Invasion (Blood on the Stars Book 9) Page 25

  He’d sent Olya Federov and her people in again and again. As ruthless as he’d been in ordering the exhausted pilots back out for the fourth or fifth time without rest, Sonya wasn’t sure they’d have obeyed any other order. Federov had worked them into a wild frenzy of rage and hatred toward the enemy, and she’d filled them with the desire—no, the need—to avenge their lost leader. Jake Stockton had led countless attacks, and he’d done so with almost unmatched skill and effectiveness, but Sonya wasn’t sure he’d ever served the fleet with greater effectiveness than he had in this battle. Not by his presence, but by the deadly viciousness his loss had awakened in his pilots. There had been almost a dozen suicide runs, and hundreds of the bombers had made wild, reckless runs, closing to distances unheard of before launching their deadly plasma torpedoes. Losses had ramped sharply from previous engagements, but so, too, had the damage inflicted on the relentlessly approaching enemy line.

  Alicia Covington and her people had hardly been less aggressive, though the pilots from Grimaldi hadn’t served as long with Stockton as the White Fleet veterans had. Still, Covington had led her wings in alongside Federov’s and, together, they’d savaged the forward Hegemony units, spreading their assault all along the enemy front line, seeking to damage as many battleships as they could.

  Sonya almost commed Federov to tell the pilot to try and calm her people down. If the squadrons kept going the way they were, with no rest and almost no food, their combat effectiveness would plummet. Hundreds more would die.

  But she hadn’t said a word. First, although Federov was billeted aboard Repulse, she was commanding the entire fighter corps, and that made Sonya’s authority to issue her orders fuzzy, at best.

  And, second, the wild, unrelenting attacks were working. The battle was still hopeless, and Sonya knew the fleet would eventually have to make a run for it, find some other system to make the next stand. But the intensity of the fighter assaults had hit the Hegemony formations hard, killing almost a dozen of their largest battleships outright.

  And, so, you let them go. Winters let them go. Federov, who commands them, worked them into a frenzy, and now we all watch as they sacrifice themselves to the altar of vengeance.

  Yes, she answered herself. Because there is no other way.

  “Prepare to reduce thrust to 1g, Commander.” Sonya turned toward the exec, gritting her teeth against the force pushing against her. She’d managed to get the words out, but at 6g, it had taken considerable effort. She might have maintained the thrust for a bit longer, gained a little more velocity along Repulse’s new vector. But, the longer she maintained 6g, the more of her wounded would die.

  You owe Fritz and Billings a chance…

  She owed all her wounded a chance, of course, but thinking of the two engineers, of the heroism they’d shown in saving the ship and everyone on it…she just couldn’t give up on them.

  Despite the fact that the doctors had said they were both likely to die no matter what was done. The two of them were in deep comas, still alive at all only because the medpods had them in near-cryostasis.

  And, you will have to blast even harder than 6g when the admiral issues the retreat order, so what are you gaining?

  The medpods had some dampener systems installed in the units, but they weren’t strong enough, especially not if Repulse really had to make a run for it.

  When…

  If the dampeners weren’t back online by the time she got the retreat order, Fritz and Billings—and most of her badly wounded spacers—would die.

  That thought haunted her…but it wasn’t her focus, not now. She looked at the display, at the wounded Hegemony battleship directly ahead. Repulse’s primaries were down, but most of the battleship’s starboard broadside was functional.

  And the blast of thrust had brought her well within range.

  “Positioning jets, Commander…bring the starboard guns to bear.”

  “Yes, Captain.” She could hear the predatory tone in Fuller’s voice, the almost unrestrained need to strike at the enemy. And she approved wholeheartedly.

  She watched as the ship came about, as the targeting computers displayed the firing lines to the enemy vessel. She waited, letting Repulse close, risking the effect of the target’s diminished, but still dangerous, fire.

  She winced as a flash whipped across the display, a near miss. Very near. She turned and looked around, trying to disguise her reaction the best she could. Her spacers were veterans, but they didn’t need to see their captain looking shocked or scared.

  She was holding onto the armrests, her fingers clenched tightly. She’d been in battle many times, but her rise to ship command was fairly new, and she realized just how different it was to be in charge, to face not only the fear of death, but to be the one everyone else looked to for salvation.

  That kind of thing continued up the chain of command. She realized what it had to be like for Winters, his own ship in the thick of the fight, while he carried the responsibility for the entire fleet.

  Hell, not just the fleet. Until we get reserves, Winters is all that stands between the Hegemony and billions of Confederation civilians…

  She watched, keeping her wandering thoughts at bay, confined to the edge of her mind as she waited for the right moment to fire.

  Seconds slipped by, one after the other, slowly, time seeming almost to have frozen. And then she knew.

  It was time.

  “Full broadside,” she roared across the bridge. “Fire.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Old City District

  Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

  Year 317 AC

  Andi paused in the hotel lobby, a sudden cold feeling taking her. She was registered under an alias, a very good false identity supplied to her by Gary Holsten, but she was still nervous. Her mind was racing, trying to examine every action, every step she took. She had to assume Ricard Lille at least suspected she was the one who’d almost killed him…and that meant the assassin was after her, even as she was tracking him.

  She’d almost relied on her false identity, but then she thought about how she would proceed in Lille’s shoes. She would check for new arrivals, for hotel registrations…and for a hundred other things. More than likely, he had at least some access to the networks of security cameras, in the hotels, and every establishment she’d visited since she’d arrived.

  She turned and walked back toward the street, quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention to herself. She was suddenly aware of all the places that looked down on her position, of every corner, vantage point, or balcony where a sniper could be waiting.

  She walked out through the main doors, perspiration pooling on her back, along her forehead, a testament to her edginess. The weather was quite pleasant, a bit cool if anything, and the sweat matting her clothes to her back was from fear, not the temperature.

  Andi was no stranger to high risk operations, but she’d never felt so exposed before. As far as she knew, Ricard Lille had simply left Megara after the assassination attempt…but she didn’t believe that. That wasn’t his style at all. He would take her effort to kill him as a threat, of course, but also a challenge. They were locked in mortal combat now, and only one of them would leave the Confederation’s capital planet. Lille wouldn’t run, and Andi damned sure wouldn’t, either.

  She moved down the street, trying to stay among the crowds as she did. She was in the center of Troyus’s most exclusive district, and she suddenly realized she needed to cast aside physical comfort and find some nondescript dump in the Outer Ring, someplace where she would draw less attention, where she could plot her next move.

  She’d done what she could to track Lille, but so far without success. She’d taken the risk of checking out every other location her evidence suggested had the slightest chance of being a Sector Nine cover. Those efforts had been dangerous, and entirely fruitless. She’d been hot on Lille’s trail, but since her attack had missed its mark, the trail had gone cold.

 
Lille expect her to keep looking for him, she was sure of that, and she’d approached every former safe house as though it was a trap, staking them out, watching for any signs of activity. Every one of them had been deserted. No killers waiting to ambush her, no operatives at all. They were all just closed down, the buildings abandoned, and whatever had been inside—files, weapons, databanks—gone.

  Sector Nine had gone deep in Troyus City, pulled in its operations, sent its people into hiding. For all she knew, the Union agents who’d been operating on Megara were all off-planet now, withdrawn after her failed assassination attempt.

  Even if they’re all gone, Lille is still here…

  Andi moved, maintaining her swift pace, but trying to look as natural as she could. There was danger beyond an assassination attempt from Lille. She was wanted on Megara, and the pistol she’d hidden so carefully under her jacket was illegal in Troyus. It wouldn’t take someone recognizing her to end up in a Troyus prison, just any enforcement officer catching a view of her gun. An arrest would lead to her identification, and her transfer to Senate custody, no doubt to face charges of treason.

  Or maybe just disappear. She had no idea what had happened on Megara, but it wasn’t good, and she had no idea what would happen if she ended up in custody.

  Assuming she ever got to whatever fate the Senate or the conspirators behind the scenes might devise for her. If she was a prisoner, she suspected Lille would manage to take her out in a matter of days, if not hours, long before any other punishment became relevant.

  She walked into the tram station, turning and heading toward the outbound Yellow line, the one that led out to the stark and blocky buildings of Troyus’s public housing projects. It was a crime-riddled neighborhood, and a place no wealthy or middle class Troyus-dweller would be caught dead.

  And maybe a place Lille wouldn’t look for her, at least not right away…though she was far from sure about that. Her enemy was clever, capable, almost beyond understanding. Underestimating him would almost certainly be suicidal.

  But she could find a place to tie into the data nets out in the Western Ring, someplace she wouldn’t trip off a dozen alarms. She needed time to monitor the various feeds.

  Time to figure out where Ricard Lille had gone…and what his next move would be. So she could devise her next move.

  * * *

  “That’s hard to believe, Gary. How could something like that have happened? I know you’ve got enemies in the Senate, but I find it astonishing a cabal like this is even possible. A move against you, some planted evidence, a bogus trial, maybe. But, hundreds of naval officers implicated…and a nonentity like Whitten given command of the fleet?” Van Striker paused. He was sitting at a round table in the apartment Holsten had secured as a place for them to hide. There was a large plate in front of him, empty now, save for a few tiny streaks of sauce clinging to the porcelain. Striker hadn’t realized how hungry he was, how inadequate his meager rations had been, until he was free again. Jon Peterson had gone out three times to get more food, mostly takeout from the nearby restaurants…and Striker had almost inhaled it all as he sat and listened, and Holsten brought him up to date on all that had transpired while he was held captive.

  “Ricard Lille. Sector Nine.” Holsten’s voice was cold, deadpan. Striker heard the words, and he could feel his insides tense, the food he’d just eaten suddenly feeling like a cannonball in his gut. He doubted his friend knew for sure the Union’s intelligence agency was behind all that had happened, but it explained his own abduction…and a lot of other things. Lille had kidnapped him, and if he’d remained free, he certainly would have interfered with much of what had apparently gone on since his abduction.

  “So, what do we do next?” Striker was trying to get his mind back into the flow of events. They had a shortage of solid information, but perhaps worse, they had lost most of their own power and influence. Both of them had been relieved of their positions, and while Striker suspected there were a lot of officers he could approach and recruit to aid him, he was painfully aware that some would consider that treason. He’d have to be extremely careful in who he approached. It would only take one wrong choice to turn him in.

  Holsten had clandestine contacts as well, he knew, capable and well-placed agents he could draw upon. But they were still talking about moving against the Senate. Some Senators would have to be removed, those who were guilty, either of willful treachery, or of astonishing stupidity…and Striker couldn’t think of any way to make that happen, not short of the use of force.

  Rebellion? Civil War? What else can you call it?

  Even if they reinstated the Senate immediately after any action, minus the purged members, of course, the Confederation would never be the same again. There would be no way to change the fact that the military had seized power, and chosen who could remain in the Senate and who was removed. That reality would hang over the future like a dark shadow, and the belief the people had in the fundamental freedom of their nation would be forever lost.

  “You’re where I was, Van…a few months ago.” Holsten looked intently at Striker. “You’re working through all the guilt, the torment about what you already know we have to do. And you haven’t even seen the data Tyler brought back, the scope of this new enemy, the deadly threat they pose.” Holsten paused, letting his words hang heavily in the air for a moment. “We have to do this, my friend…and we have to do it now, with whomever we can rally to our side, whatever resources we can scrape up. From what little information I’ve been able to gather, it seems like Tyler has defeated Torrance Whitten…and he’s on the way here with a large chunk of the fleet.”

  “I wish I’d had a chance to bet on that matchup.” Striker felt a tiny spark of much-needed amusement. He’d spent considerable time over the past few years making up postings for Whitten and others like him, legacy officers from old navy families who lacked the skill and courage of their illustrious parents and grandparents. “Putting Whitten up against Tyler is like throwing a rabbit in the cage with a Nordoran death cat.”

  Holsten smiled. “That’s true, though I can’t say Tyler feels any better about what he’s had to do than you. To be honest, I think if it wasn’t for the Hegemony invasion, he’d have given himself up before he’d have fired on Confederation spacers.”

  Striker was silent for a moment. He’d been worried about the whole situation in theoretical terms, but any move against the Senate would involve Confederation personnel fighting their comrades.

  Killing their comrades. Even a bloodless coup was rarely literal. Men and women were going to die…men and women he’d commanded.

  He realized, too, that none of that mattered. The die was already cast, and tragedy was coming. All they could do was try to minimize the damage.

  “We have to move, Gary,” he blurted out, “and we have to do it now. If Tyler gets here with the fleet, and the Senate holds out…” Striker knew, perhaps better than any other human being, just what a battle between Megara’s orbital defenses and an attacking fleet would be like. He was just as aware what a landing would entail…and no matter what they did, there would be Confederation spacers and Marines on both sides. It would be a bloodbath.

  “I agree…and John does as well.” Holsten glanced back at the Marine, and then he continued, “Tyler will do what he has to do, I’m sure of that. But let’s see if we can’t spare him having to hold Megara hostage under the guns of the fleet…or worse.”

  Striker nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.”

  * * *

  “I want all those records destroyed. Immediately. We’re shut down as of now, and I want everything gone by morning.” Desiree Marieles stood outside her office at ITN, waving her arms and snapping out commands to the half dozen agents in the room. She’d been ready to pull the plug even before she’d found out that Ricard Lille had managed to let Van Striker escape, but now, with the admiral free, and by all accounts, Gary Holsten back on Megara, there was no choice. She’d lost most of her access, and there
wasn’t anything she could do except hang around until Holsten or someone else managed to connect the dots and figure out what had really happened.

  Then they would come looking for her. But she would be long gone before that day came. She was edgy about returning to Montmirail with such an ignominious end to an operation that had been, by any reasonable analyses, a great success. Confederation spacers had drawn each other’s blood, and whatever happened next, the Senate and the rest of the government was in virtual chaos. She knew she’d achieved more than Villieneuve had expected when he’d sent her, but she was also very aware how often success raised the bar of expectations. She would just have to make sure he saw things her way.

  She’d thought about blaming Lille, trying to turn the focus on the assassin’s loss of Van Striker, but she’d decided that wasn’t a good way to go. Villieneuve and Lille had a strange, close relationship. The two of them seemed to be the closest thing each had to a real friend. If she was going to find a patsy to take some of the blame, Lille was the worst possible choice.