A Dark and Dirty War, page 18
“The 101st’s primary role will be covert operations along the Commonwealth frontiers to eradicate piracy, organized crime, and other illegal activities through targeted strikes everywhere beyond our sphere except the Shrehari Empire.”
“Even in the Zone?”
Kowalski nodded.
“The Empire is already doing that. We merely spent the last decade being holier than thou, no doubt at the behest of certain interests, the sort who encouraged our diplomats to create the Protectorate in the first place.”
“Hot damn.” Holt pumped his fist. “Finally. And before you ask, I’ll set up a direct conduit between the Colonial Office’s Intelligence Service and the 101st. Now for the big question. Who takes command?”
“That, believe or not, is still a subject of debate among the Grand Admiral, the CNO, and the Commander SOCOM, who, by the way, is unhappy the 101st will report to Naval Operations instead of Special Ops, at least initially, during the proof-of-concept cruise. They bandied names about, protégés of one four-star flag officer or another, all of them competent but none suitable for this sort of work — they spent the war in conventional units and never experienced the down and dirty stuff. One name was glaringly ignored, not unsurprisingly.”
“Figures. Does that mean you attended AFC?”
Kowalski nodded.
“I briefed on the concept and then listened to the debate in case there were questions. When the subject of the battle group commander came up, they forgot I was still there, albeit virtually. So far, no resolution, but I somehow got the impression the SecGen told Admiral Sampaio that Siobhan deserved her star back. In any case, I put together a battle group crest that you might enjoy.”
A new image appeared on the display — an eagle clutching an anti-ship missile in each claw, surrounded by a black band with the inscription “101st Battle Group” and “Audaces Fortuna Juvat” in white.
“Hey! I own one almost exactly like that framed and hanging on my wall, except instead of 101st Battle Group, it says Task Force Luckner.”
“That’s very much by design, Zeke. My plan is making the 101st into Task Force Luckner’s spiritual descendant, a formation that’ll eschew conventional tactics.”
Holt let out a snort of laughter.
“Will the CNO buy it?”
“Why wouldn’t he? Though he hasn’t said it in so many words, the SecGen wants a force capable of wiping out non-state actors using tactics many would describe as underhanded, just like the old Luckner of proven worth.”
A more sober expression replaced Holt’s earlier hilarity.
“Many of the SecGen’s friends and financiers won’t be happy with that. His daughter neither, I suspect.”
She shrugged.
“He just experienced the fright of his life and wants to lash out. Let’s take advantage of that while we can. By the time this new battle group is in operation, Lauzier and whoever succeeds him won’t dare rein it in, at least not publicly. The optics wouldn’t be good in the OutWorlds and colonies, not after his office formally confirmed the hijacking and subsequent rescue by a Navy task force that entered the Protectorate Zone. A lot of folks are already roiled up enough because of ugly insinuations that sovereignist movements supposedly use pirates to further their political goals.”
“So... A roving battle group with no fixed address. How do you propose handling command and control? The flag officer in charge and his or her staff will live aboard a starship full-time and handle the complete spectrum of tactical and administrative work from there. And if it’s heading into the Zone regularly, you can’t really use a Reconquista class cruiser with a flag CIC. Too conspicuous. Besides, the Reconquistas configured as flagships assume half of the second and all the third line battle group staff work on a starbase.”
Kowalski gave him a mysterious smile.
“Which is entirely true. So, what solution would you recommend, keeping in mind there’s only one that answers your questions?”
When he saw mischief dancing in her eyes, a lazy grin appeared on Holt’s face.
“You’re turning Iolanthe into a flagship, aren’t you?”
“She’s at Starbase 30 right now for replenishment. Within the next few hours, Iolanthe’s captain and the Battle Group 30 commander will receive orders to see her fitted with an additional CIC and office suite modules for the battle group staff. And because there will be no base to administer or many of the other responsibilities line battle groups handle, said staff will be much smaller than you might think. Since part of the 3rd Fleet’s material depot is housed inside Starbase 30, with the rest on the surface, they hold everything necessary for the job. Oh, and Starbase 30 itself will be the 101st’s home port. It’s well placed relative to our wildest frontiers.”
“Now I want command of it!”
“Sorry, my friend. You’re barred from any further duties in space, like every other senior Naval Intelligence officer. It’s the price of knowing everyone’s deepest secrets.”
He put on a crestfallen expression.
“I know, so make sure Siobhan gets it.”
“One thing at a time. The 101st Battle Group is officially standing up in two weeks. I have that long to convince the CNO it needs a commander with proven experience fighting nasty little wars.”
“If you manage it, keep in mind she’ll want two specific people as her flag captain and command chief petty officer. So that means two more out-of-sequence promotions, including one for a certain commander who didn’t make the cut on his final promotion board appearance.”
“Both are already in the works, Zeke. You’re not dealing with an amateur HQ bureaucrat here. I not only know where the skeletons are hidden but how to grease the tracks.”
Holt smirked. “What a surprise. Maybe the SecGen will help. Perhaps a kind person could put the idea of Siobhan as commander of the solution he wants in his ear. Know anyone in the administration?”
“Perhaps, but so do you.”
— Twenty-Seven —
Pushkin popped his head through the open door to Dunmoore’s sitting room, a smile on his face.
“Iolanthe is now docked at one of the 3rd Fleet Supply Depot’s loading arms, Skipper. Looks like they’re taking on more than just the usual replenishment load. Chief Guthren is down there chatting with her cox’n to see if he can arrange a tour for RED One. I understand you’re not the sort who wallows in auld lang syne, but I know for sure you’d be more than welcome aboard.”
“Who’s the captain these days?”
The smile broadened into a satisfied grin.
“Trevane Devall. He just took over.”
Dunmoore sat up and put away her reader, surprised at hearing the name of her former gunnery and second officer in Stingray, as well as Pushkin’s former first officer in Jan Sobieski.
“Really? I thought he’d be working in the family firm by now, running for elected office like his favorite uncles. So he stayed in the Service after the war.”
“Yes, and he evidently joined the only part of the Navy still engaged in combat operations. He went to Q ships straight after leaving Jan Sobieski and worked his way up with success if they gave him the premier covert battlecruiser.”
“And passed through the War College after my tenure as Dean of Unconventional Warfare ended. Otherwise, I’d remember. Good on him. Yes, I’ll visit the old girl with the rest of you, now that I realize her skipper won’t look lovingly at the nearest unpressurized airlock earmarked for importunate old captains. When’s the tour?”
“It starts when you and I get to the docking arm. Chief Guthren is already assembling the rest of the team.”
Dunmoore tossed her reader aside and stood to slip on her Navy blue shipboard uniform tunic with the four gold stripes and executive loop at the collar.
“Is there anyone else in Iolanthe we remember from past glories?”
“No idea. Let’s visit her and see who we recognize.”
They made their way from the habitation decks to the supply depot levels via several corridors and three different lifts, reminding Dunmoore how massive Starbase 30 was. A city in space, with the amenities, food-growing facilities, and environmental systems to sustain over ten thousand humans comfortably, twice that at a pinch, it gave the resident rear admiral more headaches than commanding two dozen warships.
She and Pushkin found RED One chatting among themselves at the base’s end of the docking arm, standing to one side so large containers on antigrav pallets could pass. There was no sign of Chief Guthren, however.
Pushkin raised his communicator to his lips.
“The Skipper and I are here.”
Within moments, two figures appeared in the docking arm — Guthren and Trevane Devall. Dunmoore watched them dodge an incoming container driven by one of the supply depot’s droids, then the latter raised his hand and waved while beaming.
Devall didn’t look much older than the image she carried in her memories, even though she’d last seen him a decade ago. But he seemed to exude more gravitas in both the way he moved and held his head, something that probably came naturally to the scion of an aristocratic family like him.
She waved back, remembering the first time they met when she took command of Stingray. It was not an auspicious beginning, but as with Pushkin, she’d developed genuine affection and respect for Devall after that rocky start.
When they reached her, he held out his hand.
“I’m so glad to see you, Captain.”
They shook enthusiastically.
“Likewise, Trevane. By the way, since we’re both wearing four stripes, it’s Siobhan, okay?”
Another grin, this time tinged with mischief. “Yes, Skipper.”
“Congratulations on your promotion and appointment in Iolanthe.” Dunmoore stepped aside and let Devall greet Pushkin.
As Devall led them to his ship, she asked, “What’s with the containers?”
“They’re giving us a flag CIC and office space for an admiral’s staff. Why that is, no one’s told me yet. But, since we’re not carrying Marines and their dropships, there’s an almost obscene amount of extra room aboard.”
Pushkin guffawed.
“Iolanthe as flagship once again, this time with a permanent establishment? What are the giant brains at Fleet HQ concocting this time?”
“I don’t know whether I should be worried.”
Pushkin clapped him on the shoulder.
“That depends on the flag officer you’ll be babysitting in due course. The Skipper here was low-maintenance, as you might recall. Sadly, few of them are.”
Devall nodded.
“I remember, and I suppose kudos are in order, for another win under Task Force Luckner’s banner. Word is you extracted the luxury liner we saw a few days ago from pirate claws deep inside the Zone.”
“Yep. The Skipper performed her usual magic. It was a real beauty of a bloodless mission.” Pushkin grinned at Dunmoore. “And RED One was there to see her in action. Speaking of which, when is Iolanthe due for her next readiness evaluation? Since we’re already here and in need of transportation, maybe we could combine the useful with the terrifying?”
Devall let out an amused chuckle.
“Attractive as that offer sounds, I’ll decline. We’re not due until next year, but I’ll put in a special request for your team.”
“How is the Furious Faerie these days?” Dunmoore asked as they stopped to let another container pass.
“Showing a little age, like any starship after more than a decade in space, but she’s still the most powerful thing in the entire Protectorate Zone.” The pride in his tone was evident to everyone present.
After the tour, Devall took the officers to the wardroom, and his cox’n took the chiefs to the chiefs’ and petty officers’ mess for a little libation and a glance at the commemorative, polished wood planks listing the names of those who were the first to crew Iolanthe.
“You’re wearing the look of a lost soul on your face, Skipper,” Pushkin whispered in Dunmoore’s ear as the latter studied the wardroom plank on which her name was engraved at the very top of the list.
She touched it with her fingertips.
“I guess Zeke had this made after I left, just like he had the battle honor ‘Shrehari Prime’ inscribed on her honors plaque.” Dunmoore glanced at him with a wry smile. “She and the other Task Force Luckner ships are the only units in the history of the Commonwealth Armed Forces to earn it, and hopefully, they’ll stay the only ones.”
Pushkin was saved from answering when Devall walked over, two stemless red wine glasses in hand. He offered one to each.
“My predecessor took a generous consignment of wine from a smuggler who was also carrying illegal substances. Since the Navy discontinued prize money for crews, he figured Iolanthe’s people should at least get something out of removing another purveyor of banned substances from Commonwealth shipping lanes. All messes received their due. It’s as good as the best vintages grown down below us. The Almighty only knows where in the Zone someone is making wine of this quality.”
After retrieving his own glass, Devall raised it in salute.
“To the best skippers I ever served under and without whom I’d never have made it this far in the Navy. In fact, I’d probably be working for my uncle the senator on Earth, wading through political muck twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year while he grooms me as his successor.”
They took a sip, and Dunmoore smiled. “This is good stuff.”
“How about I see that a bottle or two is delivered to your quarters? A gift from the ship that will bear your name on her plank for as long as she’s in commission.”
“Don’t ask and give her a chance to refuse,” Pushkin said. “You remember how she is. Just do it.”
Dunmoore scowled at him. “I’m here, you know.”
Both Devall and Pushkin burst out laughing, and the latter said, “Just like old times.”
When Dunmoore returned to her quarters, she found a bag with Iolanthe’s crest by her door. It contained two bottles of red wine bearing a label featuring the Furious Faerie emblem. She couldn't tell how Devall got the package there ahead of her, but strongly suspected Guthren was somehow involved.
**
Two evenings later, Dunmoore invited Pushkin and Devall to dine with her in the starbase wardroom, a way of reciprocating the latter’s hospitality and catching up on the last ten years in a more intimate setting. If Devall was embarrassed at outranking one of his former captains and wearing the same rank as the other, it didn’t show. He was as gracious, witty, and generous as always.
After retiring to her quarters, Dunmoore had just settled in for another evening with a book when her communicator chimed. The Starbase 30 Communications Division had just forwarded an encrypted personal message for her from Fleet HQ. She let out a soft sigh. Orders redeploying RED One would come from Caledonia, which meant these were probably her retirement papers.
Dunmoore activated the communicator’s virtual display, decrypted the message, and read it — three times. Then she stood, walked over to the sideboard, and poured herself a large serving of Glen Arcturus, a gift from Oliver Harmel, and swallowed a healthy slug. She reveled in the sensation of whiskey burning down her throat and warming her stomach.
After a minute or so, she called Pushkin and Guthren to her quarters, leaving the door to the sitting room open. They arrived together within moments.
“What’s up, Skipper?”
Dunmoore nodded at her communicator on the coffee table. “Message from Fleet HQ. Read it.”
“Our retirement orders?”
“Read it.”
Pushkin picked up the communicator and tilted it so both he and Guthren could see the virtual display. As they scanned the text, their eyes widened, and they glanced at Dunmoore several times while she poured each of them a glass.
“How...” Pushkin accepted his drink and placed the communicator back on the table.
“Not a clue, Gregor, but our career clocks were reset. No need to create our own mercenary outfit.”
Guthren, who, as usual, rolled with the punches, raised his glass.
“I propose a toast to congratulate Rear Admiral Siobhan Dunmoore on her promotion and appointment as Flag Officer Commanding the future 101st Battle Group.”
“Hear, hear!”
After a sip, she raised her glass again. “And another toast to Captain Gregor Pushkin, the 101st Battle Group’s flag captain, and Command Chief Petty Officer Kurt Guthren, the battle group cox’n.”
Once they were seated, she looked at each of them in turn.
“Did you notice they backdated our promotions to the last promotion board sittings?”
Pushkin and Guthren nodded.
“That solves an immediate issue since it makes you senior to Trevane.”
“Why would that be an issue?”
“Because I suspect that flag CIC and staff workspace going up inside Iolanthe is because of her upcoming role as the 101st Battle Group’s flagship.”
A light came on in Pushkin’s eyes. “Oh. When do we put up our new ranks?”
“If you read the message to the end, you might have noticed that it was an advance warning for us, so we’re not caught by surprise when the official announcement is made.”
“When will that be?”
Dunmoore shrugged.
“Again, not a clue. Things are happening at Fleet HQ we can’t even imagine. The orders creating the 101st Battle Group haven’t been issued yet, so I expect they’ll come first and our appointments second. I think they will rout official notifications through the office of Admiral Zantas, the 3rd Fleet Flag Officer Commanding, even though I’m guessing the 101st won’t be part of his command. And that means until they make the official announcements, we keep this to ourselves. Not even the rest of RED One can find out ahead of time.”
— Twenty-Eight —
“The notification should be in her hands by now,” Kowalski announced when Holt’s face appeared on her office display.
“I’d have loved to see her reaction when she read it.”
