Dawn (28 page)

Would they have thought, “We’ve won, but we’re dead tired. Shouldn’t we rest for a while, reexamine the past, think about our future, and then ask ourselves, is there really something out there that would make fighting on worth it?”

That hadn’t happened. “Who would have imagined that victory could be this easy?” the people had thought. “Who would have imagined that the fruits of victory could be this delectable?” It was an irony that the one who had put those thoughts in their heads had been Yang himself. This was the last thing the young admiral had wanted, and these days the brandy content of his tea was only increasing.

The expeditionary force’s order of battle had not yet been announced to the public, though it was decided already.

Marshal Lasalle Lobos, the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada’s commander in chief himself, was personally taking the post of supreme fleet commander. As the number two man in uniform after Joint Operational Headquarters director Sitolet, his competitive relationship with Sitolet was one that stretched back over a quarter of a century.

The job of vice commander in chief had been left vacant, and taking the seat of joint chief of staff was Senior Admiral Dwight Greenhill—Frederica Greenhill’s father. Under his command had been placed Vice Admiral Konev, the operations chief of staff; Rear Admiral Birolinen, the intelligence chief of staff, and Rear Admiral Caselnes, the rear service chief of staff. This was the first duty on the front in quite some time for Alex Caselnes, who was known for his outstanding knack for getting things done in the office.

Under the operations chief of staff, there were five operations staff officers. One of these was Rear Admiral Andrew Fork, a brilliant man who had graduated top of his class from Officers’ Academy six years ago; this young officer was the original architect of the plan for the upcoming expedition.

The intelligence staff and the rear service staff consisted of three officers each.

To these sixteen were added high-level aides and essential communications, security, and other personnel, and together they formed the supreme command center.

To begin with, eight space fleets were to be mobilized as combat units:

The Third Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Lefêbres.

The Fifth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Bucock.

The Seventh Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Hawood.

The Eighth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Appleton.

The Ninth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Al Salem.

The Tenth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Urannf.

The Twelfth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Borodin.

The Thirteenth Fleet, commanded by Vice Admiral Yang.

The Fourth and Sixth Fleets, having been dealt severe blows at the Battle of Astarte, had been recently joined with the remaining forces from the Second to form Yang’s Thirteenth Fleet, so only two of the ten fleets that made up the Alliance Armed Forces Space Armada—the First and Eleventh—were being left behind in the homeland.

To these forces were added armored mobile troops known collectively as ground combat units, intra-atmosphere airborne combat squadrons, amphibious squadrons, naval units, ranger units, and all manner of other independently operating units. Heavy weapons specialists from the Domestic Security Corps were also going to participate.

As for noncombat personnel, the maximum number possible were to be mobilized from technological, engineering, supply, communications, space traffic control, maintenance, electronic data, medical, lifestyle, and other fields.

The total number mobilized came to 30,227,400 people. This meant that 60 percent of the Free Planets Alliance’s entire military was to be mobilized all at once. That number also accounted for 0.23 percent of the alliance’s full population of thirteen billion.

With an operational plan before them whose gargantuan scope knew no precedent, even admirals who had fought bravely in many prior battles were, here and there, conspicuously unable to clear their heads. They wiped nonexistent sweat from their foreheads, downed glass after glass of the ice water prepared for them, or whispered to colleagues in the seats next to them.

At 0945, Marshal Sitolet, director of Joint Operational Headquarters, entered the room with his top aide, Rear Admiral Marinesk, and the meeting got under way immediately.

There was no sense of grand exaltation in the expression or voice of Marshal Sitolet when he opened his mouth to speak: “The plan we’re discussing today for a campaign into imperial territory has already been approved by the High Council, but …”

All of the admirals in attendance knew that he had been against this deployment.

“Detailed plans for the expeditionary force’s actions are not yet established. The purpose of today’s meeting is to decide on these. I need not remind you at this point that the Alliance Armed Forces is the free military of a free nation. I’m hoping that in that spirit, you’ll carry out a vigorous exchange of ideas and discussion today.”

There may have been some present who from the lack of enthusiasm in the director’s remarks understood his anguish, and there may have been some as well who could perceive in his professorial intonation a passive-aggressive resistance. The director closed his mouth, and for a moment no one said anything. It was as if all present were simmering in their own thoughts.

In the back of his mind, Yang was replaying something he’d heard from Caselnes the other day:

“At any rate, there are unified regional elections coming up soon. On the domestic front, there’s been a string of internal scandals going on for a while now, so if they want to win, they’ll have to divert the public’s attention to the outside. That’s what this military campaign is all about.”

That’s an old trick rulers use to distract the people from their own bad governance,
Yang thought. How the founding father Heinessen would have been grieved to know about this! His wish had never been to have a statue fifty meters tall erected in his honor; surely his hope had been for the construction of a governmental system that posed no danger to its people, where the rights and freedoms of citizens would not be infringed upon by the arbitrary whims of rulers.

But just as humans must eventually grow old and infirm, perhaps so, too, their nations must eventually grow corrupt and decadent. Even so, the notion of sending thirty million troops to the battlefield in order to win an election and retain power for another four years transcended Yang’s comprehension. Thirty million human beings, thirty million lives, thirty million destinies, thirty million possibilities, thirty million joys and furies and sorrows and pleasures—by sending them into the jaws of death, by swelling the ranks of the sacrificed with them, those in safe places monopolized all the profit.

Though the ages turned, this outrageous correlation between those who made war and those who were made to make war had not improved in the slightest since the dawn of civilization. If anything, the kings and champions of the ancient world may have been slightly better—if only on the point of having stood themselves at the heads of their armies, exposing their own skins to the threat of physical harm. It could also be argued that the ethics of those forced to wage wars had only degenerated as well …

“I believe this campaign is the most daring feat attempted since the founding of our alliance. There is no greater honor for me as a soldier than to be able to participate in it as a staff officer.”

Those were the first words that were spoken.

The flat, monotonous voice, like that of someone reading off a script, belonged to Rear Admiral Andrew Fork.

He was only twenty-six, but he looked a good deal older than that, and next to him it was Yang who seemed boyish. The flesh on his pallid cheeks was too thin, although he was not bad looking around the eyes and brows. However, his way of looking down at people and then sweeping his gaze upward conspired with the crook of his mouth to give him a rather gloomy impression. Though of course Yang—to whose experience the word “honor student” was nil—was perhaps given to regarding genius through lenses of prejudice.

The next to speak after Fork’s long, flowery trumpeting of the military’s grand design—that is to say, the operation he had drafted himself—was Vice Admiral Uranff, commander of the Tenth Fleet.

Uranff was a well-built man in the prime of his life, descended from a nomadic tribe said to have once conquered half the world of ancient Earth. He had a dark complexion and eyes that glinted with a sharp light. His courageous leadership made him stand out even among the admirals of the alliance and had brought him popularity among the citizenry.

“We’re soldiers and as such will go anywhere if ordered. If that means striking the very seat of the Goldenbaum Dynasty’s tyranny, we will go, and gladly. However, it should go without saying that there’s a difference between a daring plan and a reckless one. Thorough preparation is essential, but first I’d like to ask what the strategic goal of this campaign is. Do we plunge into imperial territory, fight one battle, and then call it a day? Are we to occupy a part of the empire’s territory militarily, and if so will the occupation be temporary or permanent? And if the answer is ‘permanent,’ will the occupied territory be turned into a military stronghold? Or are we to deal a destructive blow to the imperial military and not turn back until we’ve made the emperor swear an oath of peace? And before all that, is this operation itself considered short-term or long-term? It’s a long-winded list of questions, but I’d like to hear the answers.”

Uranff sat down, and Marshals Sitolet and Lobos both directed their gazes toward Rear Admiral Fork, prompting him to reply.

“We will penetrate deep into the empire’s territory with a large force. That alone will be enough to strike terror into the hearts of the imperials.”

That was Fork’s answer.

“So, we withdraw without fighting?”

“I’m thinking we should maintain a high level of flexibility and deal with each situation as it comes our way.”

Uranff’s brows drew together, showing his dissatisfaction. “Can you not give us a few more specifics? This is far too abstract.”

“What he means is, we just bumble around haphazardly, correct?”

The crook in Fork’s lip grew more pronounced at that sarcasm-spiced comment. Vice Admiral Bucock, commander of the Fifth Fleet, was the one who had spoken it. He was a true veteran of the Alliance Armed Forces, several notches more so than Marshal Sitolet, Marshal Lobos, Senior Admiral Greenhill, and the like. He was not a graduate of Officers’ Academy but had instead worked his way up from a raw recruit, and so although he was lower than they were in terms of rank, he exceeded them in age and experience. As a tactician, his reputation placed him in the bounds of “proficient.”

Fork didn’t reply; although he naturally felt some reserve toward the man, there was also the fact that Bucock had not been formally recognized to speak. On those grounds, Fork had apparently decided to politely ignore him.

“Does anyone else have anything … ?” he said somewhat forcedly.

After a moment’s hesitation, Yang asked to be recognized.

“I’d like to hear the reason the invasion has been set for this point in time.”

Of course Fork wasn’t going to say, “Because of the election.” But how would he answer?

“For every battle, there exists something called the moment of opportunity,” said Rear Admiral Fork, haughtily beginning an explanation of the matter to Yang. “Letting it pass, ultimately, would be to stand in defiance of destiny itself. Someday we might regretfully look back and say, ‘If only we’d taken action then!’ But by then it will be too late.”

“So in other words, our best chance to go on offense against the empire is right now. Is that what you want to say, Commodore?”

Yang had a feeling it was ridiculous to ask for confirmation, but he asked anyway.

“On
major
offense,” Fork corrected.

He sure does like his adjectives,
Yang thought.

“The imperial military is in a panic over the loss of Iserlohn—they have no idea what to do. At this precise moment in history, what but victory could lie ahead for an alliance force of unprecedented magnitude, formed up into long, stately columns, forging ahead with the flag of freedom and justice raised high?”

There was a shade of self-intoxication in his voice as he spoke, pointing at the 3-D display.

“But this operation takes us too deep into the enemy camp. Our formation will get too long, and there’ll be difficulties with resupply and communications. Also, by striking us on those long, thin flanks, the enemy will be able to divide our forces easily.”

Yang’s voice grew heated as he argued, though this was not necessarily in sync with what he was really thinking. After all, how much did the details of execution-level issues matter when the tactical plan itself wasn’t even sound? Yet still he couldn’t bear to not try telling him.

“Why is it just the danger of being divided that you’re emphasizing? An enemy that plowed into the center of our fleet would be caught fore and aft in a pincer attack, and would no doubt be soundly defeated. The risk is insignificant.”

Fork’s optimistic arguments exhausted Yang. Fighting back the desire to say, “Go ahead, then—do whatever you want,” Yang continued to counter him.

“The commander of the imperial force is most likely going to be Count von Lohengramm. There’s something about his military expertise that’s beyond imagining. Don’t you think you should take that into account and come up with a plan that’s just a little more cautious?”

After he finished speaking, Senior Admiral Greenhill answered before Fork was able to.

“Vice Admiral, I’m aware you have a high opinion of Count von Lohengramm. He’s still young, however, and even he must make errors and mistakes.”

Senior Admiral Greenhill’s words didn’t make much of an impression on Yang.

“That’s true. However, the factors that result in victory and defeat are ultimately relative to one another … so if we make a bigger mistake than he does, it only stands to reason that he’ll win and we’ll lose.”