“I will personally lead the three carriers covering the home world. Baron, you will be in charge of the assault on Vukar.”
Thrakhath smiled at the sudden discomfort of his rival who realized that he was trapped, forced now to redeem the honor of a woman and family he despised.
“I am not a fleet officer,” the Baron said quietly.
“Rusmak will be in charge of all tactical decisions; you will represent the royal bloodline, nothing more.”
He looked over at the Baron and smiled. If there’s glory it will be to the loyal Rusmak; if dishonor it will be yours, he thought, and he knew that the Baron was already aware of what he was thinking… that was why he hated and feared him.
“Come on in, Tolwyn.”
Banbridge, smiling, came out from behind his desk and extended his hand.
“What brings you over to Wolfhound?”
“Just a short chat before the fight, that’s all.”
Banbridge nodded his head.
“How are things on Concordia?”
“They’re eager, ready. All available craft are loaded for a heavy strike; the pilots anxious for the show to start.”
“I just got a courier in from Big Duke One. They’re dug in up to the eyeballs. They’re finishing up some bunkers that can take direct hits from matter/antimatter, even old atomics, and they’ll still be sitting there waiting. Those fur butts are going to get one hell of a reception when they start heading down to land.”
“Duke always did love a fight like this, the old leading of good men in a desperate battle against impossible odds. He was like that even back in the Academy, wanted combat up close and personal. Well, tomorrow they’re going to get it.”
“You saw the latest drone reports.”
“Still no confirmed count of carriers,” Tolwyn sighed, “to be expected that they’d find that scout drone while clearing the mine field. It’s a trick we used once too often, hiding a surveillance drone in a mine field, and then expecting them to simply avoid the field.”
“Whoever is commanding them is smart, damned good.”
“Think it’s Thrakhath?”
“I’d love it,” Banbridge said, slapping his open palm with a closed fist. “To really clean that bastard’s clockworks…”
“Suppose it’s him that comes to clean our clocks?”
Banbridge looked over at Tolwyn.
“Not getting pessimistic are we?”
“I just like to consider all alternatives.”
“No room for defeatism in my command, Admiral.”
Tolwyn, sensing he had been reprimanded, let it drop. Banbridge leaned against the front of his desk.
“Sorry, Geof. Stress of waiting. I always hated the waiting before a battle. Once I get into it, it’s just fine; God forgive me, I even love it, but the before part grates on the nerves.”
Tolwyn smiled.
“It’s always been that way. Ever read Henry V, the night before the battle of Agincourt? The fear, the waiting, the not being sure if all would go as you planned. It has always been that way on the eve of battle.”
“You Brits and your history,” Banbridge said with a smile.
“We British also have some other traditions.”
“Don’t start on that again,” Banbridge said, his voice suddenly going cold.
“I’m just asking this, sir. If, excuse me, I mean when we kick their butts in front of Vukar, let me take my task force, jump down through the line the Tarawa took. The Empire will be off balance after losing most of their home fleet. Just let me go in and try and cut a hole for them to escape through.
“No.”
“But, sir—”
“You heard me, Tolwyn. No, damn it! We’re risking any hope for victory on tomorrow’s fight. Chances are that even if everything goes according to plan we’re still going to lose at least one carrier. If it doesn’t go to plan, then the point is moot anyhow. I’m not going to throw Concordia away after a victory, in the forlorn hope of pulling out a ship that’s most likely already dead.”
“You’re talking about fifteen hundred men and women as if they’re pieces on a chessboard.”
“I’m talking about the survival of the Confederation, Geoffrey. I didn’t like sending those kids out any more than you did. But, by God, Geof, we’re on the ropes and fighting for survival. Our carriers are the thin line between tens of billions of people and the vengeance of the Kilrathi. We have a grand total of seven fleet carriers left to cover the entire front, Geof; we’ve lost nine in the last year and it’ll be another year before they finish repairing Austerlitz and our new heavy carriers come on line. They have at least twenty and God knows how many more coming into the fleet.”
“You remember the budget fights long before this war ever started, when we were begging like paupers for the money to build the shipyards which would turn out capital ships? Now we’re paying for it. It takes ten years just to build a yard and train the construction personnel, and five years after that to build a carrier in that yard. It kills me; those same political bastards who denied us the funds now blame us for the defeats.”
“The Kilrathi were ready for this war, we weren’t, and we’re still playing catch-up after thirty years of fighting. I don’t like it, but given the alternatives, we have to sacrifice Tarawa if we’re to have any chance of winning, to even up the odds and buy time for our next generation of ships to come on-line. Geof, you more than most know what will happen if we lose any more carriers and the Kilrathi get in amongst some of our civilian centers.”
Tolwyn nodded, and lowered his head for a moment, his features hard.
“Sorry to bring it up, Geof; your wife was like a daughter to me. I’ll never forgive those bastards for what they did to you, to her, to all of us.”
“You don’t see it though, Wayne,” Tolwyn finally said. “If that’s what it takes to win, sending our lads out on suicide missions, then I think the Kilrathi have won anyhow. They’ve made us like them.”
“Damn it, no; that’s a final order and if I go down tomorrow I expect it to be obeyed. I’ve already told Fleetcom the same thing if something happens to me. You’ll take over my command, Geof, but Fleetcom will issue you a direct order not to go in after them. No rescue attempt.”
Tolwyn stood defiant.
“That stinks to holy hell and you know it, Wayne. Just what the hell has happened to you?”
“Would you feel the same about them if your only living heir to the family name was back here instead of out there?”
“Damn you to hell, Wayne,” Tolwyn roared. “How dare you even suggest that?”
“More than one has,” Banbridge snapped in reply. “And if I hear another word I’ll find some other admiral to run Concordia in tomorrow’s battle.”
Tolwyn, enraged beyond the ability to speak, stood defiant, unwilling to back down.
Banbridge’s paging line started to beep and he picked up the headset next to his desk. He listened intently.
“Very well, signal by laser link, all ships to maintain full radio silence but condition moved up to yellow.”
He put the headset back down.
“Eight Kilrathi destroyers have just jumped into Vukar. Six have opened a bombardment of the planet, one is moving towards the jump point which we’ll enter through to set up a picket, the other is holding station at the Kilrathi entry jump point.”
“It’s started, their classic opening move,” Tolwyn said. “Within six hours their main fleet will jump through.”
“You better get back to your ship, Geoffrey.” He hesitated. “I’ll forget what was said here.”