And one of them was ... what? A spy? A reporter?
He’d barely slept since returning to the carrier as he worked the problem time and time again, trying to think of a way out. But everything seemed to be sewn up neatly. If he admitted the truth to his superiors, he would have to admit he had no idea who his contact was supposed to be – and he’d still be in deep shit for breaking regulations so blatantly. They might have escaped more than a sharp reprimand, he knew, if they’d broken off the relationship after escaping the alien trap. But instead they’d kept it going ...
Kurt gritted his teeth. Honour demanded one thing, duty demanded another ... and his crippling fear for the safety of his family demanded a third. He didn't dare risk losing his post, not now. Percy and Penny – and Gayle, he supposed – needed him. And it wasn't just his family, he knew. Rose would lose her career too. What would happen to her if she was kicked out of the Navy in disgrace?
The thought kept tormenting him as he watched the remaining aides making their way through the airlock. Which one of them was the spy? And what did he or she want?
I won’t do anything that threatens the ship, he told himself, firmly. But he already knew he’d crossed that line when he didn't laugh in Fred’s face. His weakness alone was a threat. But what else can I do?
He stepped backwards as the last of the aides vanished from sight, then turned and walked through the hatch. A handful of crewmen waved cheerfully at him as they passed, but he ignored them, his thoughts elsewhere. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he barely noticed when he reached Pilot Country. Someone – probably one of the more experienced pilots – had scrawled Welcome To The Nursery on the hatch. Kurt hadn't had the heart to hunt down the culprit and force him to spend several hours removing the mark. He tended to agree with the mysterious vandal.
The simulators were occupied, he noted, as he glanced into the exercise room. Rose, to give her full credit, had taken over much of the work of preparing the maggots for flight duties, which meant putting them through so many simulated exercises that they spend their nights dreaming of flying through space in a starfighter. Kurt glanced at the statistics, noted there had been a slight improvement over the last few days, then sighed. It was too likely they’d overwork some of the newcomers and be forced to let them rest.
“Things aren't what they used to be,” a voice said.
Kurt jumped, then spun around. Jake MacFarlane stood there, looking surprised at Kurt’s reaction. The pilot hadn't been on Ark Royal for the first desperate battles against the aliens, but he’d joined the ship in time for Operation Nelson and the attack on Target One. He’d been a young puppy back then, someone who had trained alongside Prince Henry. Now, he was effectively a veteran pilot.
“They never were,” Kurt pointed out. He’d had the full training course. MacFarlane had had the Accelerated Training Course. The maggots in the simulators hadn't even had that. But then, MacFarlane had clearly learned something. Or he would have died. “How are you enjoying your promotion?”
MacFarlane sighed. He’d been assigned to serve as a Squadron Commander, but it was very much a poisoned chalice. Almost all of his pilots were rank newcomers.
“I feel I should be sending them to their beds without supper,” MacFarlane said. “They’re kids.”
Kurt nodded. He’d had the same reaction.
And he knew that far too many of those kids were going to die.
***
“I was surprised, Admiral, at your reluctance to serve alcohol,” Ambassador Gasconne said. “It does tend to make diplomatic dinners go smoothly.”
“Unless someone gets drunk and forgets diplomacy,” Ambassador Tennant pointed out. “I was there when the Ambassador from Argentina got drunk and practically challenged the Ambassador from Brazil to a duel. Smoothing that over took a great deal of work.”
Ted shrugged. It had been nearly a year since he’d touched a drop of alcohol, but there were times when he felt the urge to take a drink howling at the back of his mind. Alcohol had comforted him when his ship had been nothing more than a floating museum piece, yet when he’d actually had to go on active service he’d forced himself to stop drinking. It hadn't been easy.
And if Fitzwilliam hadn't been there, he thought, I would have fallen back into a bottle and stayed there.
He looked around the table, smiling inwardly. The Ambassadors hadn't seemed too put out by the food, but some of their aides were clearly doubtful. Ted had read their files, though; the Ambassadors were veterans of secret diplomacy, men who made deals well away from the media or the general public. They’d understand that it wasn't all fine wines, fancy dinners and public relations. But they wouldn't normally take their staff with them on such missions.
“The Navy is officially dry,” he said, simply. It wasn't entirely true, yet he’d banned alcohol from the flotilla and made it stick. Someone probably had an illicit still somewhere – it was practically tradition - but as long as they were careful, Ted wouldn't be forced to take notice of it. “We have to set a good example.”
“It could be worse,” Ambassador Melbourne said. He nodded towards the dishes on the table. “I had to attend a meeting in Arabia once, years ago. They tried to feed me something made of greasy fat with a tiny piece of meat and piles of steaming rice. I later discovered it was goat.”
Ted had to smile. The ship’s cooks had done their best, but there was a shortage of fresh food from Earth these days. Most of the meal had come from processed biomass grown in the ship’s hydroponic farms or recycled from the waste disposal systems. There were civilians who refused to eat anything recycled, all too aware of what it had been recycled from.
“We don’t have goat on the menu,” he said. “But we had to produce the meat in a vat.”
“Understandable,” Tennant said. “We can't afford to eat now when people are desperately looking for food down below.”
Ted nodded. America had been badly hit by the tidal waves, but America simply had much more room to grow food and house refugees. Even so, it would be years before the country recovered, if it ever did. The latest reports suggested that applications for emigration, just like Britain, had skyrocketed over the last few days. Earth no longer felt safe and tranquil.
“But I should ask,” Fitzwilliam said. “What do you plan to offer the aliens?”
“It depends,” Melbourne said. The Ambassador shared glances with his compatriots. “Ideally, we want a return to the pre-war status quo, with a border demarcation and embassies that will prevent another war. Unfortunately, as we have no idea why they started the war, we may have to adapt to circumstances. At worst, we will have to cede the occupied worlds to them permanently in exchange for peace.”
“The Russians will love that,” Fitzwilliam pointed out. “Don't you have a Russian representative on your staff?”
“Yes, Peter Golovanov,” Melbourne said. “But the Russians declined to send a formal Ambassador. Peter is ... just an observer.”
Ted frowned. International diplomacy wasn't something he had much experience with, apart from commanding a multinational fleet during Operation Nelson, but it seemed odd for the Russians to refuse to take part in any negotiations. Or had they assumed that the diplomats would be forced to cede the occupied worlds, including New Russia, and refused to take part on the theory that agreements wouldn't be binding if Russia didn't sign them? It wasn't a question he could ask at such a gathering.
I’ll talk to the Ambassador privately, later, he thought.
Fitzwilliam changed the subject, hastily. “Doctor,” he said, “do you think we can actually communicate with the aliens?”
“We have devised ways to convert our voices into something they can hear,” Doctor Polly McDonald said. “But we have problems actually communicating with them. Some of the prisoners are more cooperative than others, yet we haven’t been able to get them to talk properly. I think their society is so different from ours that some of our concepts don’t make sense to them.”
<
br /> She smiled, charmingly. “I have been able to discuss mathematical concepts with them,” she added. “They can do their sums, so we’re not dealing with a race of drones, but we just can't get some of our ideas across to them. We may never be able to understand them completely.”
“Wonderful,” Melbourne said. “And to think I thought negotiating with religious fanatics was bad.”
Chapter Twelve
“I suppose it could be worse,” Fitzwilliam said.
Ted nodded in agreement as he sipped his tea. The flotilla was due to depart in two hours, but the final preparations had yet to be made. Between the diplomats, their aides and the researchers, Ted had had very little time to pay attention to the repair work. Fortunately, the Old Lady had a good commander and a brilliant engineer.
“Yeah,” Ted agreed. “But we’re still going to be in trouble if the aliens target the weakened parts of our hull.”
He shrugged. “Apart from that,” he said, “how do we stand?”
“We’ve kidnapped a few dozen yard dogs,” Fitzwilliam said. “I think one of them is planning to file charges when we return to the solar system.”
“I don’t blame him,” Ted said. Technically, the Royal Navy had the legal authority to pressgang whoever it needed to keep the ships running, but it had never been asserted before the war. The yard dogs would share the same fate as the naval officers, without any of the legal guarantees of protections and pensions for their families. “But as long as he does his duty here, we won’t worry about it.”
“The XO had a few words with them all,” Fitzwilliam said. “And I’ve made arrangements for their families too.”
He shrugged. “Most of them have families on the asteroids,” he added. “The remainder are being offered safer places to live.”
“Good thinking,” Ted said. “And the crew?”
“The old sweats are doing fine,” Fitzwilliam said. “But I do worry about the starfighter pilots, sir. They’re nowhere near as trained as the last batch – and they took terrifying losses.”
“I know,” Ted said. He shook his head, bitterly. “But what else can we do?”
“I also think the CAG is on the verge of burning out,” Fitzwilliam added. “I had a briefing with him two hours ago and ... he seemed monumentally distracted. He’s seen far too many pilots die under his command.”
Ted couldn't disagree. Fifty years of relative peace had ensured that the Royal Navy’s greatest losses came from accidents, not enemy action. A single death would have been cause for a full-scale enquiry into everyone involved, with careers suspended until the truth had been wrung out of them and new procedures had been put into place to prevent a repeat. But now ... two carriers had been lost in the opening months of the war and it had only grown worse from then onwards. The Royal Navy alone had lost over thirty thousand personnel in just under a year.
He sighed. There had never been any shortage of volunteers for naval service, quite the opposite. Even a junior crewman could jump ahead of a civilian spacer if he did his ten years and then went into the private sector. But the Royal Navy had always been picky about who it selected to train as starfighter pilots, until now. The floodgates were opening, yet pilot training facilities had not been prepared for the sudden influx. It would be years before the situation changed.
“Keep an eye on him,” he ordered, finally. “And the rest of the crew?”
“Stressed, but determined,” Fitzwilliam said. “Moving their families helped, sir.”
“Good thinking on your part,” Ted reminded him. “And so we’re ready to leave.”
He keyed a switch, activating the starchart. Their planned route was far too close to the previous route they'd used to get into alien-held space, but there was no choice. The analysts had argued – and, for once, Ted agreed with them – that there was nowhere else they might have a reasonable hope of encountering Faction Two. Given the ambush the aliens had tried to spring, they’d concluded that Faction Two lay down one of the unexplored tramlines. Ted had privately noted that it was equally possible that Faction Two didn't have the firepower to keep Faction One out of its space ... if, of course, they weren’t misreading the data completely.
“We think there’s a life-bearing world here,” he said, pointing to one of the stars two jumps from Target One. “It’s as good a place as any to start.”
Fitzwilliam frowned. “It’s still chancy as hell,” he said, doubtfully. “But it has to be done.”
Ted understood his feelings. The alien navigational data might be completely unsecured, for all the humans knew, yet it was hard to pull any sense out of it. Certain points – the tramlines in particular – were easy to verify, others were much harder to comprehend. Did the aliens really mean life-bearing world by that particular icon or was it a warning to stay the hell away from that particular star system? The only way to find out was to go look.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It has to be done.”
He tapped a switch, altering the display to show the flotilla. Six warships – two escort carriers, four frigates – kept station with Ark Royal, while a colossal Fleet Auxiliary hung behind them, crammed with everything from missile warheads to boxed starfighters. The transport would remain under cloak at all times, Ted knew. They couldn't risk losing her to alien fire, not when it would cost them far too much.
“They’re ready to go too,” he said. “We can leave on schedule.”
“And just keep the repairs going while we’re underway,” Fitzwilliam said. He rose. “With your permission, Admiral, I will prepare my ship for departure.”
“Please do,” Ted said. The words caused him a pang. He would never be commander of the Old Lady – or any other starship – again, no matter how long his career lasted. An Admiral had no business occupying a command deck. “I’ll be in the CIC in twenty minutes.”
He watched Fitzwilliam leave, then sighed. What would he do after the war? He wouldn’t be allowed to stay on Ark Royal, that was for sure; the carrier would still be a vital part of the Royal Navy. It was possible he could parley his military record into a high rank at the Admiralty, maybe even First Space Lord, although the thought of kissing political buttocks was repulsive to him. Or he could resign and write his memoirs.
It wouldn't happen, he knew. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Shaking his head sadly, he finished his tea, rose to his feet and walked through the hatch.
***
There had been a time, James Fitzwilliam conceded, when he’d thought of Ark Royal’s bridge as crude, a memento of a bygone age. The Old Lady simply lacked the elegance of modern carriers, let alone the sheer consideration that had gone into designing her to look smart as well as efficient. But he'd come to love it over the months since he’d assumed, to feel that there could be no other command deck for him. It had a reassuring solidity that more modern carriers lacked.
But that could be because modern carriers can't stand up to the aliens, he thought. They looked good, alright, but the aliens could blow them into flaming debris within seconds. We won’t be building carriers like that again.
He sighed inwardly as he took his seat and surveyed the main display. There were plans to build a whole new generation of armoured carriers and battleships, but it would still be years before the first ship left the shipyard and went to the front lines. Until then, Ark Royal was unique, utterly irreplaceable. And, if the Admiralty hadn't been willing to gamble, she would probably have remained tied to Earth, defending humanity’s homeworld against the scum of the universe.
And would it have made a difference, he asked himself, if we had stayed in orbit around Earth?
He’d reviewed the records of the Battle of Earth. The main thrust of the alien attack had fallen on the planet’s fixed defences, but they’d managed to find time to devastate the unified carrier fleet in passing. Ark Royal might have made a difference – or she might just have been blown apart by alien laser warheads too. There was no way to know what would have happened if sh
e’d been there. But he knew he would always ask himself if they’d made a mistake in haring off to attack Target One.
Angrily, he pushed the thought aside. Endlessly dwelling on the past was pointless. What was done was done. It could not be changed. All that mattered was adapting to the world as it was and then moving forward. There was no point in thinking otherwise.
“Commander Lightbridge,” he said. “Are we ready to depart?”
“Yes, Captain,” Lightbridge said. As always, he seemed remarkably cheerful. “Drives are online; all systems read nominal. We can depart on your command.”
Ark Royal 3: The Trafalgar Gambit Page 12