A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “General,” he said, carefully. “The United Kingdom has no claim on Gandhi or any colony world settled directly by India. Therefore, I have no hesitation in agreeing that those worlds should remain untouched. However, Vesy is another matter. Your agents deliberately triggered off an alien uprising that killed hundreds of civilians and military personnel from a dozen different countries. I believe you will have to withdraw from Vesy, leaving it open for either a multi-national contact service or a policy of no further intervention, but that is a matter for true diplomats. So too is the issue of reparations for the war.”

  He smiled, thinly. If his calculations were accurate, the Indians had shipped a remarkable amount of industrial material to Pegasus. Colonel Boone had already claimed it as the spoils of war. He had a feeling that the Indians might wind up losing money anyway, if they lost any remaining claim to that material. They certainly wouldn't be allowed to keep it.

  “For the moment, I propose you withdraw your fleet to Vesy and await orders from your government,” he concluded. “We will continue to hold position here. Once you receive orders, we can decide what to do with Vesy.”

  He sent the message, then settled back to wait again.

  ***

  Anjeet considered the second message carefully. He wasn’t blind to the implications of a long delay; he’d get orders from Earth, all right, but the British would have time to hurry a second carrier to Pegasus. If the war restarted, they’d be in a far stronger position ...

  But they’d be in a strong position regardless, he thought, bitterly. Who wants to be the last to die in a pointless war?

  “Record,” he ordered. “Admiral. For the moment, I accept your terms; my fleet will return to Vesy and hold position there. However, in return, I must insist that you do not reinforce your position in Pegasus. My government will demand it as a precursor to open diplomatic talks. In return, we will agree not to reinforce Vesy.”

  It was a useless demand, he knew; the British could easily move a second carrier into J-35 and wait to see what happened without compromising their position. But the politicians probably wouldn't realise it, not at first. They’d have an opportunity to save face without actually forcing the British to concede a point or trading something significant in exchange, as long as the British admiral played along. If he didn’t ...

  And we don’t have anything we can send to reinforce Vesy, certainly not anything that will tip the balance, he thought. The British lose nothing and gain much by stalling.

  He shook his head, slowly. “I will agree that the issue of reparations, both for the war itself and the ... events on Vesy should be settled through diplomatic discussions,” he continued. “I will be happy, too, to allow you to send a message through our communications chain in the hopes of bringing this war to an end without further casualties.”

  Except me, he reminded himself as he sent the message. They’ll want my scalp.

  ***

  “They don’t have the right to demand that, sir,” Sally protested. “Really!”

  James smirked. “There’s nothing stopping us from building up a superior force in J-35 and holding position, waiting to see what happens,” he said, drolly. “We’d pretty much be doing what they did, only in reverse.”

  He needs to take something from the talks, he thought. Driving one’s enemy into a corner wasn't a good idea, unless one was bent on total victory and sure it could be achieved at acceptable cost. This costs us nothing and gains us much.

  “Record,” he ordered. “General. Your terms are acceptable. I will not alter the number of ships in Pegasus on the condition that you do the same in Vesy. The future disposition of Vesy itself will be settled by the diplomats.”

  And the Vesy themselves won’t get a look in, he thought. Centuries ago, European explorers had decided the fate of the Native Americans without bothering to consult them; he couldn't help wondering if humanity had learned nothing in all that time. But then, no one actually needed Vesy. The world could be left alone to develop at its own pace. If we can't help the natives, we can at least make sure that no one exploits them.

  “I will forward an encrypted message to you,” he continued, “and arrange for messages from the prisoners of war to be sent to Vesy. We will continue to hold position until the diplomats put an end to the war.”

  He sighed. “Send.”

  “Message sent,” Sally said.

  James nodded. Would the Indian concede defeat and withdraw, now he’d been given a fig leaf to conceal his collapse on genuinely important issues? Or would he decide to throw good money after bad by pressing the offensive?

  We’re about to find out, he told himself. Stand ready.

  ***

  Anjeet tapped his console. “Captain?”

  “Yes, General?”

  “You are to reverse course and take us back through the tramline,” Anjeet ordered. “There is to be a total blackout on signals leaving the fleet. I don’t want any messages reaching Earth until I’ve sent my report.”

  “Aye, sir,” Ajit said.

  Pointless, Anjeet thought. Word of the battle, thanks to the reporters, was probably already halfway to Earth. He’d locked them out of the Indian communication chain, but the British would have thrown theirs open, just so they could gloat over their victory. We might have avoided losing the other carrier, yet we still lost the war.

  He thought, briefly, of the pistol in his desk drawer. Maybe, just maybe ...

  No, he told himself, firmly. Suicide would be the easy way out. Someone has to explain this back home.

  ***

  “They’re leaving, sir,” Tara reported. “The carrier just jumped out.”

  John allowed himself a moment of relief. Warspite had been sneaking into position to launch an attack before the Indians turned and reversed course, but he’d doubted they’d get close enough to launch missiles, let alone add a second carrier to their kill list. This time, the Indians had been ready.

  “It seems a little anticlimactic,” Howard observed. “They just turned and left.”

  “Perhaps we should be grateful,” John said. He’d fought in the first war, when the only thing that mattered had been fighting to the bitter end. “We’re alive, we survived, the colony is back in our hands and a human carrier - two human carriers - have been saved.”

  “And we won,” Howard agreed. “And we proved the Warspite concept beyond all doubt.”

  John nodded. The analysts would be tearing the data apart, trying to figure out what had happened, but there was no way to avoid the conclusion that the universe had changed once again. If a carrier could be crippled by a cruiser that cost only a tenth of the carrier itself ...

  But it doesn't matter right now, he told himself, firmly. He had no doubt he’d be spending weeks, perhaps months justifying his actions on Nelson Base. All that matters is that we won the war.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  New Delhi, India

  How could it have gone so wrong?

  The first message had arrived down the communications chain, a bland report that a carrier had been lost and the British were advancing on Clarke. Two days later, as Prime Minister Mohandas Singh was considering how best to break the news to his government and his people, a second report arrived. Clarke had fallen, the Royal Navy was firmly in control of the Pegasus System and General Patel had backed down when challenged. And then, as Mohandas struggled to come up with a way to present it to his nation, the independent reports had reached Earth.

  He glared out of the window, down towards the crowds gathered outside the building. They were angry, angry enough to defy the ban on public protests. Hundreds of thousands of Indian civilians, led by the family and friends of the spacers who’d died in the war, marched up and down, shouting their rage. A line of armed soldiers were standing by the gates, ready to repel a charge, but he’d already heard mutterings from some of his bodyguards that suggested they weren’t so enthusiastic about putting their lives at risk for him. He would have withd
rawn to the bunker, or a secure military base, if he hadn't had to remain in the city, trying to find the words to keep the country from lynching him. And doing so risked everything.

  Goddamn reporters, he thought, angrily. Is this how they thank me? By spreading enemy propaganda? By lying to my people?

  It was a bitter thought. He’d gone to bat for them, he’d convinced the sceptical military to let dozens of reporters embed themselves with the troops and this was his reward? He’d hastily ordered a ban on foreign transmissions, but it was already too late; the global datanet was effectively censorship-proof and anyone with a little ingenuity could pull transmissions and messages from all over the world into India. Word was spreading, no matter what his people did; word of mouth alone was drawing thousands of people to the government’s offices, demanding an end to the war. The gods alone knew how many elected officials would be fearing for their prospects of re-election, if the impending riot didn't lead to civil war.

  Cowards, Mohandas told himself. We should have risen up against the British. Perhaps then we would have found our nerve.

  He looked up, sharply, as the door opened. He’d issued strict orders that no one was to enter and placed two armed guards on the far side, just to keep out interruptions. But Chaudhuri Bose was walking into the room, carrying a handful of pieces of paper under one arm. The Foreign Secretary looked grim, but determined. Mohandas rose to his feet, clenching his fists, as the older man sat down without being invited. There was no respect whatsoever in his gaze.

  “I told them to keep everyone out,” Mohandas snarled. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come from parliament,” Bose said, shortly. “They held a straw vote of no-confidence, Mohandas. You’re no longer considered suitable to lead our nation.”

  Mohandas had to fight, hard, to keep himself from slamming his fist into the other man’s face. It was clear, all too clear, that Bose was enjoying himself. He’d never liked Mohandas and had opposed him, wherever possible. And now his doubts and fears had infected parliament ... a straw vote wasn't fatal, it wasn't real, but it was a very good indicator of just how parliament felt about any given issue.

  “I have the right to speak in my own defence,” he hissed, finally. He also had the right to twist arms to force some of the politicians to change their stance. “The real vote may be different.”

  “You only wound up with ten percent of the vote,” Bose said. He held out a sheet of paper for Mohandas to inspect. “As you can see, only a handful of MPs voted to uphold your position.”

  “Craven cowards,” Mohandas sneered. “How many did you stampede into voting me down?”

  “None,” Bose said. “The loss of an entire carrier - and a number of smaller ships - and thousands of spacers was quite enough to convince them that you had guided India onto a disastrous course. But then, I suppose the economic rumblings didn't help either. Did you know the British had managed to talk the Americans and French into an embargo on buying our goods? Or that they will probably succeed in talking them into barring all future sales to us too?”

  “We will survive,” Mohandas snapped.

  “But not with you,” Bose said. He held out another sheet of paper. “Take it.”

  Mohandas glared at him. “What’s this?”

  Bose met his eyes. “Your resignation.”

  “I will not sign,” Mohandas flared.

  “Yes. Yes, you will,” Bose said. “You will sign this document, then you will hold a press conference where you will take full responsibility for the war and, as your policy has proved a failure, you will be standing down from office to tend to your family affairs, etc, etc. Parliament will graciously, in response, confirm your immunity from prosecution - an immunity you would not have, Mohandas, if they passed a real vote of no-confidence.”

  Mohandas stared at him. When had Bose grown a backbone? But then, ninety percent of the vote in parliament supported him. Hardly anyone had tried to abstain. That was enough to grant even the most spineless of men the determination to stand up for themselves.

  “Your policy has proved a failure,” Bose said. “The best we can hope for, right now, is to avoid the economic embargos that will crush our ability to rebuild after the peace treaty is signed. Your resignation will permit us to move on from this sordid affair without further ado.”

  “And I take the blame for the war,” Mohandas said.

  “And why not?” Bose asked. “It was your idea.”

  He placed the paper on the desk. “Sign,” he said. “You can quietly give up your seat in parliament and retire to the country, where you can write your autobiography and claim you were the victim of circumstances beyond your control. Or you can refuse to sign, lose a vote of no confidence and probably wind up in jail. The choice is yours.”

  Mohandas gritted his teeth. He could fight, he knew; he wasn't dead yet. But if ninety percent of parliament had said, in a straw vote, that they’d cast their ballot against him ... it was unlikely he could win. He’d neglected too many of his political allies; now, he’d have to make promises he couldn't hope to keep if he wanted to woo them back. And Bose had clearly managed to rally the moderates and align them with the opposition ...

  “I suppose you’ll be the next Prime Minister,” he snarled, as he picked up the sheet of paper and read it carefully. It didn't commit him to anything beyond resigning his position and returning to the backbenches. “Would you like thirty pieces of silver to celebrate your inauguration?”

  Bose ignored the jibe. “I will head up a caretaker government until new elections can be held,” he said, calmly. “I do not believe our party has a hope in hell of winning the next elections.”

  “We will see,” Mohandas said. He signed the paper with savage intensity. “Betraying one’s party leader won’t look very good.”

  “We will see,” Bose echoed. He took the sheet of paper. “Given the ... disturbed ... situation outside, I would advise you to move your possessions to the guest rooms and take up residence there. We can have you transferred out of the city once the hubbub has died down.”

  And make sure I have no opportunity to rally resistance, Mohandas thought. Bose hadn't just developed a backbone, he’d developed a brain! Unless, of course, someone was pulling the strings. They’re closing off all my angles of counterattack.

  He pasted a composed expression on his face. “I would like to wish you the very best of luck,” he said. Bose wouldn't miss the true message. “And, as always, I will submit myself to the judgement of history.”

  “I imagine it will judge poorly,” Bose said. “Starting a war and winning is one thing; starting a war and losing is quite another.”

  Mohandas shrugged, rose to his feet and headed for the door. He’d need to speak with his wife, then move her and their belongings into a guestroom. And then ...

  He shook his head as he stepped through the door. Two officers, both wearing Parliamentary Security uniforms, were waiting for him. They’d make sure he didn't do anything awkward, at least until the dust had settled. How had he managed to misjudge Bose so badly? The man had practically pulled off a legal coup.

  But I’m still immune to prosecution, he thought. Bose wouldn't break his word, if only because someone else might do it to him if he set such a precedent. And I can fight my corner if necessary.

  ***

  Joelle was relieved to discover that the Indians had sent a helicopter to collect her from the embassy compound, rather than force her to drive through the crowded streets to the government offices. The roads were crammed with protesters: some cheering the resignation of Mohandas Singh, others demanding political reform, the recall of parliament or a host of more radical notions. Thankfully, she’d managed to get the British civilians in the city out before the news from Pegasus arrived. A Frenchman had apparently been beaten to death only two hours ago, after being mistaken for an Englishman. She would have expected the Indians to know the difference.

  They didn't play any games, either, once the h
elicopter had landed. She was escorted down a long flight of stairs into the Prime Minister’s office. Singh was nowhere to be seen, of course; his seat was occupied by Chaudhuri Bose, the Foreign Minister. Joelle shook his hand politely, then sat down facing him. She could wait to hear what he had to say before the negotiations began in earnest.

  “Ambassador,” Bose said. She’d met him a couple of times, but not enough to form a real impression of the man. MI6 had argued that he was a non-entity, yet she doubted he could have taken power if he’d been truly unimpressive. It was well to be careful. Either he was smarter than he seemed or he was the front man for someone else. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It is my pleasure,” Joelle said. It was, too. The news from Pegasus practically guaranteed the end of the war on British terms. “Congratulations on your accession.”