The silver fleet the com.., p.108
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 108
He wished he could remember the coach’s name but found he couldn’t. Still, he’d taught him a valuable lesson about the importance of proper preparation. He hoped that it would stand him in good stead now.
It had been too much to hope that old Klaus Meyer might have had the chops to take on the Loki. He hadn’t expected him to destroy her but the least he could have done was to draw first blood. Give them some idea of what they were up against. Not that he should have been surprised, certainly Meyer’s service record wasn’t exactly littered with notable victories. But Winterson had hoped that with Farnese to back him up, they might have had at least some success. Certainly, Farnese was a very promising officer. He certainly had the Right Stuff as far as Winterson was concerned. It was just a question of him realising that potential, that was all.
He’d like to have found a way of removing Meyer but knew that, in reality, it was virtually impossible to remove an acting naval captain, regardless of any shortcomings they might have. Farnese only had two possible routes to promotion. Either Meyer would be promoted out, which was highly unlikely, or he’d become a casualty of war. The problem with the second option was that if it came to that, Farnese was just as likely to be killed as Meyer.
No, Winterson was just going to have to play with the cards he’d been dealt. And it wasn’t as if he could rely on reinforcements arriving any time soon, either.
He imagined that the Admiralty must be running pretty scared right about now. Hardly surprising after they’d put that blowhard, Andrew Paige, in charge of their main battle fleet but that’s what you got when you stripped out all your old warriors and replaced them with a bunch of Dudley Do-Rights.
No, if there were any reinforcements to be had, he suspected that they might approach the far entrance to the Henrietta Gate but they wouldn’t sail through it. To do so would be to place a large part of their fleet in an extremely vulnerable position. What would happen if the Da’al did manage to destroy the gate while the ships were still in N-Space? What would become of those ships and their crews? It didn’t bear thinking about.
If Winterson were in charge he’d simply mass his ships on the far side of the gate. And then, if the Da’al did start coming through they’d have an idea of just how bad things were on the other side.
At that point, they’d have no choice but to destroy the gate themselves.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, of course, but he wouldn’t bet against it either.
He finished what he was doing and went over to his desk, rubbing at the knots in his neck. The two parts of his general orders staring up at him. As well as the orders he’d shared with Meyer, there was this second, more perplexing set.
Highest priority: despatch heavy lifting gear to Tigris with all haste. Agent Nash has operational status on this matter and should be deferred to at all times.
The order was signed by Fleet Admiral Paige
It really was most peculiar. Instructing him to defer to someone who was, at the end of the day, little more than an intelligence officer.
Bizarre.
Still, as orders went, Winterson was in no position to question them. He just hoped that this Nash character knew what he was doing.
In the meantime, he’d already looked into this issue of the heavy lifting gear. A specialist operation – not many places offered that.
The first thing he’d done was to put out a query to the yards at Blackthorn. They would have contacts with every other yard in the system, he reasoned. They’d know where he could go to contact the relevant people. And for once, he was in luck.
There was only one heavy lifting operation in the area and, amazingly, they’d sailed as part of Winterson’s original flotilla. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Of all the ships in the system, he just happened to be sailing with the one ship which might provide the answer to all his problems.
The Montezuma, a salvage ship from the old school – solid and dependable.
The difficult part for him would be in convincing them to follow his lead. The captain was a man by the name of Tomas Kampinsky who, as a civilian, Winterson had no official jurisdiction over. No doubt this would be a perilous operation with a great deal resting on the outcome. There was nothing to suggest that the Montezuma wouldn’t simply be shot down as soon as it came within range of Tigris. So, he was going to have to try and find out where the captain’s true loyalties lay and hope that he could exploit them for his own benefit.
Winterson looked at himself in the mirror, turning slowly from side to side. Appraising. Ran a hand over his stomach.
Not bad for an old desk jock.
Not bad at all.
Time for the direct approach.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I thought I might find you here,” Sands was saying.
Ardent sat bolt upright. She must have dozed off.
When was the last time that had happened?
But she wasn’t used to the practiced calm of the Rehabilitation Suite. There had been two other patients in there when she’d arrived. One was over in the far corner with a visitor while the other was taking a walk accompanied by her physiotherapist.
She’d expected the place to be much more utilitarian in design so had been surprised to be taken into a wide lounge area with wood panel doors and long windows complete with panoramic ‘views.’ The nurse had shown her over to a quiet seating area facing out onto a virtual Rose Garden. She’d thought the whole idea was rather fanciful.
They were on a star ship, after all. If there was anywhere further removed from an actual rose garden than this, then she couldn’t think of it.
She’d been happy enough to dismiss it as a saccharine concoction, dreamed up by some over-paid software designer.
But the thing was that the more she studied it, the more she began to appreciate it as the accomplished work of art she now believed it to be.
The colours were incredibly varied and vibrant, a long way away from the rather limited palette of colours they experienced on-board ship. It didn’t look real, rather it was hyper-real demanding a level of attention from the viewer which they weren’t used to. Simply put, the more you looked into it, the more you saw.
Indeed, part of the genius of the window was that it made you feel like you were stealing glimpses of a richer, more evocative life. A far more grandiose experience than anything the viewer could hope to access in their own lives.
The impression was that you were looking out onto a raised veranda, with a large rose garden arranged below. Only it wasn’t just a static, computer generated image. No, it possessed some complicated software which meant that it was capable of tracking the retina signature of whoever was looking at it, so that if they chanced to move, the orientation of the image moved with them.
It allowed her to look out over an arbour laden with roses of all colours, from pinks and creams to deep reds. Even though it was based on a single day which had occurred once in the dim and distant past, it was always summer. The roses would always be at their best, they’d never so much as drop a petal. Always poised at their peak, an impossible day never to be repeated.
Normally, Ardent was suspicious of perfection but here, it didn’t seem to matter. Here was a level of immersion she’d never experienced before. She was sure that such a thing had its limits and imagined that if she were to press her face against the screen and attempted to look straight down she wouldn’t be able to do so but, strangely for her, she felt no compunction to go there.
On this one occasion, she didn’t want to ruin it for herself. She simply wanted to enjoy the illusion.
In order to enhance the effect even further there was a clever lighting effect which had a window shaped block of light tracking across the floor, precisely matching the path of the sun on Earth Prime. It really was a first-rate piece of visual trickery . She really was going to miss coming down here once Faulkner was discharged.
Before she’d fallen asleep she’d been thinking about a picnic her father had taken her on when she’d been a girl. He’d worn a suit on that occasion and she’d thought him the most dashing man in the world. There had been roses that day too, she still remembered their rich, cloying perfume. He had lain on a rug and watched while she’d danced for him. How he had annoyed her by repeatedly telling her how beautiful she was, when really all she wanted was for him to tell her what a talented dancer she was. That’s all she’d ever wanted from him, but he’d never said it, not once.
“The nurses told me you come here most afternoons.”
Sands was standing behind one of the high-backed chairs, his fingers drumming lightly on its sides.
He seemed to be waiting for something but she couldn’t think what.
“Have you managed to get much out of him?” he arched his eyebrows. “Our patient. Anything?”
“What if I have?” she said, instantly defensive. “What concern is that of yours?”
“Oh, nothing,” his hands moved across the head rest, making little chopping movements. “A professional interest, nothing more. There’s no telling what people might remember when they come out of cryo-sleep. Especially a traumatic case such as this.”
“Traumatic, how?”
Sands frowned back at her. “Normally, we go to great lengths to ensure that the patient is spared the side-effects that cryo-sleep would normally throw up. Often, we try to bring the patient’s body temperature back to normal over a matter of weeks, if not months, monitoring them as we go.”
“But that wasn’t the case here,” Ardent was growing irritated. She cast a sidelong glance towards her garden, wishing that she could somehow be there instead. “I brought him to you. A sort of fait accompli, if you will. I understood the risks.”
“Which is why, I steered you towards the more invasive form of surgery. Because of the challenges he presented us with. Often it’s impossible to correct things like incipient frost damage where the withdrawal from hibernation has been either rushed or poorly handled.”
“All of which, doctor, we have discussed at length.”
She was looking to gather her things, preparing to leave. If Sands thought that he could use Faulkner as some kind of bargaining chip then she’d swiftly dissuade him of that notion. She was just getting to her feet when she caught sight of Faulkner in his wheelchair.
Suddenly, all her irritation left her.
She went and stood behind her chair.
“Forgive me, Madam Governor. I am merely trying to prepare you for any changes you might perceive in our patient. It’s not unusual in such cases for there to be gaps in their memory or even minor personality disorders. Some of these may pass while others…”
She cut him off. “Thank you, Doctor Sands. I’ll bear that in mind.
Once Sands had left, Ardent busied herself re-arranging the furniture in order to give Faulkner a view of the rose garden. While she was doing this, an auxiliary came over to ask if they would like any drinks. Ardent asked if they might have some tea brought over at which point Faulkner raised his chin.
“I forget, do I drink tea?”
“Would you like something else,” the auxiliary asked. “A herbal tea perhaps? We have some excellent infusions.”
“What about coffee? Do you have any of that?”
The auxiliary’s eyes slid across to Ardent who gave the smallest of nods.
“Coffee it is then.”
They sat looking out over the garden together, saying nothing. Eventually, the drinks arrived. The auxiliary placed a plastic table top over in front of Faulkner. On top of it, he placed a plastic mug with an over-sized handle.
“What’s this?” Faulkner asked. “Am I a child? Bring me a proper cup.”
The auxiliary took the cup and left.
Faulkner looked at her as if measuring her response.
“It’s very kind of you to visit.”
“I was worried about you.”
“And why is that?”
She cleared her throat, uncertain how best to proceed. “I was worried that you might have said something to give yourself away.”
He raised a finger as if to correct her and then slowly retracted it.
“You’re right, of course. I have a tendency to forget myself, at times.”
He smiled at her then looked around the room. He was struggling to make sense of it all.
What had Sands called it: a mental deficit?
She refused to think of Faulkner in that way. He was bound to have problems adjusting.
“You’ve been through a lot and not just physically either.”
He gave her a pensive look.
“When we push ourselves too far, often, there’s a price to be paid.”
She sat up in her chair, patting her thighs in an attempt to appear more upbeat.
“Quite.”
The auxiliary reappeared with Faulkner’s coffee in a mug. He placed it on the tray in front of him. Faulkner viewed it suspiciously.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About what you said the last time you were here.”
“Yes?”
“About what happened to the Mantis.”
In line with Sand’s instructions, she’d told him as little as possible about what had actually happened. About how he’d deliberately flown the Mantis into the side of Blackthorn Station. About how, in doing so, he’d knocked the station out of the path of a mass generator projectile which had come close to destroying it. She’d talked about the lives that he’d saved.
“And do you have any questions?”
She hoped that her smile might mask her discomfort. Sands would not have been happy if he knew the half of what she’d already told him. He’d stressed the very real risk of Faulkner having a complete mental breakdown if they overwhelmed him with information.
“The thing is, I’ve been asking around.”
“Really?”
The nursing staff was under strict instructions not to discuss the matter with him.
“I had an interesting chat with one of the visitors - a young lieutenant. He seemed to know an awful lot about it.”
Her hand froze in the act of sweeping the hair back of her face. “Really? And what did this young lieutenant have to say?”
He dragged the coffee cup towards him, held it in both hands.
“You didn’t tell me what happened to the crew. The crew of the Mantis.”
Ardent suddenly wished that she was somewhere else. Anywhere, so long she didn’t have to look into those eyes. She didn’t want to have to lie to him, but at the same time she dreaded telling him the truth.
“I need to know,” the sigh deflated him. “I need to know how many of them…”
His voice trailed off.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Then why bother to bring me back? Me. Of all people!”
“We need you. Now more than ever. We need you back with us.”
His laugh was dry and bitter.
“Then you’re in a much worse state than I could possibly imagine,” he turned to look at her. “Don’t waste your time on me, dear lady. My best days are far behind me.”
With a great effort, he eased himself back in his seat. There was a button on the arm of his chair and he pressed it.
They sat like that until the nurse came to collect him. Ardent, lost in her own thoughts, Faulkner gazing fixedly off into the far distance.
Ardent got to her feet, adjusted her jacket.
Faulkner refused to look at her. Seemed to take pleasure in it.
She smiled at the nurse, looked down at the teapot, the cup and saucer. All untouched.
She side stepped his wheelchair in order to get out, then hesitated.
“A hundred and thirty-eight.”
That got a reaction.
“Survived or lost?”
“Recovered. So far.”
“A hundred and thirty-eight out of a crew of four hundred and thirty?”
“I wish things could be different. But there you are.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There were five of them in Winterson’s boarding party and that was after they’d pared away most of his security detail.
Other than Winterson himself there was Executive Assistant Commander Vincenzi, Sergeant Duvall, his personal aide and bodyguard and the two Marines Philips and Crosby. The last two were capable enough but really only there as a precaution. Their job was simply to secure the airlock, to preserve Winterson’s only egress point in the unlikely event that things didn’t go as planned.
Winterson was looking forward to this meeting. Well rested, washed, shaved and fed he could foresee no problems other than the obvious one, but then he was dealing with civilians here and civilians, in his experience, did have a tendency to surprise you from time to time. Which was why he’d brought Duvall along.
People thought twice about upsetting Duvall. He was a man with a very short list of priorities and protecting Admiral Julius Winterson was right at the top of that list.
Vincenzi was a different case altogether. A naval pilot in his younger days, he’d taken the opportunity to study for a legal degree and had worked his way up to the role of commander before his problems with alcohol threatened to end what looked to be a promising career. Winterson had been on the disciplinary board which heard the charges levelled against him and had used all of his influence to ensure that the young commander didn’t end up on the scrap heap. Having narrowly avoided a custodial sentence, Vincenzi must have been breathing a huge sigh of relief and probably hadn’t anticipated his former prosecutor offering him a job.
Vincenzi’s loyalty to the admiral was so unquestionable that Winterson had taken to referring to him as his pit-bull. But if Vincezi was the pit-bull, what did that make Duvall?
