tactical section agrees with us that they look like what could be missile pods dispersed just widely enough to clear their birds' impeller wedges when they launch.'
Goodrick was leaning over a secondary display, re-examining the sensor data for himself. Now he looked up and nodded to Truman.
'I think Admiral Henke has a point, Ma'am,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, it looks to me like what we're seeing here could be just a portion of the entire pattern. I'd say there's a good chance they've got a lot more of them than we've actually picked up.'
'Well, we expected something like it,' Truman observed. She considered for a moment, then shrugged. 'I don't think it really changes anything, Wraith. But launch an additional shell of arrays and pass the word to Scotty. I want them sweeping the space in front of him like a fine tooth comb, and I want him tied directly into their take.'
'Yes, Ma'am. I'll get right on it.'
Goodrick began issuing orders, and Truman nodded to Henke over the com.
'Good catch, Mike. Aside from that, how are things looking from your side?'
'Nominal, so far.' Henke's smile was unpleasant. 'I know it's on a lot smaller scale, but I think we're about to get a tiny bit of our own back for Grendelsbane.'
'That's what we came for,' Truman agreed, and leaned back in her command chair, studying the plot.
Given Eighth Fleet's command structure, she was actually wearing three separate 'hats.' She was Honor's second-in-command and carrier commander; the commanding officer of CLAC Squadron Three; and the CO of CarRon 3's first division, the carriers Werewolf and Chimera. Of course, two of those three slots weren't especially relevant just now, she thought, watching Werewolf's and Chimera's LACs moving steadily away from their carriers. And, speaking as the commander of the first division-and the senior officer of the Gaston attack force-things seemed to be going quite well at the moment.
Knock on wood, she reminded herself. Knock on wood.
'They're coming right in on us, Sir,' Commander Inchman said flatly.
'But they aren't closing into standard missile range, are they, Sandra?' Beach observed, standing at her shoulder and looking down at the icons on her plot.
'Their hyper-capable units aren't, Sir; it looks like they're decelerating to rest relative to the planet at about one light minute. But their LACs are still boring straight in.'
'And if anyone thinks they're going to leave our hyper-capable units intact to shoot at their LACs, they're dreaming,' Myron Randall muttered from behind the rear admiral.
'Probably not,' Beach agreed grimly, and Randall colored slightly. Obviously, he hadn't realized he'd spoken loudly enough for his admiral to overhear.
'On the other hand,' Beach continued, 'they are going to come into range of our missile pods.' He showed his teeth in what only the most myopic might have called a smile. 'Pity they didn't wait another couple of months.'
'You've got that right, Sir,' Inchman agreed, her voice harsh with angry frustration.
'Maybe, and maybe not, Sandra.' Beach put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. 'Odds are Supply would've been sending us their regrets again.'
He understood Inchman's frustration-and anger-perfectly. The additional pods they'd been promised would have increased their long-range missile power hugely. Then again, they'd been 'promised' for quite some time.
'I know, Sir. It's just-' Inchman bit off what she'd been about to say, and Beach sighed.
'They're shipping them to the front line systems as quickly as they can, Sandra. Someone's got to suck hind teat when quantities are limited. And to be fair, if you'd been in charge of prioritizing deliveries, would you have predicted an attack on Gaston, of all damned places?'
'No, Sir,' she admitted.
'So we do the best we can with what we've got,' Beach said as philosophically as he could. He looked over his shoulder at Randall.
'How long until we can get underway, Myron?'
'Another twelve minutes,' Randall said, after checking his chrono quickly. 'Captain Steigert's engineers are doing their best, but-'
'Understood.' Beach gave a bitter chuckle, and squeezed Inchman's shoulder again. 'If I'd listened to Sandra, at least I'd have had our impellers at a higher state of readiness.'
He brooded down at the ops officer's plot, then drew a deep breath and turned away.
'They'll be in range to engage us in another thirty-five minutes, even if we just sit here in orbit. To be honest, if I thought it would do any good, I'd order all of our hyper-capable units to just bug out.'
Randall looked at him with an expression which mingled surprise and disapproval, and Beach snorted.
'Of course I would, Myron! It might not be particularly glorious, but if those are pod-laying battlecruisers out there-and their deceleration profile certainly suggests they are-then we're truly and royally screwed. Dying gloriously sounds good in bad historical novels. Speaking for myself, I think doing it in real life when you don't have to is fucking stupid, and it irritates the hell out of me that we don't appear to have any choice.'
He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he drew another breath and gave himself a mental shake.
'Since we can't avoid action with them, and since we can't match their engagement range, I want all of our ships moved around to the far side of the planet. We'll keep it between us and them as long as we can.'
Randall looked vaguely rebellious. He didn't say anything, but Beach read his thoughts without much difficulty.
'No, it's not particularly glorious. And I doubt it's going to make a lot of difference in the end, for that matter. But if whoever's in command over there is feeling particularly stupid, he may send in his LACs to flush us out of cover. If he does, we might actually manage to pick a few of them off. Even if he doesn't, he'll have to maneuver his MDM-capable units to clear the planet if he wants a shot at us. For that matter, he may decline to fire from extended range at us at all, if we're close enough to the planet.'
'I think the Admiral has a point, Myron,' Inchman said. Both men looked at her, and she shrugged. 'Given all the other irons the Manties have in the fire right now, they certainly aren't going to court a violation of the Eridani Edict, and even their MDMs' targeting discrimination is pretty shaky at long range. This is our best chance to at least draw them into a range where we'll get to shoot back.'
'They're pulling back behind the planet, Ma'am,' Commander Oliver Manfredi said.
'Not very obliging of them,' Michelle Henke observed dryly, and Manfredi chuckled without much humor.
Henke smiled and tipped back in her command chair, steepling her fingers under her chin in a posture she'd seen Honor assume scores of times. She couldn't say the Peep CO's choice of tactics was totally unexpected, but that didn't make it any more welcome.
'All right, Oliver,' she told her golden-haired chief of staff after a moment. 'Make sure Dame Alice has that information, and inform her that unless she disapproves my actions, I intend to execute Grand Divide.'
'Aye, Ma'am,' Manfredi replied.
The chief of staff's own smile creased his classically chiseled features and showed perfect white teeth, and Henke suppressed a mental laugh as he turned towards Lieutenant Kaminski, her communications officer. It wasn't anything Manfredi had done; it was simply the way he looked. He was as competent as he was decorative, but he really ought to have been on Truman's staff, not Henke's. For some reason, Alice Truman always seemed to have an executive officer, or a chief of staff, or a flag captain who was as golden-haired and blue-eyed as she was.
But not this time, Henke thought with amused satisfaction. This time, I've got him... not to mention the rest of my 'harem.'
It was harder not to laugh this time. Unlike her friend Honor, Truman had always enjoyed an... energetic love- life, although she'd never allowed it to spill over on to her professional life. This time, though, it had been Honor's turn to twit her from the moment Henke had invited her to dinner aboard Ajax and she'd laid eyes on Henke's assembled staff. Manfredi was certainly the most gorgeous of her staffers, but every single one of them was male, and there wasn't a homely one in the bunch.
She pushed the thought aside and straightened in her chair. Grand Divide was the approach she'd worked out with her staff to deal with a situation like this one. It wasn't a perfect solution, but that was because there weren't
