[Ark Royal 04] - Warspite

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Yes, sir,” Richards said. “I’ll get to work at once.”

  John nodded, then returned to his paperwork as Richards left the office. It wasn't a good thing to call in outside help - it would reflect badly on Commander Watson - but he didn't think he had a choice. Richards would clear the decks, he was sure; there were very few crewmen who would cross him once, let alone twice. And if there were any bad apples in the bunch, Richards would smoke them out before they managed to infest the rest of the crew.

  His intercom chimed. “Captain,” Midshipwomen Powell said, “it’s about time for the dinner to begin.”

  “Joy,” John said. He glanced at the chronometer and swore under his breath. He’d been reading and marking paperwork for hours. “Have the other commanders arrived?”

  “Yes, sir,” Midshipwomen Powell said. She’d taken over responsibility for organising the dinner, something else that should have been handled by the XO. “They’re on their way to the Officer’s Mess.”

  “Then I’m on my way too,” John said. Thankfully, he’d specified informal wear, although he suspected that a couple of the officers would wear dress uniforms anyway. “Tell them I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  He checked his appearance in the mirror, then hastened out of the hatch and strode down towards the Officer’s Mess. Midshipwomen Powell was standing outside, showing another commanding officer to his seat. John nodded to her, then stepped into the room and looked around. It was small, barely large enough to hold all of his officers at once, but it was tolerable. Unwritten rules dictated, after all, that any starship larger than a frigate had to have separate eating spaces for the officers and enlisted crewmen.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said, as he took his seat at the head of the table. “I apologise for the short notice.”

  “Everything about this mission is short notice,” Captain Heath Meeks grumbled. “I don’t get paid enough to be jerked here and there.”

  “That’s what you pay for signing up with the Royal Fleet Auxiliary,” Captain Glen Larne reminded him. “They paid half the cost of your starship in exchange for your service when they needed it.”

  John motioned for them to sit, trying to keep his expression under control. The Royal Fleet Auxiliary were torn between being civilians and being military; the Royal Navy had invested in their ships, in exchange for having first call on their services if a sudden emergency developed in interstellar space. He couldn't blame Meeks for being a little annoyed - the Colony Support Vessel he commanded was a licence to print money, if he based himself in the right system - but he had signed the contract. The Royal Navy would be happy to repossess his vessel and place a prize crew on her if he refused to uphold his end of the bargain.

  Besides, he thought dryly. The RFA is a suitable place for officers and men who want to remain close to the navy, without actually being in the navy.

  “My cook has taken the liberty of preparing a simple meal,” he said, “using ingredients sourced from Earth. There won’t be another one like this for months, I’m afraid.”

  He had to smile at their expressions. Only the very largest starships carried enough supplies to be able to offer their crews fresh food every day. Everyone else got ration bars, reprocessed foods and algae-based meals. They might taste nice, once the cook added some flavouring, but they became monotonous very rapidly. It was one of the reasons why fresh fruit and vegetables were always included in care packages from home.

  “Six months of deployment,” Meeks moaned. “Do you know how much I could earn in a different system?”

  “The Royal Navy is paying you well enough,” John said, patiently. “And besides, there may be opportunity. You never know.”

  He cleared his throat as Midshipwoman Powell entered, pushing a trolley loaded with bowls of carrot and coriander soup. “There will be time to discuss the mission afterwards,” he added, firmly. “Until then, let us eat and chat about nothing.”

  The ship’s cook had definitely excelled himself, John decided, as they ate their way through a three-course meal. He allowed himself to relax slightly at the chatter, listening to stories of life in the post-war RFA, while silently envying some of their freedoms. The Royal Navy didn't allow him or anyone else wearing the uniform anything like the same amount of freedom, although he knew it came with a cost. Meeks was right, in a way; the RFA demanded attention, often at the cost of long-term financial security.

  He knew it when he made the deal, he reminded himself, as the dinner came to an end. And he can't complain now.

  “I would like to be brief,” he said, once Midshipwoman Powell had cleared away the plates and retreated into the galley. “But I don’t think I can be.”

  He smiled at them all, then keyed a switch, activating the holographic projector. “Our destination is Pegasus, the star system here,” he said, nodding towards a blinking icon. “As you can see, Pegasus plays host to a number of tramlines, thus ensuring that whoever controls the system will be able to control those tramlines. Our mission is to proceed to Pegasus and establish a base on Clarke III, a moon orbiting a gas giant. Once the base and cloudscoop is established, we will formally lay claim to the entire system.”

  “And make sure no one else can tap the gas giant for fuel,” Meeks commented, sourly. “I like it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” John said. “And I’m sure there will be long-term opportunities here.”

  He shrugged. Meeks was right, again. Ownership of the sole economical source of HE3 in the system would ensure that Britain maintained a controlling interest, even if other powers managed to establish their own outposts. International treaties forbade such blatant theft, but there were loopholes. Pegasus didn’t have any Earth-like planets to claim, so someone could easily try to argue that the treaty didn't apply to that system.

  “And once we have the base established, we proceed to Wells?” Captain Jerry Samisen asked. “Or do we leave that world for later?”

  “I believe our long-term plans call for a slow terraforming program,” John said. “It isn’t as if anyone is interested in investing the resources for a least-time effort. Wells isn't Mars.”

  “True,” Meeks agreed. “There are several Earth-like worlds within one or two jumps of Pegasus.”

  John nodded. Mars had been force-terraformed, a project that had started well before the first tramlines had been discovered. The various nations that had established settlements on Mars had dumped millions of tons of water into the atmosphere, followed by producing genetically-engineered seeds and orbiting mirrors to heat the planet. Mars’s original ecosystem, such as it was, had been utterly destroyed, replaced by a fragile world that could support human life. There were people who still hinted that there might have once been life on Mars, but the terraforming program had obliterated it. Until the Tadpoles had arrived, speculation that Mars had once possessed intelligent life had been among the most popular conspiracy theories in human existence.

  But Mars had also cost the various nations a great deal of money. And the colonists hadn't been entirely grateful. It wasn't something that would be repeated in a hurry.

  “We will depart in three days, barring accidents,” he said. “Will your ships be ready to depart by then?”

  “We could have left last week,” Meeks said. “I think the real delay came out of Nelson Base.”

  “Probably,” John agreed. It didn't take much imagination to see how the political struggle had delayed the colonisation mission. “We can leave on the scheduled date, though?”

  “Yes,” Meeks said, flatly. The other commanders echoed him. “Do you anticipate running into trouble?”

  “I would prefer to be prepared,” John said. “The Tadpoles might be on the other side of human space, but there might be other threats out there. That’s another good reason to secure Pegasus as soon as possible, I think. There could be anything out there, waiting for us.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Samisen agreed.

  “Warspite will take point,”
John continued. “Canberra” - an escort carrier - “will bring up the rear. We will maintain a watchful eye on our surroundings at all times, including a CSP of no less than four starfighters. I trust such a tempo will not prove too challenging?”

  Captain Jonny Minion shrugged. “We’ve been practicing heavy deployments regularly, ever since the war,” he said. “Keeping a mere four starfighters on station at all times will not prove to be a challenge, at least not for the moment. I’d be happier with more, of course ...”

  John nodded as Minion’s voice tailed off. Escort carriers were nothing more than converted bulk freighters, lacking the weapons, sensors and armoured hulls - such as they were - of fleet carriers. The Royal Navy had seen no choice, but to deploy the modified starships, knowing that they would take hideous losses. And they had; by the time the war had come to an end, thirty-seven escort carriers had been lost, along with over five hundred pilots. John had served on one himself and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, just how lucky he had been to survive.

  And Colin died, he thought, morbidly. I could never fly a starfighter after that, could I?

  He pushed the thought aside as he rose to his feet. “We can affix a couple of starfighters to Warspite’s hull, if necessary,” he said. “It would give us some additional striking power, if we do run into trouble.”

  “Let us hope not,” Meeks said. “Danger will only delay proceedings.”

  “Tell me about it,” John muttered. He walked around the table and stopped in front of the display. “Do any of you have any concerns about our proposed route?”

  There was a long pause. “I would prefer not to go through Terra Nova,” Captain William Hunter said, when it was clear that no one else was going to speak. “The system is not entirely safe.”

  “Nowhere is safe,” Minion snapped.

  “Terra Nova is having a major civil war,” Hunter said, ignoring the unsubtle jab at him. “And some of the fighting has spread to outer space. I would prefer not to take the squadron through the system if it could be avoided.”

  “I don’t think any of the out-system powers are likely to court a war by attacking us,” Minion sneered. “And the locals don’t have the firepower to take on the entire squadron.”

  “It would also add two weeks to our journey time if we avoided Terra Nova,” John said, quietly. He understood the concerns, but he also knew there was no time to lose. “We will avoid the settled parts of the system as much as possible, I think. It should be enough to prevent an encounter with the locals.”

  “Something ought to be done about Terra Nova,” Meeks grumbled. “Right now, the entire system is falling apart.”

  “Like what?” Minion demanded. “Put an army on the ground and kill anyone who even looks at us funny? That never worked out very well during the Age of Unrest.”

  John sighed. It had been a semi-serious debate before the First Interstellar War, when Terra Nova had merely been unstable. Now, with a full-scale civil war on the planet’s surface, there were people calling for armed intervention. But how could the problem be actually solved? The only real solution, he suspected, was for anyone with half a brain to flee the planet, which was what they were doing. They wanted to live somewhere where there was not only a demand for skilled labour, but a chance to keep their earnings without having them stolen, or their sons conscripted into a militia, or their daughters raped by whatever force happened to occupy their hometown this week.

  He shook his head. They were getting away from the subject at hand.

  “Leaving Terra Nova aside,” he said, “does anyone have any other concerns?”

  There was a long pause. This time, no one spoke.

  “Then we will leave on our scheduled departure date,” John said. “Please let me know if you have any concerns, prior to departure. I will be sending some crewmen to Sin City for a brief period of leave; you may do the same, if you make sure they know to report back twenty-four hours prior to departure. Anyone who isn't back by then can explain themselves to the Shore Patrol and the Military Police. And yes, that includes RFA personnel.”

  “Yes, sir,” Meeks said, without argument. “My crew will be glad of a short break.”

  “Just remind them not to take out any loans,” John said, ruefully. He had, as a junior pilot, and he’d regretted it ever since. “If they run out of hard cash, they can make their way straight back to the ship.”

  Meeks smiled. “I’ll make sure they know,” he said. “It’s always the young ones who get into trouble, isn't it?”

  John nodded. “My officers need their Mess back,” he said. The others rose. “Next time we meet in person, it will be in the Pegasus System.”

  He watched them file out of the room, then turned and walked through the door into the galley. Not entirely to his surprise, there were signs that the cook had saved some of the dinner for himself and Midshipwoman Powell, a tradition that was technically forbidden, but winked at by almost all senior officers. Powell herself was sitting at the table, reading a datapad and waiting for the call. John cleared his throat and she jumped.

  “Sir,” she said, rising. “I ...”

  “Thank you for your service,” John said. “It was very good.”

  Midshipwoman Powell coloured. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You can clear away the rest of the dishes now,” John continued. “Make sure that the remains of the dessert are handed round in the Crew Mess. And tell the cook to save some of the supplies for later. You never know when we might need a fresh dinner.”

  “Yes, sir,” Powell said.

  John smiled, then walked back to his office. There was still no shortage of work to do.

  Chapter Seven

  “They’re coming around our flank, Corporal.”

  “I see them,” Percy said. 1 Section was attacking, while 2 Section was defending. He’d distributed his men carefully around the airlock, but he knew the dangers of trying to be strong everywhere. “Keep your head down.”

  He gritted his teeth as he crawled forward. There were worse places to fight, he was sure, than the hull of a starship, but he couldn't think of any. Hardly any cover, apart from weapons emplacements and sensor blisters, and no way of digging a protective foxhole to conceal his men. He hated to think of what the Captain would say if he actually did manage to cut a hole into the hull, releasing the atmosphere out into interplanetary space ...

  The enemy appeared, wearing the same light combat suits as his own men. Percy levelled his rifle at the nearest enemy soldier and opened fire, sending flickering bursts of laser light across the hull and into their target. The enemy soldier jerked, then made a show of lying there dead as his comrades scattered, then advanced, throwing grenades towards Percy’s position. Red lights flashed up in front of him and he cursed as his suit locked up.

  “You’re dead, Corporal,” Sergeant Danny Peerce said.

  “I noticed,” Percy said. He’d blundered badly and his men were about to pay the price. 1 Section advanced into the gap they’d created, then secured the airlock and drove the remnants of 2 Section away. They’d still have to board and storm the entire ship, but command of the airlocks would ensure they could bring in as many reinforcements as they wanted. “And we lost.”

  “Indeed you did,” Hadfield said. “Exercise terminated; I say again, exercise terminated.”

  Percy pushed himself to his feet as his suit unlocked, then looked around as the other Marines made their way towards the airlock and safety. As always, his head swam when he contemplated that he was standing on the hull of a starship, where it wasn't actually clear which way was up and which way was down. He forced himself to look back at the deck, cursing under his breath. It had been too long since his last stint of shipboard duty.

  He stepped through the airlock, then joined the other Marines in clambering out of the suits and checking them, before hanging them back on the hooks for later use. Taking care of his equipment was important, he knew; it had been hammered into his head, time and time again, t
hat taking care of his equipment was the only way to make sure it would take care of him.

  “Back to the barracks,” Hadfield ordered, as soon as the suits were checked. “We need to go over the exercise.”

  Percy groaned, inwardly. Two days of constant exercises had left him tired, sore and cranky, but he knew he couldn't avoid the aftermath. At least he’d done better in the simulated ground environments, thankfully. No one seriously expected the Royal Marines to have to fight off boarders in this day and age, although it had happened during the war. It was one of the reasons why every crewman was required to carry a personal weapon at all times, despite the risks.

  “2 Section misread the enemy’s intentions,” Hadfield said, once they were back in the cramped barracks. Warspite had no briefing compartment for her Marines. “They also missed a chance to launch a counterattack by sending half the section around the ship and ramming their rifles up the enemy’s butt. Once this mistake had shown itself, it was too late to recover.”