Lomidze, his two warfare spacers, Faris, his comms man, four engineers—Fodor, Chua, Lim, and Morozov—and of course the unmistakable shape of Chief Bienefelt, Tufayl’s coxswain, made ten, including him and Ferreira. The extra spacers forced on him by Fleet—in retrospect he was glad they had insisted on increasing his crew; a pinchspace jump-capable heavy lander would be a real asset—were yet to join them. The process of digging out people who met Jaruzelska’s high standards was proving to be a prolonged one.

  Ferreira turned to him. “For your information, sir. We are ready in all respects to move.”

  “Roger. All yours, Jayla. Dent my shiny new ship and I’ll dent your skull.”

  She grinned, a mix of excitement and nerves obvious. “I won’t, sir,” she replied. “All stations, this is Command, stand by. Dockmaster, this is Tufayl.”

  “Dockmaster.”

  “Release docking clamps and initiate cold move.”

  “Roger … clamps released, moving now.”

  With that, a faint shudder ran through Tufayl as hydraulically rammed cradles started the dreadnought on its way from the zero-gravity repair facility at the center of the asteroid that hosted Comdur Fleet Base. Ahead lay a 300-kilometer ascent through rock tunnels to the surface for handover to the space tugs that would take Tufayl up into parking orbit.