Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Understood,” Susan said. The enemy fleet was belching another wave of missiles, but steadily drawing closer. She could give them a nasty fright, she thought, if they came into energy weapons range. “And Turret Six?”

  “Locked down,” Parkinson said. His voice darkened. “There’s the prospect of an explosion.”

  Susan winced. She’d seen those simulations too. Vanguard would survive, of course, but anyone in the turret would be vaporised. Unless they managed to vent all the plasma in time, which would screw up the sensors on the hull ... or if they managed to get out before it blew.

  “Have the damage control teams do what they can,” she ordered. The remaining hit hadn't done more than scorch the hull; silently, she blessed whoever had designed the compound used to armour the ship. “And see if they can get the crew out before it’s too late.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

  And all we can do is keep going, Susan thought. The aliens weren't just aggressive; they were hyper-aggressive. It made her wonder why they hadn’t already attacked the Tadpoles. And hope we reach the tramline before they batter us to death.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It happened very quickly.

  One moment, George had been sitting at the console, watching the battle with growing horror; the next, she’d found herself halfway across the compartment with only a hazy recollection of white light and no clear idea of what had happened to her. The main lighting had failed, leaving only the emergency lighting casting a baleful red glow over the scene ...

  She staggered to her feet, stunned. There was a faint whistling noise in the distance, which she knew should alarm her ... it was hard, so hard, to think clearly. She rubbed at her ears as she looked around, staring in disbelief at the ruined consoles. There had been a power surge, her dazed mind noted, a bad one. She hadn't seen consoles actually explode outside bad movies and worse fiction.

  A groan caught her ear and she turned towards the source. Peter Barton was lying on the deck, his leg lying at an angle that told her it had to be broken. She staggered towards him and saw, to her relief, that he was alive and aware. She’d taken basic medical training back at the academy, but she knew she was nowhere near as capable as a trained medic or the ship’s doctor.

  “Emergency splints in the cabinet,” Barton wheezed. It sounded as though he’d breathed in something harmful, unless her ears were still buggered. “Hurry.”

  George nodded, then stumbled over to the emergency cabinet, trying to spot the rest of the gunnery crew. Two bodies were lying on the deck, both so badly mangled that she couldn't tell if they were male or female, let alone who they’d been before their deaths. The faint whistling sound was growing louder ... it dawned on her, suddenly, that there was a hull breach, far too close to her. Whatever had hit the ship had done real damage.

  As if you didn't already know that, she thought, as she pulled emergency supplies out of the cabinet. You need to get out of here.

  She took the splint, a pair of facemasks and a handful of other items back over to Barton, who talked her through the process of securing his broken leg. He was clearly in pain, but he firmly declined her suggestion that he should take a painkiller. George helped him upright once his leg was firmly in place, then helped him over to one of the intact consoles. The red icons flashing up in front of her did not look encouraging.

  “The plasma containment fields are fading,” he breathed. “They’re going to explode.”

  George stared at him. “Can't you cool them down?”

  “Not in time,” Barton said. He poked at the console. “We can't vent the plasma either - the control system’s fried.”

  A dull rumble echoed through the compartment. George almost wet herself in shock before realising that someone was pushing their way through the hatch. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Simpson, followed by a gunner she didn't know. Simpson strode over to join them; George held Barton upright as Simpson went to work on the console, hoping the older man could find a way to handle the situation. Instead, another panel on the far side of the compartment began to spark, sending smoke drifting up through the air. She couldn't help noticing that it seemed to be pulled towards the hull ...

  “There’s no way to keep the containment tanks from exploding,” Simpson said. “And the airlocks leading back into the ship are closed and sealed.”

  George blanched. She understood - they couldn't risk causing more damage to the giant battleship - but it meant they were trapped. There was no way out of the compartment; they’d have to wait until the containment fields exploded and die. And there was no way to know when the containment fields would explode ...

  “Get your masks on,” Simpson ordered. He took charge with practiced ease. “Ms. Fitzwilliam, you’re in charge of Peter. Make sure he keeps his mask on too.”

  “I’m not dead,” Barton protested.

  “You soon will be,” Simpson said. “The compartment’s life support is also fucked. What little air we have left is leaking out of the gash in the hull.”

  George stared at him. “What if we made the gash worse? It would cool the plasma, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not enough to matter,” Simpson said. He gave her a funny little smile. “Nice thought, though.”

  “We could try to fix the venting system,” Barton offered. “Get the plasma streaming out into space.”

  “I was thinking about getting out over the hull,” Simpson said. He removed gloves from the emergency supplies and passed them around. “But we can take a look at the venting system on the way out. Maybe we can fix it.”

  He paused. “You two, wait here,” he added. “We’ll clear the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said.

  Simpson didn't sound optimistic, George noted, as she donned her gloves. Her shipsuit would suffice to keep her alive in space, certainly for less than an hour, but their air supply was very limited. The masks weren't true helmets. She watched the two gunners pull the hatch free, then scramble into the tube. They’d be the first to die if the plasma containment fields collapsed altogether, but Barton and she would die seconds later. She wondered, vaguely, if she’d see a wave of plasma rushing towards her before everything turned black.

  The ship rocked, again.

  “We’re taking fire,” Barton said. He sounded more normal now, thankfully. “And we’re pushing the drives to the limits.”

  George glanced at him. “How can you be sure?”

  “There’s a vibration in the hull,” Barton said. He shook his head, slowly. “And to think I was going to ask you out.”

  George had to laugh. “Is this the point where you ask for a last kiss, which turns into an hour of passionate lovemaking in five different positions?”

  Barton’s face fell. “You saw that movie too?”

  “I think everyone has seen that movie,” George said. It had been a major scandal at school when two of the senior boys had sneaked copies into the dorms, but by the time the headmistress found out what was going on just about everyone had seen the movies. “Is there anything Stellar Star hasn't done?”

  She shook her head. “Besides, I'm sure even a single position would do worse damage to your leg,” she added. “I don't want to kill you.”

  “But think about it,” Barton said. “What a way to die!”

  George opened her mouth, unsure what to say. If they were about to die, a single kiss wouldn't make any difference one way or the other, but if they weren’t ...

  “There’s a way out,” Simpson called, his voice echoing back down the tube. “Come along, now!”

  “Thank God,” Barton said.

  George nodded in agreement as she helped him into the tube, then followed him as he dragged himself upwards. She didn't want to die. The temperature was rising rapidly - the bulkheads seemed warmer to the touch - as they hurried onwards, despite Barton’s broken leg. Alarms were sounding, a dozen components flashing warning lights as they passed. It wouldn't be long before one of the containment
chambers failed completely, starting off a chain reaction that destroyed the turret. Faint wisps of smoke were curling out of some systems, the smoke drifting upwards towards the hull breach. It struck her, suddenly, that some of the automatic sealing systems must have worked.

  They must have worked, she told herself. Or the entire compartment would have vented by now.

  Simpson was waiting for them at the top of the shaft. “Make sure your masks are in position, then hold on tight,” he ordered. “We’re going to blow the hatch.”

  George nodded, checking their masks and gloves. The more of her skin was covered, the better. She'd seen vacuum burns during their training simulations. It was like frostbite, she’d been told, only worse. Humans might not explode when they were exposed to hard vacuum, unlike some early movies had suggested, but it was far from harmless. She might survive the experience, only to wind up spending the next two months having her skin regenerated.

  “I'm ready, sir,” she said.

  “Me too,” Barton confirmed.

  The hatch blew. George hung on for dear life as the remaining atmosphere blasted out of the compartment, picking up dozens of pieces of debris and hurling them into space. Something banged into her leg, almost knocking her free, before the outrush came to an end. Simpson pulled himself forward, careful not to let go of his grip, and advanced slowly out into hard vacuum. George braced herself, then moved slowly forward, handhold by handhold. It felt like it was forever before she climbed out of the ship and onto the hull.

  Simpson waved to her, then inched down off the turret - it looked mangled and torn - towards an airlock. George devoutly hoped it was undamaged, then glanced at Barton. The wounded man was having an easier time of it, now they were out of the gravity field, but the cold would get them if they didn't hurry. She shivered, feeling the icy grip of death crawling into her flesh, as she hurried down to the airlock. And then she looked up.

  She wasn't really sure what she expected to see. In truth, space battles looked rather unremarkable if seen with the naked eye. But there were flashes of light, pinpoints that glowed briefly in the darkness, and brilliant flickers of colour as Vanguard’s point defence engaged the incoming missiles. She hoped - prayed - that they made it back through the armour before a missile struck too close to them. A single hit would be enough to wipe all four of them out of existence. The captain probably wouldn't even notice if they died ...

  He’d probably notice my death, she thought, sourly. My uncle would probably ask quite a few questions if I died in wartime.

  The airlock loomed up in front of her. Simpson opened the hatch, allowing them to scramble inside and slam it closed behind them. The inner hatch refused to open, but thankfully the atmosphere flowed in, allowing them a chance to relax. But George felt as though she’d never be warm again ...

  ***

  “The enemy are closing on the rear,” Mason reported. “And they’re firing yet again.”

  We largely classed missiles as useless, Susan thought. Certainly, when they were fired from long range. But they thought otherwise and the hell of it is that they might be right.

  “Continue firing,” she ordered. Vanguard hadn't been knocked out, far from it, but she’d taken significant damage and so had too many of the other ships. Only one fleet carrier had survived, the American Roosevelt. She had no idea how they were going to recover and rearm the human fighters, let alone the Tadpole craft. None of the escort carriers were capable of recovering more than two squadrons of starfighters. “Time to tramline?”

  “Three minutes,” Reed said.

  They don’t know about the second set of tramlines, Susan told herself, firmly. They’d be pushing the advantage now, if they knew we were going to jump out and escape.

  But her pessimistic side nagged at her. Unless they jump through the tramline right after us, it said. We won't have time to reorganise and defend the tramline.

  She scowled. Defending a tramline was normally impossible, simply because it was difficult to predict precisely where the enemy would arrive. But this time, they would have a chance, if they could reorganise the fleet in time ...

  “Pass the word,” she ordered. “The carriers are to keep moving, as soon as we’re through the tramline, but the heavy-hitters are to turn and prepare to face the enemy.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

  Mason frowned. “They may overrun us before we reach the tramline,” he said. “They’re picking up speed.”

  Susan gritted her teeth. If she had time to rearm her fighters, reorganise her squadrons ... of course, the darker side of her mind whispered, as soon as the other commanding officers realised they’d been taking orders from a mere commander, there’d be an almighty row. Her fellow British officers wouldn't be pleased and the Americans would be pissed ... she glanced at the display and cursed as she realised that, apart from a Japanese destroyer, the remaining foreign ships had been destroyed. The once-great fleet had been practically smashed.

  If I order every ship to make a run for the tramline, the formation comes apart, she thought, and we lose our remaining carrier for sure.

  “Commander,” Mason said. “The Tadpole superdreadnaughts are altering course!”

  Susan stared. The superdreadnaughts were reversing course, bringing their heavy weapons to bear on the newcomers. She reached for the console to order them to get back into formation, but they opened fire before she could saw a word. Their plasma cannons didn't look to be any more powerful than Vanguard’s, yet they seemed to carry a lot of them. Dozens of alien ships scattered as they impaled themselves on Tadpole guns.

  “They’re buying us time,” she said, awed.

  She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't look away. Would humans have done the same, if the odds were reversed? Tadpole starfighters were altering course and swooping away from the fleet, moving to protect the superdreadnaughts as they became a magnet for savage enemy fire. And yet, they were clearly capable of taking a pounding. The only one the human race had ever seen destroyed had died when she was rammed by an armoured fleet carrier.

  They’re drawn to them as if they were moths drawn to a flame, she thought. The enemy had enough ships to split their attention, sending half of them to face the remainder of the fleet while the other half battered the Tadpoles into dust, but they seemed bent on facing the Tadpoles. Were they such an aggressive race? Or are they concerned about the Tadpoles breaking past them and escaping through Tramline One?

  “Order the starfighters to perform a hull landing manoeuvre,” she said. The remainder of the fleet was almost at the tramline. “And then pass the word to all ships. They’re to jump as soon as they’re within the tramline.”

  And hope to hell we don’t have an interpenetration, she thought. It was theoretically possible, if eddies from the tramline knocked one ship into where another was meant to materialise, but she’d never actually heard of it happening. There are too many ships going through the tramline at the same time.

  “The starfighters have responded,” Parkinson said. A dull quiver ran through the ship. “The damage control coordinator reports that we've just lost Turret Six.”

  “Understood,” Susan said. The crew ... she hoped they’d managed to get out in time, but there was no way to know. They’d have to do a headcount after the fighting was over, then start searching sealed compartments. “Any further damage?”

  “Negative, Commander,” Parkinson said. “The seals held.”

  “Starfighters are landing now,” Mason reported. “The enemy starfighters are pulling away from the Tadpoles.”

  Susan smiled. Unless the enemy had managed to produce a Puller Drive small and inexpensive enough to mount on a starfighter, they were too late. Vanguard and the remainder of the fleet were entering the tramline. One by one, starships flickered and vanished from the display as their drives activated. She turned back to watch the Tadpoles, still fighting savagely, and sent them an order to break off. But there was no reply.

  “Jump,�
�� she snapped.

  Vanguard shuddered, one final time, as the display flickered and updated. The new system - UXS-470, according to the survey reports - was as useless as UXS-469, although there was an asteroid belt that would sustain a spacefaring civilisation. There were plenty of groups who’d consider the system a decent home, if it wasn't right next to a race of homicidal aliens who attacked without provocation ...

  “Bring us about,” she ordered tartly, as the final ships snapped into existence. Thankfully, none of the escapees seemed to have rammed one another. “And watch for the Tadpoles. They may get out of the trap.”

  Mason shot her a look she had no difficulty in reading. You don’t think that’s possible, do you?

  She shrugged, then watched the tramline, feeling the seconds ticking by. Any halfway competent tactician knew it was dangerous to give the enemy any time to recover; logically, the aliens should have chased them through the tramline, even though it ran the risk of running into an ambush. The command network was already updating, piece by piece; the longer they delayed, the worse the bloody nose they'd get when they finally entered the system ...