Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Run out a shell of recon drones,” she ordered, curtly. It would be costly, yet most of the drones could be recovered and refurbished. The beancounters wouldn't be pleased, but they wouldn't be pleased by anything less than the spacers leaving all their shiny new toys in the wrapping so they could be returned to the shop, if necessary. “And alter their positions randomly, so we’re wrapped in a sensor haze.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Mason said. He looked up from his console. “You’re expecting someone to start playing silly buggers?”

  “You never know,” Susan said. “You never know.”

  She leaned back in the command chair and reached for her datapad. Someone had insisted, years ago, that military service was ninety-nine percent boredom and she was inclined to agree. There was little they could do, save for exchanging recorded messages, before they reached the fleet, gathering in orbit around the second planet. If they’d been at war, she would have made sure they were creeping around the system, but now? All she could really do was wait and catch up with her paperwork.

  At least the midshipmen are taking advantage of the crawl to track the location of the other ships, she thought, calmly. They won’t be bored, at least.

  Civilians rarely grasped, at least in her experience, just how immeasurably vast a star system truly was. Every starship in human service - and the Tadpoles as well, she assumed - could have fitted comfortably into the volume of space occupied by Earth, with plenty of room left over for future construction. A fleet twice the size of the Royal Navy could be lurking within the interplanetary void and, as long as its crewmen were careful, Vanguard wouldn't have a hope in hell of spotting them. Naval starships travelled at immense speeds, by earthly standards, but it still took hours to cross the interplanetary gulfs.

  She sighed inwardly as she skimmed down the list of reports. A note from the Boatswain that two crewmen had been brawling, probably under the influence of too much shipboard rotgut; they’d be on reduced wages for a week as punishment. Several other notes from the mess, complaining about crewmen slipping into the compartment for extra meals; she sighed and made a mental note to have a few sharp words with the chefs. The beancounters might try to assign a set daily ration of food to the crew, but it worked about as well as the pre-Troubles attempts to calculate just how much a child should eat. She much preferred the post-Troubles insistence that children - and crewmen - should eat as much as they wanted, then be encouraged to exercise to burn it off.

  Boring, she thought, crossly. She glanced at the timer in some irritation. The midshipmen were supposed to receive their new duties, but that meeting wasn’t scheduled for another two hours. If the captain was doing his bloody job, he could have taken the conn while she handled the midshipmen ... she shook her head, crossly. If I keep reading this crap while I’m on duty, I’ll fall asleep in the command chair.

  “Commander,” Lieutenant Charlotte Watson said. “I think I may have something here.”

  Susan rose and stalked over to the sensor console. She didn't know Lieutenant Watson as well as she would like, but the officer had served on Vanguard since before the battleship had been commissioned and there was nothing about her sensor suite that Watson didn't know. Mason had told Susan, back when they’d been discussing the younger officers, that Charlotte had won several prizes for detecting cloaked ships; indeed, reading between the lines, Susan had a suspicion her old friend rather fancied Charlotte. Given her pale skin, green eyes and short red hair, it was hard to blame him.

  And he outranks her, Susan thought. He can never say it out loud.

  “Show me,” she ordered. She trusted Mason to be professional. “What do you have?”

  “There’s just a faint energy trace here,” Charlotte said. She tapped an icon on her display; the trace was far too close to the battleship for Susan’s comfort. “It’s inching closer, I believe; I’m fairly sure the pattern is too ordered to be natural.”

  “Trying to get into firing position,” Susan mused. She was almost insulted. The Royal Navy had not only invented the tactic, it was also the only power to use it to take out an entire supercarrier. “Unless, of course, it’s a random spike of background energy?”

  “It would be more random, Commander,” Charlotte said. “That’s a ship, not something natural. And it’s in just the right position to minimise the danger of being detected by the screen.”

  Susan - again - cursed the captain under her breath. They had been urged not to light up any targets until they got too close, if only to deny any watching observers hard data on just what would draw the Royal Navy’s attention, but she knew from her service on Warspite that letting a cruiser get too close was asking for trouble. The captain was the one who should have made the call, not his XO. And yet, she was the one on the spot.

  She studied the display for a long moment, thinking fast. Assuming the trace was a cruiser with a hull-mounted plasma cannon, like Warspite, she was almost within firing range. And, even if it was just a drill, letting her within firing range would count as a loss. She could blow a Warspite out of space with ease, but Warspite-class ships were cheaper than battleships. Vanguard might survive the hit, yet she’d definitely need a repair yard ...

  And if the Yanks have somehow extended the range of the plasma cannon, she might already be taking aim, she thought. We’d lose without ever knowing what we were playing.

  “Light her up,” she ordered, reluctantly. It was highly unlikely that the American starship would actually open fire - they might pick up hints she was charging her cannon - but Susan didn't know for sure when the mystery ship would enter firing range. “And stand by point defence.”

  Mason looked up, sharply. Susan understood his surprise. The Americans were unlikely to open fire, true, but accidents happened. Better to be safe than sorry.

  “Illuminating target ... now,” Charlotte said. There was a pause. “Gotcha!”

  Susan smiled as the trace became an icon on the display. “What do we have?”

  “American vessel ... reads out as a modified Galveston-class light cruiser,” Charlotte said. It was easy to hear the gloating tone in her voice. “Originally, a missile-armed ship, but judging from her emissions she’s probably been refitted to carry a plasma cannon. They didn't build her straight from the keel up.”

  “Probably saw her as a temporary expedient,” Mason commented. “We were nailing armour plate to fleet carriers after New Russia.”

  “It didn’t do much good,” Susan recalled. “We lost two more carriers during the Battle of Earth.”

  “At least they put up a better fight,” Mason said. “It would have been a great deal worse if the Tadpoles had arrived on the heels of their victory at New Russia.”

  “Picking up an IFF,” Parkinson said. “She’s USS Truxtun.”

  Susan frowned. “What’s a Truxtun?”

  Mason grinned. “Named for Commodore Thomas Truxtun,” he said. “Fought in the quasi-war with France, if I recall correctly. One of his namesakes helped provide missile defence to Britain and France during the latter stages of the Age of Unrest, when they were launching cruise missiles over the Mediterranean. My grandfather served in the Royal Navy during that time and used to tell me a great many stories.”

  “You would know that,” Susan said. She cleared her throat. “Communications, inform Truxtun that we caught her, fair and square, and that her senior crew are welcome to dinner sometime during the war games.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

  Susan allowed herself a tight smile. The test - she knew it had been a test - had been passed with flying colours. Unless, of course, Truxtun had a secret weapon up her sleeve ... she smiled at the thought, then shrugged. The remainder of the cruise to the planet would probably be quite peaceful.

  “Mr. Mason, you have the bridge,” she said, when the time came to meet with the midshipmen. “Alert me at once if anything changes.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Mason said. “I have the bridge.”

  Susan
nodded, then rose and hurried through the hatch. The two midshipmen were already waiting outside her office, five minutes too early. They'd picked up that habit at the academy, she knew; she’d been the same, back when she’d graduated. Better to be early and look eager than late and look slapdash. Both midshipmen looked tired, sadly; she recalled that from her own experience too. They’d be spending half their time training and the other half learning from the older midshipmen. Sleep was an optional extra.

  “Come in,” she said, as they stumbled to attention. They’d learn many more shortcuts as their careers progressed, if they didn't decide they weren't cut out for shipboard life after all and request reassignment. “You both did well on the last set of tactical exercises.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Midshipman Bosworth said.

  “Indeed, now you have your helm badge, you can be reassigned,” Susan added. It looked, very much, as though both midshipmen were trying not to yawn. She didn't blame them, although she hated the thought of what her first commanding officer would have said if she’d yawned in his face. “Midshipman Bosworth” - the young man straightened to attention - “you will be reassigned to the engineering compartment, under the supervision of Chief Finch. I don't expect you to transfer to an engineering track, but it is vitally important that you learn the ins and outs of main engineering.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Bosworth said.

  “Snatch a cup of coffee, then report to Chief Finch at 1700,” Susan ordered. “He’ll give you your duty roster for the next fortnight, barring accidents. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Midshipman Bosworth said.

  Susan switched her attention to Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam. The young woman was looking tired, too tired. She was trying to hide it, obviously, but she really was pushing her limits too far. Susan felt a flicker of concern, despite her reluctance to treat Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam as anything other than just another junior officer. It was quite likely the poor girl would fall asleep at the worst possible moment.

  “Midshipman Fitzwilliam, you have been assigned to the shuttlebay, under the supervision of the Boatswain, Chief Petty Officer Simon Williams,” she said. She’d intended to send Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam directly to the shuttlebay, but given her current state that was likely to be dangerous. “You’re due to report to the shuttlebay at 0800, so go back to middy country and get some sleep. I expect you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.

  “You are both relieved of all other duties until you have your new duty rosters,” Susan added, after a moment. “Once you do, coordinate with the first middy to fit your midshipman duties around your assignment duties. I expect you to handle any clashes calmly and professionally.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Bosworth said.

  Susan glanced from one to the other, wondering if she should take a closer look at just what was going on in middy country. Technically, she had the power to inspect every compartment in the ship, but tradition said that middy country was to handle its own affairs unless they got right out of hand. Tradition had its place, she had to admit, yet there were limits. Maybe the Boatswain would make a formal complaint that would prompt an investigation.

  And if that happens, it’s already too late, she thought. She'd heard of wardrooms that went bad, but it had never happened on her watch. Her career might be permanently tainted, certainly if civilians wound up judging the navy. Something else needs to be done.

  “I will speak with you after the war games,” she said. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes, Commander,” Bosworth said. “Do you know if there will be any shore leave on Marina?”

  Susan wondered, absently, just who’d put him up to that question. It had only been three weeks since Vanguard’s crew had enjoyed two weeks of shore leave; even the midshipmen had had a chance to visit Earth, if they wished. And even the newcomers would have enjoyed a week of leave before they made their way to Vanguard. The only person who’d had their shore leave cut short was Susan herself.

  “I believe the Americans have a handful of shore leave domes on the planet, but facilities are very limited,” she said, resisting the urge to tell him off. “We will see what arrangements can be made after the war games.”

  “Yes, Commander,” Bosworth said.

  “Dismissed,” Susan said.

  She watched them go, unable to keep herself from feeling concerned. Midshipman Bosworth looked tired, but Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam looked exhausted. It wasn't impossible that she was having problems coping with her duties - some midshipmen took on too much during their first few months on active service - yet she should have had the common sense to admit she was having problems. Too stubborn ... or too convinced she wouldn't be believed? It was impossible to do anything without her saying something ...

  Perhaps I will inspect middy country after all, Susan thought. I could do it as part of the preparations for any formal dinners.

  The intercom chimed. “Commander, this is Parkinson,” a voice said. “Admiral Boskone has sent us a message packet.”

  “Download it to my console,” Susan ordered. If she was lucky, she’d be able to read it without having to ask the captain. “Was there anything else?”

  “No, Commander,” Parkinson said. “But I have been picking up more chatter from the fleet’s communications officers. There’s a lot of favour-trading going on.”

  Susan groaned. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I can see if they want anything from us,” Parkinson offered. “And see if they have anything we might want.”

  “Try,” Susan ordered. Communications officers talked. It was what they did. “But don’t promise anything.”

  She closed the channel as the message packet appeared on her terminal, already decrypting itself. Not an eyes-only message for the captain, then. Admiral Boskone was apparently a man of few words. He intended to inspect Vanguard when she entered orbit, before the war games began. Reading between the lines, Susan suspected he wanted to discuss his tactical concepts too.

  And find out what we can do, she added, silently. He won’t have seen a battleship before.

  Rising to her feet, she headed for the hatch. The captain would have to be warned, of course, and the ship prepared for a high-ranking guest. Somehow, she doubted the captain would stick up for his position, no matter what regulations and custom said. She just hoped he wouldn't spend the entire time kissing the admiral’s ass. Admiral Boskone wasn't supposed to like flattery, but she had no way to know for sure.

  And lock me out of the room, she thought. How am I supposed to do my job - and cover for him - if I don’t know what’s going on?

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’ve been a bad girl,” Fraser said, as George stepped out of the shower. “Going to the shuttlebay at this point in your career.”

  George groaned. Fraser had been mercifully absent when she’d returned to middy country and climbed into her rack - even he wouldn't disturb someone asleep in their rack - but he’d been coming back off-shift when she’d been woken by her bedside alarm and hurried into the shower. Thankfully, he hadn't been around to realise she hadn't taken a shower before hitting her rack or he would have made a fuss about it. Cleanliness wasn't just next to godliness, as far as the navy was concerned; it was well above godliness.

  She reached for her underwear and pulled it on, doing her best to ignore him. A good night’s sleep had made her feel better; she could dress, snatch something to eat and then make her way to the shuttlebay five minutes before her due time. Fraser snorted rudely and started to undress. He’d taken the night shift for himself and would need to catch at least six hours of sleep before his next duty shift began.

  “I imagine this will look very bad on your record,” Fraser said, as George snapped her jacket into place and checked her appearance in the mirror. At least she didn't look as though she was on the verge of collapse any longer. “A midshipman shouldn't be flying
shuttles ...”

  “It could be fun,” George said, crossly. Was he right? She was meant to rotate through the different duty compartments, but the XO might have intended to give her a break between tactical and the helm. Or, perhaps, to see how quickly she adapted when dumped into a whole new environment. “At least I’d have the chance to go outside.”

  “Mind you don’t ram the ship,” Fraser needled. He stepped to one side as she walked past him, careful not to brush against her. “They’ll take it out of your salary.”

  George shrugged and opened the hatch. If the shuttle did crash into the battleship, which was at least theoretically possible, she rather suspected no one on the craft would survive the experience. Crews were meant to wear shipsuits and keep their helmets within easy reach, but the impact would probably vaporise the shuttle. She stepped through the hatch, half-expecting Fraser to call her back for some more makework and was mildly surprised when the hatch closed without him saying a word. No doubt, the nasty part of her mind noted, he thought being assigned to the shuttlebay was enough of a punishment for being born to the wrong family.