Honor sat back in her chair. The tardiness of the Andermani wallers' refits had led her to forget almost completely about them. But if they really were going to come forward in such numbers, double or triple the number of Apollo-capable ships under her command, then suddenly Jouett became a much more attractive target.
"How firm are the Andermani numbers?" she asked after a moment.
"At present, they look very good. Obviously, there's room for slippage-we've already seen that. Again, however, if the proposed reinforcements aren't forthcoming, then the operation doesn't go in. It's predicated on providing you with the strength you need."
"We'd have to pretty much stand down until they do arrive," she said thoughtfully. "I don't really like that. We'll be taking the pressure off of them. But if we're going to hit a target as hard as Jouett, I can't afford any avoidable losses in the interim. It won't do us much good to reinforce if I've lost offsetting numbers. And we'll need to train hard with the Andies if we're going to integrate them properly."
"The Strategy Board came to the same conclusion," Caparelli replied. "We don't believe you could plan on launching the operation for at least another seven to eight weeks. In the meantime, we'd try to keep the pressure on them by continuing your previous strategy of scouting their systems. As I said, that's been part of our preliminary strategy concept from the beginning."
"In that case, I think it's doable," she said. "I'd be less than honest if I said I wasn't a little nervous at the prospect of attacking a target that heavily defended. But given a monopoly on Apollo and the force levels you're suggesting, I think we can do it."
"Good!" Caparelli beamed.
In fact, everyone around the conference table smiled... except for Hamish Alexander-Harrington. Honor tasted his concern-his fear for her-and wanted to reach out and take his hand. Which would scarcely have comported with proper naval professionalism.
"Again," Caparelli stressed, "we're not going to commit to Sanskrit II until we've got a detailed plan, based on hard numbers and the most recent intelligence and scouting reports on Jouett. With that proviso, however, Your Grace, you're officially directed to begin preliminary planning immediately for the operation. Your tentative execution date will be sixty days from today."
Chapter Sixty-One
Honor swam strongly down the exact center of the swimming lane, listening to the music playing over the underwater sound system. The pool, below the outer edge of the Bay House terrace, was what was still called "Olympic sized," and she was on the thirtieth of her forty laps. Much as she enjoyed swimming, lap work could be excruciatingly boring, and she'd insisted on a first-class sound system when she had the pool put in. She'd gotten what she paid for, and now she chuckled inside as the music segued abruptly from classical Grayson to Manticoran shatter-rock. That transition was guaranteed to send anyone's boredom packing.
Her armsmen were accustomed to her mania for swimming, although most of them still thought it was a bit bizarre. All of them had grimly passed the various life-saving courses, just in case, but most of them were perfectly happy that their duties required them to stand alertly about the pool rather than splashing around in all that wet stuff themselves. Nimitz, of course, had always considered her taste for immersing herself in water peculiar, and he was stretched out comfortably, sunning on a poolside table while she indulged her water fetish.
She reached the end of the lap, tucked lithely through a flip-turn, pushed off strongly from the end of the pool, and headed back the way she'd come on lap thirty-one. She was beginning to feel the strain, especially in her legs. Not surprisingly, she supposed, given how much of her time she'd been spending aboard ship lately. But she'd be back aboard ship the day after tomorrow, and she was determined to enjoy her pool to the full before she had to leave it behind once more.
She'd gotten to within ten meters of the end of the lap when James MacGuiness' voice suddenly interrupted the music.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Grace," he said over the sound system, "but you have a com call. It's from Ms. Montaigne."
Honor inhaled when she shouldn't have, surprised by the interruption. She coughed the water back out before she rotated back up to breathe again and swam the last few strokes to the end of the pool. She caught the lip, lifted, twisted, and landed sitting on the pool surround.
"Spencer!"
"Yes, My Lady?" Captain Hawke turned quickly towards her and didn't even flinch. He'd had time to get used to Manticoran swimsuits, and compared to the ones Allison Harrington delighted in wearing, Honor's were positively demure.
"Mac says I've got a com call."
"Of course, My Lady." Hawke reached into the bag sitting on the poolside table beside Nimitz and extracted Honor's personal communicator. He handed it to her, and she smiled in thanks and configured it for video, but without bringing up the holo display, then keyed the acceptance button. An instant later, MacGuiness' face appeared on the small flatscreen.
"I'm here, Mac," she said, reaching up with her free hand and stripping off the swimming cap she'd been wearing over her braided hair. "Go ahead and put Ms. Montaigne through."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Honor swirled her feet slowly in the pool to keep muscles from stiffening and gazed out across the sparkling blue vitality of Jason Bay at the towers of Landing. Her house's terrace ran to the very edge of the upper tier of the cliffs above the bay; if she looked up, she could see the outer balustrade clinging to its lip. The upper cliff fell away from the terrace in a sheer precipice for ten or fifteen meters to a flattened saddle, almost like a giant stair step halfway between the beach below and the house above. That was where she'd chosen to put the pool, with a vanishing "infinite edge" on the outer side. From where she sat, the illusion that the pool's water was spilling over in a cascade to the ocean below was almost perfect. Of all the many features of her Manticoran mansion, she often thought the pool was her favorite.
The com beeped softly, recalling her from her thoughts, as the golden-haired, blue-eyed Honorable Member of Parliament for High Threadmore appeared upon it.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Catherine Montaigne said.
"And good morning to you, Cathy," Honor replied. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"I hope I didn't screen at an inconvenient moment," Montaigne said as Honor's water-beaded face registered.
"Actually, you just rescued me from the last nine laps," Honor reassured her with a smile.
"That's right. You actually swim for exercise." Montaigne shuddered dramatically.
"You don't like swimming?"
"I don't like exercise," Montaigne said cheerfully. "I burn off sufficient energy just charging around in six or seven directions at once. I'm sure you've heard that about me."
"I believe your ability to... multitask enthusiastically has come up a time or two," Honor acknowledged, her smile becoming a grin.
"I thought it probably had." Montaigne looked pleased, and Honor chuckled. She knew how much pleasure Catherine Montaigne took from her public persona's reputation for shatter-brained confusion.
"Actually, though," the ex-Countess of the Tor said, her own smile fading, "I had a serious reason for screening you this morning. I have a message for you from Anton."