Warworld: The Lidless Eye (18 page)

“To maximize the speed of the initial attack,” Weapons said, as he presented his bombardment operation plan to Diettinger and Second Rank in the wardroom, “I have posted the
Dol Guldur
on a contra-orbital run along the equator. On this course Haven’s minor rotational speed is added to our orbital velocity. We can make a complete circumnavigation well within time constraints, even allowing margins necessary to acquire and fire upon the target positions indicated as they come over the horizon.”

First Rank Diettinger was concerned at the ease with which the crew accepted the
Fomoria’s
new name, not to mention the open delight they had for the new uniforms. As Soldiers, they were expected to follow orders unquestioningly, and Diettinger had, indeed, ordered them to refer to the ship as the
Dol Guldur
and themselves as pirates, to help them fully embrace the deception required of them. Still, he sometimes felt that the appeal of the whole thing was spinning out of control.

He returned his attention to the holographic projection of Haven, on which Weapons was indicating various target zones.

“Haven’s cold climate and thin atmosphere has concentrated the majority of her population in the equatorial region. Within that region, only the lowest altitude zones—valleys and coastal areas—have enough air for comfort.” Contempt crept into Weapons’ voice as he spoke. “The typical cattle aversion to hardship has lined them up in perfect targeting position, sir.”

Diettinger nodded. He studied the holographic display. Scattered across its surface were points of light in white, yellow and red. Concentrations of industry, energy generation, and communications, in relative order, as determined by the Survey ranks. There were pitifully few of them. Diettinger indicated one particularly large cluster on the major landmass.

“Survey is confident that this concentration in—what is this valley called?”

“Shangri-La, First Rank.” Second Rank provided the name with a hint of irony.

“Shangri-La Valley. Survey is convinced this concentration does not pose any real threat. Is it possible that it cloaks a planetary defense position of some sort, something they might have kept secret all these years?” Diettinger wondered if he might be unduly concerned about such matters. However, he had only to consider the consequences of failure to realize that the phrase “unduly concerned” was, in this instance, a contradiction in terms.

“Highly unlikely, sir,” Weapons said. “The Haven militia, which according to Records is called the Haven Volunteers, has taken residence in two forts abandoned by the 77th Imperial Marines. Both are currently under air attack to neutralize them. Haven, being so far from the heart of the Empire, evidently never did have any real planetary defenses. If the evacuation proceeded along established Imperial procedure, the 77th left little in the way of ordnance or heavy weapons.

“As a result, the Haveners don’t seem to know the meaning of
security; their comm broadcasts tell us the disposition of their fractured governmental militias down to the ammunition allocation in local police forces—and there are very few of those.” Weapons was obviously scornful of the attitude these cattle applied to their own security, but still pleased at how easy it made his job.

“Good. Then the target priorities remain the same.” Diettinger held his right hand an inch off the table, placing a finger against the metal surface as he enumerated each item. “All satellites capable of communications have been eliminated. Anything we might find useful, such as weather or surveillance satellites, are to be left alone. Destroy all planetary emplacements capable of off-world communications.

“This mission is made easier by the fact that Haven evidently relied very heavily on such things as the transceiver equipment we saw at the automated refueling station. We won’t depend on it, however. Any additional such ground targets are to be nuked.”

“What about the former Imperial fortresses?” Weapons asked.

“Incapacitate, but do not destroy. They will come in useful later during the consolidation.”

Second Rank nodded thoughtfully. She too, apparently, took the long view on this operation.

Good
, Diettinger thought,
after all, this is our new home
. He paused for a moment. “Will doubling up on these targets leave us any nuclear weapons in stores?”

Weapons nodded. “Plenty, First Rank. We will use high-radiation-yield neutron bombs wherever practical. We had little chance to use our stocks of such weapons against the Imperials.”

“Good. Then also modify some for enhanced electromagnetic pulses. Use your own judgment as to how many, but guarantee me no coordinated broadcast communications on Haven for at least one hundred hours. And none whatsoever to be beamed off-planet.”

Weapons acknowledged the order as Diettinger finished the target list; energy generation centers were next, industrial centers last. Without power, the industrial targets would be useless anyway, until the Saurons
appropriated them. And the Soldiers would be bringing their own energy generation equipment to Haven.

Cutting off all communication from Haven was critical to Diettinger’s long-range plans. In the Haven System they were helped by a number of strong radiation belts that orbited Haven’s primary, Cat’s Eye, and her other moons. Ordinary radio and short-wave transmissions were dissipated by radiation forces long before they left the system.

Any signal that did leave the system intact would crawl along at the speed of light and take decades or centuries to reach Imperial ears. However, the Empire might take centuries to collapse to the point where it no longer posed a threat to the Race. Diettinger had no doubt that the discovery of a remnant of Sauron, however pitiful, would bring as many Imperial ships as could still Jump for the last battle of extermination. This time, there would be no escape.

He turned to Second Rank. “You established the flight plan for this next orbital run, Second?”

Althene paused, watching him with a level gaze. “Yes, First Rank. All the information and target dispositions have been entered into the flight program. Navigation can activate it from his station. I have constructed the program with enough detail to let even a cadet use it.”

Her bitterness was unmistakable, inexcusable and, Diettinger realized, impossible to alleviate. If they were to survive as a Race, as an ideal, it would depend on the success of his plans from this day on.

And the greatest part of those plans lay in breeding.

“Thank you, Second Rank. Well done.” Again Diettinger could not hold back the warmth in his praise of Second Rank. He knew how she felt at being relieved of her duties and he honestly regretted losing her. He marveled that he had kept an officer of her qualifications at all in the last dark years of the war.

Sadly, though, he realized his sympathy was not enough. Nothing ever could be. Diettinger thought it ironic that, as Soldiers, the living embodiment of the term, Saurons had always been taught to willingly make any sacrifice required of them. But how could you ask them to
sacrifice being Soldiers?

Diettinger answered his own question.
You didn’t ask
, he knew. Soldiers never asked, never were asked, anything. Soldiers gave—and took—orders.

“Report to Breedmaster Caius in Bay Seven,” Diettinger made the order brief. Second Rank saluted and left the wardroom without a word.

The silence returned, Diettinger noticed. Saurons were not a gregarious people, but the tension over the operations of the next few hours had brought them all to even deeper levels of concentration on the tasks at hand. Diettinger went to the bridge, where Navigation told him the planned trajectory had been established.

“Status on scout fighters?”

“Reconnaissance shows no concerted military effort planetside. Individual city-states seem to be alerted to the fighters, but show no sign that they know about our position, or even that we’re here. We’ve been getting bandits and missile barrages from both forts, but nothing heavy. Their best weapons are obsolete gunboat-fighters and missiles the Empire abandoned last century.”

Diettinger shook his head. The
Fomoria
—that is, the
Dol Guldur
—must be visible to anybody with a decent telescope by now. He sighed.
This really is going to be depressingly easy
, he thought.

“Weapons. Give the fighters another fifteen minutes, then recall them. Prepare for final orbital strike. Secure for planetary assault.”

“Acknowledged, First Rank.”

Leino saw the Redfielders first, six ugly wood and low-reflection canvas triplanes in formation above his own ships.

“Leino here. Redfielders, please acknowledge.”

“We have you, Novy Finlandia. No contacts, here. Base informs us our ground observers spotted two, repeat, two Extra-Atmospheric fighter crafts in this vicinity. More in Valley, vicinity of Castell and Tampa. Ex-At fighters did some damage to local ground targets, not serious. Any luck with your group?”

“Negative, Redfielders. No contacts at our current altitude. You have oxygen aboard?”

“Of course.”

Leino sighed.
Just trying to be polite
, he thought, something the Redfielders certainly weren’t making any attempt to do. One more reference to
Novy Finlandia
and he would clear his guns—accidentally, of course.

“Let’s breakup into two-plane groups. One of yours, one of mine; our craft have a slightly higher ceiling than yours. My man goes top cover over your man, both get as high as possible. We can rotate the pairs as their oxygen gets low.”

The Redfielder did not answer immediately. Perhaps he was offended by Leino’s reference to the superior ceiling of his own ships; with fighter craft, altitude was everything. Touchy people.

“Good show, Leino,” the Redfielder came back coolly. Leino was mildly surprised at the compliment. “But our craft uses less fuel than yours, and has a much greater range. Your man should take a quick jump to altitude, straight up to maximum, then straight down; ours can circle
below and wait for him.”

Leino caught the humor in the Redfielder’s voice and barely suppressed an outright laugh of his own. Despite the obvious merits of the Redfielder’s modification to his own plan, the temptation between two fighter pilots to out-boast one another was irresistible.

“Acknowledged, Viggen. This round to you.”

“Thank you, Leino. Standing by for your orders.”

Leino did laugh, then. Orders said there would be no combat between their forces, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t still find some way to duel.

Delancey’s relief had been only too glad to accept a day off from orbital surveillance. Delancey himself hoped that Alec Farmen could fix whatever he had done wrong before anybody in the Redfield forces called them on it. Colonel Kettler, of the Redfield Satrapy Air Force, had in the last hour already left three cryptic and ever-more threatening demands to return his calls. Delancey felt his planned excuse of poor landlines garbling the connection would ultimately do little to save his neck.

The data line stubbornly resisted every effort to change it from amber to anything else.

Worse still, it was now flashing a secondary red line on the left and another on the right.

Delancey hissed in irritation and began pounding keys.
What the hell has that fool been doing?
Playing wargames with the master program again? He spun hard about in his chair, his elbow striking his forgotten teacup and spilling the icy brew across his lap and onto the floor.

“Alec!” he shouted down the hall. “Damnit to hell, boy! Do you want to get us both shot? What the devil are you doing back there?”

There was no answer. In a moment, Delancey heard Alec’s footsteps as he raced up the corridor toward him. The younger man burst into the room, grabbing the doorframe to stop himself. The look on his face sent Delancey cold. Alec seemed to be terrified and elated at the same time.

Is he using drugs
? the older man wondered.
Is that why he fouled things up so badly?

“Warren…” Alec, for the first time, was at a loss for words. “It’s real!”

“What?” Delancey asked in a small voice. He knew very well what, but he couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it.

“The ship. It’s out there, whatever it is. Unauthorized; no reports from the refueling station. I’ve checked and re-checked everything a dozen times over. I did everything right. It’s the old boards that were bad. There really is a ship out there. A
warship
, Delancey! An Imperial warship!”

He ran past Delancey to the screen and began hammering at the keys with trembling hands.

“Enhancement, hell, yes, I want enhancement!” Alec muttered. Delancey, overwhelmed by the younger man’s energy, began to get excited, too. But he was older than Alec; in his excitement was also fear.
Warship
, the computer screen had read….