Mission of Honor-ARC (77 page)

Unfortunately, al-Fanudahi was unhappily certain they had more than enough missiles to make the price of the League's final victory almost unbearabe And that price, as Rajampet seemed to be forgetting (or ignoring) would be paid in the lives and blood of men and women who wore the same uniform he and al-Fanudahi did, not just in millions upon millions of tons of warships.

"What most of you are not aware of, however," Rajampet continued, "is that we have heavy forces considerably closer to Manticore than you may have believed. And far closer than the Manties could ever have anticipated. In fact, Admiral Filareta is currently in the Tasmania System, conducting a major fleet training exercise—Operation East Wind—with just over three hundred of the wall. Which means, of course, that he's only a very little more than four hundred light-years from Manticore and that he could reach that star system within a little over six weeks from receiving his orders . . . or approximately two and a half months from the date we dispatch them. Which means he should be in position, barring unanticpated delays, by May twentieth."

From the sudden stir which ran through the audience, the news of Filareta's forward deployment had come as almost as much a surprise to them as it had to al-Fanudahi. But Rajampet wasn't quite finished.

"In addition to the forces already under Admiral Filareta's command," he said, "we have the equivalent of another ten squadrons within approximately two weeks of Tasmania, all of which could be ordered to join him and arrive within that same window. Concentrated with his present units, that would give him a strength of almost four hundred of the wall. He'd still be considerably understrength—by The Book, at least—in screening units, and he doesn't have the logistic support Admiral Crandall had as part of Operation Winter Forage, but he's far closer to the Manties' front doorstep than they could possibly be anticipating."

Al-Fanudahi's heart sank. He'd hoped—prayed—that Rajampet would abandon this notion after his own briefings to Kingsford, Jennings and Bernard.

"What the Strategy Board and I propose," Rajampet told the gathered officers, "is to concentrate the units I've mentioned under Filareta's command and send him to Manticore."

The room was hushed, and he paused long enough to survey the faces looking back at him, then shrugged ever so slightly.

"I fully realize—as does the Strategy Board—that there's a degree of risk in the action we're contemplating. In our opinion, however, the potential gain vastly outweighs the risk. First, the Manties are quite probably going to be so disenheartened by what's happened to their home system that much of their truculence will have been hammered out of them before Filareta ever arrives. Second, even if they should be so foolish as to attempt to resist him, their capacity to do so must have been seriously damaged in the course of any attack capable of penetrating to their inner-system space stations as this one did. Third, having a second fleet, six times the size of the one they confronted at Spindle, arrive in their
home system
this promptly has to drive home the totality of our quantitative advantage in any protracted struggle. And, fourth, Ladies and Gentlemen, we are currently redeploying the remainder of our active wallers towards Manticore and simultaneously beginning the largest activation of the Reserve in the Navy's history."

Al-Fanudahi wouldn't have believed the silence could get even more intense, but he would have been wrong. He wondered if any of those assembled flag officers were thinking about the constitutional implications of what Rajampet had just said. Even the broadest interpretation of Article Seven's "self-defense" clause had never been construed to cover a general mobilization of the Reserve without formal authorization from the civilian government. Kolokoltsov and his cronies, however, clearly doubted they could get that authorization without touching off a political dogfight such as the League had never seen. So at the moment, he and his fellow bureaucrats were simply going to look the other way and carry on with their "diplomatic efforts to resolve the crisis" while Rajampet did the dirty work. Which meant that, ultimately, the Navy was going to carry the can if it all blew up even half as catastrophically as al-Fanudahi was afraid it might.

Not to mention the millions of more men and women in Navy uniform who were going to get killed along the way.

"My own belief, and that of the Strategy Board, is that the Manties will realize we aren't going to be bluffed or blackmailed, even by something as painful as Spindle, into simply giving them the blank check they want. Faced with Filareta's squadrons as the proof of our determination that their actions are not going to be allowed to stand, it seems most likely to us that they'll surrender to the inevitable rather than risk suffering even more fatalities and damage to their home system.

"At the same time, however, we realize there's no way to be certain of that, and we're prepared for the possibility that the Manties may be insane enough not to surrender. We're even prepared for the possibility that they may have sufficient of their new missiles available from existing stores to beat off Filareta's attack, at least temporarily. Which is why the redeployment of our active wall is designed to concentrate no fewer than an additional five hundred wallers on Tasmania—this time with complete logistical support and a powerful Frontier Fleet screen—within two and a half months. In three months' time, that total will reach six hundred. Which means we'll be able to dispatch a
second
wave, substantially larger and even more powerfully supported, against Manticore within a maximum of five months—long before they will have been able to restore sufficient industrial capacity to reammunition their own ships."

He looked around the briefing room once more.

"One way or the other, Ladies and Gentlemen," he said very quietly after several moments, "what happened at Spindle is
not
going to be allowed to stand. And, for the Manties' own sake, I hope they realize how serious we are before they make things even worse."

* * *

Chris Billingsley poured the final cup of coffee, set the carafe on the small side table, and withdrew without a word. Michelle Henke watched him go, then picked up her cup and sipped. Other people were doing the same thing around the conference table, and she wondered how many of them were using it as a stage prop in their effort to project a sense that the universe hadn't gone mad around them.

If they are, they aren't doing a very good job of it
, she thought grimly.
On the other hand, neither am I because as near as I can tell, the universe
has
gone crazy
.

"All right," she said finally, lowering her cup and glancing at Captain Lecter. "I suppose we may as well get down to it." She smiled without any humor at all. "I don't imagine any of you to be any happier to hear this than I am. Unfortunately, after we do, we've got to decide what we're going to do about it, and I'm going to want recommendations for Admiral Khumalo and Baroness Medusa. So if any of you—and I mean
any
of you—happen to be struck by any brilliant insights in the course of Cindy's briefing, make a note of them. We're going to need all of them we can get."

Heads nodded, and she gestured to Lecter.

"The floor is yours, Cindy," she said.

"Yes, Ma'am."

Lecter didn't look any happier about the briefing she was about to give than her audience looked about what they knew they were going to hear. She spent a second or two studying the notes she'd made before she looked up and let her blue eyes circle the conference table.

"We have confirmation of the original reports," she said, "and it's as bad as we thought it would be. In fact, it's worse."

She drew a deep breath, then activated the holo display above the conference table, bringing up the first graphic.

"Direct, immediate civilian loss of life," she began, "was much worse than any pre-attack worst-case analysis of damage to the space stations had ever suggested, because there was absolutely no warning. As you can see from the graphic, the initial strike on
Hephaestus—
"

* * *

"I never realized just how much worse a victory could make a defeat taste," Augustus Khumalo said much later that evening.

He, Michelle, Michael Oversteegen, and Aivars Terekhov sat with Khumalo and Baroness Medusa on the ocean-side balcony of the governor's official residence. The tide was in, and surf made a soothing, rhythmic sound in the darkness, but no one felt very soothed at the moment.

"I know," Michelle agreed. "It kind of makes everything we've accomplished out here look a lot less important, doesn't it?"

"No, Milady, it most definitely does
not
," Medusa said so sharply that Michelle twitched in her chair and looked at the smaller woman in surprise.

"Sorry," Medusa said after a moment. "I didn't mean to sound as if I were snapping at you. But you—and Augustus and Aivars and Michael—have accomplished an enormous amount 'out here.' Don't ever denigrate your accomplishments—or yourselves—just because of bad news from somewhere else!"

"You're right," Michelle acknowledged after a moment. "It's just—"

"Just that it feels like the end of the world," Medusa finished for her when she seemed unable to find the words she'd been looking for.

"Maybe not quite that bad, but close," Michelle agreed.

"Well, it damned well should!" Medusa told her tartly. "Undervaluing your own accomplishments doesn't necessarily make you wrong about how deep a crack we're all in right now."

Michelle nodded. The Admiralty dispatches had pulled no punches. With the devastation of the home system's industrial capacity, the Royal Manticoran Navy found itself—for the first time since the opening phases of the First Havenite War—facing an acute ammunition shortage. And that shortage was going to get worse—a
lot
worse—before it got any better. Which was the reason all of Michelle's remaining shipboard Apollo pods were to be returned to Manticore as soon as possible. Given the concentration of Mark 16-armed units under her command, the Admiralty would try to make up for the differential by supplying her with all of those they could find, and both her warships and her local ammunition ships currently had full magazines. Even so, however, she was going to have to be extraordinarily circumspect in how she expended the rounds available to her, because there weren't going to be any more for quite a while.

"At least I don't expect anyone to be eager to poke his nose back into this particular hornets' nest anytime soon," she said out loud.

"Unless, of course, whoever hit the home system wants to send his 'phantom raiders' our way," Khumalo pointed out sourly.

"Unlikely, if you'll forgive me for sayin' so, Sir," Oversteegen observed. Khumalo looked at him, and Oversteegen shrugged. "Th' Admiralty's estimate that whoever did this was operatin' on what they used t' call 'a shoestring' seems t' me t' be well taken. And, frankly, if they
were
t' decide t' carry out additional attacks of this sort, anything here in th' Quadrant would have t' be far less valuable t' them than a follow up, knock out attack on th' home system."

"I think Michael's probably right, Augustus," Michelle said. "I don't propose taking anything for granted, and I've got Cindy and Dominica busy working out the best way to generate massive redundancy in our sensor coverage, just in case, but I don't see us as the logical candidate for the next sneak attack. If they
do
go after anything in the Quadrant, I'd imagine it would be the Terminus itself, since I can't see anything else out this way that would have equal strategic value for anyone who obviously doesn't like us very much. And that, fortunately or unfortunately, we're just going to have to leave in other peoples' hands."

Her uniformed fellows nodded, and Baroness Medusa tilted back her chair.

"Should I assume that—for the moment, at least—you feel relatively secure here in the Quadrant, then?"

"I think we probably are," Khumalo answered, instead of Michelle. He was, after all, the station commander. "There's a great deal to be said for Admiral Oversteegen's analysis where these mysterious newcomers are concerned. And, frankly, at the moment, the League doesn't have anything to send our way even if it had the nerve to do it. That could change in a few months, but for now, at least, they can't pose any kind of credible threat even against ships armed 'only' with Mark 16s."

"Good." Medusa's nostrils flared. "I only hope that sanity leaks out somewhere in the League before anyone manages to get additional forces out our way. Or directed at the home system."

"You screened, Pat?" Sir Thomas Caparelli asked as his face appeared on Patricia Givens' com display. "I'm sorry I was out of the office, but Liesel told me you'd said it was urgent when I got back. And also that I wasn't to use my personal com?"

"That's right," Givens replied. "And I did tell her I needed you to screen back on a secure com."

She looked better than she had immediately after the disastrous attack, Caparelli thought, but "better" was a purely relative term. The shadows of guilt had retreated in her eyes, yet he was beginning to think they would never completely disappear, and the near hysteria of a certain portion of the Star Empire's news media hadn't helped. He doubted there was anything they could have said that she hadn't already said to herself—he
knew
that was true in his own case—but the angry, panic-driven sense of betrayal coming from that particular group of newsies and editorials had inspired them to hammer the "blatant intelligence failure" far harder than they'd hammered the rest of the Navy.

Realistically, neither he nor Givens could have expected anything else, Caparelli supposed. Public opinion had been wound tight enough with the combined euphoria of the Battle of Spindle and the looming threat of war against the Solarian League, and it was perfectly understandable why the psychological impact of the devastating onslaught had hit the Star Empire's subjects like a sledgehammer. And it was perfectly reasonable for those same subjects to want the heads of whoever had allowed it to happen. As a matter of fact, Caparelli
agreed
with them in many ways; that was why he'd submitted his resignation—twice. Unfortunately, in his opinion, it had been
rejected
twice, as well.