On stormy seas, p.26
On Stormy Seas, page 26
Dunmoore inclined her head. “Thank you, sir. With your permission.”
“Go and prepare.”
“I’ll have orders to the fleet for your signature within the hour, sir.”
As she walked out of Hogue’s office, Dunmoore couldn’t help but marvel at how oblivious her boss seemed about the undercurrents of corruption, backscratching, and organized criminality on Dordogne. Vincenzo, who’d remain on the planet during the ‘inspection tour’ so he could continue sniffing out traitors, had confirmed she wasn’t cooperating with the Pègre or the SSB because she did not need to do so. Hogue merely enjoyed the perks of being a four-star and was happy for her deputy to do the actual work.
Her aide, Lieutenant Commander Margo Takahashi, would also stay. Not only did she have a young family who’d rather have her home every evening and weekend, but Dunmoore could see no use for an aide while she struck at trafficker hubs.
In fact, she didn’t plan on bringing any staff and would coordinate the operations she had in mind, just like in the old days of Task Force Luckner. If Dunmoore needed help, she could call on Commodore Nieri or Salamanca’s new captain, a recently promoted officer named Cord Elias, whom she’d never met. Elias was too young to have passed through her War College classes or experienced RED One’s tender mercies.
Dunmoore’s top secret orders gave her such wide latitude that she could only assume Kathryn Kowalski had drafted them for the CNO’s signature. For her, it meant rampaging across the Rim and taking out every trafficker hub intelligence could pinpoint, without regard for legal niceties that protected the guilty while hampering the pursuit of justice.
A few weeks with the 101st to strike, Task Group 30.1 to provide cover, and C Squadron, 1st Special Forces Regiment, to augment Iolanthe’s embarked Marines, coming aboard their own tactical transport, Ragnarok, escorted by the corvette Swiftsure, would do wonders to clean out the Rim Sector’s dark corners.
***
“Welcome back, Admiral.” A smiling Gregor Pushkin held out his hand after Dunmoore had been formally piped aboard, and they’d exchanged salutes. “To what do we owe the honor?”
They shook, and she asked with a mischievous smile, “What’s the reward for good work again?”
Captain Trevane Devall, with whom she shook hands immediately afterward, replied, grinning, “More work.”
“Glad to see standards aren’t slipping. Your day cabin, Gregor? And you might as well join us, Trevane.”
Once they were behind closed doors, Pushkin poured them coffee and sat behind his desk.
“Do I really want to hear this?”
“Oh, yes.” She pulled out her tablet. “First, I’ll let you read the orders I received from the CNO. Then we’ll discuss your part in the mission. Trevane can look at them as well.”
As Pushkin scanned the dry, matter-of-fact orders, his eyebrows crept up. Once he was done, he passed the tablet to Devall.
“Task Force Morrigan, eh? Andoth, Garonne, and such targets as the Deputy Flag Officer Commanding, 3rd Fleet, may find suitable. Did you just get your very own license to declare war?”
“Something like that. Needless to say, no one must find out about this until we’re in deep space. As far as everyone in the 101st and elsewhere are concerned, you’re off on a routine patrol.” She fished a data wafer from her tunic pocket. “Your orders. I wrote them myself. No one else, living or dead, has seen them. And no one other than you and Trevane will until you reach the rendezvous point to join up with Ragnarok and Swiftsure, who will come under your tactical control for the duration. C Squadron, 1st SFR, will remain under my TACON, even though it’ll be in Ragnarok.”
Pushkin nodded.
“Understood.”
“The concept of operations is simple. I’m proceeding on an inspection tour of 3rd Fleet. I will travel in Salamanca, the lead ship of Task Group 30.1, which will be under the command of Commodore Paola Nieri, Quintin Anand’s second in command. Vince and his merry band of counterintelligence operatives vetted her, and she’s no dummy. That purpose and grouping will be announced as soon as I speak with her and Quintin, right after we’re done here. As far as anyone, Paola included, knows, you’re off doing something and aren’t part of anything I’m doing. I’ll brief her when we’re in deep space as well. The task group and the 101st will marry up at Andoth’s heliopause, where we’ll coordinate the strike while you send one of your ships inward to reconnoiter Andoth and pinpoint the target. Once we know precisely what we’re facing on the ground, I will finalize a plan. But the general concept, for Andoth and any other strike, will be the 101st going in while the task group blockades the planet, intercepting starships and standing by to provide you with extra fire support if needed.”
“Wow.” Devall gave her an appreciative nod. “I don’t think the Navy carried out such a large-scale operation since the war. We certainly haven’t.”
“The assault on the Garonne trafficking hub will be carried out under the same concept. And if intelligence feeds us one or two more, we’ll just keep going.”
Pushkin rapped his desktop with his knuckles.
“Admiral Dunmoore rides again.”
“Once I’ve met with Quintin and Paola, I’ll let you know when the task group is sailing. You can leave any time you want and head straight for Andoth, but don’t leave it too long. I’d rather not cause people to wonder whether your departure and ours are related.”
“We can be gone by the day after tomorrow.”
“Plan on that, then.”
— Thirty-Seven —
“Good to see you, Admiral.” Quintin Anand, stocky, bald, dark-complexioned, with thick gray eyebrows and a neatly trimmed mouth beard, briefly came to attention when Dunmoore entered his office, then extended his hand. “Welcome back aboard Starbase 30.”
“Glad to be back, Quin. You’re looking well.”
Anand chuckled.
“Prospering.”
Dunmoore turned to the tall, slender, olive-skinned commodore with short black hair and expressive brown eyes.
“How are you, Paola?”
“Just like my boss, sir — prospering. Though I miss riding a command chair aboard a starship.”
“Then you’ll enjoy what I’m about to discuss.”
Anand gestured at the settee group to one side of the office, beneath the reproduction of a painting depicting a long-ago battle between sailing ships.
“Shall we? Coffee, sir?”
“No thanks. I arrived a little early and had a quick visit aboard Iolanthe to say hi. Gregor fed me a cup of his best brew.”
Nieri nodded.
“He serves a good cup. I was aboard the other day to go over the 101st’s latest resupply process, so I could make sure we missed nothing this time.”
“And? All was well?” Dunmoore asked as she took a seat.
A quick chat with Alvin Maffina solved the problem. Vincenzo discovered one of the senior officers in the 3rd Fleet logistics branch had developed a grudge against the 101st and was taking it out on her former command through mis-prioritization of parts deliveries. Maffina had assured her it wouldn’t happen again.
“Gregor was quite happy. The 101st is ready to sail.”
“Good. Now, Admiral Hogue is sending me on an inspection tour of the 3rd Fleet’s area of operations, and I plan on engaging the battle groups in a few war games to gain an appreciation of their readiness.”
Anand winced theatrically.
“That statement from the former head of RED One is enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine.”
Dunmoore gave him an amused grin.
“I hadn’t thought of it, but if your fellow battle group commanders feel that way, then who am I to disabuse them? You’ll be glad I’m exempting the 30th from the tour. There’s no need since I’ll be sailing aboard a task group made up of your ships currently in port, ready for deployment — Salamanca, Charles Martel, Arthur Currie, and Jan Sobieski — to be designated Task Group 30.1 under Paola’s command.”
Commodore Nieri’s face lit up at the news, and Anand couldn’t restrain another chuckle at her evident glee.
“I think Paola likes the idea.”
“The contrary would have surprised me. I wanted to speak with both of you in person on the subject before the orders come out and give you copies of said orders so you can begin preparing. I’d like to sail as soon as feasible but without rushing. Once all four ships are fully supplied and armed — we will carry the basic war load — Paola and I can discuss the departure date and time. Since I don’t want to give any battle group an advantage, I’ll be revealing our first stop once we drop out of FTL at the heliopause.”
Anand glanced at his second in command.
“What do you figure for departure?”
“They’re fully supplied now. Say three days for the last checks and for crew still on leave to return.” Nieri turned to Dunmoore. “Tuesday, sir? We can break out of orbit at, say, oh-eight-hundred and be at the refueling station early in the afternoon watch and the heliopause by the end of the evening watch.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll come aboard Monday evening then, at the end of the dog watch.”
Nieri smiled again.
“Looking forward to it, sir.”
“Oh, and I’m not bringing any staff, not even my aide, so I’ll be relying on yours if any staff work needs doing. But as you might have heard from Gregor, I’m pretty low maintenance, and putting up a third star hasn’t changed that.”
“That would be your reputation, all right,” Anand said.
Dunmoore fished a pair of data wafers from her pocket and handed them out.
“The orders going to every battle group and the Task Group 30.1 orders. Enjoy. And since I’m here, Quin, if you want to bend my ear about anything while Paola starts her preparations, you have a golden opportunity. I’m not due aboard the shuttle for another hour.”
“Since you’re offering, there are one or two matters I wouldn’t mind discussing.”
***
That evening, Dunmoore went to the opera, her first major outing since bringing the various Pègre bosses to heel. And so far, they’d been obedient or so discreet. Even the Naval Intelligence folks assigned to watch them saw nothing.
She’d decided to appear in Marseilles society after her hiatus because, for one thing, the opera was among her favorites from the pre-diaspora repertoire, Turandot. The soul-stirring and show-stopping aria, Nessun Dorma, always touched her deeply. And for another, she wanted to show her face among the people whose trafficker friends she was about to erase from the galaxy.
Not that they’d ever find out for sure, but knowledge of Dunmoore here one day, gone on a sector-wide inspection tour with a naval task group the next, could only get the rumor mills going once news from Andoth and Garonne spread. A bit of psychological warfare never hurt.
Lou and Gus, disguised as anonymous bodyguards, would watch over her at all times, though she would be alone in the loge. Vincenzo tried to argue her out of the notion when she decided on it shortly after receiving the secret orders but finally relented.
Since the Pègre was quiescent and knew better than trying an assassination in such a public place, only the SSB represented a threat, and Holt had passed along word that its agents were withdrawing from Dordogne for a while.
The Opéra de Marseilles enjoyed an enviable reputation in the sector, and with good reason. It was a production as faithful to the original vision of Giacomo Puccini, the composer, as possible. And, as she knew would happen, Nessun Dorma brought tears to her eyes. Once it was over, all who mattered in Marseilles saw Vice Admiral Siobhan Dunmoore, elegant in her evening clothes, enthusiastically applaud like everyone else.
Though paying for a loge entitled her to a drink with the cast and crew backstage afterward, a perk eagerly sought after by the class-conscious Marseillais, she vanished through the opera house’s back corridors under the guidance of her bodyguards. Not only would it add to the story, but avoiding the crowd eased some of Vincenzo’s concerns. Besides, she found no interest in being polite to people she’d threatened with annihilation at gunpoint a few weeks earlier.
***
The following Monday, after a quiet weekend during which the 101st broke out of orbit and left for parts unknown, Dunmoore received a message from Captain Elias saying that the ship’s pinnace would collect her at the time of her choosing. Salamanca was no longer docked with Starbase 30, having completed her final preparations, and since he’d have to send a shuttle to fetch her there if she took the regular run up from Joint Base Dordogne, the shuttle might as well bring her up from the surface.
As a result, Dunmoore decided she would take the evening meal in the cruiser’s wardroom and head up directly after finishing her day at the office. A small side party piped her aboard at three bells in the dog watch after the pinnace landed on Salamanca’s hangar deck, where Commodore Nieri and Captain Elias greeted her.
“Welcome, Admiral. You’ll find everything in good order and as it was when Salamanca last served as your flagship,” Elias said after they exchanged salutes and handshakes while a bosun’s mate took Dunmoore’s luggage to the VIP suite.
Dunmoore smiled at him.
“I don’t doubt it for a second.”
“And you’ll be glad to hear Task Group 30.1 is ready to leave. We need not wait until tomorrow morning. The refueling station can take us in the next twelve hours, so if you have no objections, I will get us underway now. Once we’ve broken out of orbit, we three can sit down for the evening meal in my quarters.”
“Done and done, Paola. Let’s make it so. And I wouldn’t mind watching our departure from the flag CIC. It’ll bring back memories.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Let me get out of your way and settle in while you pass along your orders and get clearance from traffic control.”
Nieri nodded as she gestured toward the inner airlock.
“I’ll call you a few minutes before we’re due.”
The VIP suite was precisely as Dunmoore remembered from three and a half years ago when she was a captain facing early separation from the Navy for not regaining her star once too often. And now? Dunmoore glanced at herself in the mirror as she unpacked. A vice admiral, deputy commander 3rd Fleet, about to lead her ships on a raid of questionable legality, but one which was desperately needed. And she understood only too well they had placed her in this position because she was one of the few, if not the only flag officer in the Navy who’d willingly accept such a mission, consequences be damned.
Watching Task Group 30.1 depart with Commodore Nieri in the CIC — she’d offered the command chair, but Dunmoore had demurred — with multiple views, including a video feed from the starbase, was a treat. Supper, once Captain Elias set the ship at cruising stations, was pleasant and enlightening. Both he and Nieri came across as intelligent, well-read, and self-aware officers.
They also gave Dunmoore the impression they suspected the inspection tour was merely an excuse for something more exciting. After all, until recently, she’d led the Navy’s foremost raider battle group and had once been the bane of the Shrehari Empire in this sector. And they’d noticed all the 101st’s ships previously docked or in orbit had quietly slipped away twenty-four hours earlier. If so, Dunmoore hoped no one else was wondering the same thing.
Dunmoore stayed up to observe the refueling process a few hours later and declared herself satisfied with the speed and precision shown by all four ships before heading to her quarters and a few hours of sleep. After breakfast, she planned on briefing Nieri and Elias about their true destination, so they could prepare navigation orders for the task group when it came out of FTL at Dordogne’s heliopause. Part of her couldn’t wait to see their reaction — she’d learned plenty of officers who reached senior ranks in peacetime were averse to risk, and these two had still been lieutenants at the end of the war.
But whether they felt comfortable with the objective or not, the mission would go on.
— Thirty-Eight —
“Let me ask a question,” Dunmoore said, pushing her breakfast plate to one side and picking up the coffee mug with Salamanca’s crest. “Were either of you figuring we might not be on a genuine inspection tour?”
Dunmoore, Nieri, and Elias were the only ones left in the wardroom. The rest of Salamanca’s officers had come and gone and were now either at their duty stations or in their racks.
Nieri and Elias exchanged a telling glance, then the former grimaced.
“Not so much figuring as hoping. Neither of us has witnessed shots fired in anger since the war, but by all accounts — and I know they’re classified — the 101st saw plenty of action under your command. And now under Gregor’s.”
“I don’t know if you’ll witness any in person on this mission, but you’ll be part of a raiding force as the backup to the 101st and, at the moment, as a decoy of sorts until we meet up with Gregor. If the targets wisely surrender, there may not be shots fired in anger, but it isn’t a training exercise.” When they gave her expectant looks, Dunmoore smiled. “We’re taking down known trafficker hubs in the sector, starting with Andoth, our actual destination. It’s called Operation Morrigan, and once we join the 101st, the formation will be known as Task Force Morrigan.”
As she explained her concept, Dunmoore noticed Nieri and Elias becoming increasingly uneasy.
“Sir, pardon me for asking,” Nieri said once Dunmoore fell silent, “but at what level was this mission authorized? Military strikes on Commonwealth or sovereign star system colonies, while not as severely restricted as those on sovereign worlds, are subject to an extensive list of caveats.”
“The CNO signed my orders. Presumably, he received his instructions from the Grand Admiral. Beyond that, I couldn’t say. But the plan is for surgical strikes that won’t harm the civilian population. And by putting these hubs out of business, we’ll choke off the flow of harmful substances from the Zone and the trafficking of human beings destined for the worst sort of slavery. The latter alone makes a breach of rules favoring criminals over law enforcement not only ethical but moral.”
