A Savage War Of Peace (Ark Royal Book 5)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “No, sir,” Howard said. “Chief Engineer Johnston has gone to Nelson Base, but he’s due back this evening. The remainder of the senior crew are currently embarked; I’ve provisionally scheduled a dinner meeting for tomorrow evening at 1800. We are currently lacking ten crewmen after they were hastily recalled to fill billets on Theodore Smith, but the Admiralty promised me that replacements would be found before our scheduled departure date.”

  John groaned. The war had left too many promising young officers and crewmen dead. It would take years to replace the dead; even now, five years after the war, the Royal Navy was still short on trained personnel. And getting newcomers just before they left could cause its own problems. It wasn't unknown for commanding officers to offload problem cases rather than do the paperwork to arrange for a court martial or dishonourable discharge. By the time Warspite’s officers discovered the problem, they might be light years from Earth and unable to do anything about it.

  “Make sure I see their files before they’re transferred,” he said, reaching for one of his personal displays. “Any problem children can be left behind, I think.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said. He cleared his throat. “Midshipwoman Powell has requested a transfer to another ship, but so far no one has been willing to take her.”

  “We’re too short of crew,” John said. He didn't blame the poor Midshipwoman for wanting to leave. She’d been forced to serve as a steward, to all intents and purposes, which had slowed her career down considerably. And, even in this day and age, being unable to reach Lieutenant by twenty-five tended to suggest, very strongly, that the midshipman or woman was impossible to promote. “Suggestions?”

  Howard nodded. “We have seven midshipmen, sir,” he said. “Powell can be taken off the rota entirely, but the other six can handle the duties of a steward between them. Unless, of course, we can get a couple of dedicated stewards. We have to host the Ambassador and her party, after all.”

  “That’s true,” John agreed. “We should be able to take a pair of stewards with us, particularly if they’re cross-trained in something useful. Put in a request at the Admiralty and see what you get.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said. “This may cause problems in the bunks, of course.”

  “Tell them to suck it up,” John ordered. He’d never been a Midshipman, but he’d had to deal with starfighter pilots being his equals one day and his superiors the next. It wasn't an uncommon problem. “They will be able to handle it, I am sure.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said.

  “And if they don’t, point out that Midshipwoman Powell did all the work on our last cruise,” John added. He looked down at the deck. “Speaking of which, find her something that will give her a chance at early promotion, should she do well.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said, again. He hesitated, noticeably. “The only other issue is that Doctor Stewart has ... issued a formal warning note that you haven’t attended for your physical in the last seven months. He’s insisting that you attend within the week or he will be forced to file a complaint with the Naval Medical Board.”

  John fought down the urge to grit his teeth. “You have pointed out to him that I was on Nelson Base for the last six months and I had a full physical when I returned to Earth?”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said. “We all had the full physical.”

  He shuddered. John didn't blame him. It seemed impossible for anything dangerous to spread from the Vesy to humanity - and vice versa - but the Naval Medical Board hadn't been inclined to take chances. The entire crew had been checked and rechecked until the Board was satisfied that there was little risk of cross-species infection. Having a routine physical check seemed pointless, compared to an extensive session of being poked and prodded by the best doctors in the business. But it was also naval bureaucracy at its finest. Someone would notice that the ship’s commander had no physical exam on file and demand explanations.

  “I will see the doctor tomorrow, unless something comes up,” John promised. He didn't have the time for a long battle with the Medical Board. “I’ll let him know personally.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Howard said. He paused. “With your permission, I have to review the latest tactical simulations ...”

  “I’ll see you in an hour,” John promised.

  He settled back in his command chair and brought up the latest reports. Howard had done a good job of keeping everything in order, even though he’d probably been snowed under with work. Juliet Watson had been a poor record-keeper and Richards simply hadn't had the time to attend to paperwork. But Howard had done well for himself ... John smiled coldly, then brought up the personnel reports and started to read. Everything looked as well as could be expected when half the crew was on leave at any one time.

  As long as they stay active when we leave the system, he thought, opening the file containing his orders. Unusually, there were a distressing number of weasel words, rather than the curt sentences he was used to seeing. Anyone could interpret these in any number of different ways.

  He sighed, then started to read carefully. It wasn't easy to follow the different lines of logic; the First Space Lord, if anything, had understated the problem facing him. He was to ensure that Britain secured a controlling interest in Vesy - or that the local system remained neutral, allowing free passage - but at the same time he was to prevent cultural contamination by anyone. And yet, he also had orders not to irritate the other human powers - or the Tadpoles, should they show interest in a third intelligent race. He checked through the intelligence reports, but found nothing to suggest the Tadpoles might be coming too.

  They will know about the Vesy, he thought. The treaty that had ended the First Interstellar War bound both parties to share information on any other intelligent races that might be discovered. A note in the file stated that formal notification - and copies of the original reports from Vesy - had been sent six months ago, just after Warspite had returned home. But will they want to do anything about them?

  He shook his head, then looked up as the hatch hissed open, revealing a short woman with red hair cropped close to her scalp. She blinked in surprise as she saw him, then hastily snapped to attention and saluted. John rose to his feet and returned the salute, taking a moment to study the officer closely. The uniform she wore marked her as a tactical officer, Howard’s replacement.

  “Captain,” she said. “Lieutenant-Commander Tara Rosenberg, reporting for duty.”

  “Welcome onboard,” John said. It would be her turn on watch, wouldn’t it? Warspite might be operating with minimal crew while she waited in orbit around Earth, but Howard had clearly insisted that the senior crew still rotate watches. Good for him. “I’m Captain Naiser.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir,” Tara said. She looked embarrassed, but pressed ahead anyway. “Is it true you actually went down to a planet and convinced a bunch of rebels to give up their hostages?”

  John had to smile. “Something like that,” he said. It was true enough, but the rebels had realised they’d backed themselves into a corner first. “We’ll have a chance to talk properly later, Commander. You have the bridge.”

  Tara nodded and saluted, again. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I relieve you.”

  “I stand relieved,” John said.

  He stepped through the hatch and walked down to his cabin, located only five metres from the bridge. It had been left untouched since his departure - the air smelt faintly musty when he stepped inside - but it definitely felt like home. He glanced at an old picture of Colin he’d placed on the desk, then checked his appearance in the mirror and sat down at the desk. It was almost time for Howard to arrive, so he read through a handful of additional files before the XO tapped on the hatch.

  “Come,” John said.

  Howard stepped into the cabin, looking amused. “I just received an update from Engineer Johnston,” he said. “Apparently, he won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” John
said. Howard sent him an odd look - clearly, he hadn't realised that Mike Johnston was attempting to court Juliet Watson - then schooled his face back into bland inoffensiveness. John concealed his own amusement and waved a hand at the sofa. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Howard said, as he sat down. “I understand you met Lieutenant-Commander Rosenberg?”

  “She seems competent, judging by her record,” John said. “But she only saw service towards the end of the war?”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said. “There aren’t that many experienced junior officers at the moment.”

  “Too true,” John mused. “We really should work on bringing more mustangs into the ranks.”

  He sighed, inwardly. He wasn't precisely a mustang, but he knew that mustangs faced considerable hardships as they made the jump from being an enlisted crewman to an officer’s billet. They were often more experienced than their fellows, who were normally quite a few years younger, yet they rarely fitted in socially. The Old Boy’s Network that cast a long shadow over promotions boards didn't normally boost the careers of mustang officers. It was often considered preferable to assist a junior officer with the right connections.

  “She did handle herself well, sir,” Howard said.

  “I know,” John said.

  He cleared his throat. “You seem to have done an excellent job,” he added, “so thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Howard said.

  “I also expect you to speak your mind,” John added, after a moment. He tapped the datapad meaningfully. “I know that what gets written down isn't always the precise truth, but really ... I do need your uncensored impressions of everything from the crew to our orders. It won’t be held against you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said.

  John met his eyes. “So tell me,” he ordered. “Are there any problems I should know about that aren't in the reports?”

  Howard looked back at him, evenly. “The only real problem I have, sir, is that the crew have grown alarmingly used to inconsistent first officers,” he said. His voice was very flat. “Commander Watson largely left matters in the hands of department heads, who often didn't have the authority to deal with various problems; Commander Richards ... ah, Senior Chief Richards ... was a hands-on XO, but he often let himself get preoccupied with the small things, rather than the bigger picture. I therefore found myself dealing with officers who thought they had to handle problems themselves and crewmen who thought they could come to me with anything.”

  “Ouch,” John said. He’d been an XO himself, but his predecessor had been a good man and a reliable officer. “How have you been coping with this problem, which - I note - has never been mentioned in the files?”

  “I held a long meeting with the department heads shortly after our return to Earth and outlined what I expected them to do and what I expected them to forward to me,” Howard said. “There was some dispute - they’d grown used to the extra authority - but I managed to handle it. I also spoke with the Senior Chief and worked with him to both maintain my distance and support crewmen who needed advice and a helping hand.”

  “Very good,” John said. He’d discuss the matter with Richards later, he knew, but it sounded good. “What problems have the crew had?”

  “The usual, sir,” Howard assured him. “A couple of outbreaks of drunkenness, after alcohol was smuggled up from Sin City. A nasty little fight between two crewmen that put one of them in sickbay and the other in the brig; I’ve had them both handed over to the redcaps for long-term investigation and punishment. And one incident of a crewwoman using a hacked pleasure implant and nearly killing herself.”

  John winced. “How did you handle the drunkenness?”

  “Both crewmen were put on punishment duty,” Howard said. “I didn't feel they deserved to be busted, but they needed to feel some punishment for nearly killing themselves. The crewwoman has been remanded to Luna City for psychotic observation and evaluation. I don't think she will ever be able to return to active duty.”

  “Probably not,” John agreed. He’d have to read the notes, but if someone was stupid enough to hack a pleasure implant it was quite likely they’d accidentally kill themselves. The crewwoman had been lucky, for a given value of luck. She might spend the rest of her life hopelessly addicted to the sensation of having her pleasure centres triggered, time and time again. “But keep an eye on it anyway.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said. He paused. “Is this normal? I mean ... all these problems ...”

  “They tend to get worse when we spend months at anchor, doing bugger all,” John told him, flatly. “Crewmen are at their best when there’s something to do; they’re at their worst when they’re stuck in the ship, while the pleasures of Sin City are only a shuttle flight away. It’s why we try hard to keep them busy.”

  He shrugged, then glanced at the datapad. “I’m transmitting our orders to you,” he added, after a moment. “We’ll discuss the problems we will face later, once you’ve had a chance to read them. It won’t be an easy mission.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said. “I understand we will be transporting ambassadors.”

  “One ambassador and her staff,” John said. “And we’re going back to Vesy.”

  “Hopefully, no Russians this time,” Howard said.

  John snorted. “Maybe not,” he said. He’d glanced at the orbital monitors while he’d been on Nelson Base. A number of ships had filed flight plans for Vesy - and several others had filed plans that were so vague that he suspected they too were heading to the newly-discovered alien homeworld. “But everyone else is coming instead.”

  Chapter Five

  As a child, Corporal Percy Schneider rather suspected he would have loved Fort Knight. It looked rather like a Wild West fort, complete with wooden outer walls, a handful of buildings just beyond the doors and a large Union Jack flying in the strange-smelling breeze. But, as an adult, he was grimly aware that Fort Knight wasn't particularly defensible against anything more dangerous than Braves on horseback. The ten Royal Marines - and thirty former Russian prisoners - wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight if the base came under attack.

  But at least we could hold long enough to get the civilians out, he thought, although he knew the civilians wouldn't be able to stay away for long. Vesy was an alien world, without any safe places for runaway humans. And we would make them pay for attacking us.

  He sighed, then walked towards the office they’d put together from prefabricated components borrowed from Pegasus. The Vesy themselves admired the prefabricated buildings, but they’d been happy to take a few trinkets in exchange for building wooden cabins and barracks for the human settlers. Percy had a feeling that the base would be expanded rapidly, once Earth heard about the existence of a second alien race; besides, paying the Vesy to help expand the facilities kept them sweet. He was all-too-aware that there would be no help from any other human faction if the base came under attack.

  “Corporal,” Platoon Sergeant Danny Peerce said, as Percy stepped up to the metal doorway leading into the office. “The miscreants are inside.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Percy said. “I’ll chew them out personally.”

  “Just remember there aren't any replacements,” Peerce warned. “You can't have anyone beached permanently - or dumped in the brig.”

  Percy nodded. They had an odd relationship; he might have been given command of the section, a ten-man team of Royal Marines, but Peerce outranked him - and had much more experience, to boot. And yet, the Sergeant seemed content to treat Percy as a promising young officer who needed mentoring, rather than an outright subordinate. Percy wasn't sure if his family name was working in his favour, or someone had seen promise in him he hadn't seen for himself, but it led to some awkward conversations. It would have been harder if he hadn't had a sneaking suspicion that Peerce was actually enjoying himself.

  It must be nice to mentor an officer you can relieve if necessary, Percy thought, as he stepped through the h
atch. Normally, it wouldn't be so easy to get rid of an over-promoted upper-class twit.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, as Peerce followed him into the office and closed the hatch behind him. “I trust you have an explanation for this?”

  Private John Hardesty and Private William Oakley exchanged looks. “We thought we wanted to spice things up a little,” Hardesty said, finally. “They wanted to learn what we were doing ...”

  “So you decided to teach the Vesy how to play Poker,” Percy said. He had no idea if it was against regulations to teach aliens how to gamble, but he had a feeling it was probably covered by the non-interference edict. Except, of course, for the simple fact that the non-interference edict had already been smashed to pieces by the Russians. “And now the game is spreading through their society?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hardesty said.