…”
“But what, skipper?”
“A couple of buts, I suppose. Neither of them has commanded anything bigger than an assault lander, and neither has been on the receiving end of a really serious Hammer attack. All we know about them is what the selection process told us-all good, of course-but how they’ll go when they take their squadrons into combat, when they have to stare down an oncoming Hammer task group throwing missiles and rail-gun slugs at them, when it’s time to make the hard decisions, that’s another matter.”
“That’s not all that’s worrying you, is it, sir?” Ferreira said softly.
Michael stared at his executive officer keenly. “Remind me,” he said, “not to take you for granted, Jayla. No, it’s not. One thing in particular bothers me. When you play war games in a sim, only your reputation is on the line. When we take the dreadnoughts into battle, everything is on the line, and I’m not talking about whether we come home alive or not. No, there’ll be a lot more than that at stake.”
Ferreira nodded. “The Federation and what it stands for, families, the people we love, friends, homes. Those are the stakes.”
“They are.”
“They don’t get much bigger.”
“No, they don’t,” Michael said. “The only reason we have dreadnoughts in our order of battle is because the Federation is screwed without them. The Hammers have more ships than us. They have more antimatter warheads. If they had the balls, they could … they would destroy our home planets. They beat us to a pulp at Comdur, and they can pulp us again. So we have to stop them. Despite all the crap dished out by the antidreadnought lobby, that’s the only reason we have dreadnoughts. Me? I think I can handle it. But Rao and Machar? How will they go when they have to make decisions in combat knowing that the Federation might fall if they get it wrong?”
Ferreira said nothing, and the silence that followed went on for a long time.
Saturday, January 20, 2401, UD
The conference room stayed silent when the speaker paused.
“So to sum up, the concept of operations for Operation Opera envisages a battle-fleet-sized operation spearheaded by the dreadnought force”-an ugly murmur filled the air-“with conventionally crewed ships and a marine landing force following up. Their task will be the destruction of the Hammer antimatter plant.”
The speaker, a young captain from Fleet’s plans division, stopped again. “And let me just make this point,” he continued. “Dreadnoughts are the only way to make this operation a success. That is,” he said, his words deliberate, “unless you consider the loss of more than sixty heavy cruisers along with their entire crews an acceptable casualty rate. Well, I don’t … and I suspect none of you do, either. Unless there are any questions, I would like to hand over to Warfare Division for their critique … No questions? Thank you. Captain al-Fulani?”
Michael wanted to stand up and cheer. Of all Fleet’s staff divisions, plans-traditionally home to some of the best and brightest minds in Fleet-was the only one wholeheartedly in support of dreadnoughts, and it was good to see a staffer with the balls to stand up in public and say so. He watched Captain al-Fulani make her way to the lectern. Michael had met al-Fulani only once; it was enough. She-not to mention her division-was as implacably opposed to dreadnoughts as Plans was supportive.
“Thank you,” al-Fulani said, “though regarding the reliance of the concept of operations on dreadnoughts, we would like it noted that we don’t support-”
“Enough!” Fleet Admiral Kefu cut al-Fulani off, his voice harsh. The chief of the defense force stood up. He turned to look at the assembled staffers, making no attempt to conceal his anger.
“The objections of those of you,” Kefu said carefully, deliberately, “who cannot accept that dreadnoughts have any part to play have been heard … considered … and taken into account. But it seems I still have to remind far too many of you that we don’t have the luxury of endless debate. If we do not deal with the Hammers and soon, we may find ourselves arguing over the ashes of dead planets. Our home planets. My home planet. My home. My family.”
Kefu paused, looking hard at the officers arrayed in front of him. “I will not allow that to happen. So, for those of you a bit slow to understand what’s going on, listen up, because I will not be saying this again. The role of dreadnoughts in the attack on the Hammer antimatter plant will be exactly as recommended by Plans Division. The commander in chief has made that decision. I have formally endorsed it. So stop wasting your time and mine by prolonging an argument that is over.”
Kefu stood silent for a moment, face flushed with anger. “Now … if there is anyone here,” he said with great deliberation, “who cannot live with that decision, you should leave. I will expect your resignations on my desk first thing tomorrow morning … Anyone … no takers? Good. It seems that military discipline does still mean something. I must say I was beginning to wonder.”
Making an obvious effort to regain control, Kefu turned to look at al-Fulani. “Captain. How about you? You seem happy to question the decisions of your superiors in an open forum. Should I expect your resignation?” Kefu’s tone was brutal.
Fascinated, Michael watched al-Fulani squirm. It was not often that Fleet officers committed professional suicide in public, but al-Fulani just had. Kefu was an unforgiving man, and he never, ever forgot. The woman was finished, her career flushed down the crapper. If she had any sense, she would resign.
“Well?” Kefu barked.
“My apologies, sir,” al-Fulani replied, her face red with a mix of embarrassment, anger, and fear. “I’m in, sir,” she stammered, “of course.”
“I bloody well hope so,” Kefu said venomously. “I have better things to do than keep insubordinate Fleet staffers in line.” He turned to look at the head of Fleet’s warfare division. “Admiral Chenoweth. I do not need your people second-guessing the commander in chief’s decisions. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir,” the admiral said, his face betraying anger at the humiliation Kefu was heaping on him. “It will not happen again.”
“For your sake, Admiral, I hope it doesn’t,” Kefu said, sitting down. “Captain al-Fulani, please continue.”
“Thank you, sir, … er,” al-Fulani said, clearly rattled by Kefu’s savage response. There was an awkward pause before she recovered enough to continue. “Yes … Warfare Division has analyzed the concept of operations, and we believe it has the following weaknesses. First, …”
In the end, after hours of sometimes rancorous argument, the conference came down to a single issue. Michael watched transfixed while Vice Admiral Jaruzelska marshaled her thoughts. This conference-an initial briefing for the captains of the ships involved in Operation Opera, the operation to destroy the Hammer antimatter plant-was his first opportunity to see firsthand how the men and women responsible for the defense of the Federated Worlds worked. For Michael, one of the most junior officers present by a big margin, it was an education in itself. An unholy mix of politics, expediency, strategy, power, and ill-concealed ambition transformed the conference into a brutal contest refereed with ruthless efficiency by Fleet Admiral Kefu.
It was a long way from the dry and dusty debate he had expected, and now it was Jaruzelska’s turn to enter the ring. She had a fight on her hands; sadly, if Kefu’s body language offered any guide, it was a fight she was not going to win.
“Sir,” Jaruzelska said to Kefu, “I have to call this the way I see it. Yes, we can launch Operation Opera within six weeks, but that would be inadvisable and imprudent.”
She paused. Utterly absorbed, Michael stared not at Jaruzelska but at Kefu. The admiral’s face tightened noticeably at Jaruzelska’s uncompromising tone. You’re going to lose this, Admiral Jaruzelska, Michael decided.
“It will be extremely tight,” Jaruzelska continued, “and not just for the dreadnoughts. This is a complex operation. Logistics will be tight, as will the operations designed to draw Hammer forces away from Devastation Reef. All of that can be man-”
“Cut to the chase, Admiral, please. We don’t have all day,” Kefu said.
“No, sir, we don’t. But to expect the follow-on dreadnought squadrons to be combat-ready in a matter of
