Helfort's War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet (40 page)

“What are the medics saying?”

“That’ll I’ll be fine. It’s just a matter of time now until the blast damage heals. Their medibots are nowhere as good as ours, but they work.” Kallewi’s eyes closed. “Sorry, guys. I’m a bit tired. Maybe late—”

Kallewi was asleep. Michael stood and stared at the man until Anna led him away.

“No,” Chief Councillor Polk said softly.

The Pascanician president frowned, the geneered perfection of his face creased with frustration and disappointment. Polk’s eyes bored into Jack Mikoyan’s, basilisklike, forcing the man to sit back in his chair, his head turning to break eye contact.

“I see,” Mikoyan said, the fingers of both hands tapping the tabletop. “That seems clear. Not the most reasonable response, I have to say.” He looked across the table directly at Polk. “Will you walk with me, Jeremiah?” he said. “I’ve had enough of those people for the moment.” He waved a dismissive hand at the advisers who flanked both men.

He wants to concede, Polk thought exultantly, forcing his
face to remain the impassive mask it had been throughout the day’s negotiations, he wants to concede. “Of course, Jack,” he said.

The pair walked to the far end of the deck. Out of earshot of their advisers, Jack Mikoyan turned and waved Polk into an armchair. “So,” he said when both were settled, “we seem to be stuck for the moment.”

“We do,” Polk said. “Much as I want to agree with what your people want in the interests of getting the deal done, I cannot. I’m sorry. After all, we’re the ones taking all the risks here. Let’s not forget that.”

Mikoyan shook his head. “I don’t think that’s right, Jeremiah. You’re asking the Pascanici League to make the single biggest off-world investment it has ever made, an investment that aligns the league with the Hammer Worlds against the rest of humanspace. As you well know, Jeremiah, you cannot guarantee success. So please, don’t tell me we’re not taking a risk. We are. Together with you, we are.”

“Okay, Jack,” Polk said, hands up to concede the point. “Okay. Let me think about this. Let’s say I agree to allow your ships exclusive shipping rights between all non-Hammer worlds …”

Polk paused, eyes narrowed and fingers to lips in a parody of thoughtful consideration. Mikoyan’s body stiffened, a movement so small that it was barely perceptible; you would make a lousy poker player, President Mikoyan, Polk said to himself, dragging the wait out.

“Yes, I think we should offer that, Jack, but—”

Mikoyan leaned forward. “Let’s finish this, Jeremiah. It’s a good deal for you, and it’s a good deal for us.”

“I agree, but I’ll need something back from you. We both know those rights are worth billions, no, make that trillions.”

“Only if the Hammer Worlds defeat the Feds, Jeremiah.”

“Which we will, Jack. That’s why we should stop the haggling. The only way the Feds can win is if we don’t do the deal.”

“Fine,” Mikoyan said. “We’ll increase our capital contribution by 100 billion over and above what we’ve already agreed in exchange for the shipping rights.”

“One hundred fifty and we have a deal.”

Mikoyan frowned; then he put his hand out. “You are a hard man, Chief Councillor Polk, but I think we can live with that.”

Polk took Mikoyan’s hand and shook it hard. “Good. While those parasites over there write it up, I have a bottle of real French vintage champagne I’d like to share with you and a few friends. We can drink to the day when the Feds no longer dominate humanspace.”

“A glass of champagne? I think I’d like that, Jeremiah.”

“Not as much as you’ll enjoy my friends, Jack.”

Leaving Anna to pack up her gear and say her goodbyes, Michael had made his way to the Fleet detachment’s offices, his place of duty until Captain Adrissa relented and let him join the 120th. Not that he wanted to join the 120th; the thought terrified him. After all he had been through, he had struggled to work out why he was so frightened at the prospect. Lander operations did not trouble him; ground operations did. Being a grunt down in the muck and blood of ground combat, slogging it out meters from the Hammers, turned his bowels to water. He remembered an old marine, a veteran of years of combat, saying that each human only had so much bravery in him; bit by bit, stress and fear ate away at it until there was none left, until only sheer willpower kept you going … if you could, and some could not.

He prayed he never reached that point. The thought of being branded a coward in front of Anna was more terrifying than anything the Hammers might do to him.

It was early, and the office was empty. Michael found his workstation—an ancient holovid atop a battered packing case hacked into a crude desk—and logged into the NRA’s operations network. He had been out of the loop for three days and badly wanted to know what had been happening. He was engrossed
in the daily summary of operations pushed out each morning by ENCOMM when a soft voice broke his concentration.

“Michael?”

Michael’s heart sank. So soon, too soon. Anna always intended to rejoin the 120th, but that made her leaving no easier. “Hi, Anna. One second … okay, that’s done,” he said, logging off. “Come on.”

Together they left the cramped offices that housed Captain Adrissa and her team: the Firefighters they called themselves in deference to the endless small crises they were called on to deal with. They walked in silence through a maze of narrow caves until they came to the sector transport terminus, a fancy name for the last stop on the sled line that connected to the Branxton’s main maglev network. Anna dumped her pack, helmet, and rifle into the waiting sled. Turning, she slid her arms around his waist.

“That’s what I call a leave.”

“Mmm,” Michael murmured, returning the embrace. Anna was right. A friendly trooper from the local portal security unit had told them about a small cave that opened into a thickly wooded glade complete with a spring-fed pool of crystal water screened from wandering Hammer battlesats and drones by an exuberant canopy of interlaced leaves and branches. The three days they had spent there had been idyllic; leaving had been all the more difficult for it.

Anna pushed away to look Michael full in the face. “You be careful, you hear?” she said softly.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Michael said with a touch of bitterness. “From what she’s told me so far, Captain Adrissa seems determined to turn me in to some sort of glorified aide-de-camp running around following up her latest bright idea.”

“It won’t be so bad. At least you won’t be having your ass shot off.”

“Jeez, Anna!” he protested. “That helps.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. “Sorry,” Anna said eventually. “That was stupid. Sorry.”

“It’s not that, Anna. I just wish I knew this would all work out.”

“It will.”

Michael shook his head. “You don’t know that, Anna. Nobody does. I’m beginning to think that we’ll still be here in ten years wondering if we’ll ever get home, if any of the Feds here because of me ever will get home.”

“Is that so bad? You and me. We’ll be together.”

Michael snorted. “You know the life expectancy of an NRA trooper?”

“No, Michael,” Anna said, “and I bloody well don’t want to. What’s done is done. Stop beating yourself to death. Hey”—her voice softened—“I’ll be careful, I promise. No stupid risks. I’ll see you in two weeks’ time when the battalion’s pulled back for training, okay?”

“Okay.”

Anna lifted her face to his and kissed him long and hard, and Michael’s world folded into the moment, an instant of intense intimacy, an instant in which the two of them became the entire universe.

Anna pulled away. “Love you,” she whispered. She turned and without a backward look climbed into the sled.

“Love you, too,” Michael replied.

He watched the sled accelerate; banking to one side, it disappeared into the tunnel, the soft squealing of its wheels fading as it raced away, swallowed by the darkness.

Back at his desk, Michael killed time until Adrissa’s daily brief—called, in time-honored tradition, morning prayers—kicked off, the cramped conference room dominated by a single holovid screen filling with her staff and any Feds who might happen to be passing through. As he sat down, tucked away at the back, Sedova and Acharya walked in. Michael waved them over.

“Was wondering when I’d see you guys again.”

Sedova grimaced. “You’re one to talk. I’ve been through ENCOMM’s after-action report on Tappet. You were lucky. Landers and Alaric air-to-air missiles are a bad combination.”

“Don’t we know it,” Acharya added. “Bastard Hammers nearly nailed us last week. As it was, we only just outran their attack. Still, pity about poor old
Widowmaker
.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens. I was sorry to lose
Widowmaker
. She
was a good ship. And it’s a … oh, hold on. Looks like we’re starting. You guys staying around?”

“Yep,” Sedova said. “Coffee later?”

“Sure.”

Michael settled down while Adrissa started the proceedings before handing over to her intelligence officer, a young lieutenant Michael did not know. Mitchell Davies was his name, one of the few spacers to make it off the dying
al-Badisi
, a stringy beanpole of a man with a shock of thick black hair and intense eyes.

“Good morning everyone,” Davies said. “ENCOMM’s full intelligence summary as of 06:00 is available for download, so I won’t waste time repeating it. There is, however, one thing that needs highlighting. You all know that there has been a significant reduction in the tempo of Hammer operations all across the northern front, and NRA sources inside DocSec confirm that their operations have been cut back also. I think we were all looking forward to a period of quiet.

“Well, ENCOMM thinks it now knows why the Hammers have cut back on operations. If you look at the holovid, you will see a summary of Hammer activity over the last week. Here is Amokran marine base to the northeast of us. It’s home to the Hammer’s MARFOR 6 plus a raft of logistics, maintenance, and support units. Amokran is crowded at the best of times, and as you can see, it’s getting more so. NRA sources have reported the arrival of MARFOR 8’s forward elements from Yamaichi. Sources there say the rest will follow over the next two weeks. That means there will be three full-size marine forces—MARFORs 6, 8, and 11—less than a thousand klicks from where we sit by year’s end.”

A buzz of concern rippled through the room.

“ENCOMM believes,” the intelligence officer continued, “the reason for all this activity is that we will be facing a marine operation against the Branxtons some time early next year, a large one. The NRA’s highest intelligence priority is finding out what those Hammers’ plans are. More details as and when they come to hand. ENCOMM’s hoping DocSec’s security will be its usual leak-prone self, enough to give us plenty of warning. Captain?”

While Adrissa made her way to the lectern, Michael checked the math; his heart sank. If the Hammers deployed three marine forces, that meant an attacking force at least one hundred thousand strong, maybe more if the marines forgave the PGDF for the Perdan disaster and allowed them to join the party. Either way, with or without planetary defense forces participating, it was an ugly prospect.

Adrissa looked around the room before speaking. “I’m sure,” she said, “I don’t have to tell you that a marine group attack on the Branxtons will be a major problem. ENCOMM has established an operational planning group to draw up the NRA’s response; they’re calling it Operation Counterweight. Its first session will be later today. Some of you will be tasked to take part, and I’ll let you know who you are once this briefing’s over. Turning to other matters. Manufacturing. I see that there has been a problem with …”

   Mugs of scalding hot coffee in hand, Michael sat with Sedova and Acharya in an alcove well clear of any senior officers roaming around looking for underemployed spacers to dump crappy little jobs onto.

“Can’t say that’s the best news of the year,” Sedova said, her face twisting into a despondent frown; Michael did not blame her. His sprits were at rock bottom, too.

“Something tells me we will be busy,” Acharya said with a glum frown.

Michael nodded. “Think so, though quite what two heavy landers can achieve against a full marine battle group, I’m not sure.”

Sedova laughed, a bitter, cynical laugh. “The usual,” she said. “A lot, but never enough.”

“Hey, Kat,” Michael said. “Let’s not get too miserable. The Hammers have tried this twice before, and both times the NRA kicked their asses back where they came from.”

“I know that, and you’re right,” Sedova said. “Problem was that it cost the NRA dearly. Worse, it set back offensive operations for months. We all want this war to end, and there’s only one way that’ll happen: We have to take McNair. The NRA
must defend the Branxtons, they have no choice, but let’s not kid ourselves. Every day, every trooper, every bullet, every bomb they use to secure these caves is one less the NRA can use to take McNair.”

There was a long and gloomy silence. Michael could not fault Sedova’s analysis; in a few words, she had summed up the problem. The NRA could conduct the offensive operations needed to open the road to McNair and final victory or it could defend the Branxtons.

It could not do both.

“Let’s see what ENCOMM comes up with,” he said. “Anyway, changing the subject, your ships. How are they holding up?”

Acharya’s face brightened; there was a man, Michael realized, who loved his job. “Chief Chua and his manufacturing teams are the closest thing to miracle workers I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Now that the microfabs are getting the raw materials they need, we’re beginning to get the spares we’ve been waiting for. So okay, to answer your question.
Hell Bent
’s in good shape.”

“
Alley Kat
’s the same,” Sedova said. “It’s one hell of a shame that dreadnoughts didn’t carry a macrofab. We need a squadron or two of new landers. Very handy.”