Abigail cleared her throat. “What do you make of it?”
Anson looked up and smiled. “Awesome,” he said. “This baby is light-years ahead of our old piece of junk.”
“It isn't as if we ever had to make planetfall,” Abigail pointed out, dryly. Trying to land Haddock on a planetary surface would be an expensive form of suicide. “How many times did we actually use the shuttle?”
“Twice, at Wayland,” Anson reminded her. “But those were meant to be once-offs.”
He tapped the control stick. “I can put this baby down in a storm,” he said. The confidence in his voice sounded unshakable. “And then land her on a dime ...”
“Be very careful,” Abigail warned. “You’ve never flown through a real storm, have you?”
Anson nodded, but he looked unabashed. Abigail sighed, inwardly. She’d handled a couple of rough landings, but otherwise she’d stayed in space when she hadn't let someone else do the flying. It was hard for a Belter to understand just how rough a planetary atmosphere could be, if one didn't take very good care. She honestly couldn't understand why immigration to outer space wasn’t much higher. Unlimited space, unlimited resources, unlimited wealth ... and no weather. Why would anyone choose to live on a planetary surface when they could live in space?
“I’ve been downloading training simulations,” Anson said, after a moment. “The shuttle isn't that different from the standard designs. I should be able to fly it without problems. And we have everything from military-grade emergency beacons to military grade emergency kits. They even gave us some suspension drugs ...”
“Very good,” Abigail said. She walked into the cockpit - there was no bulkhead between the cockpit and the passenger compartment, something that puzzled her - and sat in the co-pilot’s seat. “What else do you have to tell me?”
“I got a data packet from George,” Anson said. “Apparently, rumours are getting out. And a number of people have noticed that we never arrived on Ceres, but our cargo did. We’re not the only ones, it seems. There’s some quite accurate speculation running around the datanet.”
His face darkened. “And Cindy has apparently started dating Peppy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Abigail said. She was torn between relief and profound sympathy for her son. Cindy was strikingly pretty, but Abigail had never considered her suitable marriage material. Too self-centred, at least by Belter standards. And probably not inclined to join a group-marriage where everyone either worked to support the family or took care of the children. “There are plenty more fish in the sea.”
“You were married at twenty,” Anson pointed out. “Dad was ... what? Twenty-five?”
“Boys do tend to get married a little later than girls,” Abigail pointed out. She allowed herself a smile. “I did have to have children, you know.”
“I don’t want to know,” Anson said, quickly.
Abigail laughed, then sobered. It wasn't uncommon for children - even grown children - to deny the idea that their parents might have been sexual beings. Abigail knew her parents must have had sex at least five times - she had four siblings - but she didn't want to think about it. No doubt her parents had reproduced by using an exowomb ... although they would still have had to get the eggs and sperm from somewhere.
She dismissed the thought in amused irritation. “Cindy’s just playing the field before she settles down and gets married,” she said. Personally, she doubted Cindy would ever settle down, but there was no way to be sure. God knew Abigail had done some pretty silly things in her day. “When you get back from our next cruise, you’ll be a war hero.”
“They won’t be able to say I was a coward,” Anson agreed. “But ... serving on an escort carrier isn't really that heroic.”
“That’s what the Japanese believed, back in the Second World War,” Abigail said. The briefing notes had been very detailed when it came to historical examples. “They didn't put any real effort into protecting their freighters when they sailed to and from the Japanese Home Islands. And so the American submarines sank pretty much all of the freighters ...”
She shrugged. “Meanwhile, the British and Americans protected their freighters. Ships ran in convoys, escorted by warships. And so the shipping got through and the good guys won the war.”
Except in Eastern Europe, she added, silently. She’d looked up some of the context too, just to try and determine if she was being snowballed. One set of very bad guys was defeated by another set of slightly less bad guys.
She snorted at the thought. The Second World War was over two hundred years in the past, a simpler time in many ways. She had very little in common with the women of that era, although she imagined she had a great deal in common with the freighter captains. And yet, it had laid the seeds for the next set of global conflicts, as well as the technology that had allowed humanity to finally escape its homeworld.
“I’m glad to hear we’re doing something useful,” Anson said. He didn’t sound particularly convinced. “But it’s hardly heroic.”
“It's still a vital contribution,” Abigail said. She would have expected the belters to understand, even if the groundpounders did not. “Could they keep those fleet carriers flying if they didn't get regular deliveries of supplies from home? Or new crewmen and pilots for those immense ships? Or ... they need freighters, Anson. We’re as much a part of the war effort as any warship.”
She leaned forward, resting a hand on his arm. “Look, here’s a suggestion. Spend some time in the starfighter training simulators. They won’t be in use 24/7, so you should be able to find a time when you can have a go. See if you can pick up enough to request a transfer to the starfighter training centre. And if you can, you can put in the request when we return to Sol.”
Anson looked doubtful. “Would they take me?”
“You’re an experienced spacer,” Abigail pointed out. Her children knew how to think - and operate - in three dimensions. How many groundpounders could say the same? “You have much less to unlearn.”
She rose. “But wait until we get back from our first voyage,” she added. “You don't want to give the navy the impression you want to desert.”
“No,” Anson agreed. “That would be awkward.”
Chapter Eight
“You know,” Alan muttered to Bennett, “the Royal Navy has set new records for efficiency.”
“The prospect of hanging does tend to concentrate a few minds, sir,” Bennett agreed, as the starfighter pilots filed into the briefing room. “Unfortunately, as a very great man put it, the prospect of hanging tends to concentrate the mind on the fact that it is about to be hanged.”
Alan shot him a sidelong look. “You read Making Money?”
“Going Postal,” Bennett corrected. “And yes, I read it.”
Alan shook his head in wry amusement, then turned his attention back to the compartment. It was a ramshackle affair, one that would have shocked any fleet carrier commander. Thirty chairs, a single table, a simple projector ... it was a far cry from the high-tech surroundings he’d been used to on Formidable. But it would have to do. He leaned against the bulkhead and watched, grimly, as the starfighter pilots filed into the compartment. Twenty-four men and women, eighteen to twenty-four, wearing basic blues. Perhaps it was his imagination, but there was a sloppiness about them that galled him. He’d never been so sloppy when he’d been a starfighter pilot.
But you did your own share of stupid things, his thoughts reminded him. You’re not in a position to bitch and moan about pilots who merely got drunk in the wardroom and rendered themselves unfit for duty.
He pushed the thought away as his eyes swept the room. A handful of names and faces were familiar to him from the files - Wing Commander Mike Whitehead and Wing Commander Marc Savage, in particular - but others were complete unknowns. They’d all have disciplinary records, though. Drunkenness, fighting in bars ... in one case, even being caught in bed with a senior officer. She was damn lucky not to have been immediately discharged, acc
ording to the files. Her paramour had been tossed into the brig and unceremoniously booted out of the navy when their starship had returned home.
And now he’ll probably be summoned back to the colours, Alan thought, sourly. Along with everyone else who didn't go too far.
The room settled down, quickly. Alan allowed his eyes to wander over the small crowd, wondering which of them would cause trouble. There was usually one troublemaker per squadron ... hell, he'd been the troublemaker as a younger man. The pilot who wore a uniform that looked two sizes too big for him? Or the pilot who wore a uniform that was too tight around her chest to pass muster on a regular carrier? Or the one who’d been caught in a drug den when he’d gone on leave? It wasn't illegal for a civilian, but it was a court-martial offence for a military officer. Alan made a mental note to keep an eye on him. Abigail might swear blind that her crewmen were clean, but in Alan’s experience there was always some smuggling going on. And someone would have set up an illicit still by now.
Alan cleared his throat. “Welcome onboard,” he said, shortly. “I am Commander Alan Campbell, the senior military officer on Archibald Haddock.”
He paused. Did they know him? It was possible they’d heard the story. He’d been told it had been extensively reported in the national news, five years ago. But then, some of the pilots would have been in secondary school at the time. They probably didn't remember his name.
All they’d have to do is look me up on the datanet, he thought, sourly. He had no idea how many people were called Alan Campbell, but it was unlikely that many of them had served in the Royal Navy. And who knows what they’d think if they knew the truth?
“I won’t waste your time with pleasant speeches,” he added. “You were assigned to this vessel because you’re screw-ups. You have disciplinary records longer than my arm.”
“Longer than my dick,” Flight Lieutenant Shawn Greene catcalled. “It’s big.”
“How lucky for you,” Alan said, as pleasantly as he could. “And if you interrupt me again, I’ll cut it off.”
A low ripple of amusement ran around the compartment. Alan ignored it.
“I don’t think any of you would have gotten through your review hearing, if you lasted long enough to face one,” he told them. “And you know what? I don’t care. You’ve all heard the news. We are at war - and standards have been lowered, sharply, to ensure that the navy’s manpower requirements are met. If you do well, on Haddock, your records will be scrubbed clean. Fuck up and there’s a very good chance you won’t live long enough to be dishonourably discharged.
“I don’t care what you did before you reported to me. I don’t care about the warnings your former commanders wrote into your files. I don’t give a damn what you did when you went on leave. All I care about is getting this ship up and out into the fight. Do well and we’ll get along fine. Do poorly and you’ll find me the worst nightmare you’ll ever have to face. There won’t be a second warning.”
He paused, giving his words a moment to sink in. The Royal Navy had always tolerated a certain degree of immature behaviour from its starfighter pilots, knowing that the odds of any of them surviving a combat mission were terrifyingly low. Alan looked back on his past record and cringed, inwardly. He couldn't blame his pilots for their stupidity when he’d been just as stupid himself. And yet, an escort carrier simply didn't have the space to tolerate foolishness. He was damned if he was putting up with it.
“This is war,” he said. “We’re going to be spending much of our time drilling. When you’re not drilling, you’ll be in your bunks. Don’t expect any downtime for the next few weeks. By the time we actually see combat, I want us to be ready for it.
“There will be no alcohol, no drugs, no immersive VR sims ... nothing that could impair your performance. I don’t have the manpower to tolerate any of you taking the day off because you have a hangover. Do not defy me on this unless you want to be tossed out the nearest airlock. This is war. You will receive absolutely no sympathy whatsoever if you run to the nearest admiral and start bitching about not being able to drink. I’ll be inspecting your quarters later. I suggest that you ship any bottles of rotgut you might have brought with you back home before I find them. They’ll be poured into the shitter if I do.”
He sighed, inwardly. There would be a bottle or two, of course. Someone would have obtained a cheap bottle of shipboard rotgut, or splashed out half a month’s wages on Scotch or Vulcan Ale. He wouldn't make any friends, either, when he confiscated the alcohol. But it couldn't be helped. He simply didn't have the manpower to cover up a hangover, even if he’d wanted to. Hard questions would be asked about why one of his pilots wasn't flying.
And someone will take a look at our statistics, he thought, sourly. The Admiralty had been demanding regular reports as the refit progressed, apparently so they could decide if they should start the next set of conversions. There’s always some jumped-up beancounter eager to prove he isn't a complete waste of space.
“Two other points to go over, then,” he told them. “First, the captain and most of the crew are civilians, rather than military. Don’t expect them to salute when they meet you or to honour the finer points of military etiquette. That said, their ranks are to be treated as military ranks for the duration of the conflict and you are to show them proper respect. The captain may not be a military officer, but she’s been working in space longer than any of you have been alive. Do not dismiss them as useless.”
He kept his face impassive. Some of the pilots would understand, he was sure, but others wouldn't. They’d absorbed a general contempt for civilians - for those who couldn't or wouldn't put their lives on the line - during basic training. And he had no idea how many of them were mature enough to understand that a merchant spacer would have more experience than themselves. Starfighter pilots were used to thinking of themselves as the best. They wouldn't want to take orders from a civilian.
“Second, most of the crewers come from the asteroid belt, where things are different,” he added. “They have a different culture, so don’t assume that you can treat them like crewmen on a fleet carrier. This ship is too small for you to have a brief affair and then end it without repercussions. In particular, two of the crewmen are very young. Be careful who you try to lure into bed. It would probably be better to stay celibate while you’re on this ship.”
“Ouch,” Greene said.
Alan shrugged. It wasn't technically illegal for starfighter pilots to chase crewmen on fleet carriers, where the pilot and the crewman were in different chains of command. And no one under eighteen would serve on a fleet carrier. It was a different story on a belter ship. He had no idea how Abigail would react to a starfighter pilot trying to seduce her daughter and he didn't want to find out. Starfighter pilots were alarmingly good at letting their dicks get them in trouble.
“There will be shore leave, at some point,” Alan assured them, dryly. Sin City wasn't that far away. “And I’m sure some of you brought wank material with you.”
He paused as a faint titter ran around the compartment. “I expect you all to act like adults, even if half of you are overgrown children. This is war. We don’t have time to deal with minor problems. I expect complete professionalism when you’re on duty - which will be most of the time. And I do not expect anything that happens off-duty to affect your performance. If it does, I’ll make damn sure you’ll regret it.
“Wing Commanders, remain behind. Everyone else, report to the starfighter launch tubes at fourteen-hundred-hours. I’ll be inspecting your quarters before then, so you should have just enough time to get rid of anything illicit before I see it. Any questions?”
Greene stuck up a hand. “What is the price of sliced ham, per portion?”
“Relevant questions,” Alan clarified. He supposed he should have seen that coming. The joke was older than interplanetary spaceflight. “No? Dismissed!”
He watched as the pilots rose and headed through the hatch. Some of them were standing upright, walking
like men who knew who and what they were; others looked as if they could barely be bothered walking in a straight line. They wouldn’t have long to shape up either, not when the ship was due to depart in four days. Ideally, Alan would have busted the worst of the troublemakers out of the squadrons - perhaps sending them to other starships so they’d have a chance to shape up - but that wasn't an option. The starfighter pilots he’d been sent had been on their last chance, before the war began. None of them would have been allowed to remain in the navy if the navy hadn't been so desperate for trained manpower.
At least they weren't in jail, he reminded himself, dryly.
“Take a seat,” he ordered the Wing Commanders. He glanced back at Bennett, then shrugged. “Do you have any concerns you want to raise?”
“Hundreds,” Wing Commander Mike Whitehead said. “I assume it would be pointless?”
Alan had to smile, sourly. “If you want to kick half of the pilots off the ship, then yes,” he said. Whitehead had a bit of a reputation as a worrywart, an odd trait in a squadron commander. He even looked like a weak-chinned milksop, the kind of person who’d never be allowed to serve on a recruiting poster. But then, it had taken him time to climb the ladder. His stats simply weren't very good. “Do you have any others?”
The Cruel Stars (Ark Royal Book 11) Page 8