Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars Book 5) Page 32

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  CFS Renown

  Comara System

  311 AC

  “The enemy is pulling back, Admiral Striker. All ships appear to be withdrawing toward the Formara transit point.”

  “Very well, Commander. All squadrons with sufficient fuel reserves are to maintain contact and pursue until target ships have transited. The battle line will cut thrust until enemy ships are out of their fire range. Then set a course to remain in primary battery range.” Striker wasn’t at all surprised that the Union fleet was retreating. They’d fallen back out of three systems already…and the next was Formara, known colloquially as “The Bottleneck.”

  “Yes, sir. Relaying orders now.” Commander Hogan had proven to be a tremendous aide, and the two had worked seamlessly together.

  Striker stared at the display, at the star map of nearby systems. The border here condensed from an average of three systems in width to just single one. It was a natural spot to mount an aggressive defense, and Striker had no doubt the Union would have everything they could muster there waiting for him. He had tried to come up with a tactical plan, anything but a headlong charge forward into the enemy’s toughest defense, but he’d come up blank. The real choice was not to attack at all, not until he had a hell of a lot more strength ready. But that was the one option the Senate had expressly denied him.

  The entire offensive had gone better than he’d expected, far better. He’d pushed forward, fighting sharp, pitched battles in each system along the way. But the fights had been lopsided, odd, and each time he’d been matched against outnumbered Union fleets that seemed to be playing cat and mouse with him. He’d done damage, inflicted losses…but not all that many in the end calculation. The whole thing was starting to feel orchestrated. They’re enticing us forward, pulling us to somewhere. The Bottleneck, it has to be. They want us to dash our fleet against their defenses, to throw away our new construction and cripple our growing offensive capability.

  And courtesy of the Confederation Senate, we’re going to do just that.

  The success of the assault had only worsened his situation, not with the enemy, but with the politicians back on Megara. He’d sent two requests, the last one entrusted to no less capable hands than Gary Holsten’s, entreaties to pause, to allow him time to regroup, to consolidate the captured systems. Both had been soundly rejected. The rapid advance had only reinforced the Senators’ belief that they had been right, that Striker’s earlier caution had only prolonged the war.

  He’d recovered two worlds lost to the Union over half a century before, planets the Confederation still considered their own, even though they’d been compelled to cede them in the first war between the nations, the conflict Confed history books still called “The War of Shame.”

  Striker himself wondered how much of the old Confed societies remained after so long under a government expert in breaking down individuality and peoples’ will to resist, but he knew enough about politics to understand what great headlines the recoveries of such planets made for the populations back home.

  Recovery was a strong word. If they’d have let him stop, they might have been actually been recovered, or at least have begun the long, painful process. As it was, the fleet just sailed by, doing nothing more than announcing that the populations were liberated, something Striker figured did little more than give ample warning to the Sector Nine sleeper teams no doubt infesting both worlds.

  Striker watched as the Union forces continued their withdrawal, with considerable skill, he had to admit. If that wasn’t planned, and I mean well in advance, I’m a damned fool.

  His fighters, faster and more maneuverable, were able to stay close, for a while at least, before they were gradually forced to turn back to refuel. They managed to cripple one more enemy battleship, an old hulk Striker couldn’t believe had survived the war this far. But still, any capital ship destroyed was a step toward victory, if a small one. The rest of the enemy fleet made good their escape, with varying degrees of damage, and then, suddenly, he was in uncontested possession of the fourth system since he’d set out from Grimaldi. It was a success, by some measure, he supposed, though he saw only the problems. His supply lines were strung out and tenuous, his main fleet base now five transits back. His own fleet had suffered losses, and though they were far less serious than he’d feared, every crippled ship had to limp all the way back to Grimaldi, or further, and every new fighter or tanker full of fuel had to travel forward on an increasingly longer—and to Striker’s way of thinking, vulnerable—logistical tail. He suspected Union treachery of some kind was out there, waiting to ensnare him. In fact, he was sure of it. He just didn’t know what.

  But I bet I know where…

  His eyes focused on the transwarp portal, the one the Union fleet had used to escape. Escape my ass, they want me to follow. He suspected the enemy had constructed bases and laid minefields, everything possible to attrit his forces as they attacked. He didn’t like paying for victory with blood, at least not more than he had to, especially when brainpower could shift the cost balance. But his hands were tied. Whatever bloodbath awaited his people in Formara, it was a date he couldn’t stop. All he could do was be as ready as possible, for whatever lay ahead.

  * * *

  “Now we know why they fell back, don’t we?” Striker turned slightly, his eyes moving to Admiral Jaravick. Jaravick was old school Confed navy, a veteran long retired when the disastrous initial months of the war brought him back to the colors to serve any way he could. At first, that had been as Striker’s aide, a strange role reversal for two men who’d once served in the same positions switched. Striker had gone along with that for a short while, when survival in the war seemed to hang by a thread. But then he’d seen that Jaravick got his stars back, and an appointment to his staff to go with them. There was no one whose opinion Striker valued more highly, save perhaps Holsten’s and Tyler Barron’s, and he’d asked Jaravick to sit with him on the bridge to consult.

  “That’s a strong force out there, Admiral, but take a look at those dispositions. Is that how you would have deployed?”

  Striker stared at the display. “No, perhaps not…but maybe they’ve got some hidden defenses, something we don’t know about.” He shook his head. “But we’ve got no choice.” None but mutiny. He’d come close to that dreaded word a few years back, when Holsten had hatched his plot to retire Admiral Winston and put him in the old fleet commander’s place. He’d never grown comfortable with that whole episode, despite the fact that he didn’t have a doubt doddering old Winston would have lost the war in those fateful months. But disobeying a direct Senatorial order, there would be no question about that. It would be textbook mutiny, and treason to boot.

  “Let’s get the fleet formed up for attack, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Striker had come through in an unorthodox formation, one designed to bring as much fighting strength as possible to bear against any enemies positioned near the transit point. He would have placed a screen of fast escorts there himself if he’d been defending, ships capable of opening up on the invaders as they trickled through with scrambled systems, but also of making a hasty withdrawal when the relative strengths shifted. But the Union had nothing waiting. Not a line of pickets, not a cluster of laser buoys. Not a thing.

  Striker was gratified not to take any losses on the transit, but the whole thing just made him even more uncomfortable. Something was wrong, something beyond the heavy force concentrations waiting deeper in-system. He felt as though he were walking into a trap, but he couldn’t see it, no matter how hard he looked.

  “All ships are ready, Admiral. Awaiting the orders to advance.”

  Striker sat for a moment, feeling as though his mouth had gone dry. It was one word, but it stuck there, refusing for a moment to come out. Then, without detectable emotion, “Advance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Striker had already given the orders, the specifics. His fleet would ac
celerate full into the system, closing to primary range of the enemy and then decelerating to a stop. His line would stand firm and bombard their targets from outside the enemy’s range. If the Union forces wanted to fire back, they could close with his ships. With any luck, the fearsome primaries, especially the gigantic quad mounts on the new ships, would gain an edge before the enemy vessels could bring their own laser cannons into the action.

  “All ships, prepare to launch fighters.” He wanted his squadrons in space, with plenty of room to push forward and intercept any bombing attacks. He’d outfitted all of his strike teams as interceptors. It cost him the chance to launch bombing runs at the enemy ships, but he just couldn’t be sure how many fighters the enemy had stashed in orbit around the system’s planets. His wings could handle anything the Union ships themselves launched, he was sure of that. But if hundreds of fighters suddenly emerged from one of the planets…he wanted to be ready.

  He felt the pressure from Renown’s engines, but the crushing force he’d expected for about the twentieth time still didn’t appear. His flagship was one of the newest to roll out of the shipyards, and her dampening systems were leading edge. Renown’s engines were putting out close to 12g of thrust, but on her bridge, it felt like no more than three. That wasn’t comfortable, not by any means, but it wasn’t the relentless, crushing hell that usually made his bones feel like they were about to poke through his skin either.

  He was impressed by his new flagship, as he was by all the recent construction, though he tried not to think any more than he had already about what had happened to the last ship that had been called Renown.

  “All task forces report ready to launch, sir.”

  Striker started out at the display. It was a battle he hadn’t wanted, and the fact that it was about to take place a few systems farther along from where he’d expected did nothing to change that. He wanted to cancel the launch order, command his ships to reverse course, to fall back to the previous system. To truly liberate those reclaimed worlds while he built supply bases and forts, and waited for more of the new construction. Anything but what he knew he had to do. Here. Now.

  “Launch all squadrons,” he said, trying not to sound as grim as he felt. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but he was sure of it.

  “Launch all squadrons.” Commander Hogan repeated the order as he passed it on to the task force and ship commanders. Seconds later, Renown’s main display began to show clouds of tiny dots, hundreds of fighters blasting out from the main battle line, heading toward the enemy positions.

  “The fleet will advance. Attack plan Alpha.”

  “Attack plan Alpha…executing.”

  Striker could hear Renown’s engines, feel the giant ship moving forward. If he’d had his way, his vessel would have been in the front of the line, but the Senate’s instructions were clear. He was to maintain a position behind the main force, where he could direct the entire operation. It made sense, of course, but it stuck in his craw. Van Striker wasn’t the kind of admiral who led from behind. He understood how that kind of thing came naturally to the political hacks and careerists back on Megara, but he liked to stand alongside the officers and spacers he ordered into hell. But this entire operation was a concession to obeying commands, and he’d glumly placed Renown ten thousand kilometers behind his main force. That was a lot closer than the intent of the Senate’s instructions, but taking advantage of vagueness was not a court martial offense.

  He sat quietly, watching, waiting as the fleet neared combat range. The odd positioning of the enemy formation was still gnawing at him, Jaravick’s words playing again in his head. His eyes panned across the display over and over. Those ships don’t look like they’re ready to defend. They look like…

  He shook his head. They look like they’re ready to counterattack…or retreat.

  But why would they retreat? They’ve got as much strength as they’re going to muster anywhere…and we’d have to backtrack a dozen systems to get around the Bottleneck if we can’t take it.

  A counter attack? Beyond thwarting his own ships’ effort to benefit from their longer range, there was no tactical reason for the Union forces to attack. They were positioned deep in the system they held, in range of whatever planet-based assets they had.

  So, what then?

  “Admiral…”

  Hogan’s voice cut through Striker’s thoughts, almost like an answer to his question.

  “…we’re picking something up on the scanners. It’s big…and the energy readings. I’ve checked three times, sir, but it still has to be a mistake…”

  Before Hogan could finish, the display flashed, and every eye on the bridge darted toward the image. It was Majestic, an old battleship just returned from complete rehab. She’d been along the edge of the fleet’s left flank…but now she was gone, nothing left but energy and a cloud of hard radiation.

  Striker felt like he was going to vomit. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew it was bad.

  Damned bad.

  “I want full scanner readings from…”

  Another flash.

  “Resounding was hit by something, sir.” Hogan turned toward the command station, his face white as a sheet. “She’s gone, sir. She was completely destroyed…”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  AFS Bellator

  Near Planet Varena

  Cilian System

  Year 62 (311 AC)

  “Your Supremacy…shall I order the withdrawal?”

  Vennius sat at the workstation. It was an odd place, perhaps, for an Imperator to be during a battle that would determine if his cause would endure, or if he and his followers would all die. He was silent, lost in thought, Egilius’s words floating at the edges of his gloom. Vennius was a warrior, and he’d been prepared to face death for more years that he could remember. But he’d never understood what a dangerous enemy fatigue could be, or the relentless disillusionment of too much betrayal and deceit.

  He had believed in the way, body and soul, and even as age brought some doubts and questions, he’d never questioned the essential rightness of what he had done during his long career. The Alliance was aggressive, and it could be merciless as well. But the Palatians were honorable, a people who had come together from unimaginable suffering to rise up, stand together. He’d always known one day his people might meet an enemy they couldn’t defeat, that they could fall in battle. But he’d never had the slightest question they would stand or fall together.

  Now, that belief was shattered. The civil war was bad enough, but the seemingly endless sequence of treachery and dishonor had almost broken him. Was I really so naïve all my life? Was I a fool to believe all I did, only to see it crumble before my eyes?

  He knew he had to press on, that he owed it, if not to Palatia and the future, to those warriors who had rallied to him, fought, bled, and died in his name. But he wasn’t sure he knew how anymore.

  Bellator shook hard, the second time in the last few moments. And again, the familiar voice, at the periphery of his thoughts, but louder, more urgent, sinking through this time.

  “Your Supremacy…the enemy line is closing. If we don’t begin our withdrawal soon…” Egilius let his words trail off, but his meaning was clear.

  “Yes,” Vennius said, his voice hoarse. “Initiate withdrawal phase one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Phase one…we’re not just running, we have a complex and well-conceived plan on how to run. Vennius knew his assessment was unfair. He wasn’t fleeing from the fight with Calavius. His retreat here would draw his enemy after him…to the final showdown at the capital itself, the heart of the Alliance. If the two Imperators were to fight for the future, that battle should be at Palatia, not some remote base. Assuming Commodore Barron has somehow managed to succeed, to take control of Palatia.

  Vennius sat and watched Egilius, his admiration for the young officer growing by the minute. Egilius had not only been the first ship commander to swear to his cau
se, he had proven himself to be a master tactician and strategist as well. Vennius had pushed Egilius as fast as he dared, into the command of one of his wings. He’d have given the officer operational command of the entire fleet if he’d thought he could pull it off. But that would leapfrog over too many senior commanders, all men and women who had also sworn to him…and Vennius had learned one lesson very well over the past months. Never to take loyalty for granted.

  He watched as the entire fleet began falling back, a move that looked, at first at least, like a direct withdrawal. But in a few minutes, he would order phase two…and Calavius and his people would know his ships were not heading for the outer transit portals, the routes they would take if they were fleeing. No, Vennius’s fleet would make a run for the link deep insystem…and it wouldn’t take long for the Red Imperator and his people to figure out where they were heading.

  The Red fleet’s approach vectors were far from ideal for pursuit, especially if they didn’t anticipate his intentions before his ships changed course. With any luck, Vennius and his people would get a head start. But Calavius and his people would figure out what was happening, and they would pursue, hot on Vennius’s heels. He was sure of it.

  In fact, he was counting on it.

  * * *

  Something is wrong. Why aren’t they launching their fighters?

  Jovi Grachus sat in her cockpit, her eyes darting back and forth, directing the massive force under her command. It was almost impossible to fully track so many fighters. She’d divided them up into strike wings of four or five squadrons each, but it was still taking all she had to stay on top of the attack. She knew it was sapping her efficiency, that as prepared as she was, the assault was sluggish and slow…but she struggled to push things forward.

  It’s a good thing Dauntless isn’t here. There’s no way I could have focused on an attack against only one ship. Another day…

  Her anger was still there, but Jarus’s words echoed in her mind too, driving against the resolve that had hardened in her over the past five years. Was it possible she had been wrong about Vennius? She’d known the old officer since childhood, and while he’d mostly come to the estate to see Kat, he’d always been kind to her.