Helfort’s War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet Page 8

  “Makes sense,” Kallewi said. “This is not war as we marines think of it. It’s about making the citizen in the street believe that there is a real alternative to the Hammer government. So every time the NRA has a win, the Hammers lose and the NRA gains credibility. Then Nationalist agitators call the mobs out onto the streets, and DocSec can’t cope. That forces planetary defense onto the streets to try to maintain control of the cities, easing pressure on the NRA front line and eroding morale inside planetary defense. If planetary defense cannot contain the situation, the marines get called in, which they hate. We know from intelligence reports that not one marine, from the commanders down to the lowest grunt, signed on to fight unarmed civilians, and that erodes morale, which in turn allows the NRA to make more gains, and so on. From the Nationalist’s point of view, it’s a virtuous circle … but only so long as the NRA keeps delivering.”

  Kallewi paused. “Which brings us,” he continued, “to the NRA’s main problem: getting the weapons and supplies they need to support larger- and larger-scale operations. There’s a limit to what the NRA and their Nationalist cadres can steal from the Hammers, and their lack of heavy ground-attack landers and air-superiority fliers is a major weakness. Once away from the Branxton Ranges, the NRA is vulnerable to Hammer air power. Bretonville showed that. They captured it but weren’t able to hold on to it.”

  Michael nodded. Kallewi had put his finger on the NRA’s weakness. “Mind you,” he said, “the Hammers did a lot of damage in recapturing the city. I’m not sure the locals will be too happy about that, not happy at all.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” Kallewi said. “History shows that the indiscriminate use of too much firepower alienates the locals, drives recruits into the arms of the NRA, enhances the moral authority of the Revival Party, and degrades intelligence assets. So Bretonville was a bit of a Pyrrhic victory for the Hammers. That’s not the least of their problems. The Hammers outgun the NRA by a huge margin, but that only works for them if the NRA stands and fights the way it fought at Bretonville. The NRA has to avoid conventional battles and stick to what they do best: hit and run. That way, they embarrass the Hammers, making them look weak and in effective just when the Hammers most need to look strong and in control. Even so, the more hardware they can get, the better.”

  “Talking of hardware,” Ferreira said, “I see from the latest intelligence summary that there are reports the NRA has established a manufacturing complex, a large one, so maybe they’re not having to steal everything they need.”

  “Which brings me to my next point,” Michael said. “If they have a secure manufacturing base, they’ll have access to raw materials and power. If we supplied them with microfabs …”

  Ferreira whistled softly. “Now you’re talking, sir. What a difference that would make. The NRA will have proper gear, not that obsolete Hammer shit.”

  “And,” Chief Fodor said, throwing an evil grin at Chief Chua, “it just so happens we know where to lay our hands on a few spare microfabs.”

  “Wouldn’t happen to be down in the engineering workshops, would they, Chief?” Michael asked.

  “They just might be, sir,” Fodor said, “but getting them out won’t be easy. Microfabs, my ass! Micro they might be, but small they are not.”

  “No, I know that, Chief, but we’ve talked long and hard about doing this because we can make a difference, and giving the NRA access to microfabs is the biggest difference we’ll ever make. Those damn things can make anything, given enough time. So the question is, can we get them out?”

  “Don’t know how, but we will, sir,” Fodor said. “I guarantee it.”

  “Glad to hear it. But what about the knowledge bases to drive them? A microfab is no good unless it knows what to produce.”

  “I might be able to help there,” Chief Chua said. “One of my propulsion techs in the old Cordwainer married a woman from the Rogue Worlds. He set himself up as a knowledge broker. He’d know where to lay his hands on a library of microfab knowledge bases. Not as good as ours, but they’ll be a damn sight better than anything the Hammers have.”

  Michael winced. “A Rogue Worlds knowledge broker? That won’t be cheap, even if he is an old buddy of yours.”

  “He’ll be fair, so let me see what he can do.”

  “Okay, good. The rest of the intelligence summary is unchanged, so I won’t waste time repeating it all. Suffice it to say that things are not looking good for our man Polk. Next item. Jayla.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The ops plan to achieve all this. Where are we up to?”

  “We finished the latest draft of the plan last night. Operation Gladiator, I’m calling it, by the way. Now, the next step is to …”

  “Right, folks. I think that just about does it. Anything else we need to talk about?”

  “Yes, sir. One thing.”

  “Go ahead, Kat.”

  “As you know, Fleet’s approved our request for a second Block 6 heavy lander,” Sedova said. “Don’t know how Admiral Jaruzelska swung it, but she’s made it happen. The amended master equipment list came through this morning.”

  “Saw that,” Michael said. “Even better, I received a personal comm from the admiral telling me we should have the lander within the week.”

  “Didn’t think the string pulling would stop with the master equipment list, sir,” Sedova said with a smile, “but that gives us a bit of a problem. The lander will have a command pilot, a recent graduate of combat flight school like me, plus a petty officer loadmaster and crew.”

  “Damn,” Michael said. “The crew’s no problem. We know how to handle them, when to bring them in on what we’re doing, but the command pilot and loadmaster … um … they’re a problem. Not sure what we do with them. Any thoughts?”

  “Kat, may I?” Ferreira asked.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “I know it’ll be difficult,” Ferreira said, “but we have to keep the command pilot and loadmaster in the dark until we brief the troops. It won’t be easy, but I don’t think we have any other option. We’re all in this because we know you. More to the point, we know we can trust you. They won’t, they can’t; they’re brand new. If we ask them the hard question, they’ll say yes and two seconds later run off to the brass screaming ‘mutiny, mutiny.’ I know I would.”

  “I agree, sir,” Sedova said. “The XO’s right. It will be hard, but they have to stay ignorant until the last minute. Gives us time to work on them, though we have to be realistic. The chances of them committing to the craziest scheme in all of human history aren’t good.”

  “I think that’s right, Kat,” Michael said. “So keep them in the dark, agreed?”—heads nodded in confirmation—“And plan for what happens if they do say no. Kat, what do you think?”

  “I plan to spend a lot of time on the Nyleth assault lander training ranges with the new guys. That’ll keep them off the ship. If they refuse to go along when the time comes, that might be an issue, but leave that to me. The command pilot will be the problem. Apart from me, you’re the only one with a lander qualification.”

  “True,” Michael said, “though mine is only a basic lander ticket. I never went through combat flight school, even if”—a bitter edge crept into Michael’s voice; a combat flight qualification had been his one and only ambition once—“that’s what I intended when I joined the Fleet. Still, I can fly, so that’s a start.”

  “Like I say, sir. Leave it to me.”

  “Deal. Anything else … No? Okay, we’re finished here. Let me see. What’s next?”

  “Running the latest version of the Gladiator ops plan through the simulator,” Ferreira said, and the mood of the meeting changed, the cheerful optimism blown away in an instant.

  “Good,” Michael replied. “Let’s hope we get a better result than last time.”

  “Couldn’t be much worse.” Ferreira’s face betrayed her concern. “We have to find a way.”

  “If we can,” Bienefelt said softly.

  �
�We have to,” Michael said. “Otherwise this whole business is a bust.”

  Heads nodded, but nobody said any more, and the meeting broke up. With a heavy heart Michael watched his officers leave. All the early enthusiasm had evaporated, boiled off by the brutal truth that dropping into a defended system—especially a well-protected one like the Hammer of Kraa’s home planet, Commitment—and surviving long enough to get dirtside was at best close to impossible, at worst an exercise in suicide. Michael had no idea how much longer he could keep them on the rack. Their commitment to him, a commitment to join the most egregious crime in the history of the Federated Worlds, was not open-ended; he knew that. Either they found a way forward, preferably one that saved them from being incinerated by Hammer missiles while they fought their way dirtside, or he would have to call the whole business off. He hated to remind himself of the consequences of failure, but those consequences were his and his alone to deal with.

  Struggling to shake off a growing certainty that the brutal realities of space warfare might in the end be too much to overcome, Michael followed his officers out of the meeting room. Screw it, he decided in a sudden burst of optimism, pushing all doubt aside. There had to be a way, and they would find it. It might not be easy, it might not be safe, it might not be guaranteed of success, but he was sure there would be a way. And when they found it, Anna would have a chance to escape Hartspring’s vengeful brutality; for the first time since the colonel’s awful message had ripped his life apart, he allowed himself to think that the nightmare would end, that he would see Anna again, that they might one day live their lives together. And if fate determined otherwise, at least he would die knowing that he had not simply thrown his hands up in despair, that he had done everything he could do to save Anna.

  “End of simulation.”

  Nobody said a word, the awful hush dragging on for a long time. Sedova broke the silence. “I don’t think it can be done, folks,” she said.

  “You might be right, Kat,” Ferreira said. “If we follow Fleet standard operating procedures and drop spaceward of the Hammer’s defenses to fight our way in, we’re toast. There’s no way in hell we can get across tens of thousands of kilometers of hostile space without having our asses kicked.”

  Another long silence followed.

  “That means we have two choices,” Michael said. “Accept we can’t get in or drop closer.”

  “Hell, sir, what sort of choice is that?” Ferreira said. “Fleet standard operating procedures are clear on that score. Dropping any closer than 100,000 klicks is too damn risky. Let me just bring the probability array for Commitment online. Hold on … right, here we go.”

  The holovid screen blossomed into life to display a funnel standing vertically thin end down, its curved walls representing Commitment’s gravity well, the funnel shading from an encouraging green through to an unpromising scarlet as the distance to the planet’s surface decreased. “Umm,” Ferreira said, “yes … there you have it.” She put a cursor on the funnel where green started to shade into yellow. “Minimum safe drop distance is 105,000 klicks. Drop there and we’re all dead. Every Hammer in orbit will have more than enough time to take us out. They’ll be able to use antimatter missiles on us, and they will. Drop closer and we’re equally dead. It just takes a bit longer and is probably a touch more painful.”

  Ferreira’s gallows humor brought fleeting smiles to everyone’s face. The smiles faded fast; the silence hung like a pall across the meeting.

  With a bang, the solution came to Michael. Judging by the look on Ferreira’s face, she had just come to the same conclusion. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Jayla?”

  She grinned at him. “Yes, I think so. This damn graphic”—she waved a hand contemptuously at the holovid screen—“is based on one key assumption.”

  “Go on,” Michael said impatiently.

  “It is a cast-iron Fleet regulation,” Ferreira continued, “that no starship drop out of pinchspace unless it can jump back again safely if everything goes to shit. So—”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Sedova could not contain herself. “So what we’re looking at is the product of two unconnected probability arrays.”

  “Precisely,” Ferreira said, a touch smugly, Michael thought. “Smashing into the planet when dropping out of pinchspace is one risk. Jumping back safely without getting lost in deepspace is the second. We are only interested in this probability”—the holovid graphic changed; this time the green extended most of the way down to the planet’s surface—“and that’s because we’re not coming back. We don’t give a shit about the risk of jumping back into pinchspace ’cause we won’t be jumping back into pinchspace.”

  “No, we won’t,” Michael said, his heart beginning to race with a newfound hope that Gladiator might work. “And if we drop close—”

  Again Sedova could not hold back. “We’ll be well inside the Hammer’s defenses, the Hammers will be looking the wrong way, and there’s what, 10,000 k’s to cross before reentry? That,” she declared with a confident smile, “is a much better proposition than trying to cross 100,000 klicks.”

  “It sure is,” Bienefelt said with feeling. “I have to say, I was worried there for a while.”

  “Hold your horses, ’Swain,” Michael said, even though he knew that this was the answer they had been looking for. “We need to see if this will work, but it is looking good, I must say. Right. Jayla, Kat, can you take this and rework the plan? When you have something workable, we’ll run it through the sims to see how it holds up. Okay?”

  “Sir,” the pair chorused.

  Tuesday, August 28, 2401, UD

  Nyleth system base

  Face impassive even though his stomach was a mess, Michael waited for the down-shuttle to dock; he steeled himself for what came next: He had to resolve the last impediment to Operation Gladiator.

  The planning had produced something that everyone agreed would work. Anna’s last vidmail confirmed she was still tucked away inside Camp J-5209. The latest intelligence reports following the progress of the New Revolutionary Army seemed encouraging. Under the leadership of Mutti Vaas, the NRA had recovered from its defeat at Bretonville in late July. Now they were pushing north and east out of their stronghold in the Branxton Ranges to attack the towns of Perdan and Daleel, and thanks to microsat transmitters—he had no idea where Vaas’s people found them; seemingly the NRA had enough of them to replace the ones the Hammers kept shooting down—the people of Commitment could see that there might be an alternative to the ruthless totalitarian regime that had held the people of the Hammer of Kraa Worlds subjugated for centuries.

  All of which was good, but one last problem had thwarted all Michael’s efforts to find a solution. With only a month to go, time was running out, and today’s meeting to finalize the Nyleth squadron’s operations for the upcoming month was his last chance to secure an operation that would allow Redwood and her sister dreadnoughts to get clear of Nyleth unimpeded. With a new operations officer, a woman focused on using the dreadnoughts to keep Nyleth safe, that task was harder than it should have been.

  Still, Michael stayed optimistic. He had lobbied the system commander to allow the squadron to take out yet another Hammer signal intelligence station uncovered by reconsats in Szent-Gyogyi deepspace, the sort of operation at which his dreadnoughts had proved to be devastatingly effective. The last time he spoke to Commodore Anjula, she did not say no, so there was still hope.

  Three long hours later, the meeting wrapped up. Michael commed Ferreira.

  “Tell me it’s good news, sir. Please,” she said.

  “Let me see now, Jayla,” Michael said, deadpan. “That depends”—Ferreira’s face fell—“but I can tell you that our new operations officer has tasked the squadron to system nearspace defense”—Ferreira’s face fell even farther—“but only until September 5, when the squadron will be departing Nyleth to blow the crap out of the Hammer SIGINT station on Maaslicht-43.”

  “About time.” Ferreira’s r
elief was obvious. “I was beginning to think we might end up stuck here.”

  “Me, too. Get everyone together. Now that we have a date, we need a final planning meeting for Gladiator. We also need to get a plan for the Maaslicht operation together even if we have no intention of going anywhere near the place.”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  “See you in twenty.”

  Michael started to make his way back to the shuttle portal, and his neuronics pinged to announce a priority comm. “Bugger,” he said softly when he saw who was calling; he could not help himself. What was the system commander after?

  “Yes, sir?” he said when Commodore Anjula’s face appeared.

  “Thought you should know that Vice Admiral Jaruzelska will be here end of next week.”

  Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “Noted, sir, thank you. Anything specific?” he asked.

  “Have a look at the dreadnoughts, of course. Apart from that, just a look around before she takes up her new post.”

  “New post, sir? I haven’t heard.”

  “The announcement has just come through. She’s the new director of Fleet planning, effective October 1.”

  “Oh, right,” Michael said. “So who’s taking over the dreadnought force?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody, sir?”

  “That’s what I said,” Anjula replied, a touch testily, “nobody. The job’s been abolished. With only your three operational and no chance of any more entering service, Fleet’s decided to manage dreadnoughts as part of the heavy cruiser force. Administrative efficiency, the announcement said. She’ll be happy to debate the merits of that decision with you, I’m sure, so I won’t. My staff will get a draft program out for her visit in the next day or so.”