Shadow of Victory - eARC (53 page)

He sat with his back to the rest of the lounge and his mind raced in at least a dozen directions at once, like an entire cage of crazed hamsters, while it tried to figure out what the hell was happening. Then his eyes widened as a quartet of men and women in flight suits jogged past the lounge’s open door.

* * *

“Good morning, people,” Vincent Frugoni said as the lift car’s doors opened and he and the fifteen CMM fighters with him stepped out onto Dumber Ass’ central control room. Another thirty of his people had peeled off on the way here—moving with the smooth precision of the Solarian Marines, thanks to Alexandra Mikhailov’s training—and secured the route from the shuttle bay to the space station’s electronic brain.

The control room personnel whirled at the sound of his voice, and he heard someone swear in surprise as the CMM’s numbers—and armament—registered.

“This space station is now under the control of the Cripple Mountain Movement,” he continued, mostly accurately. “As of this moment, all communications are down unless I tell you differently. That includes you, Ms. MacDerry!” he said sharply as one com tech’s hand twitched towards her panel.

She snatched her hand back into her lap and stared at him goggle-eyed, more surprised by the fact that he knew her name than that he’d seen her hand move. He smiled and twitched the muzzle of the pulser in his hand.

“In fact, just to keep any of your colleagues from doing anything foolish, why don’t all of you move over here by Commander Hewitt.” He nodded almost companionably to the station’s administrator, standing rigid and still frozen in shock. “That way we can keep an eye on all of you without getting cricks in our necks,” he told MacDerry. None of them moved for an instant, and his face hardened. “Now, people,” he said in a quiet tone more terrifying than any bellow, and feet scrambled suddenly to obey him.

“Better,” he said.

* * *

“Yo.” Floyd Allenby answered his com laconically and listened for a moment, then nodded. “Thanks,” he said, equally briefly. He cut the connection and punched in another combination, looking down through the icy, crystal Cripple Mountains’ morning at the Swallow System Army’s Camp Justice, well over two thousand meters below him.

He could think of very few less appropriate names for the sprawl of temporary barracks, the vehicle park, and the air cav mounts parked on its small airfield. Although, he reflected, there was a certain amount of “justice” in what was about to happen to it.

The com chimed at him, announcing the establishment of the programmed conference call.

“Sandra’s coming,” he said quietly.

* * *

Colonel Brenda Johnson, Swallow System Army, sipped orange juice, then set the glass back down and reached for her fork once more. Johnson was a member of the System Security Force, and the SSF was the component of the system’s military which corresponded most closely to an actual police force. As such, she sometimes wondered how she’d wound up in command of Camp Justice. She was a Lowland girl, and these mountains were cold enough to freeze the ass off a statue. The people who lived in them were no great prize, either. But at least the food was good, and—

The first shoulder-fired missile came shrieking down the morning sky from the high ridge to the east. It slammed directly into the tank farm for Camp Justice’s ground vehicles and air cav, and a huge fireball of exploding hydrogen soared into the heavens. The next half dozen missiles—with blast-fragmentation and incendiary warheads—landed a heartbeat later, ripping into the camp’s crowded barracks and mess halls.

Men and women screamed in agony as they were blown apart, scourged by blast and shrapnel, or set afire. Some of the wounded rolled at the ground, beating at their flaming clothing. Others simply ran in panic, and the wind of their passage fanned the flames higher.

The launchers along the ridgeline reloaded, and a second wave of explosions ripped through the camp’s vehicle park. Armored units exploded and air cav mounts tumbled end for end as the shockwaves clawed at them.

Then the mortars to the north opened fire, adding their heavier, even more destructive hate to the holocaust, and the three heavy tribarrels concealed on the slope eight hundred meters below Allenby’s position opened up, pouring their devastating fire into the sea of smoke and flame.

Colonel Johnson, her XO, and his immediate subordinate were all dead before the first tribarrel dart arrived on its target. And at exactly the same moment, at six other locations covering the approach to the Cripples, six other base commanders’ breakfasts suffered the same fiery interruption.

* * *

“Now you two just remember the plan,” Rachel Lamprecht said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone as she and Staff Sergeant Laszlo Hiratasuka (also retired) led the way into the launch bay. “The important thing is for both of you to take your time getting the feel of the controls, right?”

Joyce Allenby nodded, hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she probably did, and glanced at Orrin MacGruder. She and Orrin were highly skilled pilots. In fact, both of them carried Unlimited Licenses, and Orrin had taken the Swallow Trans-Atmospheric Racing Association’s Donald Ulysses Shuman Memorial Cup in the last season before Sandra Allenby’s death. Neither of them, however, had ever piloted a sting ship in their lives.

Fortunately, that was exactly what Lamprecht and Hiratasuka had spent the last twenty or thirty T-years doing. And they’d rigged simulators aboard a pair of Sky Shark-class racing ships when they arrived as “tourists” on one of Vincent Frugoni’s charters from Wonder six T-months ago. It wasn’t the same as actual sting ship cockpit time, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing!

“Remember,” Lamprecht continued as they crossed the bay to the two ready-duty ships, “TSE uses Lanza Corporation’s Relámpago-class ships, and the Relámpagos actually aren’t quite as hot as the Sky Shark. They’re more maneuverable out of atmosphere because they’ve got heavier grav plates that let you pull higher gees, but their top acceleration rate’s a good ten gees lower.”

The shaven-headed Hiratasuka was punching commands into the bay’s central console, and green standby lights flickered to amber above the docking hatches of a second pair of sting ships while the automated systems began loading missiles onto the external racks.

“They’ve got a lot more endurance, too, of course,” Lamprecht went on. “What matters most at the moment, though, is that with those Frontier Fleet bastards gone, we’ve just taken control of the only exo-atmo armed ships in the entire frigging star system.” Her smile was fiercely predatory, and her brown eyes glittered. “I don’t think Shuman and Parkman are going to like that one little bit!”

Chapter Forty-Seven

“Ms. Terekhov is here, Sir,” the midshipman escort said, and Admiral Augustus Khumalo walked around his desk with his hand held out as the elegantly dressed red-haired woman stepped into his day cabin.

“Ms. Terekhov!” he said as her slender hand disappeared into his far more massive one. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you.”

His tone, Sinead noted, was sincere. But it carried an edge which suggested his pleasure at seeing her might not be completely un-flawed.

“Admiral,” she responded, and smiled at him, then turned to her escort from the boat bay and shook her hand, as well. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Ms. Pittman,” she said, and the young woman smiled, then faced the admiral and braced to attention. He nodded dismissal, and she disappeared back out the door as Sinead turned back to Khumalo.

“Aivars didn’t have very long at home before they deployed him back out here, but he told me how much he respected—and appreciated—your response to his discoveries about Monica,” she said. “And I’ve viewed all the reports on the news channels. So, before we say anything else, let me tell you how very grateful I am for your decision to support him.” She shook her head. “I come from Navy families on both sides, you know. So I understand exactly what sort of risks you took when you did that.”

“Oh, well,” the tall, powerfully built admiral seemed a bit nonplussed, and he patted her hand once before he released it, took her elbow, and guided her to the old-fashioned, unpowered but sinfully comfortable couch in the corner of the large compartment.

“There really wasn’t any option,” he said as he seated her, then sank into the facing armchair. “I mean, his logic was compelling, he’d shown an enormous amount of moral courage in acting upon his conclusions, and if he was right—and I believed he was—then it was essential to take swift, decisive action.” He smiled crookedly. “The truth is, he’d already taken the decisive action, and it was undoubtedly easier to support him after the fact than it would have been to make the same decision in his place.”

“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t detract one bit from the moral courage it took to back him so completely once you got there.” Sinead shook her head again. “And it wasn’t exactly ‘after the fact,’ either, since you had no idea what had happened, how the Solarians might react, or when—or if—you’d be reinforced from home. I admit I’m rather proud of Aivars, but don’t sell yourself short, Admiral. I promise you, Aivars never will.”

Khumalo smiled and dipped his head in brief gratitude, but his brown eyes were intent as he leaned back in his chair.

“I appreciate that,” he said, “but while I’m very pleased to see you here aboard Hercules, I’m also surprised. No one warned any of us you were coming.”

“That’s because I only decided to come after the Yawata Strike,” she replied, green eyes darkening, and he nodded.

“I assumed that was the case,” he said quietly, “and I can’t tell you how devastated I was personally by what happened to Hexapuma. I know we lost a lot of other ships, a lot of other people, but she was…special. To a lot of people out here, not just to me.” He shook his head sadly. “But I’m afraid Aivars is forward-deployed to Montana, not here in Spindle.”

“Captain Lewis already shared that information with me.” Sinead shrugged. “We noticed as we came in that there seem to be very few warships here in Spindle at the moment.”

“No, there aren’t. Frankly, we’re thin enough on the ground that I’d like to shortstop some of Captain Grierson’s units right here. I think, though, that Admiral Caparelli’s right. Admiral Gold Peak needs them worse than I do.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” she said. “And while I hope we’ll be here in Spindle long enough for me to renew my acquaintance with Baroness Medusa, I’m also eager to catch up with Aivars.”

“I see,” he said, and that slight edge was back in his tone. He looked at her steadily for a moment, then inhaled and squared his shoulders.

“I’m afraid I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Ms. Terekhov,” he said. She arched an eyebrow at him, and he leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sure you want to see your husband. And I’m confident he’d love to see you, too. But we’ve adopted a strict policy where Tenth Fleet’s dependents here in Talbott are concerned. The situation’s highly fluid. We don’t know which way the Sollies are likely to jump next, and that means we don’t know where Lady Gold Peak’s units are going to be. For that matter, we’re not certain where they actually are right now, given the delays in message transmission. Because of that, we’re quartering all Navy dependents here in Spindle rather than forward-deploying them. To the best of my knowledge, your husband’s squadron’s in Montana, but they may not be there next week, and we’re not in a situation that allows any of our units to be officially homeported anywhere here in the Quadrant. So, while I understand your reasons for coming all the way out here, I think it would be best all round for you to remain in Spindle, as well. I’ll be delighted to include any personal messages from you to him aboard our next dispatch vessel, and I’m sure Quentin Saint-James will cycle back through Spindle…eventually.”

“I’m afraid I have no intention of remaining in Spindle,” Sinead replied.

“And I’m afraid, Ms. Terekhov, that I’m going to have to insist. And not just because we can’t be positive where your husband is at the moment. Oh, that’s a significant part of my thinking—somehow I don’t think he’d be happy about the notion of your chasing around trying to catch up with him. But—and this is the real reason Tenth Fleet’s in-Quadrant dependents are here in Spindle—this is also the safest place for you just now. We have enough missile pods in orbit to prevent anything the Sollies are likely to scare up from breaking our defenses.”

“I’m sure I’d be equally safe on any planet protected by Admiral Gold Peak’s ships,” Sinead said.

“Perhaps you might be. In fact, once you got to Montana and safely down on-planet, you’d probably be just fine,” he acknowledged. “But before you got to Montana, you’d be aboard a Queen’s ship in a war zone. And, forgive me for saying this, Ms. Terekhov, but I have the strangest suspicion that if you discovered upon your arrival that your husband’s squadron has been deployed elsewhere, you’d immediately set out for wherever ‘elsewhere’ might be. And that, I’m afraid, would take you directly into an area of active operations.”

“I have Admiralty authorization to travel aboard the Charles Ward, Admiral,” she told him just a bit frostily.

“Forgive me for pointing this out, but that authorization was for travel to Spindle, not to Montana,” he said in a tone of genuine regret.

“As the station commander, you could extend that authorization,” she observed rather pointedly.

“I could…but I won’t.” He shook his head again. “I deeply admire and respect your husband, Ms. Terekhov. And I believe I truly do understand why you want to join him. But I’m afraid I can’t permit it.”

* * *

“I can’t believe that man!” Sinead fumed.

“Oh, I can,” Ginger said from the other side of the table. The expensive Thimble restaurant surrounded them like some rich, quiet cocoon, and she snorted as she reached for her wine glass. “And, to be completely honest,” she continued, “I think there’s some point to his argument, Sinead.”

“Traitor!” Sinead shook a finger at her across the tablecloth. “Don’t you dare get all ‘reasonable’ about this!”

Ginger chuckled and sipped her wine, then her expression sobered a bit.

“Seriously, Sinead. I might not worry as much as Admiral Khumalo does, and I doubt I’d feel too concerned if you continued forward on a personnel transport. Not even Sollies are going to be deliberately shooting at unarmed people-haulers, except by mistake. But the CW’s a legitimate target, and as crazy as things have been out this way—hell, everywhere!—there really is the chance someone could get into range to do that shooting. I don’t plan to face the Commodore and tell him I let you get killed aboard my ship.”

“Don’t be silly. First, nothing’s going to happen to ‘your ship.’ Second, if it did, Aivars would never blame you for my stubbornness. And, third, the personnel transports aren’t continuing forward, either.” Sinead glowered down into her own wineglass. “The Admiral’s unloading everybody he can right here in Spindle because he plans on packing them to the bulkheads with reinforcements for Admiral Gold Peak.”

“Well, there you are.” Ginger shrugged. “I’m sorry, and I know it’s disappointing, but there’s really not anything I can do about it. And I won’t pretend I’m entirely brokenhearted that I can’t, for all the reasons the Admiral’s already given you. I like you, Sinead. I like you a lot.”

“Thank you.” Both Sinead’s voice and eyes softened. “I appreciate that. But neither you nor Augustus Khumalo are going to prevent me from doing exactly what I came out here to do. I trust you understand that?”

“Sinead, somehow I doubt anyone’s stopped you from doing exactly what you wanted for a long, long time,” Ginger told her. “But that doesn’t mean the Navy’s going to help you do it this time.”

“Then I’ll just have to do it without the Navy,” Sinead said composedly. “In the meantime, rather than continue to argue or berate you for your indescribably treacherous support of Admiral Khumalo, why don’t we order. I understand the Beef Wellington is marvelous here.”

* * *

“This,” Adam Šiml said quietly to Filip Malý, his recently acquired personal bodyguard, “is not looking good.”

Malý, who’d risen to the rank of lieutenant in the Chotěboř Public Safety Force before Šiml had selected him from among the dozen or so officers Daniel Kápička had personally recommended to him, nodded. In fact, he thought, his new boss had a pronounced gift for understatement.

It was raining hard, and it was winter in the planetary capital of Velehrad. The temperature hovered only a few degrees above freezing, the football pitch was a frigid sea of mud and water—every time the Mělník Warriors’ keeper came out of the net curtains of spray flew everywhere—and the players were cold, wet, miserable…and more than a little pissed. In fact, the game should probably have been postponed (or moved to one of the covered stadiums) but the playoff schedule was already complicated and the weather front had moved much faster than the forecasters and weather satellites had predicted. In fact, the sun had been shining brightly through the gathering clouds less than forty-five minutes before the start of play.

And the first rain had begun to fall three minutes into the first half.

Of course, the weather wasn’t the only thing on Šiml’s mind just now. The rivalry between the Warriors and Velehrad Lions was of ancient lineage, dating back—quite literally, in this case—to the years the Kumang system was first colonized, when the Lions had been the Lvi and the Warriors had been the
Válečníci
. It was also bone-deep and bitter at the best of times, which today wasn’t. The winner of tonight’s game went on to the planetary finals; the loser went home, and neither club had any interest in doing that. Nor did their fans, and the home crowd had been expressing its disapproval of the officials for most of the second half. The fact that the Lions had advanced to this point only because they’d eliminated the Benešov Dragons on the basis of the away goals rule after tying their semi-final match with them made the home team’s partisans no happier, because the Lions' regular-season record against the Warriors was one-and-three…and the Warriors’ fans had made their opinion of the way the Lions had “squeaked into” the playoffs abundantly clear.

The players on the field were pulling no punches. It was a wet, brutal, aggressive game, and each team had already been yellow-carded at least once. In the Lions’ case, there were no less than three of them, including one on Štěpán Jura, their star striker. From where Šiml sat in his warm, dry box, the officials were doing an excellent job under extraordinarily trying circumstances, but he was hardly surprised diehard fans sitting in the cold, drenched open didn’t share his opinion.

And the fact that they were in the last two minutes of the second overtime period with the score still tied 2–2 wasn’t making them one bit cheerier. If the Lions couldn’t score in the next hundred and twenty seconds, they’d be eliminated in exactly the way they’d eliminated the Dragons, because the Warriors had scored seven regular season goals in Velehrad during the regular season and the Lions had scored only three in Mělník.

Šiml punched a combination into his com.

“Yes, Adam,” a voice responded instantly.

“I’m not sure if it’s going to be worse if the Lions score or if they don’t, Eduard,” Šiml told Eduard Klíma, Sokol’s Director of Safety and Security. “Either way, this could get ugly.”

“No! You think?!” Klíma had known Šiml since they were boys, and his own profound worry burned through his sarcastic tone. Then Šiml heard him draw a deep breath at the other end of the com link.

“I’ve screened the Velehrad PD for extra officers,” he said. “And they’re watching the game live downtown, so they already had a pretty good idea how things're looking. The Commissioner’s calling in every off-duty cop he can, and they’re handing out the riot gear.”

“And our own people in the stadium?”

“I’ve passed the word—to the cops working the crowd, as well as our people—and they’re ready to cover the touchline if anybody tries to storm the field. We’re trying to get more of the PD’s people in here to cover the exits and at least try for crowd control if it turns ugly, but frankly…”

His voice trailed off in the verbal equivalent of a shrug, and Šiml sighed. Chotěbořian football crowds in general weren’t noted for reserve and calm during the playoffs. And, unfortunately, the Velehrad fans were even less noted than most for off-field restraint. All of which suggested that unless—

A massive roar went up from the crowd as the Lions’ right wing cut inside the Warriors’ left wing back and headed the ball sharply to Jura. The entire stadium came to its feet as the striker feinted to the inside, then cut toward the outside. The center back turned to intercept in a blinding blur of motion, mud, and spray, and—

The ball bounced away, spinning out of bounds, and Štěpán Jura lay on his back both hands clutching an obviously broken leg.