09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  “We certainly will, once we break into the enemy rear,” John said, patiently. “But until then, we are better off subdividing the fleet into three sections.”

  “Sections that will be close enough to offer mutual support, if necessary,” Commodore Kevin Hoover injected. “It might be smart, though, to adjust our deployments. Texas, Alabama and Montana have trained together before, fighting as a unit.”

  “Which is in direct contravention of the orders we have received from our superiors,” Solange snapped. “We are a multinational force!”

  “And Admiral Naiser can override such orders, if necessary,” Hoover said. “There is political reality and there is military reality and the two don’t always meet.”

  And you are asking this now, when we are still within communications range of Earth, John thought, in tired annoyance. Someone was playing politics and he wasn't sure who. Both officers, perhaps. This should have been settled last week.

  He took a breath, cutting off Solange before she could speak. “I am aware of the advantages in having our three American battleships serving in the same unit,” he said. “Those advantages are obvious. But we have six weeks to drill together, figuring out our strengths and weaknesses. I see no reason to change the tactical formation now. If we have real problems over the voyage, we will reconsider.”

  Solange looked pleased. Hoover looked irritated, rather than annoyed or frustrated. Had he decided to back down with good grace or was he planning to revisit the issue, once the task force had crossed the tramline? Was he playing politics for an audience back home or was he genuinely concerned with efficiency? There was no way to know. John couldn't help thinking that war had been a great deal simpler when Britain had been facing the Indians.

  “You should all have received the first set of simulations,” he said, changing the subject slightly. “The later sets will be put forward by my staff, sight unseen.”

  “Of course,” Hoover agreed. “We wouldn't want anyone to teach to the test.”

  “No,” Solange said. “That would be awkward.”

  John nodded. The simulations were deliberately designed to push the edge as much as possible, giving the enemy technological advantages that - he hoped - they didn't possess in real life. Their missiles were faster, their starfighters more agile, their sensors so capable that they could track operations in real time ... if his crews could survive training, they should be able to handle any real-life threat. But there were also problems, he knew. If they underestimated the enemy at any point ...

  And there's always someone trying to play games, he reminded himself. It wasn't that long since they had us flying through a trench to put a missile through an exhaust vent.

  “We will commence training as soon as we cross the tramline,” he said. “Do you have any further concerns?”

  “Merely that there will be limited opportunities for marine training,” General Horace Ross said, curtly. “We can and we will drill as much as possible in VR tanks, but they’re not real and everyone knows it. Ideally, I’d like a chance to carry out a full landing drill before we reach enemy space.”

  John considered it. “I don’t see how, unless we take a week out of our schedule,” he said, slowly. He could see Ross’s point, but - at the same time - he knew they had to reach their destination as quickly as possible. “I was informed that your division had carried out landing drills before being dispatched out here.”

  “We did,” Ross said. “My division. The French, Russian and Chinese troops - to say nothing of the Royal Marines - were not included. There will be problems, sir, that will not show up until we actually make the drop. And at that point, it will be too late to fix them.”

  “I see,” John said. Landing troops on Unity had been unexpectedly complicated - and Unity hadn't been populated by aliens intent on slaughtering the invaders. The troops hadn't had to worry about ground fire, let alone the prospect of being overrun before they got their defences into place. “Why wasn't this concern raised during the planning stage?”

  “It was,” Ross said. “But the plan kept changing, along with the forces assigned to the operation.”

  That was true, John knew. He’d done his best to stay out of the diplomatic discussions and horse-trading concerning the forces assigned to Operation Cromwell, but it had been impossible to ignore the constant addition and removal of groundpounders, squadrons and even individual starships. His plans had needed to be reworked twice when several ships had been pulled at short notice. General Ross had had the same problem, only worse. There had been no opportunity to conduct an exercise before departure.

  “Perhaps your division could carry out the first stage of the landing alone,” he said, finally. It wasn't much of a solution, but it was the best one at hand. “The remainder of the groundpounders could be landed afterwards, once the spacehead is established.”

  “There will be political concerns,” Solange pointed out.

  “Not here,” John said. Was the French government eager to see Frenchmen die on an alien world? Probably not, yet it was important for them to make a contribution. “We’ll look for an opportunity to carry out a drill, General, but if we can’t ... your men will have to take the lead.”

  “Aye, sir,” General Ross said.

  John leaned forward. “We’ll pick this up after we cross the tramlines,” he said, before anyone could raise any other objections. “Until then ... I declare this meeting at an end.”

  He keyed a command into the console. The holographic images snapped out of existence, leaving him alone. He shook his head, wishing - not for the first time - that he’d done his best to decline the post when it had been offered to him. Command of a multinational fleet would look very good on his resume - he hadn't stood on a command deck for nearly six years - but it was also a headache. Too many competing interests, too many political concerns ... too many smart officers forced to uphold the demands of their political superiors, even though they knew they were nonsensical. He had to keep reminding himself that an officer who sounded like an idiot might not actually be an idiot.

  If it had been up to me, he thought as he poured himself a cup of tea, I would have finalised the task force and then drilled for a month before leaving Sol.

  He pushed the thought firmly out of his head. It simply hadn't been possible. Talking Earth’s governments into parting with nine battleships had been hard enough, even though Earth was hundreds of light years from the front lines. The support ships - the logistics freighters, the marine landing craft - had almost been harder. If the task force had hung around in interplanetary space, burning through supplies as it carried out live fire exercises, someone would have started to insist on redeploying some of the ships to the front. And then the task force would have fragmented before the operation had even begun.

  “But we’re underway now,” he told himself. “And they can't call us back now.”

  He shrugged, then tapped his terminal. A handful of messages rested in the buffer, most of them clearly unimportant. He’d read them later, when he had time. The remainder were more interesting. A personal good luck message from the Prime Minister, a formal copy of his orders from the First Space Lord and a couple of notes from his husband. He opened the latter and settled down to read, knowing he had only two hours to reply. And then there would be no hope of communicating in real time ...

  But the Foxes have FTL communications, he thought, grimly. It had shocked so many officers, when they’d first heard the news, that some of them were still in denial. What will happen when we duplicate their systems for ourselves?

  He shrugged. Under the circumstances, it was the least of his worries.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “On three, you go first,” Lance Corporal Steven O’Brien muttered. “Ready?”

  George tensed as they waited outside the hatch, feeling sweat dripping down her back. The body armour they’d given her fitted astonishingly well - all the more so given that the Royal Marines had yet to see the wisdom of des
igning body armour for people with breasts - but it was hot and heavy, along with the rest of the equipment she had to carry. The armourer had sworn that the armour would save her life, if she got into a firefight, but there were times when she almost considered the risk acceptable.

  “Ready,” she muttered back.

  She braced herself as O’Brien started to work on the lock, hacking through the controlling circuits to open the door. He'd told her, when she’d been teamed up with him, that he’d been given a choice between trying out for commando training or going straight to jail, but she didn't believe him. A convict who showed promise was more likely to be assigned to a work gang then offered military training. But marines seemed to be fond of bullshit, of telling tall stories to see which ones she’d believe. It was something that alternatively amused and exasperated her.

  O’Brien darted back as the hatch hissed open. George moved, raising her rifle into firing position as she rushed into the cabin. The nasty suspicious part of her mind was tempted to wonder if she’d been sent first so she would soak up any bullets, if there was someone in the cabin waiting for them. She swept the room, but saw nothing beyond a tiny bed and tinier set of lockers. O’Brien followed her in, covering her with his rifle; she checked the tiny washroom, then peered into the lockers. They were empty.

  “Clear,” she said, shortly.

  “Good,” O’Brien grunted. “Lieutenant, Cabin #343 is empty. We’re proceeding to Cabin #344.”

  George followed him out of the compartment, not daring to relax. It had been a hellish three weeks, the marines poking and prodding at her, pushing her right to the limits of her endurance. She found it impossible to care, now, that she was sharing a bed with a man, or showers with a bunch of other men. Happiness, she’d discovered, was getting enough sleep at night. She’d said that to the sergeant and he’d told her that she was far from the first person to have that insight.

  On command, she bent down and started to open the hatch, bypassing the terminal to access the control circuits underneath. It wasn't something she’d thought about, that often, back at the academy, but the marines expected her to be able to make repairs on the fly. She’d never been interested in following an engineering track, yet ...

  The hatch hissed open. O’Brien lunged in, weapon at the ready. George followed him, eyes flickering from side to side for a possible threat. There was nothing. She reminded herself, sharply, not to get complacent as she saw the same bunk and lockers from the previous cabin, mocking her. There was someone hiding in the section, she knew. They had to find him before he could escape.

  “Lieutenant, Cabin #344 is empty,” O’Brien said. “We’re proceeding to Cabin #345.”

  “Understood,” the Lieutenant said. “When you’ve checked 345, proceed upwards to Point Beta. The rat can't have gotten that far away.”

  George nodded as she followed O’Brien out of the cabin and peered down the corridor. The rat - a lone marine, hiding from his fellows - wouldn't be easy to find. Sure, he was within a defined zone, but afterwards? Vanguard was massive, with plenty of nooks and crannies he could use as a hiding place. Even the biggest marine was tiny on such a scale. A smart person who knew the battleship as well as her crew could remain ahead of any hunters for hours.

  The third cabin was just as empty, save for a few hints that someone had been inside, using the bed. George puzzled it over for a second, then decided that a couple of crewmen must have turned the compartment into a secret love nest, assuming that none of their superiors would notice. They were probably right. She scanned the room anyway, making sure that nothing was particularly out of place, then walked out of the compartment and down towards Point Beta. O’Brien followed her, his weapon at the ready.

  “You’re relaxing too much,” he warned, as they reached Point Beta. “The rat could be anywhere.”

  George nodded, curtly. Point Beta was nothing more than a set of hatches isolating one part of the hull from the next. A trio of marines guarded the outer hatch, checking their faces before allowing them to slip through; another two stood on duty by the inner hatch, their weapons at the ready. George wondered, absently, if the marines had bothered to guard the tubes, then told herself not to be stupid. The tubes were the easiest way to move around the ship without being seen. Of course they’d be guarded.

  “Subsection C is next to be checked,” the lieutenant on duty said. “Bill and Andy are already entering from Point Charlie.”

  “We’ll move through from here,” O’Brien said. George cursed inwardly, trying to hide her dismay. Her body was aching too badly. “Remind Bill and Andy they’re not supposed to shoot us.”

  “I’ll try,” the lieutenant said, dryly.

  George resisted the urge to cringe as the inner hatch opened, revealing yet another corridor and a handful of hatches. Friendly fire wasn't dangerous, not with training weapons, but Sergeant Tosco would give everyone involved thousands of push-ups: the shooter for being stupid enough to pull the trigger without making sure of the target and the target for getting shot. It was better than the base, where a negligent discharge brought a fine and a lecture from one’s commander, but not by much.

  And better than being shot during an actual fight, she reminded herself. Body armour can’t stop everything.

  The hum of the drives seemed louder as the hatch hissed closed behind them. She peered into the distance, her eyes narrowing as she saw the closed hatch. Bill and Andy would be on the other side, making their way down to her. But surely guarding the hatch would have made sense ... she shook her head, remembering how few marines had been assigned to the search parties. The LT just didn't have the manpower to do more than isolate the subsection and sweep the compartments, one by one.

  She glanced at O’Brien. “What happens if he stays ahead of us indefinitely?”

  O’Brien shrugged as they reached the first hatch. “He gets to watch as the rest of us clean the barracks with toothbrushes,” he said. “Unless he cheated and sneaked outside the exercise zone. Some bastard tried that back when I was a boot. The sergeant was not amused.”

  George nodded, sourly. It was never easy to know when cheating was acceptable and when it wasn't. There were times when she was encouraged to bend the rules and times when she was warned that any rule-bending would get her in very real trouble. But she was fairly sure that sneaking outside the exercise zone counted as the latter. The hunters weren't meant to be wasting their time, poking around like idiots.

  The hatch opened. She swept the room with practiced ease, but there was no sign of the enemy. The compartment was clean and tidy, just waiting for a guest. She heard a hatch opening further down the corridor and sighed in annoyance. Bill and Andy had already completed their side of the subsection, then. They’d take great delight in rubbing it in once the entire squad returned to the barracks.

  She turned and paced out of the cabin, weapon at the ready. A second later, a strong arm grabbed her and yanked her backwards, wrapping tightly around her neck. George kicked out, a second before she felt a knife pressed against her throat. She forced herself to stand very still as her captor held her firmly, cursing under her breath. There was no hope of escaping hours of mockery in the barracks, afterwards. She’d become a literal damsel in distress.

  O’Brien burst out of the cabin, rifle raised. “Let her go,” he snapped. “Now!”

  “I walk out of here or the bitch dies,” George’s captor snarled. George shivered. It was a drill, but ... there was a knife at her throat and accidents happened. “Back the fuck off, now!”

  “Put her down and we take you alive,” O’Brien snapped. His voice was harsh. He would have triggered the alert, wouldn't he? “We don’t negotiate with hostage-takers!”

  George moaned, despite herself. The pressure on her throat was growing unbearable. She was all too aware of the knife, ready to cut her open. O’Brien was right. Britain did not negotiate with hostage-takers. Better to kill the terrorists, even at the price of killing the hostages, then allow the
scumbags to think they could take hostages to gain leverage. She knew all the agreements, all the possible situations she might face if she became a commanding officer in her own right, all the logical reasons to refuse to dicker ...

  ... And none of them seemed believable, somehow, when it was her life at risk. She could die here, killed in a training exercise that went a little too far ... Her heart raced as she struggled to breathe. She felt a warm trickle running down her legs as her bladder gave way. She could die ...

  “Slash,” her captor said. “She’s dead.”

  “Bang,” O’Brien said. He jabbed his rifle forward. “So are you.”

  George gasped for breath as she was released. Her throat hurt ... she touched it, half-expecting to feel blood. But there was merely a sore patch ... she sighed, realising she had managed to embarrass herself. How many marines had been taken hostage? There had been some, she knew, during the Troubles, but most of them had either died quickly or managed to escape. Hell, their captors had known there would be no mercy, when they were caught. She wondered, as she adjusted her clothing as delicately as she could, just what the sergeant would have to say about it. Maybe there was a way she could have freed herself ...