09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  She swallowed, hard. In truth, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. But her uncle had taught her the importance of facing up to the truth, whatever it was.

  “Sir,” she said. “How ... how well did I do?”

  Lieutenant-General Ball studied her for a long moment, his scrutiny reminding her of Mrs Blackthorn’s expression after George had been accused - correctly - of playing a nasty prank on some of the younger girls. The headmistress had come very close to expelling her - and would have done, George suspected, if she hadn't had such strong family connections. She’d made George feel about an inch high.

  And the lecture I got from my father only made it worse, she recalled. I was lucky not to be grounded forever.

  “For someone who entered the training course with little practical experience in the skills taught to all soldiers, you did reasonably well,” Lieutenant-General Ball told her. “Your shooting and unarmed combat skills were pitiful, but you learned quickly. Whatever basic training you did have wasn't bad, merely incomplete. Your academy training also prepared you for working closely with men - despite temptation, you made no attempt to take advantage of your sex.”

  George flushed. She'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that she would be treated as one of the boys - and that she was to act as one of the boys. Trying to use her feminine wiles - as if she’d had any, after tramping up and down the Brecon Beacons for hours - to get the marines to help her would get her kicked from the course and probably dishonourably discharged from the navy. She hadn't been inclined to argue. The Royal Navy had drilled strict rules on interpersonal relationships into her head from the day she’d first entered the academy.

  “On the other hand,” Ball continued, “you lack the endurance required of combat soldiers and, despite your best efforts, that is unlikely to change. You really came to us too late.”

  He met her eyes, evenly. “If you’d joined us in the normal way, you would probably have been binned by now,” he added. “You’re not lacking in determination and moral fibre, but you’re physically incapable of meeting our high standards. You simply cannot carry as much as your fellows. A long march over the Brecon Beacons would probably kill you - or force your squadmates to decide between carrying you or leaving you behind. Either one might have proved costly.”

  “The spirit is willing,” George mused, “but the flesh is weak.”

  “Correct,” Ball said. “And as you know from experience, you don’t get to shout stop in a combat zone.”

  He rose. “It’s been interesting, having you here,” he said. “And I wish you all the best in your future career.”

  “Thank you, sir,” George said.

  She saluted, then marched out of the office. The general’s secretary might be a sour-faced prune - the administrative staff were treated as second-class citizens, as far as the army was concerned - but she was efficient. George’s travel papers were already waiting for her, along with a brief outline of options for reaching London, Manchester, Edinburgh and Aberdeen. It looked as though there were late-night trains from Cardiff after all. Still, hiring a taxi would probably be quicker in the long run. She had the feeling she’d spend most of the trip snoring loudly.

  “Collect your possessions from the exit barracks and change into civilian clothes, then report to the gatehouse,” the secretary ordered, stiffly. “The jeep will be waiting for you there.”

  “Thank you,” George said.

  She walked to the barracks and recovered her bag from the staff. She’d been told to bring two sets of civilian clothes, as well as a handful of basic supplies, but most of them had been put into storage as soon as she’d reported to the base. Her terminal was sitting on top of her clothes; she clicked it on, watching as it linked into the datanet. Personal terminals were banned on the base, along with wristcoms and earphones. She’d never really understood the logic.

  It felt odd, after wearing uniforms for nearly two months, to change back into her civilian clothes. The army clothes had been ill-fitting - she’d had to struggle to get bras that actually fitted her, not something she’d had to worry about in the navy - but they’d also made her feel part of something bigger, as if she actually fitted in. But now ... she looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. Jeans, a shirt and a jumper ... she looked like any other young civilian, perhaps one searching for her first job after completing her National Service. Shaking her head, she keyed a quick message into her terminal and headed for the gatehouse. If she was lucky, she’d be halfway to London by midnight.

  And maybe Peter will be free, she thought. She’d exchanged a handful of messages with her boyfriend, but there’d been no privacy when she’d been using the public computers. Sexting had been completely out of the question. We could meet in London.

  George shrugged as she reached the gatehouse. The guards processed her with commendable speed, checking her ID before altering it to make sure she couldn't swipe in and out of the base any longer. She couldn’t help feeling oddly rejected, even though she knew it was absurd. No one was allowed to pass through the gates without clear authorisation from their superiors.

  The army driver waved to her, cheerfully. “Where to, Miss?”

  “The nearest town,” George said, as she keyed her terminal. If there was a taxi firm there ... if not, she’d just have to go to Cardiff. “And don’t spare the horses.”

  “Of course, Miss,” the driver said. Of course he would be flirting. She no longer looked like one of the boys. “We’ll be there before you know it.”

  Chapter Six

  “Susan,” a voice called. “You look very different!”

  Susan turned. That had been Sandy’s voice, hadn't it? But for a moment, as she scanned the crowd, she didn't see him. And then she realised that the middle-aged man in front of her was Sandy. He’d changed. The gawky teenager she remembered had been replaced by a grown man wearing a black suit and tie, carrying a black briefcase in one hand. He looked muscular, like most young men who’d done two years of National Service, but it was clear that he was starting to put on weight. His brown hair was already starting to thin.

  “Sandy,” she said. “You look different too.”

  “Age comes to us all,” Sandy said. He winked. “That and I can’t afford expensive cosmetic treatments to regain my lost youth.”

  He looked her up and down. “You look better than I do,” he added. “But that was always true.”

  Susan shrugged. As a teenager, she’d agonised for hours over what she should wear; as an adult, she’d pulled her one dress over her head and splashed a little make-up on her face. She had never been particularly vain as a child - and the navy had killed whatever tendency she’d had towards vanity as a cadet. Coming to think of it, so had boarding school. The one advantage of uniforms that came from a bygone age was that the richer kids weren't constantly flaunting their designer clothes in front of their poorer peers. And to think she’d hated the uniform at the time.

  Sandy took her arm and led her down the street. “I was thinking we’d dine at the Raj,” he said. “It’s quite a good place to go, if you don’t mind Indian food.”

  “I have no objections,” Susan said. A lot of ethnic restaurants had been closed during the Troubles, but they’d had a revival recently. The Anglo-Indian War hadn’t slowed it down, as far as she knew. She wasn't going to be accused of being unpatriotic merely for eating in an Indian restaurant. “Do you think we can find a table?”

  “I called ahead,” Sandy said. “They don’t do reservations, but they often have empty tables while the crowds are at the theatre. It’s a pain after they come out and start looking for somewhere to eat.”

  The Raj turned out to be a mid-sized restaurant staffed by young women wearing traditional Hindu clothes. They seemed surprised to see Susan, although Susan couldn't tell if they recognised her or if they were merely surprised to see an interracial couple. It was rare, something she regretted more than she cared to admit. The girls themselves were either the descendants of immigrant
s who’d assimilated or workers on a short-term work permit. She had to admit they were pretty enough to make her feel dowdy.

  “It’s traditional to order two or three dishes, then share,” Sandy said, as Susan scanned the menu. “What would you like?”

  Susan shrugged. There didn't seem to be anything particularly spicy on the menu, as far as she could tell. But then, she’d grown up eating her father’s cooking - and he’d regarded chilli as a vital part of everything. Sandy ordered a couple of starters, then waited. Susan picked a couple of dishes largely at random, handing the menu back to the waitress. The food was important, but she was rather more interested in catching up with an old friend.

  “So,” she said. “What have you been doing since we last met?”

  Sandy shrugged. “Two years of National Service, then a third year as a volunteer,” he said, frankly. “The Reclamation Zones ... they were a nightmare.”

  Susan leaned forward. “I’ve seen pictures,” she said. “Was it really that bad?”

  “Worse,” Sandy said. “The tidal waves battered the west coast savagely, sending water ravaging east. Millions of people were killed, hundreds of thousands rendered homeless ... we were pulling bodies out of the ruins every day. God alone knows who those people were, Susan. We never had time to do anything, but dump the bodies in a mass grave and cover them with earth.”

  Susan winced. It had become customary to assume, if someone had vanished during the Bombardment, that they were dead and gone, their body washed out to sea or dumped in a mass grave. Or eaten by wild animals. She’d heard stories of nature reclaiming entire towns, once the surviving population had been relocated. It would be decades, perhaps, before the mess was cleared up.

  “And then we were struggling to clear up the mess,” he added. “It was a real nightmare.”

  “It would have been worse if they’d won,” Susan said.

  “Probably,” Sandy agreed.

  Susan nodded as the starters arrived. “What are you doing now?”

  “I went into business, working to reclaim the devastated lands,” Sandy said. He gestured at his suit. “It pays ... well enough for me to get this suit and tie.”

  “Very little, then,” Susan said. “Or does that suit come from Savile Row?”

  “I’ll have you know it cost a couple of thousand pounds,” Sandy said, in mock offence. He speared a piece of chicken with his fork. “There’s quite a bit of money in reclaiming the lost towns and cities, Susan. You just have to know how to find it.”

  Susan lifted her eyebrows. “And where do you find it?”

  “Depends,” Sandy said. He nibbled his chicken for a long moment. “There’s a lot of debate over how it should be reclaimed. We got the contract to rebuild a couple of seaside towns, after sifting through them for anything useful - or anything we can return to its owner. And we’ve been working on rebuilding some of the roads the army engineers didn't touch, back in the early days. That’s hard going, let me tell you.”

  “You’re doing well for yourself,” Susan said.

  “I saw an opportunity and took it,” Sandy said. He smiled. “I went to work for the company after I was released from service, then clawed my way to the middle. You’re talking to a regional director.”

  Susan cocked her head. “And you never married?”

  “I was waiting for you,” Sandy announced, deadpan.

  “I’ll have you know that I read engineering reports from men who think I’ll be impressed if they constantly overestimate the time needed to repair the engines,” Susan said. She jabbed a finger at him. “I know bullshit when I hear it.”

  Sandy shrugged. “I was in a couple of relationships,” he said. “They never worked out. One woman dumped me for a wealthier man; I dumped the other when it became clear she was a gold-digger. You?”

  “I’ve been too busy,” Susan said. “Commanding a battleship leaves no time for romance.”

  “So it’s not like Stellar Star,” Sandy said.

  “No,” Susan said. She made a show of rolling her eyes. “If I did half the things she did, I’d be dishonourably discharged as soon as the court-martial board finished laughing. There’s nothing realistic in that show, particularly not her chest size.”

  “No one watches it for realism,” Sandy pointed out. “They watch it for beautiful women and strapping men.”

  Susan nodded. The Royal Navy had never been sure what to make of Stellar Star. She’d been on ships where the captain had quietly turned a blind eye to porn caches on the datanet, but exploded with rage at the mere thought of his midshipmen watching the latest season of Stellar Star And the Magnificent Weapon. On one hand, it did encourage youngsters to join the navy; on the other hand, it was so unrealistic that those youngsters were bound to be disappointed, once someone filled them in on the facts of life. She would have preferred them to be watching the shows the navy produced itself, but many youngsters found them boring. Realism needed to take a second place to entertainment.

  She chewed the kebab thoughtfully, watching - with some amusement - as Sandy washed his down with cold water. The meat was spicy, but nowhere near as spicy as some of her father’s more interesting dishes. She swallowed it, then tasted the chicken. It was more flavourful, but - again - it wasn't particularly spicy. Sandy seemed to feel otherwise.

  “My company is looking for more personnel with military connections,” Sandy said, as the waitress brought the main course and placed it on the table. “Would you be interested?”

  Susan lifted an eyebrow. “Is this a recruitment dinner?”

  “No,” Sandy said, hastily. “But I would be remiss if I failed to bring the prospective opportunities to your attention.”

  “I think you need people with army connections,” Susan mused. The military still controlled two-thirds of the reclamation zones. They made excellent training grounds for the young conscripts, as well as allowing them to help with the clean-up on the cheap. “I’m a naval officer.”

  “It would be fine,” Sandy said. “Eastern Command likes people who speak the military lingo. Three years of National Service isn't enough.”

  Susan nodded, unsurprised. Every young man in Britain was supposed to serve his country for two years, yet National Service was considered the least of the service branches. Sandy might - technically - have been in the army, but the army probably didn't feel that way. A conscript, no matter how well he’d served, wouldn’t be considered the equal of a volunteer, not socially. Sandy might have volunteered to serve for a third year, but he still wasn't considered a military man.

  “The navy’s my life,” she said, finally. “I don’t want to take early retirement.”

  “You might have to,” Sandy pointed out. “What sort of prospects do you have, long term?”

  Susan scowled. The blunt truth was that she had very few prospects - and she knew it. She had been unlikely to rise above captain even before relieving her former superior of command. Too many competitors, too few slots. Her family didn't have the connections to smooth her path to commodore, let alone the admiralty. She'd been lucky enough to be allowed to retain command of Vanguard.

  And I won’t be allowed to keep her for the rest of my career, she thought. It wasn't something she wanted to admit, but it couldn't be helped. I’ll either be promoted or pushed sideways.

  “I may never rise higher in the ranks,” she said. “But that’s not the point.”

  She sighed, wondering how she could explain it to a civilian. “Being in command of a starship is very different from anything else,” she said. “I ... I am solely responsible for a giant battleship. There’s nothing you do that compares with it. You go into the office and work nine till five; I’m on duty all the time, even when I’m sleeping. I ...”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Sandy said, sardonically.

  “It is,” Susan said. “I will eventually be pushed out of the command chair, I know. The Royal Navy dislikes leaving officers in command for more than a couple of years. But until then
... she’s mine.”

  She took a piece of naan bread and used it to wrap up the curry, chewing it slowly. It tasted different - better than the curries she’d eaten at her primary school - although it still wasn't particularly spicy. She was tempted to order the hottest thing on the menu, just to see what it was like, but decided it would be a waste of money. If she wanted something so hot that even she found it a challenge, she could just steal a precooked meal from her father’s freezer and splash some of his homemade sauce on it.

  “I did have another reason to ask you out,” Sandy said, after they’d eaten their way through most of the main course. “There’s some ... uneasy questions rumbling through the corporate world.”