Dawn (32 page)

“
Hysteria
?”

“Yes, sir. Feelings of frustration or failure caused him to become abnormally agitated, and this temporarily paralyzed his optic nerves. He’ll be able to see again in about fifteen minutes, but at times like this it’s possible for episodes to happen any number of times. The cause is psychological, so unless the cause can be removed—”

“What can be done about it?” Bucock demanded.

“You mustn’t oppose him. You mustn’t engender any feelings of failure or defeat in him. Everyone should do as he says, and everything needs to go his way.”

“Are you being serious, Medical Officer?”

“These are symptoms we sometimes see in small children who grow up in environments where they always get their way, and develop abnormally large egos. It’s not a problem of good and evil. The only important thing is that his ego and desires be satisfied. Therefore, it won’t be until the admirals apologize for their rudeness, give their all in executing his plan, and realize victory so that he becomes an object of praise … that the cause of his illness will be resolved.”

“Well, I’m awfully grateful to hear that.” Bucock was in no mood for losing his temper. “So thirty million soldiers have to stand in the jaws of death in order to cure this guy’s hysteria? That’s just wonderful. I’m so moved I think I’m just gonna drown in a sea of tears.”

The medical officer made a weak smile. “If we focus on the single point of curing His Excellency Rear Admiral Fork’s illness, that is what it will take. If we widen our view to include the entire military, a different way of solving the problem presents itself, naturally.”

“Exactly—he should resign,” the old admiral barked. “It may be for the best this has happened. The imperial military would be dancing for joy if they learned that the strategist in charge of thirty million troops has the mentality of a kid crying for chocolate.”

After a slight hesitation, Yamamura said, “In any case, I’m not authorized to speak on any matter outside of his medical condition. I’ll put on His Excellency the Joint Chief of Staff …”

Disgusted, Bucock thought,
So the unofficial wedding of politicians hoping for an election victory and a bright young soldier given to childish fits of hysteria has resulted in thirty million troops being mobilized. You’d have to be a self-intoxicated masochist or one serious warmonger to hear that and genuinely want to fight harder.

“Admiral …” The man who replaced the medical officer on the comm screen was Senior Admiral Greenhill, the expeditionary force joint chief of staff. There was a deep shadow of anxiety on his handsome, gentlemanly face.

“Well, Admiral Greenhill, I’m sorry to bother you at such a busy time.” It was one of the old admiral’s virtues that people just couldn’t hate him, even when he was being openly sarcastic.

Greenhill smiled the same sort of smile that the naval doctor had. “I’m sorry as well that you had to see such an unsightly moment. We’ll need the supreme commander’s sanction, but I think we’ll be giving Rear Admiral Fork some R & R right away …”

“In that case, how about the proposal from the Thirteenth Fleet to withdraw? I’m 100 percent in favor. The men on the front lines are in no shape for combat, mentally or physically.”

“Wait just a minute. This also requires the supreme commander’s sanction. Please understand, I can’t give you an answer right away.”

Vice Admiral Bucock gave him a look that said he had had about enough of bureaucratic answers.

“I’m aware this may sound indiscreet, Admiral, but I wonder if you could arrange for me to speak directly with the supreme commander?”

“The supreme commander is taking a nap right now,” Greenhill said.

The old admiral’s white eyebrows drew together, and he blinked his eyes rapidly. Then, slowly, he asked: “What did you just say, Admiral?”

Senior Admiral Greenhill’s reply was all the more solemn. “The supreme commander is taking a nap. His orders are not to wake him for anything outside of an enemy attack, so I will relay your request to him when he wakes. Please, wait until then.”

To that, Bucock made no attempt at answering. His eyebrows quivered so slightly that the movement was almost undetectable. “Very well. I understand very well.”

Well over a minute passed before the old admiral continued, in a voice of tightly restrained emotion. “I’m just carrying out the duty I have as a frontline commander toward the lives of my subordinates. Thank you for your trouble. When the supreme commander wakes, please tell him that Bucock called and hopes he had pleasant dreams.”

“Admiral …”

Bucock cut the transmission from his end, staring with a heavy expression at the comm screen, which had become a monotonous shade of grayish white.

“A fleet of supply ships will be dispatched from Iserlohn to the front lines. That’s the enemy’s lifeline. Take all the forces I’ve given you and go smash it. I’ll leave the details to your own discretion.”

“As you wish.”

“Use whatever intelligence, organizations, and supplies that you need.”

Kircheis saluted, turned on his heel, and started to leave, but Reinhard suddenly called him to a halt. His friend looked back mistrustfully, to which the young imperial marshal said, “This is to win, Kircheis.”

Reinhard knew. He knew that Kircheis was critical of the harsh tactic he’d employed, of letting the people in the occupied territories starve in order to shackle the enemy’s hands and feet. It didn’t show in Kircheis’s face, let alone in his words, but Reinhard understood only too well. He knew the kind of man that Siegfried Kircheis was.

Kircheis saluted once more and left the room. Then Reinhard informed the rest of the admirals.

“While Admiral Kircheis is knocking out the rebel supply fleet, our forces will launch an all-out assault. At that time, I’ll put out a false report that the delivery fleet came under fire but is now safe. That’s to prevent the rebel force from losing its last hope and resorting to the actions of a cornered animal. At the same time, it’s also to keep them from realizing we’ve gone on the offense—naturally, they’ll realize at some point, but the later the better.”

He glanced over at the man who was sitting by his side. Before, it had always been a tall, redheaded youth at his side. Now it was a man with half-silvered hair—Paul von Oberstein. Though he had made the decision to put von Oberstein there himself, it still felt a little strange.

“Furthermore, our supply corps will provide food to the people the moment the occupied territories are recovered. Although this was permitted in order to oppose the rebel invasion, driving His Majesty’s subjects to starvation was never our military’s wish. Furthermore, this is a measure necessary to demonstrate to the residents of the frontier that it’s the empire alone which is responsible enough to rule them.”

Reinhard’s true intent was not to win hearts and minds for the empire, but for himself, although there was no need to go out of his way to tell them that here and now.

The alliance transport fleet, under the command of Admiral Gledwin Scott, consisted of one hundred transport vessels in the hundred thousand-ton class and twenty-six escort craft. Regarding the number of escorts, Rear Admiral Caselnes, the rear service chief of staff, had argued, “That’s not enough—at least give them a hundred!” but the request had been denied.

The reasons given had been that the empire seemed unlikely to send a very large force to attack a transport fleet and that dispatching too many ships would leave Iserlohn’s security forces shorthanded.

What kind of excuse is that, when you’re sitting far removed from the front lines in an “impregnable” fortress?
Caselnes was so angry he was about to burst.

Admiral Scott was far more optimistic than Caselnes. When Caselnes had told him just before departure to be on the lookout for enemies, Scott had brushed off the admonition, and even now he wasn’t on his bridge but in his cabin enjoying 3-D chess with a subordinate.

When fleet staff officer Commander Nikolsky came to get him, his face was as white as a sheet. Scott, who had been just about to put his opponent in check, asked crossly, “Something happen on the front? I hear a lot of noise out there.”

“On the front?” Commander Nikolsky stared back at his commander in disbelief. “
This
is the front. Can you not see that, Excellency?”

Held in his fingertips, a small panel connected to the bridge’s main screen was showing a rapidly expanding cloud of white light.

Admiral Scott was speechless for a moment. Not even he could believe those were friendlies. A surprisingly large enemy force was enveloping them.

“This many …” Scott finally squeezed out. “I can’t believe it! Why this many for one measly transport fleet?”

As he was racing down the corridor to the bridge in a hydrogen-powered car driven by Nikolsky, the admiral kept asking stupid questions.
Don’t you understand the point of your own mission?
Nikolsky was about to say, when the cry of an operator burst from the hall speakers:

“Multiple enemy missiles, closing!”

An instant later, that cry became a veritable scream.

“Unable to respond! There are too many!”

Imperial flagship
Brünhild
—

A communications officer stood up from his station chair and turned toward Reinhard, face flushed with excitement. “Message from Admiral Kircheis! Good news, sir. Enemy transport fleet annihilated. In addition, twenty-six escort ships destroyed. Our side’s losses limited to one battleship with moderate damage and fourteen walküren …”

Shouts of joy filled the bridge. Though the Imperial Navy’s repeated pullbacks had been born of strategic necessity, it had nonetheless been in retreat ever since the fall of Iserlohn, and for its soldiers, this was the thrill of victory that had been missing for far too long.

“Mittermeier, von Reuentahl, Wittenfeld, Kempf, Mecklinger, Wahlen, Lutz: follow the plan, and hit the rebel forces with everything you have.”

Reinhard gave the assembled admirals who were standing by their orders.

The admirals responded with a hearty “Yes, sir!” and were about to depart for the front lines when Reinhard called them all to a halt and ordered an attendant to bring wine for each of them. It was an advance celebration of their victory.

“Victory is already assured. But more than that, we have to make this victory a perfect one. The conditions are all in order. Do not allow those rebel upstarts to return home alive. May the favor of our great lord Odin be upon you.
Prosit
!”

“
Prosit
!” the admirals shouted in chorus. Then, after draining their glasses, they hurled them to the floor as was the custom. Innumerable shards of light danced brilliantly across the floor.

After the admirals had left, Reinhard stared fixedly at his screen. There he could make out a cluster of sterile, inorganic lights that were infinitely colder and more distant than the scattered flecks of light upon the floor. He loved those lights, however. It was to take hold of those lights and make them his own that he was where he was right now …

Admiral Uranff, who was positioning his fleet in orbit above Planet Lügen according to gravity-gradient stabilization, could tell that the enemy attack was coming. Of the twenty thousand reconnaissance satellites that had been positioned throughout the region, about one hundred of them in the two o’clock direction had ceased transmitting images after displaying countless points of light.

“Here they come,” Uranff murmured. He felt a current of tension running through him all the way to his terminal nerves. “Operator, how long until contact with the enemy?”

“Between six and seven minutes, sir.”

“All right, then. All ships: prepare for all-out war. Communications officer: send messages to Supreme Command HQ and the Thirteenth Fleet. ‘We have met the enemy.’ ”