“The analysts are already studying the engagement,” Harper said, changing the subject as he looked around. “But do any of you have any issues we need to consider?”
“Our starfighters were largely wasted,” Yegorovich said, flatly. “While we did kill over forty enemy starfighters, their contribution to the battle was minimal. They could have been considerably more usefully employed by a more aggressive commander.”
Susan frowned and Glass looked angry, but Harper’s image showed no visible reaction.
“They could have been sent against the alien carriers,” he said, calmly. “But the aliens would merely have recalled their own starfighters ...”
“We would still have a chance to take out their carriers before they could evade retribution,” Yegorovich said. “A single warhead inside their launch tubes would be more than enough to make them think again.”
He leaned forward, threateningly. “I understand the impulse to protect our capital ships,” he added, “but these are not the days when carriers were so thin-skinned that a single plasma bolt could do very real damage. The task force could and did look after itself while the starfighters fought their own battle. Sending them against the enemy carriers would give them a chance to make a valid contribution.”
And bring more glory to you, Susan thought.
But the hell of it, she had to admit, was that Yegorovich had a point. Unless the enemy’s industrial and manpower base was far inferior to humanity’s, replacing starfighters and their pilots wouldn't take very long at all. The Royal Navy had built up a reserve of starfighters over the past decade anyway, anticipating another conflict that would cost the starfighter pilots heavily. There was no reason to believe that the new enemies wouldn't have done the same, particularly if they’d been preparing for war for years.
But it would take far longer to replace a carrier, she thought. And losing our entire starfighter complement in exchange for their carriers might well work out in our favour.
She sighed, cursing their ignorance. There was no way to know if taking out two enemy carriers would degrade the enemy’s order of battle by ten percent, one percent or point one percent. They had no fleet list; they didn't even have any hard data on the enemy’s economic capability and what it should be capable of producing. But if the enemy had thousands of battleships, the war was within shouting distance of being lost anyway. Humanity didn't have thousands of battleships.
“We will certainly consider altering their priorities,” Harper said, dragging her mind back to the meeting. “But we are mounting a long-term campaign, not an all-or-nothing engagement.”
He glanced around the compartment, then went on. “Overall, we worked together better than I had expected, for a first engagement,” he added. “We do need to work on our point defence datanet - several ships fell out of the network as the engagement heated up - but overall we have a solid base for our operations. The only real concern is a knife-range engagement that will give the enemy a chance to ram us.”
“But a long-range engagement is likely to be nothing more than spitting at one another,” Jeanette objected. “Even if we launch missiles on ballistic trajectories, they’ll have plenty of time to evade or return fire.”
“We’d be spitting into the wind,” Captain Stewart agreed.
“We do have four squadrons of torpedo-bombers,” Yegorovich pointed out. “A long-range engagement isn't going to be a complete disaster.”
“Except that it will cost us badly,” Harper said.
“Starfighters are expendable,” Yegorovich snapped.
“We have no way to replace our losses,” Harper said. His face darkened noticeably. “And even if we did, I would not spend any lives casually.”
He cleared his throat. “Tomorrow, we will run another series of exercises - and we will continue exercising until we reach the border,” he added. “I want all of you to concentrate on your internal exercises too. There is no way we will not take damage and I want your crews ready to react to it.
“But on the whole, we did fairly well,” he added. “Dismissed.”
His image popped out of existence, followed by the others. Susan sat back at her desk, then glanced at her terminal. The first set of reports were already waiting in her inbox, noting that Vanguard’s damage-control teams had been badly hampered by the crowded corridors. No one had actually been injured, thankfully, but that wasn't going to last. Someone could be run over by a worker gurney and lose a leg, if they weren't careful.
Or worse, she thought. She’d heard quite a few horror stories about reporters who’d been seriously injured on warships, simply by not paying attention to safety regulations. It was hard to care about reporters - she’d heard too many horror stories from Prince Henry - but her crew were a different matter. A crewman could end up dead - or we could fail to seal off a compartment in time. And that would cause all sorts of problems.
She skimmed through the remainder of the reports, then rose. She’d discuss the entire engagement with the XO and see if they could find a way to cope with the excess personnel, even if that meant bunking the soldiers in Middy Country. It would be against tradition, but it would get at least some of them out of the way. And it might help solve some of the other problems too.
“Mr. XO,” she said, keying her wristcom. “Please join me in my cabin when your duty shift ends.”
“Aye, Captain,” Mason said. “I’ll see you there in thirty minutes.”
Chapter Fifteen
“You’re not concentrating,” Fraser said. She jabbed a messy punch at him, which he avoided with ease. “And you’re more focused on your anger than on beating me.”
George clenched her teeth, knowing he was trying to get on her nerves, and lunged forward, hoping to catch him by surprise. Fraser caught her arm and sent her toppling to the padded mat, wrenching her arm behind her and pinning it to the small of her back. George struggled helplessly, but he held her down effortlessly while he counted down from ten. She couldn't even get her other arm out and flail at him aimlessly. He’d won.
“I think I win,” Fraser said, when he reached zero. “And you are ...”
“He thinks he won,” a new voice said. “He’s got her trapped and helpless and yet he isn't sure he’s won?”
George twisted her head. Two marines were standing by the side of the mat, looking down at them. She felt her face redden as Fraser let go of her, allowing her to roll over and sit upright. Her arm hurt - she was all too aware that he could have snapped it easily - but otherwise she wasn't sore. Somehow, that only made losing worse. The marines smiled at her, then nodded to Fraser. They seemed more respectful than Henderson or Potter.
“George, this is Corporal Christopher Byron and Private Frederick Stott,” Fraser said. “Both fighters of great distinction ...”
“And I had the pleasure of breaking his nose last week,” Byron said. He was a short, muscular man; Stott, standing next to him, was tall and lanky. But they wouldn't have qualified as marines if they hadn't been immensely competitive. “The Major told us he was the bee’s knees.”
“The Major hates my guts,” Fraser said, mischievously. George, who knew it was a flat-out lie, rolled her eyes. “And he sent you to teach me a lesson.”
“I did,” Byron said. “Don’t try to wrestle with someone who was born wrestling in the mud.”
Fraser nodded, then rose and helped George to her feet. “I’d stay, but I need to have a long chat with George,” he said. “But I’ll see you here tomorrow?”
“It’s a date,” Stott said. He had a gruff accent, one George couldn't place. “I’ll alert the doctor.”
“Come on,” Fraser said, nodding to George. “Shower, then we can chat.”
George nodded. If there was one advantage to using the exercise compartments in Marine Country, it was access to their showers - and the marines had no water rations. She could luxuriate in the water for over ten minutes, washing the sweat from her body ... heaven. But she had a droll feeling that the Ma
jor would have complained if she spent too long in the showers. She washed quickly, dried herself and then pulled her tunic back on. Beside her, Fraser did the same.
“So,” he said, once they’d left Marine Country and walked to his cabin. “What’s bothering you?”
George eyed him. “Is it so obvious, sir?”
“You’ve been looking tense all week,” Fraser said. “And you let your temper drive you forward in the ring.”
He met her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m losing control of Middy Country,” George said, reluctantly. Fraser could be a font of helpful advice, but he had a duty to report matters to the XO if he felt they were too far out of hand. “And I may have screwed up quite badly.”
“You haven't been beached for a year, so you haven't screwed up that badly,” Fraser pointed out, dryly. He poured two cups of tea and pressed one into her hand. “What happened?”
George sighed. “Let’s see ... Henderson has been late for his duty assignments five times, perhaps more,” she said. “Potter is planning a coup, to all intents and purposes; Felicity is such a freaking doormat that she does whatever she’s told ...”
She shook her head. “Paula is the only one who is even remotely reliable and even she is ...cold,” she added. “I just have the impression she doesn't ... she doesn't have any feelings for me.”
Fraser lifted his eyebrows. “You want her to have feelings for you?”
George flushed. “Not like that, sir,” she said. “She just ... she just doesn't seem to care one way or the other.”
“I see,” Fraser said. He peered down at the table for a long moment as she sipped her tea. “I have a question. How do you know that being late isn't Henderson’s only problem?”
“I ... I don’t, sir,” George said. “If he’s having problems adapting to shipboard life ...”
“That’s not what I meant,” Fraser said. “You’ve got him doing maintenance work, right? Do you actually know he’s doing it?”
George felt a shiver running down her spine. “His work is double-checked ...”
Her voice tailed off. “By Felicity,” she said. “I haven't checked his work myself.”
Fraser gave her a sharp look. “Perhaps you should,” he said. “I used to check your work.”
“I know,” George said. “I ... how would you cope with Potter?”
“Beat the shit out of him,” Fraser said, frankly. “But I suppose you can't do that, can you?”
“I might lose,” George said.
“Not standing up to him won’t make things any better,” Fraser said. “And if he becomes First Middy, Henderson will become his problem.”
George had to smile. “I don’t want to lose the position, sir,” she said. “And ...”
Fraser reached out and tapped her shoulder, meaningfully. “You would hardly be the first midshipman to lose the position,” he pointed out. “If a new middy with two years seniority were to join us, George, you’d be kicked down the ladder.”
“I know,” George said. “That would be a honourable way out, wouldn't it?”
“Yeah,” Fraser said. “But until that happens ... you need to decide just how far you’re prepared to go to keep the position.”
George sighed. She’d challenged Fraser, at least in part, because she’d thought she had nothing to lose. If she won, he’d leave her in peace; if she lost, things couldn’t get any worse. But now ... if she won, Potter would still worm away at her position, while if she lost she’d practically give him the post on a platter. He had her whichever way she turned ...
... And nothing he’d done was against regulations.
“Thanks,” she said. She finished her tea, silently grateful that she had another couple of hours before she needed to report for duty. She’d planned to catch a nap, but she suspected her time would be better spent checking Henderson’s work. “Do you think there’s something wrong with him?”
Fraser looked up. “Potter? There are always some manipulative little shits who want power and aren't fussy about how they get it,” he said. “They know the rules backwards and forwards and won’t hesitate to twist them out of shape to get what they want. And the ones with nerve, as well as intelligence, are always the most dangerous. Potter seems to be one of the worst.”
“I meant Henderson,” George said. She didn't like to think of Potter as being brave, although she had to admit he had both courage and cunning. “Do you think there’s something medically wrong with him?”
Fraser caught her arm as she rose. “A person could have a medical problem and be a damn fine person for all that,” he said. “But if that person is unsuited for military life, then he has to be discharged as quickly as possible, sentiment be damned. You must not let any problems he might have be used as an excuse.”
He sighed. “And any problems would have been caught at the Academy,” he added. “I think he just has a case of laziness - and the only cure for that is an aggressive First Middy kicking his arse every time he shows it.”
“Thanks, sir,” George said, dryly.
She downloaded a copy of Henderson’s work reports, then made her way to the Jefferies Tubes and crawled into the passageways. She’d always loved making her way through the crawlspaces, pretending - in the privacy of her own mind - that she was sneaking around, unseen and unheard by the crew. She made her way down the ladder until she reached his workspace, then started to check his work against the manifest. It wasn't uncommon for a glitch in reporting to appear - even though work was supposed to be double-checked, just in case - but it was odd for a problem to appear on the very first component she checked. The serial number on the component and the serial number on the manifest didn't match.
Her eyes narrowed as she checked the next component, then the next. The pattern was strikingly clear - Henderson hadn't just skipped one or two components, he’d skipped them all. She knew that the components had a longer lifespan than regulations admitted - the Royal Navy’s gear was always massively over-engineered - but it didn't matter. Regulations insisted - nay, demanded - that all such components be replaced after a week of active service and placed into storage, at least until they could be inspected by the engineering crews.
I’m dead, she thought, as she sat back on her haunches. My career is over.
She clenched her fists as bitter despair welled up inside her. Henderson might just have gotten away with being late, but this ... he wouldn't get away with something that might have endangered the entire ship. Regulations were clear - and he’d ignored them. And she, as his superior, was going to land in hot water too. She had been meant to be keeping an eye on him and she’d shirked her duty. But she just hadn't had the time ...
“Bastard,” she swore. She picked up the datapad and checked the next two components, hoping against hope that she’d made a mistake. But she hadn't. The records said one thing - and they’d been countersigned by Felicity - but her eyes said another. “Filthy fucking bastard son of a ...”
She took one last look at the second, then rose and made her way towards the nearest hatch, checking a handful of other components along the way. Henderson had to be out of his mind ... was he on drugs? It was just possible that he’d smuggled something nasty onto the ship, although she had no idea when he’d found the time to take it. But it didn't matter. His career was about to fall straight into the crapper and hers was going to join it. She made her way out of the tubes and headed straight down to Middy Country. Henderson was on duty, but Felicity was in her bunk. Thankfully, none of the other midshipmen were around.
“Come with me,” George snarled, as she opened the hatch and tore back the curtain. Felicity started awake, shocked. George felt a pang of guilt - opening the curtain was a severe breach of etiquette - but there was no choice. “Now!”
She was tempted not to give Felicity a chance to get dressed - she was sleeping in her underwear - but she allowed the younger girl to grab a nightgown before half-dragging her into the wardroom. Felicity
looked completely confused and disorientated, rubbing her forehead as if she had a pounding headache. George wouldn't have blamed her if she had, not when she'd only managed to catch an hour of sleep before being unceremoniously yanked out of her bunk. There were regulations against what she’d done.
Not that it matters now, she thought, bitterly. The XO will chew me up and spit me out, then the Captain will dishonourably discharge whatever is left.
“I checked your work with Henderson,” George said, without preamble. “You didn't check it at all, did you?”
Felicity looked surprised. “He said it would be fine ...”
“Oh,” George said. The urge to just slap the silly girl was almost overwhelming. “And by what authority did he say it would be fine?”
“His,” Felicity said. “He’s heir to a duchy ...”
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