“I believe there are very real dangers in advancing forward too far, too fast,” Admiral Fitzwilliam countered. “You have read Superiority?”
John - and most of the other officers in the compartment - nodded. The short story had been required reading at the Academy, even though not all of them had agreed with its premise or the outcome. One interstellar power had thrown its resources into developing newer and better weapons of war; the other had continued to build the same old starships and weapons, even when the first power accomplished some remarkable achievements. But the newer weapons and innovations had never quite worked out in practice and there had been no time to get the bugs out. The first power, which should have won the war handily, had suffered a humiliating defeat.
“We are not talking about taking a new device and sticking it on every ship in the Royal Navy,” Admiral Soskice said.
“But you are talking about cutting starfighter squadrons and redirecting resources to smaller ships,” Admiral Fitzwilliam pointed out. “We still have a need for starfighters and fleet carriers, Admiral. And we cannot assume that we should cut a whole spectrum of weapons systems because conditions for deploying them are no longer ideal.”
John sighed, inwardly. The hell of it was that both admirals had a point. Starfighter pilots had taken the brunt of losses during the war - John had heard that only ten percent of the Royal Navy’s pre-war pilots had survived the fighting - and most of them had died because the Tadpoles had changed the rules. But, at the same time, humanity’s starfighters had managed to adapt and fight back. The starfighters hadn't been remotely useless.
“We are not the only ones developing new weapons and tactics,” Admiral Soskice said, coldly. “The Americans, the French, the Chinese ... they’re all working on developing new weapons they can use against the Tadpoles - or us! We should not allow ourselves to become complacent!”
“We’re not becoming complacent,” Fitzwilliam said. “The problem is introducing newer technology without causing major problems or accidentally creating new weaknesses in our ships and defences. Like Warspite’s first cruise.”
John cursed under his breath as all eyes turned to him. “Warspite lost power when she jumped through a tramline,” Fitzwilliam continued. “How many other problems would be caused by a failure to anticipate the demands of real life?”
Admiral Soskice glowered. “Captain Naiser, just what happened when Warspite lost power?”
Asshole, John thought, crossly. He’d known the admiralty was divided between those who wanted to experiment with newer weapons and those who wanted to rely on tried and tested technology, but he hadn't wanted to get caught in the middle. Is there an answer I can give that will satisfy both of you?
“A problem developed that would have been caught, if there had been more time to test the drive,” he said, smoothly. There was no point in going over the full details, not now. One of the people responsible was dead and the other trapped on Pegasus. “I don’t believe it proves or disproves either of your positions.”
Admiral Fitzwilliam’s eyes narrowed. “Explain,” he ordered.
John winced, inwardly. When would he learn to keep his mouth shut?
“Warspite should have had several weeks to run proving trials before leaving the Sol System,” he said. “That would have given us the time to catch all of those problems, as well as testing the tactical systems under combat conditions. We would have been able to integrate the newer systems into both the ship herself and the crew’s awareness of just what they can do.”
He took a breath, then went on. “There’s nothing wrong with newer technology,” he added, slowly. “But we need to test it thoroughly, to see how it works in combat and discover the flaws, before we can integrate it fully into our tactical planning. In this case” - he waved a hand towards the holographic simulation, which had frozen just after the cruiser exploded - “the first encounter with plasma cannons was a nasty fright and the enemy scored a victory, but we adapted our tactics to compensate. It would be unwise of us to rely solely on plasma weapons to defend our ships.”
“Indeed,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said. “Do go on.”
John had the uneasy sense he was being allowed to gather rope to hang himself, but he pressed on regardless. “Starfighters also do more than merely strike at other capital ships,” he continued. “They do long-range recon, dog-fighting with other starfighters and a number of other tasks. There is no reason to remove every starfighter from the fleet just because the rules of the game have changed. They may change again tomorrow.”
“They will change again,” Admiral Soskice said. “Change is the one constant in the universe.”
He nodded towards the simulation, sharply. “As a starfighter pilot yourself,” he added, “how would you handle such a situation?”
“Keep moving randomly,” John said. “Use decoys and drones, if I had them; spoofing software and ECM, just to make it harder for the enemy to target me. All tactics that we used against the Tadpoles.”
“Thousands of starfighter pilots were killed,” Admiral Soskice said.
“They knew the risks,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said, cuttingly. “We all know the risks.”
John grimaced as Admiral Soskice glared at his nemesis. It was a non-too-subtle reminder that Admiral Soskice hadn't seen any real action, not outside simulators. And simulators could be altered to tip the balance in favour of one side or the other, if someone was prepared to take the time to try. God knew there were hundreds of trainees who enjoyed flying down the Death Star trench in the simulator, pretending to be Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader, even though it wasn't particularly realistic.
“Five years ago, we were taught that our technology was not the best in the universe,” Admiral Soskice said. His voice was under tight control. “Since then, we have struggled to catch up with an enemy who showed a remarkable skill in producing newer weapons and tactics at terrifying speed. We dare not allow them to get past us again.”
“And I say, again, that we are not opposed to new technology,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said. “We are just opposed to rewriting doctrine and decommissioning whole weapons systems because of the latest shiny thing. And that is what you are planning to do. You want us to stop building fleet carriers and starfighters and concentrate on small cruisers. Which is all well and good, until we run into a threat that requires fleet carriers and starfighters to handle!”
They’re both right, John thought. Assuming the Tadpoles hadn't started building their superdreadnaught until they’d run into Ark Royal, they’d put a colossal starship into service in less than a year. Given that it took humanity five years to build a fleet carrier from scratch, it was not a pleasant thought. The Tadpoles might be quietly rebuilding their fleet and developing newer weapons even now. But neither of them will admit the other has a point.
He listened as the argument raged backwards and forwards, neither Admiral conceding a point. It was deeply frustrating, as well as worrying, that the tension had actually exploded into an argument in front of a small army of junior officers. The First Space Lord had told him, before Warspite had left Earth for the first time, that the disagreement between the two sides was already affecting operational readiness, but he hadn’t really believed it was so bad.
You should have known better, he reproved himself, as he glanced wistfully at the hatch. Several smaller arguments had broken out between various junior officers, all of whom looked prepared to bicker like children for their superior officers. Military protocol seemed to have gone out the airlock. You had to relieve your XO because she was utterly unsuited to the post.
His wristcom bleeped. “Captain Naiser,” a voice said, “report to the First Space Lord at 1500.”
John glanced at the time - it was 1430 - then made his way towards the hatch, which hissed open at his approach. Behind him, the argument had gotten louder; he sighed in relief as he stepped through the hatch and it closed behind him, cutting off the sound. Outside, a dark-haired woman was waiting, weari
ng a Commander’s uniform. John smiled, despite himself, as he recognised Juliet Watson, Warspite’s former XO. Unlike other officers who had been effectively demoted, she didn't seem to bear any resentment.
“Captain,” she said. She definitely looked happier, now she was in the labs on Nelson Base, rather than a cruiser in deep space. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”
“Thank you,” John said. Someone had evidently been coaching her in social graces; absently, he wondered who and why. “It’s good to see you again too.”
“I’m just waiting for the Admiral,” Juliet said. “Is he going to be long?”
“They’ve probably started throwing chairs and tables by now,” John said. He couldn't help being reminded of a bar fight he’d been caught up in at Southampton, years ago. “Is it anything important?”
“Just to brief him on the progress of our latest experiment,” Juliet said. “There should definitely be a way to generate a tramline from scratch.”
John frowned. “Isn’t that meant to be highly classified?”
Juliet shrugged. John snorted, inwardly. Admiral Soskice’s inexperience was showing; Juliet should have been assigned to a lab somewhere in deep space, rather than a warship or even Nelson Base. It was a great deal more secure than the Admiralty on Earth, true, but there were still too many officers and crewmen with low-level security clearances passing through the space station. And Juliet herself would have been happy with a large computer, a simulator and a handful of trained minions to help her with her research.
“I need to visit the First Space Lord soon,” he said, instead. “You’ll probably have to wait for the Admiral. Do you want to wait in the officers’ lounge?”
Juliet nodded, vaguely. They walked along the corridor and through a large metal hatch. Into the officers’ lounge. It definitely looked nicer than anything set aside for enlisted personnel, John decided; one wall bulkhead covered with medals, while another held a large portrait of the King and Princess Elspeth. A third held a porthole that showed Earth rotating below the giant station. A steward materialised from behind the bar, datapad in hand, ready to take their order. John ordered tea for himself; Juliet hesitated, then ordered water. The steward bowed and retreated.
“I heard from Mike,” Juliet said, as they waited for their drinks. “He was asking if I wanted to meet for drinks.”
John concealed his amusement with an effort. Mike Johnston was Warspite’s Chief Engineer ... and one of Juliet’s few supporters on the ship. It was alarmingly clear he was sweet on her, something that would have upset the Admiralty if they’d ever found out about it. John rather doubted that anything had happened, but it was another sign that Juliet had been completely unsuited for her post. On the other hand, he had to admit, she would probably have had more trouble if she hadn't had Johnston’s support. Very few people would have risked pissing off the Chief Engineer.
“You should,” he said, finally. The steward returned and placed two mugs in front of them, then retreated behind the bar. “It would do you good to get out of the lab for an hour or so.”
Juliet smiled, vaguely. “That’s what they told me when I was sent to your ship,” she said.
“I suppose they would have done,” John said. He’d always hated being told that suffering was good for his character, if only because he doubted it was true. “You’ve been doing better here?”
“There aren’t so many distractions here,” Juliet said. “I can keep poking away at the problems that interest me, without having to worry about anything else.”
And as long as you stay productive, the Royal Navy will be happy to take care of you, John thought. He’d heard all sorts of rumours, most of which were unbelievable, about just how carefully the Royal Navy looked after its tame geniuses. And if you do come up with a way to create a tramline, they’ll remember you longer than Einstein or Tesla.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, instead. “Are you going to see Mike?”
Juliet blushed like a schoolgirl. John couldn't help thinking she looked pretty, even though he played for the other team. It was hard to imagine her having a serious relationship with anyone, but maybe it would be good for her. She simply wasn't very experienced at relating to other people; indeed, she preferred machines to her fellow humans.
“I might,” she said. “I don’t know. When are you leaving the system?”
“I don’t know yet,” John said. Warspite had been held at Earth for six months, since her return from Vesy. He’d spent most of the time defending himself against various admirals, all of whom seemed intent on second-guessing every decision he’d made. “I think the First Space Lord might be about to tell me. I’ll let you know so you can make up your mind about going for drinks.”
“Thank you, sir,” Juliet said. “I’m supposed to remain here for the foreseeable future.”
“We won’t be,” John predicted. He glanced at his wristcom, then rose. “I have no doubt something is about to change, yet again.”
Chapter Two
“Bloody protesters,” the driver swore.
Ambassador Joelle Richardson leaned forward as the government car turned the corner and almost ran into a mob of protesters blocking the gates to Downing Street. She’d heard reports of protests, but she hadn't really believed them, not since large parts of London had been rendered uninhabitable by the alien bombardment. And yet, there were clearly two groups of protesters marching up and down in front of the centre of British Government; one carrying signs demanding access to Vesy, the other demanding that British resources be lavished on Britain, rather than alien scum.
She sucked in her breath as a line of policemen worked to clear enough of a path through the crowds for the car to reach the gates. Political protest was far from unknown in Britain, even after the bombardments, but there was an edge to the protests that worried her. The British population hadn't felt truly threatened since the Troubles, since all hell had broken loose on British streets; now, with large swathes of the country in ruins, it looked as though the public was torn in half. She hoped - prayed - that both protest movements weren't much larger than they seemed, because if they were ...
It could be the end of us, she thought, bitterly. Hundreds of thousands of people had been displaced by the bombardment, their homes destroyed by tidal waves; no one really knew for sure just how many people had been killed outright. No government could take the risk of sending aid to foreign countries, let alone non-human creatures. It could lead to civil war.
She peered at the nearest signs as the crowds parted to allow the car to pass. One read HELP OUR STAR BROTHERS, while another read GET THEM BEFORE THEY GET US and NO BLOOD FOR VESY. Joelle sighed, then glanced at a third sign. NO MORE DEAD CHILDREN. A fourth read DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING. She puzzled over what it meant for a moment, then put it aside. It probably wasn't important.
The car passed through the gates and came to a halt outside Ten Downing Street. Joelle braced herself as the driver opened the door, breaking the soundproof seal and allowing the two intermingled chants to reach her ears. It was hard to be sure what they were saying - both groups were shouting loudly enough to deafen an elephant - but she was quite sure that everyone in the area could hear the racket. They’d definitely know the protesters were upset about something.
She sighed to herself, then picked up her briefcase and walked through the door into Ten Downing Street. Silence fell as the door closed - she allowed herself a moment of relief - then passed her briefcase to a uniformed officer waiting just inside the door. He took it, waved a scanner over her body, then motioned for her to pass through the inner door, where a young man dressed in a pinstripe suit was waiting. Joelle nodded to him - she recognised the Prime Minister’s latest assistant from the news - and allowed him to lead her up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor. Ten Downing Street might look like a small house from the outside, but inside the old houses had long since been merged together.
“It must be a relief to move back here,” s
he said, as they passed a long series of portraits, each one showing a previous Prime Minister. “I thought it would be longer before Downing Street was reopened.”
“The PM was insistent that we move back as soon as possible,” the aide said. “He thought it would demonstrate the resilience of the British Government.”
Joelle frowned, inwardly. She had her doubts; London wasn't what it had been, any more than the rest of the country. And yet, she had to admit it was a powerful symbol. Britain was a country firmly rooted in the past, in a history that was long and richly detailed; returning to the very roots of parliamentary democracy was a sign that all would return to normal. But after the bombardment, and the discovery of alien life, was anything ever truly going to be normal again?
Her briefcase was waiting for her as they walked into the antechamber. It would have been searched by a security officer cleared for classified materials, although in truth there was little inside that wasn't public knowledge. The week she’d spent in Geneva, before being recalled, was already the subject of endless discussion on the planetary datanet, as well as hundreds of programmes discussing the pros and cons of working together to confront the Vesy. Not that the Vesy really needed confronting, it was true. In the end, talks had floundered on the very simple fact that the Vesy were no threat to humanity. Or, for that matter, to the Tadpoles.
A Savage War Of Peace (Ark Royal Book 5) Page 2
