Maybe it was simply the scale of the operations. Or perhaps it was knowing how many megatons of warships and how many thousands of Navy personnel were waiting with Second Fleet in Silesia for the arrival of that single, small vessel. Or perhaps it was even simpler than that. Perhaps it was just fear that something would still go wrong. That the Silesian Ambassador's crew would screw up their mission, or let something slip . . . or even intentionally betray the Republic whose monumental bribe had convinced the Ambassador to make his ship available to it. So much coordination depended on such a tiny ship. Somehow, the universe hadn't seemed quite so vast—or the dispatch boat quite so minute—when Thunderbolt had simply been an ops plan. Now it was reality, and Patrick Reumann had discovered that he was only too well aware of the fragility of their communication link to Second Fleet.
He gave himself a stern mental shake. What was really happening, he told himself firmly, was that he had opening night jitters. That, and the fact that despite all of the upgrades in the Republican Navy's weapons and hardware, despite all of the doctrine and tactical development Shannon Foraker and her team had carried out at Bolthole, and despite all of the simulation runs, all of the training exercises, which Javier Giscard had put First Fleet through, there was still that edge of dread. That sense of challenging Fate itself by going up against the enemy fleet which had shattered the Republic's Navy like so much glass in the final months before the cease-fire. Intellectually, Reumann knew that the Manties were far from superhuman. He only had to glance through the intelligence reports and the analyses of the incredibly stupid policies Janacek and High Ridge had instigated since assuming power to know that. But what his brain knew and his emotions expected weren't necessarily the same thing, and he felt a familiar flutter somewhere deep inside as he, too, looked at the time display and realized that, in barely thirty-two hours, the Republic of Haven would once again be openly at war with the Star Kingdom of Manticore.
Chapter Fifty Four
"So why isn't the Minister of Trade here?" Sir Edward Janacek demanded in a voice which only too accurately reflected his outrage.
"Be reasonable, Edward," Michael Janvier replied with more than a trace of answering impatience. "The man's wife has disappeared, his home has just been blown up—possibly with her in it—and even if he's not ready to admit it, all of the 'North Hollow Files' went with the house. And if you believe that the entire disaster was the result of a 'leaking air car hydrogen cylinder in the parking basement,' then you probably believe in the tooth fairy, too!"
Janacek started to snap back sharply, then visibly made himself pause. The ferocious explosion which had rocked one of Landing's most luxurious suburbs had left a smoking crater where the Young's capital residence had once been and administered an equally savage shock to the political establishment. The existence of the North Hollow Files had been one of the open dirty little secrets of Manticoran politics for so long that even those who'd most detested the tactics they reflected were temporarily disoriented. Of course, just as the Earls of North Hollow had never officially admitted to their files' existence, Stefan Young wasn't about to admit that his enormous behind-the-scenes political leverage had blown up along with his mansion. And it was going to take some time—and a lot of cautious probes and tests—before the Star Kingdom's political leadership was prepared to believe it truly had been. Especially for the people who had been the subjects of that leverage over the years.
The First Lord of Admiralty knew that the implications of the North Hollow explosion were only just beginning to ripple through the establishment. As those implications went more and more fully home, the consequences for the High Ridge Government might well prove profound. Janacek wasn't really certain exactly how many of High Ridge's "allies" had been coerced into giving him their support, but he had no doubt that some of them—like Sir Harrison MacIntosh—were in extremely important, if not vital, positions. What might happen once they realized the evidence of their past misdeeds no longer existed was anyone's guess, but he didn't expect it to be good. Apparently, the Prime Minister shared his expectations, which probably helped to account for his waspish tone.
Of course, there were other factors which undoubtedly helped to account for it, as well.
"All right," Janacek said finally. "Personally, I suspect that the disappearance of his wife and his house are pretty directly connected. And no, I don't think her limo just happened to blow up because of a fuel leak, whatever he wants to believe. I don't know what anyone could have offered her, but given the LCPD's failure so far to find any human remains at all in the rubble, much less hers—" He shrugged angrily. "Still, I can understand that he's . . . distracted just now. Which doesn't change the fact that his precious ACS appointee just let the fucking Graysons stomp all over us!"
"Yes, he did," High Ridge said coldly. "And I can understand that you're irritated, Edward. At the same time, however, I have to say that angry as I am over the Graysons' high-handed actions—yes, and over White Haven's involvement in them—it may not be all bad."
"What?" Janacek stared at him in disbelief. "Benjamin and his precious Navy have just openly defied us in our own space, and you say 'it may not be all bad'?! My God, Michael! Those neobarb bastards have just put their thumb right in our eye in front of the entire galaxy!"
"Indeed they have," High Ridge agreed with a dangerous calm. "On the other hand, Edward, your refusal to invite Grayson to do precisely what it's just done unilaterally was called to my attention during my visit yesterday to Mount Royal Palace." He smiled thinly. "Her Majesty was not amused by it."
"Now, wait a minute, Michael," Janacek said sharply. "That decision was endorsed by you and by a majority of the entire Cabinet!"
"Only after you'd already rejected White Haven's arguments in favor of seeking their assistance," High Ridge pointed out icily. "And only, or so I hear, after Admiral Chakrabarti had made essentially the same argument to you. That was before he resigned, of course."
"Who told you something like that?" Janacek demanded around the sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"It wasn't Chakrabarti, if that's what you're wondering," High Ridge replied. "Not that the source changes the implications."
"Are you telling me that you disapproved of the decision not to ask Grayson for help?" Janacek shot back. "Because it certainly didn't sound that way to me at the time. And I don't think the minutes of our meeting or the memoranda in the files sound that way, either."
The two of them glared at one another, and then High Ridge inhaled sharply.
"You're right," he admitted, although he clearly didn't enjoy doing it. "I may not have thought it was the best decision possible, but I'll concede that I didn't protest it at the time. Partly that was because you'd already effectively committed us to it, but if I'm going to be honest, it was also because I don't much care for Graysons—or for the thought of owing them some sort of debt of gratitude—either.