“It is imperative that I observe your crewmen from start to finish,” Rose informed her. “I do not exaggerate to say that my observations may determine the future of the Commonwealth.”
“There’s a war on,” Kat said, feeling her patience start to snap. “It is imperative that my crews complete their work without being observed or distracted. Should you prove a nuisance, I will not hesitate to put you in the brig for the rest of the deployment. We will discuss precisely how you will carry out your observations later, once the ships are ready to depart.”
And after I’ve gotten in touch with the Admiralty about this entire godforsaken mess, she added silently. Maybe she could convince the Admiralty to pawn Rose off on someone else. She’d be a pain in the ass, at least, while the squadron was on its way. Or maybe they’ll tell me to put up with it.
“That will be suitable,” Rose said. Her voice grew louder. “However, I would like to begin my observations as soon as possible.”
Kat tapped her buzzer. Moments later, Emily Hawking, her new steward, stepped into the office.
“Please escort Miss MacDonald to one of the spare cabins and assign it to her for the moment,” Kat ordered curtly.
“Yes, Captain,” Emily said. “Miss MacDonald?”
Rose nodded, then turned to follow the steward out of the cabin. Kat watched her go, remembering all the times she’d made rude gestures at her aunts when their backs were turned, then shook her head in disbelief. She’d asked the Admiralty for more officers and crewmen and they’d sent her an observer, someone who would be peering over her shoulder whenever she was trying to think. It was unbelievable.
She keyed her terminal. “Record,” she ordered. “Private message to Admiral Hanson.”
Her console bleeped. Kat ran through a short explanation, then asked for a set of official orders or permission to remove Rose MacDonald from her ship. It beggared belief that someone would have given her the priority code without informing Kat in advance, but it wouldn’t be the first time one part of the government hadn’t known what another part was doing. She might just wind up having to take Rose MacDonald with her anyway . . .
As an afterthought, she sent a message to the XO, asking him to meet with her as soon as possible. He probably didn’t know either Rose MacDonald or her superior, not personally, but he might have an idea of how best to handle them. No doubt there were politics involved, somewhere. Perhaps the diplomats thought it was actually a good idea . . .
A message flickered up in front of her. Kat read it, then cursed. Rose MacDonald had been granted permission to accompany the squadron, permission that had come straight from the War Cabinet itself. There would be no hope of convincing them to change their minds, not now that they’d taken the plunge. She’d been right. It was political.
She sent another message to her father, then sighed and started to draw up the first set of deployment plans. No doubt there would be another crisis, then another, then another . . . she’d be lucky if she managed to stay ahead of them all. But at least she’d be able to rest once the squadron was in hyperspace. There wouldn’t be any way to change her orders after they’d departed . . .
Unless they find a way to mount StarComs on ships, she thought darkly. That would be the end of independent commands.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The spy couldn’t help feeling a hint of trepidation as the shuttle landed neatly in the heavy cruiser’s giant shuttlebay. He’d hoped—prayed—that he wouldn’t be assigned anywhere sensitive, but God hadn’t been listening to him. No doubt the billions of believers in the Theocracy cancelled out one young man who’d never taken religion very seriously. Now . . . he had his orders and he knew what would happen if he disobeyed. His sister, his sole relative, would be brutally killed once her captors knew he’d betrayed them. And it was already too late to go to the counterintelligence services. They’d want his scalp too when they found out the truth.
He stood with the other crewmen and walked out of the shuttle, the group forming a loose line in front of the waiting XO. The man looked older than the spy had expected for an officer who had served in the Navy for years rather than transferring to the reserve, but he was clearly not someone to irritate. His gray eyes flickered over the crewmen, one by one, then fixed on a spot just above their heads. The spy couldn’t help wondering if he’d already realized that not all of the crewmen were completely devoted to the Commonwealth. Quite a few of them had had problems that would have mandated their dismissal if there hadn’t been a war on. They weren’t likely to cause too many problems, he hoped, but it only took one idiot acting idiotically at the wrong time to cause a disaster.
“Welcome onboard HMS Lightning,” the XO said briskly. “I’m afraid you’re all going to have to hit the deck running as we are scheduled to depart tomorrow. Your department heads will see to it that you are assigned berths and timetables, then you will join the rota for department-based drills and exercises to bring your skills up to par. We will be very busy right up until the moment the mission actually begins.”
The spy kept his face expressionless with an effort. He’d been recalled to active service a month after the start of the war, but his skills had been so outdated that he’d had to go through an emergency tactical course at Piker’s Peak before he could be assigned to anything more advanced than an asteroid mining station. It hadn’t been hard to complete the course, even though it was constantly updated as the Navy learned from successive engagements with its first true foe, but he’d hoped to be assigned somewhere harmless. Indeed, he had been assigned to a deep-space monitoring station and then reassigned, two days before he’d been due to leave. All he’d been told, when he’d received his new orders, was that he’d been tapped for something important.
“The full details of the mission will be disclosed once we are underway,” the XO informed them, forestalling any questions from men and women who had been civilian reservists only a few short months ago. “Suffice it to say, for the moment, that it is quite important; your skills will be pushed to the limit. Indeed, some of you are uniquely qualified for your roles on this ship and the accompanying squadron.”
That didn’t sound likely, the spy thought. Lightning was a modern heavy cruiser . . . and he’d been in the reserve years before she’d left the shipyard for the first time. Unless, of course, the XO meant to say they were expendable. The spy had few illusions about his skills compared to someone who had spent a lifetime in the Navy. They would have the chance to broaden their skills indefinitely, while his work had been limited to civilian tech. Unless they did plan to work with civilian-grade computers. It was possible, he figured, but unlikely. He rather doubted that anything civilian could match military-grade technology.
“I have one final thing to say before you are dismissed to your berths,” the XO said. “For some of you, I suggest you consider this a fresh start; for others, a reintroduction to military life. I do not have time to coddle people with behavioral problems. If you cause trouble or render yourself unfit for duty, you will spend the rest of the cruise in the brig, eating stale bread and drinking recycled water. And when we get home, I will make damn sure you’re not only dismissed from the Navy, but dumped on a penal island.”
He didn’t look to be joking, the spy considered. Most of the reservists he’d met at Piker’s Peak had been decent people, but some of the shuttle’s passengers had been drunkards or others with clear problems. The spy wondered, absently, if any of them could be used . . . then dismissed the thought in some irritation. He might be doomed, when the truth finally came out, but there was no reason to drag anyone else down with him.
His implants blinked up a message as two data packets were downloaded from the ship’s datanet: one assigning him to a berth and showing him how to reach his department, the other ordering him to report to the department head within twenty minutes. He scanned the files absently, then nodded. It wouldn’t be hard to get there in time, as long as he dumped his bag into the sleeping compartment rathe
r than unpacking it piece by piece. No one would touch it, by long tradition. The Navy couldn’t have endured otherwise.
“Dismissed,” the XO said.
The spy saluted, then joined the others as they headed for the hatch.
William shook his head in tired disbelief as the last of the newcomers walked through the hatch and out into the ship. Reservists . . . reservists and civilians and crewmen who really should have been discharged years ago. He’d barely had an opportunity to read their files, but it had been alarmingly clear that most of them were either out of date or regarded as problem children. The former might be an advantage, with so many old starships assigned to the squadron, yet the latter might be actively dangerous. He’d briefed the department heads carefully, warning them to take immediate action against any troublemakers, but he knew it wouldn’t be easy. The Marines might have to intervene if the shit hit the fan.
He cursed under his breath, then walked through the hatch himself and back up to the bridge, where a handful of new crewmen were running exercises on the tactical computers. It looked as though they were doing well, although William knew that the settings had been jacked higher than reality would allow. The enemy missiles on the simulators were several times as fast and accurate as anything they’d seen from the Theocracy, at least for the moment. In theory, it would ready the crew for any real threat; in practice, William wasn’t so sure. There was a fine line between feeling ready for anything realistic and outright overconfidence.
“Carry on,” he ordered, once the simulation had finished. “I want you to tighten up your point defense formations. You’re running the risk of allowing the enemy to overload your defenses and punch through to the flagship.”
Midshipman Travis blinked in surprise. “Sir,” he said, “I thought it was impossible to identify the flagship.”
“We managed it at Cadiz,” William reminded him. The case of hidden flagships was another prewar certainty that hadn’t lasted long, once two reasonably capable interstellar powers had started shooting at each other. “And for us, it will be blindingly obvious which ship is the flagship.”
He scowled up at the near-space display. There was only one modern ship in the formation, Lightning herself. The Theocrats might be fanatics, but they weren’t stupid; it would be easy to deduce that Lightning was the flagship. She was both the only modern ship in the formation and the only one with a hope of surviving a close engagement if the enemy got lucky. He’d toyed with the idea of moving fleet command to one of the older ships, but the disadvantages outweighed the advantages. Besides, none of them were set up to serve as a flagship.
And neither are we, he thought as he walked over to the captain’s office and pushed the buzzer. We had real problems commanding 7th Fleet when we led the remaining ships back to Cadiz.
The hatch opened. William stepped inside, catching sight of Captain Falcone chewing a strand of her hair as she bent over a set of reports on her desk. It made her look absurdly young, although there was a harder edge to her movements these days. She glanced up as he entered, then waved a hand at the chair facing her desk. William stepped over to it and sat down, waiting patiently for her to finish the report. There would be time enough to discuss his concerns with her once she was done.
“Commander,” she said, tiredly. “Do you know Rose MacDonald, Observer to Sandy McNeal?”
“No,” William said. “Well, I know McNeal by reputation, but I’ve never heard of MacDonald at all.”
The captain gave him an odd look, then flushed with embarrassment as she realized her mistake. William frowned inwardly; they might have shared a homeworld, but he’d never actually met McNeal, let alone spoken with him. There were untold thousands of emigrants from Hebrides who’d fled to the Commonwealth in hopes of a better life. But for the captain, who’d grown up in the aristocracy, it wasn’t implausible that she might know the prime minister and his cabinet personally. She’d certainly be familiar with them.
“She’s been assigned to us as an observer,” the captain explained, picking up one of the datapads and passing it to him. “Apparently she’s here to observe how the different nationalities interact as part of the squadron.”
“It isn’t as if we have time to worry about where people come from,” William said, scanning the datapad quickly. Rose MacDonald—she might be related to the MacDonald family he knew, although the clan was large enough that the connection might be meaningless—had permission to go anywhere and watch anything, although she had no formal authority over the mission. “And if all she wants is to observe . . .”
“It’s a complication,” the captain said. “And one I could have done without, at the moment.”
William nodded in bitter agreement. They’d been sent the dregs of the service, either because they were rated as expendable or because their former commanding officers didn’t have a clue about Operation Knife. Some of them would shine, given a chance; others would need to be thumped, then dumped into the brig if they didn’t grow into trustworthy crewmen. And quite a few of them were newcomers—men and women who hadn’t been born on Tyre . . .
“We’re not going to be the poster child for integration,” he commented sourly. “Apart from me, there aren’t many officers who don’t come from Tyre.”
“I know,” the captain said. “I’ve tried explaining that to the Admiralty, but the department that wants her to accompany us doesn’t know what we’re doing and the department that planned the operation doesn’t have the authority to tell them to go to hell. I did try suggesting she go to the front and observe 6th Fleet . . .”
Her voice trailed off. “She’s going to be a problem,” she added after a moment. “I’d like you to take personal charge of her, but you have too much else to do. She needs to be supervised by someone senior enough not to be pressured into making poor decisions.”
William thought about it quickly. He didn’t know Rose MacDonald, but he did know she’d have no trouble finding evidence that integration wasn’t working very well if she chose to look. The latest classes from Piker’s Peak included quite a few officers who hadn’t been born on Tyre, yet it would be years before the Tyre-born no longer dominated the upper ranks. Hell, his own career suggested that integration was a major problem. He should have had a command years ago.
But I wasn’t trained at Piker’s Peak, he thought. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it had to be faced. He lacked the training all Commonwealth officers were given as a matter of course. I was an adult before the Commonwealth discovered my world.
“I could spare time for her once we’re underway,” he said reluctantly. “Maybe not much, but enough to keep her happy. If she’s from Hebrides, she’ll understand that the world can’t bend to her will.”
“She’s a politician,” the captain said. “They all believe they can bend the world to their will.”
William smiled. “Does she actually know where we’re going?”
“Not from what she told me,” the captain said. “Officially, we’re on our way to the other side of the Commonwealth, as far from Theocratic space as possible. She may be under the impression she will have time to observe us away from the fires of war. Only a handful of people know the truth, so I doubt she’s learned any differently since.”
“Then I will take her in hand once we depart,” William said. “I’m sure she won’t be much of a problem once she understands where we’re actually going. She won’t even insist on being dropped off somewhere.”
“Not that we could,” the captain said. She cleared her throat. “And the newcomers?”
“We should have everyone we’re going to get now,” William said. “I’ve spread out some of our experienced crews to train up the newcomers, so we should be up to speed by the time we reach the border. The improved tactical exercises have been sharpening their skills, Captain; the only real danger is too many officers and crew believing the cover story. I’ve had to speak sharply to a couple of officers who were slacking off on the assumption we wouldn’t
be seeing any action.”
The captain nodded. “Any disciplinary problems, so far?”
“Nothing major, Captain,” William assured her. “A couple of minor incidents during basic training; I dealt with them at once and I doubt they will recur. I’ve also ordered all illicit stills to be shut down for the duration of the voyage, apart from the one the chief engineer is running. There won’t be any other source of alcohol while we’re underway.”
The captain looked disapproving, but nodded reluctantly. William didn’t blame her; alcohol had caused too many problems on the Navy’s starships, yet there was no way to prevent enterprising crewmen from setting up their own stills. Having one semi-legal still operating in the hands of someone who could be trusted to ensure that no one got enough to get smashed out of their minds would be safer than banning it completely. He had no illusions about just how well stills could be hidden if someone decided it was worth the risk of setting one up. Crewmen tended to be very enterprising when money and alcohol was involved.
“And the minor incidents?”
“A handful of reservists objected to working on the older ships because their skills would be out of date,” William said. He’d heard that some people only joined the Navy to develop skills and then take them into the civilian market, but it was the first time he’d ever heard anyone blatantly complaining the Navy was giving him or her the wrong training. “I dealt with them curtly and the matter should be settled.”
The captain smiled. “Thank you,” she said. She glanced down at another datapad, then looked back up at him. Her blue eyes met his. “Do you want command of any of the smaller ships?”
William hesitated. If he’d been offered command a year ago, or even a month ago, he would have accepted at once. He knew he had the skills to handle it. But now . . . now, he couldn’t help wondering if the captain needed him more on Lightning than commanding one of the older ships. It was galling; he could have command, if he wanted it, at the cost of leaving a commanding officer he’d grown to respect without a strong right arm.
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind #2) Page 8
