Chapter Seventeen
Lee knocked on the open hatch’s coaming as Tapper finished straightening his regulation shirt. “Ready?”
“To get out of hack or to go to the briefing?”
“Both.”
“Well, then: yes…and no.” He smiled. “But it doesn’t really matter if I’m ready, does it?”
“No, particularly since you’d plead lack of preparation even if the briefing was a year from now. You’d make any excuse known to man, woman, or fish if it would save you from having to sit in the same room as Murphy.”
Which wasn’t quite true, Tapper amended silently as he followed Lee out into the companionway. But he wasn’t about to disabuse any assumption that added to his already considerable reputation for buried ferocity, even if it went wide of the actual mark. He didn’t hate Murphy, but that didn’t mean he liked him—not anymore. He’d been a good enough guy, for a commander. Until, that is, he’d insisted that Tapper head back spaceside, even after the SpinDogs turned away his family. Harry didn’t often examine his consequent change of opinion regarding Murphy; too much thinking might problematize keeping the colonel as the complete—and satisfyingly convenient—focus of his resentment and anger.
“What’s up?” Lee asked her atypically silent friend.
“Uh…just taking a moment to think. Got a little distracted.”
“I didn’t think SEALs did that.”
“Get distracted?”
“No, think. C’mon. We’ll be late.”
The briefing was in progress by the time they arrived. After first extracting a promise from Harry he would neither disrupt nor leave prematurely, Lee slipped up the side aisle and sat well behind the small audience, Harry in tow.
Up front, Makarov had just ceded the podium to Murphy. Both men were wearing the familiar gray coveralls provided by the SpinDogs. Murphy thanked the short Russian as Makarov lifted the cover on a black plastic easel supporting a large paper flip chart before joining Harry and Lee in the rear of the room. The colonel took up a matching black pointer.
“Nice to see you out of your cage, Tapper,” Makarov said, sotto voce. “You know, I never did hear how it went when you apologized to Korelon. Did you use lots of lipstick before you kissed his ass?”
“I used your favorite brand,” Harry said, twisting in his briefing seat. “Industrial strength.” He managed to bang his knee on the folded desktop as he sought a more comfortable position. Fortunately, they were far enough back to avoid interrupting Murphy’s preliminary comments. The rows of seats were packed together tightly, arranged much like an old-school Navy squadron ready room. Rows of tightly nested metal seats were clipped to the deck, leaving just enough room to squeeze between them. Each seat had an upholstered green plastic seatback and matching headrest. The ubiquitous gray paint covered the seat frames, even though bright stainless peeked between the cracks in the sound deadening tiles glued across the bulkheads. Harry’s last SEAL platoon had periodically borrowed one whenever they’d embarked on an aircraft carrier, much to the chagrin of the squadron involved. Maintenance, training, and the hab’s systems’ status displays further blanketed the walls, their monochromatic screens reflecting the overhead lights.
They build these things for midgets! Why aren’t we more spread out? Most of the seats are empty. Oh right, I need a babysitter.
Squirming to get comfortable, Harry had to choose whether to brush shoulders with Bruce or the next seat. It wasn’t really a choice, so he leaned over the empty chair, his elbow making an even louder bang, drawing a look from the colonel.
Up front, a pair of senior SpinDog officers sat adjacent to each other. Separated from them by a few empty seats was a lone RockHound, marked by his blacks and the family crest on his collar points as the Legate to the conference, representing all RockHound Families. None of the senior officers had their usual retinue of aides and secretaries.
“You ask us to risk much, Colonel Murphy,” the RockHound said. “Is this degree of secrecy truly necessary? It complicates planning, and alert members of our Family will perceive a lack of trust and respect. We operate from tightly controlled outposts and our enemies are from out-system. Surely you don’t expect a traitor?”
“Honored Legate Orgunz, I don’t know what to expect,” Murphy answered politely. “I didn’t expect the assassination attempts on my person, one of which occurred in a similar station. We’ll have but a single opportunity to act from a position of surprise, and surprise is our best chance for victory.”
“Bah!” Orgunz said, waving one hand. “That was a SpinDog habitat. Our security is tighter. Our personnel more loyal. They can be trusted, and their early understanding and support assures our success, more so than secrecy.”
“SpinDog security is—” began one of the SpinDogs heatedly before Murphy smoothly interrupted.
“Even so, Elder J’axon,” Murphy said. “I believe our prior operations have demonstrated the value of surprise. If you’ll allow me to continue to present the entire concept first, then we can address individual objections.”
“Ooh, things sound tense up there,” Harry whispered at Makarov. “Hope your presentation is convincing! You could earn a cluster to go on your Combat Administration ribbon.”
Makarov’s look spoke volumes.
He was one of several Russians whose abduction dated to the days of the former Soviet Union’s ill-fated adventure in Afghanistan. Harry had been shocked to learn that even after that example, a few decades later, his own country had elected to try its hand among the rocky mountains and hostile Afghans who had broken more than one empire.
Makarov wore a clean uniform, which was nearly as undecorated as Harry’s own, but where Harry’s was modified and worn, the Russian’s was as crisp as the day it was first issued. Like the other Terrans, Makarov’s right chest was bare, erasing his identity for OPSEC.
“Didn’t you earn a wound badge for papercuts?” Harry might not be able to backtalk Murphy with impunity, but the aide was fair game, especially since Harry suspected Makarov got to read everything that crossed Murphy’s desk, including the dirty secrets in everyone’s personnel files. “With a bronze cluster in place of a second award?”
“Potselui mou zhopy,” Makarov finally replied in a very low tone. “Kiss my Russian ass.”
“Not if you were the last Terran goat in this part of the galaxy,” Harry said equally quietly, letting his grin stretch wide enough the Russian couldn’t miss it.
“If you two are done with the length and girth comparisons, shut the fuck up,” Lee whispered urgently. “Unless you want to trade spots with him, Harry?”
“Run the Dornaani equivalent of Harvard Graphics and make coffee?” Harry asked, feigning shock. “Risking death is one thing, but I’d sooner suck-start a shotgun than be a staff puke, shuffling overhead transparencies.”
“Shut it!” Lee’s forehead vein was pulsing.
If he intended to keep his part of the bargain, step one was keeping a low profile. He subsided. Up front, the grown-ups were still talking.
“…I want to emphasize; we have in fact successfully implemented Terran tactics and strategy,” Murphy was saying. “In turn, this has assured victory during a difficult campaign on R’Bak,” he added, sweeping his eyes back and forth across the three men. As he spoke, he slowly increased the volume of each phrase. “The results have launched our joint effort to throw off the shackles of Kulsis.”
The SpinDogs nodded. The set of the RockHound’s shoulders suggested he wasn’t impressed.
“Further, despite a few hiccups here and there…”
Harry might have imagined Murphy paused ever so slightly to seek out Harry in the room. Harry carefully didn’t glance about or make any other motion.
“…our alliance with you is stronger than ever. The J’Stull and associated satraps are completely disrupted. Further, we’ve isolated R’Bak by eliminating their interplanetary comms.”
These guys know that. What’s Murphy up to?
“We’ve retrieved an industrial amount of critically needed pharmaceuticals from the surface, including the tra necessary to assure the safety of pregnancies for the next generation of your Families.”
He’s in full-on hard-sell mode, that’s certain.
“We also extracted a Kulsian agent from R’Bak, generating very useful intelligence, which will allow us to move forward with the next phase of our plan. Meanwhile, Kulsis nears its closest point of approach.”
The RockHounds and SpinDogs in the front row bared their teeth. Both groups had been trapped in a perpetual state of need, denied the higher tech needed to flourish in space. The Kulsian threat enforced terms even more harsh than those of their original banishment.
“Survey teams from Kulsis continue their approach to facilitate the eventual Harvester extraction operations,” Murphy said, gesturing at the easel. This page showed the likely orbits that would be used by the approaching marauders. “We expect they’ll be within range to detect our movement within thirty to sixty days, depending upon the level of caution they’ve adopted in response to the coursers’ disappearance. While we’re refining our plan, an important first step will be to sharply reduce the amount of traffic between R’Bak and our space-based forces. We’ll soon cease all transits to and from the planet shortly, for obvious reasons.”
Harry’s chest tightened.
Stella and their son were on R’Bak. Under the protection of the Sarmatchani, they should be safe. But still. While one couldn’t ever completely relax in space, Harry wasn’t really worried about getting drafted to participate in space combat. Air Force eggheads and go-fast pilot types were needed. No one had ever accused the SEAL of being a rocket scientist, after all.
“Next, our alliance must complete three closely linked missions,” Murphy continued. “Because of the lead time required to prepare these missions, I’ve dispatched joint forces so they will be in position and trained in time. We’ve tightly compartmentalized the missions to mitigate the threat of espionage and sabotage. To that end, I’m respectfully requesting you acknowledge this information will remain only within this group until I or Major Lee otherwise inform you.”
Murphy paused, and Harry watched all three members of the audience fractionally incline their heads, making the briefest acquiescence possible.
“As most of you know, this plan capitalizes on the data packets left by the Dornaani more than a year ago but only released and decrypted over the last few weeks. Some only dropped within the last few days,” Murphy said with a meaningful glance at the surprised VIPs as he advanced to the next chart. “For those of you who haven’t already been read in, these intermittent data drops disclose sets of blueprints and automation enhancements that, when applied to the extant replication capabilities, will enable us to construct superior system-level craft in numbers sufficient to directly challenge Kulsis. They also include a number of comparatively advanced systems that fall broadly within the realm of C3I improvements.”
Left and right of Harry, neither Lee nor Makarov reacted. So, not newsflash to them, then. Up front, the other three members of the audience sat a little straighter. The Dornaani data, released in a steady if unpredictable trickle, had been simultaneously resented and anticipated by the SpinDogs and RockHounds both. It was an important part of the Terran safety net that kept their allies of convenience…well, as allies.
Harry was about to make another comment, but he caught Lee’s steely glance.
“This enhancement to our replication technology?” the RockHound Legate demanded from the front row, from which he was reading the fine print on the newest chart. “Will it enable my people to finally duplicate entire Kulsian ships?”
“The alliance will have the ability to replicate much larger spacecraft, with greater speed and a much lower fault rate than currently available technology permits,” Murphy answered carefully.
Harry, habitually alert to Murphy’s nuances, smiled. The colonel was known for asking questions, not answering them. However, Murphy was a past master of precisely worded evasions.
“To return to pending operations: denying the Kulsians any opportunity to react as we execute the steps of our plan is nonnegotiable. Specifically, no Kulsian can be left alive or uncaptured to warn the rest. No leaks can be tolerated. And our own unit closure must be absolute.”
Harry noted there was no reaction to Murphy’s not-so-veiled threat.
I wonder if the Kulsians recognize the code for “none of our team may be taken alive”?
“Step one will be to seize a Kulsian lighter, one of those always brought by their survey teams. It serves as a midsized transatmospheric cargo ferry with moderate operating range.” Murphy nodded to Makarov, who uncovered the relevant image. It was a surprisingly bulky craft, with four variable attitude thrust nacelles that appeared to be the creations of a designer who had refused to streamline them for planetfalls. “In a theme that will persist for all three stages, the Kulsian lighter must be seized intact, preferably shortly before or after leaving R’Bak Downport.”
Harry nodded. Several other of the Lawless had traipsed through the primary spaceport on R’Bak. Both Chalmers, that slippery bastard, and his conscience, Sergeant Jackson, had much more useful and relevant knowledge on it than Harry.
Harry relaxed a bit more, shifting in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position for the sheath in the small of his back. No one was going to ask Harry to fly a ship or fake an emergency, and if they did, what was he going to do with a holdout knife?
Just another stupid, melodramatic reflex. I’ve been cooped up too long.
“After reaching the second planet, our insertion team will need to make a far orbital rendezvous with the lighter, and your forces will be required to make any needed hasty repairs. A joint force will fly the lighter to the optimum orbital track for controlling the terms of engagement. There, we’ll manufacture what appears to be a critical accident and broadcast a correspondingly urgent distress call. This will require an experienced pilot.”
Bowden had been missing from the poker game for quite a long time. Now, Harry supposed he knew where the Navy pilot had disappeared to.
The three men up front started a rumble of sidebar conversation, forcing Murphy to pause. Harry was sympathetic. To a space-based community where safety is king, the deliberate creation of an emergency was akin to blasphemy.
“Create an in-space emergency and then abuse an emergency call?” Legate Orgunz asked, frowning. “This breaks all SpinDog and RockHound norms. It is…highly irregular.”
Murphy raised his hand to dispel the chatter.
“Good. I’m counting on the Kulsians agreeing with you. We must create a critical emergency, something quite severe. Simply put, we must hasten our adversary to investigate and save one of the few lighters they have in-system to prepare for the arrival of the actual Harvesters. Bringing them close to the lighter is critical, because the final step is the most dangerous. Our intelligence is clear that the Kulsian lighters operate in concert with larger ships, mostly corvettes and frigates capable of protracted deep-space operations. The surveyor flotilla has arrived with multiple corvettes, which is helpful, because we need one. In order to get it, we must lure it within reach of a small team and perform a contested boarding to take the ship intact. Once in our hands, our prize will become the template to build a squadron of ships.”
The hands of both SpinDogs flew upward; Orgunz didn’t bother.
“Your plan is suicide!” he barked, a sweep of his arm cutting off the questions the others were poised to ask. Then he continued, standing and adopting a condescending tone. His black shipboard coverall was tightly fitted, and, unlike the heavily decorated uniforms of the aides who usually orbited SpinDog VIPs, only the Legate insignia shone from his collar points. “Suicide, I say again, and overoptimism at many levels, reflecting your race’s…foundational level of understanding. Space combat is nearly impossible, unless all parties agree to fight, or one side can achieve perfect surprise. Kulsian corvettes have sensors, delta-v, and weaponry superior not only to their own lighter, but to everything in our fleet. They will be on their guard. Any manned and powered ship will be detected at a considerable distance. You are relying on Kulsian pirates deigning to fight on your terms, instead of standing off and safely obliterating any suspicious small craft. The size of any assault force large enough to overcome resistance before the corvette is scuttled by her crew requires a correspondingly larger boarding craft, thus it becomes even more difficult to conceal. Again, they will stand off and blast you into junk too small to salvage. At their leisure.”
Harry sat back, folded his arms and relaxed a bit. The mission parameters Murphy had outlined were tough, all right. The RockHound wasn’t wrong. Murphy expected him to persuade these guys, who lived in space, that a boarding action was viable? Well, Harry would give it the old college try.
Pity the poor bastard who gets to run this op. And I thought assaulting an oil platform from a submarine was bad.
“Those are important points, Legate Orgunz,” Murphy said encouragingly. “I’m confident we can plan around them.”
The RockHound was unimpressed at the vague reassurance. “What’s more, if your plan to lure them within reach of a boarding team is successful, and the assaulting element gains the safety of the target hull instead of merely entering a long duration orbit that inevitably ends in fiery death or asphyxiation, you will have to overpower a Kulsian crew, on their own decks, without damaging the ship.” The RockHound wasn’t finished. “We have always survived by our discretion. For good reason, we have never had the need to board a hostile ship. This is not a plan. It is madness! Not one among us has ever done such a thing.”
Harry had been listening carefully. The RockHound had made more valid points. But Harry realized he knew something Orgunz didn’t. And Colonel Murphy did.
Oh shit. Shitshitshit.
“Honored Orgunz, you see the problem very clearly,” Murphy replied over the heads of the intervening audience, as a smile slowly slid onto his face. He turned, quite deliberately, to look directly at Harry.
The Legate turned to see what was capturing Murphy’s attention and, recognizing Harry, scowled in anger.
Before the RockHound could raise an objection to Harry’s presence, Murphy continued speaking. “Fortunately for us, Legate Orgunz, the obstacles are not so insurmountable. We happen to have a ship-boarding specialist, and he is, I’m assured, perfectly mad.”
Since Makarov would be busy for a while yet, Murphy ushered Anseker past Seaman Lasko and into his office. When they were comfortably seated, Murphy turned on the white-noise generator that Makarov had cobbled together and reflected that with the briefing behind them, a minor celebration was in order. “May I offer you a drink, Primus?”
The head of Family Otlethes waved away the offer. “Some other time, perhaps. I am needed elsewhere, shortly.”
Murphy nodded, folded his hands. “What did you want to talk about, Primus?”
Anseker shook his head. “Let us leave titles aside, Murphy. Here I wish to speak freely, as men first and leaders of our respective peoples second.”
Hmm… “Very well, Prim—Anseker.” That’s going to take some getting used to.
“These plans of yours—they are bold, even by the standards of my people. Many beside those present today have also called them rash.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And so you should not be. Each of the three missions relies upon unprecedented strategies and tactics, to say nothing of the other requirements you put forth: the secrecy, the resources, the training, the compartmentalization of information, and the unique autofab initiatives. And yet, I have been an ally to you in all of this.”
“Thank you.” Where are you taking this, Anseker? “I have noted, and deeply appreciated, your unswerving support.”
Anseker smiled indulgently. “You have noticed the support in the gatherings where you have been present. That was the least of it.”
Murphy smiled back. “Legate Orgunz?”
“His is but the most recent voice of concern and doubt. But he speaks for more persons than any single Primus. And his worries go beyond failure.”
“What do you mean?”
Anseker frowned. “RockHounds have a latent fear that they are descended from lesser beings. In part or in whole.”
“Do you believe that?”
Anseker’s answering glance was sly. “It has been convenient to let them believe we do.” Seeing Murphy’s confusion, he expanded. “It plays upon fears that existed among them from the very beginning of our exile. They are descended from the less educated among us. It is said some had soiled their breedlines with R’Bakuun blood.” He waved his hand as if to push it all into the past where it belonged. “In short, they were consigned to the tasks that required less sophisticated skills.”
“They seem to be excellent pilots and prospectors.”
“They have become so, but not without costs, both past and present. Their labors are dangerous and their exposure to radiation much greater than those of us who live in the spins.”
Murphy had become accustomed to hear SpinDogs—particularly Primae—refer to oppression and deadly inequities with chilling indifference. Still, it took a moment of focus before he could be sure of responding in a tone as calm as the Primus’s. “I am unsure how this bears upon the present-day RockHounds and our plans.”
Anseker nodded. “Despite violently opposing such low opinions of their origins and abilities, they have nonetheless internalized them. They struggle with shades of self-doubt that they assert are groundless and were inculcated in them by the early SpinDogs to ensure obedience.”
“And are they right?”
“Who can say what happened in those chaotic, early days? But as I intimated, we find their self-doubt a useful lever of social control.” He frowned, stared at his balled fists.
“And now?”
“And now all of us may reap what we SpinDogs have sown. You see, the RockHounds are not merely worried that your plans will fail; their more primal, reflexive fear is that they will fail. And believing that makes them more susceptible to doing so.”
Well, that would almost be an amusingly just end for you SpinDogs—except for the fact that we’d all go down together. “I presume you are telling me this because you would like our help in, er, reassuring the RockHounds?”
“I merely bring it to your attention that you may share it with your officers, so they may act accordingly, when and where appropriate.” Seeing Murphy’s reaction to such impossibly vague guidance, he raised a palm. “I have no better suggestion, since my insight can be no greater than my understanding of your ways. Which is almost nonexistent.
“Before working alongside you Lost Soldiers, I would have averred that the casual fluidity of your social status—both one’s own and among different ranks—would inevitably lead to atomization and anarchy. But I have seen that this is not the case. So although I may—indeed, I must—share this insight into the RockHounds, I cannot tell you how to incorporate it into your plans to optimize our odds of success.”
Murphy considered not only the problem Anseker had revealed, but also how much pride he’d put aside in order to explain his own ancestors’ role in creating it. “I appreciate the faith you place in us.”
Anseker put a broad hand on either arm of the chair; his tone became sardonically jocular. “As if we have any choice? Besides, it is but a small step after having to accept your insanely ambitious plans.” He pushed himself out of the chair, already in motion toward the hatchway. “We will speak soon again, Sko’Belm Murphy.”