“It can't be helped,” Joshua said. There was nothing they could do if an alien pirate ship started pretending to be human. Instead, he picked up one of the datapads and checked the final results from the other teams. “We’re going to leave tomorrow, ideally. The supplies should be ready for us by then. Do you want to record a message for your family?”
Karla shook her head. “I ran away to join the Navy because of my family,” she said. “They wanted me to work at their little mom and pop store, if you can imagine that. I would have died in that little town where the only fun was trying to get to second base with your cousin, and then marrying some inbred moron and having ten kids with him.”
“You might not be coming back,” Joshua warned her. “Are you sure…?”
“They will be much happier without a message from me,” Karla said, firmly. “And don’t you dare offer them my money if I die. They don’t deserve it.”
* * *
“We received an update from Captain Hastings,” Commander Sooraya Qadir said. “Cunningham and Halsey have both completed their drive refurbishments and are ready for deployment. The 2nd Cruiser Squadron is now at full strength.”
“Good,” Tobias said. Sooraya was an oddity in the Federation Navy, a mustang officer who didn't come from one of the G13 nations. But then, given that she’d found the strength to escape Afghanistan and join Earth’s defence force, she deserved a chance to show what she could do. Starship command was unlikely, but a gunboat was a definite possibility. “I assume that the other squadrons have completed their own checks?”
“Yes, sir,” Sooraya assured him. “The IG teams will be on their way to the squadrons in another day, unless you wish to bring the inspection schedule forward.”
Tobias shook his head. The Federation Navy had been obsessive about readiness long before he’d become Chief of Naval Operations. Earth couldn't afford to copy the sloppy maintenance habits of the lesser Galactics, even with the reliable and interchangeable Association technology. The entire fleet – two hundred starships in all – had to be ready for immediate action if the Hegemony decided to move up their timetable and annexe Earth without bothering with a surrender demand. A commanding officer who allowed his ship to become unfit for service would be relieved and never allowed to command again, no matter what political or national patrons he had.
“No need,” he said, finally. He glanced down at the datapad in his hand. “Did Colonel Williams get back to us about ammunition stockpiles?”
“Not as yet, sir,” Sooraya said. “I believe that his staff are still chasing up the suppliers and attempting to ensure a speedy delivery.”
“I should hope so,” Tobias grunted. Earth had never performed a full-scale deep-space exercise before and all sorts of tiny problems were coming to light. It would have provided the Federation Navy with all sorts of useful data on how well its procedures worked in real life, if the exercise had been real. But instead they were going to war. The young men and women under his command didn't even realise that they would be seeing action within a month. He had faith in them, but so much was a dangerous unknown. How well would Earth’s surprises perform in a real battle? “Inform the IG that I will be joining the inspection party for one of the cruisers. I’ll pick the ship tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Sooraya said.
Tobias smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Dismissed.”
He watched her leave the compartment, the door sliding closed behind her, and then looked back down at the datapad. Hundreds of readiness reports scrolled up in front of him, each one from a single starship. The Federation Navy had worked hard to cut paperwork back to an absolute minimum, but even so there was just so much to review and remember. He was going to lead the fleet into battle in a month, and then…? They’d find out how good their training and equipment actually was when compared to the Galactics.
One of the reports caught his eye and he smiled. The small group of reporters who had been embedded in the Navy were complaining about the food – and the lockdown. That wasn't too surprising; every reporter he’d ever met had been a prima donna, convinced that their shit didn’t stink. The ones he’d met before First Contact had demanded good food, better accommodations and complete access to everything, which they’d shared with the enemy. At least the Federation Navy could take a harder line. A reporter who broke the lockdown without permission would be thrown into the brig and transferred to the penal colony on the moon. Given what was at stake, it was unlikely that anyone would complain.
The next report was a contingency plan for calling up national military forces to reinforce the Federation Marines. For political reasons, the Federation Marines had been limited to ten thousand men, a force that could deliver one hell of a punch, but not occupy an entire planet or pose a threat to Earth’s independent nations. Tobias had always thought it a silly thing for the politicians to worry themselves about – the Federation Navy would have had a mutiny on its hands if it had tried to bully any of the major nations – yet there had been no choice. Reinforcements would be provided by national military units, if necessary. They couldn't be called up until the war began, for fear it might tip off the Hegemony that something was being planned. God alone knew if the Federation’s counter-intelligence operations had worked as well as they hoped.
Shaking his head, he stood up and looked over at the display on the far wall. His office was buried deep under the lunar rock, but like most Luna residents he’d chosen to display an image from the outside world in his private compartment. Earth hung in the sky over the moon, shining blue-green against the darkness of space. Tobias had visited a dozen worlds, including some inhabited by races that would have found Earth unpleasant for one reason or another, but Earth was special. It was the cradle of the human race, the source of mankind. The thought of Earth being dominated by the Hegemony was intolerable. It must not be allowed to happen.
It won’t be allowed to happen, he promised himself, firmly. The plan he and his staff had devised would give the Hegemony enough of a bloody nose to make them break off and leave Earth alone for a few decades. And in that time, humanity would become far more advanced than they could hope to match. If some of the programs bore fruit, the Hegemony wouldn't stand a chance.
Picking up the datapad, he returned to his notes. There was too much to do in the time before they went to war.
Chapter Five
“I’m afraid that it’s worse than we thought,” Conrad said into the camera of a tiny recording booth. It was soundproofed, but not - quite - enough to drown the bustling sound of his activating Marine unit outside. “There’s a full-scale exercise under way and we’re being deployed out into deep space. They’re going to be transporting us to the assault carrier in an hour or so – probably longer. Hurry up and wait is still a part of military life.”
He hesitated. “The boss hasn't given us any details – I don’t think he knows much more than he’s told us – but he has warned that we’re going to be away for several weeks, at least. Lots of bitching in the barracks, but no one is paying attention. We did volunteer for this shit, after all. I love you and I will return to you as soon as I can. Pray for me, OK?”
Conrad touched a key and the message stopped recording. He played it back, wondering if he sounded too mawkish, before deciding that it definitely came from the heart. Cindy would understand, he told himself firmly; her father, too, had been forced to put his duty ahead of his heart while he’d been in the service too. The thought that she might find someone else while he was gone… if he hadn't been sure of her, he wouldn't have asked her to marry him.
He sent the message, uploading it into the base’s communications network. In lockdown, every message would be reviewed by senior staff before being transmitted to the recipient, ensuring that he couldn't say anything that might breach security. He still remembered the Marine who had been given an icy dressing down by his CO for recording himself masturbating for his girlfriend. The poor bastards’ mates still called him by th
e nickname ‘Wanker’.
The last few days had been a hassle, ever since the platoon had arrived in the forward base on Luna. Everything had had to be checked, from armored combat suits to assault rifles, personal equipment and survival gear. The senior staff were insistent that everything had to be perfect, even though it was only an exercise. Some of the younger Marines had wondered out loud why they were being such assholes over each and every little detail. It was their job, Conrad had pointed out at the time, but part of him wondered if something was going on that the brass hadn't bothered to tell them about. Perhaps the Hegemony had decided to move in on Clarke or one of the other colonies and the Federation planned, this time, to resist.
He took one last glance at the photograph of Cindy he’d hidden in his uniform and strode out of the room, leaving it vacant for the next Marine. The corridors were jam-packed with Marines carrying supplies and equipment from the storage dumps to their barracks. Sergeants were bellowing orders, trying to keep the entire brigade moving towards its eventual destination. There was order to the chaos, even though a civilian would have seen nothing more than a group of muscular men carrying junk around the base. Conrad evaded a pair of Marines carrying a heavy plasma cannon and walked into the barracks used by his unit, 3 Company, 2 Battalion. The younger Bootnecks were frantically preparing for the deployment while the older and more experienced men were taking it all in their stride. Some of them had finished preparing their bags and were taking the opportunity to catch up on their sleep. Conrad cleared his throat loudly and they snapped awake.
“We are to board the shuttle to the assault carrier at 1300 precisely,” Conrad informed his men. The Federation Marines were less formal than most military services, but discipline didn't suffer. Every Marine had been in a highly-trained unit before trying out for the Federation Marines. “The time is now” – he made a show of checking his watch – “1223. We will leave this room at 1240 and march down to the shuttle. Any questions?”
Jimmy, the joker of the platoon, stuck up a hand. “What is the price of sliced ham, per portion?”
“More than you can afford if you keep earning demerits,” Conrad said, dryly. “Any relevant questions?”
There were none. Instead, the Marines hastily finished packing and pulled on their rucksacks, each man checking his partner’s bag and uniform for missing items. The procedure had been drummed into their heads since the first day on Mars, where the Federation Marines practiced serving in a hostile environment. Space could kill someone far easier than the Hegemony’s soldiers – and all it took was a moment of carelessness. Too many people from Earth got to the asteroids, or even the moon, and then found that they had qualified for a posthumous Darwin Award. Even experienced Marines could be caught out.
“Follow me,” Conrad ordered, when his watch reached 1240. He would have chewed out any Marine who wasn't ready in time, but they were all ready. “Jimmy – bring up the rear.”
The platoon followed him outside, linking up with the rest of the company and marching down towards the shuttles. They’d done it before, thousands of times, but this felt different even to the rawest Marine. If the brass had intended to make them exercise perfectly, as if they were already at war, they’d succeeded. The shuttles, black-painted boxy shapes that looked like something out of a low-budget science-fiction movie, were waiting for them. Their pilots weren't exactly Marines, but they’d trained alongside the Bootnecks for years, clocking up hours in their craft. And they were on the front lines themselves, which won them some respect. They were hardly REMFs.
“Take your seats, if you please,” Conrad ordered sardonically, counting his men into the shuttle. Each shuttle would lift forty men to the assault carrier, and then transport them down to the surface of Clarke or wherever they’d be carrying out the live-fire parts of the exercise. “Don’t wait up. We’ve got work to do.”
There was a crackle from the intercom. “Welcome to Marine Flight 001,” a mock-falsetto voice said. “Take your seats and long-legged stewardesses will be along shortly to buckle you in.”
The younger Marines chuckled at the joke. Conrad and the older sweats rolled their eyes. The joke hadn't been new when the pilots had started cracking it, even if it did help to dispel the tension in the air. Live-fire exercises were deadly serious and Marines had been known to be badly injured, or killed, in the crossfire. No precautions could guarantee perfect safety – and besides, none of them had signed up because they wanted a safe life. There was very little safety for any human in the universe, but they could have stayed on Earth and been as safe as the planet itself.
There was a long pause, and then the shuttle hummed to life around them. The gravity field seemed to fluctuate as the craft lifted itself off the landing pad and rose up above the Luna surface, heading for the mighty assault carrier. Each of the three carriers humanity had built were huge, the largest and most complex starships humanity had yet constructed. It was daunting to realise that the Galactics had built much larger ships – and that one of their superdreadnoughts could vaporise the assault carriers if they got into weapons range.
He pushed that thought aside and concentrated on composing his mind. Once they reached the carrier, they’d have to get into their compartments and get ready for operations – and then they would be preparing during the trip through quantum space. No rest for the wicked – or Federation Marines.
* * *
The Federation had endured a long political debate over naming conventions for its starships, one that had almost threatened to bring the entire edifice crashing down. Adrienne Lawson had heard that some countries had demanded that their names be selected, even though they’d made little contribution to the cost of the ships. Eventually, the Federation Navy had decided to name its assault carriers after famous generals – and selected the first three names from history. Wellington, Napoleon and Zhukov had been political compromises, ones that still aroused debate on the internet. The Emperor Napoleon had, in the end, lost the wars named after him.
Adrienne watched, fascinated, as the assault carrier slowly came into view. It – she – was a colossal boxy design, with launch bays hanging down from her superstructure. She was studded with sensor blisters, or perhaps they were weapons systems. The Federation Navy had been coy about precisely what weapons outfitted its ships, hoping to prevent the Galactics from hearing about any unpleasant surprises that might be waiting for them. One single assault carrier alone looked capable of dealing with any opponent. And yet the briefers had warned that they could never be included in the line of battle. They couldn't stand up to heavily-armed warships.
“She’s an amazing piece of work,” her minder said. Lieutenant Barbara – “call me Barbie” – Greenhorn had been assigned to Adrienne shortly after she’d arrived at Armstrong City and had been escorted to Naval HQ. Barbie looked blonde, so blonde it was easy to believe that she was dumb, and yet the Navy would hardly have assigned an idiot to chaperone a reporter. Adrienne had to keep reminding herself that Barbie was almost certainly nowhere near as dumb as she looked. “Do you know how long she is?”
Adrienne shook her head. It was difficult for her to tell sizes in space. “Over two kilometres long,” Barbie informed her, with an air of someone imparting a valuable piece of knowledge. “Each of them can carry an entire reinforced Marine brigade – that’s over four thousand troops – and land them on any planet the Navy desired within minutes. At crash-launch, they can put over two hundred shuttles into space...”
She grinned at Adrienne, who smiled back. “Everything has to work like clockwork on one of those machines,” Barbie added. “We have to be careful not to get in the way.”
Wellington grew until Adrienne could see nothing, but the darkened ship’s hull. The shuttle altered course slightly and headed down towards one of the launch tubes, leading right into the hangar bay. There was a brief fizz of energy around the shuttle as it passed through the force field keeping the atmosphere inside the bay, before settling down on the
deck. Outside, Adrienne could see hundreds of men in brightly-coloured uniforms moving pallets of supplies and weapons around the bay. It was a massive compartment, but tiny compared to the entire ship. The briefing she’d read – carefully edited to ensure that no useful details leaked to the enemy – had said that each assault carrier had no less than eight hangar bays.
She stepped out of the shuttle and tasted the ship’s air, scented with engine oil and the familiar smell of a starship crammed with living breathing humans. It was almost like walking on one of the aircraft carriers supporting operations in the Middle East, carriers that would be blown out of the water in seconds if someone hostile took the high orbitals away from the human race. They’d never be built again in human shipyards, something she was inclined to regret. They had been amazing ships.
“Stay inside the marked walkways,” Barbie said, pointing to the yellow lines on the deck. “No one is supposed to go outside the walkways without permission from the crew chief – even an Admiral would have to ask permission before entering. It’s a safety precaution to prevent accidents.”
“Of course,” Adrienne murmured. “Do you have many accidents?”
“Something always goes wrong when we prepare ships for departure in a hurry,” Barbie admitted. “It’s a good idea to take as many precautions as possible, particularly when live weapons are being moved from deck to deck.” She nodded towards one of the small groups of crewmen, who were pushing a pallet across the deck. “Hellfire missiles, designed for launch to suppress enemy air-space defences. Also can be fired at enemy aircraft, but they’re not ideal for such missions.”
Adrienne looked up at her. “Why can't you build missiles that can accomplish anything you wanted?”
Barbie smiled, launching into what was clearly a pre-prepared lecture. “Each specific task requires the missile to be different for optimum results,” she said. “There are limits to how far we can reprogram them for different operations. A missile configured for deployment against a starship would be massive overkill if deployed on a planetary surface. Even the warheads are different depending on the missile type.”
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