Clans of Atlantis: House of Drake, page 39
Gus was under no illusion the compound wanted to keep him happy. He was good for business. Having a member of the royal family present upped their prestige, and that didn’t include the thirty-two thousand credits a month they got from royal bank accounts. Gus occupied only one townhouse, but the ones on either side, and the one behind his residence, were inhabited by royal guards. When he first exited the military, he’d argued with his mother that it was more fiscally responsible for him to live at the palace, but she’d shot that down. Then his father had made it an order when they failed to get along. Now, he was glad he was gone.
He parked in his assigned spot and ignored the two black SUVs that always sat running outside his townhouse. Inside were six men in full tactical gear, ready to respond to anything. They were tied into the compound’s security network, the private upgrades they’d done to his residence, and a pair of stealth drones that were on overwatch. The security measure was a guess on his part, but in his own experience, having a bird’s-eye view of the AO was priceless.
Gus didn’t ignore the hulking man standing alertly at the bottom of the small step up to his front door. The man had been present for most of his life. “Hey, Afu.” He gave the big man a pat on the shoulder as he moved past him. “She back?”
“Yes,” he rumbled, his eyes scanning back and forth.
Gus let his oldest bodyguard get back to work. The longer Gus stood out in the open, the better chance a sniper had to pick him off, and the more stressed Afu would be. The big man never looked it, but Gus had been with him long enough to see the little signs.
He shut and locked the door behind him. His holocom linked with the townhome’s systems. “Lights low,” he commanded. He was getting a bit of a headache—a side effect of being in his father’s presence.
The townhome’s integrated systems identified him and complied with his command. He inhaled and smelled takeout from a nearby eatery he loved. Looks like someone got the memo.
The short entryway led to an open-concept kitchen and living room. The granite countertop had cartons piled high, with a clean plate and utensils sitting next to them. He instinctively reached out and pushed at the refrigerator door. As usual, it moved a few centimeters before closing fully. He sighed and looked over to the couch where Andy sat. He could tell how focused on something she was by whether or not she noticed the little things around her. The fridge being open for Creator knew how long showed that her mind was somewhere else. In fact, she hadn’t even acknowledged that he was here.
Her eyes were focused on the wall-screen that took up an entire section of the room. No one made individual televisions anymore, not when you could just build the technology into the wall itself. Currently, she had it set on 110cms, but the picture could take up the entire wall if you wanted.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called out, causing her to jump.
“Gussy.” She took a deep breath and pushed her hair behind her ears. Earlier in the day, she’d been in her formal business attire. Now, she was in sweatpants and a University of Atlantis-Atland t-shirt. If he was being honest with himself, he found the sweatpants look just as sexy.
“So.” She immediately switched gears and focused her intense gaze on him. “How’d it go?”
She’d gotten his favorite takeout, so Angela must have radioed ahead that he’d been summoned to see his father—and there was only one reason that a summons like that could be about.
“First off,” he began, making sure to move at an agonizingly slow pace as he selected the food on his plate, “congratulations to you. Over four hundred for the resolution? You’ve got to be ecstatic.”
“It was a revolution.” Her eyes gleamed with passion. “We worked the Loyalist moderates over all morning and afternoon, but I think you did it.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“I didn’t do anything but remain neutral and vague,” he replied.
“And because you did that, and the Assistant to the Undersecretary of who the fuck cares didn’t give us much to work with, everyone came to yours truly to unravel the true meaning of your little speech.” She grinned. Gus groaned, as he knew his fiancée would have put her own spin on it.
Her grin broadened at his sign of unease. “I didn’t say you planned a revolt of cultural norms or anything, but I might have mentioned, in my own vague and alluring way, that you didn’t say no to such a thing, either. Everything coming out of the Crown and Court previously has been a hard no, so nothing was just as good as yes.”
“So, the moderates didn’t want to burn their political capital on the issue and voted yes,” he concluded. “The resolution passed by a landslide and is on its way to the king.”
“But you got there first.” She leaned in, eyes intent on him. “What’s the old bastard going to do?”
Gus tried to school his expression, but failed.
“Fuck yes!” Andy jumped up onto the couch and did a cute little victory dance.
“He’s going to send the HMS Valiant and a company of marines to join the UN fleet, along with a diplomatic delegation.”
“I did it. I fucking did it. I made the king come down to my level. Take that, you—”
Gus cut her off before she could really get going. “Guess who’s going to be on that delegation?”
That stopped her happy dance in its tracks. “You!” She practically threw herself off the couch and into his chest. “No way! He’s actually sending you?” She plastered a sloppy, wet kiss on his lips. “This day can’t get any better.”
“In his defense, he has to.” Gus couldn’t take all the credit. “Ulysses is going to be there, along with any other important clans that can maneuver their assets in the next seventy-two hours. The royal family needs someone on that boat. He can’t go. Mom isn’t a proper diplomat. So that leaves me.”
“You’re about to change the history of this kingdom, Gus.” She was suddenly very serious. “A military and diplomatic partnership with other nations has never been done. Even during the world wars, we stayed out of everything. This is big. This is so fucking big, it makes your cock look tiny.”
“Well, that’s exactly what a guy wants to hear.” He scoffed, released her, and started shoveling down food. He knew what was coming next.
“I’ve got my office working up dossiers on every delegate and military leader involved in this. I’m sure your father’s people will do the same, but I’m digging deep. You need to get a good read on these people. Befriend them if you want. Hell, fuck one if it’ll do the future some good. On second thought, forget that last bit,” she stated, once her brain had caught up with her mouth. “We need diplomatic contacts. The world is getting too small for us to just sit out here in the Pacific. This is step one to building lasting relationships.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Gus knew he had to just go with the flow. Andy was a force of nature when she was like this. Fighting against her was like fighting a hurricane.
“We’ll spend a few hours studying, and then you get a reward for doing so well today.” She leaned closer and gave him a much more tender, passionate kiss. He liked where this was going.
“But first…” She swiped her finger across her wrist and her holocom’s data projected onto the full wall-screen. “This is the Yank commander, General Herbert Norman Schwarzkopf. Born in Trenton, New Jersey in 1934…”
***
The HMS Valiant was a Virtue-class destroyer measuring 170 meters long and had a displacement of 11,000 tons. That made it ten percent longer and thirteen percent heavier than the Yanks’ brand new Arleigh Burke-class destroyer. Despite being a seafaring nation in the middle of the Pacific, Atlantis’s navy was dwarfed by the likes of the Soviets, the Yanks, and even the Reich. What it lacked in quantity, though, it made up for in quality. Even the obsolete Valiant could outclass everything non-Atlantean sailing the seven seas.
Five days after setting sail from RJB North, the Valiant sailed into Jakarta’s outer harbor to rendezvous with the rest of the UN peacekeeping fleet. Despite Gus’s initial assumptions, there was not an abundance of clan on the voyage. In fact, what he’d assumed would have every clan vying for a spot on the boat turned out to be only a three-clan affair, with five clan total out of the crew’s complement of two hundred and six. Captain Sirius Hydra, Assistant Tactical Officer Ulysses Yinglong, and Gus represented Clan Draconus, while Dea Leo, of Clan Panthera, would be the kingdom’s ambassador to the US, and Kiril Lune, of Clan Lupus, would be ambassador to the Reich. Everyone else on the ship was a norm. Gus had a guess as to why. If everything went to shit, his father wanted there to be as little evidence as possible that the Kingdom of Atlantis had a secret to hide.
“Well, this is a pathetic sight.” Dea, as she preferred to be called, stood next to him on the starboard platform outside the bridge.
Gus couldn’t help but agree. The UN peacekeeping fleet looked like it would struggle to keep the peace at an out-of-control soccer game. The Valiant was settling into its assigned position in the convoy that was preparing to depart. Gus counted half a dozen hospital and aide ships clustered in the center. The warships would surround the valuable supplies and protect them on the voyage. The warships were from the UN nations willing to participate that also had a navy. There were not many.
Gus saw two ships from the Indian Navy, much smaller than the Valiant, but which probably still met the definition of a destroyer. India had forcefully broken away from the British Commonwealth in the 1950s, when England was still writhing from the loss of its other colonies. It hadn’t been a pretty breakup, and the Indians were still figuring out how to govern themselves forty years later. Gus didn’t blame them; they had a billion people to deal with. Dealing with anything that size would be difficult.
Gus was a little surprised to see a ship from the People’s Liberation Army Navy. It couldn’t be much larger than a frigate, which meant the Chinese were contributing the smallest force possible. They still wanted to be a part of the international community the UN offered, but it clearly showed their mindset when it came to the fleet’s mission. It looked like South Africa had also sent a destroyer, as well as the Republic of Texas. The small state between the CSA, the USA, and Mexico had a much more impressive army than navy, but they clearly wanted to be a part of any negotiation needed to stop hostilities involving their neighbor to the north.
Two destroyers each were flying the flags of Brazil and Argentina—neither South American competitor wanting to be outdone by the other. And last but not least, a cruiser from the CSA navy rounded out the fleet’s surface vessels. Gus was scanning around the cruiser when he saw a periscope emerge. The sleek black tube coasting close to the cruiser showed the Confeds had brought a little extra muscle to the party. Of all the states present in the fleet, the Confeds were the strongest—minus Atlantis, but no one else knew that.
In total, they had nine destroyers, one frigate, one cruiser, and one submarine. They would probably be facing four-to-one odds against a single fleet, much less two. It was clear they couldn’t do anything in an actual fight, but they weren’t there to fight. They were there to talk.
“Our little rag-tag group of boats”—Dea wouldn’t even call it a fleet—“is going to sail out there, sit between probably the two strongest nations in the world, and hope they decide they want to talk. We shouldn’t be here.” Like most clan, she thought this was a mistake, but not just because of deep-rooted political beliefs. She believed all of this was her job as a diplomat. She didn’t want a stupid sailor, marine, or prince saying something that would affect the entire kingdom’s international relations. She was supposed to manage the world’s perception of them. She didn’t like domestic politicians dealing with things they knew nothing about—or, more specifically, she’d dealt with Gus’s screw-ups once before and didn’t want to do so again.
“At least we’ll get to go to a few parties.” She pointed at a chopper taking off from the small helipad at the back of the cruiser. The Valiant had one in the stern, as well. “Here’s how tonight will go: the CSA is going to flex its muscle and demand they be in control. The Brazilians and Argentinians will throw a fit, but it’s all an act. They need to appear to be against North American supremacy, but they don’t want to run the show. The Indians, South Africans, and Texans don’t care, but the Texans will do what they want no matter what the CSA says. The Chinese probably won’t even show up. Their skipper is undoubtedly pissed to even be getting this assignment. The real wildcard is us. Everyone wants to know how we’ll react.”
“How will we react?” Gus knew from his research that Captain Hydra had task-force command experience. Nothing this big, of course, but he could take command, since there was no way they were actually going to fight.
“We’ll let the Confeds run the show. They’ve probably sent a commodore, anyway.” Gus nodded as she laid out the plan. In more ways than one, Dea still saw him as the kid she’d picked up in that LA police station six years ago. He didn’t blame her, but he was out to prove her wrong. Tonight might well give him that chance.
He watched the chopper fly from ship to ship and back to the cruiser. The fleet was already streaming out of the harbor, in formation around the support vessels. There was most likely a pecking order in the pick-up schedule. Gus was sure there was going to be an underlying nuance to everything that happened over the next few days, and it was his job to learn it. That was the whole reason he was here—aside from trying to stop another war.
The Valiant was the last pickup, so when Gus saw it heading their way, he followed Dea down to the helipad. It was plenty large for the Huey ferrying people around. The Yanks had decommissioned most of their fleet of sixteen thousand back in the late eighties in favor of the new Blackhawk, so the CSA had bought up some of the surplus for pennies on the dollar. Instead of paying for production costs, they just added a few upgrades and saved a bunch of money. Without the resources of their northern neighbor, the CSA was very good at getting their bang for their buck.
The Atlantean party headed to the CSA cruiser contained the captain, Dea, Gus, and Kiril. Gus had only passed Ulysses in the corridors once or twice during the voyage, but he’d be sure to rub this in the first chance he got. Captain Hydra was on the helipad in his dress uniform, while the rest were in formal attire. Tonight was about setting the stage, getting the ball rolling toward a diplomatic solution to this whole mess. That all began with ensuring that the people doing the negotiating got along.
The Hueys were not built for comfort, and they were much smaller than the choppers the Atlantean marines used. Plus, one rotor is really inefficient, he thought, as they fought the wind roaring across the open ocean and eventually made it to the cruiser.
“Gentlemen, lady.” A man in a Confed officer’s uniform greeted them on the cruiser’s helipad and took them up to the officers’ ward room, where everyone else was waiting.
All conversation stopped as they entered, and Gus had to duck considerably to make it through the hatch. A few people’s eyes bulged when he stood back up to his full height. “Welcome.” A man in Confed uniform with a star on his shoulder walked forward to shake hands with Captain Hydra. “We are so pleased you’re here.” He started making introductions.
Gus paid attention, but his senses were taking in more than just names and nations. He studied their body language, the scents they gave off, the little tells he’d learned to recognize as a CLAWS operative. He didn’t need a lot of skill to see that everyone here had an agenda.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Commodore.” Dea took on the role of lead delegate and began to introduce their party. “Lastly”—she gestured at Gus—“may I present His Royal Highness, Augustus Drake, Crown Prince of Atlantis.”
A small scoff escaped someone’s lips at the back of the room. If you weren’t within half a meter, or clan, you would have missed it. Gus wasn’t a norm, however. His eyes snapped to the offending person as he recalled who they were.
Representative Randall Jackson-Lee of Georgia, from the Confederate States of America House of Representatives, Gus recalled.
Moreover, the man looked at Gus with genuine dislike. There were plenty of people in the room who had rolled their eyes, assuming he was like every other heir to a hereditary monarchy, but for this man, it was more. There was genuine anger in his eyes. For what, Gus didn’t know. It was a puzzle he’d have to put together later, though. Right now, everyone was being invited to sit and start the discussions. Since one of the CSA’s people already hated him, Gus predicted that this was going to be more difficult than people thought.
***
Admiral Yinglong had been right on the money. The UN fleet made it into position in the narrowest part of the Strait of Hormuz just under an hour before the Reich’s combined Arabian and Mediterranean Fleets came bearing down on them. From the west, the Yanks and Brits brought their own warships to the fight. Gus found himself sitting between hundreds of guns and missile tubes, hoping that his simple presence was enough to stop the world from disintegrating into war.
He watched as aircraft carriers from the world powers launched squadron after squadron of fighters, which swirled protectively around their formations. Huge battleships trained their forty-centimeter guns at the edges of the horizon, where the dark shapes of the enemy could barely be perceived. The Valiant’s LookingGlass V3.3 software went to work, gathering information, cataloging, and presenting the skipper with options for if everything went to shit. If it did, Gus wasn’t sure the Atlantean ship would make it out of this alive.
They monitored the conversations going back and forth, and those occurring between the fleets and their headquarters. It was a little concerning to hear the voices of people arguing to strike, but ultimately, more level heads won out. The UN’s move worked, and both fleets stood down pending the outcome of diplomatic talks.
Most of the Yanks ships returned to support the newly formed Kingdom of Kuwait, while the British Commonwealth’s ships anchored outside Dubai to check any Reich aggression. The Reich pulled back to Muscat, and both parties agreed to send delegates to Khasab, which the UN had secured ahead of time. Half of the Atlantean marines saw their first foreign deployment in millennia as they were used to secure the road from Khasab Airport to the meeting place.
