Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Bastard, she thought. Stupid fucking bastard.

  She pushed her annoyance aside as best as she could as she walked into the wardroom. It was swarming with crewmen, but the middy table was empty, as always. They opened their ranks to allow her to walk up to the serving line, leaving her feeling alone in a crowd of older men and women. It seemed absurd, somehow, to think that she had to give them orders when any one of them had more experience of shipboard life than herself. She was surprised a few of them hadn't applied for the academy in the hopes of becoming officers themselves.

  “We like recruiting mustangs,” her instructor had said. One of her fellow cadets - Nathan, she thought - had asked why there were small numbers of older recruits scattered amongst the teenagers. “They already know the most important lessons we teach here.”

  George shook her head, ate her breakfast and hurried down to the shuttlebay. She’d explored it once, back when Nathan and she had been learning how to navigate through the giant battleship, but now it was her duty station. It was heaving with life; dozens of crewmen were moving shuttlecraft up to the launch hatch, while others were inspecting and repairing a number of other craft. The shuttlebay itself, she recalled from her exploration, was actually a massive compartment in its own right, honeycombed with smaller hangers so shuttles could be worked on while others were launched into space. There didn’t seem to be anything out of place.

  She looked around, then headed for the shuttlebay office. Regulations, if she recalled correctly, insisted that someone had to be on duty at all times. If the Boatswain wasn’t there - he’d know she was coming, but he might have other duties - the deck officer would be able to page him for her. Three crewmen - two young men and a young woman - stepped past her as she reached the hatch, chatting easily amongst themselves. George felt a sudden stab of envy at their camaraderie. She was getting on better with the other crewmen, but Fraser’s harassment was making it harder for her to befriend anyone.

  The hatch hissed open, revealing a cramped office overlooking the main shuttlebay. She could see the darkness of space in the distance as the main doors opened. There was something out there in the shadows ... she tensed, then relaxed as she realised it was just another shuttlecraft coming in to land. She watched with admiration as the shuttle glided through the doors and landed neatly on the deck, shuttlebay crewmen hastily rigging up an atmosphere tube rather than taking the time to close the hatch and repressurise the bay. It had to be a very important guest ...

  “That’s the admiral’s shuttle,” a voice said.

  George jumped. She’d been so fascinated by the shuttlecraft that she hadn't noticed the two men in the compartment. She turned and saw an older man, easily old enough to be her father, sitting in one of the chairs. There was something about his face that put her instantly at her ease, a sense that he would always be kind and friendly. His uniform marked him out as the Boatswain. The dark-haired man next to him was only a year or two older than George herself.

  “Jack, dismissed,” the Boatswain said. He rose and saluted. “Chief Petty Officer Simon Williams, Midshipwoman.”

  “Midshipwoman George Fitzwilliam,” George said, automatically. She was meant to give orders to someone who’d been in the navy longer than she’d been alive? Hell, someone who’d been in the navy longer than her uncle? She shifted awkwardly, unsure what to say or do. Maybe Fraser was right. Maybe it was a punishment for something. “The XO ordered me to report to you.”

  “I believe she wanted you checked out on a shuttle,” the Boatswain said, calmly. At least he didn't sound as though he was mocking her, although she suspected he’d be smiling on the inside. But then, he’d probably seen hundreds of young officers coming and going. “It’s quite a useful skill to know.”

  “I haven’t flown a shuttle since the academy,” George said. That had been only a couple of months ago, but she was grimly aware that she barely had a hundred hours of flying to her name. A dedicated shuttle pilot would have racked up thousands by the time he was qualified to serve in the navy. “I have my certificate, but ...”

  “We can work on that,” the Boatswain assured her. “If you’ll come with me ...?”

  George nodded and allowed him to lead her out of the compartment.

  ***

  Susan couldn't help the sweat trickling down her back as the admiral’s shuttle landed neatly in the shuttlebay, the crew hurrying to affix an atmospheric tube to its airlock. She’d warned the captain as best as she could, without crossing the lines, but she had no idea what would happen when Admiral Boskone and Captain Blake met face to face. Hell, she had no idea what the destroyer captains had been saying to the admiral. It was odd, very odd, for a flotilla commander not to enjoy himself passing orders to the screen. Captain Blake wouldn't get any closer to fleet command until he was promoted.

  If he ever is, she thought. The airlock hissed open, revealing a tall man walking down the tube and into the ship. And if the admiral finds out I passed the screen orders in his name, we’re all likely to get in deep shit.

  “Admiral Boskone,” she said, straightening to attention. “I’m Commander Susan Onarina, executive officer. Welcome onboard HMS Vanguard.”

  The admiral saluted the flag and the portrait of King Charles, then turned to Susan and returned her salute. His skin was slightly darker than the average, his black eyes hinting at Indian blood somewhere in his family tree. Probably quite distant, Susan suspected; he wouldn't have been promoted if there was any suggestion he had close ties to India, particularly after the Anglo-Indian War. He was bald, the complete lack of facial hair suggesting he’d had his skin treated to prevent it from growing back. That, in Susan’s experience, was unusual. Very few men seemed willing to destroy their prospects of having a beard, even though naval officers were supposed to be clean-shaven at all times.

  “Thank you, Commander,” Boskone said. His voice held a very definite trace of London, although she couldn't hear any traces of an upper-class accent. But he would have some connections, she was sure, if he’d made it above Commodore. “I look forward to a tour, after the meeting.”

  “Of course, sir,” Susan said. Vanguard, at least, was in good shape. She’d have hated to give him a tour when the ship was right out of the shipyards. “If you’ll come with me?”

  She led him into the intership car, answering his questions as best as she could. Boskone was a carrier admiral, it seemed; from what he said, she suspected he had his doubts about the battleship concept. But at least he didn't seem inclined to reject the whole idea out of hand either. The death of INS Viraat proved, all too clearly, that naval warfare had changed since the First Interstellar War.

  And it changed then too, she thought, as they reached the captain’s office. Or, at least, the weapons we used to fight changed.

  She pushed the thought aside as the hatch hissed open, revealing that someone had cleared up the office. A bottle of wine sat on the captain’s desk, escorted by three glasses; Susan wondered, inwardly, if she was going to be drinking or if the captain intended to invite someone else to the meeting. Or he might have assumed the admiral would be bringing an aide. The captain himself rose, walked around the desk and saluted the admiral. Susan had to admit that, for once, he looked almost like a captain.

  “Admiral Boskone,” Captain Blake said. “Welcome onboard Vanguard.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Admiral Boskone said. He took a seat, without being invited, and held out a datachip. “This won’t take long, I hope. Put the files on the display.”

  “My steward has taken the liberty of preparing a meal,” the captain said, as Susan took the chip and slotted it into the terminal. “I was hoping to speak with you ...”

  “After the games, one hopes,” Admiral Boskone said. “We received word, only a week ago, that one of the American carriers attached to the border guard suffered a critical reactor failure. Admiral Pournelle intends to dispatch one of his carriers, accompanied by screening elements, to the border to replace her while
she limps back to New Washington. We will only have that carrier present for five days before she has to depart.”

  Susan winced. Accidents happened, she knew, but a critical reactor failure? Losing one reactor would be worrying, yet unless there was something odd about the carrier’s design she should still be capable of carrying out her duties. But then, if she’d lost a reactor, she’d want it repaired as soon as possible. And if she wasn't entirely sure what had happened, she’d want her other reactors checked too.

  “Admiral Pournelle has a reputation as a skilled tactician,” Admiral Boskone added, as Susan opened the files. A holographic representation of the Marina System popped up in front of them, surrounded by tactical icons. She couldn’t help noticing that a handful of the icons represented facilities that were actually nothing more than sensor buoys. “But he doesn't have actual experience in commanding a fleet in combat. This is the closest either of us will get to gaining that experience unless another war starts. I don’t intend to waste it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Blake said.

  “The first war game will involve us attacking the American-held system,” Admiral Boskone explained. “Task Force Churchill will split into two formations; Churchill-One will advance towards the gas giant, while Churchill-Two will advance on Marina itself. The overall objective will be to defeat the Americans before they can push us back out of the system.”

  Susan frowned, inwardly. Her experience of actual combat was limited, but it struck her that Admiral Boskone was taking a serious risk in splitting his forces. The Americans might just manage to catch one of the formations and bring superior force - vastly superior force - to bear on it before the other formation managed to intervene. But it wasn't her place to say so.

  “I don’t expect to be able to keep the system,” Admiral Boskone added, dryly. “But I do want to take out the facilities before we have to leave.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Blake said.

  “I believe they’ll concentrate on defending Marina itself,” Admiral Boskone said. “Accordingly, you’ll take command of Churchill-One and attack the gas giant facilities with maximum force. Vanguard will lead a fleet consisting of three cruisers, two escort carriers and five destroyers. The remainder of the fleet will attack Marina itself and attempt to pin down the Americans. We will not, of course, be aiming for a decisive battle.”

  “Because it would lead to our decisive defeat,” Susan said, before she could stop herself.

  Admiral Boskone smiled. “Quite right,” he agreed. “Churchill-Two will be fighting a long-range engagement, rather than pushing forward as hard as possible. The Americans will find themselves forced to remain in place, rather than advancing themselves to deal with you.”

  It sounded workable, Susan conceded. The time delay would actually work in their favour, for once. Even if the Americans tracked the British ships as soon as they came out of the tramline, they’d still need to commit themselves very quickly if they wanted to save the gas giant’s facilities. She glanced at the display, running through the calculations in her head. It would take at least an hour for a signal from the gas giant to reach Marina ... and four hours for any ships, leaving Marina, to reach the gas giant. And that was the optimistic scenario, for the Americans. It might easily take them longer to realise the danger.

  She glanced at the admiral, feeling a flicker of admiration. If he wasn't planning to actually keep the system, and he didn't have the firepower to be certain of victory, his options opened up. Wrecking the system’s industries wouldn’t do any immediate damage to Marina, but it would make it harder for America to continue the war until victory. Or, at least, that was what he would argue in front of the umpires.

  We always assumed that wars would be short, she thought. It had been a prevalent assumption, back before First Contact. But the First Interstellar War lasted over two years, with both sides capturing and recapturing dozens of star systems.

  “Your precise orders are on the chip,” Admiral Boskone said. “I will, of course, expect you to adapt them to your situation, then forward the orders to your subordinate commanders. Set up a provisional chain of command too, in case something happens to Vanguard. I'm sure she’ll draw a great deal of fire.”

  “The Yanks did try to sneak up on us, sir,” Captain Blake said. There was nothing in his tone to suggest he’d been in his cabin while Susan held command. “Our sensors picked them up before they could get into firing position.”

  “Very good,” Admiral Boskone said. He nodded towards the fleet lists. “But I’m sure the Americans would happily trade a cruiser for a battleship.”

  Susan nodded. It was cruel to suggest that a starship, even a small cruiser, was expendable, but it was true. The Royal Navy had taken eight years to construct Vanguard, learning a great deal about the process along the way; the United States Navy would have taken less than a year to produce the cruiser. By any reasonable standard, the trade-off would have been heavily-weighted in America’s favour.

  Particularly when all that’s really at stake are bragging rights, Susan thought. By long tradition, the crews of ships that were ‘destroyed’ in war games were the ones who bought the beer afterwards. Admiral Pournelle won’t even have to consider truly sacrificing the ship.

  Admiral Boskone rose. “Your XO has promised me a tour of the ship,” he said. “I’ll expect a report from you, Captain, by the end of the day, detailing your planned formation and chain of command. Once we start the games, you’ll be on your own.”

  Susan nodded. Once the two formations had diverged, any orders from the admiral would be hopelessly out of date by the time they arrived. Captain Blake would hold formal command ...

  She groaned, inwardly. She could cover for him on the bridge, but it would be far harder when she needed to issue orders to the rest of the formation. They’d be in Captain Blake’s name, yet if one of the commanding officers needed to talk to him personally ... she cursed, inwardly, as she rose too. She'd need to give the admiral his tour, then hurry back to inspect the captain’s planned dispositions. Mason would need to hold the conn for a great deal longer.

  At least we rotated other officers through the slot, she thought, silently congratulating herself on her foresight. He can be relieved if necessary.

  “We’ll start with the bridge, Admiral,” she said, out loud. “If you’ll come with me ...?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Long-range sensors and IFFs confirm it,” Lieutenant Charlotte Watson reported. “We have an audience.”

  “Then we’d better not fall on our faces in front of them,” Susan said. She'd known that the war games weren't exactly a secret, but the presence of seven starships from seven different nations, watching the proceedings, was more than a little alarming. Britain and America wouldn't be the only nations who’d draw lessons from the games. “Communications, send them the standard warning.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said. “Message sent.”

  Susan nodded. Lacking an Earth-type world, Marina was technically an open system, even though the Americans had a solid claim on both Marina itself and the gas giant. There were no legal excuses for chasing the watching ships out of the system, even if the war gamers had had the time to play hide and seek. Perhaps it would have been better to hold the games in the New Washington or Britannia systems, but one of the other objectives was to test the fleet’s logistics skills. They couldn't do that in a settled system.

  They won’t be able to see the data we exchange, she thought, as she settled back into the command chair and glanced at the timer. Thirty minutes until kick-off, when the first war game would begin in earnest. And they won’t have seen the pre-game planning sessions either.

  She forced herself to wait, resisting the temptation to review the operation plan for the umpteenth time. Thankfully, Mason and the tactical staff had been able to review it and offer suggestions of their own, but it had still taken her longer than she’d wished to complete the document and forward it to Admiral Boskon
e. Captain Blake had been no help whatsoever; he’d sat in his cabin and drunk his wine, she assumed, while she did the work. And the hell of it was that she almost wished he’d stay there while the war game played out.

  “Captain on the bridge,” Mason said.

  Susan cursed, inwardly, as the hatch hissed open behind her. She rose from the command chair and turned; the captain was striding into the compartment, looking supremely confident as he nodded to her, then took the command chair. It wasn't going to be easy, Susan realised, when it became clear he wasn't going to take the conn. The bridge crew wouldn't know who to look to for orders.

  And we’re not departing Earth this time, she thought. We’re going into battle against a cunning foe.

  “Captain,” she said. “You have the conn.”

  Captain Blake blinked, his confidence clearly flickering out of existence. “I have the conn,” he said. “Remain on the bridge.”