Solfleet: The Call of Duty (49 page)

“
That’s
all I’ve got on it for now, sir. I’ll update you as things happen. Johnson out.
”

The screen
went dark.

Hansen felt
an almost physical lifting of his spirit. The last ship had been found, and
over a thousand more Tor’Kana had survived the holocaust. That was very
positive news indeed. Not only because it improved their chances of survival as
a species, but also, looking at things from a tactical point of view, because
it meant the
Rapier
was now available for reassignment to the soon to
assemble Rosha’Kana task force. And that task force needed all the ships it
could get.

Mirriazu
would want to know about this right away.

Hansen tapped
the intercom. “Vicky.”

“
Yes,
Admiral?
”

“Get me the
president.”

Hoping to
avoid the frustration and disappointment of the last time, Captain Erickson had
made a conscious decision to anticipate the worst, so he couldn’t have been
happier with what his people had discovered onboard the second Tor’Kana vessel
they’d located. Especially after that gruesome discovery they’d made onboard
the first one. Even though finding the ship in the first place had been sheer
luck, and even though they’d had no control whatsoever over what they might
find inside, having found over seventeen hundred uninjured survivors still made
him feel like he and his crew had done an exceptional job somehow. This time.

It wasn’t
that he’d felt like they failed the last time...exactly. It was just that Solfleet
Central Command had had a tendency since its inception to congratulate its
field commanders for a job well done when their missions resulted in great
success, even when those officers had no control over those results. The
practice was actually an old tradition, if ‘tradition’ was the right word for
it, mindlessly perpetuated by nothing more than simple human nature. When
things went well, people tended to congratulate one another.

They’d
probably get three kinds of commendations for this one, he suspected as he sat
staring at the now steady and under control derelict vessel on the viewscreen.
And if they did he’d make sure that Lieutenant Junior Grade Lombardo got a
fourth. That young man had been the first one to step up and answer the call,
and had done an exceptional job under extraordinarily difficult conditions, at
great risk to his own life.

“Receiving
new orders, sir,” O’Connor announced, startling Erickson from his reverie.

Erickson, as
well as everyone else on the bridge, he noticed, swung his chair around to face
the communication officer with eager anticipation. “Are they properly encrypted
using the new protocols, Ensign?” he asked first, restraining any visible sign
of enthusiasm through sheer force of will. After all, no matter how relieved he
might be to finally put this search and rescue mission behind him, it was still
important he maintain his professionalism in front of the crew.

O’Connor
routed the message through his decryption algorithms. This month the fleet had
changed its communications encryption protocols at least once and sometimes
twice every week in order to continue to protect its forces against unknowingly
acting on false orders. Next month, Central Command had already advised all
field commanders throughout the fleet, they’d change them only once during the
first, third, and fifth weeks, but up to three times during the second and
fourth weeks. The specific days and times had yet to be determined and would be
forwarded to the field on the first of the month.

So far that
procedure had proven successful. The fleet, and the entire Coalition once the
rest of them adopted the practice, had been able to stay well ahead of the
enemy’s attempts to crack their codes. The most recent change had just become
effective at 0600 this morning.

“Yes, sir,”
O’Connor advised the captain as soon as his board displayed its results. “The
message is properly encrypted.”

“Very well,
Ensign. Authenticate and verify.”

“Aye, sir.”

New orders,
Erickson enthusiastically reflected as O’Connor carried out his instructions.
He’d been waiting for a month to hear that short but most welcome phrase.
Somewhat less than patiently, too, if he was being honest with himself, though
he’d kept his impatience well buried. Those words sounded like a beautiful
melody in his ears. Thank God their search and rescue mission was finally over!
Rescuing the surviving Tor’Kana had been a very admirable, not to mention
extremely important thing to do to be sure, but a pair of medium range corvettes
could have done it just as well as they had. The
Rapier
was a warship,
not an ambulance. Her job—hell, the very reason for her existence!—was to
defend the Earth and her sovereign colonies, and their Coalition allies when
necessary, by slamming the hammer down hard on the enemy’s head, not by picking
up the pieces that enemy might leave behind.
Rapier
was a heavy cruiser
and a heavy cruiser belonged in combat.

“Orders
authenticated and verified, Captain,” O’Connor advised him. Then he grinned and
added, “I think you’re going to like these ones, sir.”

“Let’s hear
them, Ensign. Out loud, but you can dispense with all the usual formalities.”

“Aye, sir.
Orders summarized as follows.” He cleared his throat, then announced, loud
enough for everyone on the bridge to hear, “Immediately upon surrendering
custody and control of the derelict Tor’Kana vessel to the recovery ships, you
are to proceed with all haste directly to the Caldanran star system where you
will rendezvous with the assembling Coalition task force and participate in the
Rosha’Kana counterattack, dubbed ‘Operation Mass Eviction’!”

Cheers and
applause and yelps of approval resounded from the newly motivated crew and
filled the bridge. Erickson allowed it, welcomed it in fact—even discovering
all those Tor’Kana alive and well hadn’t boosted their morale the way these new
orders just had—then directed O’Connor to, “Confirm receipt and intent to
comply.”

“Yes,
sir!
”
the young officer acknowledged enthusiastically.

“Helm, what’s
out E-T-A to Caldanra?”

“Approximately
two days, sir,” the young woman answered.

“We are
going to kick some lizard ass!” someone from the Operations deck proclaimed.

Erickson
grinned at that...briefly. “Best speed just as soon as the recovery ships take
possession of the Tor’Kana.”

“Aye, sir.”

Indeed they
were going to kick some lizard ass, Erickson reflected. But combat was no game.
It wasn’t about action and excitement. He welcomed his crew’s enthusiasm, of
course, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would perform their
duties in a completely professional manner, just as they had during the first
Rosha’Kana campaign last month. Just as they always had. But he also knew that
there was a real good chance that some of them, or all of them for that matter,
might not come out on the other side of it alive.

This was
going to be a tough one.

The first
thing Admiral Hansen saw when he strolled into his office’s reception area
after the meeting with the Joint Chiefs was Vicky, squatting down in front of the
coffee cart with her skirt hiked almost to her hips, leaning forward on one
hand—at such an angle as to inadvertently give him a good view down the front
of her blouse, of course—while she rummaged through the well stocked cabinet
with the other. For one brief flash of a moment he imagined himself unfastening
his trousers as he walked around behind her, pulling her skirt the rest of the
way up over her hips, and...

He shook his
head and looked away, purging those thoughts from his mind. “Anything happen
while I was gone?” he asked as he headed straight for his office.

“Yeah, the
coffeemaker behind your desk caught fire,” she answered.

Hansen
stopped and turned back, speechless, as she stood up with a pack of filters in
her hand and tugged her skirt back down into place. “I’ve already called
Facilities Maintenance, but they’re not going to be able to get to it until tomorrow,
so I was going to make a pot out here.”

“How the
hell did it catch fire?”

“I don’t
know, Admiral,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “Short circuit, I guess.”

“The fire
suppression system...”

“Didn’t even
activate,” she answered without having to hear the rest of the question. “I was
in there when it happened, so I was able put it out right away myself.”

Hansen
sighed, relieved beyond words, and said a simple, “Thank God for that.” If the
fire suppression system had been triggered it wouldn’t have shut itself off
until it had made a complete mess of his office. Everything in the entire room
would have been covered in a thin layer of sticky, non-combustible mist
residue. It would have been a fairly simple matter to have it all cleaned up
afterwards, but it probably would have taken at least a couple of days, and
having to find a temporary workspace, even for that short period of time, would
have been damned inconvenient.

Then again,
it would have given him a good excuse to work at home.

Vicky
glanced at the pack of filters she was holding, then said, “I’ll bring a cup
into you as soon as it’s ready.”

“Okay.
Thanks, Vicky.”

“You’re
welcome, sir.” And with that she turned her back and started to make the
coffee.

Hansen gazed
at her for another moment, then went into his office. He checked to make sure
the door didn’t lock behind him, then crossed to his desk—a few small black
marks on the wall above his coffeemaker were the only evidence of the fire that
he saw—and sat down. He loosened his collar, drew a deep breath and exhaled
long and slow, then glanced at his comm-panel. No blinking light. No reports or
other messages. Incredible. For the first time in longer than he could remember
he had absolutely nothing scheduled for the rest of the day.

Of course,
that probably wouldn’t last very long. Inevitably, something would come his
way. New reports would come in for his review, or a crisis would crop up
somewhere and need his immediate attention, or at least that of someone in the
agency. But for now at least, he had nothing to do.

He leaned
back in his chair and lifted his feet up onto his desk to enjoy the most
welcome respite, short-lived though it would likely be.

Like it or
not, there was no denying it. Vicky was an extremely attractive young woman, at
least in his eyes, and he was definitely attracted to her. The way her hair
flowed down over her shoulders like a waterfall of gold when she wore it loose,
as she had today. Those short skirts she always wore that drew his attention to
her long, shapely legs rather than covering them. While it was certainly true,
as he’d reminded himself just this morning, that he didn’t have time for any
kind of romantic relationship, or even for a strictly physical one for that
matter, it was also true that deep down inside he was a very lonely man. In all
the years since his wife’s tragic death he hadn’t even gone out on a date.

What if he
were to take a shot? While she was his secretary, and therefore in a sense his
employee, she was also a civilian—in all actuality, an employee of the
Federation government. He was her boss by virtue of position only. He was
not
her commanding officer. The regulation against fraternization didn’t apply
and she didn’t work in an environment that required her to compete for raises
or promotions. She received both of those benefits automatically at specified
time intervals. So would any harm really be done if they decided to start
dating? Might she be willing to quit her job, if necessary, in favor of
pursuing a deeper relationship with him? If so, and if things worked out well
between them—if they grew close and became intimate, what would Heather think
about the possibly of her becoming her stepmother?

He snickered
and shook his head. What the hell was he thinking about? Romancing and marrying
Vicky? Yeah, right. She was
at least
twenty years younger than he was. Maybe
as much as twenty-five. What on Earth had made him think she could possibly
have any interest in a man like him, a secretly disgraced officer in the
twilight of his mostly deskbound career, when she could easily have any much
younger and more handsome and energetic man she might want?

“You need to
get a grip on reality, Nick,” he told himself.

The meeting
with the Joint Chiefs.
That
was reality. Surprisingly enough,
considering the way such meetings of the minds usually went, this morning’s
meeting had actually been a very productive one. Much more productive than
usual. While all tactical decisions would of course be left up to the task
force commander—one lesson that mankind had finally learned from his own
history, somewhere along the way, was that a war could not be successfully
waged from the halls of government—a good number of final strategic decisions
had been reached and agreed upon. Ships had been selected and orders had been
issued, all in plenty of time for lunch, which he and the Joint Chiefs had all
gone out for together afterwards.

He’d almost
felt like one of them. Talk about needing to get a grip on reality.

The stage
had been set. The countdown had begun. It would take several days, the whole of
the Solfleet Naval Forces’ admiralty had determined, for all nine carrier
groups and fourteen Marine battle groups that Solfleet Central Command had
committed to the campaign—a hundred and one heavy vessels in all—to gather at
Caldanra. Perhaps a day or two more for those of the other Coalition worlds who
were contributing forces to join them, and then another day to a day and a half
after that to complete whatever rearming and resupply operations might be
necessary. And then, once all of that was done, the largest single Coalition
flotilla ever assembled would begin its nine day voyage to Rosha’Kana—too bad
they didn’t have a few hundred jump rings for them out there—and Operation Mass
Eviction would finally begin.