"Outstanding work, Captain Halabi."
"Thank you, Admiral. I'll make sure to pass your compliments on to my crew. What would really make them happy, though, are some more Metal Storm loads."
Kolhammer disappeared inside a cloud of white noise for a moment before his image winked back into clarity. The encrypted vidlink to Washington was very shaky.
"I'm sorry," Kolhammer said. "I think you were asking for MS reloads. There's a seaplane on its way now, should be there in seventeen hours. It's carrying a pallet of ammo from the Clinton. That should take you back to twelve percent. After that, I'm afraid we're tapped out. We're going to need everything we've got for Hawaii. But the first hand-tooled Vulcans should be ready for air shipment to you in a fortnight. It's not Metal Storm, but it's a hell of a lot better than a couple of goddamned pom-poms."
Halabi smiled. "It will be, sir. About Hawaii, sir-will you be needing me to prepare for redeployment? It's going to be a very unpleasant business taking those islands back. Especially with the Dessaix on the loose."
Kolhammer must have worked through his plans for the campaign already. He shook his head emphatically. "We'll deal with the Dessaix first," he said. "And we'll need to redouble our efforts to determine whether any Task Force assets have fallen into enemy hands. The Soviets, for instance. But for now, you're best off staying right where you are. The Hawaiian mission will be run by the locals, with input from us. But it's their show, and they've agreed to leave the Trident in place."
Halabi found herself in two minds. She agreed that the best role for the Trident was as a floating early-warning center. But she felt isolated here in her own country, and the brief prospect of rejoining the community of Multinational Force ships was quietly appealing.
She had retired to her ready room and suddenly realized it was the first time in over a day and a half she'd been alone. Kolhammer looked tired, but not as tired as she felt.
"I'm sorry, sir. Excuse me," she said, stifling a yawn.
"That's all right, Captain. You've earned some rack time."
"Soon enough, Admiral. The Germans are in retreat. The bulk of their invasion fleet didn't make it past the halfway point. And they're not reinforcing the airborne forces that did land."
"I read the last burst," said Kolhammer. "There's some hard fighting around Ipswich. But infantry against armor? It won't last."
Halabi frowned. "Your burst is a bit out of date, I'm afraid, sir. The British First Armored had to pull back. The Germans were a mix of Fallschirmjager and SS Special Forces. They were pretty well equipped with portable antiarmor systems. Panzerfaust Two-fifties, I think. Or a variation on that theme, anyway. A lot of them had good, basic body armor and they were all packing assault rifles with an over-under grenade launcher. They chewed up a lot of our men."
Kolhammer's mouth was set in a grim line. "So what's happening? Do they have any kind of squad-level antiair systems?"
Halabi shook her head. "No, sir. So that's what's happening. The RAF have regained tactical control of our airspace, and those Cyclone gunships are near permanent fixtures above the German strongpoints."
"I see. How's their ammunition holding up?"
"I think we'll run out of Germans before we run out of ammo, sir."
Kolhammer sighed. "Well, we can't do much better than that."
The link dropped out.
Halabi stared at the wall of static for a full minute, wondering if the admiral might reconnect, but he didn't.
She rubbed her eyes, which felt as though they'd been baking inside a pizza oven. She sent a quick note to McTeale, updating him on the schedule for Metal Storm reloads. The Trident hummed under her feet. They'd withdrawn into the comparatively safer waters south of Ireland. It meant that the ship's own sensors weren't available to directly monitor the main battlespace over the Channel and the southern counties, but the Admiralty had decided that with the German attack effectively broken, they could afford to downgrade to drone cover only.
Halabi chuckled: a dry, mirthless sound.
A few months ago, the 'temps wouldn't have thought of drone coverage as a "downgrade." It would have been a bloody miracle.
Indeed, it was a bloody miracle, in the literal sense of the phrase, and it had saved her homeland.
As she slumped into her bunk, she refused to think about the fact that some people didn't agree it was her home at all.