Dreadnought (Starship Blackbeard Book 3) (21 page)

Worse still was the third Hroom fleet. Eight ships, uncontested. It had been in the system for several hours, according to panicked messages coming out of fleet headquarters. There were no available naval resources to oppose it. At the moment, it had a clear path straight to Albion. Shortly, the wisdom of Rutherford’s decision to leave the jump point without waiting for Malthorne and
Dreadnought
became apparent. Rutherford would arrive at Albion at almost the same time as these eight ships.

There were six death fleets, according to the tortured prisoners. One destroyed in the Gryphon Shoals. Three here in the system. That left two more fleets unaccounted for.

Rutherford had been racing toward Albion for two hours before
Dreadnought
came through the jump point. Malthorne snapped off several angry messages from the bridge of the battleship, but the two forces were so distant that by the time Rutherford had a chance to respond, the admiral had apparently reassessed the situation and realized the trouble they were in. A fourth Hroom fleet had been spotted near the gas giants, this one nine sloops of war. Also unopposed.

Malthorne didn’t retract his furious missives, but to his credit, he did adjust his battle plan. He sent a second task force to chase after
Vigilant
and
Lancelot
. Rutherford’s battle would likely be over by the time it arrived, but these new ships could bolster the planetary defenses. The admiral then took
Dreadnought
and the bulk of his forces to intercept the force out by the gas giants. He sent his two fastest cruisers to engage the final enemy fleet that was being chased by the missile frigates. They could not hope to defeat the sloops, but could possibly delay them.

Rutherford called Pittsfield and Caites into the war room to discuss how to position their limited forces in the upcoming battle.

“There will be hell to pay,” Pittsfield warned. “Regardless of how the battle turns out, the lord admiral will want our blood.”

Caites looked bewildered. “Why?”

“Because I disobeyed a direct order,” Rutherford said. “We were told to hold at the jump point until the entire fleet had come through. It wasn’t a
bad
order—we had no way to know that the Hroom would already be in the system.”

Left unspoken, but surely obvious to Caites and Pittsfield, was that Malthorne had burned three full days fighting pirates and then diverting to battle the Hroom fleet outside the home system. Had they not taken that costly detour, the entire fleet would be orbiting Albion by now. From there, Malthorne could have maintained an overwhelming defensive cordon.

“But sir, the Hroom arrived early,” she protested. “What were we to do? Let them attack Albion unchallenged?”

“You have a lot to learn, Lieutenant,” Rutherford said. “The lord admiral is absolutely correct. This fleet is built on obedience and discipline. It is the foundation of navy power.”

“With all due respect, sir . . . no, I apologize. Never mind.”

“Go ahead,” Rutherford urged.

“It is obedience, discipline, and
initiative
. That is why we win.”

“And I have
taken
initiative in this case. But there will be a heavy cost to pay. So long as Admiral Malthorne leads this fleet, the kind of insubordination I displayed cannot be tolerated.”

Caites opened her mouth, then closed it again. She leaned forward. There was something else she desperately wanted to say, that much was obvious. In less-trusted company, Rutherford would have cut her off to save her from her own impudent words. But he wanted to hear what she was thinking, and so he nodded his encouragement.

“Sometimes, I wonder,” she said at last, “if Admiral Malthorne isn’t a bigger threat to the kingdom than James Drake, the Hroom, or any number of other enemies.”

It was a dangerous statement. It hinted at more than mutiny or insubordination, but at outright treason. The words hung in the air for a long moment, before Pittsfield cleared his throat and brought up a schematic of the system.

They ran through the data, and what it showed was grim. Every scenario had
Vigilant
and her support vessels tackling eight sloops of war alone. He’d catch them a few million miles out from Albion, where he hoped to charge in with the cruiser and corvette and take out at least two of the enemy ships. Supported by the destroyers and the torpedo boats, he thought he could disable or destroy two, maybe three more before the superior Hroom forces knocked him out of the fight. That would leave three or four sloops to rush Albion unopposed. Unsupported by warships, Rutherford didn’t think the orbital fortresses could repel them all before the sloops of war had entered the atmosphere on their final suicidal mission.

How many atomic warheads did four sloops carry? Too many.

Caites ran her fingers through her short, blond hair. “I’d like our chances a lot better if we could reach Albion and hide behind the guns of Fort William or Fort Ellen. For that matter, the forts need
us
, too.”

“Put that hope out of your mind, Lieutenant,” Rutherford said. “There is no way to arrive before the Hroom. We can only hope to come up shooting from behind and force them to turn and give us a fight.”

“But eight sloops,” she said.

“We may not come out of it alive,” Rutherford admitted. “Indeed, our best case scenario is to land our blows and be knocked out of the fight. We float away, disabled, while the Hroom ignore us and continue their mission.”

“That isn’t much of a hope, sir,” she said.

“No, it is not. In fact, an even better case would have them chasing after us to finish the job since it would delay them even more.”

“But then we would all die.”

“We may all die anyway,” Rutherford said. “If we do, it will be for the glory of Albion. Small consolation, I know.”

Caites sighed. “Very small. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Maybe we will.” Rutherford had faced terrible odds before and was somehow confident in his ability to emerge from this struggle alive, as well. “There is always a hope, Lieutenant. Any of a million things may happen—always
do
happen, actually—to change the course of battle in unexpected ways. We may yet pull out of this.”

And when you do? When the battle is won, thanks to your initiative and sacrifice? When Admiral Malthorne rewards you with a court martial and a demotion? What, then?
 

Rutherford took a deep breath and turned to Pittsfield, who was tracing his fingers over the console, moving around various pieces as if searching for some way out of the predicament. “Commander? Any thoughts? Solutions?”

Pittsfield shook his head. “No, sir. I am sorry. I’ve been looking for alternatives, but I can find none.”

“Very well. Let us discuss the order of battle. We have few forces—it will be simple.”

He had just started on possibilities, when Norris called over the com. “Sir, look at the viewscreen!”

Rutherford brought up the image on one of the war room consoles. The relative motion of both
Vigilant
and Albion now gave them a view of the far side of the planet, and a fresher picture of the situation rapidly came into focus.

Blackbeard
was in orbit around Albion, with three other vessels in support. Two were frigates roughly on par with a corvette, and the third was a small schooner. Drake was slugging it out with a pair of orbital fortresses. The attack on Thor must have been a feint, designed to lure the navy from Albion and distract attention while he sneaked in. It had worked.

The hope Rutherford had been feeling, more wishful thinking, actually, than anything backed by evidence, now bloomed. James Drake was between Albion and the Hroom death fleet.

“Thank you, Norris,” Rutherford said, and ended the call from the bridge. Better not to let Norris know what he was planning.

“Send a message to
Blackbeard
,” he told Pittsfield. “Give her full access to our data. Tell Drake we are on our way and make sure he knows about those Hroom sloops. I’ll see about getting the forts to stand down, but Drake needs to hold his ground for the good of Albion.”

That eliminated the need for Rutherford to go after the Hroom alone. He could follow close behind, count on Drake to support the forts and delay the attack, and then hammer the Hroom from behind.

“Will he help us, sir?” Caites asked, as Pittsfield began to compose a message. “What about rescuing his parents? What about his mutinous crew? What about the fact that Malthorne murdered his sister and will still kill Drake no matter what happens today?”

“You met Captain Drake,” Rutherford said. “You saw what kind of a man he is.”

She shifted in her seat and looked uneasy. “Yes, but—”

“James Drake,” Rutherford said confidently, “is, and always will be, a citizen of Albion. He will sacrifice to save our planet, I am sure of it.”

Even as Pittsfield sent the message, a new communication came from
Dreadnought
. Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne had spotted James Drake and his pirate fleet and had orders on the subject. The forces were far enough apart that the orders came as a subspace message.

Captain Nigel Rutherford, HMS Vigilant
 

You must stop Drake. If our orbital defenses cannot hold, you must block him from escaping the system. Drake is behind this Hroom attack, he is the one who led the enemy here and allowed them to attack our home system. His treason has reached the point of genocide against his own race, and for the sake of peace, safety, and vengeance on behalf of the Crown, the navy, and the Albionish people, you must kill him and his crew.

If you complete this mission, your insubordination will be forgiven. You will be elevated to the Admiralty and granted an estate on Albion as recompense for your heroism.

If you fail to obey, you will be arrested, tried for treason, and hung from the end of a rope until dead.

With resolution,

Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne

Rutherford stared at the message for a long time. It was infested with lies, cowardice, and evil. Yes, evil. Rutherford had never read a more wicked order, and he loathed every word of it.

“What is it?” Pittsfield asked. “Are you unwell?”

Erase it. Hit ‘delete’ and pretend you never received the message. Anything can happen in battle. You may be killed. The admiral may be killed. You may emerge as a hero who cannot be touched. Anything.
 

But that was the coward’s way. He slid his computer across to Pittsfield, who drew in his breath as he read it. Then, he showed Caites. Her brow furrowed, and she chewed her lip.

“You know what I intend to do, I presume?” Rutherford asked. “There is only one option, as ugly as that is.”

They looked at him for a long moment, and then both of them nodded.

“And are you with me?” he continued.

Again, nods, more resolutely this time.

“Good. Then let us proceed. Ever forward, never looking back.”

Chapter Eighteen

Tolvern stared in horror at the first away pod as it sailed beyond the schooner and disappeared into Albion’s upper atmosphere. An explosion from the orbital fortress had knocked both pods off course, and the schooner’s outstretched hook and net had missed. Had missed! The pod had no heat shields—it would burn up in the atmosphere.

She knew those people. She’d been talking to Mora not five minutes ago as they approached the two away pods. Tolvern and Capp were teasing him about the silly pencil mustache Mora was growing, the sort of good-natured banter to ease nerves before combat. Now, Mora and the rest were soaring to their deaths.

And Tolvern’s pod was following the same path, a few seconds behind it. They were close enough now, only a few hundred yards from the groping hook and net, so close that Tolvern could eyeball it. They would miss. She knew it.

Docking with schooner in . . . recalculating. Unable to calculate.
 

Jane couldn’t calculate, because it wasn’t going to happen. There wasn’t going to be a docking, now or ever. The others in Tolvern’s pods were crying out, struggling with their restraints (what good would
that
do?), closing their eyes, or even praying. But Tolvern could only stare out the port window. She felt pale and lightheaded.

Then, at the moment when her hope was gone, the schooner rolled. Only a fraction—she was still approaching the forts at a rapid clip—but that movement swung the arm wide, closer to them. Was it enough? The pod slammed into the outer metal ring of the net, and they jerked against their restraining belts. Like an idiot, Lutz had unstrapped himself, and he came flying at Tolvern like a meat missile. She ducked, and he flew over her shoulder and slammed into the weapons rack behind her.

As the pod came to rest in the net, there was a good deal of cursing, mixed with cheers and shouts of relief. Lutz’s nose looked like a mashed banana, and his blood was splattered all over her combat jumpsuit. He groaned and clutched at his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. Moments later, the airlock opened, and they stepped into the cramped hold of the schooner. Tolvern was so relieved to feel solid ground beneath her feet that she didn’t care about Lutz’s blood all over her.

Capp grabbed Tolvern’s arm. “All them people. They just . . . they missed. How did they miss? We was right behind ’em. Coulda been us. But it wasn’t. We’re alive, and they’re dead.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Tolvern said.

“They was my mates, you know. Fonseca, Peters, Arends, Mora.” Capp’s eyes were haunted. “I don’t—I can’t . . . ”

Carvalho came over and rested a hand on Capp’s shoulder. His look was sympathetic, and she threw her arms around him and buried her face against his chest.

“Mora’s gone,” she said. “Can you believe it? Me and Tolvern was just talking to him.”

“I know, Capp,” Carvalho said. “Sorry.”

Tolvern stared. She hadn’t thought them capable. A pair of smugglers and pirates, yet here they were, sharing a tender moment. Tolvern wanted to leave them be, but things were happening in the schooner hold, while outside the ship, the fortresses would be turning their guns to hammer them. It was quiet, with no outgoing fire, and nothing had hit them yet, but that could change in an instant, and then all would be chaos and death.