First Casualty (10 page)

“Everyone is deserting me before my dessert is finished. You won't be fleeing, my dear Colin?”

Colin had spent the last three months getting that tub in as good a shape as possible. Didn't she deserve a night off?

“Have you given much thought to what you will do after this war?” Horacio whispered.

“No.”

“You've benefited from the flood of war promotions.”

“Yes,” she scowled. It didn't take a history book to tell her what the usual reward was for a victorious officer.

Horacio moved his chair closer, dessert forgotten. “The Navy isn't the only world. There will be vast opportunities once this”—he dismissed the war with a flick of his finger—”is done. Let me tell you of some of them.”

Colin's career counseling had started at her father's knee. She recognized this for just such a session, even if Horacio's fingers roving her arm, flicking by her breast, made it quite different. She leaned forward, not totally ignoring the lingering glance Horacio gave what the scoop-neck of her dress revealed. “What opportunities will there be in the corporate world once we've made the galaxy safe for business?”

He grinned. “There is much to share.”

* * * *

At 0600 the next morning, Mattim took breakfast in the wardroom; he used it for a quick staff meeting. Ding sat at his right. She'd been two hours later returning from dinner—and what she did with the time was her own damn business. Guns was at his left. Ivan and Sandy sat farther down the table. The ship's damage control officer, Tina Gandhi, and communications officer, Sparky Sanchez, filled up the table.

“I want the
Sheffield
at underway watches even if we are alongside the pier. Let's get the crew familiar with their jobs.” That drew nods. “Guns, any problem with the power from the new plant?”

“Looks okay. I'll check it out today.”

“Good. I'd like to spend the morning with your folks.”

“Glad to have you, sir.”

“The admiral's called for a teleconference at oh-nine hundred,” Ding put in. “I suspect it has something to do with engineering modifications made recently.”

“Ivan?”

The chief engineer chuckled. “Got calls this morning. Every ship's adopted the layout. We all worked together on it. I just tested it first.”

“I don't think Smiley's gonna like it,” Guns drawled.

“Smiley?” Mattim echoed.

“Wait until you meet the man.” Guns ducked the question.

“I want everyone in my day cabin for the conference.” Breakfast was served and eaten quickly. Mattim went with Guns when they finished. The tour of the weapons department added flesh to the lectures Mattim had sat through. Nine turrets were split fore, aft, and amidships and distributed around the center line at different points so two-thirds of them could pour laser fire at any angle. Gravity-focused, they were theoretically lethal out to twenty-five thousand kilometers. “I'd hold my first salvo 'til fifteen thousand K's if I could,” Guns suggested. “Heat's a gun's enemy. Don't let the textbooks fool you. Even with a gravity lens for the primary focus, heat buildup on the mirrors adds to the scatter. And the capacitors get hot. By the fourth salvo, it takes longer to recharge and we're getting less energy. Choosing your timing and your range. That's what a battle's about.”

“There's a lot I need to learn.” Mattim was taking a risk, but after time with Howard, it looked like a good one. Guns had answered a lot of Mattim's unspoken questions . .. and not a few answers had gone against the book Mattim's brief course insisted be followed. Was this the reason this man never made captain? Mattim knew he was a student again. He knew how to manage a ship. Learning how to fight one was his new job.

“Be glad to help, Skipper. Man and boy, I've studied these guns for forty years. It'll be good to have someone new to listen to my space stories.” The old man laughed.

“So why do you call him Smiley?” Mattim asked.

Guns glanced at his watch. “About time you find out.”

Mattim's day cabin was more proof of the space in the
Sheffield
. A VP at corporate didn't have an office this size, though Mattim's was pie-shaped and lacked a window. The wider end held a table with over a dozen chairs. The middle area was a comfortable conversation area with couch and overstuffed chairs around a low table. His desk filled the narrow end; it was still fairly clear of paperwork.

Behind Mattim, the wall came to life. The admiral held the center block of the screen. Tables like the one Mattim sat at filled the periphery sections—all seven cruisers were present, even the ravaged
Sendai
. The admiral began without preamble.

“Every captain is responsible for his ship's combat availability. These ships were in a sad state of repair when the Navy took them over. I have filed several complaints with the comptroller concerning discrepancies between what was claimed by the shipping lines and what my staff found. The executive officers have attempted to make whole these problems.” The man smiled directly into the camera. There was no humor. Beside Mattim, Ding's face was a frozen mask; he suspected she found no comfort in the admiral's faint praise.

“As merchant captains you are no doubt aware you hold primary responsibility for your ship.” The smile grew wider. “That no longer includes making a profit. Now it solely consists of making it battle-ready. All nonregulation equipment will be landed to save weight. Some execs have fumbled this, unwilling or unable to make longtime merchant officers follow Navy policy. You captains will correct this.”

Mattim glanced at Sandy . He'd invested heavily in sensors as well as that fire control computer. Her determined scowl as much as Ding's shrug told him they were still aboard. Good!

“I am also advised . . .” the admiral went on, his grin growing even wider. How could a man's facial expression be so out of touch with his words? Unease grew in Mattim's belly. “. . . that unauthorized modifications have been made to the power plants. These will be corrected. My staff will visit each ship and assure themselves personally that every ship is in conformity with proper ship configuration.”

There was a commotion behind the admiral. A message was handed to him. At the same time, Mattim's communication officer tapped the display before him on the table. “Sir,” he whispered, “we just got a message from the Marines in the next system.”

“Put in on speaker,” Mattim ordered, knowing full well it would be carried over the conference link. A desperate voice came from several sources; Mattim wasn't the only one listening to the admiral's mail. “Ninety-seventh Planetary Defense Brigade to Commander, Cruiser Squadron Fifty-three. Enemy is one jump away. We will be under attack in forty-eight hours. Request assistance. For God's sake, don't let them pound us again. Captain Anderson sends.”

The admiral was no longer smiling. He ignored the repeating of this communication as he tapped the message flimsy. “Pringle, can you get the
Significant
underway?”

Pringle was the only other regular Navy captain and his ship the only other regular cruiser. “We are ready now, sir.”

“Unfortunately, the
Reply
and the
Significant
are the only ships ready to get under way. We can not engage an enemy force of unknown composition alone. Regrettably, that will have to be my answer.” He did not seem brokenhearted. .

Mattim was damned if he'd sit here and be an excuse for this man, not after all Ivan had done. He glanced at his engineer and got the barest nod to the unasked question. “Admiral, the
Sheffield
can get under way in four hours.”

“Your ship has not been cleared by the yard supervisor.”

“Yes, sir, but the ship has checked out in preliminary tests, and I expect we can finish up the loose ends in four hours.”

“Your engines,” the admiral began.

“Have been tested at full power.” Ivan nodded forcefully. “We are ready to get under way”—Mattim now eyed Guns—”and we are fully combat ready.” Guns grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

“Well, maybe the captain of the
Sheffield
thinks he can come aboard one day and leave for battle the next, but. . .”

“The
Aurora
's ready too, sir,” Captain Buzz Burka said, never one to pass up a barroom brawl. In a moment, all the rest had piled in.

Smiley was not smiling as he jumped to his feet. “We will see. No ship sorties without yard certification. No ship jumps out of this system until it's demonstrated combat availability.”

The center screen went blank. “Sparks,” Mattim barked, “get me the yard superintendent. Who's running it?”

“Trong Thon,” Ding answered.

“Torchy! Good.”

In a minute the answer “Trong here” came back.

“Torchy, Matt here. I need to get under way in three hours. Can you get a team over here to cover loose ends?”

Matt, my board's lit up like a fireworks display on landing day. Everybody heading out at once?”

“Yeah, Torchy, there's a war on.”

“We'll be spread thin, but I'll get you a team if I have to pull my daughter out of grade school.”

“Thanks, Torchy, I knew I could count on you.”

“Hey, man, with all of you going out at once, there won't be any staff weenies looking over our shoulders. We can get the job done. Thanks. See you in thirty minutes.”

All around the table there were smiles, and sighs of relief. Mattim eyed Ivan and Sandy. “What gives? You two have been against this war from day one. Now you want to go fight?”

Ivan shrugged. “Matt, you've never been here for a staff inspection. Smiley's staff don't know much about engines, but they can bury you in paperwork.” He glanced at Guns.

“Every blue suiter knows the story behind Smiley. He's commanded a destroyer, cruiser, and battleship . .. while they were in the yard. After he damn near ran his destroyer into an asteroid, they didn't even let him take the cruiser out of dock. As soon as we're operational, another admiral gets to take over.”

Sandy shrugged as she took over from Guns. “Given a choice between spending the war dockside with Smiley or going out, the colonials got to be easier.”

“That remains to be seen. Let's get this ship tested and out of here.” Mattim stood.

* * * *

Major Ray Longknife struggled upward to consciousness, fighting past corpses and exploding guns. He knew who he was and what he'd done. Because of that, he kept his eyes closed.

He'd awakened before. On the transport, surrounded by the moans of the other wounded. He'd wanted to tell them he was sorry, search in their eyes and words for the forgiveness he'd never allow himself. He'd awakened other times, screaming in agony as lancing fire shot through him. President Urm's reward for defeated commanders was a bullet. Ray hadn't heard they'd added torture. It didn't surprise him.

His body demanded a deep sigh; Ray controlled the urge. He wanted neither the pain nor the bullet. If these were his last moments, he would enjoy them. Memories crowded his mind, most of death and destruction. He pushed them aside, focused on Rita. The proud commander the first time he saw her on her bridge. The dancer he couldn't keep his eyes off as her whole body flowed to the music. In that sundress, proudly showing him around the garden at her parents' home. God, she'd been beautiful. If he had to have a last memory, he'd hold tight to that one.

Warm fingers roved the palm of his hand, circling slowly, then moving out to caress his thumb and fingers. His breath caught in his throat; he opened his eyes. Rita sat beside his bed. It was her fingers playing with his hand. She wore the sundress. She leaned forward, eyes wide, cheeks tear-stained. Her breasts didn't quite fall out of the dress. Not quite.

He found himself stirring, responding to her. He tried to move. His legs weren't there; at least the important stuff was. She reached for him. He opened his arms. They could damn well wait for a few minutes to shoot him.

The executioner didn't show up for quite some time. The hug grew to a kiss. It might have gone further, but Ray discovered his body encased in something a lot less flexible than armor.

“What the hell?” Startled, Rita stood, giving him room to grab the sheets covering him and throw them back. From his chest down, he was encased in white. Well, not entirely. “What the hell is this?”

“A very nice hard-on,” Rita said with a grin, “and I am very glad to see it.”

“Thank you very much, woman, but what is the rest of this?”

“A body cast. You've got to hold your back rigid. Notice the traction. It's helping you while your nerves regenerate.”

“A damn lot of expense just so I can stand up to be shot.”

“Nobody's going to shoot you, Ray. You're a hero.”

Ray looked Rita square in the eye. “Some kind of hero. Second Guard never ran 'til I took it to that damn rock. God, all the good people killed.” He let the anguish flood him, bleed into his voice. “I wish to God they would shoot me.”

Rita was back, holding him. He wanted to weep. The commander of the toughest bunch of bastards Wardhaven ever spawned did not cry. He pulled it back in, damned up the pain. Rita was crying; he would not. But that didn't stop the question. “How could they beat us? How?”