Hell or Highwater (Hell's Jesters, #5), page 41
It was all too late.
He did find the Smelter, blinking out another distress call. Looked like they could use the help. Touching the icon, he keyed his course to that and transmitted it out across the squadron channel. “Jesters...anyone who’s left...this is where I’ll be.”
“I’m with you, Tim,” Cory said, the hush in her tone telling him she knew the place he’d picked for their stand was suicide.
“Glad to hear it, kid.”
Pouring power into the thrusters, Tim surged back for the fight. Vaguely, he noticed the scraps that remained of his wing congealing around him. His heart nearly burst at the sight. The last of the Jesters, coming together one last time.
“Tim,” Jeanie said to him, “this is it.”
He grimaced, though the words didn’t really surprise. “That some of your stochastic analysis, Jeanie?”
“This outcome doesn’t require advanced analysis to ascertain,” she replied with emotion no machine could fake and still be a machine.
Tim gulped and forced a smile. “Glad you’re with me, too, then, Jeanie.”
“I...feel the same way.”
Tim thought about the words, the cybernetic mind, cybernetic soul behind them. Weird to find more humanity in a starfighter operating system than in the flesh-and-blood beings tearing apart the galaxy around him.
“Yeah...”
An alarm blatted from the tactical. Tim sighed, exhausted beyond words, beyond reaction to another warning. Another crisis. Icons were rushing towards the fight, another two dozen by the look, putting on speed at a reckless rate. His brows furrowed as he noted the angle of their approach, coming from what looked like the far side of Surigao.
Too close to be from the Union Fleet. Tim touched the tactical. “Jeanie, what are these?”
The schematic that materialized in the war book hologram was the best thing he had ever seen in his life.
“Jesters!” Red’s voice crackled from Tim’s earbuds. “Any Union ships! Just hold on! We’re on our way!”
They didn’t look like a lot. But every single one of the oncoming Hellhound blossomed gloriously into scatter-pack missile spreads. And a new wave of fire rocked the Alliance fleet.
“Yes...” Tim croaked, didn’t even recognize his voice for the shock.
“It’s Red and the rest!” Cory was cheering.
Tim roared. “Hell yes!!!”
“MORE SHIPS INBOUND,” Goya announced unsteadily at Buck’s side. “Looks like starfighters, more Jesters!”
Severson had gone from mussing his hair to kneading his temples with both hands. “Where in the hell are they all coming from?” He punched the communicator with a thumb. “Bridge. Do we have a link to Harrison or Buto, yet?”
“We’ve stablished long-range communications with Admiral Harrison,” the comm officer replied. “He indicates they’ve drawn the enemy out as far as possible and it now looks like some are moving back on the planet.”
Which was obvious, Buck could see on the huge hologram. Surprise was past. Greer could see them. Everyone could. And the Union was reacting.
“And Buto?” Severson demanded.
A pause. “Admiral Harrison confirms that the Rimward Fleet has withdrawn to the far side of the system.”
“What?!?!” Severson and Goya both exclaimed at once.
Another, notably uncomfortable pause. “Admiral Buto, it appears, has been killed and a significant portion of the Rimward Fleet destroyed.”
The Annihilator shivered as a spatter of fresh hits glanced off her shields. The tremor was enough to cause Severson to sag forward, put both hands on the projector before him to hold him up. Silence fell like a pall into the CIC, the soft conversations of the other officers stilling, all eyes shifting to Severson.
He looked up balefully at Buck and Goya, said hoarsely, “Confirm that.”
Goya fumbled with the hologram controls, zoomed the focus to the far side of the star system. Sensor data was refining, even as he did so. A cluster of icons blinked pitifully from the Galactic South gap in the debris field. Pitifully few. “This looks like some of their vessels.”
“Where are the rest?” Severson asked.
A significant portion destroyed, Buck thought but did not say out loud. Severson and Goya, both, were beginning to look and sound unhinged—and he’d angered them enough.
“Can’t be...” Goya sounded like he was pleading.
Another shudder rattled the bulkheads and deck plates. The fight around the Foundation Fleet wasn’t letting up, those newly-arrived Hellhounds cutting through the already-disordered formations and unleashing their scatter-packs like grenades cast into a petrochem factory. Losses were mounting. But the Foundation still had more of everything, was still about to run over the planet, Surigao, itself.
“How did this happen?” Severson warbled. His glower turned on Buck and sharpened to twin pinpricks of rage. “Any analysis to explain that?”
“I have no idea, sir,” Buck replied, jaw held high, refusing to yield his professional calm. “It almost seems the Rimward squadrons were repelled before we arrived.”
“Ridiculous!” Severson snapped and jabbed a finger at Goya. “We need to find out what happened!”
“Sir,” Buck dared—couldn’t help himself, “perhaps we need to finish the battle in front of us first.”
Goya sucked in a breath and went utterly still as Severson turned his stare back on Buck. “Finish it?” he hear-wheezed. “It is finished, Commander!” He flung a hand up at the hologram. “Or aren’t you seeing all of this?”
What Buck was seeing was desperate charges flung into their faces, to slow them down, confuse them. He saw already-damaged Union capital ships getting pummeled to scrap from all sides. He saw the Union’s support ships scattered or destroyed and the planet they’d come to conquer exposed and naked. And, yes, he saw the Union main fleet rushing back to cut them off. But they’d never make it before the Foundation Fleet was settled over Surigao and could hold it hostage with its heavy weapons.
“Admiral,” Buck began very carefully, “what I see is victory still in our grasp” he gulped “if we’re bold enough to seize it.”
The CIC jolted and cries of alarm went through the others gathered there—probably as much a release of tension from the scene as alarm at the hit. The hologram was blinking over Surigao, pointing out clusters on the surface of the planet. Globulars popped out and war book schemata depicted huge, dome-shaped installations.
“We’re coming into extreme range for the planet’s anti-orbital defenses,” Goya reported. “Fusion batteries. They’re probing us. That hit was probably luck at this distance.” He looked up at Severson. “Their accuracy will improve as we close.”
The Admiral nodded, the motion causing a jewel of sweat to slide down the side of his face, glimmering in the holographic illumination, glimmering with a nervous light to match that in his eyes. Those eyes were drawn to fresh flashes from the hologram, the planet, a new swarm of contacts rising to orbit. “What now?” he groaned.
“Looks like more planetary militia vessels,” Goya answered.
Buck scowled. He was overselling it, now. The war book was already painting the newcomers as a mix of ancient starfighters two generations out of production and assorted shuttles and personal craft—some not even armed. It was desperation. They were down to flinging their junk at them!
“Admiral Severson,” Buck now pled, “this was always a risk. Counter-attack was expected, as was resistance from the planet. The plan assumed that—”
“The plan is a shambles!” Severson shrieked at him.
Buck flinched, stumbled over his words for a second, but couldn’t stop. They had to see it! “Sir, ‘no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy’.”
“You’re going to quote Academy texts at me, now, Commander?” Severson seethed.
“Admiral, if we just—”
“That’s enough, Commander,” Goya cut him off with a voice chilling for its quiet assertion.
Severson slammed the comm button. “Bridge. Communications. Prepare to transmit to all vessels. ‘Regroup on the Annihilator. Prepare to withdraw to 2 AUs distant. Coordinates forthcoming.’ Transmit as soon as prepared!”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Helm,” he continued, sounding more confident as he made the decision to run—to run! “Plot us course that takes us clear of the planet and around the Union Fleet. Safest route to rendezvous with the Fringe World Fleet. Do you understand?”
“Understood, Admiral.”
“We’ll regroup,” Severson said, clearing his throat, smoothing his eyebrows, then his hair, slowly, meticulously. “We’ll combine the fleets and double our strength and then we’ll see how things stand. Greer won’t be able to resist us.”
“Yes, sir,” Goya replied automatically.
Severson’s glare shot towards Buck.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, unable to keep the shiver of emotion, of rage from his voice.
The Admiral nodded once, appeared satisfied. Punching the comm button once more, he ordered, “Prepare another transmission, encrypted. Send direct to Admiral Harrison, ‘Once clear of immediate contact, face-to-face council is requested. Come by shuttle, for purposes of secure communication. We will send escorts.’” He released the button with an audible click and looked up at Buck. “We’ll see what your father has to say for himself.”
“Aye, sir.” The words neither agreed nor approved.
Because what the Admiral would likely say is that Severson had just cost them the battle. Maybe the war.
“IT’S CONFIRMED,” ARRIAN said with wonderment on the bridge of the Ludlow. “All ships are changing course and moving away from Surigao.” The Commander turned from his perch behind the tactical station and looked at Greer. “They’re withdrawing.”
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch...” Greer snorted. “He lost his nerve. Severson lost his nerve!”
Kelin pivoted her chair to face him. “Sir. Did we just win?”
Greer looked around at the other young faces—so damned young—and had to force down the ferocious surge within him, had to keep it under control after his earlier outburst. They needed to see focus, now. He couldn’t help a combative grin, though. “Too soon to say, Captain. But they’ve surrendered the initiative for certain.”
“Their course looks like it will take them in an outwards arc away from us,” Arrian said.
“Towards Harrison,” Greer finished for him with an eager nod. “Safety in numbers.” He snorted again. “They had us. But those crazy counter-attacks...” He trailed off as concerns darkened his thoughts. “Is...is the Solomon still there? Avery?”
“Severely damaged, by all reports,” Arrian reported, “but, aye, still operational. I’ll see if we can raise the Admiral.”
“Quickly, please, Commander. I need to know how bad they hurt us.”
And he already knew the answer to that was pretty badly. He could see it by the absence of ships still over Surigao, the pitifully few transmissions filtering in, the red blotches all over the TOS display. He could tell by the support ships still scattering away from the planet, the fight, the disaster. Debacle, Greer thought, faced it head-on. This was a complete bungling. My bungle. These kids know it. Avery—if he’ll even speak with me—certainly knows it. Greer blew out a long breath to settle his guts, the nausea, the utter disgust. And the thing that saved our ass wasn’t some clever maneuver or stratagem; it was courage.
Good old-fashioned courage.
“Admiral,” Arrian spoke up, “still trying to reach Avery. Sounds like he’s hurt, though not badly.”
Greer nodded hollowly. “As soon as is practical, then, Commander.”
“Aye, sir.”
Brain started working again, mental gears whirring. Greer had to patch the fleet back together again, form up before the planet. He chortled inwardly. Right back to where we started. But the Alliance had blown it. That fact got clearer as he scanned the tactical, watched the Foundation Fleet run like kicked dogs to get clear of a disturbed hornet’s nest. They might still have numbers on him, but their starfighter strength was shredded and they were now parsecs away from resupply with dozens of ships torn up and barely fit for a fight. And he’d be squatting down-system with superior position and all the support in the universe.
But by all means, he thought with fierce joy, come get some!
That joy guttered almost as quickly as it flared. The losses faced him again, and the miscalculations. No way word of this didn’t get out. The Greer mystique would take a beating. He thought of those Senators, Delmonte and Brand, their offer, their scheme. No way that survived now. He prayed the great, terrible thing it looked like the Fleet had accomplished today was enough for Levine, because there was no way Greer could be the man of the hour.
He was as wrecked as his opponents.
A ping sounded from the communications station. “Sir,” the comm officer said tentatively, then glanced over at Arrian.
The Commander scurried to her side and read something from her holoscreen. “Admiral, it’s from Encryption! They’ve been monitoring and analyzing signals between the Alliance ships and fleets all through the fight. They’ve had a breakthrough!”
“Oh?” Greer turned fully to face him.
Arrian’s brows shot up as he read something else from the screen. “Ah, sir...they, ah, they wanted you to see this particular communique, especially. Just went out, from the Foundation Fleet to Harrison, direct.”
“Yes? What, Commander?”
“Admiral Severson has requested an in-person conference with the Fleet Commanders. We just picked up Harrison’s reply and agreement. Encryption even has his course and coordinates!”
Kelin sucked in a breath. Someone else on the bridge gasped.
The words and—God, help me—implications ricocheted around in Greer’s skull. A suddenly wave of revulsion rushed through him. All had gone ugly, just ugly. But the opportunity this presented flashed through all like a plasma bolt, blasted away the reservations. God, I can’t ignore it! Nehemiah’s the best fleet commander they have left! Knock him out and maybe...
“Where will he be?” Greer demanded.
Arrian scampered back over to the tactical station, but the tech there was already throwing up estimates on the main display. Dotted lines materialized, blinked, showed a long curve out and away from the Fringe World Fleet, angling back then from system’s edge towards the approximate route of the Foundation ships. A sphere appeared, tightened. “This would be about the point of a meeting between a shuttle moving at maximum practical speeds and any likely escort coming from the Foundation.” Arrian looked at Greer. “And the shuttle will probably have its own escorts, already.”
“Who do we have in the area?” Greer asked. “Anyone?”
“Are we sure of this?” Kelin asked incredulously. “Sir, there’s a billion square kilometers they could be sneaking across. If this is wrong, we’ve sent starfighters we need badly right now on the wildest of wild goose chases.”
“Worth the risk,” he growled back.
Arrian scanned the station’s holoscreen, touched something, brought up a globular that Greer could see was showing him a closer detail of the area. The Commander’s lips pinched and his face paled. “We may have someone who could get into position but...”
“Yes? Where?”
“Sir, I think you should...” Arrian stepped back from the globular and gestured for Greer to read it.
Greer stalked over to the display, cursing softly. The hologram showed that some the Marauders engaged in the stand past Surigao had survived the ordeal. With their speed and weapons, they could probably outrun the Foundation Fleet, drawing a chord across the curve of its arcing course and arriving where Harrison’s delegation would be before Severson’s ships reached them.
Then Greer saw which squadron and who commanded it.
Jesus...ugliness...never-ending ugliness...
But this could be the proverbial straw breaking the camel’s back.
“Lieutenant,” Greer said softly, turning towards the communications officer, “can you establish a link with those ships?”
“It’s a long way, sir, and there’ll be a delay, but...yes, I think so.”
“Then establish the link.” He left the tactical station and started towards her. Every stride felt like a crime. “And when that’s done, why don’t you step away and let me key the message and transmit?” He glanced over his shoulder at Arrian, whose pallid color paled even further.
“It’s better this order came from me directly.”
THE Taurus-series star yacht quivered faintly as Jerry fed more power to its thrusters than its captain had ever likely dared. But the sleek thing was built for both the comfort and safety of its owners and the engines were handling it fine. Well-enough, in fact, that Jerry could take his hands of the controls and sag back in the helmsman’s seat on the compact but luxurious bridge, let the ship follow the course he’d set for the Tartan System’s edge on its own.
Tina’s head came to rest upon his right shoulder and she leaned into him from the station beside his. Warmth filled his chest, a kind of peace and contentment he hadn’t felt in—well, forever. He raised his left hand to pat the top of her head, left it resting there, just keeping her close.
“Gonna be all right, little girl.”
She sniffled into his shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Well, thank me when we’re in hyperspace.” He pointed at the navigation display. “It’s still a haul to the edge of the gravity well.”
She wiped her nose, her eyes and straightened up, bleary eyes scanning the hologram, narrowing when they noted the glint of icons rising from the receding sphere of Tartan. “We being followed?”
