Alarm of War (10 page)

“No, I don’t suppose they do,” Admiral Giunta remarked dryly. “But this development means that we will have Duck war ships passing through Victorian space on a routine basis.” He paused, absently toying with his pen. “Kathy, I want you move Third Fleet to Windsor and replace the Second Fleet there.” He shifted to look at Admiral Skiffington. “I want Second Fleet brought back to Victoria and placed in deep orbit around Cornwall. If we need to take action, Second Fleet will be our primary strike force.”

Vice Admiral Skiffington nodded in agreement, smiling broadly.

“Admiral!” the Third Fleet commander protested, “there’s no reason why Third Fleet can’t handle this. From what we know of the Tilleke navy, we-”

Admiral Giunta held up a hand to forestall her. “That’s the problem, Kathy. We just don’t know.” He turned to the head of Intelligence. “Jeffrey, how current is our information on Tilleke technology?”

Rear Admiral Teehan frowned. “It’s not current at all, Admiral. Our latest information on their military technology is at least seven years old. Every time we’ve sent agents in to spy on them, they disappear. No reports, no information. And we have not been able to observe any tests or weapons trials. We know they have a huge development program based on the materials they’ve bought from others, but we just do not know what they have done with it.”

Admiral Giunta turned back to Vice Admiral Penn. “That’s the problem, Kathy: we don’t know what we are up against. Second Fleet is bigger, with newer ships. If there is a shooting war, I want Second Fleet there first.”

Penn frowned, but said nothing. Beside her, Admiral Skiffington looked thoughtful. “If I may, Admiral,” he said pensively. “I know I can come on a little strong about Second Fleet’s abilities sometimes-”

“And all the time I thought you were shy and introverted,” Alyce Douthat said in mock astonishment. A dry chuckle sounded around the table.

Skiffington smiled in wry acknowledgement of the well-deserved sarcasm. “I’ve never been one for hiding my light beneath a bushel, I’ll admit that, but Bob makes a good point. We’ve never fought the Tilleke. The fact is, we don’t know what they have, what their tactics are, how good their command and control is.” He looked at Kathryn Penn, then back to Admiral Giunta. “It might be best if we detach a small covering force to picket Windsor and send the rest of Third Fleet with me to Tilleke if the balloon goes up.”

Giunta was astonished. Oliver Skiffington was not known for this degree of caution. A big, burly, energetic man, Skiffington’s favorite saying, drummed into every Second Fleet officer, was: ‘When in doubt, be bold!’

“I will not give up command of Third Fleet and make it an adjunct unit of Second Fleet!” Vice Admiral Penn said sharply.

“Of course not, Kathryn,” Giunta assured her. “I’m sure Oliver wasn’t suggesting that. I do like the idea, however, of sending as large a force in as we can.” He smiled. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There is a very good chance nothing at all will come of any of this.”

No one really believed him.

As they were all filing out the door, Admiral Douthat caught Teehan’s elbow. “Jeffrey,” she murmured. “I don’t want this to sound like I am as offended as Oliver put on, but why
are
you using Lieutenant Brill to brief us? Isn’t he a little junior for this?” She smiled to take any sting out of her implied criticism.

Teehan nodded. “Normally, yes.” He pursed his lips and breathed heavily though his nose. “Remember five months ago, Emperor Chalabi demanded Arcadia practically give them free ziridium?” Douthat nodded. “Yes, well, the very next day our good Lieutenant Brill sent his superior a memo outlining what he considered to be a highly likely outcome of that demand. His superior sat on it until the second Arcadian freighter disappeared last month, then sent it on to me. Felt a little sheepish, I imagine.”

“Sheepish?” Home Fleet said inquiringly.

“Brill had laid it all out, you see. The Arcadian rejection of the Emperor’s demand, mysterious disappearances of Arcadian ziridium freighters, the Arcadian reaction to that. Did an analysis of Emperor Chalabi’s personality, the history of friction between the two Sectors. Nice little piece of work. The thing is, you see, he even suggested that this would be the perfect opportunity for one of the lesser Sectors to cement
their
supply of ziridium by providing military transport to Arcadian vessels while in Tilleke space.”

Douthat raised her eyebrows in surprise. “He actually predicted the Dominion would offer military escorts?”

Teehan chuckled. “No, not that good. Actually, he guessed it would most likely be Cape Breton, but I won’t hold that against him. I showed the report to Admiral Giunta, who told me to bring young Brill along for the briefing.”

“Well,” Douthat said slowly, “all honor to young Brill. And what does the prescient Lieutenant Brill predict will happen next?”

Teehan grimaced. “Yes, well, that’s the thing, you see. He says Tilleke will invade Arcadia. Quite emphatic about it.”

“Oh, crap!” said the Commander of Home Fleet.

Teehan gave a ghost of a smile. “From the mouths of babes, eh?”

Outside, Admiral Skiffington was walking with his newly appointed aide, his son, Lieutenant Grant Skiffington. The Admiral saw that his son was frowning. “What’s the matter?”

Grant shook his head. “I don’t know, I mean, what happens if the Tilleke do attack. We have no idea what we’ll be up against. Admiral Teehan said-”

“Teehan’s an old woman, afraid of his shadow,” Admiral Skiffington said dismissively. “Don’t worry, Second Fleet can take anything the Tilleke throw against us. Our ship building and design is years ahead of the Emperor’s.”

“But you just said you needed Third Fleet,” his son protested.

The Admiral was a little disappointed, but tried not to show it. “Every situation is an
opportunity
,” he explained patiently. “If the Tilleke attack Arcadia, I’ll see to it that Third Fleet is put under my command. At the end of the day, not only will I defeat the Emperor, but Third Fleet will be mine for good.”

Grant Skiffington digested this thoughtfully. The Admiral saw the expression on his face and barked a laugh.

“Always remember, son: Victory goes to the bold.”

I
t was during her third month aboard the missile cruiser
New Zealand
that Emily discovered she could be a devious bitch…and enjoy every minute of it. But before she got there, she was in constant torment.

Her chief tormentor was a short, fat, balding, cheerful lieutenant borrowed from the Destroyer
Cape Town.
He was the instructor for the twenty new Tactical officers aboard the missile cruiser
New Zealand
. His name was Alexander Rudd, and as he stood at the podium in the Training Room, he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He sweated. His cheeks were always flushed and he constantly mopped his brow.

How did this guy ever make it through Camp Gettysburg? Emily wondered in bemusement. Sergeant Kaelin would have eaten him alive.

Lieutenant Rudd unbuttoned his tunic and wiped his face. “Okay, listen up. Welcome to the Home Fleet. This is kiddy school for new Tactical officers. For the next three months, you will learn about basic tactics, weapons load outs, combat maneuvers, use of weapons and decoy combinations, and combat under a variety of scenarios, from one-on-one skirmishes to task force size engagements. For the next month or so, each of you will be the “captain” of your very own destroyer.” He smiled. “Your first task is to name your ship. Once you have done that, I want you to select a weapons load out, arm your ship and prepare to attack me.”

“One at a time or all of us?” Laura Salazar asked boldly. She was tall, with striking red hair and pale skin. She made Emily feel frumpy and too short.

“Entirely up to you,” Rudd replied. “You can coordinate with each other if you want to. In fact, I would urge you to do so.”

One of the students, Andrew Lord, stared dubiously at his screens. “How will we know which ship is yours?” he asked.

“For now,” Rudd explained, “all the ships are color coded: blue for friendly, red for hostile, yellow for unknowns and, of course, flashing orange for dead.” A bemused chuckle ran around the room. After their months at Camp Gettysburg, they were all too familiar with flashing orange. “Only here we don’t indicate a destroyed ship by using ‘FOF” or anything else cute and pretty. When a Victorian ship is destroyed, it automatically sends out a special, high speed courier drone that broadcasts a ‘Code Omega’ message. That means the ship is dead. Its crew is dead.” He paused for a moment to let this sink in. “The Code Omega drone will transmit the last hour of data from the ship’s bridge and sensor systems so that we can learn what happened.”

Each officer was assigned to his or her own “ship,” a cubicle filled with sensor screens and a simple control panel. Emily sat at a console that gave her control of a computer generated destroyer. By moving a joy stick she could “fly” her ship in any direction and fire its weapons. A screen showed her a simple sensor display, while another displayed the condition of her ship. It was about as simple as a computer game display. As an added feature, however, there was a large holographic display in the middle of the room, showing all of their ships suspended in three dimensional space. She put on a pair of headphones and worked out how to talk to the other trainees.

“Okay, here’s what we do,” Laura Salazar said crisply, assuming command of the ten trainees without discussion. No one objected, mostly relieved that someone was taking charge and had a plan. “Each of our destroyers can launch ten missiles at a time, with a total of thirty spares. If all ten of us load all missiles – skip the decoys and crap - and shoot at the same time, we’ll have one hundred missiles headed for him at the same time. That should overwhelm his defenses and take him out.”

Emily was scanning through the defense systems for her destroyer. It seemed to be based on short-range lasers. She wondered what the recycle time was to recharge before she could fire the lasers a second time. A frown wrinkled her forehead: How many hits could a destroyer absorb before it was killed? A lot she didn’t know yet.

Ten minutes later they were ready, their ships moving across the holograph as tiny blue specs. For several minutes, nothing, then a red triangle popped up on Emily’s sensor screen. “Got him!” she alerted the others. They had him, too. “Let’s nail the bastard,” Salazar snarled. “Tally ho!” Lord shouted, then ruined it by laughing. The ten ships wheeled towards their target, formed a ragged line and advanced to weapons range.

Moments later a hundred missiles were in the air, accelerating rapidly toward Rudd’s ship.

Emily sighed, folded her arms and sat back.
Too easy,
she thought to herself.
Much too easy.
She wondered how he’d do it. Then she frowned and wondered how
she
would do it if she were in Rudd’s shoes. She thought about how to sucker ten untried tactical officers on their first mission, ten trainees eager to show they could be more aggressive than the next guy. Ten trainees who would charge at the enemy at the very first opportunity...
Oh, bugger me!
She toggled her communicator so that she was talking only to Rudd.

“We who are about to get thoroughly screwed salute you,” she said ruefully. There was a moment of silence, then a dry chuckle sounded in her headphones. “Tuttle?” Rudd asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Well…your file said you were bright. Figure it out yet?”

“Not all of it,” Emily admitted. “But I know that we’re about to get creamed.” She smiled. “You must be a very busy person just now, with ten ships to target.”

“Nah, Tuttle, not as busy as you might think. After all, you guys are doing all the hard work for me,” Rudd said cheerfully. “Got to go, Tuttle. Things to do, ships to kill and all that.” He switched off.

Meanwhile, the destroyers were frantically reloading missiles. “Once we are all loaded, shoot the second round on my command,’ Laura Salazar said forcefully. It was a good plan: The second wave of missiles would be in the air just as the first wave was reaching the target. If the first wave didn’t kill the target, the second surely would.

Emily stood up in order to get a better view of the holographic display. Ten blue triangles were closing in on one red ship. Then, as she watched, the red ship split into two, then into four, then into eight, each darting in different directions and maneuvering wildly. The missiles relentlessly pursued, splitting up into groups to chase after the nearest target. Three of the trainees decided on their own not to wait any longer and launched their second round of missiles. Seeing that, the others fired theirs off in a ragged volley. The screen was filled with dots of light leaping towards the hostile ships.

No, not ships, Emily thought.
Decoys
. Dammit, they were
all
decoys. So, where was Rudd? Her head swiveled to scan her sensor screens, which were filled with a confusing clutter of over a hundred missiles, other ships, Rudd’s decoys and…

Without warning, three destroyers blew up, their blue symbols suddenly flashing orange. Shouts of consternation came from their captains. Two more exploded a moment later.

Where there had been ten blue symbols representing their destroyers, there were now five orange circles and five blue triangles…and one red triangle behind them. Empty space a moment ago, but now there was Rudd’s ship. More missiles emerged from it, almost languid in their movement, boring in towards the remaining blue ships.

“Shit!” Salazar shouted frantically. “Turn, turn! Activate your short-range defenses-”

Then it was over. Two more ships were completely destroyed, three were crippled, including Emily’s. After a long moment of silence, broken only by muttered curses, Rudd’s voice came over their headphones. Emily had expected laughter, perhaps sarcasm, but instead his voice was somber and serious.

“Those of you who are Code Omega are the lucky ones. For the others, your ship is crippled. You cannot maneuver, you cannot turn, cannot stop. Maybe your life support is still working, so you still have air…for a time. Perhaps you hope to be rescued. But look at your sensors. Your ship is still moving, drifting farther and farther away into deep space.” On Emily’s screen her ship slowly cart-wheeled away into the inky blackness, growing smaller and smaller. “This is what we call the ‘Long Walk.’” Rudd continued gravely. “It is the nightmare of every officer and sailor in the Fleet: To drift in the darkness of space for days or weeks or months until your air is exhausted and you die.” He paused, letting them envision it. “Your job as Tactical Officer is to make sure this never happens to you, to your ship, to your crew.”