He closed his eyes as soon as the XO left, leaving him alone. The victory hadn't come cheaply, he knew, even though the aliens had suffered worse by an order of magnitude. Thirty-two starfighter pilots dead, ninety-two officers and men on the destroyed frigate ... that weapon was going to be a major problem. It was quite possible that a close-range duel with one of the alien craft would be impossible.
And they'd all died under his command.
Angrily, he pushed the guilt aside and opened his eyes. A naval career, even one spent on an isolated asteroid mining station, always carried the risk of a violent death. No one joined the navy believing it to be safe. Hell, space was never safe. The civilian death rate was actually higher than the navy’s, although civilian starships tended to operate far closer to the margins than naval starships. He knew that to be true. But somehow it didn't make his task any easier.
Gritting his teeth, he strode out of the Briefing Room and marched towards the bridge, almost tripping over several boxes of spare parts someone had stowed in the passageway. He made a mental note to discuss it with his XO. As important as it was to cram the ship to the gunwales with spare parts, it was equally important not to impede the crew from rushing to battle stations when the alarm sounded.
“Captain,” Fitzwilliam said, when he stepped through the airlock. “Our course is laid in, ready to go.”
Ted took his command chair and nodded. “Take us home,” he ordered. It felt good to say it, even though part of him worried over the reaction from the Admiralty. Would they have expected him to destroy the entire alien force? “Best possible speed.”
He smiled to himself, wanly. A week ago, crewmen assigned to Ark Royal had been mocked by their fellows. The Old Lady was ancient, a relic of a bygone era ... there had been several fights, which had been broken up by the local police. But who, he asked himself, would be laughing now? The Old Lady had more than proved herself in combat.
Good, he thought, patting his command chair. Now we just have to win the war.
Chapter Twelve
Ted had never set foot in Westminster Abbey. Not as a schoolchild, not as a tourist and not as a naval officer. But now ... he settled uncomfortably on his seat, wishing desperately for drink, as the service for the dead droned on. The Admiralty had surrendered to the political desire to honour the dead in Westminster Abbey ... he shook his head, cursing the politicians under his breath. Surely, the dead deserved better than this farce of a ceremony.
He looked around, feeling oddly out of place among the brass. It seemed that every officer above the rank of Commodore had been summoned to the Abbey, along with thousands of politicians, celebrities and reporters. The latter were baying for blood – or newsworthy quotes – outside the Abbey, calling out to everyone they saw for something they could record and put on the datanet. Ted would have preferred to face the aliens again, rather than the reporters. At least the aliens would only have killed him, rather than dissecting his career, reputation and appearance.
It took nearly an hour before the service finally came to an end. By that time, Ted was praying desperately for something – anything – to break the monotony. Everyone from the Prime Minister to the First Space Lord seemed to have something to say, even though most of it consisted of useless platitudes. Ted wished he could make his escape as soon as the end came, but he knew better. There was a reception being held immediately after for Ark Royal’s senior officers. It would be hellish.
He glanced down at his terminal as the PM left the Abbey, followed by a stream of senior officers. There was a security alert at the top; apparently, thousands of additional reporters were pressing against the police barricades, even though they all had access to the live feed from within the Abbey. But that wouldn’t be the same, Ted knew, as catching someone in the act of doing something embarrassing. Or recording something that could be taken out of context and then turned into a weapon. It struck him, not for the first time, that it had probably been reporters who had arranged for a ban on duelling. They would have found themselves challenged repeatedly, otherwise.
Outside, the baying of the reporters grew louder as he followed the First Space Lord out of the Abbey and down towards a set of white cars. They shouted and screamed, begging for him to turn and look at them, or answer their questions, no matter how absurd they were. Ted kept his face as expressionless as possible, sighing in relief the moment he climbed into the car and shut the door. After having his character alternatively praised and assassinated, he would be happy if he never saw any reporter ever again.
“The politicians needed soothing and so did the general public,” the First Space Lord said, once he’d run a bug detector over the car. Technically, bugging government or military facilities was illegal, but that didn't stop the media. “They were really quite upset.”
Ted nodded. It had been two days since Ark Royal had returned to Earth and the public had gone wild. Everyone had known that the aliens were invincible ... until Ark Royal proved otherwise. Certainly, quite a few armchair admirals had complained about the decision to abandon the backdoor system after the battle, but the Admiralty had understood. The aliens might easily come back with more firepower ... or simply pick another star to use as a waypoint on the way to Earth.
“It's a farce, sir,” he said. He cursed himself a moment later. Normally, he would never have been so expressive in front of a superior officer. “My people deserved better.”
“They always do,” the First Space Lord said. He smiled as the car came to a halt in front of a large building, protected by a row of policemen. “Enjoy the reception, Captain. You’re the hero of the hour.”
Ted sighed, inwardly. He was the highest-ranking officer from the carrier ... but most of the guests would be higher-ranking still. Every naval officer – and probably a few army officers – had tried hard to wrangle invitations. His crewmen would be hopelessly junior to the officers they were supposed to chitchat with, promising a day of awkward chatter and embarrassing silences. But it had to be endured.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, unconvincingly.
Inside, a band was playing, hundreds of senior officers were already milling about ... and there was a large table full of expensive booze. Ted stared, wondering just how many thousands of pounds had been spent on the wine alone, then reached for a glass before stopping himself. He couldn't afford to get drunk, not now. Instead, he took a glass of orange juice and looked around for someone he could actually talk to. But there was no one, apart from the Japanese Naval Attaché. And he was known to be the most frightful bore.
Sighing, Ted walked over to greet him anyway. It had been two years since they’d last met, when the Japanese officer had managed to convince the Royal Navy to give him a tour of Ark Royal. Ted had wondered, in all seriousness, if the Japanese Navy intended to build their own armoured carriers, but nothing had ever materialised. Under the circumstances, he decided, that seemed something of a pity.
“Congratulations on your victory,” the Japanese officer said. “I wish to hear all about it.”
***
James had grown up in an aristocratic family, although he liked to think that he had made it into the navy on his own abilities. As boring as aristocratic parties could be – and the reception was organised on the same principles – they were also an excellent chance to network. He took a glass of water this time – getting tipsy could still be embarrassing, if not disastrous – and moved from person to person, keeping an eye on the other crewmen as he did. Not all of them had any experience in parties and the last thing he wanted was to have to get them out of trouble.
“Ah, I hear you did well for yourself after all,” a voice said. “Good show!”
James turned to see his Uncle Winchester, a retired naval officer of fifty years experience. The grizzled old man had been one of the prime influences on his life, James had to admit, although he hadn't listened to everything the older man had taught him. Trying to force his way into command of Ark Royal was something certain to an
noy Uncle Winchester ... and the fact it had blown up in James’s face certain to amuse him.
“Yes, Uncle,” he said, remembering the models of carriers and escort vessels his uncle had given him as a child. Some of them had been remarkably impractical, others prospective designs for future naval development. Uncle Winchester, if he recalled correctly, had actually had a hand in developing the modern carriers the aliens had torn apart. “I have learnt a great deal from Captain Smith.”
“Glad to hear it,” Uncle Winchester said. He placed a hand on James’s arm, half-pushing him towards a side room. “You have to learn to walk before you can run.”
The sound of the band cut off the moment the door closed. James hesitated, then turned to face his uncle. The side rooms were often used for backroom dealing between people who could never be seen together in public, although there was no reason he couldn't speak to his uncle anywhere. But then another door opened and the First Space Lord entered the room.
“Be seated,” the First Space Lord ordered, shortly. “We don’t have much time.”
James swallowed and obeyed, feeling suddenly very unsure of his own ground. He’d used the Old Boys Network to push the First Space Lord into promoting him, only to discover that his pressure only went so far. In hindsight, he knew, Captain Smith had been entirely correct to point out that James was hardly ready for command of a modern carrier, let alone an ancient ship held together by improvised fixes and scrounged spare parts. But it would be years, he suspected, before he was ever allowed to forget that he’d tried to snatch command out of the hands of his current CO.
“I need to ask you a question,” the First Space Lord continued, once he'd taken a seat facing James. Uncle Winchester sat to the side, his eyes never leaving James’s face. “Is Captain Smith suitable for command?”
James stared at him, unable to keep his shock off his face. Asking an XO to comment on his Captain’s fitness for command was a severe breach of naval etiquette. If the CO found out, it would shatter the trust between him and his XO, trust that had already been weakened by James’s attempt to snatch command for himself. There were situations when an XO could legally relieve the Captain of command, but they tended to result in the XO’s career coming to a screeching halt. If the Admiralty had their doubts, they should have sent in an investigative officer.
He realised, suddenly, just how poor the Admiralty’s position actually was. They’d found it impossible to push a knighted officer into early requirement, so they’d given him Ark Royal and left him to his own devices. Instead of drinking himself to death, Smith had kept Ark Royal functional; the starship had barely needed a month of intensive work to return to full combat-worthy status. And then Smith had pulled off a victory that had made him the world’s man of the hour. The media was already comparing him to Drake, Nelson, Cunningham and Singh. If the Admiralty had wanted to relieve him of command, they would have to explain it to the media ... and to politicians, eager to make political hay at the Admiralty’s expense.
Smith had been lucky, James knew, feeling an odd flicker of amusement. The reporters had dug up some of his file, including his drinking problem, but they’d spun it into a morality tale about a hero overcoming his issues and defending Britain against outside attack. And it wasn't just Britain either. Smith was a hero right across the world. Maybe, just maybe, the media would sour, but until then Smith was politically untouchable. The consequences of relieving him could be dire.
Uncle Winchester coughed. “I feel, Farnham, that the boy is confused.”
James flushed, brightly. “I’m not twelve any longer, uncle!”
“Learn to keep your face under control,” Uncle Winchester lectured, sternly. He looked over at the First Space Lord. “This is an invidious line of questioning, Farnham.”
“You know better, I think,” the First Space Lord said. “Commander Fitzwilliam, I do need an answer.”
James winced. If he answered the question, it could utterly destroy his professional reputation. No one would ever trust him again. They’d think of him as a sneak, a coward who didn't even have the nerve to stand up and relieve his CO of command. But if he didn't answer the question, it could impact his career too. The First Space Lord had no shortage of places to assign officers who had annoyed him. It was darkly amusing to realise that Ark Royal had once been one of those places.
“It won’t go any further,” Uncle Winchester assured him. “Will it?”
“No,” the First Space Lord said.
James gathered himself. “Since I have served on Ark Royal, the Captain has not – to my knowledge – touched a drop of alcohol,” he said, firmly. “Furthermore, he has handled my education in the carrier’s mechanics, the integration of the new crewmembers and our first real deployment with exceptional skill. He has, after all, had years to think of the best way to refit his ship for combat. And he has successfully pulled off our first real victory.”
The First Space Lord looked unconvinced. “But he could backslide at any moment ...”
“I have seen nothing to indicate that he will,” James said, sharply. It crossed his mind, a second too late, that he had interrupted the senior uniformed officer in the entire navy, but he forced the thought to one side. “My ambitions aside, there is no good reason to relieve him of command.”
He wondered, absently, just what the First Space Lord had in mind. There were ways to put someone on the beach while seemingly rewarding them. It was why, he suspected, there were so many Admirals in the Royal Navy. Not all of them were assigned to fleet or squadron commands – or naval bases. Smith’s promotion to Admiral would be greeted with raptures by the media, who wouldn't recognise that he was being promoted into obscurity.
Or maybe they would, he thought. By now, they expect Captain Smith to take command of the next unified defence force.
“I expect you to keep a close eye on him,” the First Space Lord said. “How does he work with the crew?”
“Fatherly, rather than dictatorial,” James said. He'd served under a CO who’d been a tyrant, although he’d had the advantage of not caring about James’s family. James had actually found that somewhat refreshing. “He’s friendly and caring ... it helps, it think, that most of his senior crew served together on Ark Royal while she was in the reserves. They’ve had plenty of time to build up a relationship.”
The First Space Lord leaned forward. “No improper relationships?”
James scowled. If the Captain had any relationships – or relations – away from Ark Royal, James had never seen anything of them. But then, the Captain hadn't taken any leave for years, according to his file. Had he simply become an introverted hermit on Ark Royal? Or had he formed a relationship with one of the supply crewwomen? Or crewmen?
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” he said. He braced himself, then pushed forward. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Granted,” the First Space Lord said.
“I rather thought we were,” Uncle Winchester said.
James ignored him. “Sir, with all due respect, this whole conversation is dreadfully improper,” he said. “I should not be asked to ... pass judgement on my commanding officer, certainly not outside a formal Board of Inquiry. In any case, while I admit I had concerns about the Captain’s drinking, I have seen no evidence that he has returned to his old habits in the seven weeks I have served under his command.
“Furthermore, he is perhaps the most experienced officer we could hope to have with the older weapons that won us a victory,” he continued. “Most newer officers, including myself, were trained to serve on modern carriers, not solid masses of metal like Ark Royal. But those carriers are nothing more than targets for the alien starfighters. We need him, sir. We shouldn't be planning to stick a knife in his back.”
The First Space Lord’s expression darkened for a long moment. James wondered if he'd gone too far, then reminded himself that at least he still had his pride. And besides, Uncle Winchester would defend him, if necessary. He still recal
led the older man ticking off his aunt for assuming that James and his brothers had ruined her prize flowerbed.
“I concede your point,” the First Space Lord said, finally. “However, there are ... issues with Captain Smith. I shall be expecting you to watch him closely and take whatever action seems appropriate if the Captain slides back into drunkenness.”
He stood and marched out of the room. James watched him go, then turned to look at his uncle. “Farnham always was too political,” Uncle Winchester muttered. “But at such high attitude, politics and war are always intermingled. He’s better than most at running interference between politicians and naval officers.”
“Yes, uncle,” James agreed.
Uncle Winchester stood. “Go back to the party, keep an eye on your junior officers and try to have fun,” he advised. “Or go find a debutante and have some fun with her. You’ll be back in space soon enough.”
James nodded. The schedule had insisted that Ark Royal’s crewmen return to her immediately after the party. He didn't really blame the organisers, not when the media were already laying siege to the building. One careless word in the wrong pair of ears could trigger a political earthquake.
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