Oberheim (Voices): A Chronicle of War, Christopher Leadem [recommended reading TXT] 📗

them. And though the destructive force of the Third Fleet had not grown, neither had it sufficiently diminished. And the wounded predator is by far the most dangerous. Hayes was desperate.

After six months of running, engaging only in minor skirmishes which could hardly be colored as 'the forward lance of democracy', of getting his information only from Hayes, Admiral Frank was tormented by uncertainty. Why was Congress still squabbling? When would reinforcements arrive? It was clear that the Soviets were astir, and what was worse, by the look of it were coming directly after them.

But more troublesome than all of this, to a loyal soldier who did not scare easily, was the thought that perhaps Hayes was not telling the whole truth—-that they were being used for some scheme of his which did not entirely align with the wishes of the President.

Why did Hayes continue to deny even the most basic military communications? They had had literally no sight or sound of their fellow soldiers in five full months. Granted they fought their battles along the frontiers, where lines of communication were stretched thin, and often erased altogether by the time factor. But to be so totally isolated, to feel cut off from one's own compatriots…..

That it took Frank so long to entertain even these simple doubts, showed just how deep his military training had gone. As intended, he was no longer an individual, no longer a thinking, questioning being, but merely an instrument, a cog in a runaway machine. But despite all efforts to the contrary, even a cog has a mind.

Finally he could bear it no longer. He secured an audience with the man alone, difficult enough just that, and told him in no uncertain terms of the Fleet's need for fuel, repairs, and additional vessels to replace those lost in the fighting. He had also intended to demand access to direct communications; but the forbidding glare aroused in the hawkish face as he approached the subject, made him back off. Insisting on a link-up with one of the American outposts would have to cover it. If something were truly amiss, surely they would find out there.

But Hayes' cunning was not yet expired. He had foreseen this. Already he had his next move planned.

"Very well, Admiral. In truth I'd been thinking along the same lines myself. There are two outposts in Scimitar, are there not? The nearer being Westmoreland station, is that correct?"

"Yes, General. Shall I alter our course in that direction?"

"By all means. Only not too straight or too fast. I want to send a
Detachment there first to make sure everything is on the level. The
Russians have been getting a little too close for comfort, eh?" With
this his face broke into an unnatural smile.

"I know, my friend. This cannot go on much longer: radio silence, little or no action on appropriations. If we don't learn something more useful at Westmoreland, I think we may just head for home. Maybe I can get to the bottom of this myself, rattle a few cages back in Washington. Stone must be beside himself. Election year or not, they've got no right to play politics with the lives of the Third Fleet."

He rose, patted Frank on the arm, and started to leave. Then turning in the portal, he added. "Sorry if I've been a bit of a dry fist lately. Trying to carry the weight of all this had made me….. Well, you see how it is. Do you forgive me?"

"Yes, of course. That is. . .there is nothing to forgive. I was only concerned….."

"Yes, I know. You were concerned for the Fleet, as is your duty, and your character. You're a good man in a hard place, Donald. Don't ever think I take your loyalty for granted. Well. Enough said." He smiled again the strange half-smile, and disappeared into the corridor.

*

Like Bonaparte (and other self-appointed monarchs) before him, Hayes too had his personal Guard, a elite corps of two-thousand pilots and fighting men, specially trained and chosen, fearless, loyal to him and no other. This he had been able to create, in the midst of a democracy which discouraged internal militarism, because of his forty years in the service, most of it spent as a distinguished veteran of high rank and favor, his ten years as the only five-star general in the land, and finally, his three years as Secretary of State. His remaining capacity for harm was not to be underestimated. His own part in the conspiracy to murder Stone was not yet clear, though the twelve officers and Secret Service men implicated had all been close associates, or men who shared his personal beliefs.

So he detached his elite unit, consisting almost entirely of Blue Angel flyers and Special Forces assault troops, to Westmoreland Station. Calder himself was to lead them: two light cruisers, sixteen destroyers and fighter escort. He was given the following instructions.

"When you come within clear tracking range, make contact and identify yourself as the 21st Airborne of the Sixth Fleet. Here are the counter-codes. Tell them you've been detached to patrol the area. Don't say why.

"Request permission to come aboard to refuel, and to gather the latest news of developments at home. The station is far enough out that they may not yet have heard of the death of Stone, or the search for the Third Fleet. Ask specifically if there is any message for you from Gen-Admiral Hesse. If they act the least bit suspicious at the mention of his name, or say he's been arrested, etc., act shocked and ask to hear the whole story when you arrive.

"Continue to advance, and if they raise their shields or become defensive, break down resistance and board. Try to avoid damaging the fuel cylinders, but don't worry about other signs of battle. We can always blame it on the Russians, and say you drove them back. Needless to say, in that event we can't have any witnesses."

Calder had nodded sternly, assembled and given an in-flight briefing (no more truthful than necessary) to his forces, and made for Westmoreland.

But Plant was no fool. The farther outposts were among the first he contacted. They knew in full (as far as the two month time-delay permitted) every aspect of the situation, and were prepared for just such a move. Two experienced (and loyal) CIA men had been dispatched to Westmoreland. And when Calder, calling himself Brig. General Adam Winslow, established contact and made his pitch, they conferred quickly with the Base Commander, then decided on and executed the following plan.

The commander of Westmoreland 'station', a mere rock of a moon, floating with others of its kind about a semi-gaseous giant similar Saturn, responded to his inquiries that they'd had no news of Earth in months, were glad of the company, and asked, What was the situation with all the Soviet scouting ships about?

Upon hearing this, Calder, who shared Hayes' way of thinking but not his shrewd intelligence, felt that all was well, and that he could write his own ticket. But to be certain, he brought his force in several vessels at a time, to be serviced while he himself went to speak with Col. Billings, the officer in charge, of whom he knew vaguely from his years at West Point.

While the two discussed Calder's version of recent events, including the fact that he had encountered the Third Fleet not far off, which was said to be running low on fuel and supplies (Huckleberry Finn in a dress had been more convincing), the two Intelligence men set to work.

Posing as members of the ground crew, they implanted small aluminum tubes, canisters, on the landing gear of three fighters. On the synthetic caps which bound them were written these words, superimposed over an imprint of the Presidential Seal:

"You are hereby authorized by the President of the United Commonwealth to view these contents in private, and to act upon them as you see fit." If these proved ineffective, the two planned to involved themselves more directly when the Third Fleet came in for fuel and supplies.

Word was also sent in all directions that Hayes was in the vicinity, and that the Soviets were not far behind.

III

Captain Olaf Brunner, newly promoted, was scarcely recognizable as the same human being who had once been so unsure of his military role, and stood in trepidation at the approach of the Alliance Fleet.

He had not relinquished command of the Czech destroyer upon coming to again in its infirmary. Rather, against doctor's orders he had remained there for one day only, then thrown himself into his duties with such vehemence that all in the ship became afraid of him, and some wondered if the blow to his humanity had not been fatal.

Realizing this, realizing also that the people around him were not to blame if his life was ended, he became less harsh in his attitude towards them, and turned the full weight of his broken malice instead toward repairing the ship, notifying next of kin, and getting them all back safely into Coalition space, where he intended to request (demand) a German command of his own. Though his health had not improved, and though the medicines he once shunned were now habitual, this no longer seemed an important point. His new-found callousness lent itself even to physical insensitivity.

In the rare moments he allowed himself to meditate, he thought almost exclusively of Dubcek and the tortured old man. How well he now understood them both: Dubcek, upon the death of his wife, throwing himself into his military career, trying to scrape some pitiful meaning from the ruins of an empty life. And the librarian, clinging desperately to one last purpose, one last reason to live.

Wasn't he doing the same? Only the thought, cruel as it was, that somehow Ara still lived and still needed him, kept him from ending his own life. Or maybe he was just a coward….. And one other impulse drove him, foreign as it might have seemed to his nature not so very long before. He wanted to kill as many of the enemy as possible—-just KILL them. The soul was dead inside him.

The Belgian and Swiss forces, true cowards, made no further appearance at Dracus.

Escorted by the increased Soviet contingent, the Czech vessels made their way slowly out of Cerberus, where they met at length with the refurbished and reunited Coalition forces.

Here in neutral Space they held their parley, and deliberated upon a new course of action. No longer was any thought given to hiding and retreat. For now the Soviets backed them fully, if having their own battles to fight as well. Now Hayes was an outcast, and the abashed nations that had not come to the aid of Schiller (whether or not it would have made a difference) emptied their outposts for a counter-attack against the Alliance, and if necessary, against Hayes himself. The murderous horse-crap had gone far enough.

Brunner's temporary promotion was made permanent, and he was given command of a German destroyer group. This was partly due to his tenacity in liberating Dracus, partly to Dubcek's, and therefore Itjes', posthumous influence. And partly because they knew of his desperate search for his wife, and did not undervalue such a motive.

But if any were concerned about his qualifications and competence, his ability to handle his personal torment, they need not have worried. For what he lacked in experience, he more than made up for in latent determination, and at times, utter fearlessness. Death held literally no meaning for him. And in aggressive, retaliatory war, this could be a powerful weapon.

* * *

Hayes tapped the aluminum canister angrily against the counter-shelf of his quarters, watching the enclosed microvideo play back in its entirety the assassinated Stone's July address to Congress, concluded by then Vice-President Plant. Next came