“That is Captain, not XO, Mr. North,” said Chatburn. “I am now in command. Cease fire and disengage, is that clear?”
“Sir, just look at the Dremish ships. We have them!”
“Destroying Panther is not our mission, damn it! Our rules of engagement from Fleet Command specify that we are only to use force to prevent a Dremish occupation of the system. The system is now under occupation. The situation’s now in the hands of the diplomats or the battle fleets. We have done exactly what we were ordered to do.”
“Mr. Chatburn, the Dremish position can be reversed. If we hold the planet’s orbital—”
“Mr. North, this is not a democracy,” said the commander. Sikander could hear the icy anger in his tone even through the audio circuit. “I don’t know what traditions you may be accustomed to in the navy of Kashmir, but in the Commonwealth Navy, orders are meant to be followed. I will charge you with insubordination if you do not immediately cease fire and disengage.”
“Salvo!” Girard called. The hull boomed and shook with the fire of the K-cannons.
Sikander winced at the poor timing of the shot, but before he could reply, Magda Juarez spoke; the chief engineer’s station was part of the command circuit, too. “Commander Chatburn, the bridge still has power, but most of the sensor feeds in aux control are out. Mr. North has the best view of the situation. I recommend you leave him in tactical command until you can acquaint yourself with developments. May I suggest that you relocate to the bridge?”
“Hit!” Girard shouted. “I think I got Panther’s torpedo room, sir. No secondary explosions, but it’s the right part of the hull and a solid impact, not a graze.”
“Good work, Mr. Girard!” Sikander replied. He noticed that the vertigo-inducing motion shown in the bridge’s horseshoe-shaped viewscreen had slowed and leveled out. Chief Holtz was slowly gaining control over the ship’s attitude. “Split the battery again and engage both targets. Fire for effect!”
“All right, Ms. Juarez. You make a good point,” Chatburn said. “Is there a clear route from my station to the bridge?”
There was a brief pause as Magda considered the question; she had the best information on the damage Hector had suffered. “Yes, sir. Take the starboard-side passage on the third deck forward to the ladderway by Engine Room Two. Go up to the first deck and detour around the mess deck, it’s been hit bad. You should be able to take the ladder on the port side to Deck Two and reach the bridge. It’s depressurized but clear.”
“Very well,” Chatburn replied. “I’m on my way. And, Mr. North, this is a direct order: Cease fire immediately! I will decide whether to continue the engagement when I reach the bridge.”
Sikander punched at the arm of the tactical station in frustration, then punched it again. “Yes, sir,” he snarled, acknowledging the order. He looked back at his weapons team. “All stations cease fire!”
“Cease fire, aye,” Reno replied.
“Cease fire, aye,” said Girard. He leaned over his console. “Sir, Streitaxt is still firing on us. I don’t know if we should let up on her yet.”
“Mr. Chatburn’s orders,” Sikander explained. He leaned back at the tactical console, thinking furiously. The auxiliary bridge was at the aft end of the hull, just behind the main power plant. He wasn’t surprised that it had been knocked out by the torpedo hits in the stern; it was Peter Chatburn’s good fortune that he hadn’t been wounded or killed. In normal conditions it might take five minutes for someone to move from the auxiliary bridge to the main bridge. Given battle damage, destroyed or depressurized compartments, the circuitous route described by Magda … it might take Chatburn ten minutes or more to get to the bridge and assume tactical control as well as actual command. He has the right and the duty to do that, Sikander reminded himself. Junior officers simply didn’t have the option of ignoring their commanders just because they thought mistakes were being made.
Assuming that Chatburn saw no reason to change his mind and broke off the action, it certainly would save lives. It might also minimize the diplomatic fallout of an exchange of fire; damaged ships would be less provocative than destroyed ones. On the other hand, leaving Dremish troops on the ground and Dremish warships in control of the system would certainly lead to the establishment of a planetary government that Dremark could claim to be protecting. Maybe that was a question for the diplomats as well, but it seemed to Sikander that the arguments to follow (assuming a general war didn’t break out) would be a lot more effective if the Empire of Dremark failed to put Salem el-Fasi on the throne.
“Sir, what are we doing?” Angela Larkin asked him. None of the junior officers had access to the command circuit; they hadn’t heard anyone other than Sikander. “Are we going to finish this, or not?”
“It’s not a war yet,” Sikander said, somewhat grudgingly. He averted his eyes from the remains of Captain Markham. He noticed that the technicians working on an emergency patch for the hole in the port-side bulkhead had almost finished; they’d be able to restore atmosphere in just a moment. “Mr. Chatburn hopes that we can still avoid one. Breaking off the action is the best chance for that.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but why are we breaking off? As things stand now, we’ve got twice the combat power of both the Dremish ships put together.” Larkin pointed at the pitted and blackened main screen, which showed the shattered shape of Streitaxt. “They’re the ones who ought to be running!”
“Tell the Dremish,” Sikander muttered—and then sat bolt upright. Why not do exactly that? He wouldn’t fire against Chatburn’s direct order, but the Dremish didn’t know that. By custom, nothing other than routine navigational communication went out from a Navy ship without the commanding officer’s direct approval, but he knew that Chatburn was going to be unreachable for the next ten minutes as he picked his way through the ship to get to the bridge. He just might be able to make a case for acting on his own initiative later. More important, it was the right thing to do; if it came at the cost of his career, then so be it.
“Communications!” Sikander said sharply. “Signal SMS Panther: Panther, this is Hector. I am holding my fire because I believe you no longer have the ability to threaten me, and I have no wish to inflict any more loss of life. You have three choices: First, retrieve your ground forces from Gadira II and withdraw your vessels to a distance of at least one light-minute from the planet. Second, instruct your landing force to lay down their arms, and power down and surrender your vessels for unlawful action against the recognized government of this system. Third, you can force us to continue this action, which will end in your destruction. Which will it be? Over.”
Sikander felt the eyes of the bridge crew on him. Behind him, Michael Girard let out a low whistle. Whether he was struck by the sternness of the demands or Sikander’s sheer audacity in issuing them at all was hard to say. No one else said a word. Panther did not reply, and Sikander began to wonder whether the damage inflicted on the Dremish cruiser had perhaps knocked out her communications, or whether the senior officer remaining might actually be on Streitaxt or General von Grolmann.
“Sir, signal from Panther,” the comm tech said. “It’s on your display.”