09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  Major Andreas studied her for a long moment. “I received the reports from Dering Lines,” he told her. “You did well, apparently, but not up to our standards.”

  “No, sir,” George said. A dozen excuses rose to her lips, but she fought them down. The major would not be impressed by any of them, even if they were valid. “This was made clear to me.”

  “My two companies will probably be assigned to various support roles,” Major Andreas said, after a moment. “We are a dedicated space-trained unit. Brigadier Schneider” - he chose to ignore the way George’s eyes went wide at the name - “may find other uses for us, but there is no way to be sure. You will be expected to pull your weight. If you fail to do so, you may be left behind - either here or in enemy territory.”

  “I understand, sir,” George said.

  “You will live with us, eat with us, sleep with us and train with us,” Major Andreas continued, coolly. “You will not find it easy. If I feel, when we reach our destination, that you are useless, you will be binned. Or, in your case, returned to Middy Country. The decision is mine and mine alone. Do not go whining to the captain or any of your relatives over it. I will not change my mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said. From what her uncle had said, this was very much her last chance to shine. She didn't dare mess it up. “I won’t let you down.”

  “We shall see,” Major Andreas said. “You wouldn't be the first half-trained person who had to be brought up to speed at speed. Harder for you, of course, because you’re a woman - still a girl, in many ways.”

  George kept her expression under tight control. He was trying to get under her skin, trying to see how she would react. She’d heard worse, she reminded herself, back on Earth. Hell, she’d dealt with prefects at school who’d abused their powers. Sergeants shouted, often so crudely she knew her mother would have fainted in horror, but they weren't evil. They just needed to know she could endure before they let her go.

  She gritted her teeth, remembering the lecture she’d received the day she’d arrived at Dering Lines. A woman in the military would always face worse challenges than a man - that had been true of the navy too - but there were also very different dangers. Female soldiers had been gang-raped during the Troubles, their bodies beaten bloody and savagely abused, then left for dead. The officer who’d given her the lecture had shown her photographs, culled from the records. She could end up that way, he’d warned. The Age of Unrest might be officially over, but large parts of the world were still dominated by savages.

  And while the marines may push and prod, she thought, they won’t be the worst threat I might face.

  Major Andreas was still talking. She dragged her attention back to him with an effort.

  “You will be tested,” he warned. “You’ll be tested, time and time again. And you will have to learn to cope with it - and to stand up for yourself.”

  He tapped a terminal at his belt. “And if you feel you can't endure it any longer, quit. It's no shame to back out before lives start depending on you.”

  George swallowed. “I understand, sir.”

  “Very good,” Major Andreas said.

  The hatch opened. A grim-faced man stepped into the cabin. He wore an unmarked uniform, but George could tell, just by the way he moved, that he was a sergeant. And probably a very good one. “Major?”

  “Sergeant Tosco, this is Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, our new liaison,” Major Andreas said, nodding to George. “Take her to her bunk - we’ll slot her into the beta shift for now, with space on the rota for her to work for me.”

  He made a show of glancing at his watch. “You should have at least five hours of sleep before you have to give up the bunk,” he added. “Sergeant Tosco will put you on the training rota.”

  George kept her face expressionless. Hot-bunking was something she would have gladly foregone, if she’d had a choice. Even midshipmen were allowed a bunk each. But the marines thought differently. She'd have to get up and make the bunk each morning or the next sleeper would pull her out of the bunk and dump her on the deck. It had happened twice, back at the army base.

  She saluted Major Andreas, then followed Sergeant Tosco out of the cabin and down the corridor to the barrack-cabin. It was larger than she’d expected, but the marines had somehow managed to cram over twenty bunks into a small compartment. Eighteen of the bunks were occupied by marines, several snoring loudly. She glanced towards the rear, where she knew the showers and toilets would be hidden, then slung her carryall into the locker Sergeant Tosco indicated. There was no lock, any more than there were shower and toilet curtains hiding the users from view. Privacy was an absolute joke.

  “There are two uniforms waiting for you,” Sergeant Tosco informed her, pointing into her locker. “Leave your middy uniform unless you are ordered specifically to wear it.”

  “Yes, sergeant,” George said.

  She checked the rest of the supplies, then undressed down to her bra and panties. Someone had done a good job, which was a definite surprise. She’d had to argue with ship’s stores over the sizes she needed in the past, even though her measurements were a matter of record. Military-grade shirts and underwear ... it would suffice, she told herself. It wasn't as if she had any alternative.

  Good thing I was a middy before I went for training, she thought, as she clambered into her bunk. I wouldn't be able to tolerate this at Hanover Towers.

  She smiled at the thought as she closed her eyes. Sharing a dorm with nine other girls had been a nightmare, or so she’d thought. They’d all had more room, in their beds, then she’d had to herself, ever since she’d gone to the academy. And they hadn't had to share their dorms with boys. And they’d been able to get up at seven in the morning, rather than six ...

  A hand tapped her shoulder. She jerked.

  “Get up,” a voice snapped. George stared for a moment, dimly realising that she’d been asleep. “Now!”

  She rolled out of the bunk and dropped down to the deck. The marine’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw her underwear - clearly, Sergeant Tosco hadn't bothered to tell him that he was hot-bunking with a girl - but he said nothing as George scrambled for her tunic and yanked it over her head, merely climbing into the bunk and closing his eyes. She wasn't sure, as she pulled on her trousers, if he’d done her a favour or not. Technically, she should have made up the bedding before he climbed in.

  “Get out here,” Sergeant Tosco snapped. He caught her arm and pulled her towards the hatch. “Move!”

  George gritted her teeth as she stumbled into the next room. Thirty marines were standing around, stuffing their faces with food. George didn't feel like eating, but she knew she didn't have a choice. If she ran out of energy and collapsed, the major would kick her out of Marine Country and that would be that. She wouldn't get a second chance.

  She sighed as she piled her plate, hoping she’d have time to eat it. The marines were looking at her, their eyes silently assessing her as she gobbled down the food. Their gaze wasn't sexual, she knew. In some ways, it felt worse. They were wondering if she could pull her weight on the battlefield ...

  She sighed, again. It was going to be a very long day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All things considered, Henry decided, the gathering had been moderately successful.

  It had been boring, of course. Most of the commanding officers - starships and various ground units - had been warned, in no uncertain terms, to behave themselves. The dinner had been excellent, complemented with fine and expensive wines; the tactical combat exercises had yet to begin, ensuring there was no reason to fight. And so the various national officers were meeting their counterparts in a relaxed situation, far from their political superiors and the media. The chatting might be boring, but it laid the groundwork for a far more fundamental working relationship when Task Force Cromwell finally departed Earth.

  His gaze swept the room, picking out faces and matching them to names. Commodore Kevin Hoover, the American who was the default second
-in-command, chatting to Brigadier Percy Schneider; Rear Admiral John Naiser, speaking in quiet tones to General Horace Ross, the American in command of the ground forces. Henry made a mental note to speak to Percy Schneider at some point, if only to offer a few stories of the young man’s father. They’d served together, back on Ark Royal.

  He frowned in disapproval as he saw Juliet Watson-Stewart leaving the compartment - practically fleeing the compartment - hand-in-hand with her husband. He’d heard that Juliet Watson-Stewart wasn't good with crowds, but it was still annoying to watch her retreating in a hurry. And yet, it wasn't as if she was in the chain of command. Commodore or not, it had been quietly made clear to everyone that Juliet Watson-Stewart wasn't remotely suited to serve as a commanding officer. The fleet would need to be in very real trouble before she was allowed to take the helm.

  “Your Highness,” a female voice said. He turned to see an Indian officer standing behind him. Captain Rani Saran, if he recalled correctly. “Do you believe the Tadpoles will seek a separate peace?”

  Henry took a moment to study her. She was roughly his age, according to her file, but she looked younger. Classically Indian features were mixed with lightened skin and dark hair that fell down around her shoulders. She was stunning, he had to admit, yet there was an edge to her posture that warned him there was nothing soft about her. He made a mental note to look up her recent publications, if she’d had any. Command of a supercarrier had probably ensured she hadn't had the time.

  And this is a diplomatic nightmare, he thought, grimly. What genius put an Indian carrier under the man responsible for killing her sister?

  “I think they would only consider a peace they could live with,” he said, finally. “Coming to a meeting of the minds with the Foxes would be very difficult. The Foxes want unconditional surrender.”

  “They’re either at your throat or at your knees,” Rani said. Her lips twitched. “How very much like the Russians.”

  Henry kept his face impassive. She was making a political play, he suspected; he didn't have time to indulge her. There were Russian ships attached to the task force, their captains pressing the flesh in the giant compartment. Who knew how their crews would react to her slur?

  “The Foxes would not give the Tadpoles a degree of autonomy,” Henry said, instead. “They only came to an agreement with us because they realised that the galaxy was large enough for both of us. That might not be true of the Foxes.”

  Rani nodded. “But they’re also taking a beating,” she said. “They may suspect that we will fight the war to the last Tadpole.”

  “The Tadpoles don’t have a choice,” Henry pointed out. “There’s no way they can escape being so close to enemy space, any more than India can move away from China. They have to fight if there’s no other way to get a tolerable peace.”

  Rani gave him a long look, then nodded. Henry suspected he understood the real purpose of her question. India was making a major commitment by dispatching her lone supercarrier to the war, knowing that losing the giant ship would be disastrous. It was, on one hand, an attempt to rejoin the community of nations, but it was also risky. None of the Great Powers were interested in helping India rebuild her presence in space.

  And their economy has been shaky since the war, he thought. They may be unable to fund a replacement, assuming they haven't lost the taste for interstellar power projection.

  He made a mental note to discuss it with the Foreign Office as Rani continued to chat about the World Cup, the diplomatic version of talking about the weather. Perhaps something could be done to help the Indians, particularly something that might reflect well on Britain. But he had a feeling it wouldn't be done, regardless of the possibilities. There was too much suspicion and even hatred after the war.

  “I think Brazil has a good chance of taking the cup this year,” he said, instead. “But Poland is looking strong and Mars is putting in a team.”

  “The Martians won’t be used to playing on Earth,” Rani pointed out. “They’ll probably be kicked out in the first round.”

  “I believe they’re planning to spend the last couple of months before the cup training on Earth,” Henry said. “And they might well be training in a habitat before then, where the gravity can be set to Earth-standard.”

  “Which is of questionable legality,” Rani said. “They might be disqualified.”

  “Not if they put in a special request,” Henry said.

  He stopped as Admiral Naiser tapped for attention. “I know we’re planning to leave in two days,” he said. “And you’ll all need time to recover from the evening’s debaucheries. So I won’t keep you here any longer than strictly necessary.”

  A faint series of chuckles ran through the air. No one was drunk, as far as Henry could tell, but most of the guests had drunk enough to give them a pleasant buzz. He would have drunk more himself, if he hadn't been keeping an paranoid eye out for reporters. The heir to the throne couldn't have a quiet drink without someone taking a photograph, then being barraged with long articles about how the prince should set a better example, etc, etc.

  He pushed the thought aside. Admiral Naiser was still speaking.

  “You’ve all been briefed on the planned operation,” he continued. “And you’ve all been told the preliminary planned deployments. We will adjust them, if necessary, if our war games tell us that they don’t actually work. And we’re avoiding fancy formations that might just lead to an accident.”

  There were more chuckles. Fancy formations looked good, Henry had to admit, but they tended to be dangerous. Standard formations looked ragged, yet there was plenty of space to alter course in a hurry or simply tighten up to repel attack. Admiral Naiser, it seemed, knew the difference between looking good and being good.

  “I do not pretend this will be an easy mission,” Admiral Naiser said. “We have not launched a push into unexplored space since Ark Royal headed out on Operation Nelson. There is a strong prospect of being trapped, unable to retreat; there is a risk, as unlikely as it may seem, that we will be mouse-trapped and destroyed. Your governments are aware, all too aware, of the level of risk.”

  Henry felt Rani tense beside him. India had more at stake than anyone else, even the French or Germans. Hell, the Germans - at least - had added a battleship to the task force. The Indian carrier was dangerously vulnerable if an enemy battleship entered weapons range, no matter how much armour her crews had bolted to the hull. And losing her ship ...

  “I have not been awarded any medals for inspirational speeches,” Admiral Naiser said. “And I will not try to inspire you now. What I will say is that this mission can win us the war, either by forcing them to bow the knee to us or by taking out enough of their industry to allow us to out-produce them. And our strike in their rear will be enough to force them to withdraw from the war front.”

  We hope, Henry added, silently.

  “Ten years ago, humans stood together against a common foe,” Admiral Naiser reminded them. “Now, we must stand together again. Our petty differences must be forgotten in the face of a threat to the entire human race. Tomorrow, things may be different; today, we must fight together. The fate of our entire race depends on it.”

  He saluted the gathered crowd, then turned and strode through the nearest hatch. Henry nodded in quiet approval. The Admiral’s departure was a sign that the remainder of the guests could also begin to depart if they wished, although they didn't have to leave for several hours. He glanced at his wristcom, silently noting the time. The American, French, German and Indian commanding officers didn't have to be back on duty until morning.

  “An inspiring speech,” Rani said. “But do you think we can stand together?”

  “We must hang together or hang separately,” Henry said. “Right now, that is all that matters.”

  He watched her go, then frowned inwardly as a blonde-haired young woman separated herself from the crowd and walked towards him. She was about twenty-five, if he placed her age correctly, wearing a long g
reen dress instead of a naval uniform. A civilian ...? He tensed in sudden alarm as he saw the sensor bracelet on her wrist and the suspiciously innocuous necklace around her slender neck. A reporter ... he gritted his teeth, reminding himself to be polite. He was too old to slug reporters, particularly ones who looked sweet and innocent.

  They’re the worst of the bunch, he reminded himself. They’re the ones who need to make a name for themselves.

  “I believe you served with my father,” the reporter said. “Do you have a moment to chat about him?”

  Henry blinked. A reporter whose father had served with him? He stared at her for a long moment, utterly unsure who she meant. It had to have been on Ark Royal, but as far as he knew his fellow starfighter pilots hadn't had children. And then the penny dropped. Penny Schneider very definitely took after her mother. Kurt Schneider had been tall, but dark.

  And he’d be rolling in his grave at the thought of his daughter becoming a reporter, he thought, sourly. There's no difference between reporting and whoring.