“One look at Fleet’s current tasking,” he continued, “tells you why they need us. There is nobody else. Any way you look at it, the timing’s lousy. To take pressure off our trade routes, Fleet has task groups en route to twenty major Hammer targets as we speak. Even if Fleet recalled them, they cannot get to Salvation in time to be of any use. And with resources stretched so thin, there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of diverting ships away from planetary defense. Unless,” Michael added pointedly, “the minister issues a directive telling the commander in chief otherwise.”
“Which,” Rao said, “Minister O’Donnell is not going to do … well, not if he wants a long career in politics. The voters would tear him apart when they found out.”
“That they would, Kelli. Anyway, it does not matter what reservations any of us in uniform might have. No, thanks to a ministerial directive, it’s a done deal, so we just have to make the best of it. Let me tell you, guys. If our dreadnoughts cannot disrupt the Hammer attack on Salvation, nothing can. One more point. The Salvation operation will be of enormous value in getting all of us up to combat readiness. I’m not saying it’ll be a walk in the park, but it is a simple operation well within our capabilities.” Not like Opera, he wanted to add but did not.
“I hope so, sir,” Machar said, trying to sound confident. “I’ve just checked the order of battle for Operation Paradise. Two planetary assault vessels have just been chopped to Admiral Jaruzelska’s operational control-
Rao whistled softly. “MARFOR-3, eh? That’s what, thirty thousand marines? Well, that should be enough to get the job done considering that the intelligence reports say the Hammers are planning to use only fifteen thousand marines and five thousand DocSec troopers in the ground operation.”
“But here’s a funny thing, sir,” Machar said. “Fleet’s not waiting for us to get there. They’re sending a small task group in under Commodore Kumoro twenty-four hours ahead of us. They leave within the hour.”
Michael frowned. “I saw that. A cruiser,
“Sir …” Machar hesitated for a moment. “It doesn’t make sense. Why? That’s a one-way mission. Those ships will not be coming back.”
“I agree.” Rao’s concern was obvious. “Why send ships on a suici-”
“Don’t go there, Kelli,” Michael said, cutting her off. “The decision’s made, so let’s just leave it at that. Fleet has its reasons, and whether they are good or bad is not for us to debate. If it turns out to be a bad decision, that will come out in the after-action inquiry. So do me a favor, do yourself a favor. Leave it, both of you. Okay?”
“Sir,” Rao said. Machar just nodded. Both were grim-faced, mouths pinched tight.
Not that Michael was any happier. The chances of Commodore Kumoro’s task force disrupting the Hammer’s attack on Salvation were at best remote. Throwing a heavy cruiser and two light escorts against a Hammer task group? It was ludicrous and meant only one thing: Fleet’s decision was motivated by politics. That made it a bad decision, one spawned by Fleet’s need to be seen to be doing something, even if that something meant sacrificing the lives of good spacers.
“Okay, team,” Michael said. “That’ll do, so I’ll let you get back to your ships. I’m going to have a chat with the planners. Not that I don’t trust them, but I want to make sure my dreadnoughts will be used properly. I’ll see you both at 08:00. Any concerns, com me. This is not the time for surprises.”
“Sir.”
Michael watched as Rao and Machar left him to finish his coffee, thankful that fate-not to mention Jaruzelska’s ruthless selection process-had delivered them to him. They were outstanding young officers. If anyone could make the dreadnoughts work, it was those two.
They had to. Life was demanding enough before Salvation. It was going to be ten times worse, what with the Salvation operation adding to the already intense pressure from Opera. But to his surprise, nothing about Salvation bothered him. Opera bothered him-a lot. He had spent enough time in the sims to know his chances of surviving the operation were not good, so taking
And DocSec would be there in force: more than five thousand of the black jumpsuited scum. With a bit of luck, he might get a chance to blow a few of the bastards to hell.
Cheered by that prospect, Michael was debating whether another cup of coffee was in order when a soft ping announced the arrival of a com from Anna. What’s this? he wondered as he accepted the call.
“Hi,” he said cheerfully when Anna’s face popped into his neuronics. “Thought you and
“We were,” Anna replied, grim-faced, “but we had a pinchspace generator problem, so we’re back. Have you checked the latest release of the Salvation operation order?”
Michael swallowed hard. This did not sound good. “No. Why?”
“Can’t say. Have a look and you’ll see why.”
“Anna! What’re you telling me?”
“Can’t say,” Anna said, shaking her head. “Just check the damn op order.” She stared directly at Michael for a moment, eyes glittering as tears started. “I love you; remember that, Michael. I love you and I always will.”
Then she was gone.
Frantically, Michael checked, and there it was. “Oh, no … please, no,” he whispered.
Bad luck did not even begin to describe it. Plagued by main engine problems,
Shocked, he sat unmoving as he came to terms with the shattering news.
Anna was now en route to Salvation as part of Commodore Kumoro’s task group.
Saturday, February 17, 2400, UD
With no lander movements scheduled, it had been a long night. Why would there be? Salvation was not exactly humanspace’s most popular destination. That left the controller on duty at New Hope spaceport with little more to occupy his time than counting off the minutes to the end of his shift while drinking more coffee than was good for him. Moodily, the man stared out of the plasglass window: Sprawled out in front of him was New Hope spaceport’s runway, a long strip of laser-fused rock traced out of a rain-drenched night by thin lines of lights, the wind chasing silver-slashed pools of water across its milled antiskid surface. He yawned as another squall hurled rain at the windows. Tonight’s storm was an unmistakable reminder that hurricane season was on its way. Not that anyone needed any prompting: Thanks to Salvation’s eccentric orbit, its seasons ran like clockwork.
He yawned again. Hurricane season was a massive pain in the ass; he hated it. Spawned by fast-warming seas, huge storms ripped across the planet’s ocean, driving the inhabitants underground into the safety of their bunkers. When one storm exhausted itself, the next arrived, a relentless procession of energy and raw power that stopped only when Salvation passed perihelion and started to open out from its sun. It would not be long. Hurricane Alex, the first of the year, was developing nicely on the far side of the planet. Betsy, Charlie, Deanne, and all the rest would follow when what passed for summer on Salvation arrived, a nightmare of raging winds, driving rain, and mountainous seas. So he did what he always did when hurricane season threatened: wondered why he did not move to a more congenial planet. The only people who enjoyed hurricane season were the extreme sailors, suicidal idiots whose idea of fun was surfing down mountainous waves in a ceramfiber yacht; he had tried it-once-and it had taken him weeks to recover.
Wearily, the duty controller rubbed eyes gritty from too little sleep and too much caffeine. Kraa, he was tired.
Without warning, the holovid screen burst into light to reveal Salvation’s president framed by the flashing red lights reserved for the imminent arrival of a category 7 superstorm, and suddenly he was not tired anymore. What the hell? he said to himself. It was way too early for a Cat-7. Last time he had checked, Alex was a humble Cat-2 storm half a world away.
