Fermi's War Page 22

  "Craziest order I've ever heard." He raised his hand, continuing, "I know that if this goes wrong we'll be in battle in seven hours or so, but I can't sleep with my men out there. Neither can you."

  "It was always the waiting that killed me in the war. The easiest missions were when you just leapt in your fighter and went, off to battle with no time to think, no time to plan. Those long coasts, not knowing whether you were going to be alive or dead the next morning as you drifted towards the enemy, those were the worst."

  "I know exactly what you mean. Having to sit in my office, or in the control room, watching a trio of blips towards a target, blips that had names and faces, that were friends of mine."

  Marshall smiled, "You aren't the only one. I found that out myself the hard way. When they first gave me a squadron, it took a direct order from Tramiel to stop me leading every mission myself."

  "Not that you didn't trust your pilots, but you found it easier to order people to die if you were with them yourself."

  "Yes."

  They sat in silence for a moment; Marshall pulled open the bottom compartment on his desk and pulled out a bottle and a pair of glasses, placing them down carefully. At Cunningham's quizzical look, he poured two glasses, pushing one across to him, and taking a sip of the other.

  "Something to soothe the nerves a little. I picked this up in a little store on Mariner. Martian vodka, the one thing they've managed to get about right."

  Cunningham picked it up cautiously, "I'm not sure this is a good habit for a captain."

  "I've got sober-up pills in the next box. Work in less than thirty seconds. Feel free."

  He took a quick sip, then a deeper one. "I suppose everyone has their ways of coping."

  "As I recall, you made your way around the female pilots quite effectively." Marshall smiled, and took a deep drink, continuing, "Not that any of them complained, I understand. Except when you tried to have two, er, co-pilots at once."

  Cunningham chuckled, "There I thought I was being so discreet. There was a war on. The life expectancy was a pilot was, what, eight weeks by Second Vesta? They were throwing fighters together in the orbital factories with guesswork and hope, and training pilots with about the same qualities. Nothing long-term seemed to matter back then."

  Placing his glass down on the table, Marshall rested his hands on the desk, looking the older officer in the eyes, saying, "Let's get the elephant out of the room. Why did you try and have me court-martialed after Second Vesta?"

  His eyes grew cold, "You disobeyed orders. People died."

  "We took out a carrier, the only shred of victory we had in the battle. A lot more pilots died that day following orders."

  "Those were my pilots." His voice was rising.

  Marshall leaned back in his desk, nodding, "Yes. And they all knew the risks, and they all chose to go anyway. No-one drafted a fighter pilot, no-one dared."

  "My responsibility was to keep them alive. Not to see them get thrown away."

  "I know."

  "Ten out of twelve died from the squadron that day. Only you and Warren made it back."

  "And now he is out there facing similar odds, on a mission even more important." He paused for a second, but before Cunningham could reply, raised his hand, "And both of us would give anything in the universe to be out there with him. Or in his place."

  "Yes."

  "It took a lot for you to recommend the mission. I could see that on the bridge."

  Quietly, Cunningham looked at the desk, then took a large swig of his drink before replying, "I didn't know I had it left in me. I watched pilots arrive on Wright, month after month, then sent them home to their parents in bags, brief notes to say that they had died heroes. I can still see them, all of them."

  "That's the price we pay. Worse than dying; we have to live. But they won, John." That was the first time Marshall had ever used Cunningham's first name; it surprised them both.

  "They did. It didn't seem that way after Second Vesta."

  Marshall shook his head, "I hated you for a long time after that. I didn't understand why you hadn't gone until I made wing commander myself, right at the end of the war."

  "Tramiel ordered me to stay."

  "That doesn't surprise me. The curse of promotion. We live, our friends die, and after a while we don't get the chance to put ourselves at risk. Instead we have to send our friends, our successors out to fight instead, and watch them fight and die."

  "And when they die, so do we. A little inside, each time."

  "Yes," Marshall said, looking closely at Cunningham. His head was bowed, almost down on the desk; he poured him another glass of vodka, then stood up, looking around the room again.

  "Sometimes I don't think there's anything left inside, nothing left to give. Just an empty space where my soul used to me."

  "While you can still think that, your soul is just fine." Marshall pulled a datapad out of the pile on his desk. "I looked at your record again. I can see why Tramiel sent you here."

  "Should have known it wasn't an accident."

  "Deadeye said that he was killing two birds with one stone. I asked her at the time which I was."

  Cunningham looked up, "She used to hate that name, you know."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah." He frowned, "So, which are you?"

  Marshall smiled, "Oh, I'm a bird. The circumstances are the stone. Never mind the war, I wasn't a desk-bound officer long enough for me to rack up the nightmares too high. Just enough that I have some idea how you feel. My first mission as an independent commander, the first time I have my own ship, and a fifth of my crew come back dead."

  "Most of them were mutineers. You did what you had to do."

  "A lot of them weren't."

  Cunningham shook his head, "I think I understand what you are saying. I'm supposed to be some sort of a warning for you?"

  "That's exactly how the old bastard operates. And I'm supposed to shock you out of it, make you see what you are missing out on. In another time, another place, we're sitting on opposite sides of the desk."

  "I never thought about that, after the war. All I wanted to do was protect the people under my command, stop them dying uselessly. We were at peace, there was no reason to take any stupid risks."

  "Based on your record, you weren't shy about telling your commanders that."

  "No."

  "Why did you sign up, when the war began?"

  "I was a shuttle driver, like Orlova. Too much like her, really, I did a bit of smuggling in my day. Joining the service as a fighter pilot seemed like an adventure, I never thought it would last eight years. Afterward, well, my parents were on Earth, they'd pretty much disowned me, I didn't have any roots. Just the uniform."

  "That isn't enough."

  Smiling, Cunningham replied, "I told Orlova that not three weeks ago. I still have a job to do, and there isn't anywhere else to go, nowhere that I would fit. I swore an oath, and it still means something to me."

  "You realize that you've got only a couple of years with those wings on, even at best."

  "I know that."

  "What then?"

  "I haven't thought that far ahead." He looked out at the viewscreen, then said, "I want to stay in. I don't know what as, yet, but I want to stay in. The Service – Fleet now, I suppose – is the only family I've got left." He looked at Marshall again, slightly differently, "I'm sorry about Second Vesta."

  "I'd have done the same as you did."

  "What?"

  "I was a young idiot who took a stupid risk. It paid off, but it easily might not have. If someone under my command did something that reckless, I would probably be calling for him to be arrested, winner or no."

  "And you would have been as wrong as I was."

  "Perhaps. I suppose it depends on whether you are good enough to pull it off or not. Whether you can make the mad ideas work or not. Despite what I just said, if the same situation happened again, I think I'd probably do exactly the same thing again."

/>   Shaking his head, Cunningham took another drink, then said, "Sounds crazy."

  "I've got the rank to see both sides of the picture. I can see myself sitting in the cockpit as easily as I can see myself sitting in an office."

  "Just like you are doing now."

  "Yeah."

  Cunningham looked down at the desk again, "Thank you, Captain."

  "Danny. In here, anyway."

  "Danny, then. Thank you. I didn't think I had it in me to do this again. I'm still not sure I could do it again."

  "I am. You're still a good officer, John, and the fleet needs you. Badly. There's nothing wrong with caring about the lives of the men under your command."

  "As long as you know when they must be risked."

  Marshall paused, "To be fair, if you want, you don't have to risk it again. I suspect that the Commodore will find you a training or administrative position, if you want it. Probably get a promotion to go with it. If we can nursemaid this fleet out of its first year, we're going to need more pilots. You'd be a good choice to train them. Or I could recommend you be left in command on Desdemona; that garrison is going to need a commander. I'll even be attaching some fighters to it, I suspect."

  "I've spent the last eight years going from one meaningless command to another. The last thing I want is to start that chain again, pushing paperwork around a desk for the rest of my life. You said that this was my last chance to have a career, Danny? I think I'd like to take it. That doesn't mean poking around some old ruins for the rest of my life, either."

  "There is an alternative, if you want it."

  "What?"

  "Stay on Alamo. I can't guarantee that we'll have any fighters next time, but I'm sure I can find something interesting for you to do."

  "You realize that I will still question you, right? That I still consider your command style too reckless; that hasn't changed."

  "I know. That's why I want you to stay; I need an officer who will question me when necessary, who isn't afraid to take me on one side and tell me that I'm making a mistake. I need that, and the crew needs that."

  Cunningham shook his head, "I think you're crazy. I suspect I'll be thinking that for a long time, though. I accept. I'll be interested to see what you come up with me to fill my time with." He looked up at the clock, half-smiling, "We've managed to kill twenty minutes burying the hatchet, Danny."

  "We're going to give Caine a heart attack the next time she sees us together."

  "Still another ninety minutes to intercept. How good are those tablets of yours?" Cunningham held his half-empty glass up, "As a means of relieving tension, I could get used to this."

  "Doc Duquesne brewed up this batch."

  "Then by all means, Danny, you can pour me another one."

  Marshall raised his glass, and said, "Absent friends."

  "Absent friends."

  Chapter 26

  Orlova sat back in her couch, watching the course tracks converge on the target, the silent freighter Maru ahead. She'd run check after check of her systems, studied the specifications of the freighter, run simulations of the attack, until there was nothing left but to wait. With the projectors on, she sat floating in space, watching the small dot ahead begin to form into a shape.

  It was a strange feeling; four hours of waiting to engage in ninety seconds of furious action, ninety seconds to accomplish the mission. The fuel warning light continued to flash on and off on her console, pointlessly warning her that she no longer had enough fuel to influence her course. That didn't worry her; Alamo would be along to pick them up after the battle. She'd spent more time in smaller ships over the years, dragging around the outer Jovian system. The communicator crackled into life, and she looked up at the countdown. Three minutes to go.

  "Raven Leader to all Ravens, you read me?" Warren's voice echoed through the cockpit.

  "Raven Four, reading you," Orlova replied.

  "Raven Five, here," called Esposito.

  "We'll be going into battle in about a hundred and sixty seconds. First time for you both in the cockpit, I know, but you've been under fire enough that you know what that feels like. Just remember that each second, each action, each thought matters. You are in the cockpit because the computers, and the technical chaps who programmed them, don't know it all. You are there because of your instincts, because of your ability to throw in the random factor. Trust your instincts, trust your training, and do what is necessary, and we'll win with style. Good luck to you both."

  "Back at you, Raven Leader," Orlova said.

  "Understood, Raven Leader. I make a hundred and twenty seconds, mark."

  "Fly tight for the first missile launch so they can swarm in with their network, then break for the second and third. What you do after that is up to you, we'll be too tight on time for you to ask permission. Tally ho."

  "What?"

  Warren chuckled, "Old saying, Raven Four. You really need to read some history."

  Orlova placed her hands ready on the consoles, looking at the computer's plan of attack again. First missile at ten seconds into the firing window, then at forty and seventy seconds afterward. Shaking her head at the lack of imagination, she manually reset the firing times by mashing her hand on a keypad, reasoning that if she didn't know how the numbers had been picked, the enemy's combat computers would be unlikely to either; she ended up with twenty-six and fifty-one seconds for her firing window. The last forty seconds she could concentrate on resisting the expected attack. A little piece of her longed for her spacesuit, sitting in a locker back on Shakespeare Station, but the margin between 'holed' and 'destroyed' in a missile attack wasn't that great.

  Seventy seconds to go, and already it began to seem like an eternity. It was as if her perception of time was beginning to slow down, as she focused on the hundreds of different factors to consider. With eight percent fuel remaining, she did have enough of a margin to make some changes to her course, enough to swing her further away – or for that matter, take her closer. With a predatory smile, she started working at her navigational computer again, re-plotting her trajectory after the first missile launch to take her right down the throat of the Maru. Less time for either side to use their electronic warfare packages, but they had a lot more to lose than she did.

  Glancing down at the wings recently attached to her uniform, the predatory eagle that seemed to be swooping down to its prey, she looked around at her fighter. Six months ago, the idea that she would be wearing an officer's uniform, flying a fighter intercept, would have seemed crazy. The whole course of her life was twisting around, changing, and she still wondered why. Of course, in two minutes, all of those thoughts might be moot; she might simply be unrecognizable debris, drifting in space forever.

  Ten seconds to go. Buckling herself in to prepare for any quick maneuvers, she took one last look around at the stars, then turned her projectors off, flying instead by instruments. No distractions for the battle as the last few seconds sped away, the alert lights all beginning to flash red as her expert systems made the final preparations for combat. Four seconds. Three. Two.

  "Here we go! Attack, attack, attack," Warren yelled.

  Warning lights began to flash on, and her fighter's systems began their duel with the freighter's, pushing and pulling in a cybernetic tug-of-war to topple the other's defenses, allow for intrusion into computer systems, a battle neither side really expected to win, but both sides hoped might provide the edge that would decide the battle. Orlova's finger rested above the missile launch button, ready to jab it as the countdown ticked away, but the computer beat her to the punch.

  Four missiles leapt away from the fighters; Orlova frowned, spotting that Esposito had opted to fire twice in the first salvo rather than hold back, probably figuring that the extra computing power, the extra punch, might make all the difference in that impact. She couldn't focus on the missiles racing home, pushed back for a second as the computer implemented her course change. Smiling, she canceled out a proximity warning alarm; she wa
s passing within a mile of the freighter on this pass. Warren was on her tail, he'd slowed himself slightly to give a slightly wider firing window, and Esposito was pulling wide.

  The three fighters fanned out as their payloads raced towards the target. The readouts on Orlova's console gave her some idea of who was winning that particular battle; she cursed with disappointment as her missile went dark, knocked out the Maru's spooks, and concentrated on the others; then a pair of missiles raced away from the Maru, one heading for the missiles, the other heading for her, the closest target. With a brief flash, the Maru's first missile knocked out the first, tight salvo, always a risk with that tactic, and the remaining one headed for her.

  Tapping in a sequence of evasive maneuvers, her fighter began to lurch about on its thrusters while her defensive systems started to work, but the target was coming in just too rapidly. Another flash behind her as Warren fired his second missile, she quickly entered in a new firing command and rocked back slightly as her second missile went away, targeted not at the Maru but at its missile. With a satisfactory flash, her target hit home, and the incoming missile was knocked out. Only twenty-two seconds into the firing window, and they were down to three missiles across the entire formation.

  Her sensors flashed again, two more spikes of energy from the Maru as it launched a second pair of missiles, this time aimed at Warren and Esposito. Warren's would have to flash close to Orlova; she started to pulse out her defenses in a bid to help him out, but she couldn't help her friend. Too far out of range. Sensing problems, Warren and Esposito both launched their final missiles, neither of which were aimed at the incoming threats. They'd had a split-second choice to make, and both of them had opted to take another strike at the enemy rather than protect themselves.

  One missile left in the formation, and Orlova was almost at her closest distance to the Maru. There would be no time for any finesse with her shot, no time for anything other than a straight-line course. She disabled the targeting computers on the missile – they wouldn't be needed, not with the distance to be traveled only a handful of missiles, and unlocked the safety systems. Flight time would be less than a second. She poised herself to take the shot, eight seconds to go.