Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  She braced herself as Mrs Blackthorn’s speech came to an end, waited for her cue and then strode up onto the stage. A ripple of applause greeted her as she took the podium and peered down at the students. They all looked so young, wearing the red blazers, white shirts and black skirts or trousers that she recalled from her own schooling. Boys and girls were firmly segregated, even outside the Great Hall; they attended different classes, ate at different times and slept in separate towers. Finding a few minutes alone with a potential boyfriend had always been a challenge.

  But it was worth it, she thought, as her gaze swept the room. It was definitely worth it.

  “Good morning,” she said. She was tempted to make a comment about never giving a speech to an unwilling audience in her life - and then asking if anyone wanted to leave - but she knew it would only get back to the Admiralty. Mrs Blackthorn would bitch to one of the Old Boys and her career would go into the flusher. “I am Commander Susan Onarina, former tactical officer on HMS Cornwall and currently in line for Executive Officer of HMS Edinburgh. Mrs Blackthorn” - she nodded towards the headmistress - “has asked me to tell you about a naval career.”

  She paused, studying the room. Most of the faces looking back at her, scrubbed clean of make-up or anything that might give their faces a little individuality, were unquestionably white, but here and there were a handful of darker faces, girls and boys descended from immigrants like her father. The Troubles had a great deal to answer for, she knew; being a young woman without connections at the naval academy would have been quite hard enough without her fellow cadets eying her suspiciously. Her father had worked hard to be more British than the British and even he had never quite been accepted. She had never known true acceptance until she’d passed the Middy Test.

  “Apparently, there’s a great deal of wondrous things I am meant to tell you about the navy,” she continued, “and some of them are even true. You will see sights that no ground-pounder will ever see, if you join the navy, and you will get the chance to be part of something far greater than yourself. I have never regretted joining the navy and I never will. But I’m not going to sugar-coat it for you. The navy can also be the hardest, the most dangerous, career in the galaxy.

  “Space is unforgiving. One single mistake, just one, born of tiredness or ignorance, can get you killed. Two of my fellow cadets, in the first year at the academy, were killed, one through carelessness, one through a mistake on the part of another cadet. Space doesn't care about the colour of your skin” - she held her dark hand up for them to see - “or about your connections. The cold equations rule. If you mess with space, space will kill you.

  “If you wish to become an officer, you have to endure four years in the academy, in sleeping compartments which make sixth-year bedrooms look huge. And then you will have two to three years as a midshipman, sleeping in even smaller compartments. You will spend half your time as grimy and smelly, if not worse, as you were after completing a ten-mile hike around the countryside. And then, after you hopefully learn the right lessons, you will be promoted to lieutenant and your career will begin in earnest.

  “If you wish to become a starfighter pilot, you will only have a single year of training before you get your fancy uniform and an assignment to a fleet carrier. But you’ll also have a far greater chance of being killed, if we have to go back to war. A starfighter pilot has a one in three chance of dying during his first skirmish with the enemy. And very few starfighter pilots, even if they survive, can build a career in the navy. My first commanding officer was one of the few - the very few - who did.

  “If you wish to become a crewman ...”

  Susan paused. “I doubt that most of you do want to become a crewman, but they are the mainstay of the fleet. It is the crew who keep the ship going, not the officers, no matter how much gold braid they have on their uniforms. And a crewman is often in the best position to make a spacefaring career after they leave the navy. They’re the ones who master the technical skills merchant ships need.

  “Life in the navy isn't all fun and games. Forget the movies, particularly the trio starring Stellar Star; life in the navy is hard, dirty and the penalties for mistakes terrifyingly high. But it’s worth it. You may be among the first to meet a brand new alien race or you may fight to defend Earth or Britannia if another war breaks out. Thank you for your time.”

  She saluted the students, then turned and marched off the stage as they began to clap, much louder this time. Mrs Blackthorn shot her a dirty look as she walked back into the sideroom, either out of irritation at how Susan had told the truth or simple annoyance that Susan hadn't blathered on and on for at least an hour, like most of the other guests she’d been forced to listen to as a student. Now the students would have to be given a free period or sent back to class ...

  Mrs Blackthorn entered the sideroom and closed the door, firmly. “A bit blunt, weren’t you?”

  “They can download all the sweet-talking recruitment blather from the datanet, if they wish,” Susan said, reminding herself that she was no longer a student and Mrs Blackthorn couldn’t give her detention any longer. “I told them the truth.”

  “Some of them will give up on the thought of a naval career,” Mrs Blackthorn said, sharply.

  “Good,” Susan said. “A naval life is not for everyone, Headmistress. We simply don’t have the time, at the academy, to root out those who simply do not belong before they make a mistake and kill themselves. The natural arrogance of the aristocracy has no place in space.”

  She remembered the young girls and boys looking up at her and shuddered, inwardly. The school’s uniform policy ensured that there were no differences, on the surface, but the rich and well-connected kids had always had an advantage. Students like Susan had worked hard, knowing that some of their fellow students would always be elevated above their heads, even if their grades were pathetic. She knew she was lucky not to give in to bitterness ... and that others hadn't been so lucky. One of her fellow students had deserted his country in the years following the war.

  “Be that as it may,” Mrs Blackthorn said, “you are still required to talk to students who are interested in a naval career. If you will follow me ...?”

  Susan shrugged and followed the older woman through another maze of corridors and into a comfortable sitting room. There were seventeen students waiting for her, all in their final two years if the markings on their blazers were the same as they were in her day. She would have been surprised to encounter any younger pupils, even though they might well be interested. The upper years guarded career meetings with as much determination as aristocrats defended their clubs from the hoi polloi. Any younger student would probably be given a clip around his ear and told to piss off.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, as she took a seat. “If you have any questions, I am at your disposal for the rest of the morning.”

  She waited, patiently, as a grim-faced teenage girl wearing a maid’s uniform served tea and cakes, passing out scones and jam with an unmistakable lack of enthusiasm. She was probably on detention, Susan guessed; Mrs Blackthorn had a nasty sense of humour when it came to handing out detentions and making an aristocratic brat serve the tea was precisely what she’d do. Luckily for her, the headmistress’s looming presence kept the students from mocking her or creating a mess for the poor girl to clean up.

  “My father is the captain of a starship,” one pimple-faced youth said. Judging by his posh accent, he’d been born or raised in London. “He says he can get me onto his ship, if I do well at the academy.”

  “That is ... unlikely,” Susan told him, bluntly. The Old Boys Network pervaded the navy, much to her frustration, but it had its limits. “You’ll almost certainly never be under your father’s command.”

  “But he’s a captain,” the youth whined. “Surely he can get whoever he wants ...”

  Susan smirked, inwardly. “First, you have to graduate from the academy,” she said. The movies, particularly the one featuring a midshipm
an with even more pimples than the boy facing her, had a great deal to answer for. “An acting midshipman who doesn't have an academy record, no matter how clever he is, will not be promoted above that spot - technically, he shouldn't have it in the first place. Then you are assigned to the ship that needs you, not the ship that wants you. You will only be sent to your father’s ship if he has a valid need that can only be filled by you.”

  She shrugged and took a sip of her tea. “But really, would you want to serve on your father’s ship?”

  “I have a different question,” one of the girls said. “How do you cope sleeping with the men?”

  Susan bit off the comment that came to mind as two of the boys snickered and Mrs Blackthorn’s face narrowed in disapproval. “I assume you mean sharing quarters, instead of sharing bodily fluids,” she said. “You get used to it, really. Frankly, in the academy, you are normally too tired to do anything beyond hitting your bunk and going to sleep. Happiness, as they say, consists of getting enough sleep.”

  She smiled, rather coolly. “Trust me on this,” she added. “You’ll have worse problems than spotting a naked man - or being seen naked yourself.”

  “But it’s indecent,” the girl protested. “I can't share a room with boys!”

  “Then don’t join the navy,” Susan snapped. She rather doubted the girl really wanted a naval career, but it was quite possible that her family wanted her to serve. “The navy doesn’t change its requirements based on your preferences, I’m afraid. It only changes when there is a solid reason to change.”

  Like the Battle of New Russia, she added, silently. She'd been in the academy at the time, but the she’d been just as scared as her tutors when the news sank in. We didn't just get beaten, we got exterminated.

  “I believe that naval officers sometimes write letters of recommendation for prospective cadets,” another boy asked. “How do I get one?”

  “You don’t,” Susan said, flatly. “Letters of recommendation can only be written after the officer in question knows you in a professional capacity. You won’t get one unless you are a crewman who wants to become an officer. If your father” - she nodded to the first boy - “wrote one for you, it would get him in deep shit.”

  “That isn't fair,” the boy objected. “They’ll have an advantage ...”

  “Life isn't fair,” Susan said. “And really, don’t you think a crewman with ten years of experience will look better to the admissions board than an untrained boy?”

  She looked up, surprised, as Mrs Blackthorn left the room, then returned, moments later, carrying a datapad, which she held out to Susan. Susan took it and blinked in surprise. It was a recall order, summoning her back to London as soon as possible. Someone had even arranged for her to fly via military jet from the nearest RAF base.

  “It seems I have to leave,” she said, rising. Had Mrs Blackthorn already filed a complaint? It was possible, but unlikely. “I’ll hopefully get another chance to speak with you later in the year.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Mrs Blackthorn said, once they were outside the building. “But really ... did you have to be so blunt?”

  “It’s tough out there,” Susan said, as she climbed into her car. “And in space, worse things can happen than writing lines until your hand drops off.”

  Chapter Two

  “Thank you for coming at such short notice, Commander,” Commodore Sir Travis Younghusband said, once he’d called Susan into his office and pointed her to a chair. “I knew you were due at least nine days of leave and I apologise for disrupting it and calling you to London.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Susan said. It had to be bad. Senior officers were rarely apologetic, even if they had dragged her all the way to London from Scotland. The only consolation was that she probably wasn't in trouble for something. “Hopefully, it will impress on the little children the importance of a naval career.”

  “And how you can be jerked around at will by some jerk of a staff officer,” Sir Travis said, dryly. He’d been a starship officer himself before transferring to the personnel department, Susan recalled; he probably knew precisely how she was feeling. “Do you think there were any good prospects among the Hanover seniors?”

  “I didn't have enough time to take their measures, sir,” Susan said, truthfully. “There were the usual handful of stupid questions, but a year at the academy would knock them into shape or get them on the shuttle back home.”

  “Quite, quite,” Sir Travis said. He leaned back in his chair, his face taking on a grave expression. “Do you know Commander Bothell, Gordon Bothell?”

  Susan hesitated, then shook her head. “I believe there was a Bothell in the class above me at the academy,” she said, “but I don’t recall much about him.”

  “It probably wasn't the same person,” Sir Travis said. “Commander Bothell left the academy four years before yourself. But your paths may have crossed at some point since you graduated and took that posting to Warspite.”

  “I don’t recall, sir,” Susan said. If Bothell had left the academy in the same year she’d started, he’d almost certainly have become a lieutenant before she’d graduated herself. It was unlikely they’d share confidences, if they ever met. “May I ask what this is about?”

  Sir Travis sighed. “Commander Bothell went on leave two weeks ago,” he said. “He was due to report back to the spaceport four days ago, but failed to show. We ran through the standard procedures - we checked the local hospitals, police records, even sent a car around to his house - and drew a blank. Bothell appears to have completely vanished.”

  Susan blinked. The chaos caused by the Bombardment of Earth had helped quite a few people to vanish - hundreds of thousands of records had simply been destroyed and entire communities had been uprooted - but that had been over thirteen years ago. Why would a naval officer simply vanish? She’d been in the navy long enough to know that accidents happened, that young midshipmen might oversleep after their first visit to the red light district ... and yet, a Commander should have known the dangers. Had something happened to him?

  And what, she asked herself, does it have to do with me?

  “Commander Bothell was serving as the XO of HMS Vanguard,” Sir Travis said, flatly. “His sudden absence leaves us with a hole that needs to be filled. Vanguard’s second officer has been filling in the gap as best as he can, but he’s the tactical officer; the battleship needs both slots filled. I know you were slated for Edinburgh, but would you be willing to take up the post on Vanguard instead?”

  Susan thought fast. Vanguard - the Royal Navy’s giant battleship - would be an order of magnitude more complex than HMS Edinburgh, perhaps almost as complex as HMS Formidable. It was a daunting prospect, all the more so as her experience as a senior officer was almost entirely based on cruisers. And yet, if she did well, it would be a boost to her career. There would be a good chance of receiving a command slot during the next round of promotions.

  And if I turn it down, she thought grimly, I’ll never be offered promotion again.

  “I would be honoured,” she said, out loud. “How long was Commander Bothell on Vanguard?”

  “Nine months,” Sir Travis said. He picked a datachip off the desk and held it out to her. “I suspect he will have had plenty of time to organise everything to suit himself, while you’ll have to do everything in a hurry, but his efficiency reports are first-rate. You shouldn’t have any problems taking his place. In the event of him turning up, of course, he will not be permitted to return to Vanguard.”

  Susan nodded, curtly, as she took the chip. A day or two late, returning from leave, might be overlooked, but a full week would raise a whole string of uncomfortable questions. If Commander Bothell didn't have a very good excuse for not reporting in - for not even contacting the Admiralty to request compassionate leave - his career would come to a screeching halt. He’d need a great many patrons in high places to save himself from a dishonourable discharge. She couldn't help feeling as though she was stepping into so
meone else’s shoes, without the prior preparation she’d expected on Edinburgh, but it was one hell of a challenge.

  “I understand, sir,” she said.

  “Good,” Sir Travis said. “Vanguard is scheduled to jump out of the system in a week to join a set of war games with the Americans. You’ll have that long, I think, to get used to your new posting. The Admiralty would take a dim view of the battleship being late for her first true deployment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said. She glanced at the datachip in her hand, then tucked it away in her jacket. “When do you want me to leave?”

  “We’ve booked a flight for you from Heathrow, departing in two hours,” Sir Travis said, bluntly. Any thoughts she might have had about visiting her father vanished like new-fallen snow. “My staff has arranged a car to take you to the spaceport.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Susan said. A civilian would have found it a gross inconvenience, but like most naval officers, she travelled light. She could draw everything she needed from the battleship’s stores, once she arrived. “I look forward to the challenge.”