Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum (8 page)

“If that’s what you think best.” Westover shifted his attention. “Devlyn, prep for another poke at Miranda—be somewhat ostentatious about it. Lian, support her on that. Offer help, but don’t overplay it, of course.” To her credit, the admiral did not snort. “That will send a message, as well. Is there anything else before we break?”

Trin nodded slowly. “Possibly, sir.”

“Yes, Commander?”

“We’ve been finding some odd message threads lately—I can’t say how long they’ve been going on—but some appear to relate to an R&D effort, others to requisitions. Some may be test results. The only common denominator is that they might relate to large gravitic systems.”

“How large?” Westover asked, interested.

Trin shook her head. “Maybe dreadnought class? I don’t—there’s not a clear connection there, sir. Halith doesn’t have any new dreadnoughts in the slips, nor do we have anything on a new class being in development—even at the initial R&D phase. And all the components we can identify so far are in series production, not developmental.” She cast an apologetic look at her boss. “I’m sorry I haven’t reported on this before, sir. We’ve been finding these messages over the past few weeks, but the possible connection only occurred to us quite recently.”

“No apologies, Trin. But you think there’s some special significance here?”

“It’s hard to say—grav plants that size . . . they could be looking to jump something quite large. I’ll keep after it, of course.”

PrenTalien took that in with a serious look and gave Trin a nod. “First things first, though.”

“Of course, sir.”

The CNO glanced a final time about the table. “I believe we’re concluded here then. That was productive. I think we’ve found our road at last. All that remains is to follow it.” Here, he favored Trin with a professional smile. “Thank you for your input, Commander. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.” Trin rose, moving stiffly and supporting herself against the edge of the table with both hands. “Thank you, sir.”

*     *     *

Once in the passageway, Joss PrenTalien put a fatherly hand on his intelligence chief’s shoulder.

“You were looking a little piqued in there, Trin. Are you doing alright?”

“Perfectly, sir”—attempting to support the bald assertion with a frayed smile. “It’s really nothing. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, take care of yourself, then. Get some rest. You’re not looking well.”

“I will, sir.” She tapped the folio under her arm. “Just as soon as I deal with this.”

“Jakob, it is good to see you,” Admiral Caneris greeted his old friend warmly. Joaquin Caneris was not notable for personal warmth, and that he showed it to any degree bespoke the deep connection between the two men.

“I am happy to see you as well, Joaquin. Happier than you might imagine.” Adenauer invited him to a seat in his day cabin. Caneris was well aware of the tremendous strain Adenauer had been under; what was more, he could see it in the new lines on the long face and in the bowed shoulders. “Truly, I had not looked for you this trip.”

Caneris had arrived unexpectedly with IHS
Orlan
, which had docked early that AM, and Adenauer suspected he had more reason for making the trip than to oversee the orderly transfer of his newest and largest battleship to the Kerberos Fleet. As much as he wished to hear what those reasons might be, there were proprieties to be observed. “But before I say more, allow me to offer my deepest condolences. Ava was a jewel among women. I am most heartily sorry.”

“Thank you,” Caneris replied, his voice uninflected. Ava Marcellanis, his wife of fifty years, had recently succumbed to the aftereffects of her immunocyte implant triggering a cytokine storm, a rare but not unheard of reaction, especially in postpausal women. Then he spoke in a more human tone. “It was a mercy, there at the last. You know how she would never consent to seem a cripple.”

“Yes,” Adenauer said simply, putting an end to the topic. “So what news? I must imagine you have some.”

“That is true,” Caneris allowed. “But before we attend to that, I’m afraid I have to apprise you of new developments you will not find so pleasant, regarding this business with Jantony Banner.”

“What business?”

“You have not heard?”

Adenauer shrugged, opening his long hands. “He requested a billet here. I was obliged to turn him down. I do not think he was well pleased.”

Here the Kerberos Fleet’s commander was perhaps not being wholly candid. While he readily admitted the genius of Banner’s flying, Adenauer personally found the turbulent aristocrat vain, arrogant, and too showy by half. The ‘flying circus’ he’d formed between the wars had real practical value, but it was also shameless self-promotion and needless grandstanding. But what truly raised Adenauer’s indignation to a fine pitch was Banner’s habit of—here the admiral preferred a Terran word—
hotdogging
: flying combat missions for the express purpose of scoring kills without regard for the real objective. At best, this was a chivalric stunt—searching for an opponent “worthy of his guns”—but Adenauer knew for a fact that by the end of the last war, Banner had taken to shadowing other formations solo, looking to pick off damaged enemy fighters to pad his list of kills with little or no risk to himself. That was discreditable in the extreme, and when Banner had talked his way into combat and applied for a posting to the Kerberos Fleet, Adenauer had been happy to promptly deny it.

“Vansant took him on,” he finished, a move which had surprised him not at all, and at the time, he’d wished the Duke Albrecht Fleet’s CO joy of having the prickly prima donna in his command. “Has he raised some complaint?” That also would not surprise him.

Caneris’ normally inexpressive face registered something not far from shock. “He was wounded at Miranda. Most severely. Has been in a coma since—not expected to recover. Almost certainly will not.”

“You astonish me.” And indeed Adenauer looked it. “What happened? Was it Commander Huron?” That would be the most plausible explanation. And as Huron had killed his friend, Pavel Heinck, Banner had all the more reason to seek an engagement.

“It was
not
Commander Huron,” Caneris emphasized, still recovering from his wonder at his friend having been kept in the dark. “Though it seems clear Banner
thought
it was. You know his habits.”

Adenauer merely nodded, not wishing to interrupt.

“His flight recorder data shows he was stalking a dogfight—six of ours against two of theirs. One of their pilots was put out of action swiftly, but the other, instead of taking the prudent course, attacked.”

“With what result?”

“He killed five outright and crippled the last—the pilot failed to return. You can see how that would invite the comparison.” Caneris used the masculine pronoun reflexively: the Imperial Navy did not allow women as pilots in their strike and reconnaissance forces.

“Indeed so.”

“However, that was a small thing to what followed. I have seen the video—and I tell you plainly, Jakob, such a display of lethal virtuosity I have never before witnessed.”

Very strong words from Joaquin Caneris. Adenauer could not recall him an occasion where he’d been so emphatic before. “If it was not Commander Huron, who was it?”

“That is the devil of it, Jakob. We don’t know. The officer was junior enough to be a wingman, not even an element leader.”

“That is bad.” Adenauer glanced toward one of the large lit console screens, not registering the data displayed there. Seen ‘objectively’, the incident might appear inconsequential enough—the fate of a single man—but war was not an objective business. Symbolism wielded great influence in war, and Captain Jantony Banner, Halith’s most revered warrior, was one of the most potent symbols of all. If it became widely known that he had been defeated and perhaps killed by a junior CEF officer who couldn’t even be identified, it could not but have a very poor effect on morale, with potentially far-reaching consequences. How the Ministry of Information would handle the debacle, Adenauer had no idea. Banner could not plausibly be kept out of the limelight much longer.

“You say there is no hope of survival?”

“No hope of
recovery
, certainly.
Survival
is a more delicate matter.”

Adenauer’s expression hardened and he waited for Caneris to go on.

“Indeed, the Ministry strongly desired life-support to be removed and things allowed to take their ‘natural’ course.” The set of Caneris’ jaw eloquently expressed his disapproval of the whole affair. “The family refused, of course.”

“I don’t wonder.” Euthanizing, in effect, a man—an aristocrat—of Banner’s stature was unheard of.

“Banner has been released into their care. Subject to certain stipulations.”

Maintaining a strict silence he meant. Now they were reaching the heart of the matter, it seemed.

“Obviously, they have been suppressing the incident—more effectively than I would have believed possible, as you had not heard—and the decision has been made that Banner shall be ‘lost in action’ in the course of the forthcoming operations. The Ministry’s propaganda people are hard at work making a production of it—a suitably epic end—odds of twenty to one were even discussed—and we may be assured the media will play it constantly for years.”

This struck a chill to Adenauer’s stomach—not the ridiculous fancy of engaging at twenty to one; that could hardly be attempted to be believed—but from what he anticipated must be coming next.

By his look, Caneris inferred his friend’s feelings. “I regret to say you have been assigned major supporting role in all of this.”

As he thought. “Did they provide you with details? Or must we wait upon those?” There was only one way to handle this, and nothing he could do about it, but he might as well hear the scheme now.

“They did, to a degree. Banner will be assigned to your fleet with a new squadron. The double has been visosculpted and preparations are now finalizing.”

“Condemned? Or did they find a volunteer?” It made little difference either way. They would certainly use neurological implants and memory modules to allow the double to play his part convincingly, and the other members of his ‘squadron’ would see that he did. Adenauer asked the question mainly to indulge his generally ineffable aggravation.

“I’m afraid I cannot say. A basic framework has been established. No doubt the operation will provide ample engagements to lend the necessary degree of verisimilitude.”

“No doubt,” Adenauer remarked dryly. “But what of the League? They will certainly want to profit from Banner’s ‘death’. Yet they can hardly release corroborating video. Are they aware what actually happened?”

“It appears they are not. The fate of the other pilot is unknown. He took heavy damage as well, and may not have survived. Even now, there has been no mention, not even within CEF channels.” Accepting that with no more than a low noise from the back of his throat, Adenauer allowed Caneris to continue. “And they will revel in the result surely, but either ‘suppress’ video of the engagement or ‘doctor’ it to conceal the ‘vast damage’ wrought by a single pilot. Such will be the official line.”

“Oh, surely.” Adenauer shook his head and rubbed his lower lip. “That implies sacrificing most of his ‘squadron’ for effect, does it not?”

“It remains to be seen.”

“Well, I appreciate that you brought me this word.” A routine alert appeared on a nearby console:
Orlan
requesting details regarding taking on stores, shore leave policy—someone wanting permission to send a boat . . . nothing that needed his attention. Adenauer routed it to his chief of staff to deal with. “But you had other news?”

“Yes. Forgive my being the unwelcome messenger. But this should put things in a better light. They have agreed to release
Jena
to you. You will receive official word of the transfer in a day or so.”

It certainly did put things in a better light. “Thank you, Joaquin”—with a stately inclination of his head. “I am deeply grateful for your efforts there.”

“It is nothing—no more than justice. I am even happier to tell you the monitor is finally operational and will be able to deploy by the end of this week.”

This was even more welcome news: the Naval Construction & Logistics Department had badly underestimated the difficulty in getting the monitor ready, and so much depended on it.

“Will they send it here?” Adenauer was thinking ahead to the necessary logistical arrangements.

“They will. The tuning of the grav plants has been quite problematic. They will need to be retested and verified before it can jump to Novaya Zemlya. Once there, you will then have to reassess whether it can make the transit to Wogan’s Reef.”

“I see.” That implied a serious risk the enormous ship would fail to make a jump, but they had accepted that from the start, and Adenauer did not pursue the point, for Caneris clearly had more to say.

“Now, I believe you have reservations about the Wogan’s Reef plan as proposed?” The recent wargames had revealed some glaring holes—holes the plan’s proponents were busy trying to explain away.

“Most certainly,” Adenauer said with emphasis. “Especially this insistence by Bucharin that we not divide our forces. It ties my hands, Joaquin. Outbound Station is the key. If we do not seize it early in the battle and cut off PrenTalien’s escape route, we achieve very little. Our decisive battle is not decisive if he can retire with his fleet intact. It is his fleet that is our object—not some volume of space, however grand.”

“Just so,” agreed Caneris, inwardly impressed by his laconic friend’s vehemence. “I felt that would be your position—strongly enough that I pressed Andros on this point, and he has agreed.”

“Has he truly? That is excellent.”

“There are other details that will admit modification, I think. All under seal—it is vital no word leak. But in its essence, the plan remains unchanged. PrenTalien must not leave
Ardennes
at Outbound as covering force, nor must he be presented with a situation so overwhelming that he decides to disengage. He is aggressive, yes”—anticipating his friend’s objection—“but Merope is his critical sector, not Wogan’s Reef, and he must answer to Admiral Westover, who will counsel prudence. Once he commits, he must be held until your Center Force can engage—the monitor will see to that.” Here, Caneris paused. “Now, would you rely on the Bannermans to deal with Outbound? You know about the tanker fleet being sent there, of course.”

“I do know about it. And no, I would not—the timing is too critical to rely on the Bannermans. If they are late and allow PrenTalien to reposition his tankers, or even if they are early, it could be ruinous. It is vital that proper coordination be maintained, else we invite defeat in detail or risk missing the object altogether.”

“I agree, and considering the conditions in the Reef, our carriers are of little value there. That allows us to detach them for other uses. It is on this possibility, Jakob, that I wish to hear your thoughts. I believe we might use them to decoy the blockading force so as to aid the Bannermans’ breakout, and then employ them against either Outbound, or better, the tanker fleet. It is the tankers that are key, and they are vulnerable to our attack craft, much more so than the station. As you say, it is PrenTalien’s fleet that is our true object. We need not hold the station—that would be extremely difficult with the forces at hand in any case—but the point is to effectively cut off his ability to retire with his force intact. Our carriers are well suited to this and I believe that justifies employing them independently on this occasion. Even if the tankers are moved, our long-range strike assets will be able to reach them, which gives us added flexibility.”

Caneris stood, having taken on a terrier-like intensity. “Perhaps if we were to move to the BMC, I could be clearer.”