Operation Opera headquarters, Comdur Fleet Base
The conference room stayed silent when the speaker paused.
“So to sum up, the concept of operations for Operation Opera envisages a battle-fleet-sized operation spearheaded by the dreadnought force”-an ugly murmur filled the air-“with conventionally crewed ships and a marine landing force following up. Their task will be the destruction of the Hammer antimatter plant.”
The speaker, a young captain from Fleet’s plans division, stopped again. “And let me just make this point,” he continued. “Dreadnoughts are the only way to make this operation a success. That is,” he said, his words deliberate, “unless you consider the loss of more than sixty heavy cruisers along with their entire crews an acceptable casualty rate. Well, I don’t … and I suspect none of you do, either. Unless there are any questions, I would like to hand over to Warfare Division for their critique … No questions? Thank you. Captain al-Fulani?”
Michael wanted to stand up and cheer. Of all Fleet’s staff divisions, plans-traditionally home to some of the best and brightest minds in Fleet-was the only one wholeheartedly in support of dreadnoughts, and it was good to see a staffer with the balls to stand up in public and say so. He watched Captain al-Fulani make her way to the lectern. Michael had met al-Fulani only once; it was enough. She-not to mention her division-was as implacably opposed to dreadnoughts as Plans was supportive.
“Thank you,” al-Fulani said, “though regarding the reliance of the concept of operations on dreadnoughts, we would like it noted that we don’t support-”
“Enough!” Fleet Admiral Kefu cut al-Fulani off, his voice harsh. The chief of the defense force stood up. He turned to look at the assembled staffers, making no attempt to conceal his anger.
“The objections of those of you,” Kefu said carefully, deliberately, “who cannot accept that dreadnoughts have any part to play have been heard … considered … and taken into account. But it seems I still have to remind far too many of you that we don’t have the luxury of endless debate. If we do not deal with the Hammers and soon, we may find ourselves arguing over the ashes of dead planets. Our home planets. My home planet. My home. My family.”
Kefu paused, looking hard at the officers arrayed in front of him. “I will not allow that to happen. So, for those of you a bit slow to understand what’s going on, listen up, because I will not be saying this again. The role of dreadnoughts in the attack on the Hammer antimatter plant will be exactly as recommended by Plans Division. The commander in chief has made that decision. I have formally endorsed it. So stop wasting your time and mine by prolonging an argument that is over.”
Kefu stood silent for a moment, face flushed with anger. “Now … if there is anyone here,” he said with great deliberation, “who cannot live with that decision, you should leave. I will expect your resignations on my desk first thing tomorrow morning … Anyone … no takers? Good. It seems that military discipline does still mean something. I must say I was beginning to wonder.”
Making an obvious effort to regain control, Kefu turned to look at al-Fulani. “Captain. How about you? You seem happy to question the decisions of your superiors in an open forum. Should I expect your resignation?” Kefu’s tone was brutal.
Fascinated, Michael watched al-Fulani squirm. It was not often that Fleet officers committed professional suicide in public, but al-Fulani just had. Kefu was an unforgiving man, and he never, ever forgot. The woman was finished, her career flushed down the crapper. If she had any sense, she would resign.
“Well?” Kefu barked.
“My apologies, sir,” al-Fulani replied, her face red with a mix of embarrassment, anger, and fear. “I’m in, sir,” she stammered, “of course.”
“I bloody well hope so,” Kefu said venomously. “I have better things to do than keep insubordinate Fleet staffers in line.” He turned to look at the head of Fleet’s warfare division. “Admiral Chenoweth. I do not need your people second-guessing the commander in chief’s decisions. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir,” the admiral said, his face betraying anger at the humiliation Kefu was heaping on him. “It will not happen again.”
“For your sake, Admiral, I hope it doesn’t,” Kefu said, sitting down. “Captain al-Fulani, please continue.”
“Thank you, sir, … er,” al-Fulani said, clearly rattled by Kefu’s savage response. There was an awkward pause before she recovered enough to continue. “Yes … Warfare Division has analyzed the concept of operations, and we believe it has the following weaknesses. First, …”
In the end, after hours of sometimes rancorous argument, the conference came down to a single issue. Michael watched transfixed while Vice Admiral Jaruzelska marshaled her thoughts. This conference-an initial briefing for the captains of the ships involved in Operation Opera, the operation to destroy the Hammer antimatter plant-was his first opportunity to see firsthand how the men and women responsible for the defense of the Federated Worlds worked. For Michael, one of the most junior officers present by a big margin, it was an education in itself. An unholy mix of politics, expediency, strategy, power, and ill-concealed ambition transformed the conference into a brutal contest refereed with ruthless efficiency by Fleet Admiral Kefu.
It was a long way from the dry and dusty debate he had expected, and now it was Jaruzelska’s turn to enter the ring. She had a fight on her hands; sadly, if Kefu’s body language offered any guide, it was a fight she was not going to win.
“Sir,” Jaruzelska said to Kefu, “I have to call this the way I see it. Yes, we can launch Operation Opera within six weeks, but that would be inadvisable and imprudent.”
She paused. Utterly absorbed, Michael stared not at Jaruzelska but at Kefu. The admiral’s face tightened noticeably at Jaruzelska’s uncompromising tone. You’re going to lose this, Admiral Jaruzelska, Michael decided.
“It will be extremely tight,” Jaruzelska continued, “and not just for the dreadnoughts. This is a complex operation. Logistics will be tight, as will the operations designed to draw Hammer forces away from Devastation Reef. All of that can be man-”
“Cut to the chase, Admiral, please. We don’t have all day,” Kefu said.
“No, sir, we don’t. But to expect the follow-on dreadnought squadrons to be combat-ready in a matter of weeks is unrealistic. To throw those ships into an assault on the most heavily defended, the most important target we have ever attacked before they are ready is to invite their destruction. Not that losing ships is the problem”-she paused to look around the room-“but losing them for no good reason certainly is. To go early has no merit. The Hammer plant is not going anywhere. Delay Opera by three months and you will have an operational dreadnought force-thirty properly trained, operationally effective ships-to spearhead the attack. And that means our chances of success will be significantly greater. It’s that simple, sir.”
Michael watched Jaruzelska fight to turn the argument her way. The admiral’s logic was faultless, but he had no doubts where the issue would finish up. The decision to go early had been made; that much was obvious from what Kefu had said, and the politicians among Fleet staff-which, in Michael’s jaundiced view, was all of them-were falling in behind him. The one person who might have swung the issue-the commander in chief, Admiral Shiu-had sided with the “go early” lobby, so go early it was.
Michael tuned out of what fast became an utterly pointless argument, an argument Jaruzelska was never going to win, his mind turning to the pressing issue of how to turn two young and inexperienced officers into effective dreadnought squadron commanders in half the time he needed. Rao and Machar might have been picked after a ruthless selection process that confirmed their innate tactical brilliance, but that did not give him any guarantees that they would hold up under the severe pressure of combat, even with Jaruzelska’s support and guidance.
Considering what he was expected to achieve with his dreadnoughts, Michael was strangely calm. The chances of any of the dreadnoughts surviving Operation Opera were slim-that was obvious-which meant their crews might not survive, either. There was too little time to bring the dreadnoughts up to speed, too little time to plan the operation properly, too little time to simulate the operation often enough to expose the flaws in the operational planning, too little time to rehearse.
In short, there was a good chance that Operation Opera-the one operation that had to be a success if the Federated worlds were to survive-would turn out to be one of the great military disasters of all time.
Why the rush? Michael’s guess-it was only a guess-was that Kefu had allowed himself to be steamrolled by the politicians, the real ones this time, not Fleet’s part-timers, the elected ones who fancied that they actually governed the Worlds. Panicked by the Hammers’ antimatter missiles, they wanted Fleet to make the problem go away. Now!
And who would be responsible for doing that? Vice Admiral Jaruzelska, of course. She was commander of Battle Fleet Lima and would be held to account for the operation’s success or failure. And on whom would she rely to do the hard work to get Opera across the line? Lieutenant Michael Helfort and the ships of the dreadnought force. Who else?
Terrific, he thought, vainly trying to ignore the crushing weight of Jaruzelska’s expectations. For chrissakes, how was he ever going to pull this one off?
Michael pushed back in his seat as the shuttle taking him back to Reckless lifted off, resigned now to his fate. He had decided that the only thing he could do was his best. Jaruzelska had said her piece and had been overruled. She would not be the first military commander in history to suffer at the hands of politicians, and like all those before her, she would ignore her misgivings and do her duty. The way Michael saw it, Jaruzelska’s job was to make Operation Opera so simple that Battle Fleet Lima could pull it off even with half-trained dreadnoughts leading the way.
There was only one problem. Making the complex simple was beyond him; it was an enormous challenge even for a combat-hardened commander such as Jaruzelska. Michael spent hours and hours looking at the Hammer antimatter plant. It sat deep inside Devastation Reef, a convoluted tangle of gravitational rips tens of millions of kilometers across, protected by every warship the Hammers had to spare, backed up by space battle stations, pinchspace jump disrupters, semiautonomous defense platforms, and antistarship minefields. Opera was not an impossible mission, but rushed planning, inadequate training, and-like every operation after the Comdur fiasco-too few ships were beginning to make it look worryingly like one.
Oh, yes, there was one more risk factor, and it was a big one-limited intelligence. The Hammers had picked the site for their antimatter manufacturing plant well. Devastation Reef was such an appalling place for starships that the Feds had never bothered to survey the deepspace around it properly-though he would lay good money down that the Hammers had-so getting in and out safely would be a challenge in itself. To make matters worse, the brass was concerned to the point of near hysteria that the Hammers might get wind of the attack. That meant no infiltration or close surveillance or covert operations assets ahead of the attack; Michael had seen the directive telling Jaruzelska to keep her reconbots well away from the plant and its approaches.
Tipping off the Hammers that an attack was imminent was not a risk she would be allowed to take. Michael understood why; he also knew who would pay the butcher’s bill.
Michael had paid attention during his military history classes at Space College. Poor intelligence had doomed more military operations to failure than he liked to think about. He only hoped that Operation Opera would not be one of them.