House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (15 page)

The countdown clock read zero – 06:00: 04:00 TST. At 10:00 Predis Ussher’s war would begin.

Commander Alex Ransom stood in the middle of the COS HQ comcenter, out of the way, yet close enough to the screens and scanners so he could see them all. He was wearing a headset; endless toneless exchanges whispered in his ear. With a word, he could give orders, ask or answer questions, check sequences, and monitor any communications, but for now he was silent, isolated in a pocket of calculating tension, his mind geared solely for computation as the digits of the countdown clock ticked over.

This comcenter had become an inadvertent extension of Fina’s. Alex paced the length of the bank of consoles, looking over the heads of the intent monitoring crew. Most of the exile staff was at the consoles, monitoring Phoenix, Conpol, SSB, and Confleet frequencies, the PubliCom System, Brotherhood and private House channels, and the special code frequencies used by loyal members throughout the Centauri System. SynchCom frequencies were open on the same levels to the Solar System.

On the stone wall above the consoles, two large screens were mounted. One limned the countdown schedule direct from Fina, the hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute listings of deadlines set and met, calculated demands sorted into precisely detailed allotments of time. Most of the deadlines on the screen now were for FO. SI’s preparatory sequences were almost entirely accomplished. Like FO, its staff had been augmented by volunteers from other departments. These, with over two thousand regular agents, were already deployed, their assault on a subversive level as minutely calculated as FO’s more straightforward military assault.

Zero hour was 10:00 TST.

The countdown would reverse itself then, counting up to a new zero hour: 16:00. The offensive would be over by then; must be, if the Phoenix fleet hoped to retreat safely to Fina and the Rhea base before Confleet reinforcements arrived from the Solar System.

In that six-hour span, Jan Barret would field a fleet of 325 Falcons and 150 Corvets, each carrying a lethal load of propulsion bombs, each armed with pulsed lasers with twice the power-to-weight ratio of any Confleet gun, each with its multiple objectives set in a calculated lattice of time sequences coordinated to the second with SI’s.

Alex had read the preliminary strat seqs with frank admiration. To accomplish the same objectives, a Confleet commander would need ten times the men and matériel. Alex took pride in the design of the campaign both as a member of the Phoenix and as Jan Barret’s erstwhile tutor, and that only added to his disgust at the necessity of sending exiles, in an incredible alliance with the Brotherhood, out to do battle with Barret’s ships. Yet the Drakonis power plants must be protected, or Ussher’s myopic ambition could cost hundreds of thousands of lives. Alex could only hope that when the Phoenix ships met strong resistance on their approach to the Inner Planets, Barret would order a withdrawal, content to give up one objective for the sake of his ships and crews and the other objectives programmed for them.

The tactics of conservation. Jan had learned that lesson the hard way; he wasn’t likely to forget it now.

“Commander Ransom . . .”

The voice wasn’t from his earspeaker. Dr. Lind at the MT console. Alex walked over to him.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Chan Orley’s on the Fina MT. He’s ready to start transing the first FO members.”

“Good.” He turned the control ring on his mike. “Tel, get me Commander Blayn, please.”

“Yes, sir. He’s in the hangar. Just a moment.”

A click, then a brief pause, and, “Blayn on line.”

“Vic, your FO auxiliary will begin transing in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right up.”

Alex studied the second countdown screen. The next six hours were parceled out as precisely for the COS HQ as they were for Fina. The deadline that concerned him at the moment was 07:00. The Fina fleet would begin its slow exodus then, the ships leaving the lock a few at a time, moving under water on different courses, emerging at irregular intervals at points separated by thousands of kilometers. A third of Barret’s fleet was hangared in the Rhea base in the Solar System, and they had already begun accelerating toward SynchShift and Centauri.

07:00 and the beginning of the Fina launch was important to the exiles because the fifty FO crewmembers needed to augment the exile and Brotherhood crews for the Inner Planets operation must be transed into the COS HQ from Fina before that deadline, and the evacuation would have to be slow and sporadic to avoid alerting Ussher with a mass exodus.

Alex saw Blayn emerging from the hangar entrance and went to meet him.

“Any problems downside, Vic?”

Blayn smiled at that Outsiderism and answered with another.

“No, but maybe that’s asking fate. If there’s any choice in the order for transing, we should get the navcomp personnel in first, just in case all of them don’t make it. Navcomp’s where we’re short.”

“I know, and they know at Fina, but I doubt there’ll be much choice. It’s a question of who can slip away when without attracting too much attention.”

“Well, let’s hope opportunity favors navcomps. Any changes on the Inner Planets op schedule?”

“No. Jael’s talking with Amik now. He’ll smell out any problems. But, Vic, be sure the new men understand they’ll have to take certain precautions working with the Brothers.”

“Don’t worry. Anyway, we’ll have at least three exiles assigned to every ship.” His gaze shifted to the MT. “Here comes the first FO deserter. That’s Pete Jason.” He set off toward the MT, adding with a sidelong glance at Alex, “Navcomp, and a hell of a good one.”

Alex laughed, but a moment later he was distracted when Telstoi’s voice sounded in his ear.

“Sir, I have Kahn Telman on line from the Eliseer Estate. You said you wanted to talk to him when he reported.”

“Yes, Tel. Can you give me an interconn?”

“Right. Stay on receive.”

Alex moved back out of the noise of greetings; two more FO men had transed in. The blue uniforms seemed jarringly out of place here. He thought only fleetingly of the one that waited for him in his room.

“Commander? Telman on line.”

“What’s your situation there, Kahn?”

“On sequence. Lord Eliseer and his sons just got back from seeing Lady Galia and Patricia and Annia off at the IP port. It’s 12:30 local time, and no guests, meetings, or social events are scheduled for the evening. Eliseer and the boys should be sound asleep by 09:30 TST.”

“You’re lucky, Kahn. It’ll be early evening in Leda, and Danae runs on TST; Drakonis and his family will be at the beginning of their day.”

Telman laughed. “Oh, I’m grateful, and maybe you—or whoever’s in charge of the ‘guest’ quarters—should be grateful Galia finally decided to take the girls to Paykeen. She changed her mind twice today. What about Lazar Hamid?”

“He’s in Concordia, thank the God, but I wish he’d taken his family. I doubt Lady Falda will be any more gracious about being kidnapped than Galia would be.” He hesitated, seeing Andreas approaching. “Kahn, you have an open line to me any time, and both Jael and I will be on stand-by for the abductions. Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir. You, too.”

Alex reset the control ring on the mike, frowning briefly; everything seemed backward with his left hand.

“Good morning, Andreas.”

“That’s an optimistic greeting. Did you get any sleep last night?”

Alex smiled at that. “Did you?”

“I’ve had better nights. Is there anything I can do? I seem to be—” He stopped as another FO crewman left the MT. “Those damnable uniforms.” Then he broke into a smile. “Ah—that’s young Dalis. His father was an old friend; Charter member. Excuse me.”

Alex smiled to himself as he watched Andreas hurry to the MT, watched the transformation in the faces of the new men. Faith can move anything, even the stars, so the Shepherds said.

“ ’Day, brother.”

Jael was waiting at the hangar entrance when Alex emerged from the TacComm meeting. The exile fleet’s newly enlarged staff followed to form a loose crowd at the back of the comcenter chamber. The ampspeakers were on now, broadcasting from the FO frequency.

The time was 06:55. Five minutes before the Fina fleet began its ship-by-ship launch.

Alex glanced up at the countdown clock before asking of Jael, “How’s the old Ser?”

“Grateful.”

“For what?”

“Confusion.” Then, with a crooked smile, “The old Ser always welcomes times of official confusion, and he’s smelled out enough of what’s coming down today to tally it as an ungilt gift.” The smile faded as he looked up at the countdown screens. “Anyway, the guest quarters are ready. Do you want me on top of that gim?”

“Only until the guests are settled in, then Erica will take over.”

“All right.” He was listening to the ampspeakers, his attention divided. “Any word from Ben?”

“Not directly. He sent the final plan of attack on the PubliCom studios in Leda, Helen, and Danae. We’ll get a warning to Conpol fifteen minutes before zero hour. That will put enough uniforms in the studios to discourage any SI agents other than the loyals Ben has already warned.”

“Ussher’ll howl when he doesn’t see his face and hear his call to arms on the vidicom.”

Alex didn’t reply. The first two Falcons were leaving Fina’s lock. The countdown clock ticked over its implacable digits.

Zero –03:00.

Alex was thinking of Jan Barret. His was one of the voices on the ampspeakers, orders given with the clarity and restraint of confidence.

Jan had been an apt pupil, and now he led his fleet, proudly marked with the triangle-flame symbol of the Phoenix, into battle with the Concord. Jan Barret would do his duty as he saw it, his duty to the Phoenix.

Predis Ussher was chairman of the Phoenix Council, and Jan would die, if need be, for Ussher, not because he believed in him, but because he believed in the Phoenix.

Alex felt a chill at the thought, the possibility of Jan’s death. It had the irrational weight of premonition.

The third and fourth Falcons were leaving the lock. Alex closed his eyes, felt the floor shifting and humming under his feet, so vivid was his sense of being there, of moving out of the lock, out into the black eternal night of the sea, moving toward the distant eternal night of space.

Jan . . . Jan, fortune, brother. . .
.

The countdown clock read zero +00:45: 10:45 TST.

Chairman of the Council Predis Ussher stood in the middle of the Fina comcenter, out of the way, yet close enough to the screens and scanners so he could see them all. He was wearing a headset; endless toneless exchanges whispered in his ear. With a word, he could give orders, ask or answer questions, and monitor communications, but for now he was silent.

The officers and techs were furiously intent at their tasks, but he knew they were aware of him, standing behind them, ready and watchful. He turned to look out the windowall into the hangar, hugely empty now that the fleet had embarked toward its destiny of victory. A crowd had gathered beyond the deck. Only a few hundred. Fina, like the hangars, was nearly empty, and for the same reason. Those who weren’t presently on duty had naturally gravitated here. He knew they would. Here they could get news of the offensive, and here they could await the triumphant return of that brave fleet.

Ussher glimpsed a flashing reflection in the glass; light catching on the gold braid of his uniform. He pushed the cloak back a little further on his shoulders as he turned, surveying the quiet, orderly, concentrated activity around him.

Yes, this was the way it should be, the way he knew it would be. Every man and woman properly uniformed, their exchanges terse and restrained, the pervading undercurrent of tension disciplined into alert efficiency.

“PNX-C289—
Esme
. Damn it, Scott, come
in
!”

Ussher frowned, finding the source of that jarring note with no difficulty. Commander Emeric Garris at the GroundComm console, his angry words directed into his headset mike.

“I don’t care if your captain was on line to the Mezion, I gave you a Pri-One signal. Put Captain Stern on. I have a scan from Omega. A Confleet unit on intercept course . . .”

Ussher mentally tuned out the rest. He didn’t understand why Jan Barret insisted on putting Garris in charge here. Perhaps just to keep the old soldier occupied. No doubt he was harmless enough, and even served some purpose. The FO staff seemed to like him.

Ussher didn’t, and he fervently wished Garris had seen fit to stay retired from FO as he had from the Council. A scarred old curmudgeon, stubborn and set in his ways. One of Riis’s cronies.

Ussher took a deep breath and looked up at the progress screen, the corners of his mouth tightening with a smile of satisfaction as he automatically translated the abbreviations: F into Falcon, C into Corvet, TCC into Troop Carrier Corsair; fac dam est, he read as facility damage estimate; Pol as Pollux, Cas as Castor, InP as Inner Planets. The heading on this group was: Conflt Bss—ss dam/des/fac dam est. Confleet bases; ships damaged and destroyed and facility damage estimates. He read the figures hungrily as they ticked across the screen.