In Her Name: The Last War (79 page)

Grishin knew that she had her doubts about his loyalty: she had flat out told him her misgivings when he had first come aboard
Constellation
, but she had no grounds to take any action against him.
Piss on her
, Grishin thought, making sure his face did not betray the inward smile he felt. Her feelings did not anger him. He had endured far worse. “I have no specifics, commodore,” he said. “As you well know, I have not been to the planet of my birth since the end of the war. Yet I know some of the men in power there: they are heartless, ruthless bastards. Just like me.” He offered up a humorless smile. “Behind their propaganda of equality and brotherhood, they are unapologetic imperialists. They hold Riga under their thumb, and they aspire to claim more worlds as their own. They wish to become a great star nation, superior to the Alliance, and no doubt superior to the Confederation, as well.” He glanced around the room, his gaze settling on Sato, whose expression was not clouded or veiled by suspicion: Sato had helped save Grishin’s life and those of his legionnaires at Keran, and he owed the young commander a great debt of honor. And Sato was probably one of the few people in this room who did not doubt Grishin’s loyalty or question his motivations. “As you all know, the key to becoming a star nation is to have a superior navy. Korolev has been in power now for a number of years, and I am sure has not wasted his time in this arena. While he served as a political commissar during the war and has no naval experience, he well understands what is necessary to build an empire.” He turned his gaze back to Hanson. “You have not seen the true face of their navy because they do not wish you to see it. If we have to jump in, however, you will. Even if we bypass Saint Petersburg and sail directly to Riga, they will fight, for they consider Riga their territory; I believe that an image of Korolev’s expression when he found out that Riga had applied for Confederation membership would have been priceless.” No one smiled at the joke. With a sigh, he went on, “I fear that our naval encounter will not be pleasant, commodore, even under the best of circumstances.”

“Don’t they realize that the Kreelans are out there?” one of the ship captains asked quietly. “They should be joining forces with us, not fighting us!”

Grishin shook his head sadly. “I am sure that Korolev and his minions believe that the Kreelan threat is merely Confederation propaganda, designed to draw in gullible worlds like Riga,” he replied. “The men in power on Saint Petersburg live in fear and suspicion of all that is beyond their control, my friends. They do not see the same reality that we do.”

“So what can we do about their navy,
colonel?
” one of the other captains asked hotly. 

“Not a damn thing,” Hanson interjected before Grishin could say anything more. The last thing she needed was an open conflict among her commanding officers. “Remember, ladies and gentlemen, we have zero leeway in this one. When the mission clock counts down to zero, if we haven’t received the order to abort, we jump in, weapons hot. It doesn’t matter if they have a hundred heavy cruisers waiting for us: we still go.” Turning back to Grishin, she said, “So, colonel, now that we have such a reassuring understanding of their viewpoint, perhaps you’d care to outline the operations plan for the Marine contingent?”

Grishin realized that Hanson probably hadn’t intended to come across as being sarcastic, but she certainly sounded that way. He shrugged inwardly. If she wanted to become an expert at sarcasm, she should take lessons from the French officers he had once served under in the Legion. “Certainly, commodore,” he said easily as he stood and replaced the intelligence officer at the front of the room. “As you know, our primary mission is to capture or destroy any nuclear weapons Saint Petersburg may possess,” he began. “In the task force, we have an entire brigade of Marines, in addition to the shipboard contingents, which we can call upon to form an additional ad-hoc battalion, if necessary. The basic plan is to conduct a rapid exo-atmospheric assault on their storage site or sites, employing enough Marines and shipboard fire support to achieve overwhelming local superiority. Each Marine assault group will have a technical team whose responsibility will be to assess whether the weapons can be rendered safe and extracted, or whether they need to be destroyed
in situ
. If the latter, the teams have a wealth of demolitions available, and we are also authorized to employ orbital bombardment, if necessary.”

“Once the weapons are secured or destroyed,” Hanson interjected, facing her ship captains, “we are to take up defensive positions around Riga. We are
not
to engage in battle with Saint Petersburg naval forces unless we have no other choice. I want to make this very clear: we are not here to make war on Saint Petersburg. We are here to take care of the nukes and then defend Riga from any potential punitive action. That’s it. Even if the Saint Petes have nothing more serious than a dozen coast guard cutters to throw against us, I don’t want a major naval battle. Stick to the job at hand.” Turning to Grishin, she said, “Thank you, colonel.”

“The real problem,” the intel officer said as Grishin took his seat, “is that the entire operation for going after the nukes is based on intelligence information that we’re supposed to receive shortly
after
we jump into the system.” He rolled his eyes, showing what he thought of that part of the plan, eliciting a few snickers from the others. 

“If we don’t receive that information,” Hanson added, shooting the intel officer a mild glare, “the nuke part of the mission is scrubbed. We can’t search the entire system, and we’re not going to provoke Korolev by taking up orbit around Saint Petersburg if we don’t have anything firm to go on. So, if we don’t get the intel we’ve been promised, our mission is to sail straight to Riga and take up a defensive posture. Any questions?”

Around the table, heads shook to a chorus of “No, ma’am.” There would be questions in the next hours before the task force jumped, but right now everyone wanted to get back to their ships. 

“That’s it, then,” Hanson said. The other officers stood to attention as she got up from her chair. “We’ve got less than twenty-four hours, people. Let’s make the most of it.”

* * *

“It’s good to see you again, sir,” Sato said as he walked beside Grishin on the way to the boat bay to return to their respective ships. The last time Sato had seen Grishin was when he was taken off the
Ticonderoga
after the Battle of Keran: Grishin had been on a gurney headed for the sickbay on Africa Station for the severe injuries he had received.

“It is good to see you, too, Sato,” Grishin said warmly. “I also appreciate your...quiet support in there,” he nodded back toward the briefing room, “for lack of a better term. It seems that former residents of Saint Petersburg are not in the running to win today’s popularity contest.”

“I know, sir, and I apologize for that,” Sato replied, rather embarrassed. He had felt extremely uncomfortable at the way Grishin had been treated. Sato could sympathize: most of the other ship captains did not want to have anything to do with him, either, “ship thief” that he was in the eyes of some. “Sir,” he went on tentatively, “may I ask you something?”

“Of course, Ichiro,” Grishin said, smiling. “Asking is always free, but I may not give you an answer.” 

Sato grinned, but it quickly faded from his face. “Sir, how well do you know First Sergeant Mills?”

“Roland Mills?” Grishin asked. Sato nodded. “I knew of him when we served in the Legion, but he never served under me, and you know of our time on Keran. But I got to know him quite well when the Legion was being merged into the Marine Corps: he was one of the senior transition NCOs and worked for me until you stole him away.” He nudged Sato good-naturedly. “He is a good man, and an outstanding legionnaire...and Marine. Why do you ask?”

“Well, sir...” Sato began, then hesitated. He did not want to inadvertently put Mills in a bad light with a senior Marine officer, but he had to ask. “Sir, do you know if Mills ever suffered from chronic nightmares after Keran?”

“We all suffered nightmares after Keran, Ichiro,” Grishin said quietly as he came to a stop, turning to face Sato. “I would be concerned about anyone who did not.”

“Yes, sir, I agree,” Sato told him. “But his nightmares, I believe, are different. They are not just of what happened on Keran, but dreams of him being killed by the big warrior who let us go, of something that did
not
happen. And with a more...spiritual meaning: in the dream she is taking his soul, and it has deeply disturbed him. He was having them with increasing frequency until he finally saw the ship’s surgeon because he was on the verge of stim addiction. She prescribed a series of sedatives that initially knocked him out and allowed him to sleep and get some rest.” He frowned. “But in the last two days, the nightmares have returned, even through the sedatives, and appear to be even more intense. He woke up screaming before the morning watch. He woke up half the Marine company, sleeping in their bunks. I’m very worried about him.”
And I can’t have a senior NCO who doesn’t have all his wits about him taking men and women into combat
, he didn’t add.

Grishin thought a moment. “I cannot recall that he had dreams, exactly, Ichiro,” he said slowly. “I know there were times when he clearly had not slept well, but that is not necessarily unusual for soldiers, especially veterans, and I thought nothing of it.” 

“Do you dream, sir, of her? The big warrior? Or any of the other Kreelans?”

Shaking his head, Grishin answered darkly, “I dream of electric fire, Ichiro, and the smell of burning flesh.” He shivered inwardly, remembering how one of the Kreelan warriors had flung a grenade at his command vehicle. The alien grenades did not explode, exactly: they seemed to spawn a confined electric storm that could destroy a heavily armored battle tank, lacing it with electric bolts that were like lightning, and that could burn right through armor plate. His command vehicle was hit by one, and he could clearly recall the screaming of his crew as they were simultaneously burned and electrocuted to death. Grishin only survived because the vehicle hit the edge of a weapon emplacement and flipped over after the driver lost control, sending Grishin flying from his hatch in the top of the vehicle. He had survived, but had been grievously injured. “I do not remember much after that until Africa Station. Why, do you think his dreams are significant, something more than a stress disorder?”

Sato shrugged in frustration. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t want to make it sound mystical, but...there is just something strange about it, and I wish I understood what it was, what it means.”

Grishin snorted, then put a hand on Sato’s shoulder. “It means nothing, Ichiro,” he told him. “The human mind is a complex thing that often plays tricks on itself. We are victims of our own cruel nature and God’s poor sense of humor. And this is made worse by our desire to understand everything, even though some things were made to never be understood. Do not worry yourself about Mills, my friend. He is a tough bastard, as tough as they come. He will be all right, and will do whatever needs to be done.”

* * *

At that moment First Sergeant Roland Mills was inspecting every one of his company’s Marines to make sure they were ready for combat, before the detachment commander’s formal inspection. He hoped they would be called upon to help the battalions that would be deploying to the surface, because he didn’t want to sit out a battle up here in a ship the Saint Petes would want to use for target practice when he could be getting his hands dirty planetside.

He was doubly glad they were so busy now, because the dreams had come back. Even through the knockout drugs the surgeon had given him, the huge warrior had reached through his subconscious to tear out his heart and reach for his soul. Now the dreams were even more real, if that was possible, as if they were a mental signal whose strength was rapidly increasing. He didn’t need the stims yet, but had asked the ship’s surgeon for some extras, anyway. With her usual warnings of gloom and doom about the risks of addiction, she gave them to him. He was far more terrified of what lay waiting for him when he slept than becoming addicted to stims.

As he expected, there were only a few minor things amiss as he went from Marine to Marine with their respective platoon sergeants and squad leaders. The most important things — weapons, ammunition, armor, and communications — were perfect. Those few things that weren’t in order were quickly straightened out. The company had five platoons: four regular platoons and a heavy weapons platoon. Their commander had ordered that they would make ready to support the ground campaign with the four line platoons, while the heavy weapons platoon would remain aboard for ship defense. That had made for some major disappointment among the heavy weapons troops, Mills knew, because everyone doubted that the Saint Petersburg Navy would try any boarding stunts like the Kreelans had. They would likely be stuck in their vacuum combat armor in a battle — if there was one — that would be decided by the guns of heavy cruisers, while their fellow Marines would be down on the surface raising hell. They all hoped. 

He grinned inwardly, trying to set aside the dread that had settled over him like a chill mist.
Poor left-behind buggers
, he thought.

* * *

Sato watched the mission clock steadily wind down toward zero. “Stand by to jump,” he ordered. In a task force jump, it was technically unnecessary for a ship’s captain to give the jump order, for the sequence of events had already been programmed in to the ship’s systems, slaved to the navigation computers aboard the flagship
Constellation
. But tradition demanded it, and Bogdanova had her hand on the manual override controls just in case.

Sato frowned as he thought of the task force’s composition. The other cruisers and destroyers that were supposed to join them had never arrived, and the mission orders left no discretion as to the mission profile: they had to jump on time, no matter what. He was distinctly uncomfortable about the lack of intelligence information they had on the Saint Petersburg Navy, particularly in light of what Grishin had said, but there was nothing they could do about it, other than to hope for the best.