“With all due respect, Sir,” Jaruwalski said, “we cannot go toe-to-toe with these people, and they know it.” She checked the tactical data CIC was relaying to her briefing room terminal as further updates became available from Sensor One. “They’ve been in-system for eleven a half minutes, and they’re now nine light-minutes out, moving at over forty-five hundred KPS. Assuming they’re headed for a zero-zero intercept with the main orbital facilities, they should hit turnover in another hundred and seventeen minutes and reach the base in two hundred and fifty-nine. That’s only a little over four hours, Admiral, and it leaves the evac ships very little time to get moving.”

“Goddamn it, you’re supposed to be my frigging operations officer, not some gutless civilian! Or don’t you care about showing cowardice in the face of the enemy?” Santino snarled, and Jaruwalski’s eyes snapped up from her display. Anger smoked like liquid nitrogen at their cores as they locked with Santino’s, and the staffer next to her shrank away from the sudden ferocity which filled the air about her.

“Nothing in the Articles of War requires me to listen to that, Admiral Santino,” she said in a tone of chipped ice. “My duty is to give you my best assessment of the tactical situation, and my assessment is that we have a hundred and forty-seven million tons of ships of the wall coming at us and that we have just over twenty-five million tons with which to face them. That works out to an enemy tonnage advantage of just about six to one, Sir—and completely ignores the twelve battleships supporting them.”

“You’ll listen to whatever I goddamned tell you to listen to, Commander!” Santino bellowed, and pounded a meaty fist on the table. Jaruwalski half-rose and opened her mouth to say something career-ending as answering fury flashed through her, but then she stopped, frozen in mid-movement, as she recognized what lay behind Santino’s belligerent choler.

Fear. And not just the totally rational personal fear any sane person would feel as that juggernaut roared down upon her, either, the commander realized. It was the fear—almost the terror—of responsibility. That, and the fear of what retreating without firing a single shot might do to his career.

She swallowed hard while tension roared and sang in the silence of the emotion-lashed briefing room. Nothing in her training told her how to deal with a commanding officer so consumed with moral panic his brain had ceased functioning, yet that was what she faced.

I suppose any CO could be excused for being afraid of her duty in this situation, she thought almost calmly, but it’s worse for Santino after the way he shot his mouth off about Adler and Commodore Yeargin. And the way he just sat on his butt and vegetated out here. He’s always been a sanctimonious pain in the ass, but all those lordly pronouncements about what he would have done if he’d been in her position—

Nor had Santino been alone in that. The total destruction of Yeargin’s task force had shaken the Royal Manticoran Navy to the core, however little it cared to admit it, because Peeps weren’t supposed to be able to do things like that. Not to them. The official Board of Inquiry had delivered its verdict six months ago, following its painfully emotionless analysis of Yeargin’s (many) mistakes with a scathing condemnation of the mindset which had let her make them. The Board had pulled no punches, and that was good. The last thing the Fleet needed was some whitewash which would allow other station commanders to make the same mistakes. Yet the report had its downside, as well, for in its wake, some officers had become more terrified of being labeled “unprepared” or “insufficiently offensive-minded” or “lacking in the initiative properly expected from a flag officer” than they were of dying.