out and so on. You can use that for your training sims.”
“Thanks.”
“And I’d like to meet your team. Set up a time with the XO and let me know.”
“Will do, sir.”
Anger had been welling up inside Michael, and by the time Kallewi left his day cabin, he was seething. Buried under a mountain of more pressing matters, he had not spent much time worrying about the job Kallewi might have to do if Assault Group failed to make it through to the antimatter plant. The arrival of Kallewi and his marines had changed all that, and now he smelled a rat, a big smelly one. How the hell had three marine assault demotition teams been assigned to the dreadnought force but not told why? How could Perkins’s precious Assault Group ever destroy the antimatter plant when they had no idea what it looked like?
It made no sense at all. Unless …
Perkins. It had to be Perkins. The man refused to believe that the dreadnoughts might have to finish the job of destroying the Hammer antimatter plant, to the point where he had decided there was no reason to brief the marines who would take over if Perkins’s ships failed.
Michael commed Jaruzelska’s chief of staff. He needed to know if anything important was being kept back.
Four hours later, Michael stared grim-faced at the information he had just received from Captain Tuukkanen under cover of a personal note apologizing for not supplying the material earlier. An unfortunate oversight by Assault Group’s planning team, Jaruzelska’s chief of staff said, for which he apologized.
Unfortunate oversight, like hell, Michael thought. Yet more deviousness from Rear Admiral Perkins, most likely. Michael shook his head in disbelief. The bloody man still acted as though Assault Group would get through to the Hammer antimatter plant no matter what. Whose side was Tuukkanen on, for heaven’s sake? A good chief of staff was supposed to stop bullshit like this, to make sure the thousands of pieces that made up the Operation Opera jigsaw fit seamlessly together.
He stared at the intelligence he had been sent. It was priceless. Far from having no idea how the Hammer plant might be laid out, he was looking at schematics showing the maze of tunnels the Hammers had carved out deep below the surface of Mathuli-4451. The drawings had sat buried in the bowels of the intelligence ministry for a decade or more until a persistent analyst with a good memory dug them out. How the Federation had laid its hands on the schematics in the first place, he would never know, but looking at them, he would have bet good money on them coming from the hard-rock tunneling contractors used for the job. Not that it mattered how they had fallen into Fed hands. They had, and that meant Kallewi would have some idea at least of where he had to go.
The schematics were not everything Kallewi would have wanted: too little detail. They did not show what each tunnel was used for, nor was there anything showing what equipment went where, and nowhere was there even the smallest hint that an antimatter plant would occupy the tunnels. They described the place only as Deepspace Support Facility 27, a generic title that offered no clues to its real purpose. The intelligence analyst-in Michael’s opinion, the man should get a medal-only knew he had the right place because the diameter of the asteroid shown on the drawings matched the diameter of Mathuli-4451 precisely.
Still angry, still wondering what the hell Perkins was up to, still wondering why Tuukkanen had not picked this one up earlier, Michael commed Kallewi to come to his cabin. The man would be relieved to know his marines would not have to go in blind, though he might be forgiven for wondering just what sort of lying clowns Vice Admiral Jaruzelska had doing the detailed planning for Operation Opera.
He was beginning to wonder, too.
Sunday, February 11, 2401, UD
From years of experience, Jaruzelska knew that her staff would work day and night, seven days a week, without complaint until they dropped in their tracks, utterly exhausted, so tired that even drugbots did not keep them awake. But she had learned the hard way that overwork was a trap. While it did wonders for the egos of power-drunk senior officers-of which there were far too many in Fleet for her liking-to work people to the point of collapse, it was a recipe for disaster: Staff officers who were too tired to pay attention to the details invariably compensated by cutting the AIs responsible for the nitty-gritty operational planning too much slack, often with disastrous results. She had seen it all before, and Operation Opera was challenge enough without adding AI- assisted screwups to the mix.
Her thinking showed in nearly empty offices, a handful of watchkeepers the only spacers on deck, all of them smart enough to know not to bother her while she tidied up the last of a small list of must-do items. When she left her office, she was looking forward to a much-needed workout followed by a long lunch with two of her closest friends from Space College, so the soft ping of a priority incoming com came as an unwelcome surprise.
It was her chief of staff.
“Yes, Captain Tuukkanen?” she said sternly. “This better be damned important. I have a gym session and a lunch I do not want to miss.”
Jaruzelska’s chief of staff shook his head. “Sorry, sir. They’re off. We’ve been ordered to report to Fleet in person soonest. The courier is standing by. I’ll have a shuttle to pick you up in five. Air lock 14-B.”
“Shit!” Jaruzelska said while she started to walk as fast as age and seniority allowed. “Admiral Perkins?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Okay. What the hell’s going on?”
“Don’t know, sir. I’ve been promised a briefing paper before we jump. All I know is that it involves the dreadnoughts.”
Jaruzelska skidded to a halt. “You’re kidding me, Captain,” she said incredulously.
“Wish I was, sir, but no,” Tuukkanen said. “Fleet’s put them on twenty-four hours’ notice to deploy.”
“Where are they?”
“They were on the Manovitz farspace ranges. I’ve ordered them back. They’re in pinchspace on their way home.” “Fine. This had better be good,” Jaruzelska said grimly.
With midnight long gone, Michael had sat outside Jaruzelska’s office for a good hour by the time the admiral arrived. He was having a great deal of trouble staying awake. Jaruzelska’s ruthless determination to make the dreadnoughts combat-ready was taking its toll; his sleep deficit was getting to a point where even the drugbots his neuronics released into his system-something he hated doing-had to struggle to keep him alert.
“Hello, Michael,” Jaruzelska said. “Sorry I’m late. Had a few things to attend to. Come on in, take a seat.”
Mystified, Michael did as he was told.
“Coffee, Michael?”
“Think I’d better, sir. It’s long past my bedtime.”
“Mine, too. How was Manovitz?”
“Tough. They whipped our asses. But we’re getting there. Rao and Machar are naturals.”
“Yes, they are,” Jaruzelska said.
Michael struggled not to ask what the hell he was doing sitting in her office in the middle of the night swapping small talk.
After a short hiatus while the drinkbot delivered the coffees, Jaruzelska pushed back in her seat, looking at Michael across the top of her mug. He waited patiently. He knew Jaruzelska pretty well, well enough to spot the abnormally high levels of stress and fatigue showing on her face. Something was definitely up.
“Right,” Jaruzelska said eventually, sitting up straight. “Let’s get on. Ever heard of a planet called Salvation?”
“No, sir,” Michael said with a shake of his head, “can’t say I have.”
“Well, you have now. Two days ago, Fleet intelligence received a report, graded A-1, telling us that the Hammers intend to attack the planet Salvation and its settlers, a large number of whom belong to a breakaway Hammer of Kraa sect. We, and that includes you and your dreadnoughts, are going to stop them. The jokers at
