A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6)

by Christopher Nuttall

  John nodded. It had long been agreed, after Terra Nova had collapsed into civil war, that whoever settled a system’s Earth-type world had unquestioned title to the remainder of the system. The Indians might be able to get their hands on Pegasus, if the Royal Navy failed to evict them, but the other interstellar powers would resist allowing them to keep Cromwell. It would definitely upset a number of apple carts.

  “In any case, there’s no point in trying to determine what’s happening on Vesy,” Fitzwilliam added, after a moment. “I think the general feeling on Earth is to pull back and let the Vesy come to terms with the cultural shock themselves.”

  “I agree, sir,” John said. “The Vesy have been too badly traumatised by their first contact.”

  “So were we,” Fitzwilliam pointed out.

  “The Tadpoles were on the same level as us,” John said. “I don’t think the Vesy knew how to make gunpowder, let alone develop the scientific method, before the Russians stumbled across their world. They had no concept of space travel. We must have seemed like gods.”

  “That’s a matter for a later date, if we win the war,” Fitzwilliam said. “Ideally, Captain, we should have the task force at Hannibal by the time you return. You will rendezvous with us there. If we’re not present, you will head back to Earth; hopefully, you will encounter us en route.”

  John nodded. Only an idiot - or a politician - expected starships to run on time. Something could easily go wrong, delaying them; the Indians could be expected to do whatever it took to delay the task force as much as possible. They’d have to be keeping an eye on Terra Nova too, he suspected. Warspite would have to enter stealth mode as soon as she entered the system and alter course to the tramline that would eventually take her to Pegasus.

  “I may have another mission for you, once the first one is completed,” Fitzwilliam added, after a moment. “However, your principle task is to serve as a scout.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. He couldn't help looking forward to the deployment. “Warspite was built for such missions.”

  “Good,” Fitzwilliam said. “Under the circumstances, you will have first claim on anything you need from the stores. If any supply officers dare to complain, point them in my direction.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. He’d fought enough battles with supply officers to be glad of the chance to force them to check with an Admiral. They’d rapidly change their minds about objecting the moment they realised he wasn't joking. “I believe we don’t need much, save for the SAS gear and other war stocks.”

  “Make sure you take all you can,” Fitzwilliam warned. “You may not be able to return to Earth before the task force enters the war zone.”

  He smiled, rather thinly. “Is there anything else your crew needs?”

  “They could probably do with some leave,” John said. “It was a long deployment and there wasn’t any real chance to stretch their legs and blow off some steam. But I don’t think there’s time.”

  “You can send a handful of crewmen to Island One, if you think you can afford to spare them for a couple of hours,” Fitzwilliam said. “I want you on your way as soon as possible, Captain; handle it how you see fit, but don’t delay your departure.”

  John smiled. Island One was tame, compared to Portsmouth, Southampton or Sin City, but it would give some of his crew a chance to relax for a few hours. He’d have to go through the duty roster with Commander Howard, his XO, and determine just who could be spared before departure. It was a pity he probably couldn't clear himself for a few hours of leave, but it would be an abuse of authority. Besides, there was just too much to do.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “There is a price, of course,” Fitzwilliam said. “You’ll be carrying a couple of reporters with you.”

  “Oh,” John said. He cleared his throat. “Sir, with all due respect, I thought this was to be a secret mission.”

  “The reporters will be informed, in no uncertain terms, that they are not to file any stories without permission from the Public Relations officers,” Fitzwilliam said. “During your mission, Captain, they will be doing nothing more than recording and witnessing the deployment. They won’t be allowed to send messages off the ship until the task force enters the Hannibal System.”

  John scowled. “We can keep them from sending messages, Admiral, but it will still be a security risk.”

  “The Prime Minister is very determined to make sure the war is presented in the best possible light,” Fitzwilliam said, firmly. “You, at least, will only have one or two reporters. I will have a whole press corps on Theodore Smith. They’ll all have signed the standard non-disclosure agreement and their stories will be checked prior to distribution. I understand your doubts, Captain, but we have our orders. We need to keep the press on our side.”

  John kept his face blank. With friends like those, who needs the Indians?

  “The looming war has already started to dominate the newsfeeds,” Fitzwilliam added. “Our press corps, at least, is being reasonably responsible, but foreign media sources are going crazy. We need to make sure we get our story out before the Indians have a chance to influence public opinion. They’re already saying this is a war of choice.”

  “It isn't, sir,” John said.

  “Tell that to the reporters,” Fitzwilliam said. He shrugged. “In any case, Captain, if they cause trouble you have authorisation to stick them in the brig until the war is finished. I believe that will be made clear to them too.”

  “Thank you, sir,” John said.

  “The reporters we had on Ark Royal were pretty damn bad too,” Fitzwilliam added, with a thin smile. “I know precisely how you feel.”

  He reached into a drawer and removed a datachip. “These are your sealed orders, Captain,” he added. “You’ll receive the standard orders through the datanet; you will, of course, ignore them once you reach Terra Nova and open the sealed orders.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said.

  “I don’t expect you to engage the enemy,” Fitzwilliam said, as he rose to his feet. “Ideally, you should pass completely unnoticed. We don’t want the Indians to know you’re there, Captain; I’d like to have a few surprises to point at them. Don’t go looking for a fight.”

  His expression hardened. “However ... if you are forced into an engagement and you can’t avoid it, I expect you to give them hell. Beat the living daylights out of them.”

  “Of course, sir,” John said.

  “Good luck,” Fitzwilliam said. “Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir,” John said. He rose and saluted. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me when you come back,” Fitzwilliam said. “Not before.”

  John nodded and strode out of the hatch, down towards the docks. Nelson Base seemed to have come alive overnight; hundreds of officers and crewmen were transporting supplies from the stocks to the starships docked at the giant station. He pushed himself against the bulkhead as a pair of carts rumbled passed, pushed along by a pair of burly Royal Marines who had been pressed into service. Behind them, a couple of commanding officers strode past, probably heading for one of the innumerable briefings.

  At least that explains why I wasn't invited, John thought. The Admiral wouldn't want me to know too much if he was sending me into enemy territory.

  “Captain,” a voice called. “How are you?”

  John turned and smiled as he saw Commander Juliet Watson. She looked more confident than he remembered - but now, at least, she wasn't trying to serve as an XO. He couldn't help feeling pleased to see her again, even if she’d been an unintentional nuisance on his first deployment.

  “I’m fine,” he said. It would be nice to sit and have a drink with her, but he doubted he had the time. “I’ve just got to return to my ship.”

  “I was hoping Mike would be free this evening,” Juliet said. “I’ve got a great deal to show him.”

  John concealed his amusement with an effort. Mike Johnston, Warspite’s Chief Engineer, had a thing
for Juliet, even when she’d been XO. It had probably worked in her favour - crewmen who would have ignored her wouldn't have dared trifle with the Chief Engineer - but it was skirting the boundaries of regulations. Now, after she’d been reassigned to Nelson Base, they’d seen each other fairly frequently. John was mildly surprised he hadn't heard of their engagement by now.

  “I’ll see if I can spare him,” he said. It was hard to say no to Juliet. “But I can't make any promises.”

  He nodded to her and headed down towards the airlock. A pair of marines was standing on guard outside the ship, watching carefully while four crewmen carefully moved a truckload of supplies into Warspite. They saluted John as he approached; he saluted them back, then waited for them to confirm his identity before stepping through the airlock. It wasn't likely the Indians had spies trying to creep onto the ship, yet the possibility couldn't be discounted completely. The Great Powers might have agreed not to wage war on one another, at least before the Tadpoles had shown themselves, but there had been no shortage of attempts to penetrate security systems and steal intelligence and technological data.

  And the Indians might have spies of their own, he thought. No, they will have spies of their own, watching and waiting to see what we do.

  It wasn't a cheerful thought. The Royal Navy needed to trust its personnel, not start a witch-hunt for Indian spies. Hell, quite a few crewmen were of Indian descent, although most ties to motherlands had been cut during the Troubles. Who knew what would happen if they were specifically targeted by the counter-intelligence staff? The paranoia might do more damage than Indian weapons.

  He keyed his wristcom as he entered his ready room. “Commander Howard, report to my ready room as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Howard said. “I’m on my way.”

  John sat down behind his desk and opened his terminal. The official set of orders was already waiting for him; he skimmed them briefly, then placed the sealed orders in his secure drawer. They’d remain there until they reached Terra Nova, where he’d need to show them to the XO. Howard would probably guess their existence once the SAS troopers came onboard - there was no need to transport the SAS to Britannia - but until then the sealed orders had to remain a secret. It wasn’t particularly clever - John trusted his XO completely - yet there was no choice. The more people who knew, the greater the chance of an accidental leak.

  The hatch opened. “Captain,” Howard said.

  “Take a seat,” John ordered. He glanced through the list of messages and frowned. The SAS would be arriving an hour before the planned departure time, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit. A handful of troopers wouldn’t pose a problem, but their shuttlecraft would have to be stowed away somewhere safe. “We’re departing for Britannia in two days.”

  Howard raised his eyebrows. “Britannia?”

  “We will also be transporting an SAS detachment - probably one or two troops, around sixteen men apiece,” John added. He’d let Howard draw his own conclusions. “They’ll have at least one shuttlecraft with them - a non-standard design. They want her to remain secure.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said. “We could plug her to the hull and cover her in camo fabric. She’d remain completely out of sight.”

  “Good idea,” John said. “Make the arrangements; verify the straps yourself, rather than asking anyone else to handle it. Officially, we’re taking on additional marines rather than anything more ... interesting.”

  “Of course, sir,” Howard said.

  John smiled. “We also have permission to take what we need from the stores, so put in requests for everything,” he added. “Just make sure we have enough room to get through the corridors in case of emergency.”

  “I was on Courageous, sir,” Howard said. “I remember.”

  “Me too,” John said. He’d served on Canopus ... and the escort carrier had been so crammed with supplies that making one’s way through the ship had been difficult. And, in the end, it hadn't been enough to save her when the Tadpoles came knocking. “We’ll need everything we can get.”

  He took a breath. “We also have permission to offer shore leave to deserving crewmen,” he added. “They’re authorised to visit Island One for a couple of hours at a time. Put together parties of suitable candidates and remind them that anyone who fails to report back will be listed as a deserter. We can’t afford to delay our departure.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said.

  “And tell the Chief Engineer that he has an hour’s leave tonight, if he wants to use it,” John added, after a moment. “I think we can spare him that long.”

  “Of course, sir,” Howard said.

  “I’ll deal with the paperwork now,” John concluded. He’d be surprised if Howard didn't have a good idea of where they were going, but it wouldn't matter as long as he kept his mouth shut until departure. “Let me know if there are any problems.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said.

  John smiled to himself as his XO left the compartment. There was no shortage of paperwork, but he couldn't help a thrill of excitement. After so much, after so many defeats, it felt good to be going back to war. This time, it was going to be different. No civilians, no diplomats, no aliens ... just a mission and a chance to test themselves against a peer power. It would be very different.

  This time, he thought, we’re ready for war.

  Chapter Five

  SAS Headquarters, Hereford, Earth

  “Welcome to hell, Lieutenant.”

  Lieutenant Percy Schneider sucked in his breath as he was escorted through the heavily-guarded gate and into one of the most secretive military bases in Britain. It looked, on the surface, to be quite similar to a number of other bases he’d visited, but he couldn't help a thrill of excitement. Hereford was the home base of the Special Air Service, the toughest Special Forces unit in the world. Every serving soldier - at least, every front-line soldier - hoped to become an SAS trooper or serve in one of the other SF units. Percy had hoped, one day, to try out for the Special Boat Service, but he’d never expected to visit Hereford until then. The base was rarely open to visitors.

  “Take a long look,” his escort advised dryly. “There’s nothing really to see here.”

  Percy nodded in agreement. The important parts of the base would be behind a second line of fencing or deep underground, well away from prying eyes. He might have been asked - ordered - to visit, but he wouldn’t see anything above his pay grade. There weren't even any troopers in view, although the driver - when he’d been picked up from the railway station - had told him that they spent most of their time training when they weren't actually on active duty. They wouldn't show off for him.

  He sighed inwardly, then followed his escort through a set of doors and into a barracks that looked remarkably similar to the barracks in Edinburgh. The only real difference was a long line of framed newspaper cuttings hanging from the walls, each one talking about the SAS or another SF unit. He paused long enough to read one dating all the way back to the famed Iranian Embassy Siege before his escort coughed impatiently and led him onwards. There wasn't anyone else in view until they entered the antechamber, but he could feel unseen eyes watching him. The base was carefully monitored in case of trouble.

  “Captain Drake will see you now,” the escort said, nodding to a door. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you,” Percy said.

  He braced himself and stepped through the door. His orders had been clear - he was to make his way to Hereford and report to Captain Drake - but they hadn't told him why. He didn't think he was in trouble - he hadn't been in command of the base on Vesy when the final battle had begun - yet it was still odd. It wasn't as if he’d thrown his cap in the ring and applied for SAS Selection. Offhand, he couldn't recall anyone ever being invited to Hereford merely to speak to one of the SAS officers.

  “Lieutenant Schneider,” Captain Christopher Drake said. His voice was oddly unaccented, but Percy thought he could detect traces o
f Lancashire. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, so please take a seat.”

  Percy obeyed, studying Drake carefully as he sat down. He was a tall man, wiry rather than muscular; his eyes were warm, but sharp. The uniform he wore was completely unmarked, save for a single rank badge; he carried a pistol at his belt, the flap open so he could draw it in a second. Percy puzzled over it for a long moment, then recalled the number of terrorist threats against military bases during the Age of Unrest. The bombardment of Earth during the war had unleashed a whole new wave of terrorism.

  “I apologise for summoning you here at such short notice,” Drake said. “Do you know why you are here?”

  “Vesy,” Percy guessed.