"Our mission, ladies and gentlemen, is taking us to the XHO-67 System," Captain Knott said, looking around the conference table at his heads of staff. "Which means the whole system is an uncolonizable nightmare."
Places the Grand Survey team left nameless generally were. Even the totality of Earth's mythology and history didn't provide enough names for every star.
He touched a few keys and the holographic display in the center of the table came to life. Before them spun a planet with eight moons and a thin equatorial ring composed of chunks of rocks or ice, some of which were as large as the independent moons.
The planet was a gas giant, larger by far than Jupiter. Actually, it was a borderline protostar, awash with lurid scarlet and orange clouds with an occasional cobalt blue storm center fading to electric blue at its outer edges.
The pizza that time forgot, Raeder thought.
"This system is located between Commonwealth and Mollie space. It's a little closer to us, actually. We've known for some time that it's an advanced listening post, and frankly we've fed them some ripe pieces of misinformation through it."
The captain's voice showed a deep and amused appreciation of Commonwealth Intelligence's successes in this. Space Command had been winning the outright battles so far in this war, but in the shadow war of the spooks honors were more nearly even.
"But, as ever, all good things must come to an end. They've been sneaking agents into our space on the damned blockade runners. Worse yet, there's strong evidence that the independent raiders harrying our supply convoys are based there." He looked around the table. "You can imagine how happy that arrangement makes the blockade runners."
Yeah, Raeder thought, it must save them a huge number of Transit jumps. And each jump avoided represented a commerce-protection cruiser avoided. Not that there are that many out there anymore. Just enough to keep the enemy guessing. Customs had never had a huge budget, and the Commonwealth Congress had cut deeply what they did have at the start of the war. The idea being that short-term austerity would bring long-term peace all the quicker.
"This is the moon we're interested in," Knott said and one of the giant's moons was picked out by the computer and expanded in size while the rest of the display shrank. A short paragraph of information about it appeared below, stating its size, gravity, and rough composition, indicating a thin nitrogen and hydrogen cyanide atmosphere.
Frozen piece of dirt about the size of Mars, Raeder thought.
"Naturally, all of our information is extreme long distance," he explained. "Basically we've been able to pinpoint the location of the Mollie base." A light flashed on the dun-colored surface of the moon. "But that's about it. We've documented her traffic, which has become considerable over the last few months. But since we haven't interfered with it in any way we don't know what's going in, or out, or what's staying put."
He folded his hands and looked around the table again, his eyes skipping over Raeder.
"We're assigned to escort the troop carrier Indefatigable, captained by Marion Neal, whose Marines are going to take that base. We'll be accompanied by two destroyers, the Aubrey and the Maturin." He grinned as he watched his people smile at the mention of those beloved names from classic literature. "Commanded by Captains Igor Kaminsky and Terry Hughes, respectively. Our minimum aim is the neutralization of the enemy base and the collection of intelligence. Our maximum is to take the base and secure it for future Space Command use.
"I want to emphasize that this mission will be a proof-of-concept raid for the new light carriers like the Invincible. The Commonwealth needs for these ships and the experiment they represent to succeed. We're faster than the fleet carriers, we represent less of a capital risk, and perhaps most important at this time, we use less fuel. Therefore, this raid must come off perfectly."
This time his eyes found Raeder and locked on. "No accidents, no mishaps. Or this program will be finished before it's really had a chance."
Well, Peter thought, now I know what's at stake. And that a huge aspect of our success rests on my shoulders. Thank you, Captain. It also indicated that the black mark received at Ontario Base wasn't resting beside his name alone. I've got to find that saboteur.
But how did you find that one person out of easily five hundred suspects? Or was it a team? Stop it, Raeder, that way lies madness.
"Any questions?" Knott growled.
Heads were shaken around the table.
"Then go prepare your people. There'll be another briefing when we reach the Transit point. Dismissed," the captain said.
On the surface, everything on Main Deck clicked along just as it should. Work got done, people got along, even though it was with a certain strained formality. In the following days the two new Speeds they'd acquired at Ontario Base were thoroughly inspected by every single flight crew, including the ones that serviced the WACCIs. Then they were reinspected by crews who'd heard that other crews had checked them out. And, of course, Raeder personally examined them after each and every unauthorized inspection. Until he hit upon the bright idea of putting a security seal, very reluctantly provided by William Booth, over the hatch, electronically stating that only the commander, Lieutenant Robbins, or the pilot were allowed access.
This actually seemed to settle people down a bit, because no one, according to the seal's recorders, had made any further attempt to fool with those Speeds.
But I hate the idea that none of the crews trust each other, Raeder mused. The paranoia around here is incredible. Papers could be written on it.
Cynthia remained brilliant and inscrutable, arap Moi calm and capable, and Larkin as good-humored and friendly as he'd ever been.
When Peter had asked, "What were you doing on Main Deck that night?" Larkin had answered, "I was looking for you. I figured you'd be working late and I was going to invite you for a beer."
"The night before we flew the squadron on maneuvers for the first time?" Peter had asked incredulously.
"Coffee, then. The idea was to get you to quit knocking yourself out so you could get some rest." He'd shaken his blond head, smiling ingenuously. "I figured you'd say no to whatever I offered, but that it would help you get away from the desk. You'd struck me as a nose to the grindstone type."
Meaning? Raeder thought in retrospect. Perhaps that, in light of the disaster that followed, I was in fact fairly derelict in my duty? Or maybe it was just a zing to shake my self-confidence. Which is not at an all-time high just now, he thought bitterly, and sighed. Either way, there are no cracks in the quartermaster's surface: friendly, good-natured, a nice guy.
At least, for the time being, the spoiled-parts problem seemed to have disappeared. Oh, there were still broken or substandard parts, but well within expected ranges. And that we can live with, Raeder thought.
What they couldn't continue to work with was the fact that every order Lieutenant Robbins gave was double-checked with arap Moi. The chief had complained to Raeder about it and he'd started going round to the crews to quietly point out that this was against regs, procedure, and common sense.
Those he'd spoken to no longer went to the chief for confirmation. They consulted with each other, or with other crews, or simply deliberated over them until the last possible moment before carrying them out. With the predictable result that things were falling farther and farther behind.
It's only a matter of time before Cindy pops her cork over this, Raeder mused, wondering what he'd left out of his lectures to cause this mess. Don't be an idiot, he scolded himself. What you did was, you didn't get acquitted. And neither did Robbins. He pursed his lips. Okay, no more Mr. Nice Guy.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Raeder stabbed the intercom key and his voice filled the massive area of Main Deck.
"Now hear this! This is Commander Raeder speaking. I'd like to address a little complication I've been noticing that just won't go away. We've got an attitude problem on Main Deck. And I am informing you that as of now it is over. Some of you have been questioning your orders."
Raeder paused for a long moment. "Who do you people think you are? Where do you think you are, for that matter? Lieutenant Robbins is your commanding officer. She is Chief arap Moi's commanding officer. You are enlisted personnel in Space Command. And this is a time of war. I shouldn't have to point these things out to you. This is very basic stuff, people. What's more, questioning the orders of a duly authorized officer in the performance of his or her duty is a serious offense in peace time. In time of war it's treason and mutiny!
"Now, because we've had some tragic and terrible things happen I've cut you people quite a lot of slack. That is over. I will not tolerate insubordination and I will not tolerate slackers. I advise you not to test me on this."
Another pause. "Lieutenant Robbins is one of the finest engineering officers in the fleet. She demands the best of you, but she gives twice that and you know it. You also know that she would no more sabotage a Speed than she would pull the captain's nose. You know these things. I demand that you remember that you know them and stop this malingering. Anyone who has a problem with this and wants to discuss it, make an appointment with me through the chief. That is all. Get back to work."
He leaned back in his chair feeling drained. I have got to get over this thing I have about public speaking. He was going to be doing a lot of it from now on and he could feel that it was aging him fast.
He turned back to his screen and resumed scrolling through his messages. I wonder what Cindy will think of all this.
There came a tapping at his door, and he said, somewhat impatiently, "Come in."
Cynthia Robbins slid sideways through the door, as though it wouldn't open any further.
"Thank you, sir, for dealing with that. I've tried to find out what the problem is," she shrugged, "but it was so elusive that I couldn't quite catch anyone in the act. When the chief told me what was happening I spoke to the individuals involved and explained that they were being insubordinate. They said they were sorry, and that they hadn't meant to be, and that they had simply misunderstood the order and were merely clarifying things." She stood there diffidently, looking vaguely worried. "Clearly they were lying, sir. But I knew that my bluntness in the past had caused problems and bad feelings, so I was trying a . . . softer approach." Cynthia frowned. "Which didn't work, either."
Raeder sat with his chin on his fist and finally said, "Sit down, Robbins." She sat and the vague worry became vague anxiety. "You look a little anxious," he observed.
Robbins sat straighter in her chair and her face became an absolute mask, though a faint trace of color darkened her cheek. "I'm sorry, sir," she said crisply.
Jeez, Raeder thought, I'm sorry I pointed it out. For a moment there I thought you were human.
"Look, Lieutenant," he said, folding his hands on the desk before him, "in my opinion, the fact that you've reached your present rank is a tribute to your talent and your hard work. But as far as I can see you have no command skills at all. If you did, you probably wouldn't find yourself in this position. I don't know what circumstances shaped your behavior, Robbins, but starting now you're going to have to learn a different style. Being in charge isn't just a matter of snapping out orders. You have to understand the people you're leading, you have to know how to motivate them. A lot of that is experience, a degree of which you should have by now. I blame your previous commanders for letting this situation drag on. But it stops now. You and I are going to be working together on this, because you are not leaving my command until you have at least a crude idea of how to work with others." He turned to the shelf behind his desk and pulled out a small leather-bound case.
"This is an excellent primer," he said, handing it to the lieutenant. "We'll discuss what you've read next week." He checked his calendar. "Same day and time," Raeder murmured, tapping in the appointment. "Unless, of course, something unforeseen comes up." He gave her a brief, encouraging smile. The poor kid looks shell-shocked. "Now we should both get back to work."
"Yes, sir," she said, her face unreadable, her voice dazed. "Thank you again, sir," Robbins said, and standing to attention, snapped him a salute.
Raeder rose to the occasion, literally, and returned it. Then she spun neatly around and left the office.
Maybe she's just shy, Peter thought. He'd noticed that sometimes people who were terribly inarticulate about their feelings resorted to these extravagant and clumsy gestures to show what they meant. Or at least that they meant something. He shook his head. I really hope she doesn't turn out to be the saboteur. I'll feel awfully bad about smoothing off her rough edges if she is. On the other hand, it was those very rough edges that had convinced him of her innocence. I mean, the girl stands out like a sore thumb. Not one of the attributes of a successful spy. Then again, there was Mata Hari . . . Not that she was what you'd call successful. . . . Work, Raeder! he commanded himself, and sat down again to lose himself in his mail.
After a week of travel the small convoy was approaching the Transit point, with the Aubrey poised to lead them through.
Petty Officer Donna Jamarillo sat at her comm, monitoring the signals in their vicinity of space, lost in the multiple datastreams the holo fed her in text and flashing color. A peculiar echo caught her attention, a sort of here and there effect that resembled the sending of a message pod through a Transit point.
Damn, she thought, fingers dancing on the flat surface of the control panel, calling the data up again.
"Sir," she said urgently to her immediate supervisor.
Lieutenant Barry Slade moved over to stand beside her.
"What is it, Jamarillo?" he asked.
She replayed the signal for him. "I don't know, sir. It looks like a message pod. But with this many ships, it could be a Transit Drive warm-up echo . . . here it is."
He nodded. "It does look like a pod, at that. Can you tell where it came from?"
She shook her head apologetically. "No, sir, only that it came from behind us."
"All right," he said. "I'll tell the captain. Carry on." He smiled. "Good work."
Jamarillo took four paces across the narrow circle of the destroyer's command bridge and bent to murmur in her commander's ear. Captain Kaminsky rubbed his broad chin without taking his eyes from his own displays; being able to focus on several things at once was an essential command skill.
"Send a recording of the echo to Captain Knott, coded, eyes only, with my compliments," he said. Then he shrugged. "There's nothing else we can do now." By the time they got through to the XHO-67 System, assuming it was a message torpedo and that it was headed for the same place, it would be long gone. And whatever damage it represented would be well on its way to being done.
Knott entered the briefing room silently and quietly moved to a seat in the back. Lieutenant Commander Sarah James did not acknowledge his entrance by so much as the flicker of a slender eyebrow, but Knott was sure she was completely aware of him. It pleased him that she was also alert enough to realize he didn't want to interrupt the flow of her briefing.
" . . . particular attention, on our return to the Invincible, to the ring around the gas giant," she said, indicating it on the holo-map with her laser pointer. "There's every likelihood that the blockade runners, at least, and certainly some of the raiders will try to hide there, taking advantage of the way these fragments of rocks, ice, whatever can foul up detection beams." She checked her watch. "We will be exiting Transit at eleven forty hours. We depart at twelve hundred. Are there any questions?"
No one responded. Knott rose from his seat and started forward.
"The captain will be addressing us," James said. Her small wing of twenty-one rose from their seats and stood to attention. She saluted the captain when he joined her at the front of the room and he returned it briskly.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander," he said, then, turning to the room at large, "as you were."
They sat, readying their notepads in the event the captain had new data for them.
"I have just received some new information from Captain Kaminsky of the Aubrey that I thought you should be aware of. Aubrey's comm detected the type of echo commensurate with the signature of a message torpedo being skipped into Transit."
Knott looked out over the grim faces of his people. "All they know about it is that it came from behind them. Which means it came from the Maturin, the Indefatigable," he paused, and anger sparked in his ice gray eyes, "or from us. Leading me to believe that there is a strong possibility that the enemy has been warned of our coming. Therefore, you must go with extreme caution. Assume that we are not only approaching a dangerous enemy, but one that has been alerted."
He looked out over the men and women before him and took a deep breath. The WACCIs were so vulnerable. They were virtually unarmed, relying on stealth and ability to keep them safe. Sending them out naked to meet the enemy never made him feel good. Today it almost made him feel like an executioner.
"Keep your heads up out there," he commanded. Then he grinned. "Or should I say down. Come back safe."
Knott stood to attention and saluted them, they rose in a body to return it. It was one of those rare moments when Knott and James and every man and woman in that room knew, to the bottom of their souls, that they were part of something greater than themselves. Knott's arm snapped down.
"Dismissed!" James barked, breaking the spell. As the crewmen began to move about she shouted out, "Be on Main Deck to check out your craft no later than eleven hundred."
"Yes, sir!" they shouted in response.
Knott raised his brows. "A little early, isn't it, Lieutenant?"
"I figure it's better to put yourself through the tedium of checking things out thoroughly, sir, than to worry about whether you should have when you ought be thinking of something else," she said, smiling.
He nodded sadly, thinking of poor Raeder trying to build up morale in a hopeless situation like this. "I suppose you're right," he agreed. He offered his hand and she took it. "Good luck, Commander. Bring 'em home safe."
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Hi," a quiet voice said from behind her as Sarah signed off on a release pad. She turned to find Commander Raeder smiling at her. Somewhat shyly, she thought.
"Just came down to wish you luck," he said, holding out his hand.
For a second she wondered if the scuttlebutt was true. If Raeder really was some kind of spy-master come to aid Cynthia Robbins in her efforts at sabotage. She shook his hand briefly.
"Thank you, Commander," she said.
He blinked and looked at his hand. "I washed it," he said. "Really I did."
Sarah smiled, she couldn't help it. The man played a very convincing wounded innocent.
The mechanic said, "I have another, Lieutenant Commander," holding out the notepad and stylus.
"I'll take care of that, Huff," Raeder said, taking them out of her hands.
I still don't like Speed jocks, Sarah grumbled mentally as he held the notepad and she signed with the stylus. He didn't say a word, but she could feel him looking at her.
"Wish you were coming with us, Commander?" she asked flippantly.
"Nooo, ma'am," he said fervently. "If I have to face the Mollies I want a weapon between us, not just a sensor array. What I do wish is that they could send some Speeds with you to cover your auh, butts."
"Oh-ho, no," she said. "Speeds are very high-profile craft. I'll stick with our WACCIs stealth ability, thank you." Sarah glanced at him as she handed back the stylus. "We'll get home all right," she assured him.
"Good," Raeder said, and nodded firmly.
She looked down at her watch to hide her smile. "Well, I've got to go get suited up." Sarah looked up at him. "Thank you for your good wishes, Commander." She turned and walked off toward the pilots ready room, sensing that he was watching her and itching to look back at him to verify her instinct. Serve my vanity right if I did and he was gone already, she thought with an inner chuckle.
But Sarah kept her eyes almost defiantly front and never knew that Raeder had watched her all the way.
Raeder watched the WACCIs hurled through the carrier's launch port with the oddest feeling in his chest, as though his heart were definitely beating faster than was called for.
I have such a bad feeling about this, he thought unhappily. It's just too much to hope, after everything that's happened, this mission should go off without a hitch. Somewhere, somehow, Murphy's Law was winding up to a painful slap. But not to anything that's been on my deck, Raeder thought fiercely.
He'd been knocking himself out the last several days, double-checking everything he could think of. And he'd put a security seal on the hatch of every Speed or WACCI on Main Deck, not removing them until it was absolutely essential. And boy, did Booth howlabout needless expense, about stupid ideas, about, "We all know who the culprit is, Commander."
Until Raeder had said, "Well, I can always make this request through the captain. It just seemed like this would be easier." Those seals had practically flown to Main Deck under their own power.
Come back safe, Sarah James, Peter thought one last time before he turned his mind to preparing his Speeds for launch.
You could lose yourself in work. And at last, at last, he was about to strike back at the enemy again. He looked down at his artificial hand and smiled grimly.
Sarah was able to report a clear corridor to the Mollie base. No sign of hostility, no sign of traffic. . . . This isn't right, she thought nervously. It's too quiet. She smiled at the cliché.
Her hands worked in the control cups. Lights and images ran through the holos that rose before her crash couch: neutrino signatures, thermal signatures, everything down to and including optics and radar.
"This isn't right," Yee, her gunner said, echoing her thoughts from behind her and to the left.
A WACCI's control compartment was two narrow rectangles for sensor operator and gunner, opening into an even narrower wedge for the pilot. The three of them lay encased in the petals of their couches, pivoting and swinging on magnetic gimbals to face one item of equipment or another. It was very quiet, only the subliminal hum of the power systems and the sough of the ventilators; they all had their helmets unlatched for the present.
"No," she agreed. "There doesn't seem to be anything at that base but a few freighters and a handful of Mollie Speeds." 'Course, they might have the ground defenses to end all ground defenses. But if they did, then they were under impenetrable cover.
She shook her head. "Time to head back," she said to Davis, the pilot. Then she leaned over her boards, frowning as though she could will them to give her the information she needed.
Peter Raeder sat in darkness, watching the command deck relay of the Indefatigable's Marines making their assault on the Mollie base . . . and splitscreen views from their helmet cameras. This was against regs, strictly speaking, but he'd made a few modifications. His eyes flickered back and forth. Alarms would summon him the instant Flight Engineering had anything to do, but this waiting was harder than he'd believed it could be. For now he could only watch. That was all Captain Knott could do, toowatch and wait and silently pray as the Space Command's men and women met the enemy. Images . . .
. . . A Mollie Speed caught jiggling in the weapons-sensor pod of one of the Invincible's squadron, the one that had hit it. The image was radiation-degraded, but clear enough to see bits and pieces flickering off into vacuum . . . and then burning in the thin bitter atmosphere of the gas giant's moon. Pilot dead or disabled, Peter thought. His hands clenched on the rests of his chair in unconscious urging, as if they commanded a Speed's controls even now. AI's out. Override blocks down . . . Jesus! The plunge turned into a lance of fire; the fusion engines were firing at maximum, past redline. They must be eating the throat out of the nozzles. Either the containment vessel would go, or the nozzles would flare, or it would hit at one almighty accumulation of delta-v.
All three happened at once. The lance of fire through the moon's atmosphere ended in a titanic fireball swelling up from the off-white surface as the Speed impacted at about .01 percent of C. That put the kinetic yield of the strike well into the multimegatonne range, and rock and water ice and frozen methane vomited toward the heavens. The image of the moon pinwheeled as the Space Command pilot went through a victory roll, then slipped out of the viewer as they pulled their Speeds back toward the darkness.
. . . Gunboats and assault transports were swarming down from Indefatigable. Beams flickered at them, pale rose-violet and red through the thin atmosphere. Robot bombs raced downward along the ionized trails, and bright intolerable winks of fire marked where defense batteries died. Then a gush of heavy antiship missiles came up over the horizon, reaching for the Marine landing craft and the mother ship with paths marked with vector-trails by the AIs. They corkscrewed and dodged as heavy plasma guns and lasers hammered at them, then died one by one. Something wobbled into Peter's view, heading from the Indefatigable toward the site of the missile launchers. Something big, big enough to have its own automatic defenses flickering beam-fire as it headed toward the Mollie strong point far to the notional west.
"I didn't know they had one of those" Peter began, then winced as the sun seemed to rise beyond that horizon.
It was sunlight; a Solar Phoenix bomb, a self-sustaining thermonuclear reaction that would last for whole minutes, a miniature star rather than an explosion. He hoped nothing valuable was within a couple of thousand kilometers of it.
The Indefatigable and her swarm of landing craft beat down the base's defenses, assisted by Speeds with no more targets in space freed to make strafing runs. Peter switched viewpoints to the prow of an assault boat, its gun-tubs spraying fire as it came in on spikes of fusion flame. The sleek teardrop shape grounded, then opened up like a flower in stop-motion film. Its weapons kept firing as humans and machines spilled out. Beyond its landing point was an enigmatic complex of pipes and skeletal towers. Return fire lanced out from it, and the Marines went to ground. Metal sublimed into vapor, and the towers fell. Sapper teams slammed forward, faceless in their suits of cermet combat armor.
Peter's hand moved, and he was looking out through the helmet camera of a Marine sapper. The view jiggled and bounced as the trooper trotted forward; he could see the muzzle of a heavy slug-gun moving with trained wariness ahead, past half-melted shapes, harsh black shadows, and roadways with giant-wheeled haulers abandoned when the attack began. Then a looming building, a simple blank cube of cast rock with big doors for the cargo rollers, tightly shut now; undoubtedly an access point to the underground base. A figure in a ripped suit of Mollie combat armor dangled off the edge of the blockhouse, near where something had taken a bite out of the stone that still glowed red-black. The audio channel buzzed with orders and downloads, full of Marine argot and code words and call signs.
The Marines wrestled parcels off their liftsled and slapped them on the surface of the doors.
"Fire in the hole!" a tension-shrill soprano called.
The camera view swung and twisted as the Marine leapt aside into cover. It went dark as the trooper wrapped his arms around helmet and hugged knees to chest, then shook in a long rumble. The Marines following the sapper team plunged through the twisted metal that had been the doors. Beams and hypervelocity darts swarmed to meet them.
"We're winning," Peter Raeder muttered. "Why don't I feel better about it?"
"Phase One secured, I repeat, Phase One secured," a voice calm except for the panting of exertion said. "Proceeding."
Autosleds whipped by, bringing back wounded. Others shuttled forward, loaded with ammunition, air, powerpacks. Peter switched the feed to a robot spyeye. It floated through the interior of the blockhouse, past wrecked airsleds and orbital shuttles, then past thick blast doors peeled inward like grapes punched by ice picks. Down a sloping corridor into the crust of the moon, past a dogleg. One last glimpse, of something long and slender turning and tracking, and that part of the screen went dead.
The same calm voice cut in: "Request update on layout."
"That's negative," someone answered. "Still shielded. Will return AI extrapolation feed as you give us data."
"Thank you." The calm was tinged with sarcasm. "All right, boys and girlslet's go earn our princely pay."
Peter sighed. "Yup, we're winning," he muttered to himself. "We'll have the base in a couple of hours."
He felt a fierce, melancholy pride. Point Space Command at an objective, and by God they took the objective.
The arm of the chair broke with a sharp snap under the ferocious grip of his artificial hand. He hardly noticed.