“I would be delighted if you kicked the aliens off New Russia completely,” the First Space Lord continued, “but I doubt it would be possible. Instead, your orders are to give the aliens a nasty surprise and then attempt to make contact with any surviving humans on New Russia. The Russians have provided a contact team, which will actually land on the planet’s surface — if it seems possible. They’ve agreed that the final decision will be up to you.”
“Brave of them,” Fitzwilliam said.
Ted couldn't disagree. The aliens might well have exterminated most of the planet’s population from orbit… or simply taken control of the high orbitals and ignored the human population. But flying a shuttle through the alien positions would be tricky, almost suicidal. It was possible, he supposed, that the aliens could be decoyed away, but after the aliens had been fooled by the sensor decoys he’d deployed they’d be more careful about what they believed to be real.
“Precisely how you reach New Russia and engage the enemy will be your choice, of course,” the First Space Lord said. “However, we would like you to carry out the mission within the month.”
“That would give us time to outflank any alien pickets,” Ted mused. There were several tramlines that led through a series of useless or underdeveloped star systems, systems he suspected the aliens would probably ignore. But it wouldn't take more than a single stroke of bad luck for the aliens to get a fix on their position and scramble to attack. “As long as you didn't mind us taking the long road.”
The First Space Lord smiled. Traditionally, the Admiralty issued its orders and expected its subordinates to come up with their own operational plans. It made sense, Ted knew; there was no way to micromanage military operations across interstellar distances. The situation might change between a system CO sending a request for orders and receiving a response from the Admiralty, leaving the orders already out of date. But given how badly shocked everyone had been by the war, it wasn't impossible for the Admiralty to start issuing orders that tried to cover every little detail.
He was a CO himself, Ted remembered. He knows better than to try to micromanage.
“There is a catch,” the First Space Lord added.
Ted scowled, inwardly. There was always a catch.
“You’ll be taking a handful of embedded reporters with you,” the First Space Lord said. “I’m afraid it isn't negotiable.”
“Reporters,” Ted repeated.
“Reporters,” the First Space Lord confirmed. “I will expect you to show them every courtesy.”
Ted felt his scowl deepening. The last time he’d had to deal with reporters had been before his assignment to Ark Royal, when he’d been a mere Lieutenant. His CO at the time had told him that it was a perfect opportunity to broaden his mind and learn how to handle newcomers, something that Ted had clung to until he’d actually met the reporters. After that, he’d been convinced he’d somehow offended his Captain and the assignment was actually a non-too-subtle punishment.
“This is actually quite important,” the First Space Lord said. “Have you been following the mood on Earth?”
Ted shook his head. The First Space Lord nodded to the PR officer, who stepped forward.
“The public mood started out as wary, but confident,” the officer said. His nametag read Abramczyk. “After New Russia, it crashed right down and we had a whole series of riots led by people who thought that the entire world was about to come to an end. Then you pulled off your victory and the public mood started climbing upwards again.”
“Panicky civilians,” Fitzwilliam said.
“The average civilian knows nothing about the realities of naval combat,” Abramczyk reminded him. “They assume that the aliens can reach us in seconds and act on that assumption. The decision to try to cover up some of the details of New Russia didn’t really help, as it was poorly done and the truth leaked out. Having reporters on your ship may be a big step forwards towards rebuilding the public’s trust.”
Ted didn't — quite — sneer. “Sir,” he said, addressing the First Space Lord, “is that important?”
The First Space Lord didn't seem annoyed by the question. “Right now, the government is in a very weak position,” he said. “A number of MPs are threatening to desert — or are facing the risk of having their seats challenged in recall elections. If they lose their seats, we may face a reformed government that wants peace with the aliens, peace at any price. And Britain isn't the only country having problems. Both Russia and America may face political disasters in the next few months.”
“The aliens timed their attacks well,” Ted observed.
“Indeed they did,” the First Space Lord said.
Fitzwilliam looked over at Commander Steenblik. “Coincidence?”
“We don’t know,” Steenblik admitted. “It’s quite possible that they were watching us for years before finally starting the war. There were all of those reports about unknown starships being detected on long-range sensors…”
The First Space Lord cleared his throat. “You’ll take the reporters and like it,” he growled, addressing Ted. “You’ll have them bound by the War Powers Act, even the foreigners, so you can put them in irons if they really make a nuisance of themselves. But it is vitally important that we regain the public’s trust.”
Ted sighed. “Very well, sir,” he said. He had a vision of the reporters walking through his ship, harassing his crew. “I shall have them assigned quarters onboard Ark Royal. However, I will not tolerate my crew being harassed.”
“That is understandable,” the First Space Lord said. “You will have the power to deal with them, if necessary.”
Ted sighed, again. The War Powers Act did give commanding officers considerable leeway to deal with reporters and other subhuman forms of life, but it was subject to review. He could put a reporter in irons… and, if the Admiralty found it politically embarrassing, they could renounce him after the war.
“Understood, sir,” he said. “We’ll do our very best.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Captain, James decided, as he waited in the shuttlebay, must have realised that James had been speaking to the First Space Lord behind the Captain’s back. It was the only explanation, he felt, for why the Captain had given him the assignment for babysitting the reporters, even though there were more junior officers — including Lieutenant Abramczyk — who could have handled the task. But then, he had to admit, he certainly deserved some kind of punishment for breaking the Captain’s trust. Having to deal with reporters was definitely cruel and unusual punishment.
He shifted uncomfortably inside his dress uniform as the shuttle settled slowly onto the deck, a dull clunk echoing round the shuttlebay as it landed. The PR staffers always looked photogenic, something that had puzzled James until he’d realised that they were trying to impress reporters too ignorant or stupid to know that a clean uniform wasn't always the sign of a competent officer. James had served under one commanding officer who had insisted that his senior officers always wear their dress uniforms, even though regulations only required them for special occasions. He wondered what had happened to that CO as the shuttle’s hatch opened, revealing the reporters.
They weren't a prepossessing bunch, he decided, as they stumbled out onto the deck. A couple wore clothes that looked military, at least when seen from a distance, and several more wore khaki jackets that would have been better suited to embedding with the ground forces, rather than the Royal Navy. The remainder wore a wide variety of civilian clothes, ranging from simple tracksuits to low-cut shirts and miniskirts that would be sure to draw attention from the ship’s crew. A less professional bunch, James decided, would be hard to find. Even the entertainers who made their way from starship to starship looked more professional.
He stepped forward, pasting a smile on his face. His family had taught him how to face the press, although none of their training had covered this exact scenario. The downside of being born into the aristocracy, he’d been told time and time
again, was that everything you did was considered newsworthy. You could fart in bed, his grandfather had told him, and someone would consider it news. And while one set of reporters would consider an aristocrat someone to admire, another set would consider him someone to tear down at all costs. Being in the navy, he'd thought, would preserve him from their particular brand of savagery. Clearly, he’d been wrong.
“Welcome onboard Ark Royal,” he said, as he surveyed the reporters. Several of them carried cameras and other forms of recording equipment; he’d have to make sure that none of it interfered with the ship’s systems. “If you’ll come with me…?”
He led them through a maze of corridors and into a small briefing compartment. Two junior crewmen had spent the day transferring all of the boxes of spare parts out of the compartment, just so he could brief the reporters. He scowled inwardly at the waste of time it represented, even though he knew that neither he nor Captain Smith had been offered a choice. The reporters had to be humoured, at least until they crossed the line so badly that no one could argue when the Captain threw them into the brig.
“Please, be seated,” he said, wondering idly which of them would make the first complaint. The overweight man pretending to be a naval officer or the blonde-haired girl who looked thinner than a plastic doll? James had seen children with more meat on their bones than her. “We have a great deal to get through and not much time.”
The reporters should have been briefed on Nelson Base, but James had already privately resolved to run through everything again, anyway. It wouldn't be the first time, Lieutenant Abramczyk had warned him, where a PR officer on a base had neglected to tell the reporters what they needed to hear, fearing that it would destroy his career. James hadn't been surprised at all to hear it. Reporters, in his experience, were rarely smart enough to realise that the military’s rules and regulations existed for a reason.
“How many of you,” he asked, “have embedded on a military starship before?”
A handful of hands — four in all — went up. James sighed, inwardly. At least they weren't all virgins. It wasn't a reassuring thought. Even modern carriers suffered their fair share of accidents when new crewmembers moved in… and some of those accidents were lethal. The reporters were even less prepared for Ark Royal than James himself.
“Right,” he said. “This is a military starship — and a very dangerous environment. Cabins have been assigned to you; I strongly recommend that you remain in your cabins unless you have an escort. If you choose to leave your cabins, bear in mind that there are some parts of the ship that are completely off-limits without prior permission and an escort. Those locations are detailed in your briefing notes.”
He paused. “I understand that you will want interviews with crewmen,” he added. “Such interviews will be arranged upon request. I advise you not to interfere with crewmen as they go about their duties, or to attempt to force them to be interviewed.”
“But you’ll have a chance to brief those you let speak to us,” one of the older reporters objected. “We want unprepared interviews.”
James tried not to roll his eyes. If the reporter had suspected that every one of the prepared interviewees would toe the party line, he shouldn't have said it out loud. Or was he laying the groundwork for attacking the navy if the interviews didn’t turn up anything he wanted? Or was he simply an idiot?
“None of them will be briefed ahead of time,” James said. He shook his head, then pressed onwards. “All of your reports will be viewed by the PR staff before they are transmitted home. Certain pieces of information, outlined in your briefing notes, are not supposed to be included in public reports. If you include them, you will be placed in the brig and left there until we return to Earth, whereupon you will be handed over to the police.”
“The aliens can't intercept our news broadcasts,” another reporter objected. “Those rules are designed to protect the government, not humanity.”
“That’s as may be,” James said, feeling his head start to pound. Perhaps the Captain had something he could drink to relieve his feelings. He’d sooner face a mob of aliens stark naked than reporters. No doubt he would be made to look really ugly when the reporters started releasing their reports. “The point is that operational security cannot be violated without consequences.”
He ran through the rest of the notes — a short primer on how to behave on the ship — and then led them to their cabins. Originally, the cabins had been intended for an Admiral and his staff; they were the largest cabins on the ship. Even three or four reporters to a compartment was better than the junior crewmen received, deep in the bowels of the ship. But the complaining started almost at once.
What exactly did they expect? James asked himself. A massive compartment for each of them, alone? With a bath and a dressing room and…
He shook his head, then smiled at them, humourlessly. “You can return to Earth if you like,” he said. “The shuttle will still be in the bay for another hour or two. If you don't like the quarters, you can return to Earth. However, there is no guarantee of receiving another embedded post.”
It was interesting, he decided, as the complaints faded away, just to see who was doing the complaining. None of the prior embeds had complained, even slightly. James made a mental note to glance at their files. The newcomers were the ones who complained loudest at the prospect of sharing quarters. James could understand a desire for privacy, but anyone who wanted privacy shouldn't bother to join the navy. He'd seen his first crewmates naked more times than he cared to remember.
“You are welcome to join the senior crew in the mess for dinner,” James lied, smoothly. “If, of course, you do not wish to join the junior crew instead.”
He smiled at their reactions. Had they expected room service? The Captain was the only person on the ship who was allowed to eat meals in his cabin — even Admirals had to eat in the wardroom with their staff. But the reporters seemed to think they should be allowed to eat apart from the crew.
His smile grew wider. Just wait until they encountered naval food.
* * *
Ted looked up at the holographic display, silently cursing the First Space Lord under his breath. Being granted an international rank — a honour held by only a handful of officers, only one other of them British — came with an additional salary, but it also came with new and unpleasant responsibilities. The twenty-seven starships currently assembled around Ark Royal represented eight different navies, only three of them solid British allies. The remainder were deeply suspicious of the combined defence command’s decision to assign them to the deep-space raiding mission.
They had reason to be suspicious, Ted decided, as he surveyed the ships. Most of them were younger than Ark Royal, but hadn't been updated as thoroughly as the massive carrier. Their heavy armour would give them an advantage against alien starfighters — although probably not the giant plasma weapon the aliens had used in the previous battle — but their drives and weapons were heavily outdated. Ark Royal was a lumbering brute of a ship, yet a handful of the smaller ships weren't even capable of keeping pace with her. If it had been up to him, Ted knew, most of them would have been broken down into spare parts and replaced with more modern ships.
The only real advantage, he knew, was the older weapons they carried. Unlike the newer designs, they had the fittings for mass drivers and adding them onto their hulls hadn't taken more than a few days. Ted hadn't been too surprised to discover that several governments had stockpiled mass drivers, despite the unspoken agreement against deploying them. The older ships also carried additional missile racks, all of which might come in handy when they faced the aliens for the second time. But they were still critically low in starfighters.
Ted sighed, then looked down at the latest update from the Admiralty. No one seemed disposed to cut loose a modern carrier, not even one of the freighters that had been hastily reconfigured into a makeshift starfighter platform. Not that that was entirely unwelcome, he decided; the makeshift platform
s had been constructed so rapidly, with so much improvising, that they could barely launch a single squadron of fighters and then only at a terrifyingly slow rate. But with modern carriers suddenly very vulnerable, it was hard to blame the Admiralty — and its foreign counterparts — for clutching at straws.
He needed a drink. Desperately.
The door chimed. “Come.”
Commander Fitzwilliam strode into the cabin, looking like a man in desperate need of a drink. Ted knew precisely how he felt. Passing the reporters over to Commander Fitzwilliam had been a mean trick, but Ted was damned if he was wasting any of his own time on the reporters. Besides, he had to speak with his new subordinates, reassure them as much as possible that he had no intention of wasting their lives, then plan their deployment to New Russia. The direct route, he’d already decided, was out.
“The reporters are settled in their cabins,” Commander Fitzwilliam said, taking the chair Ted indicated. “They're already grumbling about the arrangements.”
Ted shrugged. It was hard to care, not when most of his pre-Ark Royal career had been spent in shared cabins and wardrooms.
“Some of them might have had prior relationships,” he said, after a moment. “They can change their sleeping places, if they wish.”
“They’re reporters,” James agreed. There were stories about how reporters sometimes behaved while on deployment. Most of them were probably nonsense, but Ted was old enough to know the more outrageous the story, the greater the chance there was a kernel of truth in it somewhere. “If they want to have foursomes and tell themselves they’re being daring to have them on a military ship…”
Ted snorted. “I’ve spoken to our new allies,” he said. “We’re going to be going the long way around.”
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