A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I was under the impression that tracking a convoy in interstellar space isn't easy,” Murchison said. “The Tadpoles didn't intercept many convoys, did they?”

  “The Indians will have spies watching our bases,” James pointed out. “The Tadpoles never had that sort of advantage. They shouldn't have too many problems noting departure times and then it wouldn't be too hard to calculate a rough location. In the longer term, we will need to pull additional smaller ships away from the border just to provide escorts to the fleet train.”

  “I imagine the Admiralty can handle it,” the Prime Minister said. He looked James in the eye. “Can we win?”

  “Nothing is certain in war, sir,” James said. “However, I believe we have an excellent chance of whittling them down and defeating them. I do not believe they are willing to fight to the last.”

  “We would just need to weaken them badly,” Uncle Winchester noted. “Their position is nowhere near as strong as ours.”

  “Unless we push them into a corner,” Murchison countered.

  “The point is that we cannot allow them to get away with this, as I keep saying,” Uncle Winchester hissed. “This is not a dispute over who discovered a particular system first, but a schoolyard bully nicking your crisps and then kindly offering to give half of them back! We cannot compromise beyond allowing the Indians to leave without a fight. There’s literally nothing to compromise.”

  He looked at the Prime Minister. “I propose telling the Indians to leave now or face the consequences,” he said, flatly. “And then we assemble the task force and gird ourselves for war.”

  “We could always offer to concede their Great Power status if they left now,” Murchison offered.

  “That would still allow them to benefit from their crimes,” Uncle Winchester said.

  “People will die,” Murchison snapped. “British spacers will die!”

  Uncle Winchester’s face darkened. “Yes, they will,” he said, finally. “But how many more will die if we look weak?”

  James kept his thoughts to himself. Privately, he agreed with Uncle Winchester; the Indians couldn't be allowed to benefit from their crimes. But, at the same time, he knew that war was a gamble. Victory would be costly and defeat was unthinkable. If there was a way to convince the Indians to leave, without using force, perhaps it should be taken.

  Except they will start wondering what else they can force out of us, he thought. And then we’ll be blackmailed again.

  “So we ready the task force,” the Prime Minister said. He glanced at the First Space Lord. “I believe Parliament will authorise readying for war, if the Indians cannot be convinced to withdraw now. They’re due to meet in two hours.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” the First Space Lord said.

  “We’ll work out the political objectives afterwards,” the Prime Minister said. His gaze moved to James. “I assume you will be commanding the task force?”

  “It’s my plan, sir,” James said. “Besides, Theodore Smith is my flagship.”

  The Prime Minister smiled. “You’ll have orders once Parliament has met,” he said. “But I dare say we’ll meet again before you go.”

  “Yes, sir,” James said.

  “I don’t like this,” Murchison said. “We stand to lose an awful lot.”

  “We have no choice,” Uncle Winchester said. “The Indians have seen to that, Neville.”

  The Prime Minister rose to his feet. “Henry, I imagine you and your nephew have a great deal to talk about,” he said. “Sandra will show you to one of the private rooms. You’ll be informed once Parliament has voted.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister,” Uncle Winchester said.

  James sighed inwardly as the room emptied. He’d hoped to have a chance to visit the Cenotaph and the Ark Royal memorial before returning to Nelson Base, but it looked as though Uncle Winchester wanted to talk. It had probably been decided beforehand, almost certainly with the concurrence of the First Space Lord. James hadn't been needed to give the briefing, after all. The First Space Lord had minions to do that sort of thing.

  Sandra led them to a small room, poured them both fresh cups of tea and left without a backwards glance. James watched the door closing behind her, then turned to stare at his uncle. Uncle Winchester looked tired, worn down by arguing; he hadn't looked so tired, James recalled, back when the Tadpoles had started the war. No one had really believed in aliens until Vera Cruz ...

  “You convinced the Prime Minister, I think,” Uncle Winchester said, without preamble. “I dare say Parliament will vote for war.”

  James nodded. “They can't let it pass, can they?”

  “Probably not,” Uncle Winchester said. “Yes, there’s a case to be made that we don’t really need to worry about Vesy, but Pegasus and Cromwell are quite important. Parliament will understand that, I believe.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “When are you going to get married?”

  “I haven’t found anyone,” James said, feeling his cheeks heat. It was an old argument. “Do we have to have this discussion every time we meet?”

  “Yes,” Uncle Winchester said, flatly. “You need to start raising the next generation of the family.”

  “I have Percy and Penny,” James pointed out.

  “Neither of whom are blood relations,” Uncle Winchester said. “You cannot leave your titles to them.”

  James met his eyes. “There was a time when I believed that my birth made me superior to everyone else,” he said. “I have learned hard lessons since.”

  “You were a little brat back then,” Uncle Winchester agreed. “Locking the maid in the storeroom was particularly unpleasant. And then there was the time you gorged yourself silly on ...”

  “Uncle,” James said. It wasn't something he wanted to remember. “Are you ever going to let me forget it?”

  “I’ll be telling your grandkids all about it,” Uncle Winchester said. “And sneering at you when you complain about what awful brats your children are. You gave your parents quite a hard time.”

  He cleared his throat. “I have a bad feeling about this, James,” he said. “The order we built after the Troubles is dead. It died with the war. Neville, the appeasing toad, is right about that, if nothing else. Either we fight the Indians, and risk heavy losses that may weaken us permanently, or we surrender and brace for the next round of demands. The universe isn't what it once was.”

  “I know,” James said.

  “We need time,” Uncle Winchester added. “Time to rebuild the navy, time to incorporate the lessons of the war, time to rebalance the international order. Hell, maybe even time to make approaches to the Russians again.”

  “You know what they tried to do,” James said.

  “I also know we may need them in the future,” Uncle Winchester said. He gave James a sidelong look. “Should I start looking for potential wives?”

  James shook his head, firmly.

  “Then start looking for someone yourself,” Uncle Winchester said. “You’re a war hero, moderately handsome, well-connected ... you shouldn't have any problem finding someone willing to share your life. Or you can set up an arranged marriage and be ... friendly, if not actual partners. There’re quite a few marriages where the partners are homosexual and only married to produce children.”

  “I’m not homosexual,” James said.

  He sighed. Perhaps it would have been easier if he had been. No one gave a damn if someone happened to be homosexual, unless they were members of the aristocracy. Then, they had to produce children, even if it meant entering an arranged - and loveless - marriage with a woman who might have the same tendencies. But for him? He wanted someone he actually loved. And finding someone who loved him, instead of a gold digger, wasn't easy.

  Perhaps I should have taken note of Prince Henry, he thought. The Prince had married for love, then taken himself and his wife to Tadpole Prime, well away from the media. I could do that, couldn't I?

  “Then find someone,” Uncle Winchester sai
d. “The family needs you to get married, James.”

  “I’ll start looking once I return to Earth,” James said, reluctantly. “I imagine I’ll have time to start a search then, if I must.”

  It was a bitter thought. He was still young, but it was unlikely he’d be promoted further. Promotion into the Admiralty was based on politics as much as competence and skill; his family, he suspected, already had too much influence in the Royal Navy. He was marginally surprised he’d been promoted to Vice Admiral, but then he was the senior survivor of Ark Royal. It made him the greatest living hero of the war.

  “I can offer advice, if you like,” Uncle Winchester said. “You’re not obliged to marry a commoner, you know. There’re quite a few young maidens in the aristocracy who’d know the score.”

  James scowled. It was tempting, perhaps too tempting. A young woman from the same social class as himself, someone safe ... and boring. Sweet, soft-spoken - or good at hiding her true personality from her family. Pretty too, of course. The families worked hard to ensure that their children were at the very peak of health. There would be an understanding right from the start, an understanding that they didn’t love each other ... but that love would bloom, given a chance. She would manage his estates and raise their children while he tended to his career.

  But she would be boring. And he disliked boredom.

  “There aren’t many other options,” Uncle Winchester added. “I do have a list of potential commoners, ones with the ability to fit into the aristocracy, but they wouldn't have the same background.”

  “Of course not,” James muttered.

  He shook his head. The British aristocracy had learned the dangers of inbreeding the hard way. A commoner with a record of accomplishments - it crossed his mind that Admiral Smith would have qualified - could be invited to marry into the aristocracy, trading their genes for recognition. No one would look down on them or sneer at their children. Indeed, commoners who became aristocrats were highly honoured. It was the only way to keep the bloodlines fresh.

  But a commoner wouldn't understand the hidden social rules of the aristocracy ...

  “It doesn't matter, not now,” he said, firmly. “We can discuss it afterwards.”

  “Then we will go over your plan,” Uncle Winchester said. “What do you plan to do if the Indians mass their forces?”

  “Go elsewhere,” James said, relieved. Military issues he understood. “Trying to defend everywhere is asking for trouble.”

  Uncle Winchester nodded, then questioned every detail with a thoroughness James could only admire. He'd known his uncle had helped design warships before the war, but he hadn't really grasped that Uncle Winchester had a level of tactical acumen too ... something, in hindsight, that should have been blindingly obvious. And yet, his uncle had never really bragged about his achievements. He’d certainly never talked about them without being prompted.

  And I asked for war stories, James recalled. His parents had sent him to Uncle Winchester’s when they’d found the young James too much to handle. I wasn't interested in the details.

  There was a rap at the door, which opened a moment later to reveal Sandra. “Sirs,” she said, as she closed the door behind her. “The Prime Minister wishes to inform you that the Houses of Parliament voted for war.”

  James let out a breath. It would be war.

  He rose to his feet. “I’ll need to return to Nelson Base,” he said. “The task force will have to be assembled.”

  “Make sure you give them hell,” Uncle Winchester said. “I’ll speak to the Prime Minister; you’ll probably have another discussion with us before you depart.”

  He held out a hand. James shook it firmly. “Good luck, James.”

  “Thank you,” James said. A quick shuttle back to Nelson Base ... he’d alert his staff on the way, get them to start sending out orders to the designated ships. They’d finalise the plan over the next couple of days, while the task force prepared for war. “We’re going to need it.”

  Chapter Four

  Nelson Base, Earth Orbit

  “Captain Naiser,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Captain John Naiser nodded once as the hatch closed behind him, then took the seat the Admiral indicated. It had been two weeks since Warspite had returned to Earth for the second time, leading a ragtag convoy of ships escaping Vesy. He’d spent most of that time sitting in front of various Boards of Inquiry, having every decision he’d made on Vesy dissected ruthlessly. Too many people had died for the Admiralty to do anything else.

  He couldn't help feeling tense. His crew had been ordered to stay on the ship, save for the handful who’d been answering questions themselves; he’d been told to keep his ship ready for deployment, but he hadn't been ordered to attend any of the briefings or planning sessions he knew to be underway. War was looming and yet he’d had almost nothing to do, save for answering questions. If he hadn't been left in command of his ship, he would have wondered if he’d been made the scapegoat for the disaster. The Indians had organised the uprising, priming the Vesy and turning them against other human factions, but he’d been the officer on the spot.

  But I was left in command, he reassured himself. They must have another reason to keep me away from the planning sessions.

  “There isn't much time, so I’ll be blunt,” Fitzwilliam said. His voice was clipped, held under firm control. “As you know, Parliament voted yesterday for war. Task Force Bulldog - under my command - has been charged with recovering Cromwell and Pegasus and driving the Indians back to their own worlds. Your ship has been attached to Task Force Bulldog.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. Independent command of a small flotilla had been nice, but he was too junior to hold it indefinitely. “Warspite is ready to go to war.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Fitzwilliam said. He leaned forward, meeting John’s eyes. “I’m placing you and your ship on detached duty, Captain. I have a mission I want you to perform.”

  John lifted his eyebrows. “A mission?”

  “On the record, Warspite will be assigned to Britannia,” Fitzwilliam said. John felt a flicker of disappointment he ruthlessly suppressed. “There is a demand for small ships to provide additional security and Warspite would be perfect for the role. However, your actual orders - which will be sealed; you can open them once you enter the Terra Nova System - are to make a recon flight through the occupied systems. I need a full tactical survey to help plan our offensive operations.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. He felt a surge of brilliant excitement. A challenging mission against a deadly foe? It was what he’d signed up for. And he had a score to settle against the Indians. “You want us to find their carriers?”

  “I doubt their dispositions will remain permanent,” Fitzwilliam said. “They will almost certainly reposition their ships once they know where we’re coming from.”

  He keyed a switch, activating the starchart. “Our best guess is that they will place at least one of their carriers in Pegasus and another in Vesy - assuming, of course, they’re prepared to risk both of their carriers in the war. They may well have plans to cut their losses if we’re ready to put up a fight.”

  He shrugged. “You are to start with Pegasus. First, I want a tactical sweep of the system; second, I want you to land a small commando team on Clarke III. We need up-to-date information on what the Indians are doing on the surface. So far, our analysts have concluded it could be anything from setting up defences to merely holding the moon in a very light grip.”

  “Because they can't hold Clarke III if we came knocking,” John said.

  “We don’t know,” Fitzwilliam said. “A SAS team - probably including a handful of Royal Marines - will be attached to Warspite just prior to your departure. They’ll have a stealth shuttle for planetary insertion; you’ll get them to the system, but they’ll handle getting down to the surface themselves.”

  “We inserted the marines on Vesy,” John said, quietly.

  “
There’s more at stake here,” Fitzwilliam warned. “You’ll make sure you have a solid communications link with the troopers before heading through the tramlines to Vesy and Cromwell. Ideally, we want to set up stealthed platforms in the region, but that depends on local conditions. There’s too much dust orbiting that damn gas giant.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. “Do you want to try to insert teams on Vesy and Cromwell?”

  “I don’t think so,” Fitzwilliam said. “The diplomats” - his face twisted into a sneer - “believe that the Indians will probably concede Cromwell without too much of a fight. Cromwell is an Earth-type world, Captain, and our claim to possession is strong. They’d set a very distressing precedent if they chose to keep it.”