Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

Sir Travis smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Commander,” he said. He rose and held out a hand, which she shook firmly. “And I wish you the very best of luck.”

  Susan saluted, then turned and made her way out of the office and down the stairs to the vehicle pool. A black car was already waiting for her, a junior midshipman in the driver’s seat. Susan concealed her amusement as he jumped out of the car, gave her the snappiest salute she’d seen since she left the academy and then opened the door for her. She would have resisted assignment to Earth with all her strength - a lack of spacefaring experience would tell against the young man, when the promotions board considered who to advance up the ladder - but if someone wanted it, who was she to tell him no?

  She climbed into the back of the car, then closed the privacy blinds and activated the computer terminal as the car hummed to life. It would take at least forty minutes to reach the spaceport, no matter what happened; indeed, if traffic had returned to its pre-war norms, it might take longer, much longer, to get to Heathrow. The computer terminal lit up; she keyed a communications code into the panel and waited. Five minutes later, her father’s face appeared in the display.

  “Susan,” he said. “I thought you were going back to school!”

  Susan had to smile. Romeo Onarina, her father, had immigrated to Britain from Jamaica, serving in the army before collecting his citizenship papers and marrying her mother. He’d been in London during the bombardment, somehow keeping his wife alive, only to lose her five years later to a pointless accident. And yet, somehow, he’d found the strength to carry on. He was the strongest man she knew.

  “I was recalled to the Admiralty,” she said. “They’re sending me back to duty.”

  Her father’s face fell. “That quickly?”

  “I’m due to lift off from Heathrow in less than two hours,” Susan said. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you.”

  “Duty calls,” her father said. He cleared his throat. “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”

  Susan nodded. Some of her fellow cadets had bitched and moaned about the requirement to write home at least once a week, yet she’d never begrudged it. Yes, the time could have been used to study for one of the innumerable exams, but she loved her family. The three of them had been happy together in a world that eyed immigrants with suspicion. She’d been scared of losing touch back when she’d gone to Hanover Towers, let alone leaving Earth and heading to Luna. Her family was all she had in the world.

  “I will,” she promised. “And I’ll try and call again before we leave orbit.”

  She closed the connection, then dropped the datachip into the terminal and began to study the battleship. HMS Vanguard had been the topic of some debate during the years following the Anglo-Indian War, although it was generally agreed that the pre-war mix of fleet carriers and destroyers was no longer adequate. Warspite had blown an Indian carrier into a powerless hulk with a single hit, after all. Besides, with the recent improvements in point defence, it was unlikely that any starfighter could get close enough to a starship to launch its missiles before it was destroyed.

  And the fighter jocks still walk around as if they have rods up their butts, she thought, as she skimmed through the data. Don’t they know we lost a third of our pilots during the first year of war?

  She pushed the thought aside and kept reading the files, only looking up when the driver took the car through the checkpoint and into the military section of Heathrow Spaceport. Susan thanked him as he parked outside the terminal, recovered the datachip and hurried into the building. Thankfully, there were none of the elaborate security procedures for military personnel; the officers scanned her ID, checked her fingerprints and DNA code and then motioned her through the barrier. It was a relief; every time she passed through the civilian side of the terminal she was always singled out for close inspections. And it never ceased to grate.

  The scars of war run deep, she reminded herself, as she glanced around the terminal. Dozens of enlisted soldiers, spacers and airmen lounged around, reading datapads or trying to catch up on their sleep, while officers headed for their private lounge. And no one will forget in a hurry.

  She picked up a handful of items at the NAAFI, then entered the officer’s lounge and sat down to wait. Her flight was announced only thirty minutes later, suggesting that the shuttlecraft had been waiting for her; the military, at least, wasn't wedded to the strict timetables followed by civilian craft. She walked through the terminal, past a handful of enlisted spacers and through the gate. It still struck her as rude to stride past the spacers - they had arrived first, after all - but she was their senior officer. She wasn't allowed to treat them in any other way.

  “Welcome onboard,” the shuttle crewman said. She was relieved he didn’t go into the faux-stewardess routine practiced by far too many military crews. It had been funny the first time, but after ten or so repeats it just became annoying. “We should be docking with HMS Vanguard in three hours, forty minutes.”

  Susan took her seat, buckled herself in and closed her eyes, trying to sleep. It had been a long day and it would only get worse, once she actually boarded the battleship. The children back at Hanover Towers would find it hard to adapt if they ever joined the navy. It certainly felt as though they were crossing time zones, even though - technically - the Royal Navy operated on GMT. Space Lag was a very real threat.

  She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew was hearing the pilot announce the approach to Vanguard, Susan unbuckled herself, rose and peered through the nearest portal as the giant battleship came into view. It would be her only chance to see an exterior view of the ship for weeks, unless she went EVA or borrowed a shuttle - and besides, she was fascinated. The images in the files couldn't compare to a real starship.

  Vanguard was massive, she noted; the files stated that the battleship was five kilometres long from prow to stern. It was easy, as the shuttle flew closer, to pick out the four immense turrets towards the prow of the ship and, in the distance, the four rear turrets. She’d served on Warspite, with its immense plasma cannon, but Vanguard’s main weapons were much nastier. She doubted that anything could survive long enough to ram the ship, if the captain directed every turret that could bear on the approaching vessel. The smaller weapons and point defences studding the hull looked almost like afterthoughts.

  “She looks like a dumbbell,” one of the spacers said, behind her.

  It wasn’t inaccurate, Susan thought. The giant battleship did look like a dumbbell; indeed, she had to admit the ship looked even uglier than the old Ark Royal. But then, beauty was of no concern, not when survivability was far more important. The fleet carriers that had fought in the Battle of New Russia had been pretty ships, designed to impress the viewing public, but they’d failed their first combat test rather spectacularly. Warspite hadn't been very pretty either.

  She drank in the details as the shuttle approached the airlock hatch. The hull was covered with plates of armour, each one three or four times the size of the shuttle; if they were damaged, according to the files, they could be easily replaced with new panels drawn from the starship’s stores. A boffin had taken the solid-state armour that had protected Ark Royal and improved on it, producing a compound that was both immensely tough and far more flexible than its predecessors. And lighter too, if she recalled correctly. Ark Royal had about the same grace and agility as a pig in mud - she’d often been outraced by alien starships - but Vanguard should have no difficulty keeping up with the rest of the fleet. Her drives were so powerful, according to the notes, that they’d almost torn the ship apart, the first time they’d been powered up. She couldn't help thinking that was a problem that should have been corrected a long time before the navy actually started building the ship.

  But we’ll probably be glad of the extra speed if we run into real trouble, she thought, morbidly. There were two known alien races out in the darkness and one of them, at least, was very definitely on the same level as the human race. And if there were t
wo races, there would almost certainly be more. Lose half the engine rooms and Vanguard can just keep going.

  A dull thump ran through the shuttle as she docked with the battleship, followed by a flicker in the gravity as the two artificial gravity fields merged. Susan rose to her feet at once - as the highest-ranking officer, she was entitled to embark and disembark first - and strode towards the hatch, which hissed open. She made a mental note to review procedures, even though it should be perfectly safe. There was a reason starships had airlocks, after all.

  “Commander Onarina,” a familiar voice said. “Welcome onboard HMS Vanguard.”

  Susan smiled as she saw Lieutenant-Commander Paul Mason. “Paul,” she said. “It’s been a long time since Warspite.”

  “It has indeed,” Mason said. He snapped off a salute, then relaxed. “I hear you’ve been promoted?”

  Susan smirked. “Who let the cat out of the bag?”

  “I believe it was mentioned in dispatches somewhere,” Mason said. He’d always been a joker, although several years as an officer had tempered him somewhat. “Captain Blake wishes to see you at once, Commander. Then I have to show you to your office and answer your questions.”

  Susan nodded. “You’ve been filling in for Bothell?”

  “Yes, Commander,” Mason said. He didn’t sound annoyed, although Susan would have been surprised if he hadn't been a little irked by the whole arrangement. Mason would have been acting XO for three weeks, only to be pushed back when his new superior arrived. “I have a briefing for you personally, once you’ve spoken to the captain.”

  “I see,” Susan said. It was never easy to meet a classmate from the academy when one was of superior or inferior rank. They’d started out as equals, after all. Hell, she was mildly surprised that Paul hadn't been promoted ahead of her. “Please will you take me to the captain?”

  “Of course, Commander,” Mason said. He nodded to the plaque on the bulkhead - the image of a roaring lion, with the words We Lead written underneath - and then led her towards the intership car. “I believe he’s actually been looking forward to meeting you.”

  Susan frowned. It had barely been five hours, if that, since she’d accepted the posting. Even if Sir Travis had contacted Captain Blake at once, he wouldn't have had long to anticipate her arrival. Of course, he might have been sent a list of prospective XOs and ordered to pick one ... she shook her head. There was no point in worrying about it. Captain Blake had probably served with Commander Bothell long enough to be annoyed at someone else coming in and taking the posting.

  I’ll have to review their files, she told herself. They wouldn't tell her everything, but at least they’d give her a starting point. And then interrogate Paul when I have a moment.

  “This is the bridge,” Mason said. “And the Captain’s Ready Room is right here.”

  “Thank you,” Susan said. She pressed her fingertips against the scanner. “I’ll meet you here, afterwards.”

  Chapter Three

  Captain Sir Thomas Blake looked ... nervous.

  Susan studied him, as closely as she could, as she waited for the captain to stop flicking through pages on his datapad and look up at her. He was handsome enough, she supposed, for a man in his late forties; his short brown hair had yet to turn grey, while his face was lined enough to give a hint of maturity without displaying his age. The uniform he wore was expertly tailored, giving an impression of strength without revealing any paunch he might have had. And yet, there was something about his bearing that belayed his appearance. It wasn't something she could put her finger on, but it was there.

  She hastily reviewed what little she knew about the captain, silently cursing her decision to study the starship itself rather than her new commanding officer. She’d read everything she could find about HMS Edinburgh, from her post-commissioning reports to her personnel files, but she just hadn't had time to do the same for Vanguard. Offhand, she honestly couldn't recall any officer being given so little time to prepare for a new assignment, although she knew it must have happened in the past. Commander Bothell would hardly be the first officer to fail to report back to duty. An accident on shore leave ...

  The Blake Family was well-connected, if she recalled correctly; they enjoyed the honour of having two of the Royal Navy’s former heroes among their family. Maybe they weren’t a first-line aristocratic family like the Fitzwilliam Family, but they definitely had connections at the highest levels. Wasn't there a Blake on the Privy Council? She rather suspected there was, although she had no idea just how closely related the councillor was to the captain. It was quite possible that one was from a cadet branch of the family. But whatever connections he had, they had proved enough to grant him command of Vanguard. The giant battleship was hardly a garbage scow.

  “Commander,” Captain Blake said. His voice was flat, rather than the commanding baritone prospective officers had been taught to use at the academy. “I must say I was expecting Commander Bothell to return from Earth.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said, puzzled. Surely Captain Blake knew that something had happened to his XO. The Admiralty wouldn’t have forced a new XO down his throat unless his chosen XO was unavailable for some reason or another. “I received this assignment on very short notice.”

  “Commander Bothell was a good man,” Captain Blake said. It took her several seconds to realise he was talking about his former XO in the past tense, as if the officer was dead and gone. “You have a pair of very big shoes to fill.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said. Was Commander Bothell dead? If so, how did Captain Blake know what had happened? Or was the Captain merely treating him as if he were? It was something to raise with the Admiralty, if she had time. “I look forward to serving as your XO.”

  “A very good man,” Captain Blake continued. “He knew what he could handle on his own, without input from me. I shall expect the same from you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said.

  “Your file is quite bland,” Captain Blake added, after a moment’s pause. “Why are you qualified to serve as my XO?”

  “I was in line for Edinburgh, sir,” Susan said, unsure if she should feel insulted, embarrassed or concerned. “I already had my promotion.”

  “But you have not served as an XO previously,” Captain Blake said. “Commander Bothell was my XO on Thunderous, prior to our joint transfer to Vanguard.”

  Susan puzzled over it for a long moment. It was rare, very rare, for a command team to remain in place for over two years, let alone survive a transfer to a new ship. The only time she recalled it happening had been Admiral Smith and Captain Fitzwilliam and that had been in wartime. There were simply too many opportunities for favouritism or for one career to overshadow the other. Had Commander Bothell deserted because he’d felt his career had stalled? It was far from impossible.

  “No, sir,” she said. Captain Blake had started to look impatient. “I don’t pretend I know everything, sir, but I am willing to learn on the job.”

  “You have to learn on the job,” Captain Blake said, curtly. “If you fail to satisfy me, Commander, you will be returned to Earth once we complete our exercises with the Americans.”

  “I understand,” Susan said. She could see his point, but there was that undertone of ... something ... that bothered her more than she cared to admit. “I will do my best to satisfy you.”

  “Very good,” Captain Blake said. “I believe Commander Mason has a briefing for you. He worked closely with Commander Bothell, so he is best-placed to bring you up to speed. Add your name to the watch roster, but make sure you are supervised for the first couple of watches.”

  “Aye, sir,” Susan said, tightly. That was an insult, although she had a nasty feeling the captain could have justified it if she’d called him on it. She was no midshipwoman, fresh out of the academy and barely able to tie her shoelaces together; she was a naval officer with fifteen years of service under her belt. “I’m sure Commander Mason will be happy to provide supervision, if necessary.�
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  She swallowed her irritation with an effort. “Is there anything else I need to know, sir?”

  “You’ll be serving on the bridge with me, rather than operating the secondary bridge,” Captain Blake said. “I like having my XO where I can see him.”

  Her, Susan thought, silently. What the hell was going on?

  “We are currently waiting for two new middies,” Captain Blake concluded. “Once they are onboard, I’ll be inviting my new officers - including yourself - to dinner prior to our departure. I trust you will be able to attend?”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said. The odds of any officer declining a dinner with his commanding officer were about as low as the Admiralty promoting a midshipwoman to Grand Admiral as soon as she graduated from the academy. “I would be delighted to attend.”

  “Very good,” Captain Blake said. “Dismissed.”

  Susan saluted, turned and marched out of the cabin, her mind spinning. What was wrong with Captain Blake? And why were all of her instincts twitching in alarm the moment she turned her back on him? She could understand a senior captain being concerned about an untrained XO - although she had served as Cornwall’s XO for two months when her superior had had to leave the ship for a brief period - yet his conduct had been far from professional; indeed, it had been outright insulting. Just what had happened between the captain and his former XO?