Elspeth laughed, picked off an unwary enemy fighter that had approached too closely, and led her flock back to the barn. They would rearm and return to the fray.
Grinning, she allowed herself the thought that perhaps the newcomers—maggots, as they were known—weren’t so bad after all.
“Fire at will,” Marius ordered.
Magnificent shuddered as she unleashed a swarm of missiles towards the remaining enemy superdreadnaughts. This time, the firepower advantage was on his side, and he used it ruthlessly. The massed fire of entire squadrons of superdreadnaughts were launched against isolated targets, forcing them to struggle to survive.
One by one, the enemy superdreadnaughts blew apart and died in the darkness of space. The remainder were fighting a losing battle.
He scowled. None of this made any sense, unless Admiral Justinian had one final trick up his sleeve.
Justinian forced himself to remain calm as the loss rates continued to mount. He hadn’t led his fleet into the Boskone System personally, something that probably hadn’t endeared him to men who were committing treason on his orders, but that had helped to save his life. He didn’t have the force to punch through the Asimov Point without bleeding his fleet white, leaving them easy meat for a counterattack from Home Fleet or one of the other loyalist forces.
“Recall the remaining ships,” he ordered. There was no point in forcing a victory that would ruin him and his cause. He had his shipyards, his newer innovations—and his backers on Earth. The game was far from over. “We’ll concede this battle.”
“Aye, sir,” Caitlin said, sounding relieved. “Do you want to fall back on the Asimov Point?”
“Negative,” Justinian said. He doubted that Admiral Drake had the firepower to punch through the Asimov Point. “If they come through, we will hold them here.”
He settled back, watching as his surviving ships retreated through the Asimov Point. The Federation had to hold Boskone—that was a given. On the other hand, Justinian could fall back and make a stand closer to Jefferson, which allowed him a degree of flexibility the Federation lacked.
And yet, he knew he was pinned, at least until he rebuilt his forces and launched a second attack. The war had effectively stalemated.
“That’s confirmed, admiral,” the sensor officer said, “Their remaining ships have pulled out of the system. We won!”
“So it would seem,” Marius agreed. There was no way to know what was going through Justinian’s mind—which meant that Drake’s forces would have to stay on the alert, knowing that a second attack could come at any time. “Admiral Mason, designate a fighter wing to serve as CSP and recall the remaining pilots. Hold them at condition-two, but let them get some rest. They deserve it.”
He allowed himself a tight smile as the fleet slowly stood down. They’d held! They’d stopped Admiral Justinian dead in his tracks. Morale, which had been rock-bottom after the disaster at Jefferson, was going to skyrocket. And it wouldn’t do his reputation any harm, either. The Senate would have problems trying to smear his reputation now.
“And pass a message on to all ships and personnel,” he added. “Well done.”
Chapter Eighteen
Federation Navy medals may be handed out by the commanding officer, once confirmed by the Admiralty—confirmation that is almost invariably forthcoming. Federation awards and decorations are the exclusive gift of the Senate, although a commanding officer may recommend a subordinate for them.
FNS Magnificent, Boskone System, 4092
The summons to report to Admiral Drake onboard Magnificent had come nearly a week after the Battle of Boskone. Roman had spent nearly twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear while his shuttle was prepared for the flight. As a captain—even an acting captain—he had a right to wear dress whites, but somehow he doubted that Admiral Drake would be impressed by a lieutenant putting on airs. As a lieutenant, he should wear his dress uniform, yet very few people in the Federation Navy enjoyed wearing dress uniforms. The issue had been settled by the discovery that there were no captain’s uniforms on Enterprise, so he’d reluctantly worn his more standard dress uniform. He was honest enough to admit to himself that worrying over the uniform was a substitute for worrying over what the admiral was going to say, considering the hostility of Admiral Mason. Roman was sure Mason had burned up the airwaves with his complaints about having to report to a very junior officer.
It wasn’t the first time Roman had been onboard a superdreadnaught, but somehow it felt very different. No formal party met him when he disembarked from the shuttle, much to his relief, as he had no idea how to handle the protocol when one captain visited another. Yet everyone he met seemed to know his name. Officers, including some astronomically senior to him, found time to shake his hand and congratulate him, adding to the air of unreality. He was almost in a daze when the Marine guard opened the hatch to the admiral’s office and motioned for him to step inside.
He’d never met Admiral Drake before, but he’d taken the opportunity to use his new command codes to read the classified section of the admiral’s file. Drake was shorter than he had expected, reminding him of Major Shaklee, yet he was clearly in control of the situation. Short, dark hair framed a classically handsome face and brilliant dark eyes. Roman marched across to the desk, threw a perfect salute, and stood at attention. The only other admiral he’d encountered—briefly—was Admiral Parkinson, but he hadn’t commanded this level of respect. Admiral Drake had pulled the entire fleet out of a deadly trap.
“At ease,” Admiral Drake said. He had a faint Martian accent. “Cut the cadet crap. There’s just the pair of us here.”
Roman relaxed, very slightly.
“I said relax,” Admiral Drake added dryly. “You’re not in trouble, Mr. Garibaldi. I assure you of that.”
Roman did his best to stand normally, as he would if he were around Sultana before he’d been so abruptly elevated to acting captain.
The admiral settled back and grinned, an expression which transformed his entire face. “First things first, Mr. Garibaldi. I have nominated you for the Navy Cross, with Gold Stars. I believe that it will be confirmed automatically by the Admiralty, but don’t gloat too soon about being the youngest officer to win it in combat. They may feel that I have been too generous.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said. The Navy Cross was only issued to personnel who had served with distinction in combat. The only officer below the rank of captain to win it had been a lieutenant-commander during the Blue Star War. The recipient had to show uncommon valor and skill. “I…thank you.”
“I believe there may be other rewards coming your way,” Admiral Drake said in an almost jovial manner.
Roman flushed, and then realized that he was being teased. But before he could respond, the admiral carried on.
“I recommended you for several Federation awards, although those will have to be granted by the Senate. You’re also entitled to a cash reward for saving the Enterprise from certain destruction. The taxmen will probably try to take a bite out of it, but hire a good lawyer and they will discover that they don’t have a leg to stand on.”