Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Commander,” Mason said, as she stepped onto the bridge. “Do you want the grand tour or should I show you directly to my - your - office?”

  “I think it would be better if you showed me to my office,” Susan said. She needed a stiff drink - and a chat, where no one else could hear. “I assume it’s near the bridge?”

  “Near the secondary bridge,” Mason said. He led the way through the airlock and down into Officer Country. “You’ll discover that a great many cabins and offices are actually scattered through the hull, Commander, rather than concentrated in one place. Vanguard is built to take a shitload of damage and keep going. There’s no prospect of a single hit managing to take out the entire command crew.”

  Susan snorted. “Does that actually happen outside bad movies?”

  “Aliens were fictional only fifteen years ago,” Mason reminded her. “And so were space pirates.”

  “I suppose,” Susan conceded.

  She rolled her eyes as they reached a stairwell and walked down to the lower decks. The idea of space pirates had been the stuff of trashy romance novels ever since humanity had advanced into space, rather than a real-life problem. It was impossible to keep a small starship operating without a nation or a very large corporation providing backing. And yet, on her first voyage, Warspite had run into a small group of pirates. It was unlikely there would be any others, she was sure, but the threat had been noted.

  And it helps convince Parliament to increase the military budget, she thought, cynically. As if there weren't enough real threats out there.

  “This is your office,” Mason said, opening a hatch. “As you can see, Commander Bothell ran a very tight ship.”

  Susan shook her head as she took in the scene. The office wasn't just clean and tidy, it was organised to sheer perfection. Everything had its place, from the terminal on the desk to a handful of pens, a drinks machine and a large painting of the Battle of Pegasus, a copy of an original Justin Adams. She’d actually seen the original, she recalled, when it had been hung in Warspite’s wardroom, two years after the battle. Her first commanding officer had been adamant that they hadn't been that close to the Indian carrier.

  “He was a little OCD,” Mason commented, as the hatch hissed closed behind them. “I was surprised when he failed to return from his shore leave.”

  “So was the captain,” Susan commented. She sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs and motioned him to take the other one, facing her. “Paul ... can we talk bluntly, off the record?”

  “Of course,” Mason said. “Naval Regulation 538-362-3273 clearly states that two officers who shared a class at the academy may speak freely to one another, regardless of their formal ranks.”

  Susan smiled. “There’s no such regulation.”

  Mason looked downcast. “You’ll be astonished how much you can get away with just by quoting non-existent regulations.”

  “I would be astonished if anyone fell for that one,” Susan said. She shook her head. “It’s practically a licence for the breakdown of naval discipline.”

  “Perhaps,” Mason said. “But it’s also useful to have an informal connection, from time to time, even if it was shaped in the academy.”

  Susan shrugged. “What’s wrong with the captain?”

  Mason gave her a long look. It was, she knew, an awkward question. Asking a junior officer to pass judgement on a senior officer was a breach of naval etiquette, even if it went no further. A captain might pass judgement on an admiral, if he or she served on a court martial board, but anyone junior? It simply didn't happen. Hell, even if it was perfectly legal to report one’s superior officer for misdeeds, it wasn’t impossible that the whistleblower’s career would come to a screeching halt. Betraying one’s senior officers, for whatever reason, wasn't something that endeared a person to his future superiors.

  “You don’t need to answer,” she said, “if you don’t want to answer.”

  She kept her expression blank with an effort. Paul Mason had been more than just a joker, he’d been the most outgoing person in their class. She still smiled at the thought of how he’d made a pass at her, then befriended her when she’d shown no interest ... and at how he’d constantly pushed the limits, just to see how far they could go. Hell, he’d cheerfully bragged of having a foursome in New Sin City. She found it hard to imagine anything that could silence him.

  “I haven’t actually had much contact with him,” Mason said, finally. He glanced up at the ceiling, as if he was suddenly unwilling to meet her eyes. “Commander Bothell handled almost everything, Susan. He was practically the real commanding officer on the ship. The captain would come onto the bridge, but he wouldn't stand watches or anything unless there was something important, like a visit from a visiting dignitary. Princess Elizabeth visited us for the launch ceremony and the captain was practically kissing her ass in public, yet the moment she departed he went back to his ready room and Commander Bothell resumed command.”

  Susan rubbed her eyes. “And no one noticed?”

  “I rather doubt it was entered in the reports,” Mason said. “Commander Bothell was the one who should have filed any complaints, if necessary, and I assume he didn’t say a word.”

  “Vanguard is meant to be the most powerful ship in the fleet,” Susan said. “Why didn't she get a commanding officer ...”

  She shook her head. The answer was obvious. Captain Blake’s connections had been more than enough to get him moved to Vanguard, a transfer that would probably be worth more than a promotion to Commodore. And his record probably wasn't bad. He was old enough to have served in the war and, presumably, he’d earned credit merely for surviving. Hadn’t John Naiser managed the jump from starfighter pilot to command track in the depleted years, following the war?

  “I see,” she said. She wasn't sure how to proceed. If she contacted the Admiralty and reported the budding nightmare, Captain Blake’s connections would kill her career, even if the Admiralty agreed with her. But if she kept her mouth shut, she would be compliant in ... in what, precisely? Allowing someone to claim the rank without actually doing his bloody job? “What was Commander Bothell like?”

  “Competent,” Mason said.

  Susan frowned. “You say that as though it was a bad thing.”

  “He did his job,” Mason said. “And yes, he did most of the hard work of commanding this ship. He was approachable, always willing to listen, and yet he had no spark of insight or genius. I would honestly have said he was ... well, like Fisher.”

  “That’s bad,” Susan said. Fisher had been one of their fellow cadets, back during their first year at the academy. Her family had made her join the navy and it showed; she had no enthusiasm, no inclination to actually do her best and no real urge to succeed. She’d passed her exams, by some dark miracle, but she hadn't returned the following year. “He was in command of the ship?”

  “Yes,” Mason said. “To all intents and purposes, he was the true commanding officer.”

  Susan ran her hands through her hair. If she’d known what she was getting into, she would have taken the risk of declining the promotion. It was clear the Admiralty hadn't known; they’d have sent an inspection team if they’d had good reason to think there was a major problem. And there was a problem. How could she step into the shoes of a man who had been effectively commanding a battleship?

  “If he deserted,” she mused, “why?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “He was always a very straight-laced officer. I would have expected him to complete his term, then retire. There was never the slightest hint of impropriety, Commander. He certainly never went to Sin City while we were orbiting the moon.”

  Susan frowned. “A wife? A family?”

  “None,” Mason said. “Susan ... he actually gave me his ticket to Luna, two months ago. Just gave it to me.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Susan said. “He just gave it to you?”

  “Yes,” Mason confirmed. “He said I could have it, if I wanted it.�
��

  Susan shook her head. A ticket to the moon, which meant Sin City as far as most crewmen were concerned, might be sold, or used as a gambling stake, but not just given away. The crew would be given a handful of travel vouchers every so often, normally as rewards for good service. If she’d had one, she wouldn’t give it up for anything.

  She scowled down at the deck, thinking hard. Commander Bothell might have deserted ... or he might have suffered an accident ... or he might have been murdered. Could the captain have murdered him? He had talked about the XO in the past tense, after all. Or ... or was she just being paranoid. Senior officers took loyalty seriously, as they should. And if Commander Bothell had been doing most of the work, his sudden desertion had left Captain Blake in a fix. He couldn't have wanted Susan when she lacked the experience to fill Commander Bothell’s shoes.

  “Then I’d better do my best to do my job,” she said.

  “I’m happy to accept any further travel vouchers,” Mason said.

  Susan gave him a rude gesture, then stood and walked over to the desk. The drawers were locked, but a touch of her fingers to the scanner opened them. Inside, there were a handful of papers, a small selection of Cadbury’s chocolate bars and a navy-issue pistol. Susan picked it up and studied it, thoughtfully. The weapon felt to have been crafted for a specific person, even though it was a standard design. Further inside, there were two small packets of ammunition and a cleaning kit.

  “Interesting,” she mused out loud. “Was Commander Bothell a shooter?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Mason said. His voice became more formal. “But we are encouraged to practice on the firing range. Christopher - Major Andreas, the Marine CO - keeps score. There’s a bottle of ship rotgut in it for the person who has the highest score, each week.”

  “I see,” Susan said. It was a wise precaution. The Tadpoles had tried to board Ark Royal during the war. Having the crew armed and ready to fight back would, it was hoped, make it harder for the Royal Navy to lose ships to boarding parties. “I’ll speak to him later.”

  She took a breath. “I think I’m ready for that tour now,” she said. She’d have to file something to the Admiralty, even if the file remained sealed. “Is there anything I need to handle before the end of the week?”

  “Yes, Commander,” Mason said. “Two more middies are due here later this afternoon, unless there’s another delay. I think you have to greet them, even if you have not yet assumed your post.”

  “Understood,” Susan said. She rose from behind the desk. “You can take me on tour now, Paul.”

  “Yes, Commander,” Mason said.

  Chapter Four

  “Hey, George,” Midshipman Nathan Bosworth called. “They summoned you back today too?”

  “Yep,” Midshipwoman George - no one ever called her Georgina, certainly not twice - Fitzwilliam said. “How does it feel to be back at the academy?”

  She smiled as they walked past the guards and into the academy itself. It had been a week since their formal graduation ceremony, a week since she’d watched her uncle give the final address before the newly-minted midshipmen were given their rank badges and a week’s leave before they were dispatched to their new assignments. She stepped to one side as a crowd of cadets ran past, snapping off salutes as they saw George’s uniform bars. It was truly said that the academy was one of the few places where midshipmen were saluted.

  “Look at those youngsters,” Nathan said. “Doesn’t it make you feel young?”

  George snorted. She was twenty; she’d signed up for the academy as soon as she’d turned sixteen, despite her father’s half-hearted protests. He might have expected her to become a proper lady, to be presented to the king at her coming out party and hunt for a rich or well-connected husband at a series of balls, but she was damned if she was allowing the aristocracy to turn her brains to mush. She would sooner follow Prince Henry and renounce her title than surrender to the demands of her birth. And her father, to his credit, had allowed her to go rather than continuing the fight.

  “You’re twenty-two,” she said. Nathan’s mother had insisted that he stay in school until he turned eighteen. “I don’t think you’re that old.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Nathan said. “But compared to some of the newer cadets, I feel old.”

  “Cling to that feeling,” George advised. “You’ll need it when we go back to the bottom of the pecking order.”

  The cadets were probably a little confused, she thought. They looked young; they had both cut their hair close to their scalps, as the academy required. George’s dark hair and pale skin contrasted oddly with Nathan’s blond good looks. And yet, they were wearing midshipmen uniforms and carrying weapons. Technically speaking, they no longer belonged in the academy.

  She sighed, inwardly, as they made their way along the corridor. There were four years at the academy, imaginatively called First to Fourth Year. The seniors, the Fourth Years, ruled the academy; they were, to all intents and purposes, senior officers. And they could be nasty at times, bullying and harassing the younger cadets. Her uncle, when she’d asked, had pointed out that life onboard ship could be a thousand times worse, even though midshipmen and lieutenants were expected to be more mature. It was better to weed the ones who couldn't hack it out of the academy before they graduated and wound up on starships. But she’d never been entirely convinced of the logic.

  “Maybe we’ll be promoted quickly,” Nathan said. “You can’t be promoted for at least a year, unless you do something staggeringly awesome.”

  “I don’t think you can do anything that will get you promoted up a grade before the earliest legal opportunity,” George said. She’d looked it up; only one person had ever been promoted from midshipman to lieutenant in less than a year and that person had had to step up when her superiors died in an accident. There had been acting officers, of course, but they didn't stay in their temporary ranks. “We’ll be middies for at least a year.”

  They turned into the commandant’s office and paused outside the hatch. It was rare for a cadet to visit the commandant and, when it happened, it was almost always the final interview before a cadet was expelled. The office was in Officer Country, to all intents and purposes; cadets were not supposed to enter without special permission. But they’d been recalled to the academy, just to receive their new assignments ...

  She took a step forward and pressed her hand against the scanner. It hissed open, revealing the commandant’s secretary, the formidable Mrs Kale. The cadets whispered that she’d been around since the days of Nelson, quietly steering the Royal Navy as it changed from a seafaring to a spacefaring force. Even if she was much younger, and logic suggested she couldn't be much older than fifty, she was still respected and feared. She’d been in her post for years and knew where all the bodies were buried.

  “Cadet ... Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, reporting as ordered,” George said.

  “Take a seat,” Mrs Kale ordered, once Nathan had identified himself. “The commandant will call you shortly.”

  George nodded and sat down. The seats were uncomfortable - she had a nasty feeling that that was deliberate, to remind troublemakers that they were in trouble - and she found it hard to speak, knowing that Mrs Kale was sitting there, listening to every word. She waited for the commandant to tell her where she was going, feeling her heartbeat starting to race. If she got a poor assignment, right out of the academy, her career might never get off the ground.

  Unless you ask for help, her thoughts reminded her. But you wanted to see what you could do on your own.

  She scowled, inwardly. Her uncle was the First Space Lord! It would be easy to ask him to make sure she got a dream assignment - or, for that matter, for a senior officer to assume the First Space Lord would intervene in her favour. But she’d know, even if no one else did, that she’d done nothing to deserve it. She wanted to earn her place in the Royal Navy. Her pride would admit of nothing less.

  The hatch hissed open. “You may
go through,” Mrs Kale told them. “Leave your holdalls on the chairs.”

  Her expression softened, just slightly. “Good luck.”

  George nodded as she rose, then walked through the hatch. Commandant McWilliams was seated behind his desk, his cold stare sending shivers down her spine as he studied her for a long chilling moment before turning his attention to Nathan. She came to attention and saluted, only relaxing - slightly - when he returned the salute. They might be officers now, but they had a long way to go before they reached his exalted rank.

  “You may be seated,” the Commandant said. “Congratulations on your graduation.”

  “Thank you, sir,” George said.