''You in on that, too?'' Sandy said.
''Commodore Mandanti asked me about it. I thought it would be a good idea. You need to look spiffy when you give the All Hands Address on the pier tomorrow.''
''What All Hands Address?''
''The one where you tell us all this is a wonderful thing we're doing and that we're going to push through and win. The one they're going to need to hear after my personnel chief tells them they're all in the Navy Reserve, on active duty, and covered by health and life insurance for the next month.
''You don't think I'm going to send this lash-up of Johnny-come-latelies out to fight battleships without official papers. I'll be damned if I'll let those Peterwald bastards shoot these people for terrorists. Even Luna. They may be taken in armed resistance, but they will be taken in uniform with ID cards.''
''Assuming Kris's dad here and his thousand closest friends can agree that we are legal,'' Sandy added.
The Navy base CO shrugged. ''We lose, the winners want to shoot someone, they can come looking for me, or whatever pieces of me they can find. As far as these folks are concerned, they signed the papers, they got the card. We even dug up enough shipsuits to put them all in uniform.''
Details, details. More that never made it into the history books. Thank God for bureaucrats like van Horn or his personnel chief who thought of all the details.
''They could shoot your personnel chief. She's a civilian.''
The Captain laughed, full and hearty. ''Holds a commission or whatever they call a lieutenant's papers in the Coast Guard auxiliary. Was supposed to be on a search and rescue boat, but the last I heard, she wrangled herself onto one of the armed yachts. We're having to bring up more folks to cover the SAR boats. They ought to melt nicely into the refugees headed for the liners.''
''Didn't anybody tell folks this is a suicide mission?''
''Ah, yes, Your Highness,'' the Captain said, fingering his ship command badge, something she'd noticed he lacked on his uniform. ''But there are some suicide missions you just can't miss. Some missions, no matter how bad the odds … how middle-aged smart you are … you just have to get in line for.''
He paused, stared at the battle board for a long moment. ''If I could find it in my heart, I'd feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch decelerating toward us. He's got all the power on his side. By every right, he wins tomorrow. All we've got on our side is will. Raw determination. And a hunger for freedom. We've lived free for so long, we've forgotten what chains feel like. And we ain't going back.''
Kris studied the battle board. On one side, power, steel, chains, and slaver. On the other side determination to stay free. A willingness to die trying. The arrangement on the battle board stayed the same. The prospects looked a whole lot different.
Sandy shuffled in her chair. ''Battle board, how long until the arrival of the hostiles, assuming continued deceleration?''
''Arrival in twelve hours.''
''Start a countdown clock.'' One appeared on the board.
''Nelly,'' Kris said. ''Keep one of those going for me, too.''
''I already have.''
13
Contact: -12 hours
Vice Admiral Ralf Baja studied the battle board in flag plot of his flagship, the Revenge. Henry Peterwald had chosen the names of the five ships that trailed the Admiral's flag: Ravager, Retribution, Retaliation, Vengeance, and Avenger. If there was any doubt in the Admiral's mind about his mission, the names given his commands settled it. He'd always known there was bad blood between the Peterwalds and the Longknifes. Nothing open, just something whispered. Now it was as public as six battleships and their course for Wardhaven.
''Any changes?'' he asked.
''None,'' his Chief of Staff Rear Admiral Bhutta Saris said immediately. Nice to have a second who knew what was on your mind. Then again, it didn't take a crystal ball to guess today.
The Admiral glanced up in the direction of the separate intel section he had added to his flag plot. Saris followed his gaze. ''Lieutenant, report the status of the target,'' he ordered.
The Duty Lieutenant came to attention, but his eyes stayed on the boards of the three enlisted technicians he oversaw. ''Communications on their battle net is at twenty percent and purely administrative. No threats identified. Their media net continues to report on their political paralysis. No evidence of military preparations, though some of the minor outlets are now carrying commentaries urging military action. These are usually attacked immediately by phone-in callers. Their civilian net usage is about normal. Some minor public demonstrations reported. Anything larger is being suppressed. Our searches identify no threats developing.''
''Not that we'd know before time.'' The Admiral sighed. ''No one talking about us would call us enemy battleships. They'd have selected code words. Love Boats. Twinkies.''
''And we would have nothing more to fear from such talk,'' came a new voice. The Admiral organized his face to bland as he came to attention and turned to the only one who would enter his flag plot uninvited. Harrison Maskalyne was the perfect governor for Wardhaven, or would be as soon as the Admiral put him there. Tall, with finely sculptured features offset by wavy black hair, he could have stepped off a pedestal of some Greek god. And was about as dumb and bloodthirsty as one as well.
The governor waved a hand. ''Your political masters have delivered Wardhaven to you with nothing to defend it but a ship or two that dare not show their faces. Perfect planning. First we smash the Longknifes here. Over the next year or two we collect up the wreckage of their king's united nothing,'' he said, closing a fist on thin air. ''Then, in three or four years, Admiral, you will be leading a full fleet on an intercept vector for Earth, and humanity will be done with this fracturing and bickering. United once more.'' He smiled.
Of course, he was quoting a speech the Admiral had heard Henry Peterwald give a few months ago. Peterwald didn't count on Maskalyne for anything but an echo. He rarely surprised.
The Admiral nodded. ''All goes according to plan. You will excuse an old fighter. We are trained from our first day at the Academy that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.''
''Ah, but this plan has nothing to fear. Your enemy has nothing to bring at you. No contact. No problem. Right?'' The governor said with a happy chuckle.
''As you say,'' the Admiral said, giving the governor a slight bow so as to avoid joining in the mirth.
Maskalyne shook his head. ''You are far too dour, Admiral. Just don't let your concern for bogeymen interfere with your application of the proper jolts to Wardhaven. I want the full spectrum of political and communication targets flattened on our first pass. We of the political arm have taken care of your military problems. Now you will apply the proper degree of violence to all the necessary social and cultural targets to cower the troublemakers on Wardhaven. Wardhaven must not just be defeated. They must know they have lost everything. Even hope.''
''We have a full list of your targets,'' the Admiral said, tapping a section of his battle board. On the bulkhead, a screen changed from the space ahead, Wardhaven growing larger, to a long list of targets ranging from Government House and Nuu House, as well as communication hubs, media centers, any places large groups might gather, talk, and form a consensus when the net was down.
''Good. They must be defeated, and more importantly, know they are defeated. The occupation forces won't be arriving for several weeks. We don't want them to have to fight. Only occupy. Your job is to take the fight out of Wardhaven. That's what these ships were built for. Right?''
''Yes, Mr. Governor,'' the Admiral said. The Revenge was not your average battleship. Tomorrow, Wardhaven would either surrender or find out. The governor left, on whatever errand he felt called to on this, the last day before his investiture. Admiral Baja continued to study his battle board. It continued to tell him the same nothing it had for the last three and a half days.