The Longest Day (Ark Royal X)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Not that it matters, if we don’t get out of this alive, she reminded herself. We could still be detected at any moment.

  “We have a duty,” she said. She looked down at her pale hands for a long moment. She simply hadn't had enough sleep before she’d been woken, eight hours ago. “We cannot let them go back into stealth.”

  She glanced at him. Ignatyev looked like she felt, as if his greater age was finally catching up with him. Svetlana wished, suddenly, that she had a full crew - a trustworthy crew. She could have passed the bridge to an XO she trusted and got some rest, although she would have been in trouble if anything had happened while she was sleeping. Maybe her next command would be better, if she survived the battle. There was no way anyone could deny her a more significant command after this.

  Assuming I survive, she thought. Her position was more dangerous than she cared to admit, even to herself. Too many people would gain from my death.

  She studied the display for a long moment. “Keep Home Fleet appraised of the alien fleet’s position,” she ordered. “I want them to know every time the fleet twitches.”

  And keep them aware of my contribution to the battle, she thought, tiredly. She felt a stab of envy for her male counterparts. They didn’t have to worry about being considered mere women. It’ll be harder for anyone else to claim the credit then.

  Her lips twitched, humourlessly. The men do have to worry about someone else snatching the credit, she thought, dryly. But their critics have less ammunition.

  ***

  “The enemy fleet is picking up speed,” Warner reported. “Sir ... they’re heading straight for Jupiter.”

  Thaddeus swallowed a curse. Jupiter ... there wasn't any more important target in the entire system, save for Earth. Blowing up the cloudscoops alone would be disastrous. They could be replaced - of course - but the knock-on effects would be bad. He had to stop them ...

  ... And they probably knew it.

  “Take us through the Earth-Luna system,” he ordered. There was no point in trying to be clever. He certainly couldn't see any way to cut them off at the pass. The Io detachment was already reversing course, but they were badly out of position. “Inform the local defences that we will recover as many of their starfighters as possible.”

  “Aye, sir,” Warner said. He paused. “What about Admiral Winters?”

  Thaddeus glanced at him. “He’s alive?”

  “He’s in a lifepod, according to the last update,” Warner said. “I can't swear to it, sir, as there was a great deal of disruption, but he should have made it off Pournelle Base.”

  “Dispatch a shuttle to pick him up,” Thaddeus ordered. He’d have to surrender command, of course ... but Admiral Winters was the ranking officer. “Tell the crew that they are to bring him to Enterprise or take him to Nelson Base, depending on his decision.”

  And tell me, his thoughts mocked, which decision would you want him to make?

  He sighed, inwardly. Command of Home Fleet was a dream come true - Home Fleet was the largest and most powerful fleet in the Human Sphere - but it was slowly turning into a nightmare. Part of him wished someone else could take the helm; the rest of him relished the opportunity. If Admiral Winters had stayed on Pournelle Base - and Pournelle Base hadn't been destroyed - the question would never have arisen. He would have stayed in command of Home Fleet.

  And there’s no time to worry about it now, he thought. We’ll need all the brainpower we can get.

  He keyed his console, bringing up the system display. The alien ships were picking up speed rapidly, forcing him to push his drives hard just to keep up with them. If they kept the range open, launching starfighter strikes would be difficult; if they reduced the range, he’d have to start worrying about what they might have in mind. And yet ...

  “Prepare to record a message,” he ordered. There were some fixed defences orbiting Jupiter and her moons. Not enough to stand off the aliens, not until Home Fleet arrived, but enough to make a difference. With a little effort, they could be used to set a trap. “I want it sent directly to the Io detachment.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Warner said. “Ready to record.”

  Thaddeus took a breath. The aliens had lured them into a stern chase. That was impossible to ignore. And the wear and tear it would put on his drives was far from minimal. But it would cost them. He’d make sure of it.

  “Record,” he ordered. “Admiral Wright. The enemy is approaching your position ...”

  Chapter Twenty

  Near Earth/Earth Orbit

  “Now,” Williams said. “There is a sight for sore eyes.”

  Ginny couldn't disagree as she guided her starfighter towards Enterprise. The giant carrier was clearly visible, even to the naked eye. Her sensors reported three squadrons of starfighters fanning out around the carrier, protecting her from a sudden attack, while nineteen more were covering the remainder of Home Fleet. She knew from New Russia that Enterprise and the other carriers were hellishly vulnerable to plasma guns, but it was hard to escape the sense that the carrier was invincible. She seemed so solid.

  She braced herself as the starfighter flew into the landing bay and landed neatly on the deck, then sagged into her chair. The deck crew were already running forward, dragging the starfighter through a pair of airlock hatches and into a pressurised bay. Ginny could barely move, even when the deck chief rapped sharply on her cockpit. Her entire body felt drained of energy.

  Move, you silly bitch, she told herself.

  It was hard, so hard, to pull herself up, then disconnect her flight suit from the seat. The tubes felt unpleasant against her skin, a grim reminder that she’d filled her urine bags sometime during the engagement. It was just a fact of life, but it still rankled. A smelly cockpit was a far from pleasant environment. She’d heard spacers joke about flyers who’d accidentally crashed their starfighters while fiddling with the bags, but she’d never found them very funny. It was one of the little details that somehow never got into the recruitment brochures.

  She opened the cockpit and nearly toppled out of the starfighter. A deck hand caught her, a moment before she would have slipped and fallen; she leaned against him, just long enough to make it down to the deck. The racket was deafening: crews shouted to one another, airlocks opening long enough to admit the next set of starfighters ... she couldn't even muster the energy to cover her ears as she stumbled towards the hatch. She hoped, desperately, that she wouldn't be required to fly for at least five or six hours. Her body was in no state for anything beyond a nap. She would have welcomed death if it meant an end to her suffering.

  You’re being stupid, she told herself, as the hatch opened. Death would be the end, all right.

  A midshipman met her on the far side of the hatch and pointed her down towards the squadron room. Ginny winced as she saw him wrinkle his nose, trying to suppress her irritation. She probably stunk worse than a skunk. She almost giggled at the thought, then sobered as she remembered she was supposed to be in charge of the squadron. If there was anything left of the squadron. Chances were that she and any other survivors would be fitted into Enterprise’s flight roster, if the ship went into battle. And it would.

  The squadron room was empty. Ginny puzzled over it for far longer than she should before it dawned on her that the normal inhabitants were probably in space or waiting in the launch tubes. She stumbled towards the washroom, then stopped as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face was pale and sweaty, her hair damp, her flightsuit so badly rumpled that she looked a mess ... she hoped, suddenly, that no one decided to carry out a snap inspection. Starfighter pilots got a great deal of latitude - they put their lives at risk every time they launched into space - but not that much. Any senior officer who saw her would probably faint on the spot.

  She made her way into the shower compartment and stripped off her flightsuit, leaving it on the deck. She’d pick it up later, she told herself, as she turned on the shower. The water was lukewarm, but she didn’t care. Just
having the sweat and grime washed away felt heavenly, utterly heavenly. Her hands were trembling - the first sign that the stimulants she’d taken were catching up with her - but she found it hard to care. She’d survived a knife-range dogfight with alien starfighters. The risk of heart failure didn't seem quite so threatening.

  The hatch opened. Lieutenant Bush Williams stepped into the shower. He didn't look any better than her, she noted. His face was haggard, as if he’d aged several years over the last few hours. The joker she recalled looked oddly subdued. She opened her mouth to reprimand him for dropping his flightsuit on the deck, then reminded herself that she’d done the same. They’d just have to draw replacements from the carrier’s stores before they were ordered to return to the battle.

  “Captain,” Williams said. His voice was older too. “They’ve distributed the rest of the squadron over the carriers.”

  Ginny nodded. She wasn't too surprised. There just hadn't been time to organise the squadrons before Home Fleet resumed its pursuit of the alien ships. She was surprised they were still alone. They couldn't be the only pilots landing on Enterprise, could they? She hoped - prayed - that the others had been directed elsewhere. Foreign pilots wouldn't exactly be encouraged to wander around the ship, even if there was a war on.

  “Fuck,” she said. Counting her, five pilots had survived. The hell of it was that she knew she should be glad. Other squadrons had suffered far worse causalities during the opening weeks of the war. “Who else ... who else survived? And where?”

  “Sandra Woo was sent to Kennedy,” Williams said. He stepped into the shower and washed, hastily. “I don’t know where the others went.”

  Ginny sighed. Her body still felt as if she’d gone three rounds in the boxing ring, with her hands tied behind her. “Never mind,” she said. “A few hours in the sleep machine will make us feel better.”

  Williams winked at her. “I know what else will make us feel better.”

  “Oh,” Ginny said.

  She found herself considering it, just for a moment. Williams wasn't unattractive ... and besides, he was smart enough to keep his mouth closed afterwards. She was his commanding officer, but that wouldn't last long ... he’d be promoted after the battle, if he survived. He’d done well enough to warrant a shot at squadron command for himself. It was still technically against regulations, but no one would give a damn. She could certainly rely on the other pilots keeping their mouths shut ...

  ... But her body still felt like crap.

  “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” she managed, finally. Even lying back and thinking of America would cost her. “Maybe later.”

  She reached for a towel and dried herself hastily. Her body was covered in bruises, although she had no idea where they’d come from. Maybe she had picked a fight with a boxer after all. Or ... she shook her head in wry amusement. The compensators were good, but far from perfect. Everything she’d put her starfighter through had probably worn them to a nub.

  “The sleep machines are in the next compartment,” Williams called after her. “I’ll see you there.”

  Ginny nodded, forcing herself to pick up the dirty flightsuits and drop them in the basket to be cleaned. There was no way she could put hers back on, not now she was clean. She keyed the room’s terminal, requesting a replacement flight suit from the ship’s stores, then walked into the sleep machine room. The sleep machines looked like coffins - they always looked like coffins - but now they also looked welcoming. She hoped that wasn't a bad sign.

  Getting woken up ahead of time would also be really bad, she told herself, dryly. Normally, that would guarantee a headache. Now, it would probably be worse. This ship could be going back into battle at any moment.

  She climbed into the tube, pulled the lid shut and closed her eyes. A moment later, she was fast asleep.

  ***

  “Welcome aboard, Admiral,” Admiral Thaddeus Robertson said.

  “Thank you,” Jon said. He returned his subordinate’s salute, then relaxed. The CIC looked very comfortable, all of a sudden. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Not over yet, sir,” Robertson said. He nodded towards the main display. “The aliens are steadily making their way towards Jupiter. They’re also pulling ahead of us.”

  “Which may or may not be a good sign,” Jon finished. He sat down at one of the consoles and studied the display. “Is there any suggestion that they are preparing another thrust at Earth?”

  “If they are, we haven’t seen any sign of it,” Robertson said. “But they didn't get everything during their first sweep.”

  Jon nodded. The aliens had done a hell of a lot of damage, but Robertson was right. They hadn't finished off the orbital defences, let alone the industrial nodes. Sooner or later, they’d want to come back to finish the job ... except Home Fleet was now between them and their target. Their ships were fast, but not fast enough to lure Home Fleet out of place and then dart back to Earth. Going after Jupiter made logical sense. Even if they abandoned the battle after smashing the cloudscoops, they’d do a great deal of harm.

  And if they had another fleet in the system, they’d have attacked Jupiter earlier, he thought, grimly. The Tadpoles didn't seem to like complicated plans, although he did have a suspicion that the relative quiet between the battles of Vera Cruz and New Russia had been intended to lure the human forces forward into a trap. But then, they know as well as we do that complex plans are practically guaranteed to fail.

  “We’ll just have to hope that they have one fleet - one fleet alone - in the system,” he said, nodding towards the red icons on the display. “You said you had a plan?”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “We’ll use the Io detachment to make them reverse course, just long enough to let Home Fleet enter engagement range. At that point, we’ll tear them to shreds with long-range fighter and bomber strikes. My starfighter pilots are relatively fresh, sir, and the newcomers are getting some rest now. We’ll be ready to give them a kick in the nuts.”

  Jon gave him a sharp look. “Their pilots will be getting rested too,” he pointed out. “And your ships will have to deploy significantly more fighters in a short space of time.”

  “It can't be helped,” Robertson said. “Unfortunately, we didn't bring additional escort carriers with the fleet.”

  “They were needed elsewhere,” Jon said.

  He gritted his teeth, remembering a string of bitter arguments. Escort carriers were relatively cheap, although he - and the Pentagon - was uneasily aware of the knock-on effects of converting bulk freighters to escort carriers. But that very cheapness made them ideal for long-range raids into the enemy rear. Nothing as complex - or as dangerous - as Operation Nelson - but enough to hopefully knock the enemy off balance. And if the escorts were destroyed ... well, at least the USN hadn't sacrificed a fleet carrier. He didn't like the logic - he certainly didn't like sending officers and men out expecting them to die - but there was no choice. The war could still go either way.

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said.

  Jon nodded, curtly. The latest stream of updates from Nelson Base were already on the display, waiting for him. Now the aliens were retreating, the defenders could turn their attention to smashing the pieces of debris that would otherwise hit the surface. It was a relief, yet there had already been far too many impacts. He hadn't dared look at the more detailed reports. He’d have to do that after the battle was over.

  And then I’ll have to brief the President and the Security Council, he thought, numbly. He’d have to give them an update, if nothing else. Chances were that the Security Council had been having problems following events beyond the upper atmosphere. And now, of course, they would be dealing with the aftermath of the battle. They’ll want proof the aliens can be beaten.

  He studied the tactical display for a long moment, silently weighing the possibilities. There was no way he could allow the alien fleet to proceed unmolested, even though there was a chance it was trying to draw Home Fleet out of
position. No matter how he looked at it, there was no way to avoid the simple truth that letting the aliens devastate the facilities at Jupiter would put a severe crimp in humanity’s ability to fight. And yet, Home Fleet might not be a match for a rejuvenated enemy fleet.

  But they would have sent a stronger force, if they could muster one, he told himself. Taking out Earth and the rest of the installations here would give them victory.

  He told himself, sharply, not to jump to unwarranted conclusions. The Tadpoles were alien, very alien. They might not think like humans. For all he knew, this was their idea of a reconnaissance-in-force. And yet, the force they’d committed was far too large for anything other than a serious attempt to take out Earth. If they’d had more ships, they would have committed them.

  Unless they threw the attack together at the last minute, he thought. Did Ark Royal drive them to panic?