The Landfall Campaign (The Nameless War)

by Edmond Barrett

  Chapter Four

  Scarecrow

  2nd September 2066

  Commander Faith Willis, commanding officer of the Battle Fleet cruiser Hood, looked unhappily around the personnel receiving area of her ship, noting a myriad of imperfections. Paint was peeling from every bulkhead, sending small eye annoying fragments drifting around the chamber. There was something black and unhealthy looking growing down one of the water pipes and even by the closed-loop standards of a starship, there was a strange smell in the air. Her Chief Engineer, David Guinness, noticed her inspection and visibly winced. He needn’t have worried, as she wasn’t about to take it out on him. Prettying up the ship hadn’t exactly been a priority before or after Alpha Centauri. Just trying to keep the bloody thing running was a fulltime job. It would have helped if the side party could have distracted from the assorted signs of dilapidation, but in all honesty they added to it. Since the ship didn’t run to much in the way of laundry facilities, the personnel waiting in the receiving area looked more like a collection of survivors than a ship’s crew. Their captain didn’t look much better. It was the first time Willis had a reason to wear her dress uniform since taking command and it had developed a lot of new creases. It didn’t seem to fit as well as it had either - definitely looser round the waist. A woman of average height and slender build with auburn hair cropped short, Willis was pretty in a delicate sort of way that people didn’t expect in a military officer. Still, anyone who had served with her soon learnt that this was a very competent officer, who didn’t suffer fools.

  In the run up to Alpha Centauri, the fleet had desperately reactivated anything and everything that would pass as a warship. One of the oldest of those ships was the Admiral Class Cruiser, Hood. With the immediate crisis past, Willis had been expecting to any day receive orders to put Hood back in mothballs, something she had mixed feelings about.

  Hood was a ship with a long and illustrious history. But the important word in that statement was ‘long’. By any rational standards she was a relic, in every sense of the word. She deserved pride of place in a museum, but sure as hell not a position in the battle line. From a personal and coldly pragmatic point of view, Willis knew that the sooner she got off Hood, the better her chances of surviving the war. But equally Hood was also Willis’s first command and in all likelihood, reassignment would not mean another one. The orders she’d actually received however, were the last thing she had expected. Hood would be taking onboard a flag officer, before she and the other surviving ship of Cruiser Squadron Eighteen redeployed. To Dryad.

  “Bridge to Captain, the Admiral’s shuttle is on final approach Ma’am,” squawked her intercom earpiece.

  “Thank you Bridge,” she murmured. “All hands, attention on deck,” she snapped as she pushed herself down until the magnets in the soles of her boots engaged the deck plating.

  There were a series of clunks from the opposite side of the airlock before the light about it turned green and a rating opened the hatch. By the economy of his movements and the way he instinctively reached for handholds, the man who pulled himself through the lock immediately revealed himself to be an old space hand.

  “Ten-shun!” called out the Bosun.

  Around the receiving area the crew saluted sharply.

  The fleet had based much of its courtesies on the traditions of the dirtside navies, but when everyone standing saluting was relying on magnets to keep them on the deck, some allowances had to be made for micro-gravity. Such was the case now as Willis remained where she was and allowed her new superior to come to her.

  Rear Admiral Gelman Shibanova brought himself to a halt in front of her and pushed himself down.

  “Commander Faith Willis, welcome aboard the Hood, sir,” she said offering her hand.

  “Thank you Commander. I’m glad to be here,” he replied as he shook it. His Russian accent was strong but clear. His grip was exactly what she expected of the man - firm, just short of being uncomfortable. Short, with massively broad shoulders and legs like tree trunks, he looked like he could have made a very successful rugby player.

  Shibanova looked around the receiving area with interest. Willis kept her face impassive, but inwardly winced. The Admiral then pushed himself off and started to do an impromptu inspection of the side party, with Willis following in his wake. At every individual, he’d stop and with a smile, speak a few words before moving on. It couldn’t have been lost on him that the appearance of the crew wasn’t up to the fleet’s usual standards. But despite that he looked well pleased when he reached the end of the line.

  “All of you, I am delighted to be able to join you today,” he announced with every sign of sincerity. “It is a proud moment to join a crew, which has added another fine chapter to a ship that already had a glorious history. I am proud to become your admiral and I hope that I can rely on you to uphold the standards the fleet has come to expect.” Turning to Willis he added, “Well Commander, I believe we had best attend to business.”

  “Yes sir,” she replied. “If you’d like to follow me.”

  Shebanova sat down heavily on the cabin’s bed, which doubled as its couch. Willis turned the cabin chair round to face him. The Admiral sighed and rubbed his legs.

  “My knees Commander, they do not thank me for returning to gravity. My stomach on the other hand, it is always glad to start pulling Gs again.”

  “I must admit sir, I’ve always been lucky with space sickness, although I do lose all sense of taste pretty much immediately. Speaking of which, would you like tea or coffee, sir?”

  “Coffee, please. You on the other hand, you look like a tea drinker, Commander.”

  “That’s an easy one sir. I am Northern Irish after all,” she replied with a smile before activating her intercom. “Captain to galley, tea and coffee to be sent to the main cabin.”

  They were obviously well prepped since the drinks arrived almost immediately in the ship’s fine china. Before he poured his, Shebanova paused to admire the delicate cup. There was gold edging round the rim and beneath that, the ship’s motto in Latin, which loosely translated proclaimed: Striking I Defend.

  “I’m glad to see these are still here. I thought they might have been lost when the ship was decommissioned. Captain Bezos bought them out of his own pocket. I was a junior lieutenant on board at the time.”

  “I think they were forgotten, sir. A few pieces of the set were casualties of the battle, although I think someone in engineering is trying to glue them back together,” she replied before wondering why the hell she was telling her new commander about broken crockery.

  But he was nodding as if it were highly important data.

  “I was impressed by your performance, Commander. I was busy with my own ship of course, but I did manage to keep an eye on you on the scope. You did well in managing both immediate concerns and wider responsibilities.

  Willis nodded but made no reply. It was still all too easy to remember the sense of desperation, as she tried to cover a damaged friendly ship, while staying in touch with a fleet that was not waiting for them.

  “Now Commander, I expect you are wondering about our new assignment.”

  “Yes sir. I was informed that we will be joining the force at Dryad.”

  He shook his head as his face took on a more serious expression.

  “You were misinformed, Commander. Cruiser Squadron Eighteen will not be joining the force at Dryad. It will be the force at Dryad, in its entirety.

  Willis felt her jaw drop.

  “Sir, there’s only us and Onslaught left!” she objected.

  “Yes for the time being. I have been informed that the Cyclone and Typhoon should be operational within another week or two. Furthermore, the Monsoon and the Thunder will be towed out to Dryad, to use for spare parts.”

  Willis knew of all four ships. Like Hood, they were first generation starships, all relics of the Contact War, but unlike her ship, these were the ones they hadn’t managed to get going ahead of Alpha Centauri
. Monsoon and Thunder had already been part cannibalised. Hood had more than a few pieces from them herself.

  “No modern ships at all?” she asked.

  “Sadly not,” he replied before taking a sip from his coffee. “The Nameless are obviously the main concern. Then there is the requirement to keep an eye on the Aèllr Confederacy. We are unfortunately at the wrong end of a very long list of priorities.”

  “Isn’t Headquarters worried about the Rizr?”

  “Yes. But they are more worried about the Nameless and the Aèllr. As I said, it is a question of priorities. Where there was once an entire fleet, now there will be only four tired old ships.”

  Willis examined the Admiral carefully over the top of her cup. Was there a hint of bitterness in that last sentence? She wasn’t sure. When she’d got his name, she’d looked up as much about Shebanova as was available on public record. Due to persistent health problems he’d retired from the fleet ten years before after reaching the rank of commodore. The same rush of activity that had put Willis on Hood had seen Shebanova take command of the Fortitude, the fleet’s first post-Contact War battleship. Like Hood she’d been in mothballs when the war started, but unlike Willis’s ship, she was still considered useful for frontline work. It must have been quite a kick in the teeth to have got her through battle, and then have her taken away. Shebanova’s establishment rank of commodore was sufficiently senior to command a small cruiser squadron. She wondered whether a hostilities only promotion to Rear Admiral was as much about sweetening the pill as any command requirements.

  “We are going to have to be cunning Commander. That is the truth of the matter. The Second Fleet always had the advantage of overwhelming strength. If the Riri or any other Tample nation moved against us they could have been crushed, individually or combined. Now we don’t have that luxury, so we must be more clever.”

  “We’re going to have to use a lot of misdirection. There may be things we can use at Dryad.”

  “I see you’re already thinking Commander. That is good. I can see we are going to work well together.”

  11th September 2066

  Willis let out a barely perceptible sigh of relief as the ships of the Eighteenth Cruiser Squadron re-entered real space at the edge of the Dryad solar system. Ahead of the ships, the weak Dryad star glinted. On the main bridge display, the passives started to bring up the positions of the system’s half dozen major planetary bodies.

  “Ready to become a ship’s captain again Commander?” Admiral Shibanova asked quietly from behind her.

  Hood had once been the fleet’s flagship. On both the bridge in the centrifuge and the one in the conning tower there was a space for a second command chair, to give a flag officer somewhere to sit. Those chairs had been removed to make room once Hood’s days as a flagship came to an end. But now that the ship once again had an Admiral the chairs were back. Willis couldn’t help but wonder why on Earth the second command chair had been placed to the left of her chair but about fifty centimetres behind. It meant the Admiral was effectively looking over the Captain’s shoulder. Some designer’s idea of social commentary perhaps? Whatever it was, it was a pain in the neck, literally as well as metaphorically.

  “Very much so, sir,” she replied. “It’s been a long trip here.”

  “Yes, longer than we expected. I think next time we’d be better off towing Onslaught,” the Admiral agreed. “Carry on Commander.”

  “Yes sir. Commander Horan, contact the tug, I want us free and clear to navigate within twenty minutes. Communications, pass my thanks to Captain Tew and wish them safe journey home. Navigator, make the calculations to jump to Dryad Two.” Even as she gave out the stream of orders Willis could feel the subtle vibration as the ship’s generators started to spin up. After three and a half weeks hanging under a tug ship Hood was finally coming back to life. It had certainly been a long trip though.

  Hood, like most ships of her generation, had been designed for operation within Earth’s solar system and simply didn’t have the fuel or heatsink capacity for interstellar journeys. Most of the ships of the squadron therefore had to be towed to Dryad. The one exception was the old raiding cruiser Onslaught, which did have the range to make the passage under her own power. In theory. In practice the raider started suffering mechanical problems almost as soon as they left Earth. What was scheduled as a brief refuelling stop at the fleet depot halfway to Dryad became a week-long stay as Onslaught’s engineers wrestled with the ship’s antique machinery. For days the rest of the squadron were left sitting on their hands as Commander Nef insisted his engineers could cope. While the Admiral’s communications to Onslaught remained polite, he finally lost patience and in a very calm manner dispatched Hood’s Chief Engineer. Guinness was a re-enlisted retiree who remembered the days when the equipment was state of the art and managed to bandage the problem within a day.

  The delay did at least give the tugs towing the cruisers Typhoon and Cyclone time to catch up after previously falling a week behind. As a result they had arrived at Dryad as one group. For Willis however, Onslaught’s problems further illustrated those of the entire squadron. The ships were old, their machinery obsolete, clapped out and, worse of all, unfamiliar to the crews that were supposed to work it. One hand on the controls and the other on the instruction manual was not a good way to fly a starship.

  “Skipper, we’re ready to detach from the tug,” Commander Horan reported.

  “Thank you, Commander,” she replied before switching on her intercom. “Bridge to Engineering. Chief, how are we doing back there?”

  “The reactors are online and producing power,” Guinness’s voice crackled back across the link. “The generators are spun up so we are ready to detach from the tug’s power grid. Engines One, Three and Four are available for thrust.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” she replied before breaking the connection.

  It was another unwanted reminder of the state of her command. They’d blown out Engine Two just getting to the battle at Alpha Centauri. Guinness had managed to resuscitate it afterwards but a very firm suggestion was passed forwards to the bridge that it be regarded as strictly for emergency use only, and even then not to count on it.

  “Releasing docking clamps in two minutes. Tug will be moving upwards and away,” Horan called out.

  “Understood. Helm, when released use docking thrusters to move us downwards and away.”

  “Understood.”

  “Releasing clamps in ten.”

  Willis flicked her intercom to ship wide.

  “All hands, this is the bridge, prepare for docking release.”

  From the outer hull came a series of echoing clunks as the tug’s mag-clamps released their grip on Hood. On the main display the merged signals of the tug and Hood started to separate.

  “Captain, we have separation from tug of five hundred metres and opening,” the helmsman announced.

  “Signal from tug: ‘Wishing you an uneventful tour’,” the communications officer called out.

  Willis was pleased to see that Hood was the first ship to get underway. Within fifteen minutes the whole squadron was formed up. She could see the tugs on the main display, already several thousand kilometres away. Soon they’d be spinning their jump drives back up as they began their journey back to Earth.

  “I would have liked to have retained the tugs as part of my command to give us some degree of strategic mobility,” Shibanova said quietly before shrugging. “It wasn’t to be.”

  “We never know what might be assigned to us in a few months, sir,” Willis said.

  “Hmm, best not to make too many optimistic assumptions on that point. Still one or two post-war cruisers would make a difference,” he replied. “However in the immediate term we must look towards training. Ship handling is not good. That is no slur upon any officer or crewmember. They are not used to their ships. I will be drawing up a training schedule that will give them that opportunity.” Shibanova stood up. “Commander, as soon the squadron
is ready, take us to Dryad Two. The sooner we get started the better.”

  ___________________________

  Chief Engineer Guinness whistled cheerfully as he allowed himself to drift along the starboard engine room’s primary access way, making notes in his computer pad as he did so and drawing up the maintenance schedule for the week ahead. Even when new the Hood’s machinery had demanded a lot of attention, but now… the phrase ‘running battle’ barely did it justice. With so much to maintain it was easy to get swamped. That was exactly what had happened on board Onslaught, where they hadn’t prioritised properly and that ship’s chief engineer was clearly way out of his depth. After he’d returned to Hood from Onslaught, the Admiral had requested a report on the competence of the ship’s engineering team. Guinness hadn’t particularly wanted to cast aspersions on others but the Admiral had insisted. If he was any judge, Onslaught’s chief would soon be finding himself reassigned back to Earth. Not the sort of thing you got thanked for. That aside it was still good to be under way again. There was nothing colder and sadder than a powered down engine room.

  Rounding one of the radiation barriers Guinness found two ratings struggling with a bag. He recognised both as reservists, who were both supposed to be off duty.

  “Hello, what are you two doing?”

  Both had been so intent on their task they hadn’t seen him approach. They jumped and the bag slipped. One of them swore profusely as a puff of dust escaped.

  “Thought you two were supposed to be catching some Zs?”

  “Yeah, well we’ve spent all day next to this thing Chief,” one of them replied, tapping the life support vent. “It’s a bit manky and we thought we’d try to do something about it.”

  It certainly was. Since the only gravitational effect outside the centrifuge was from acceleration, the air recycling vents tended to hoover up all the dust, food fragments and other crud in the air. This vent wasn’t by any means the worst he’d seen. Regular crews tended to get used to it, but these were reservists, not as accustomed to the less savoury aspects of space travel.