Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(57)

“Eighteen ships,” the XO counts. “Dang, that’s a respectable task force.”

“There are at least two more,” the tactical officer says. He highlights the anchorage on the screen above the holotable. “Right here, in the docking berths. And they’re big ships. I’d say carrier sized.”

“Any ID on them?”

“No, sir. I’m not getting anything from them at all, not even IFF.”

The cluster of ships on the far side of the anchorage gives up the identities of its members bit by bit. The drone network and Indy’s computer compare the electronic signatures of the ships and assign hull numbers or class IDs to the assembled fleet one by one as we get closer.

“There’s another carrier,” the XO points out. The ID tag on the contact icon reads “CV-2153 POLLUX.”

“A cruiser. Two more frigates. That right there is a fleet supply ship. Looks like the Hampton Beach. Another one. And another one.” Major Renner looks at Colonel Campbell and chuckles. “You were on the money, sir. With those frigate names.”

She points to the icons for the frigates, which are in a formation with the cruiser and escorting the carrier. The ID tags have changed from “UNKNOWN” to “FF-902 LETHE” and “FF-900 STYX.” The colonel smiles a curt, humorless smile.

Then the IDs for the bulk of the ships in the middle of the group get updated, and Colonel Campbell lets out a quiet whistle.

“Twelve auxiliary fleet freighters.”

“What kind of strike force needs that much cargo space?” the XO wonders out loud. “That’s almost a million tons of bulk cargo.”

“That’s not a strike force,” I say.

Colonel Campbell shakes his head. “No, Mr. Grayson, it is not.”

He puts the palms of his hands on the edge of the holotable and leans forward a little, his eyes on the central cluster of icons on the tactical orb. The hologram reflects in his eyes with a blue tinge.

“Seven fighting ships, three fleet supply ships, and a dozen Alcubierre-capable deep-space bulk freighters. That right there is an evacuation fleet. We are looking at an exodus.”





CHAPTER 15





“Maybe they’re assembling a relief force for Mars,” Major Renner says. The discussion in CIC has been going on for a while, and it’s clear that the XO is trying to look for an explanation for the situation that doesn’t involve command betrayal on a grand scale.

“What are they doing with almost a quarter of the merchant fleet out here?” I ask. “They’re not flying them to Mars. Might as well blow them up right here and save the reactor fuel.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Ground troops? A few armor regiments? You don’t really believe that we’re running from the Lankies. Leaving Earth undefended. How many people can you even put on those freighters?” says Major Renner.

“Lots,” the engineering chief says. “You convert one of those bulk beasts to passenger use, you can stuff damn near ten thousand people into one. More if they’re not picky about accommodations.”

“Still, that’s—what, a hundred, hundred and fifty thousand? That’s barely two fifth-gen public-housing blocks. It makes no sense at all.”

“I don’t think they’re evacuating the PRCs,” I say.

Major Renner gives me a look that tells me she finds the suggestion uncomfortable.

“I think Mr. Grayson is correct,” Colonel Campbell says. “I think whatever protocol they have in place here doesn’t involve a wholesale evacuation of the civilian population. We all know that’s a logistical impossibility. All the tonnage in the fleet couldn’t hold more than a fraction of a percent of the civvies down there.” He taps his fingers on the glass of the holotable. “If anyone’s getting ready to evacuate, they’re not getting out the rabble, that’s for sure.”

“We’re getting some better top-down footage of the anchorage from Drone Five,” the electronic-warfare officer says. “You may want to look at this, sir.”

“Bring it up on the plot,” Colonel Campbell orders.

The EW officer flicks the footage over to the holotable, where a window pops up above the tactical orb and its slowly moving confederation of pale blue icons.

“What in the fuck are those?” Major Renner says.

The optical feed from the drone shows the anchorage from “above,” giving us a snapshot of the whole thing in its lateral configuration. It’s not as big as a proper space station, but much more sizable than any of the deep-space anchorages I’ve ever seen. There are six outriggers with docking points attached to a central spine. Three of the docking stations are occupied. One holds the familiar silhouette of a Blue-class fleet destroyer—the damaged Murphy, in the process of docking. The other two ships are something I’ve never seen before. With Murphy nearby providing a handy scale for reference, I gauge that the two ships on the opposite side of the anchorage are enormous, over twice the length of the destroyer and considerably wider.

Colonel Campbell studies the image. He reaches out and zooms in with his fingers, then pans the picture left and right.

“That is nothing you’ll find in the fleet database,” he says. “They look like carriers, but they’re not. I mean, they’re big enough—what’s your guess, XO? Hundred, hundred and ten thousand tons?”