Shattered Sun (The Sentinel Trilogy Book 3) by Michael Wallace Page A

said.
    “I’d sooner kiss a buzzard than McGowan,” Tolvern said.
    “You don’t have to convince me, Cap’n. I was stationed on his ship once, back when I was a marine. McGowan is a piss nozzle and a wank weasel.”
    “Lieutenant, that man is your superior officer.”
    “Sorry, Cap’n.”
    “But he isn’t my superior officer,” Tolvern said. “What was that you said, a piss nozzle?”
    “And a wank weasel,” Smythe added helpfully.
    “Shall I chart a course for the sentinel?” Nyb Pim asked.
    Tolvern shook her head. “I can’t take Blackbeard in alone. Even with those sloops to back me, the buzzards will clean us out.”
    “What is it?” Capp asked. “What’s going on?”
    “McGowan’s here with his whole task force,” Tolvern said, “but he won’t move from this spot.”
    “Send a subspace to the admiral,” Capp said. “He’ll put you in charge. I’ll wager McGowan is bluffing, anyhow.”
    “I can’t risk a subspace. And McGowan isn’t bluffing—he’s staying put.”
    “You can’t leave them Chinese to die! The buzzards will tear them apart.”
    “Yes, Capp. I know that.”
    “Then we get in there and start fighting, Cap’n. We got to do it.”
    “I agree with the lieutenant,” Nyb Pim said. “The Hroom need leadership, and we have certain obligations to the Singaporeans, as well.”
    “We can take ’em,” Capp said.
    “We defeated the enemy last time because their forces were disorganized,” Tolvern said. “Going in without McGowan puts us in the same position. Disorganized, poorly positioned for battle.”
    “Not if we can get up next to the station,” Capp said. “That gravity weapon, the plasma stuff—we got a fighting chance even without the piss nozzle backing us up.”
    Maybe, but Tolvern had doubts. Still, what choice did she have? Her crew was right; she couldn’t leave the battle station to its fate. But it galled her to have the others openly contradicting her, pointing out the obvious as if she were a child. Especially when she was still fuming at McGowan.
    “Smythe, hail the general,” Tolvern said.
    “He’s eleven million miles away,” Smythe said. “It will take a full minute to send a message, and another minute to get a response.”
    “You know what winds me up?” she said. “How the lot of you confuse openness with congenital idiocy. I know damn well it’s going to take a bloody minute to cross eleven million bloody miles. We keep trying, but we can’t change the speed of light, now can we? Stop questioning me and make the call.”
    Smythe looked chastened as he bent to his work. Capp wisely kept her mouth shut.
    “Pilot,” Tolvern said, “chart our way to Sentinel 3. Include a rendezvous with the sloops in your course.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    She recorded a video message. “General, I’m leaving most of my force at the jump point and taking my ship to the Kettle. You will accompany me with your sloops. We will rendezvous at the attached coordinates.”
    Tolvern hesitated, and something else occurred to her, something that would make the part about leaving McGowan behind sound plausible for the enemy and hopefully calm Mose Dryz’s doubts.
    “It is necessary to divide our forces at this time, but Blackbeard will accompany you to show our good faith and concern about the Hroom forces. This is not a sacrificial mission.”
    She ended the recording, waited for Nyb Pim to calculate a course, then attached the coordinates for a rendezvous and sent the message to Mose Dryz.
    They were already underway when the general’s video response came. He stood on his bridge, gripping the hand rest of his chair with his long, bony fingers. His eyes were droopy, unfocused, and when he spoke, his words came out slurred.
    “I will do this thing, Jess Tolvern, but I require an earlier rendezvous point. It is quite urgent, and I’ll not be able to fight until we have spoken in person. I want you to come over to my ship for a discussion.”
    The call ended,