Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum (22 page)

Professional decorum demanded that she not move a muscle of her countenance, and by now that was second nature to her, but the activity of her mind more than made up for her immobile visage. Motivational speeches were best kept short and to the point—the St. Crispin’s Day speech might sound great in the theatre, but it didn’t help anyone focus. That wisdom seemed to have been lost on Kerr (and what she was hearing was about as far away from Shakespeare as it was possible to be), but what was worse, he sounded like he was losing the thread. After a particularly painful pause—did he think it was dramatic?—Kerr dropped his voice into what he must’ve thought was a sterner register.

“Now, this op is gonna go smooth and by the numbers,” he declared solemnly. Then her heart sank further as he proceeded to reiterate what those numbers were.

In one sense, the word
numbers
could be taken literally. Over the past half-century, the tactics for attacking a monitor had become as formalized as a classic three-act play in which the outcome was preordained. The generally approved script went like this (as Kerr was now explaining):

Act I was
The Approach
. This involved a complicated dance of agile ships firing so that their shots struck the same place at the same time while maintaining missile defense. This suppressing fire targeted the monitor’s point-defense systems to keep them from engaging the assault shuttles. The problem was that the dance’s pattern could usually be predicted after five or six volleys and then the monitor’s return fire would decimate the supporting ships. To avoid this, the assault forces had to follow
through
their own ships’ railgun fire, which meant taking casualties from it. In fact, the tactics manual stated that if at least ten to fifteen percent of the total casualties sustained by the assault forces were
not
due to friendly fire, they had not moved through the barrage aggressively enough.

Act II was
The
Boarding
. (
The Insertion
—a common heading in staff memos—was always good for a laugh). The concept here was to hit hard and fast, overwhelming the defenders at the point of attack. That meant going in heavy—with everything they had—and the only way to get that many marines into a monitor quickly was to storm the hanger deck. Storming the hanger deck meant massing their assault shuttles, blowing the hanger doors and clearing the whole area with antipersonnel charges and fire from the shuttles’ twin 30-mm chain guns. The shuttles would then land through the firestorm and disembark the marines, who’d use demolition charges to blow the hatches and disable the plasma generators. Once that was achieved, they would seize the main junctions fore and aft of the hanger deck.

For this to succeed, a spoiling attack through another entry point was necessary to prevent the monitor’s crew from being free to fully concentrate their defense on the hanger deck. Otherwise, they’d end up with several hundred of their people crammed into a space where most could not use their weapons but all were targets, with their only way out being to fly their shuttles unsupported through the monitor’s fire—an experience that was likely to be extremely unpleasant, however brief.

Act III was
The Incursion
. With the main junctions taken, the tech sections and their supporting fireteams would push on to the weapon control spaces, while heavy weapons teams kept the monitor’s crew disorganized and at bay. Once those spaces were demolished, putting the missile systems and main batteries out of action, they would withdraw via the hanger deck unless there was a good chance of actually taking the monitor, which was highly unlikely.

That, anyway, was the classic script. If both sides played their parts to perfection, the vessel’s fate was sealed. For this reason, monitors had lost favor in some circles because the only sure method of protecting them was an active defense that prevented the curtain from ever going up on the play. Employing such a defense did away with much of the reason for having a monitor in the first place.

This purist view had not swept the field for the simple reason that in the fog and friction of battle, doing anything perfectly was insuperably difficult. Things were thus unpredictable and monitors remained a very hard nut to crack. So in the real world, the play was often recast from heroic drama to tragic farce.

Such concerns formed no part of Kerr’s textbook peroration. He’d just told them that their training was their rock and savior—it would certainly bring them back alive, which was a generous assumption to say the least—and he was about to launch into his close. Drawing breath, he began: “One thing I can assure you. When you get home to your families, you won’t have to say—”

Oh, fer fuck’s sake!
Was he
really
gonna to pitch that out there? In all her years, Min must have heard a dozen variations on this theme. The original (if the history texts were to be believed) was attributed to General Patton, who supposedly completed it: “I shoveled shit in Louisiana.” One of her first COs had said “I cleaned latrines at Armageddon,” which she thought was actually pretty good, but might have been tempting Fate, as he was vaporized by an antipersonnel charge a few days later. Kerr, however (perhaps feeling an attempt at originality did not become him), simply concluded: “I sat on the sidelines and watched.”

It was a leaden end to a leaden speech, and there was an air of genuine relief when Major Bradshaw called everyone to attention again and barked, “Dismiss!”

One hundred sixty right arms snapped a precise and silent salute, echoed by another four hundred eighty on the light carriers
Daedalus
and
Fidelia
, where those arms’ owners had been watching the performance on video. That was all the answer they made to their CO’s address. The CEF Marine Corps did not have an official battle cry like the Hesperians or the Royal Marines of the New UK. The ostensible reason was that they had no need to yell: you could always tell where they were by the wailing of their enemies.

Personally, Min thought it had more to do with a certain lack of imagination coupled with the fact that—compared to those other corps—the CEF marines operated in vacuum a greater percentage of the time, which made yelling kinda absurd.

Still silent, the marines executed a neat about-face and began to clump by sections and platoons, gradually filling the space with a low rumbling mutter of subdued voices as they checked their TAC uploads and compared notes before dispersing to their action stations. Min started to do likewise. Spotting her XO, Lieutenant Anders, in the throng, she waved him over. As he approached, Kerr called her name.

“Yes, sir?”—turning back around.

“Don’t leave just yet, Captain,” he told her, with an oddly smooth expression—almost smug. “You are to remain here.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Kerr was a good three meters away—maybe she’d misheard in the din.

He stepped closer. “You and your company are to remain behind. Major Bradshaw is leading this assault, so you will act as my adjutant for the time being, while your company is held in reserve.”

“While my company’s
what
?” What the
fuck
was Kerr thinking, holding back a quarter of their strike power on an op like this?

“I’m sure an officer of your proven abilities appreciates the value of a reserve, Captain,” her CO enunciated coldly. “And of following orders.”

Weeping fuckin’ Jeezus! He means it!
“Yessir.”

“You will accompany me to CIC. Your XO can look after your people”—with a negligent gesture toward Troy Anders, who was ten feet away, looking thunderstruck.

“Yes.
Sir
.”

“Huron!”

At the entrance to his quarters, he turned to see Kris jogging down the passageway. She still had a trace of a limp and her face was pale, but with emotion, not fatigue. “What is it, Kris?”

Clearly shocked at seeing him still in uniform, she hooked a thumb behind her. “I heard the call ten minutes ago! What the hell goin’ on? There’s strikes inbound on us. We gotta go!”

“Not us, Kris.” His voice was grim and colder than he meant it to be. “We’ve been ordered to stand down.”

“
Stand down
? What the fuck for?”

“Commodore’s orders. We stand down until they call us.”

“Jeezus
Christ
, Huron! Ya can’t let ‘er do that!”

“Not my call, Kris—”

“
Fuck
!” She bit the word off, not listening to him. “What happened? I get put back on the list?”

It sounded like an accusation, as if he’d pulled strings to keep her out this fight. “Why do you say that?”

“I heard you asked to take the op”—a hurt, combative tone. Thank god they were alone.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Word gets around”—still pale, almost shaking. “Did you?”

“It was my responsibility, Kris. I’m no less expendable than you. None of us are.”

That seemed to get through to her, at least enough to raise a glimmer of doubt. “Was that really it? It’s not cuz you don’t trust me anymore?”

“You know better than that, Kris”—scowling at the impossible thought.

“Do I?”

Was that more hope or doubt in her voice? “If we
don’t
know each better than that by now, both of us should resign our commissions.”

She searched his eyes, trying to calm the pounding in her chest.
And you would, wouldn’t you?

Yeah, he’d do it. He was the first person who’d ever believed in her—who’d ever thought of her as
someone
, not some
thing
. He’d do it in a heartbeat.

Her gaze wavered; she swallowed hard. “I, ah . . . I guess I owe you an apology.”

His eyes softened, muted—and he smiled. “That’s okay, Kris. Hold on to it. Maybe I’ll be by to collect it later.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Her glance skittered over the deck. “Okay.”

“Hang tight.” He reached out to put a quieting hand on her shoulder. “The day’s not over yet.”

On
Ardennes
’ flag bridge, dimmer now that the battle lamps were lit, Lieutenant Reynolds looked up from his console to address Admiral PrenTalien. “Your pardon, sir. Colonel Kerr reports his people are spun up and launch-ready, and Admiral Belvoir is requesting permission to engage.”

They’d been in extreme range and closing for a quarter-hour, and the ‘weather’ looked to break in another twenty minutes or so, but that wasn’t what he was waiting for. He perfectly understood Kim Belvoir wanting to get at the Doms now, and her people were no doubt straining at the traces. Normally, he would have agreed. But his delay in opening the action—to engage at long range where his fleet held the supposed advantage—had to be jangling nerves over there. It was not much short of madness to seek a close engagement when outweighed two to one, and he wanted the Doms—and especially that cautious creeping fellow holding their right, who was even now tucking himself tighter and tighter into the reef—to think he was a little nuts.

“Tell her to have ‘em hold their horses a moment longer, Geoff. We’re not going to play at long bowls today. I want us to see their running lights.”

“Understood, sir.”

“If you prefer, you can quote the immortal words of Lord Nelson:
I have not yet begun to fight
.”

“Of course, sir.” His flag lieutenant exchanged a glance with Harry Bolton, who hid a smile behind his hand. “But with respect, wasn’t that John Paul Jones?”

PrenTalien, who’s career had been more concerned with making history than studying it, replied with a deep chuckle. “Perhaps it was. Send it out however you like, Mr. Reynolds.”

*     *     *

Deep within the hull of
Marshall Nedelin
, in the most protected part of the huge ship, Admiral Adenauer was forming his own opinions about his opponent’s sanity:
crazy like a fox
might have come to his mind, had there been any foxes on Halith Evandor. There was however, a large, crafty and dangerous arboreal predator known (with slim reference to its Terran namesake) as the black-maned stoat, and the Halith had a phrase ‘stoat-minded’ in their lexicon. This is what the admiral was thinking.

What his aide-de-camp, standing next to him, was thinking was plain on his face. “Admiral, I believe he means to press a close engagement. Should we order the fleet to a tighter formation?”

Adenauer was well aware of the danger that worried his aide: he had deployed his forces on the belief that PrenTalien would adhere to accepted CEF doctrine, which called for launching torpedo attacks at long range. Their fast torpedoes, equipped with sophisticated pentaids, were a serious threat. The way to deal with them was a layered defense with ships arrayed in open order to spread the attack and blunt it. That meant putting his lighter combatants out front, in echelon. If PrenTalien’s cruisers got among them in a close engagement, they would feast on the smaller ships.

That would be most unpleasant and he did not relish the thought, but it was unlikely to be crippling. As hard as PrenTalien could hit them, their superior numbers would allow them to absorb the blow and then engulf the smaller fleet. It meant some sacrifice in both ships and ether, and perhaps the monitor would be isolated for time, but worse would be in store for PrenTalien, once his forces became entangled and could not readily disengage.

To Adenauer, it was a risk he was prepared to run. He was not sold on the attack—PrenTalien was not so rash, although he might be trusting to luck. Instead, he felt PrenTalien wanted to prod him into contracting his formation, as
cnidarians
did when poked. Such maneuvers, executed in haste, were rarely carried out perfectly, producing gaps. That
was
dangerous. If they gave PrenTalien a gap he could exploit, he’d split them like a peach.

Admiral Kiamura had done just that at Anson’s Deep, catching Admiral Falkenhavn flatfooted with a shocking, lightning thrust that hopelessly disorganized his entire fleet. Adenauer had been a cruiser captain then, and
Ardennes
—that very dreadnought over there—had reduced his ship to splinters, smashing it almost negligently, as a man swats an insect on his way to doing something important.

He’d spent thirty-four hours drifting in an escape capsule before he was picked up by a CEF destroyer belonging to a battlecruiser squadron commanded by none other than Lo Gai Sabr, then a new rear admiral, and who—in defiance of his fearsome reputation—proved to be a gracious host to his defeated adversary; Adenauer retained the liveliest recollection of him.

Admiral Sabr was also lurking over there somewhere, still in command of a battlecruiser, but now deputy to Admiral PrenTalien. PrenTalien, then commander of CEF Fifth Fleet, had been at Regulus on the fated day Anson’s Deep was fought. No doubt he hoped this battle would be his long-delayed recompense for missing out on the historic action.

No
. Observing the attack unfold, he directed the thought at the man across the way he considered a colleague.
This is not that day
.

He looked once more to his aide-de-camp. “Message to all commands: hold position. Do not fire until fired upon. We take this blow all standing. And then we pay them back—twice as hard.”

No sooner was the message sent than the screens throughout
Marshall Nedelin’s
CIC filled with snow.

*     *     *

“This is it, people!” Kerr’s voice was harsh with excitement as the colossal belch of plasma from Wogan’s’ Star smothered the battlespace. “That’s our curtain call!”

Minerva Lewis gave her CO a sidelong glance. The lieutenant colonel didn’t know what
curtain call
meant?
And here was me thinking all Terrans were culture snobs
.

Until the storm passed they would be fighting blind, but with the significant advantage of knowing exactly what to do. PrenTalien’s ‘close engagement’ was in essence a huge feint, designed to freeze the defenders in position so Admiral Belvoir’s covering force could get close to the monitor without exciting a response. So far, it seemed to have worked. Belvoir’s ships would be splitting off now and racing for the monitor, whose fire-control systems would have a hard time targeting them through a thick stream of ions moving at near lightspeed. The covering force, however, knew exactly where the monitor was. According to the plan, they would open fire in five minutes and this storm could be counted on to last another twelve, at least.

“Bravo Group—launch!” Kerr barked. “Charley Group—launch! Delta Group—launch!”

The three companies boosted from their carriers in waves. Four hundred eighty men and women in twenty-six assault shuttles. Alpha Group—Min’s company—was stuck here on
Bellerophon
with their thumbs up their asses. Kerr had better pray his bullshit idea of keeping a ‘reserve’ would work.

If not,
hell to pay
would not begin to cover it.

*     *     *

The storm of plasma abated, and throughout
Marshall Nedelin’s
CIC displays flickered back to life. Looking over at the main plot, Adenauer’s lantern-jawed face registered strong displeasure at what his deputy commander was doing. Unnerved by PrenTalien’s impetuous tactics, the idiot was backing into the reef, shortening his line. If he kept on, there would be a gap soon, exactly the thing he feared.

With no more than a glance at his aide-de-camp, he snapped, “Message to Admiral Shima: Compliments and he is to maintain better station.”

“Yes, sir.” Captain Alexander complied and after a moment, laid a finger on Adenauer’s elbow. The admiral looked down at him with a nod. “The Bannermans are signaling, sir. The admiral believes he sees an opportunity to drive through PrenTalien’s position and seize the Outbound jump sectors. He—respectfully—requests we move up that he may exploit it.”

Adenauer tightened his lips in a look of grim amusement at his aide’s emendation to Admiral Voorhees’ message: to his certain knowledge, Voorhees had never done anything
respectful
in his life. “Compliments to the admiral”—whenever possible he, like his aide, avoided using the name of a man he detested—“and he will oblige me by—”
Attending to his duty
was too insulting, Adenauer decided. “By holding his position. You may assure him from me that his chance will yet come. When the time is ripe.”

With a curt nod, his aide relayed the message while Adenauer returned his attention to the plot to see how the times were ripening.

*     *     *

Minerva Lewis, rooted to the deck in
Bellerophon’s
CIC, with nothing to do, watched the displays refresh with even greater intensity. Adenauer was accepting Belvoir’s attack by allowing his center to bend inward slowly and the Bannermans hadn’t taken the bait. Belvoir was starting to lose steam. The assault’s covering force was maintaining their deadly, delicate dance but the shuttles were coming under more intense fire, and green icons in the omnisynth’s volume were turning red with growing frequency.

Beside her, Kerr was also watching, his jaw champing and his face increasingly pale. “What’s happening there?” he demanded of no one in particular. “What are they doing?”

The leading edge of the assault was beginning to fray, gaps appearing not just as shuttles were being lost, but where some accelerated while others slowed down in an effort to evade the incoming fire. More shots were telling against the covering force as well, disrupting their dance so that their salvos, once delivered with precise timing and pinpoint accuracy, slackened.

But things weren’t bad yet. If they maintained their pace and intervals, they’d be past the worst of monitor’s fire in a couple of minutes. Even now, they were approaching the critical point where they’d have to boost hard through their own suppressing fire to get inside the monitor’s engagement envelope. Surely Kerr could see that—

“Raise Major Bradshaw!” Kerr’s voice was husky with strain. “Have him dress that leading edge!”

Min turned to look at the colonel, shocked. Did he seriously think they should
slow down
to dress their formation?

“Sir, I can’t raise him,” answered the comms officer, intent on his console.

“Open a direct channel then! General order: advance units are to close up!”

Min felt the blood begin to leave her face. How could Kerr believe he could micromanage the assault directly from
here
?

“Sir—”

Kerr swung his head around abruptly, as if he’d forgotten her existence. “Not now, Captain!”

She ground her teeth. The assault was in danger of fragmenting, but if they could hold together a minute longer . . .

Hit it. Hit it now! Don’t listen to this asshole
—

The leading edge of the formation accelerated. It was ragged. Sloppy coordination—Bradshaw must be down—but not hopelessly so—

Stick with it
.
Stick with it.

More icons turning red as the casualties mounted. They were well into the crossfire zone now. The trailing edge was showing signs of faltering—not pressing through the barrage hard enough.

Kerr was licking his lips repeatedly. Min, hands clenching impotently behind her back, stood rigid and silent. Her mind—her whole being—was fully identified with those dots, seeing the railgun shells ripping through the thin-skinned shuttles, the splinters exploding through the interior, mists of blood and atomized flesh and fluids boiling from rent armor; hearing the screams there was no air to carry—

For gawd’s sake, don’t let up now
—

“No. No good.”

Min felt Kerr’s words like a kick. Her throat spasmed, blocking her speech for a moment. They’d break through in
seconds
—

“This isn’t working. Get them outta there!” His eyes were wild and staring. She could see the naked panic rioting across his face. The man was coming apart at the seams.

Instinctively her hand shot out to grab his shoulder. “Colonel! What the
fuck
—”

He lurched away. “You’re relieved!”—his voice pitched up high, ending in a shattered note. Then, as she stood there transfixed, Kerr yelled, “Fall back! General order! All units fall back!”

The red-hot churning in her gut started to boil over—a sharp indrawn breath hissed between her teeth.

A hand closed hard on her arm. “Don’t. Ain’t worth it, Captain,” Troy Anders said softly in her ear. “Nothin’ for it. Let’s get outta here.”

Shaking and nearly blind with rage, she let Anders guide her from the compartment.

*     *     *

“What the hell’s Kerr doing?” Admiral PrenTalien thundered in a voice that made the bulkheads vibrate. They’d just heard Kerr’s frantic fatal order—literally fatal, for almost half the assault shuttles began to withdraw immediately while the rest ignored the order and pressed on, unaware they were doing so alone. The rift this opened destroyed whatever cohesion the formation had left and all dissolved into murderous confusion.

PrenTalien groaned at the sight, a sound so deep and guttural as to seem almost subterranean, and one, thought Bolton (seeing how his CO’s powerful hands twitched), that Kerr would have been lucky to outlast, had he been in the compartment.

“Dear God,” Bolton muttered under his breath, as the survivors of the smashed assault streamed back through glowing clouds of wreckage, mechanical and human. There was
Daedalus
taking
Fidelia
under tow.
Defender
and
Basilisk
were shattered, lifeless hulks.
Medea
was steaming air and tumbling as
Actaeon
, limping badly, closed to render assistance while the light cruiser
Avenger
tried valiantly to cover them both. Admiral Belvoir had broken off and sent her cruiser divisions sprinting back to screen the mauled force and prevent its complete annihilation.

“Fuck this noise,” ground out Admiral PrenTalien, his face so dark with fury that his blue eyes seemed to burn with a cold, ruthless inner fire. “Get me a link to
Bellerophon
. I’m going to skin that ass over there myself.”