Wing Commander False Colors Chapter 12
| Chapter 12 | |
|---|---|
| |
| Book | Wing Commander False Colors |
| Parts | 3 |
| Previous | Chapter 11 |
| Next | Chapter 13 |
Text
Part One
Flight Wing Lounge, FRLS Karga
Orbiting Vaku VII, Vaku System
1925 hours (CST), 2670.358
Break left! Break left!" The voice in Bondarevsky's helmet receivers was urgent. "Come on, Captain, you can nail this guy!"
Bondarevsky pulled the joystick hard over, rolling to the left and trying to spot his quarry. The Strakha bucked and kicked as if it resented the very idea of a human pilot flying it, but he fought the controls and forced the fighter into the turn. He reached for the sensor controls to narrow the focus and try to get an accurate position estimate on the cloaked enemy fighter he knew was closing in for the kill, but a split second too late he realized he'd instinctively reached for the spot where they would have been located on one of the Ferrets he'd flown back in his days as Tarawa's Wing Commander. The sudden realization made him try to shift in mid-reach, but that sent his bionic arm into a feedback spasm.
The delay was fatal. The enemy Strakha decloaked bare meters off his starboard side, and the red flash of incoming fire washed through Jason Bondarevsky's cockpit.
The buzzer going off in his ear made him wince and grind his teeth. The cockpit opened up, revealing a crowd of men and women surrounding the simulator unit. Money was changing hands as they paid off their bets. Bondarevsky blinked in the glare of the lights.
"Bang, you're dead," Doomsday Montclair announced from the other simulator cockpit, climbing out with the aid of a pair of his squadron's younger pilots.
"I noticed," Bondarevsky replied dryly. "I've got to hand it to you, Doomsday. You haven't lost your edge."
Montclair grinned. "Didn't let them promote me out of the cockpit, skipper," he said. "But don't sweat it. You'll get the moves back. And if you don't, I'll be around to bail out your sorry ass!"
That sparked laughter from the audience. Bondarevsky started to clamber out of the cockpit, and Harper and Sparks were quick to help him. The simulator modules were cobbled together from a combination of Confederation and Kilrathi technology, mostly the former. The Kilrathi had less use for detailed simulations of flight missions than human pilots did. According to Jorkad lan Mraal, the senior pilot from the Nargrast survivors who had been working with Sparks on building the modules, the Empire preferred live-training exercises with real ships, real maneuvers, and live ammo.
Jorkad was there now, looking out of place amidst the revelry of the Flight Wing's Christmas party. The Christmas holiday was something the Kilrathi couldn't quite grasp. The message of "peace on Earth, good will toward men" was so alien to their way of life that they simply had nothing to compare it to. But a kil enjoyed a good party as much as any human, and Jorkad seemed to be developing a special fondness for eggnog.
"I was studying your performance, Captain Bondarevsky," he said gravely. Jorkad was always studiously correct and formal. At first some of the members of the wing had assumed it was a mask for some underlying hostility to the humans, but on closer acquaintance the general consensus was that Jorkad was just naturally serious and punctilious all the time. "Your instincts are good. But I fear your reactions have been somewhat slowed by your injuries. The artificial arm…"
"Is a problem sometimes, yes," Bondarevsky said, feeling impatient. He still didn't like discussing the plastilimb, especially not with a Cat. "I'm getting the hang of it."
He wasn't good at reading Kilrathi expressions, but he thought Jorkad's look might have been the Cat equivalent of a frown. "I believe that Hrothark and I could design an interface that would connect your arm directly into the controls of the fighter," he said. "It is possible that you could substantially improve your performance by having many of the onboard systems essentially controlled by thought—or at least by the muscular impulses associated with specific actions, such as operating sensors or firing weapons."
"Thanks, but no thanks," Bondarevsky said.
Jorkad studied him curiously. "I do not understand. Why would you reject something which could give you an advantage in combat? Particularly when it turns a current handicap around and makes it an asset instead?"
Bondarevsky shrugged. "I don't know if I can explain it, my friend," He held up his arm. "Look here. You can see that the limb is designed to look as much like a biological arm as possible. It would be a lot more efficient, and cost-effective too, for that matter, if it wasn't built this way, but you'll find most people prefer artificial limbs that don't look artificial."
The Kilrathi pilot gave a very human head nod, at the same time making the Cat grasping gesture that stood for understanding.
"The thing is," Bondarevsky went on, "a lot of us don't like to be forced to admit to something like this. I've got a machine doing the work of a limb, and I'm damned glad to have it, but I'd far rather have the original. And the last thing I want is to lose my humanity more than I already have by plugging myself into my cockpit like one more onboard system. I learned to fly by my gut, and I'd rather keep on doing it that way even if I have to work a little bit harder at it. Do you understand?"
"I believe I do, Captain," Jorkad said slowly. "Your sentiments are reminiscent of some of the passages in the Seventh Codex. You've given me much to think about."
"Glad I could help out," Bondarevsky muttered as the Cat pilot stalked away in search of a refill for his empty cup of eggnog.
"Well, well, Jason Bondarevsky trading philosophy with a Cat. I never thought I'd live to see the day." The crowd parted as Kevin Tolwyn approached, trailed by a junior lieutenant carrying a large, bulky box.
"I've swapped that kind of stuff with stranger types than him," Bondarevsky said with a smile. "In fact, I'm looking at one now."
Tolwyn's expression was one of mock horror. "I'm wounded! To be insulted so, and by my own dear mentor! Maybe I'll just call off this whole Christmas thing right here and now."
"Christmas thing?" Bondarevsky frowned. "Please tell me you didn't…"
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to give you anything." Tolwyn grinned at him. Bondarevsky had never been much for celebrating Christmas, beyond putting in the expected appearances at the festivities held by the people in his command. Born and raised on Razin, a distant frontier world settled by Russians of mostly Eastern Orthodox religion, Bondarevsky had been brought up to celebrate Epiphany, the baptism rather than the Nativity of Christ, and even yet he still was apt to keep the Twelfth-Night holiday rather than the more traditional Christmas Day. He and Kevin had a long-standing tradition of not exchanging presents until Epiphany. "No, I brought over a gift from all of the Liberators to all of you…whatever it is you're going to call yourselves. Lieutenant, if you please…"
His assistant stepped forward and set the box down on the table. "Open it up, Jason," Tolwyn said.
He looked at the box for a long moment, half-expecting some kind of prank. Then he noticed that the lid of the box was pierced by half a dozen small holes, and that piqued his curiosity. Just what was Tolwyn up to, anyway?
Bondarevsky lifted the lid and looked inside. There, almost invisible in the shadows, a pair of green eyes regarded him curiously.
"Thrakhath!" he said. He reached in and lifted out the black cat, who responded by rubbing on his chin and purring loudly. That set off laughter from the officers clustered nearby. "Kevin, are you sure about this? I had the idea Thrakhath was kind of a favorite of yours. This one, at least."
Tolwyn grinned. "Yeah, I like him a lot better than I ever liked the one from Kilrah, but there's a dozen cats on Independence to keep our rodent population under control. And we thought you guys could use a mascot over here. Given your new home and all, it just seemed like a good idea."
Bondarevsky put the cat down on the table, but kept petting him. "Just as long as he doesn't cause as much trouble as his namesake…"
"Oh, he'll cause a lot more than that." Tolwyn grinned again. "And he'll bring bad luck to anybody who crosses his path. Like Ragark and his Kilrathi…"
"Or the confees!" one of the pilots called from the back of the watching crowd. "Or anybody else who gets in our way!"
Tolwyn looked embarrassed. "Anyway, Merry Christmas from the Liberators to…" He trailed off. Bondarevsky's command had been officially designated as FW-137, but it didn't have a name as yet. The carrier hadn't even received a formal Landreich Navy name yet.
"The Black Cats!" a voice from the crowd declared loudly. Commander Alexandra Travis came forward and stretched out a hand to scratch Thrakhath behind the ears. The animal looked satisfied with himself and redoubled his contented purring. "What do you say, Captain? What better name for a Flight Wing operating off a Cat carrier, with Cat fighters, and probably in Cat space, sooner or later?"
There were plenty of comments from the others, and they all sounded favorable. Bondarevsky nodded. "All right, the Black Cats it is." He paused. "Mr. Harper, I am hereby appointing you as Chief Cat-tender, with all the duties and responsibilities that traditionally go with that post. And somebody else is going to have to explain all this to Murragh. I sure as hell don't want to tell him we've got a house pet named after his cousin."
"To hear him talk," Travis said, "house pet would be a step up from what Murragh's people think of their ex-Prince." She grinned. "But you know we'll be bad luck to anybody who crosses our path!"
Tolwyn and his aid stayed on for a drink, then left to catch the tail end of the Christmas party aboard their own ship. Soon after they had taken their leave Bondarevsky stopped at a side table to refill his drink, and encountered Travis once again.
"So…you lost your simulator duel, huh?" she said. "The legend has feet of clay after all. I lost ten credits on you, Captain."
"Sorry, Commander," he said with a faint smile. "If I'd've known you were betting on me I would have worked harder."
She returned the smile. "Or bet against me and thrown the fight deliberately," she said, arching one eyebrow. "Seriously, though, how did it feel? Do you think it's an accurate simulation of a Strakha?"
Her interest was understandable. Alexandra Travis had been designated as squadron commander for VF-401, one of the new fighter squadrons being organized aboard the supercarrier. Once she and her pilots finished training, they'd be flying the squadron of Strakha fighters salvaged from the Kilrathi planes on board. Her previous experience had been confined to the Raptor heavy fighter, and they had little in common in terms of handling with the Cat Strakhas.
Bondarevsky was impressed by her record and by the skill she'd displayed getting her squadron in shape these last few days. Of all his new squadron commanders she was the one who seemed most in tune with him, her mind often following the same leaps of imagination that his own did as they discussed the ways and means of making the Flight Wing work.
"I don't know how accurate it is," he said, "but Sparks and Jorkad seem to think it isn't too far from the real thing. If it's anything like the simulator, the Strakha's going to be heavy going. Big and mean, but not exactly subtle…except for the stealth technology. I guess the Cats figured they had a cloak, so why bother making the thing nimble too? Takes some getting used to when you've come out of the high-maneuverability school."
"Sort of like trying to fly a shuttle after a stretch of duty with Hornets," she said, nodding.
"Well, not quite that bad, maybe," he said, remembering his landing on Independence and how clumsy the shuttle controls had seemed. "I figure with enough sim time it won't be too much of a problem getting these Cat planes down cold. I have to admit, though, that it's pretty strange thinking of how to use them in combat, and not just how to beat them."
She laughed. "You could say the same thing about this whole operation," she said. "A year ago a Cat was just something to shoot at. Now I'm starting to understand how they think…and it's starting to scare me. Sometimes I wonder how we managed to hold them off so long. They sure as hell know how to build a carrier."
Bondarevsky nodded. "I know what you mean. And working with the Cats from Murragh's bunch…they're not exactly what we always thought they were, are they?"
Before she could reply they were interrupted by a chord from Aengus Harper's guitar. The young lieutenant had found himself a perch on one of the tables and taken the battered-looking instrument out of its case. For a moment he contented himself with strumming chords, apparently at random.
"Well, the Bard of the Spaceways is at it again," Bondarevsky commented with a smile. "What's it going to be tonight, Lieutenant? More of your old Irish rabble-rousing songs?"
"Ah, now, sir, should I be playin' such things and ignoring the spirit of the season?" Harper replied with his easy, charming grin. "No, tonight I'll not be speakin' of the Gaels and their long struggle for freedom, more's the pity. Instead I thought I'd give you a Christmas song me auld mither taught me when I was just a lad."
He started picking the strings with practiced skill, closing his eyes and starting to sing in a soft, pleasant voice. It was a song Bondarevsky hadn't heard for years. The crowd was rapt as the young Taran sang the story of the child Jesus and his scornful playmates in Egypt, and the miracles that alarmed their mothers.
Thinking of the work they'd done on Karga, Bondarevsky couldn't help but think the lieutenant's choice was deliberate…and apt. They'd all worked their share of miracles out here on the edge of the frontier, and after this holiday was past they'd be right back in the miracle-working business once more.
Part Two
Lutz Mannheim Starport, Newburg
Landreich, Landreich System
1039 hours (CST), 2670.364
"There's a visitor at the airlock to see you, Captain. Do you want to see anybody?"
Captain Wenona Springweather looked up from the computer terminal on her desk at her First Mate, who stood just inside the door of her day cabin with an apologetic look on his face. "Does this visitor have a name?" she asked irritably. Two solid hours had gone by since the Vision Quest had grounded and Landreich Port Authority officers had swarmed aboard, each armed with questionnaires and computer forms that she had to fill out personally, it seemed, before the scout ship could secure permission to berth at the starport at all, much less apply for the free overhaul Admiral Richards had promised her before the start of the voyage.
She suspected that Captain Galbraith was behind the extra attention she was receiving. He hadn't been at all happy with the scout ship's performance on the way home. Springweather couldn't help it if her jump coils had worn through coming out of hyperspace at Oecumene, and the cycle time for an interstellar hop was running anywhere up to five times as long as it should. If Galbraith had sent over the parts and technical experts she'd asked for when the problem first developed she could have put the problem to rest then and there, but Galbraith wasn't the sort of Navy man who'd extend a helping hand to a frontier scout. So Vision Quest had slowed Independence down, and now it seemed Galbraith was exacting his revenge by inflicting petty bureaucracy on her. At this point a visitor would be a welcome relief…unless he turned out to be another bureaucrat.
"I'm sorry, skipper, but he wouldn't give a name. Looks like a merchant skipper…a prosperous one, by the cut of his clothes. Said he had a business proposal for you."
She grinned. "When have you ever known me to turn away the chance to make a credit or two, Frank? Send the gentleman up, by all means."
Springweather managed to finish going over the Customs Manifest, appending her retinal print to the computer file just as the visitor arrived at her door. He was a tall, gaunt man with dark hair and a down-turning mustache that made him look like a pirate right out of a historical holo-vid romance. His eyes, studying her, burned with the intensity of a man with a mission.
She stood and rounded the desk, extending a hand. "I'm Wenona Springweather. Captain, for what it's worth, of the Vision Quest. My Mate tells me you've some business for us. How can I be of service?"
"My name is Zachary Banfeld," he said, taking the hand.
Springweather's eyes narrowed. That was a name she'd heard before. But she had never expected to meet one of the most notorious men on the frontier.
Banfeld was the organizer and leader of a group that called itself "The Guild," a loose association of ship-captains and businessmen from a dozen worlds along the frontier, and not just within the Landreich's sphere of influence. Ostensibly they were civilians who had banded together for mutual protection and support during the war, but in fact rumor had it that they were much more than harmless merchants. Pooling their funds, they had bought weapons to arm their merchant ships, and even managed to acquire a small, antiquated escort carrier and some Confederation fighters. All this was supposed to be used to convoy merchant traffic along the dangerous frontier trade routes, but there were stories that suggested Banfeld's Guild operated as privateers—some said outright pirates—raiding shipping and remote planetary outposts and selling the proceeds at a substantial profit.
He seemed to sense her reaction to his name, and gave her a thin-lipped smile. "My reputation no doubt precedes me, Captain, but I assure you I'm not at all the way I'm portrayed on the holo-casts. Neither Robin Hood nor Blackbeard…just Zack Banfeld, trying to do my job."
"And that job is?" She let a hint of ice creep into her tone. Wenona Springweather was as mercenary as any frontier scout, but her motto had always been to steer clear of the war and everything it represented. Banfeld, on the other hand, took entirely too much interest in conflict.
His smile turned wolfish. "Why, simply turning a profit, Captain," he said. "And, if I can, helping out the small shipowner from time to time."
"Such as now?" she asked. "What sort of help did you have in mind for me?"
"Just a chance to make a large sum of money in return for a few small bits of information," he said blandly. "About the work you've been doing the past several weeks."
"My last two trips have been classified by the Landreich government," she told him. "They've been employing me as a consultant, and you must understand that I couldn't go around selling secrets."
He shrugged. "It's fairly well known by now that you found a Kilrathi derelict. That news has been circulating around the bars for weeks. I'm…interested in learning the details, though. If the government is no longer interested in this ship, it might be an excellent source for parts, equipment that sort of thing."
"And if the government is still interested?"
"Then I may still be able to turn a profit. Providing supply transport, for example, to and from the hulk. That sort of thing. I can't really say how The Guild might get involved until I know more details. But if I could obtain a little inside information, I'd not only know what to offer, but maybe I could get an inside track on the bidding."
"As far as I know, the government's not using civilian contractors out there," she said. "I was there because I found the thing in the first place. But the rest seems to be entirely a Navy operation. I'm sorry, but I don't really think I can help."
His eyes flashed for an instant. Then the smile was back. "Come, come, Captain. You haven't even heard my offer. Fifty thousand for your information, and a ten percent share of any profits I might turn from it."
"Fifty thousand…" That was substantially more than Max Kruger had paid her for the original information about the Karga. Tempted, she turned and walked to the far side of the office, gazing out the small transplast porthole over her desk at the busy starport outside. Finally she turned back, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."
"You're afraid I might misuse the information?" He was frowning now. "Look, from what you say the government is already there, and from the size of the battle group that went out and didn't come back with you and Independence I'd say they were protecting this derelict pretty damned well. What am I going to do? Sell the story to the Cats? Even if they were interested, they couldn't do much without mounting a damned big raid, and by the time they did anything the Navy would be ready for them. Anyway, dealing with Cats is hardly ever profitable. And I swear all I'm trying to do is make a good business move ahead of the pack."
She studied him for a long moment, her thoughts prey to conflicting emotions. Despite his reputation Banfeld had generally played the part of a patriot during the war, though he'd also turned a handsome profit at the same time. She didn't really think he'd betray anything she told him to the Kilrathi. And fifty thousand credits…
Her eyes came to rest on the computer terminal where she'd been poring over the Landreich's forms and endless bureaucratic garbage. What did she really owe the government now, anyway? She'd done the job they'd hired her to do, led Richards and his men to the Karga and then wasted months hanging around waiting for them to decide to pay what they owed her. And Galbraith had treated her ship and crew like so much debris the whole trip back. If she chose to make some extra money off her find at Vaku, how would that hurt Max Kruger or his lackeys?
Fifty thousand credits…
"I'd want a contract, Mr. Banfeld," she said at last. "Not that I don't trust you, but…"
He smiled again, his eyes burning hotter. "I anticipated the need, Captain. Shall we go over it now?"
Part Three
Terran Confederation Embassy Compound,
Newburg
Landreich, Landreich System
1315 hours (CST)
"We have them, Commissioner. We have Richards, Tolwyn, and Kruger! All we have to do is decide how to deal with them."
Clark Williams regarded Colonel Mancini with a sour look. "Not more of your rumors," he said. "More barroom gossip about Kilrathi ships abandoned in the sector. I've had just about enough of hearing all the drunken speculations of the bums who hang out at those places down in Startown."
"Not a rumor this time, sir," Mancini said. "This time we have the information straight from the source. Vision Quest landed this morning."
"What?" He sat upright, his chair creaking under him. "Get the Springweather woman in here as soon as possible! We'll squeeze everything she knows out of her…"
"That won't be necessary," Mancini said. "Fact is, one of our agents spotted her arrival and moved on his own initiative. Tied her up aboard ship by persuading the authorities to give her more than the usual share of Inward Clearance nonsense, and then moved in for the kill." He smiled. "It's amazing how much you can get when you combine greed and frustration in one package."
"Well? What did your agent get?"
"I'll let him tell you himself." Mancini touched a stud on his shirt sleeve, activating a tiny communications device. "Send him in."
The door opened a moment later to admit Zachary Banfeld. "Ah, Commissioner," the newcomer said pleasantly. "Good to see you again."
Williams nodded. "And you, Mr. Banfeld. It's been…what? Two years now?"
"Since that little situation on Freya. Yeah." Banfeld smiled as he took a seat beside the CSB colonel. "That was quite a nice little operation, as I recall."
Williams studied the man assessingly. Here on the frontier Zachary Banfeld was regarded as something between a romantic highwayman and a black-hearted pirate, depending on who you asked, but no one suspected that he was also a freelance agent of the Confederation government. The Guild really did do legitimate business, organizing merchant convoys and taking on contracts to ship needed materials through spacelanes no other civilian trader would willingly travel. And it sponsored privateering raids, hitting vulnerable targets and looting them for resale later. Banfeld's people also dabbled in black market deals, arms smuggling, mercenary operations, and training local militias to handle combat situations.
Behind all these dealings, though, Banfeld also took on odd jobs for the Confederation from time to time, especially in the last few years. He had been recruited, not only by Mancini's CSB, but by the other, more shadowy organization that Williams and Mancini both belonged to—the Belisarius Group. And he had been a useful tool on several occasions of late, when Belisarius needed to flex its muscles out here on the frontier without any direct Confederation involvement in frontier affairs. Guild ships had staged a few raids on Landreich outposts to confuse the issue after Kruger had started complaining of Kilrathi incursions, for instance, leaving clear-cut evidence of human pirates at work. And they had raided into Kilrathi space as well, to keep the pot boiling and to make it look as if Ragark was being provoked into action by Kruger and his "irresponsible warmongers."
Zachary Banfeld was a man with a mission. He had grown rich and powerful along the frontier by exploiting the war between humans and Kilrathi. With the end of the war his shadow empire was threatened, and he wanted nothing more than to see the fighting start again so he and his could get back to their business of profiteering, privateering, and pirating. Fortunately, that goal was perfectly in accord with the needs of the Belisarius Group.
"All right, Mr. Banfeld, the Colonel tells me you have information we can use." Williams smiled coldly. "What have you found out?"
"The stories about the government finding a Kilrathi derelict were true, after all," Banfeld said. "A supercarrier that was caught in a battle but not quite destroyed, out in the Vaku system. Kruger's expeditionary force went there with the idea of recommissioning the ship and adding it to his fleet. Apparently the job is well in hand." He went on to describe the situation as Springweather had explained it to him.
When he was done, Mancini summed it up. "So what we have here is a supercarrier that could alter the entire balance of forces in the region if it completes repairs and joins the FRLN. But for the moment she's still weak. Her combat shields still aren't operating, and she only has half of a flight wing for protection until their pilots train on the Kilrathi planes they're salvaging."
Williams frowned. "That ship could ruin everything we've been working for," he said. "The only alternative I can see is to take it out of the picture now, before it becomes operational."
"My thoughts exactly," Mancini said. "Mr. Banfeld, I think your strike force might be of use to us once again. Do you have enough information to do the job, or should we arrange for a more…thorough talk with the good Captain Springweather? I could have Y-12 pick her up and interrogate her further, if you wish." Y-12 was the designation of the Belisarius Group's covert operations unit. Mancini held the rank of colonel in that organization, as well as the Confederation Security Bureau.
"She gave me everything I need," Banfeld said. "Even to the fact that they're having trouble with their sensors in the ring system around the gas giant. And more than that. They're still getting the bulk of their shielding from the tender. Take that out and Karga has no shields. That's how her first crew was killed, stuck in orbit with no screens against the radiation and no engines to pull them clear in time. All I have to do is hit that tender, and we've solved the problem."
Mancini smiled thoughtfully. "And if you can minimize the damage to the rest of the ship, we might put a crew of our own aboard her. Think what a nice job a Kilrathi supercarrier raiding a few outlying colonies could do to turn up the war fever a few more degrees."
Williams shrugged. "That's a nice thought, but I'd rather be sure the carrier's out of action. If it comes to a choice, don't hesitate to blow it out of space."
"I'll be sure to stick to the appropriate priorities, Commissioner," Mancini said. "Count on it."
"You've never let us down yet," Williams said. "All right, you've both done an excellent job. Especially you, Mr. Banfeld." He paused. "You said Springweather reported some Kilrathi were working with the Landreichers?"
"That's what she said. Rescued from a habitable moon in the system, apparently." Banfeld made a dismissive gesture. "She didn't know much about them. She wasn't at too many of the briefings, and Richards and Tolwyn mostly kept her in the dark about the details of what was going on. But apparently they were survivors from the fighting who escaped before the end of the battle, and they were grateful enough to the Landreichers to help them with the repair job."
"I don't like it," Williams said. "A kil doesn't work with a human without a damned good reason, and they wouldn't think gratitude was reason enough to show a bunch of humans how one of their carriers was put together. Something's rotten here. I'd like to know what."
Mancini shrugged. "If our friend Zachary is successful, it will be a moot point," he said. "The Cats will be as dead as Richards, Tolwyn, and Bondarevsky. That's all that really matters."
"I suppose you're right." Williams sighed. "But it would have been interesting to know what could make a kil cooperate with a human. It would be useful if we could recruit a few agents on the other side of the border."
"We're doing fine as we are, Commissioner," Mancini avowed. "The Cats are easy to manipulate without having to get them as buddies. Or at least the ambitious ones like Ragark are. Everything's falling into place. All we have to do is make sure that this carrier doesn't disrupt the plan."
Williams nodded. The Belisarius Group was dedicated to rekindling the war between the Confederation and the Empire, and so far the plan to make it happen out here in the Landreich was going smoothly. In the two months since Richards and his expedition had been gone the raids had increased in frequency and scope, sometimes helped along by Banfeld's pirates. Kruger was facing a political crisis at home, too, brought on by Councilman Galbraith's faction and their demands for a larger say in government affairs. They were hamstringing Kruger's attempts to increase his defense budget, insisting on pouring more money into domestic programs instead. And Kruger, being Kruger, was only making the situation worse by his stubborn attempts to prove he could run the Landreich without the support of his own Council. With luck the internal problems would be coming to a head just about the time Ragark finally moved in force. The Landreich would be overrun, and the Confederation would have to step in to stabilize the threatened frontier.
Yes, it was coming together nicely, the whole Belisarius operation. They'd named their group for the famous Roman general who had fought brilliantly for an emperor who had no military talent of his own, only to be betrayed by the suspicious ruler when it seemed likely the legions would offer him the Imperial purple. Belisarius had been a fool not to take his army and march on Constantinople to seize the throne for himself. The Belisarius group was determined that they would not allow the same kind of betrayal by civilian authorities at home to ever take place. They would do what Belisarius should have done—strike first, take power, and ensure the future of human civilization. If they had to sacrifice Max Kruger's Landreich along the way…well, that was a small enough cost to pay.
Banfeld broke in to his reverie. "When do you want us to hit them?" he asked.
"I want you to move as quickly as you can," Williams told him. "We want to nail Tolwyn and Richards before they have a chance to get the carrier in any better shape than it already is. And we want to make sure we hit them hard."
