Commodore

Commodore

The David Birkenhead Series

Book 6

Phil Geusz

First Printing November, 2012

Published by Legion Printing, Birmingham, AL

Copyright Phil Geusz, 2012

ISBN:  9781301396757

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without explicit permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

1

"This lime pudding is simply wonderful!" my old friend Jean le Vorsage declared. It was Tuesday night in
Javelin's
wardroom, where I traditionally hosted our weekly commanding officer's dinners. "Sheer heaven! Could you pass the dish, David?"

"Of course," I replied, sliding the bowl down the table. I still wasn't sure exactly how it was that the very nastiest of the human-style food kept ending up parked directly in front of me. But somehow it always did. So far, however, this was the only serious drawback I'd found to "family-style" dining. It was all the rage everywhere these days, ever since James had begun dispensing with strict precedent and protocol at all but his most formal functions. Nestor had first suggested it to him, I wasn't supposed to know, as a means by which His Majesty could have personal interactions with the lowly free Rabbits whenever he came and visited my estate. The rest was history.  And quite beneficial history at that, so far as I was concerned. Not only was it probably good for James, but dispensing with formal ceremonial and switching seatmates every week allowed me to get to know all my subordinate captains better, not just the same two or three that I'd ordinarily partner with again and again. The better we all knew each other, the more effectively we could work together as a team. Which was precisely why I held the weekly dinners to begin with, of course.

"Here you go, sir," my personal servant and chief aide muttered as he placed a cup of after-dinner tea in front of me. I smiled as he then immediately vanished back into the kitchen. My friend Nestor didn't have to function as a cabin boy anymore;
Javelin
was a big enough ship and my current assignment dictated a large enough staff that there was no need for him to make beds and brew tea. "No, sir," he'd replied when I'd offered him a formal berth as a temporary-duty naval officer. "I wouldn't know how to function aboard a king's ship if I didn't have informal access to the galley and the other bunnies. What would they think of me, sir, if I wore a fancy uniform like yours?" To be fair, Nestor only acted as my valet these days when his other duties permitted; we'd had a nice long talk on the subject, and he well understood what I wanted and needed his priorities to be. Still… I had to smile as I watched him darting back and forth into the galley with the other cabin-bunnies. He seemed happiest doing such work, in a perverse sort of way, and I wondered sometimes if he wasn't the wise one after all.

"…going to be a wonderful time when we arrive at Hashimoto Prime, sir!" a new voice to my right was gushing. It was that of Captain Harlowe, in command of my troop transports. "We'll kick their traitorous asses, by god!" He raised his goblet of wine. "To a bloody reckoning, sir!"

"Yes," I muttered, meeting my old friend Heinrich's eyes across the table as I raised my teacup in acknowledgement. We went back a long, long way, and I was pleased indeed that he'd been available to lead my landing force. His eyes were cold and expressionless as his commanding officer made a complete fool of himself—Sir Thomas Harlowe was my weakest link and both Heinrich and I knew it without a word needing to be said. A troop transport squadron rated a full captain to command it, no matter how far we twisted the rules. So I'd been obliged to ask the Second Space Lord to promote a brand new one into the slot because that was the only way to for there to be anyone junior to me on the seniority list. In many ways Harlowe was a superior choice; he was of the bluest of blood and his mother was a Wilkes, which might prove useful in dealing with the breakaway House. He was also an officer of proven personal courage. Still… Try though I might, I just couldn't force myself to either like or approve of him. Sir Thomas was a blind hammerer of nails, capable of pound-pound-pounding away at a job until the cows came home without ever imagining that there might be another, better approach. If an attack failed, his solution would inevitably be to try again with more troops. If it failed again, he could be counted on to attack once more in exactly the same place with even more men and material, and so on and so forth until he either bulled his way through by main force or ran out of bodybags. It was crucial that a man in his position on a mission as delicate as ours—he was my second in command, after all—understand the need for a flexible approach. Indeed, I spent uncounted hours meeting with him one-on-one in an attempt to help him grasp the unpleasant truth that from our enemy's point of view
we
were arguably the usurpers. It all came to nothing, however; every attempt ended in baffled incomprehension. But one had to work with one had, not what one might wish for. He'd been the best of a miserable bunch of prospects, and that was that. All I could do was hope that Heinrich, who'd be in local command of any landing force, might at least in part find a way to help compensate for his shortcomings.

If a landing on Hashimoto Prime was required at all, of course. Which pretty much everyone except Captain Harlowe doubted, if the problem were approached properly. The real difficulty, most likely, would be the House of Wilkes.

"To a reunited kingdom," Jean toasted next, and this time as I acknowledged him my smile was genuine. Jean was still a mere commander, but via the careful jugging of assignments and a few discreet transfers he was now also senior officer among all the escorts. I'd not asked for Jean—rather, I'd demanded him as a precondition of success. Not only was he a solid, capable officer who'd proven his worth as one of the founders of the fencibles, Jean was also Heir to the House of Vorsage, which also might count for much in days to come. In some ways I'd paid a price in order to secure him such a lofty role—I'd been offered three cruisers as part of my force, for example, but had to turn them down because they were captain's commands and their chief officers would therefore have outranked Jean even if we appointed brand spanking new ones. The true cost, however, was lower than it seemed. No Royal cruiser could hope to match
Javelin
's speed, so in the event of battle they'd have served as a tactical ball and chain as much as anything. No currently in-service destroyer could keep up with her either, though there were new designs on the drawing boards that'd eventually set new standards. But at least the race would be a close one, so we'd gone with an all-destroyer escort. To me the largely-theoretical loss of force was well worth having someone I knew I could work well with in charge of the rest of the space-fighting ships. Besides, his vessel and three others in the escort were fencible-manned craft, which meant their crews were largely made up of slave-species. Indeed, his own command included the first three Dogs to join the fleet. Jean was accustomed to the unique challenge of working with we furry types, and somehow I felt that might become a factor as well before all was said and done.

"To a
completely
reunited kingdom," Heinrich offered as the next after-dinner toast, which raised some eyebrows. He was referring to the Empire, of course, which also had once been a loyal part of the realm. He'd been born and spent much of his childhood there, until his famous Field-theorist father had found a way out. Indeed, Heinrich's speech still reflected his Imperial past; his accent was quite noticeable. My friend's loyalty was beyond question—if anything he hated the Empire even more than I did. Still, the toast sounded a bit odd coming from him.

"Amen!" I agreed, raising my own cup once again to help cover the awkwardness. Then I sat quietly for a time to see if any more toasts were offered. We might be dining family-style, but that didn't mean there wasn't any formal structure to our meal. Over time we'd worked out a sort of standard agenda. After dessert came the toasts, and after the toasts came business. Clearly, it was time for business.

"Well," I began as Nestor whisked my final plate away, "I suppose this will be our last gathering for quite some time, since we're jumping into Hashimoto space in..." I checked the time. "Twenty-two hours."

"Yes, sir!" Harlowe replied with a big grin. "I can hardly wait!" It was his duty as second-in-command to support me, but I might've wished for him to be a bit more subtle about it.

"Er… Yes. At any rate, I thought I'd outline the situation one last time." I let my face harden. "Our fundamental objective is to reunify the kingdom by whatever means necessary." I'd been given virtual carte-blanche and could at need produce written orders with the Royal Seal on them to that effect, but having to show them would probably mean I'd already failed. "His Majesty's position is that this is all a terrible misunderstanding, something that we can hopefully work through without shedding additional blood." I looked around the table at the suddenly serious faces. "While we must be prepared to use force if necessary, both His Majesty and myself hope that things won't escalate to that level." I turned to Jean. "What are your orders?"

"In the event that no immediate resistance is offered," he replied, "I am to disperse my force to cover all four Jump points, maintaining a central three-ship reserve. However, no merchantmen are to be interfered with in any manner whatsoever unless further orders to that effect are issued."

"And yours?" I asked Captain Harlowe.

"To maintain formation in echelon off
Javelin
's starboard bow," he replied, clearly unhappy. "We're to be prepared to conduct either landing drills or an actual landing on a moment's notice, and
Montgolfier
is to maintain her check-flight schedule. Only into higher orbit, however. Never lower."

I nodded;
Montgolfier
was our aerospace-fighter carrier. Because the vessel was part of the surface strike group, she too was under Sir Thomas's immediate command. "Very well," I agreed. Harlowe had made it clear many times over that he'd prefer a more aggressive stance, but at least he'd been discreet enough not to disagree in public. "And
Javelin
herself along with the destroyer reserve will enter standard orbit, just as if it were peacetime. Though we'll remain in Condition Two readiness."

Everyone nodded again. Condition Two meant that all engines were to remain fully powered-up and all turrets kept partially manned at all times. This would be a terrible stress on both equipment and crew if it went on for any length of time, as both sleep and maintenance would have to be deferred. "Of course," I continued, "if opposition
is
offered…" I looked around the table at the suddenly glum and grim faces. All except Harlowe's, that was. Opposition would be the worst imaginable tragedy for the kingdom, even perhaps for humanity as a whole. Any delay in re-engaging the Empire played directly into the Emperor's hands. Yet my second in command seemed unable to grasp even this most obvious of strategic facts. "…then, we'll have to do what we have to do." Once again I looked around the table, meeting every eye. "So," I said after I was finished. "Does anyone else have business?"

There was nothing but silence.

"Good," I answered, carefully wiping my whiskers on a nicely-starched napkin. Then I turned to my right. "Mr. Vice?" I asked.

Commander Josiah Parker smiled and stood up to perform the traditional duty of the junior officer present. "To His Majesty King James," he declared, raising his glass for the final toast of the evening. "Long may he reign!" It was a bit odd to see a wrinkled old man performing this particular duty, but I knew Josiah didn't mind. In fact, he'd been rather taken aback when I'd asked him if he'd be willing to ship out as my number two a second time. "S-s-sir!" he'd sputtered over the telephone. "I mean… It's a great honor! But isn't
Javelin
a regular navy ship?"