“Quite acceptable,” Stephen said.
He watched, feeling a sense of pride, as the shuttle glided towards the shuttlebay. To hell with his brother and his political games. Invincible was where Stephen belonged. He’d take his ship back into harm’s way, putting his body between his nation and war’s desolation. He smiled as the shuttle landed neatly on the deck, alarms bleeping as the shuttlebay hatch slowly closed. It wouldn’t take long to pressurise the deck. And then ...
“Nice landing,” he said, standing. “Will you be returning to Earth?”
“I have orders to take this craft to the shipyard hub,” Jones said. “I’ll probably be transporting other people back to Earth.”
Stephen walked into the rear of the shuttle and picked up his carryall. The First Space Lord’s staff had packed his bag, then rushed it to Northholt before the shuttle departed. Stephen wasn’t sure how he felt about that, even though he appreciated the thought. They’d wasted a great deal of effort that could have been better spent elsewhere. It wasn’t as though Stephen couldn’t draw whatever he needed from the ship or the shipyard’s stores.
They really wanted me off-planet as quickly as possible, he thought, as he slung his carryall over his shoulder and headed to the hatch. The politics must be growing dangerous.
He checked the telltales - the deck was pressurised now - and opened the hatch. The air smelt - unmistakably - of a shipyard. Commander Daniel Newcomb and the remainder of Stephen’s senior officers were waiting for him, their faces calm and composed. Stephen was relieved he hadn’t lost anyone, even though the Admiralty had been threatening to poach some of his officers for months. He didn’t really have time to break in a new officer as well as sneak into alien-controlled space. But then, his crew were the only ones with experience fighting the alien threat. It made sense for the navy to spread that experience as widely as possible.
Putting the thought aside, he faced Commander Newcomb. “Commander. Permission to come aboard?”
“Granted,” Newcomb said. He saluted, smartly. “Welcome back, Captain.”
“Thank you,” Stephen said. “I assume command.”
“I stand relieved,” Commander Newcomb said. There was a hint of irritation in his voice, so carefully hidden that only someone who knew him very well would be able to hear it. He’d been Invincible’s effective CO for the last few weeks. Now, he was just the XO again. “I have a handful of reports for your attention.”
Stephen nodded. He didn’t really blame Newcomb for being irritated. But then, Stephen also happened to know that Newcomb was on the short list for promotion to command rank when a slot opened up. His experience over the last few weeks would only help him. It was unlikely the navy would deprive him of a chance to shine.
He returned his officers’ salutes, then dismissed them with a nod. “Walk with me, Commander,” he said. “What’s our status?”
Newcomb strode beside him as they passed through the airlock and headed down the corridor towards the intership car. “Our armour is at full integrity and our damaged weapons and their mountings have been replaced,” he said. “There were some weaknesses in the ablative armour that were exposed by the engagement, so the construction crews took the liberty of installing some extra layers. It’s all detailed in the reports I sent you.”
He paused, inviting Stephen to comment, then continued. “The downside is that a third of our crew has been reassigned to other ships, to be replaced by a collection of newly-graduated crewmen and recalled reservists. They have no experience whatsoever of serving on a ship like ours. Fortunately, I managed to keep most of the crew chiefs and experienced crewmen, so the rough edges are being smoothed out even as we speak. That said ...”
Stephen felt his heart sink. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commanded an inexperienced crew - Invincible was the first of her class, ensuring that her first cruise had largely been spent identifying and removing problems that hadn’t been predicted by her designers - but he was taking his ship into a warzone. He promised himself, silently, that he’d work the crew hard. They could not be allowed to slip into complacency with a powerful alien threat lurking on the other side of the tramlines.
Newcomb looked grim. “Our greatest weakness lies in our starfighter arm, sir. We have only two experienced pilots, plus the CAG. The remainder are all either new or reservists.”
“Darn.” Stephen had to struggle to keep his voice mild. “Are they being trained?”
“Yes, sir,” Newcomb said. “They’ve spent practically every waking hour in the simulators. I believe that Commander Redbird is quite determined to ensure that they’re ready to go into battle.”
“Let us hope they will be,” Stephen said. Simulators had their place, but they simply couldn’t substitute for real combat. There were always surprises when humanity went up against an alien foe. “I take it there’s no point in asking for our old pilots back?”
“They were scattered across the navy, sir,” Newcomb said. “I’d be surprised if we even got one back.”
Stephen shook his head in disbelief as they stepped into the intership car. He understood the logic of spreading the experienced pilots as far as possible, but still ... he was taking his ship into a goddamned warzone! He needed experienced pilots, not enthusiastic newcomers and grumbling reservists. At least the latter would have had some experience. He just hoped it had been real experience.
The hatch opened. He stepped onto the bridge and looked around. As always, it took his breath away. The bridge had been designed to be photogenic as well as functional. His command chair sat in the centre, surrounded by holographic displays; the other consoles were neatly arranged in a formation that suggested his ship was plunging onwards into the unknown. It was completely pointless - the bridge could look like anything - but he had to admit it looked good. He just hoped that the aesthetics helped convince the public to support the navy, instead of convincing them that the admirals were wasting money on fripperies. It was sheer luck that the Royal Navy had avoided a repeat of the American Space Force One scandal.
“Captain on the bridge,” Newcomb said.
“As you were,” Stephen said. Invincible was moored within the Hamilton Shipyards, one of the most heavily-defended locations outside Earth’s Halo, but every station was fully manned and the carrier was ready to go to war at a moment’s notice. Everyone knew the virus could already have sneaked a fleet through the tramlines and into Sol. “Status report?”
“The ship is currently on low-level alert,” Lieutenant Sonia Michelle said. The helmswoman sounded nervous. She’d been left in command when the remainder of the officers went to greet their captain. “Drives and weapons can be brought online at a moment’s notice, sir; starfighters can be deployed within five to ten minutes. Two-thirds of our crew are currently onboard or performing EVAs. The remainder are on Hamilton Seven, but can be recalled within forty minutes.”
“Good,” Stephen said. Hamilton Seven wasn’t Sin City, let alone Earth, but it had enough distractions to be a popular shore leave destination for crewmen who weren’t allowed to travel too far from their ships. “Please inform Commander Redbird that I need to speak to him immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Commander Newcomb, you have the bridge,” Stephen said. “We’ll discuss our deployment orders later.”
“Yes, sir,” Newcomb said. “I have the bridge.”
***
Richard had to swallow hard as he clambered out of the simulator and staggered to the cold metal deck. Being yanked out of a VR sim had always been unpleasant, although - thankfully - the Royal Navy’s simulators didn’t involve direct brain simulation. The boffins kept promising a neural link that allowed a pilot to control his starfighter through thought alone, but so far nothing practical had come out of the labs. Richard was almost relieved. The idea of having his mind linked to a starfighter was terrifying.
Although it would speed up reaction time, he thought. Starfighter pilots had very good reflexes - the ones who didn’t en
ded up dead, if they didn’t wash out of the training centre - but even they had their limits. If we could react with the speed of thought ...
“The Captain wants to see you,” Lieutenant-Commander Rebecca Wycliffe said. The CAG held out a pill. “Do you need this?”
“Probably not,” Richard grunted. Rebecca was his senior officer, even though he had control over the carrier’s fighter wing. He didn’t want to show weakness in front of her. “Will you continue monitoring the exercise?”
“Of course,” Rebecca said. “They’re doing better.”
“They could hardly be doing worse,” Richard grumbled. “But I suppose they’re learning.”
He shook his head in disbelief. It was amazing just how many things the pilots had to unlearn. He wasn’t sure which set was worse. The newly-graduated were all spit and polish and basic mistakes, while the reservists had forgotten what little military protocol they knew. They were lucky they were starfighter pilots. Anywhere else, there wouldn’t have been anything like so many allowances made for them. He had a feeling that at least two of his reservists would have ended up in front of a court-martial within the week.
“Yes, they are,” Rebecca said. “Give them some time.”
Richard nodded, then headed for the hatch on wobbly legs. He wondered, morbidly, if he was growing old. Perhaps it was time to seek a transfer to command rank. It wasn’t as if a starfighter pilot hadn’t made the jump before. The First Space Lord himself had been a starfighter pilot. He sighed as he forced himself to stand up straight. No, he wouldn’t apply for command rank. He was a starfighter pilot and he’d die a starfighter pilot.
Unless they find a medical excuse to discharge me, he thought, sourly. They’ll say I’m getting too old to fly a starfighter.
He sighed, again. He wasn’t that old. But being a starfighter pilot was a young man’s game, one an older man couldn’t play. Experience didn’t always beat youth when experience had slower reflexes and more awareness of risks ... he put the thought aside as he reached the Captain’s Ready Room. Pulling himself upright, he pushed the buzzer and waited. The hatch slid open a moment later. Captain Shields was seated behind his desk.
“Captain,” Richard said, saluting.
“Take a seat,” Captain Shields ordered. He waited until Richard had sat down, then continued. “How are the starfighters?”
Richard took a moment to gather his thoughts. He’d been too busy over the last week to actually write any reports, although Captain Shields was sensible enough to realise that report-writing wasn’t anything like as important as getting his starfighters and their pilots ready for battle. Aristocratic brat or not, the Captain had a surprising amount of common sense. Richard couldn’t help finding that a relief.
“The starfighters themselves are in top-notch condition,” Richard said. “I’ve watched the ground crews take the craft to pieces, then put them back together. Overall, we can deploy our entire roster of Hawks and Tornados, although it should be noted that we don’t have enough pilots to fly both sets of craft at once. I don’t know why we’ve been asked to keep the Tornados.”
“We may have a use for them,” Captain Shields said. He didn’t sound too pleased. The Tornadoes had been a nice idea, but somewhat impractical. “Storing them isn’t too difficult.”
Richard had his doubts - the hangar space could be used for additional Hawks - but he suspected there was no point in arguing. “The pilots are the current weak link, sir,” he said, instead. “We’ve been running them through endless drills, and they are getting better, but frankly I think we’d be looking at a couple of months before the squadrons would be certified for operations if we weren’t going to war. Right now, unit cohesion is very poor.”
Captain Shields frowned. “A discipline problem?”
“Not in the sense you mean, Captain,” Richard said. “Normally, we would slot a couple of new pilots into a squadron, which would allow them to be absorbed without trouble. Their more experienced comrades would have no trouble showing them the ropes. Here, though, we simply don’t have coherent squadrons. We’re having to build unit cohesion up from scratch and it’s slow going. Everyone is a stranger to everyone else. I’d hate to have to mix-and-match the pilots if we have to reconstruct the squadrons on the fly.”
He leaned forward, trying to project as much confidence as possible. “We should be able to overcome the problems, sir,” he added. “But it will take time.”
“I hope you’ll have enough time,” Captain Shields said. “Between you and me, Commander, we’re expected to depart by the end of the week. The time spent in transit should give you more opportunities to train, but ... I expect you to do your best.”
“Yes, sir,” Richard said. “We will overcome our problems. We just need ... a little more time.”
“Ask me for anything but time,” Captain Shields quoted. “Are your Squadron Commanders up to the task?”
“Flight Lieutenant Smith is the sole officer I was able to keep, so I have no worries about her,” Richard said. “The other three are reservists, with limited experience. Unfortunately, their subordinates have picked up on that. Mistakes have been made ... thankfully, all the deaths were in the simulators. They’re learning as we go along.”
Captain Shields frowned. “Should I be begging for more experienced officers?”
Richard winced. The practical side of his mind insisted that yes, Captain Shields should ask for more officers. But he also knew that the reservists would see it as a demotion. Hell, it would be a demotion. And they weren’t doing that badly ...
“Give them two more weeks,” he said. “If they don’t shape up, we can beg for more officers.”
“We’ll have to do it at Falkirk,” Captain Shields said. “I ...”
His intercom bleeped. “Go ahead.”
“Captain, HMS Magellan has arrived,” Commander Newcomb said. “Her commander would like to speak to you.”
“Understood,” Captain Shields said. “Patch him through to me.”
He looked at Richard. “Do the best you can,” he said. “And inform me if you need help.”
“Yes, sir,” Richard said. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Chapter Seven
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have docked with HMS Invincible,” the shuttle pilot called. “All aboard who’s going aboard.”
Alice gritted her teeth, wondering why Watson - or whoever had made her travel arrangements - had stuck her with this particular pilot. Perhaps it was a test of her patience - or her endurance. After enduring a blatant come-on that didn’t so much test the limits as drive a battleship through them, she rather thought she could have been excused for breaking the young idiot’s neck. It had been a long time since she’d gone to bed with anyone, she had to admit, but did he really think she’d like the idea of spending the flight in his arms? The pilot was revolting. No wonder he was assigned to an isolated base. The real question was why he hadn’t been dishonourably discharged long ago.
She stood and picked up her single carryall, ignoring the way the pilot’s eyes roamed over her body. It wasn’t as if there was much to see. She’d traded her uniform for a bland shipsuit, but it revealed little of her curves. Hell, it showed more of her muscles than anything else. She might have been weakened, after spending several weeks lying on her back, but she was still strong enough to take him out with a single punch. And yet ... his presence might be a test. Watson was probably still watching her.
“You missed a chance to get what only I can provide,” the pilot called, as she started to open the hatch. “I can take you to heaven and then ...”
“So can my hand,” Alice called back. “And it doesn’t talk back to me either.”
She stepped through the airlock before the pilot could respond, feeling the gravity quiver slightly as the assault carrier’s gravity field took over. The corridor was empty, save for a single man. Major Henry Parkinson stood there, in full uniform, his hands crossed over his chest. Alice kept her face as exp
ressionless as she could while she closed the hatch, allowing the pilot to depart. She hadn’t expected a welcoming band, but she had expected more than just her superior officer.
“Major,” she said. Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Permission to come aboard.”
“Granted,” Parkinson said. His eyes never left her face. “Alice, I ...”
He moved with blinding speed. Alice barely had time to realise she was under attack before his fist cracked into her jaw. She stumbled backwards, more shocked than hurt. He’d pulled that punch. He could have laid her out on the deck if he wanted and she knew it. And yet, a month before, she would have seen the punch coming and dodged it. She’d fallen further than she cared to admit. She rubbed her jaw, trying to keep her face expressionless. Parkinson knew she’d fallen too, now.
“You have a long way to go,” Parkinson rumbled.
“Yes, sir,” Alice said. There was no point in trying to deny it. “But I will catch up.”
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