Stepping away from his chair, Huang repeats, “Ten minutes.” He moves around the table and approaches the dais. “So, assuming you manage to fly this juggernaut to the battle before the GCF ships depart, they will simply be able to broadcast off before you can recharge your engines and follow them.”
Klyber pauses to consider this. The look of confidence on his face does not fade. “Well, of course, you realize that we have no way of tracking a self-broadcasting ship? We’d have no way of knowing where the GCF ships had broadcast themselves.”
Huang’s expression turns to fury. “We’re all quite aware of that, Admiral Klyber. My point is simple. If the GC Fleet appears …oh, for the purposes of this discussion, we’ll say they appear near Olympus Kri. And let’s say you have a three-minute response time. It seems unlikely, but let’s say you manage to get your colossus ship there in three minutes. Your ship will have five minutes to engage the enemy before they fly off to another target, very likely their primary target, while you sit around charging up the Doctrinaire’s broadcast engine.
“Brilliant plan, Admiral,” Huang snickers. “You’ve created a trillion-dollar boondoggle.” He stands triumphant, his arms folded across his chest, his head high, and his eyes staring angrily at Klyber.
“That is a concern,” General Smith says. Several of the officers around the table nod in agreement.
It is at this moment that Klyber drops a bomb that even Johansson does not expect. “Admiral Huang, you’ll note that I said ‘broadcast engines.’ The Doctrinaire does, in fact, have two such units, each working independent of the other.
“One engine recharges while the other one broadcasts. The Doctrinaire can self-broadcast every five minutes. Admiral Huang, we never believed that the Separatists would be so foolish as to commit their entire fleet into a single battle. The Doctrinaire was built around the notion that they would stage their battles with decoys and feigned attacks along several fronts.”
At first there is silence as the officers assimilate this information. Then applause erupts. General Smith is the first to clap his hands, and the Air Force officers soon join in. Admiral Brocius stands up from his chair and applauds. He slaps his hands together so hard that the noise echoes. A moment later, Rear Admiral Thurston joins him, an appreciative smile on his youthful face. A general from the Marines stands silently and salutes. The applause lasts for several minutes.
“What about armament?” Thurston asks, his enthusiasm evident.
The board behind Klyber shifts to an exterior schematic of the ship. Klyber picks up an old-fashioned wooden pointer instead of the laser pointer that General Smith had used earlier. “She has two massive forward cannons for bombarding stationary targets such as cities and military bases. These cannons are both laser- and particle-beam enabled.” This is friendly talk, like friends telling each other about a new car over a round of drinks.
Klyber slides the pointer along the outer edge of the wing. “The ship has three hundred particle beam turrets along with twenty missile stations and fifteen torpedo stations. And, as I mentioned a moment ago, she has a compliment of two hundred and eighty Tomcat fighters. Should the enemy attempt to attack her, the Doctrinaire could annihilate the entire GC Fleet.
“Oh, and Thurston, you’ll appreciate this …Look at the shield antennas.” Klyber watches expectantly. “This is an entirely new technology.”
There are rings around the antenna at the ends of the wings. Other U.A. ships do not have rings connecting their antennas. Their shields are flat panes broadcast from pole-like antennas.
“We’ve developed a cylindrical shield,” Klyber says with the air of a father boasting about his son. “Those rings project a seamless shield that covers the entire ship.”
“And the Mogats haven’t got a clue,” General Smith marvels.
“Perhaps,” Klyber says in a voice that carries across the room, “but I am concerned about that. We paid for the ship with Linear Committee funds so that we could slip under the radar, but …”—Klyber turns toward Admiral Huang—“apparently we didn’t go undetected.”
Suddenly, everyone in the room becomes silent. Huang looks at the other officers, hoping for support. Rear Admiral Thurston, Huang’s closest ally, is too busy lusting over the schematics to see that Huang needs help.
“Yes,” says General Smith, “it does appear that you had a breach of security.” Smith takes the dais and formality creeps back into the session. The officers return to their seats.
Smith calls the meeting back to order. He turns toward Huang. “Admiral, while we are on the subject of secret operations …”
Bryce Klyber’s combination of political and military acumen now comes to bear. It becomes obvious that he has briefed General Smith about Huang’s Adam Boyd cloning project. Klyber used himself as a decoy, and now that Huang has fired all his guns, Smith flanks and attacks.
“General,” Huang interrupts. “My intelligence unit located the construction of a large project in deep space. Our radar showed repeated broadcasts in the Perseus Arm. We had no idea that this was Admiral Klyber’s operation when we began investigating …”
But General Smith puts up a hand to stop him. Smith is smiling. He has no interest in beating the Doctrinaire horse any further. Everyone on the floor has now heard about the ship and shown their approval. The smile on Smith’s face is one of supreme satisfaction. He is the gambler who has no need to bluff. He is the only man at the table with all four aces in his hand.
“Admiral Huang, general accounting found an anomaly in your books. Apparently, your branch has had a six billion dollar increase in spending on toilet paper and uniforms.” Smith’s smile turns wicked as he says, “We all hope the lack of one of these items has not led to a need for the other.”
Huang does his best to look confused, but he is no actor. Instead of dropping his jaw, he clenches it. He glares at General Smith. “I have a staff that goes through the books and reports to …”
“But a six billion dollar expenditure, surely that would not go unnoticed,” Smith observes.
“Perhaps our inventory was …”
“When my staff looked into it, we discovered that your procurement team placed no additional orders for either toilet paper or uniforms, Admiral. What we found was that a mothballed Military base was reactivated on Earth.” Alex Smith picks up his data pad.
Huang says nothing. He stares back at Smith defiantly.
“I understand that you have a cloning plant on the island of Oahu. Is that correct?” Smith asks.
Huang shows no sign of fear or remorse. “That is correct, General. The Navy is experimenting with a new set of genes to improve our SEAL operations. I was unaware of any regulations stating that the Navy had to clear its research projects with members of other branches.”
A video feed of an Adam Boyd in a firefight appears on the display board. It is a brief five-second loop that repeats itself again and again. I recognize the image. It is from the battle on Ravenwood—the one in which I supposedly died. The footage was taken from cameras placed in the helmet I wore during the battle on Ravenwood. Ray Freeman placed my helmet by the body of a different marine before lifting me off the planet.