''If we make them,'' Honovi said.
''Okay, let's see what we want to say.''
Contact: -10 hours
The Duty Lieutenant in flag plot of the Greenfeld Alliance Battleship Revenge studied the news feed. Then studied it some more. Then reviewed it again. This was a definite change in the target's condition, but was it enough to wake the Chief of Staff, the Admiral? He called down to the intel center.
''Commander, have you an analysis for flag plot yet?''
''We are working on a full report. At the moment what you see is basically what we see. They are letting those holding non-Wardhaven passports leave. We should expect that several large liners will be crossing our track as we make final approach, heading out for Jump Point Adele. I doubt any of them will make for Jump Point Barbie, but we should keep our lasers ready. Any that do might try for a suicide dive on us.''
''The Longknifes would use a packed liner as a suicide ship!''
''I'm not Chief of intel to underestimate Longknifes.''
''Do you think I should wake up the Admiral?''
''That is your call, not mine.''
''Yes, it is,'' the young Lieutenant agreed. He eyed the media feed. So many women with children. Men with wives. Here and there were a clump of men his age, going about their business like sailors on their way to their ship.
He spotted a woman moving purposefully through the crowd, two younger men following in her trail, pulling loaded carts behind her. The emblems on the boxes looked familiar, but he couldn't place them.
''Some of those are not refugees,'' the Lieutenant said. ''Some of them move as purposefully as any sailor.''
''Maybe they are assigned to the luxury liners that will be sailing, coming back from shore leave.''
''And there was a woman on the last feed. She hardly looked like a refugee. She was leading two men bringing along loaded carts. I almost recognized the markings on the boxes.''
''Maybe those were her family heirlooms and the young men were her…'' The Commander coughed discreetly. ''You know how decadent the women behave where the Longknifes call the shots.''
Yes, the Lieutenant had seen all the vids. He'd also learned how hardheaded an intel weenie was once he latched on to a preconceived notion. ''Before I decide to wake the chief of staff, I would appreciate it if you could run the faces of the clearly nonrefugees on these media feeds against the Wardhaven database. Especially that woman. She should be easy to place. She clearly was someone.''
''We are already doing it, Lieutenant. We know our job,'' the intel officer said and closed the link.
The Lieutenant paced the deck behind his three enlisted technicians. One of them cleared his throat. ''Yes?''
''We are getting more powerful magnetic signatures from around the High Wardhaven station, sir.''
''As if liners were increasing their fusion reactors. Bringing more magnetohydrodynamic power on-line?'' Fusion reactors generated plasma for thrust. The plasma, as it raced through magnetic containment fields, also generated electricity through magnetohydrodynamic generators outside those fields. That electricity in turn created the containment fields that held the reactors together. A wonderful system that seemed to give you something for nothing, his physics professor had quipped, but it powered man between the stars. And when ships weren't under boost, large ships ran a small trickle of plasma around a racetrack to keep electricity flowing. Several liners were now raising that trickle as their future energy needs rose.
The magnetic resonances around High Wardhaven flexed and flexed again, and any chances of seeing what was going on there as discreet units became less and less a possibility.
With luck, one of the ships would interfere with another, and they'd blow out the containment field of a reactor. It had been known to happen. In the bad old days. Not recently. It would just be Longknife luck not to happen this time, either.
The commlink beeped.
''We have your people ID'd, Lieutenant.''
That was fast, and from the sound of it, not at all what the Commander wanted. ''Yes?'' the Duty Lieutenant said.
''The woman is Miss Dora Evermorn, the anchor for Galactic News and Entertainment on Wardhaven. She has a show every afternoon between two and four. I've reviewed the last three days' feed, and she didn't announce a vacation.''
''So, where's she going?''
''She owns a system runabout. Can't jump out of system. Maybe she's headed for the moon where she'd get a good shot of Wardhaven under bombardment. Who knows? We've flagged her.''
The Lieutenant nodded. That was something he knew. News followed the story. Military preparation was a story. If she was any good, she'd lead them to the story they wanted.
''The men on the video are civilians. Some work for the Navy in that capacity. A few own small runabouts. Some of them have notations in their files that they are members of the Coast Guard Reserve or auxiliary. Like the Greenfeld Youth Association but with no military training. They see that private runabouts meet safety regulations, have survival pods. Sometimes they rescue idiots who get in trouble. They have no military value.''
''As you say,'' the Lieutenant said. Accepting the words but being careful not to accept the value of the report. If they had no military value, why weren't they staying home where they belonged on a day like this? Why were they heading up to a station soon to be under attack? Hardly the actions of someone who viewed themselves as having no military value.
Damn intel's granite mind-set!
So, do I wake the Chief of Staff or not? The Lieutenant paced back and forth, watching the lights on his technician's boards change, but did they change enough?
Contact: -9 hours 30 minutes
Kris finished her shower and dressed carefully in the whites prepared for her. Today she might get killed, but there was no need for a bulletproof body stocking. They didn't make one to stop an 18-inch laser.
At least she'd managed another hour catnap. She actually felt rested. Dressed, she settled the blue beret fancied by the PF sailors on her head. Since they spent most of their time with their heads in a brain bucket, they needed something easy to stuff in a pocket. To the uniform groans of the rest of the Navy, they'd settled on a Navy blue felt beret with their boat's insignia holding pride of place.
The Commodore had tried to have them adopt a squadron emblem; they'd insisted on their own boats'. Today, Kris wore the Commodore's squadron emblem as befitted a squadron Commander.
''Kris, we need you quick,'' came as a holler from CIC.
Kris ran for the combat center and almost tripped over the airtight door. There weren't that many on a PF. If a PF took a hit, it wasn't really going to matter.
''Shut up. We'll have an answer for you in just a minute,'' Sandy was snapping into Beni's commlink.
''Kris, Adorable Dora Evermorn is at the yacht basin on net hollering for her boat.''
''Gabby's not answering?''
''We've got the boats on emission controls. They aren't listening or talking except through our guarded landline.''
''Thanks.'' Kris grabbed the commlink.
''Dora, do you recognize my voice?''
''Kris Long—''
''Yes, and if I wanted my name used, I'd have used it. Don't say a word. Don't move an inch. I'll be there in a minute to talk to you. You'll have all your recorders off, or so help me, I'll throw you out the nearest space lock. You understand?''
''I have two strong guys here who say you can't do that, but yeah, I'll play this your way for the time being.''
Kris snapped off the commlink, turned to get Jack, and ran into him. He was dressed, ready for duty. ''Gosh, I thought today was going to be a slow day. All Navy. You mean I got to protect you from a newsie?''
''Nope,'' Kris said, heading for the pier, ''I may need you to toss a newsie and her two brawny sidekicks over the side.''
''That's kind of outside my job description, Your Highness, Princess, sir, ma'am.''