Percy nodded, ruefully. It had been his mistake.
“We will try again, of course,” Hadfield said. “And again, and again. Get some sleep, then return here for the next exercise at 1700. Schneider, Peerce, you’re with me.”
“Yes, sir,” Percy said.
“You lugs get plenty of sleep,” Peerce said, addressing the Marines. “You’ll need it.”
Percy nodded, then followed Hadfield out into the corridor, then into the small office. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “That was my fuck up.”
“Yes, it was,” Hadfield said. There was a grim note to his voice that made Percy quail inwardly. “Luckily, it wasn't real. You get to try it again.”
And then discover there’s more than one way to fuck up, Percy thought. He’d thought training at Lympstone was bad, but it never really ended. There’s no shortage of ways to fuck up and get people killed.
“I have to report to the Captain,” Hadfield said. “I’m supposed to be terribly subtle about finding a way to get you two to bond, but I really can’t be arsed. There’s cheap whiskey in the cabinet, the hatch will be locked and I’ve blocked your terminals. Sit down and bond. Or I can find a less friendly environment for you to do your bonding thing.”
Percy stared at Peerce in astonishment as Hadfield strode out of the compartment, closing the hatch behind him. “Sergeant ...?”
“Perils of taking over a Section without spending weeks of quality time training together first,” Peerce said. He stood up and walked over to the cabinet, opening it to reveal a bottle of amber liquid. “Do you know how many regulations prohibit drinking on duty?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Percy said.
“But we’re not on duty now,” Peerce said. He opened the bottle, sniffed it suspiciously, then poured two glasses. “He wasn’t kidding about the whiskey being cheap either. I’ve had better brews made by Military Moonshine, Inc.”
“For people who want to know why we’re in such a vile temper all the time,” Percy said, recalling the adverts. They had brought a certain amount of amusement into the camps, even if half the manufacturer’s claims were bunk. “But why would he spend half of his salary on a bottle of expensive whiskey?”
He took the glass Peerce offered him, then sipped it carefully. “Are we on the two-pint rule?”
“The one-glass rule, here,” Peerce said. He returned to the seat and sat down. “So ... we’re meant to bond, aren't we?”
Percy scowled. “I don’t know how to bond,” he said. He paused, thinking. “How did you become a bootneck, Sergeant?”
“Runs in the family,” Peerce said. “My father was a bootneck, his father was a bootneck ... I think the very first Royal Marine in the family lived during the Napoleonic Wars. Got quite a few medals by the time he retired too. My mother rolls her eyes every time my father starts talking about his career, but she’s very proud of him.”
“Rupert Peerce,” Percy said, placing the name. “Right?”
“Big hero of Tripoli,” Peerce confirmed. “Jumped in to recover a pack of idiot hostages from the teeth of a bunch of wogs, then called in a kinetic strike that flattened the remains of the city after the hostages were dragged back to Britain. Fucking miserable place, my father said, and he was right. It didn't improve any since then, sir, and I know that because I served there too, twenty years after dad.”
Percy nodded, slowly. Parts of the world had gone to the stars, claiming the endless resources of interstellar space for themselves, while others had declined into chaos and endless anarchy. They had nothing the spacefaring powers wanted, so they were generally left to kill each other to their heart’s content ... unless they impinged, somehow, on one of the great powers. And then military raids or kinetic strikes were used, once again, to remind the savages that no one had any patience for their antics. It was no longer the era where a few oil sheikhs could hold the entire planet hostage.
“It was largely their fault,” Peerce said. “The hostages, I mean. You know what they wanted to do? Start their own society on Mars. But ... big but here ... it turns out that Mars needs women. So they have the bright idea of recruiting women from refugee camps on the grounds they would be grateful enough to be rescued that they wouldn't complain about being used as breeding stock.”
“Arseholes,” Percy commented.
“Yes, sir,” Peerce conformed. “And when you think about just how many youngsters were willing, even then, to leave Earth behind for good, you realise that their motives were very far from pure.”
He sighed, then took another sip of cheap whiskey. “Not that things got much better for the refugees, in any case,” he added. “The tidal waves only made it far worse.”
“I know,” Percy said.
“So tell me,” Peerce said. “Why did you join the Royal Marines? I know there was a slot held for you at the Naval Academy.”
Percy looked down at his glass. Whiskey had never been his favourite drink; hell, he’d never really liked drinking at all. His mother had used to start the most terrible rows whenever she’d seen his father drinking ... and, now his mother was gone, he didn't really want to disgrace her memory by becoming a drunkard.
“My father,” he confessed. “I didn't want to live in his shadow.”
“I always honoured my father,” Peerce said. “The old buzzard moved to Britannia, where he’s terrorising the wildlife and building a farm. Why didn't you want to honour yours?”
Percy hesitated, unsure of what to say.
“My father died a hero,” he said. “I don’t know how many people outside the Royal Marines knows your father’s name, but everyone knows mine, even if they don’t know the exact details of his death. Even after we were ... adopted ... we still carried the family name.”
“Odd,” Peerce observed. “I would understand if you were called Quisling, or Morrison, or even Gallows, but not Schneider. Your father died a hero.”
“Yes, but everyone expected me to follow in his footsteps,” Percy said. “If I had gone into starfighters, I would have been pushed through the Academy on the strength of my name. I think the same would have happened if I’d become a line officer, rather than a pilot. My name would have opened doors for me, rather than my accomplishments. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” Peerce said. “And the Royal Marines treated you as just another recruit.”
Percy nodded. “There's no other part of the service where the aristocracy doesn't have a huge amount of influence,” he said. “I could stand or fall on my own merits.”
“And you won the Green Beret,” Peerce said. “You have a great deal to be proud of, Corporal.”
“Thank you,” Percy said. He gave his nominal subordinate a long look. “How many other junior officers have you kicked into shape?”
“Too many,” Peerce said. “It helps that most of them have combat experience, so they know what’s really important, but it’s sometimes hard to separate them from the bootneck they were before they were promoted. I imagine you should have been sent to Officer Training - and you would have been, if there had been a chance. As it is, you will just have to learn on the fly.”
He smiled. “And I think your father will understand,” he added. “He was a reservist, wasn't he?”
“Yes,” Percy said. “Sergeant ... why haven’t they disclosed everything about his death?”
Peerce considered it. “You do know,” he asked finally, “that closed-casket funerals are not uncommon in Special Forces? Or that the truth behind some of our combat losses will not be publically known for over a hundred years, when everyone involved is dead?”
“He wasn't a soldier,” Percy protested. “He was a pilot. Nothing more than a pilot.”
Peerce looked down at his empty glass, then put it on the table. “There is a story, which I am not going to tell you, about a starship that sneaked into the Waco System during the Chinese-American Confrontation. That starship stealthily monitored shipping in the system and reported home to its base, then prepared its
elf to intervene if the two sides came to blows.”
“But they didn't,” Percy reminded him.
“No, they didn't,” Peerce agreed. “The ship withdrew as quietly as it came ... and there will be no formal public acknowledgement that the mission even took place, not for another fifty years.”
“If that’s true,” Percy asked, “how do you know about it?”
“I was on the ship,” Peerce said.
He shrugged. “Point is, sometimes a veil of secrecy is drawn over an affair to avoid causing diplomatic upsets,” he said. “And sometimes the truth is hidden because it upsets those in power. I’ve heard enough rumours about the last flight of Ark Royal to think that something happened, something bad enough for everyone to want to cover up the details.”
“Helped by everyone being dead,” Percy muttered.
“Quite,” Peerce said. “There were only a handful of survivors from Ark Royal and none of them are talking. But you know what?”
He reached out and clapped Percy on the shoulder. “You wanted to build your own destiny, sir,” he said. “So stop worrying about what happened to your father and concentrate instead on becoming the best damned bootneck in the history of the Royal Marines.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Percy said. He drained the last of his glass, then put it down on the table. “Is that enough bonding now or do we have to talk about something else?”
“You've had a couple of days with your Section,” Peerce said. “Do you have any observations?”
Percy hesitated, thinking hard. “The two Johns have each other’s back, half the time,” he said. “They’re good at watching out for each other.”
“We’re surrounded by Johns,” Peerce said. “I think there’s twelve people on the ship called John, including the Captain.”
“I was surprised they were together,” Percy said. It was far from uncommon for naval personnel to share the same first name, but it could cause problems. “Doesn't it cause confusion?”
“I just call them by their surnames, even in combat,” Peerce said. “They got here together, so there’s no precedence for which one should be called John. Besides, they do work together well, so why break up a successful team?”
He smiled, thinly. “Anything else?”
“Matt is very much the baby of the team,” Percy said, after a moment. “He did well at the training camp, but this is his first real deployment and it’s clear he’s a little unsure of his place.”
“Some proper experience will put paid to that,” Peerce assured him. “Or weren't you unsure when you spent your first night in the barracks?”
Percy nodded, although he knew he’d had an easier time than most. Thanks to the tidal waves and the refugee camps, he was used to having very little to his name. Besides, as uncomfortable as they were, the Royal Marine Barracks were far more pleasant than the refugee camps ... and the company was better too. But not all of the recruits had endured such a life before joining the Marines. Homesickness had affected quite a few of them before they’d either got used to it or quit.
“And Ron is worried about his girlfriend,” he concluded. He’d overheard enough whining to understand the problem, even though Ronald Fisherman hadn't spoken to him about it directly. “He thinks the poor bitch will leave him.”
“Not an uncommon problem,” Peerce said. “Young men and women may pledge themselves to one another in person, but absence makes the heart grow colder and start looking for comfort elsewhere. You may wish to keep an eye on him, once we leave the system. He won’t be able to get many messages from home until the mail packets arrive.”
“And one of them might be a Dear John letter,” Percy said. “I’ve found someone else, so goodbye and thanks for all the fish.”
“Might be,” Peerce said. “You may, of course, review all such messages before they are forwarded to their recipients. However, I would caution you that such reviewing could cause problems with the troops.”
Percy winced. He'd never actually reviewed, let alone censored, letters from the outside world to Marines on active duty, but he'd heard rumours. Everything from nude photographs to wifely nagging and ‘Dear John’ letters had passed through the censors, back during the war. There had even been a major scandal when one of the censors had started copying the most interesting photographs and putting them on the datanet. Percy wouldn't have given a rusty penny for the man’s chances once the husbands found out.
“I know,” he said.
“It could be worse,” Peerce said. “You know what happened during the war?”
He went on before Percy could answer. “Someone in Public Relations had the bright idea of getting young girls to write to soldiers on deployment,” he added. “It worked reasonably well, for a few months, then we got a howler of complaint from someone’s mother. The squaddie her daughter had been writing to had written back, asking for naked photographs and videos.”
“Oh, God,” Percy said. “Do I want to know what happened?”
“I believe the young man in question was bawled out by his superior, then his superior’s superior, then several other officers,” Peerce said. “Luckily, it didn't stop the program. I believe several post-war relationships grew out of such exchanges.”
“Perhaps including nude photographs,” Percy mused. “No one offered to send me any.”
“The program was discontinued after the war,” Peerce said. “But it might be worth trying to restart it at some point.”
“The CO can worry about that,” Percy said. “What should I do about the situation?”
“Keep an eye on Ronald and be prepared to give him some counselling if necessary,” Peerce advised. “Deployments are never easy.”
“I know,” Percy said.
The hatch opened, revealing Hadfield. “I trust you two have managed to bond?”
“Yes, sir,” Peerce said, before Percy could say a word. “We know each other a little better now.”
“Good,” Hadfield said. He made a show of looking at his watch. “Go get some rest, both of you. I intend to kick off the next exercise as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Percy said.
Chapter Eight
“All systems are online, sir,” Commander Juliet Watson reported.
“Thank you, Commander,” John said, with the private thought that Richards must have found some time to advise the XO on how best to handle the Captain. “Helm ... take us out of the shipyard.”
A dull quiver ran through Warspite as her drive field came to life. John braced himself, feeling an odd mixture of anticipation and fear. To command a starship was to be Master Under God, sole voice of authority on his ship, but also to bear the burden of being responsible for the entire ship and her crew. If something went wrong and his ship were to be lost, it would rest with him, not with anyone else. Even if he hadn’t known what was going wrong until it was too late, the Admiralty would assert he certainly should have known.
He watched, grimly, as Warspite slowly detached herself from the shipyard’s nodes and made her way out of the shipyard, passing a number of automated weapons platforms. They saluted the new starship briefly, flickering their running lights at her, before returning to their silent contemplation of interstellar space. John studied the display for a long moment, then turned his attention to the updates from all decks. Everything seemed to be working at peak capacity, although he was expecting some glitches. Very few starships powered up without discovering that something - anything - wasn't quite right.
Maybe the shipyard did it perfectly this time, he thought. It was unlikely - human error crept into the damndest places - but he could still dream.
“Report,” he ordered.
“All systems are functioning as predicted,” Commander Watson said. “Drive field is active within nominal parameters. Sensors are active and calibrating now.”
John nodded. Warspite would be blind without her sensors, both active and passive. The specs he’d read had told him that the Royal Navy had vastly
improved their sensor suites in the wake of the war - and encountering alien stealth technology - but no one had deployed the new systems in combat. He would almost have preferred to rely upon tried and tested technology, but he knew that would be dangerous - and stupid. Even if Britain refused to move forward, the rest of the human race - and the Tadpoles - certainly would.
“Passive sensors are functioning at predicted levels, sir,” Lieutenant-Commander Paul Howard said. Warspite had no dedicated sensor officer, unlike a fleet carrier. “Active sensors are functioning at seventy percent of predicted levels.”
John swallowed a curse. “I see,” he said. “Why?”
[Ark Royal 04] - Warspite Page 8