The Patron departed, satisfied and at ease.
19: “FROM DARKNESS—LIGHT”
December 28, 2055; USS Trenton (CA-1), Flagship, CRUDESGRU One, within the Asteroid Belt on approach to Earth
Lydia Russ squinted at the wide screen in front of her in the Trenton’s wardroom, silently cursing the slow assault of age that wore down her senses, despite the sci-fi future she found herself in. It was unfair that after all the pain she and the others had been through, all that she had compromised and wheedled to achieve, and all the impossible obstacles that had nevertheless been overcome—that her savoring of this moment would be diminished by something as pedestrian as an old lady’s eyes.
On the wardroom screen, false color overlays pinpointed every significant rock and asteroid in their quadrant of the Belt. Years of movies and popular portrayals had convinced her inner expectations that the Asteroid Belt would be a jumble of tumbling mountains, filling the night black sky all around. The reality proved much more mundane. In terms of the wide vacuum of space, it was a busy mess, but only relative to the emptiness between planets.
Hundreds of kilometers and seconds of arc lay between even the closest of the independent, serenely rotating mountains of iron-nickel ore and silicates, shot through with veins of richer, heavier metals. Only upon a compressed, simulated view such as this one—from the main tactical screen aboard the bridge of the US task force flagship, where a major portion of the Belt could be displayed at once—did the belt seem as dense as common belief held it to be. Were the screen a window, however, she would be hard pressed to point out even a couple of dim rocks within view to lessen her isolation.
Some of those asteroids were practically crowded now, however. Along the projected path of the Deltan approach and behind the bulk of four semi-close behemoths—each unnamed mass many times the size of Mt. Everest—were the total assembled forces of the planet Earth. As an ambush site, it was as ideal as they could make it. Of course, it had to be.
This was the last stand, the line which could not be crossed, the best that mankind could collectively muster. Yet the numerous ships were dwarfed by the asteroids they hid behind, asteroids which themselves were dwarfed by the enormity of the solar system and space itself. As sparse as the asteroid belt was in reality, the defenses of the human race seemed even sparser in the presence of this unstoppable enemy. And beyond this were only the pitiful fixed emplacements back on Earth.
Lydia forced her doubts away, convincing herself she felt nothing but fierce pride and determination. It was an act of will which was only sustainable because of where she found herself—here, where determination would be needed to see them through, rather than “safe” at home.
Her presence and the confidence it implied was not an asset embraced with equal enthusiasm by everyone. A searing, disapproving gaze bore down upon her from behind. She hardly needed to note his reflection in the screen to realize who it was. It was a look he had favored her with routinely, ever since she had announced her intention to remain aboard.
Lydia’s eyebrow arched slightly and she spoke in a patient, amused tone, not bothering to turn around to confirm her guess at his identity. “Can I help you, Admiral?”
Rear Admiral Calvin Henson—former colonel in the US Air Force, original commanding officer of the Sword of Liberty, and current commanding officer of the US Aerospace Navy’s Cruiser Destroyer Group One—smiled tightly. He pulled himself next to Lydia, the “mother” of the entire USAN, and tried to address her face to face at the very least. He would do anything if she would just listen to reason. “Ma’am, our last rescue cutter—Nightingale—is ready to cut free and head for cover. I’m holding her for you. Please, Ms. Russ, you need to get aboard.”
She turned and looked at him, firm in her resolve, but compassionate for his position. “I’m sorry, Calvin, but you know I won’t do that.”
He pulled himself in closer, not in any attempt to intimidate, but as an opportunity to speak low and frankly in the presence of the few other personnel present in the wardroom, to save either of them embarrassment over what needed to be said. “Ma’am, this international fleet wouldn’t be here without all that you’ve done. God knows every single squadron owes you for its existence, but that gratitude was only enough to get you this far.
“You simply have no place in my operational chain of command. You’re not a tactician, strategist, or systems tech. Frankly, all you are is a VIP and a liability. There is a very good chance that you’re going to be injured or killed when that fleet crests those asteroids, and all you are going to do then is draw resources and attention away from an injured or dying crewman. Not only that, but your loss would be devastating to the defense back home, and that’s something none of us can afford.”
She frowned, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t know if I agree with the value you place on me, especially as far as that planet of sitting ducks back on Earth are concerned, but I’ll concede that I have no place in your battle organization. What do you intend to do about it? Throw me off?”
His mouth tightened. “What I want you to do is see things from my perspective. Get on that cutter of your own free will.”
The Admiral turned to glare at the handful of officers still populating the wardroom. Each of them realized his intent and quickly and quietly departed. Once they were alone, he turned back to Lydia, no longer glaring, but still intent on her concession or explanation. Neither of them said anything.
Eventually, Henson’s face softened and he slumped in as much as anyone can in freefall. “I’m not going to throw you off, ma’am, but you at least owe me a reason why you have to be here. And not simply as a sign of your confidence in us, like you told Trenton’s CO, because everyone knows that’s just some PR bullshit.”
Lydia smiled at him. “Such a cynic, Calvin. I’m shocked, just terribly, terribly shocked.” She turned back to the display screen with its false color representation of their ship, the USS Trenton (CA 1) and the five escorting Sword class destroyers that made up CRUDESGRU 1, tucked in behind a mountain of iron and silicates.
CRUDESGRU 2, similar in composition but headed up by USS Lake Erie (CA 2), lay about 2000 km further on behind another rock, while two other asteroids were held by allied UK/CAN/AUS and EU squadrons, adapted Sword class destroyers all. Support ships, minelayers, and rescue cutters from a variety of countries—countries allied not only by the desire to aid in the defense of Earth, but also by the obligation to produce such vessels as the price of receiving the required technology and designs—fled from the planned ambush site to hide behind still other asteroids, deeper in the Belt. Each fleeing vessel was careful to remain within the shadows of the large asteroids shielding the four strike-groups, lest they give away the slim hope of a surprise attack against the Deltans.
Most, but not all of the tonnage out there was American—they had, of course, started first and were the original developers of the tech—but all the designs were Windward’s, either directly or as a close adaptation. In a very real sense, Henson was right. This fleet would not have been here defending the Earth without all that she had done.