The Unincorporated Woman (33 page)

On the first pass, her ships took most of the damage. For all the skill and training the UHF personnel now had, the Alliance ships were simply better at coordinated maneuver and firing. Some of her force also made the mistake of trying to single out the
Dolphin
to the exclusion of other higher-percentage targets. They’d correctly figured that the death of Omad Hassan and the loss of one of the legendary ships of the Alliance would be worth the risk. But Omad had been counting on that and made the ships pay for their captains’ eagerness. It wasn’t a decisive engagement—no ships lost to either side—but Zenobia had more than a few that would need repairs as soon as possible if they survived.

The center holo-tank flickered—a little at first but then more noticeably.

The comm officer looked up from his display. “ECMs, sir. Damn good shit too, begging your pardon, Admiral.”

“Annoyingly good. Employ computer modeling, Lieutenant.”

“Sir.”

The tank went blank. Moments later, it snapped back to life and the Alliance fleet reappeared, but this time with a percentage symbol next to each ship. It was the computer’s best guess of enemy ship numbers, distance, and speed based on what little information it could snatch between jamming. Zenobia saw that most of the enemy ships were hovering well within the 80 percent of accuracy range. She could drop as low as 70 percent to make a reasonably effective battle plan but not much more. She wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told her that Trang could make do with 20 percent, but she wasn’t Trang, and in this battle she didn’t need to be—especially with the Alliance ships near so many of her own, their electronic countermeasures could distort only so much.

What she saw was that Omad wasn’t reversing direction for another pass. Instead he was going after one of the reserve detachments. Zenobia’s first instinct was to punish him for his arrogance in leaving her alone on the dance floor. Omad’s heavy rail guns were now facing in the wrong direction, so all she’d have to do was attack him from behind. That is, until the sensor officer’s raised eyebrow alerted her to another possibility. On his look, she stared disbelieving at the vision in front of her.

“Congraves, is this some kind of trick?”

“Sir, far as we can tell, that number is accurate … within the percentages displayed.”

Which meant that, within a 78 percent accuracy rating, the Alliance center—consisting of only forty ships—was effectively exposed. There was always a chance that the pitiful number of ships remaining had been meant to draw her in, perhaps as the latest victim of some diabolical new tactic or weapon the Alliance had managed to cook up. More realistically, though, they’d probably been meant to scare her off as they so often had with lesser UHF commanders wielding larger fleets. Suspecting it was the latter, Zenobia acted on impulse and ordered her force of sixty ships to charge at the forty while requesting reinforcements for the detachment withering under Omad’s assault. She further transmitted her intentions to break the Alliance center, again requesting reinforcements should she succeed. As her force raced toward the enemy, she had one thought in mind: If she could split the Alliance fleet’s two main detachments from each other, the UHF would finally gain the upper hand in the so far interminable tug-of-war. With effective control of the center, they could concentrate on one flank and chip away at it while holding off the other. Once the first flank was destroyed, they could go after the other. And now all that stood between Zenobia and a possible end to the war was forty Alliance ships, a few hours of combat, and the determination and will to see it through. She cleared her head and concentrated on the impending battle. Gone from her mind was the worry of Alliance chicanery—gone too, was the warning about miraculous opportunities.

UHFS
Liddel
,
Alpha Wing

Admiral Sam Trang anxiously scanned the incoming data as a holo-image of Admiral Abhay Gupta’s torso appeared in front of him.

“This is it, Sam,” Admiral Gupta said, managing to convey both concern and excitement. “Whatever their plan is to fuck us, I’m betting Luna shipyard stock to a DeGen’s IPO we’re looking at it.”

“Zenobia,” murmured Trang, as if already in mourning.

“Too tempting to pass up, Sam. It’s Hannibal at the Canne all over again. Not even sure I’d a done any different.”

Trang nodded his agreement, then watched the holo-tank in silence as Omad’s flotilla eviscerated the thirty ships of Zenobia’s reserve force. The flyby had been precise and well timed. Omad then used his momentum to turn on Zenobia’s other reserves.

“I really hate that son of a bitch,” Gupta said, following the battle from his end.

“He’s good,” said Trang. “At this, he might be the best. But if I had to take a guess, I’m thinking Black’s none to pleased.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I’m sure they’ve got something up their sleeve, but this can’t possibly be planned. Omad probably saw Zenobia’s reserves exposed and figured they’d be easy pickings. And he’s got enough faith in his fleet to pair forty of his against sixty of ours. Probably hadn’t counted on Zenobia being that aggressive, though.”

Gupta nodded.

Trang shook his head. “It’s a mistake of impudence. Sure, he’s playing havoc with our reserves, but how could he not know we’d pounce?”

“Maybe he’s starting to believe the stories they write about him.”

Trang laughed. “I’d love to be a mediabot just to see his face when he gets the news that one hundred ships from our combined fleets will be at the center line in fifteen minutes. Ain’t no way he makes it back in time.”

“Even if Zenobia gets her butt kicked,” added Gupta, “I just don’t see how they’ll be able to re-form their line—not with us bearing down, that is.”

They stopped as a loud alert came over the communications system. The image in the holo-tank widened, and Trang and Gupta saw that both flanks of the Alliance fleet were now accelerating directly toward them.

“Showtime,” said Gupta.

But Trang didn’t acknowledge the remark. Instead he stared askance at the moving images. “I’m not so sure,” he finally said.

“How do you figure?”

“We know why J.D. didn’t rush to the center to help Omad’s reserve—didn’t want her backside exposed to us.”

“Makes sense.”

“And she wouldn’t have run after Omad, no matter how important he may be to her. That would’ve left too much exposed. Way I figure it, she’s got two choices.…”

“Wait it out and see if Omad makes it back, or stop us the hell from helping out Zenobia.”

“It appears she’s going with plan B,” said Gupta.

“Not so much. If she were really freaked out that we might take advantage of their supposedly vulnerable line, would she really be descending on us at normal acceleration?”

Trang watched as Gupta’s face lit up.

“Holy shit, Sam, you’re right! They’d have gone NWA. The sky should be lit up with nukes, and they should be sitting in our fucking laps right now!”

“But they’re not, are they?” Trang’s lips parted into a respectful grin as his eyes glowed mischievously. “This is what is supposed to happen. We fight the oncoming flanks as we attempt our push toward Delta Wing. They fight valiantly but somehow we emerge victorious. We go to center. And you know why, Abhay?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, sir.”

“Because, my friend, that’s exactly where they want us.” His self-satisfied smile returned.

UHFS
Atlanta

Zenobia stood upright in front of her command chair, jubilant. Her instincts had been correct. While the forty Alliance ships had put up an admirable fight, her superiority in numbers and decently well-trained crews had clearly taken the enemy by surprise. Her flotilla had driven off the battle-hardened Alliance holding force with a loss of only five ships of her own. Delta Wing now held the high ground in the most important location of the Long Battle—the Alliance’s center line. Even better, Trang had ignored the flank attack and at last report was heading directly for her. There was no way the Alliance could get back in time. There was no going back from this loss.

Having arranged her ships into a defensive perimeter, Zenobia widened out the holo-tank to get a better view of the battle at large. The electronic countermeasures continued to wreak havoc on her display, but the modeling program still held up, giving her percentage figures of about 55 to 60 percent. It wasn’t ideal, but certainly enough to give her a sense of what was going on: Omad had been driven out of the UHF center toward the right flank of the Alliance line. The AWS
Warprize II,
and presumably J. D. Black, were stationed with the left. She also saw that the Alliance flanks were already turning around, presumably to knock her off her well-earned perch. A wicked smile crossed her face.
You’re too late
.

“Congraves.”

“Sir.”

“What’s wrong with the sensor array?”

“Nothing, sir. Other than the ECM, the array is fully functional.”

“Then can someone please explain to me why our reinforcements appear to have stopped moving?”

“Could be a hack in, sir,” offered one officer.

She looked over to the technical officer. “Goldman?”

“No detectable breaches, sir.”

It was then that both she and the crew were forced to stare blankly as the surreal events began unfolding. First, Trang and Gupta’s fleet began reversing direction while simultaneously moving in a larger arc
away
from the center. Then she saw that although the Alliance flanks had turned around, they weren’t, as she’d supposed, rushing their forces to meet her—they were returning to their starting positions. It would appear, she soon realized, that they were content to let her sit, unmolested, in the most strategically important part of the battlefield. Zenobia’s face went pale as she crumpled into her chair, felled by the weight of what was happening. Her near bloodless hands clenched against the edges of the armrests. There was nothing she could do and nowhere she could go.

Cabinet Room, Ceres

Sandra, along with the other Cabinet members in the room, unsealed her envelope. She took solace from the fact that her regular “audits” of their meetings had gone from passé to encouraged. What had once been the realm of an occasional and almost always dull “after the fact” press briefing was now the realm of constant coverage. She’d laughed to herself more than once as she watched an occasional Cabinet member and practically all the associates prep themselves in the mirror and pop breath stabilizers prior to a meeting. Whether it had been by virtue of the war heating up or of Sandra’s purposeful courting of the people and press, the result was unequivocal—the President was good for business. Sure, she was still sitting along the wall with the rest of the assistants and guests, but even her position there was temporary—she was the only one of that group holding an envelope.

The Cabinet members pulled the documents from their envelopes. Emblazoned across the front page were the words
SLINGSHOT
and
AUTHORIZED VIEWING ONLY
. It had been a clandestine project authorized by Justin Cord. The concept was simple: Turn the Via Cereana into the solar system’s largest rail gun, thereby making the Outer Alliance’s capital city virtually impregnable. A while back, a ship had almost crashed in the Via, and the office of security, with Justin’s blessing, had used that mishap as cover to build their weapon. Over the course of the past year, stated the report, magnetic bumper stations had been strategically positioned along the Via’s eight-hundred-kilometer length. The faux bumpers, it turned out, were magnetic accelerators, writ large and spread out over the 3,500 cubic kilometers of microgravity surface. The last few pages of the report, skipped by most but of special interest to Sandra, documented the technical specs. The operation had been overseen by Kirk Olmstead, and the substations had been designed by Kenji Isozaki and Hildegard Rhunsfeld. “Yet another miracle has been achieved by the Alliance,” the report ended triumphantly, “and if Justin Cord is smiling down on us, it will be the last one we need.”

Admiral Sinclair waited patiently for the last Cabinet member to finish reading the report before activating the holo-tank. The image of Admiral J. D. Black hovered above the table.

“They’ve all been briefed?” she asked, dispensing with the formalities.

Sinclair nodded. “What’s the tactical situation for deployment of Project Slingshot?”

J.D. paused before answering. Her half-scarred face didn’t come close to reflecting the ebullience of the report’s closing statement.

“Not as well as we could’ve hoped for, Grand Admiral. Omad played his part to perfection, and Admiral Jackson’s Delta Wing bought it hook, line, and sinker.”

Sinclair nodded.

“As you can see, Trang and Gupta have not joined her there. In fact, after they drove Omad out of their lines, they began pulling ships out—hanging Jackson out to dry.”

“Trang must have figured it out!” Olmstead seethed, bringing a clenched hand down on the table.

J.D.’s snort of contempt was perfectly replicated by the holo-tank. “Not surprising at all. This is Samuel Trang I’m fighting, not some moron like Tully or Diep. It would’ve been nice if he’d put his neck on the chopping block, but if he and Gupta had any idea what we have in store, they would not have Jackson’s flotilla be where it is.” A few seconds of silence followed on her words as a look of smug satisfaction emanated from her face. “The rest of his fleet is still screwed.”

That seemed answer enough for the Cabinet but didn’t suffice for Sandra. “I’m sorry, Admiral Black, but would you mind explaining exactly how, for those of us not versed in the art of war?”

J.D. tipped her head, then spoke as if she had all the time in the world. “Once Slingshot destroys Delta Wing, the center will be clear. And without Delta, Trang cannot reinforce his flanks, but we can. In short, what they were hoping to do to us, we’ll now do to them.”