Graham Paul - The battle of Devastation reef

In his head, Michael finished the sentence for her: “… which is why I proposed a crew of ten in the first place, you idiots.” Sometimes he wondered whether the people who ran Fleet had any brains at all.

“… so I want you along with the systems engineering and tactics people to get together when we’re finished here to work out where real, live human beings can be most useful. We all know that Fleet is desperately short of spacers after Comdur, and especially those with navigation and warfare qualifications. There is no point asking for people they don’t have, so don’t. Okay?”

“Sir.”

“Good. Next, command and control. Today Fleet will be announcing the formal establishment of Dreadnought Force effective this Thursday. It will also announce my appointment as commander. That means-”

Jaruzelska stopped when the room erupted, all of them coming to their feet, clapping and cheering. This was good news. Fleet canceled projects all the time. Forces in being could not be canceled-not easily, anyway-and that meant, for all the hostility they aroused, dreadnoughts were here to stay.

Slowly, the noise died down, and Jaruzelska was able to continue. “I was about to say,” she said, “that means the future of dreadnoughts is assured, but I guess I don’t have to. I think you just worked that out for yourselves.”

Jaruzelska joined in the laughter sweeping the room, but the good humor did not last long. “Fleet will also be announcing the appointment of Rear Admiral Van Perkins as Deputy Commander, Dreadnought Forces. He will join us in October.”

In a flash, the mood in the room changed. Michael swore silently. The political fix was in. Perkins was no friend of dreadnoughts, though to say that was a more than charitable view of his unforgiving opposition. Just how in the hell having someone like Perkins-combat-proven commander though he was-around would make anyone’s life better, how it would make dreadnoughts work, he could not begin to imagine.

“Now,” Jaruzelska continued, “those are the key points from my meeting. Before I hand over to Captain Tuukkanen, let me make one thing crystal clear. I will expect everyone posted to Dreadnought Force to be committed-nothing less than body and soul-to making dreadnoughts work. No, not expect … I demand that everyone posted to Dreadnought Force be committed to making dreadnoughts work, and I can assure you there will be no exceptions. None.”

Sullen silence turned to stunned amazement. Michael whistled softly; Jaruzelska was being dangerously frank in response to the question everyone wanted an answer to: How committed would Perkins be? Afterward, Michael would swear that a surge of fierce loyalty to Jaruzelska had nearly overwhelmed him, and, not for the first time, he marveled at her ability to get the best out of her people.

“Okay, folks. That’s it from me. Captain Tuukkanen?”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Jaruzelska’s chief of staff said, striding to the podium. “Turning to less exciting matters. First up …”

Dreadnought Project Conference Room,

Comdur Fleet Base

Michael’s head hurt.

When he was not having the stuffing kicked out of him in the sims, he sat in interminable meetings like this one, called to work out how best to meet Fleet’s demands that the Block 1 dreadnoughts carry an extra five crew members. He wondered about Fleet’s priorities sometimes: all this management effort over such a trivial matter just to placate the antidreadnought faction. It was nuts. But at least this meeting-unlike far too many he had been forced to attend-promised a result without spawning working groups, assessment teams, cross-functional impact studies, and all the other bureaucratic paraphernalia so loved by Fleet staffers.

The meeting’s chair, Commander Andraschi, a systems engineering commander Michael did not know well, had the floor; thankfully she was summing up. “We’re agreed. We can ask for extra personnel all we like, but if Fleet cannot supply them, we’re wasting our time. That leaves us with landers. The marines were least affected by Comdur, so we have plenty of them along with assault landers and their pilots. Adding a lander will give our dreadnoughts capabilities-limited, I know-that they would not otherwise have. A single heavy assault lander with command pilot and minimal crew takes the complement to fifteen.”

She turned to Michael. “This is your show. Can you live with that?”

“Can, sir,” Michael said. “Beggars can’t be choosers, and we have more than enough landers to go around.” It was true; more by luck than by good judgment, the planetary assault vessels carrying the Fed marine expeditionary force tasked with the invasion of the Hammer Worlds had been out in deepspace when the Hammers attacked Comdur. An idea hit him. “Hang on a minute, sir. If I’m to carry one, why not a Block 6 lander? They’re pinchspace jump-capable. And that,” he added, eyes lighting up, “is a capability well worth having.”

Andraschi glanced at everyone in turn. “Anybody see a problem with that? No? Me neither. A lander’s a lander’s a lander, after all, and I think the admiral will agree. If she does, I can’t see Fleet arguing the point. Right, enough talk,” she said firmly. “Decision made. The final report will recommend a Block 6 lander with a crew of five.”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael said, pleased with the win, even if it was a small one.

“Right, we’re done here, I think. We all have more than enough to be getting on with.”

While the meeting broke up in a welter of noise, Michael’s neuronics pinged. He accepted the call. It was the personnel office.

“Lieutenant Helfort, sir, Warrant Officer Morriset, Personnel. I thought you’d like to know that your crew has arrived. We’ve just finished processing them. They’ll be ready for you in Conference-3 in five minutes, if that’s okay.”

“Thanks. I’ll meet them there.”

“No worries, sir.”

After he dropped the call, Michael forced air into lungs tight with anticipation. All of a sudden things were turning serious. Within a matter of weeks, he would be a full-blown captain in command, responsible for taking a warship and its crew into action against the Hammers and-far more important-for bringing them back alive.

Taking another deep breath, he set off for Conference-3, his spirits rising with every step. It would be good to be part of a team again, and even better, he would have Chief Petty Officer Matti Bienefelt as his coxswain. If the world’s largest spacer could not keep him-and Tufayl -on the straight and narrow, nobody could. After all he and Bienefelt had been through together-in DLS-387 , in Eridani , in Adamant when they captured the Hammer cruisers McMullins and Providence Sound along with their precious outfits of antimatter warheads-it would be good to have her back onboard.

His executive officer was another matter. Junior Lieutenant Jayla Ferreira, barely months out of Space Fleet College, was one of the lucky few able to return to active duty after her first ship, the light cruiser Sailfish , was badly damaged at the Battle of Comdur. He hoped she was half the spacer Matti Bienefelt was.

“Attention on deck!” his new executive officer barked when Michael entered the room, and the ship’s company of Tufayl leaped to their feet, snapping to attention. “Dreadnought Tufayl all present and accounted for, sir,” she said, hand to forehead in an impeccable salute.

“Thank you. Take your seats, everyone.” Michael paused until the crew of Tufayl settled down. Nine faces stared back at him. Matti Bienefelt he knew, of course; as for the rest, all volunteers, he knew only what their service records told him. On paper, they appeared solid-Jaruzelska’s ruthless selection process had seen to that-but only time would tell how good they really were.