Falcone Strike (24 page)

“Admiral,” Captain Haran said. “A courier boat has just arrived from Ringer. The system was attacked.” “Download the tactical report to my console, then call a staff meeting for one hour from now,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “And inform the fleet to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

“Aye, sir,” Captain Haran said. Admiral Junayd nodded, then studied the tactical display thoughtfully. Verdean had been quiet since the fleet had entered orbit . . . which hadn’t stopped Inquisitor Frazil from calling down fire on a hundred targets over the last couple of days. In the absence of orders from any higher authority, Admiral Junayd hadn’t raised any objection. At least it looked as though they were doing something, even though it was largely pointless. The enemy resistance had faded into the countryside, just waiting for outside forces to liberate the system and reclaim the high orbitals. As far as Admiral Junayd was concerned, they could wait forever.

He pushed the thought aside, then frowned as the tactical report appeared on his console. The mystery spy, it seemed, had told the truth; the enemy had attacked the Ringer system and, as of the last report from the courier boat, had engaged both light cruisers. It hadn’t looked good, although Admiral Junayd was hopeful that the cruisers would have followed orders and evaded the enemy rather than sacrifice themselves in a display of futile heroics. And if the last update from Captain Ruthven was accurate, the locals might have a very good reason to sign up with the Commonwealth.

So the spy was telling the truth
, he thought.
And that means . . . what
? He scowled, rubbing his goatee thoughtfully. Spies could never be trusted fully, not when they’d betrayed their own side for money or power or whatever else made sense to a moronic spy. The fact the enemy
had
attacked Ringer was a point in the spy’s favor, but the enemy could be carefully trying to manipulate him into believing the spy, just so the crushing betrayal would be even more of a shock. Or the spy might grow frustrated with risking his life for nothing and give up if Admiral Junayd didn’t make a show of believing him. It was hard enough to guess at the actions of someone he knew, at least from the files, but harder still to guess which way a spy would jump. If only he knew the man . . .

There were just too many possibilities, starting with the simple fact that the enemy had launched another attack and would presumably be moving on to the next set of targets. As long as he was perpetually caught off guard, without ships in position to intercept, they could practically run wild throughout the sector. There was no reasonable chance of ever being able to catch them
without
the spy, but that was what bothered him. The spy was precisely what he needed, at just the right time. It suggested, very strongly, that it might be a trap.

But I don’t have a choice
, he thought.
I have to rely on the spy
. He keyed his console. “Order a squadron of light cruisers to prepare for departure to Ringer,” he said. It would take at least three days to get the squadron there, more than long enough for the enemy to finish destroying the system’s industries and pull out. But he couldn’t leave the enemy in place, not when Ringer held so many discontented citizens. Who knew what they could do if they had time and willing help? “And then start working up a sphere showing where the enemy might be.”

“Aye, sir,” Captain Haran said. It was the same enemy flotilla, according to the reports. There had been no attempt to disguise
Lightning
, let alone her older companions. That suggested, very strongly, that there was only
one
squadron of enemy ships behind the lines. Quite apart from the logistics issue, he was sure the Commonwealth Admiralty would be reluctant to cut entire squadrons of modern ships loose for raiding missions, not when they needed them for screening elements and convoy escorts. God knew the Theocracy had the same problem. And that meant . . .

He activated the star chart and considered the matter, carefully. Commonwealth ships weren’t any faster in hyperspace, as far as he knew, than anything from the Theocracy. Logically, assuming the enemy had departed just after the courier boat, they had to be somewhere within a sphere centered on Ringer. It looked good, but the sphere covered over a dozen light years, an area of space so vast as to be completely impossible to search. Every ship in the combined navies of the entire settled galaxy could hide within that sphere and remain completely undetected, save by the most extraordinary stroke of luck. But it did offer one possibility, at least. He could say which worlds might come under attack next.

Aswan is probably out
, he thought.
But there are other targets . . .
His intercom chimed. “Admiral,” Captain Haran said, “the staff meeting will start in ten minutes.”

“I’m on my way,” Admiral Junayd said.

He rose, then copied his conclusions to his terminal and left the office, walking through the corridors to the briefing room. This time, thankfully, the Inquisitor was taking his spite out on the planet’s inhabitants rather than Admiral Junayd or any of his staff. He wouldn’t have had anything to contribute, Admiral Junayd was sure, but he knew from bitter experience that anything resembling a “secret” meeting would be reported to his superiors, who would take a jaundiced view of the whole affair. No doubt the fact he had a cleric and several intelligence officers attending the meeting wouldn’t be good enough, if his enemies caught wind of it.

Good thing we invited the bastard
, he thought, as he stepped into the briefing room.
He can’t complain he wasn’t invited now.

He smirked at the thought, then sat down as the steward served coffee before withdrawing into a side room. Captain Haran closed and locked the hatch, then put the reports from the courier boat on the main display. The staffers, none of whom had seen them, watched with grim expressions. There would definitely be enough blame to go around if their ultimate superiors decided so.

“The enemy has struck again,” Admiral Junayd said when the recording had finished. “This time, however, we may have an advantage.”

He keyed a switch, displaying the expanding sphere centered on Ringer. “We know they have to be somewhere within this region of space,” he said. “Every red world”—he tapped another switch, altering the display—“must be considered a possible target. Therefore, it is my intention to move the squadron to a position where we can respond quickly to any attacks within this sphere.”

And be ready to set an ambush if the spy gets back to us
, he added mentally. He didn’t want to share any information concerning the spy with anyone who didn’t already know about him, not when it might lead to trouble.
Even if he doesn’t, we will be in position to respond.

“We’re going to move to here,” he said, tapping a location on the display. “I want courier boats to head to each of the suspected target systems to inform them of our current intentions and to be ready to summon us, if the enemy attacks. Another pair of courier boats is to be dispatched to Aswan. Commodore Malian will need to be prepared to support our deployment, if we do run into the enemy.”

He paused. “Are there any points that should be raised before we continue?
”

“
Yes, Admiral,” Commodore Isaac said. “If we leave Verdean, we may miss a message from Aswan or any other systems that come under attack.”

“I will be leaving two courier boats here,” Admiral Junayd said. “There is nothing else we can do about the problem.”

He sighed, inwardly. It was a valid concern, unfortunately, even though he was fairly sure that Isaac was buttressing his position in case their superiors took a dim view of his decisions. In the time it took for his couriers to inform Commodore Malian of his movements, the enemy
could
attack another system or he could receive new orders via the StarCom. However, there was nothing he could do about it, save for remaining in orbit and not bothering to respond to any of the attacks. Even the Theocracy couldn’t change the tactical realities that had bedeviled humanity since the first scoutships had ventured into hyperspace.

“I have requested—again—reinforcements from home,” he added. “I do not believe they will be forthcoming. Therefore, I intend to consider ways to set traps for the enemy. We do not have any armed freighters in the sector, but we may be able to modify several bulk freighters to serve as makeshift Q-Ships. It may be possible to lure the enemy into attacking a convoy. We do know they destroyed one convoy and they will certainly want to target others.”

There was a pause. “We may also be splitting up the squadron,” he warned. “In that case, the superdreadnoughts will be operating independently.”

Commodore Isaac cleared his throat. “Admiral,” he said. “Tactical doctrine clearly states . . .”

“Tactical doctrine assumes that it is we, not the enemy, who are perpetually on the offensive,” Admiral Junayd snapped. It hadn’t been a bad bet, back when the Theocracy had started its conquests, but they’d never actually had to fight a real war. A multistar political system had space to trade for time and ships that could be deployed to actually strike deep into Theocratic space. “I understand the dangers of parceling out our superdreadnoughts in penny packets, but we have no choice. Unless one of you is concealing a fleet of cruisers in your pockets, perhaps?
”

He pushed on before anyone could say a word. “We will depart in one hour,” he said. “If you have deployed additional crew or janissaries to the system, recall them. I will not tolerate further delays. Dismissed.”

The compartment emptied quickly, leaving Admiral Junayd alone. He shook his head, then looked at the display. In truth, unless he got very lucky, he had to pray the spy came through and told him where to place his ships. Because if he didn’t . . .

. . . it could cost him all that remained of his career.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it was one that had to be faced. Someone always had to take the blame. God granted victory to the deserving, the Theocracy preached, and if victory was not granted the loser had to be undeserving. Admiral Junayd knew he’d been lucky to escape the first defeat—if Princess Drusilla hadn’t committed a staggering act of treason, he might well have been brutally executed for failure— and a second failure would kill him. Never mind that he didn’t have half the ships and crew he needed to protect the sector, never mind that the enemy could choose her targets with impunity . . . never mind that the locals had every reason to hate the Theocracy. It would be his fault.

He considered, briefly, defecting. If a lowly woman could do it, why couldn’t a man with thirty years of naval experience under his belt? It wouldn’t be
that
hard to come up with an excuse for boarding a courier boat and taking control, once he was deep in hyperspace. He could steer the
boat to the Commonwealth
and then his family would be executed.

The Commonwealth had tightened up its security considerably since the war had begun, according to intelligence reports, but it still leaked. Admiral Junayd had no illusions; sooner or later, someone would figure out that he’d defected and take it out on his family. No, nothing short of walking to his execution with the proper attitude—the supplicant willing to pay with his life for his sins—would save everyone related to him. He was trapped, a helpless prisoner of his own society . . . a society he was starting to loathe.

And you hate it now
, his own thoughts mocked him.
Did you hate it when you were feted as the great naval hero who would carry the flag to Tyre and beyond
? He was too honest to deny it. He’d had a good career, right up until the moment planning met reality in the skies of Cadiz. His family connections had ensured he made it into the naval academy; his gift for memory had ensured he wasn’t held back for failing to recite his prayers perfectly . . . and, since his graduation, he’d risen steadily in the ranks. He’d even learned to handle religious functionaries who knew nothing about military matters, yet held the power of life and death over every officer and crewman on his ships. But he’d been blamed for Cadiz and only sheer luck had saved him from becoming the scapegoat for a simple failure of imagination. War was a democracy, after all, and the enemy got a vote. If the plans couldn’t handle a surprise like Princess Drusilla’s defection, what good were they?
And we did manage to hammer 7th Fleet
, he reminded himself firmly.
We jumped ahead of schedule, because we knew they couldn’t ignore a war fleet so close to their borders, but we nearly won. And we
did
batter the fleet into near uselessness. If they hadn’t had a fleet of reinforcements nearby . . .

He shook his head. The latest news from Tyre mocked him—and the entire Theocracy. It was impossible to fault Admiral Christian . . . but if he’d served the Theocracy, he would have been executed for his failure to destroy the enemy fleet. Charging right at the enemy formation, even if one was hideously outgunned, was regarded as a good thing, no matter if it was pointless and stupid. The idea of a tactical withdrawal was beyond the imagination of most of his officers . . . and if they did have the wit to conceive of the concept, they immediately buried it before they could be accused of defeatism. How could anyone win a war by retreating? And yet, preserving one’s ships instead of fighting a hopeless battle might lead to overall victory.