Ark Royal 2: The Nelson Touch (4 page)

Admiral Smith and James exchanged glances.  It was true enough that some systems were just useless for anything other than transit points, but the aliens would almost certainly picket them anyway, just to make sure no one tried to sneak in through the backdoor.  Humanity might have been caught by surprise by the alien FTL technology, yet the aliens wouldn't make the same mistake themselves.  Come to think of it, he knew, quite a few such systems were settled by outcast groups that wanted nothing to do with the rest of humanity.  The aliens might have similar groups in their territory.

“It does have its risks,” the First Space Lord conceded.  “But this might be our best chance to hit the enemy right where it hurts.”

He paused, then nodded to the Prime Minister.  “The fleet will be assembled over the next fortnight,” he said.  “Once the fleet is ready, we can launch the operation at once.”

“We will need to train and exercise together,” Admiral Smith said.  “Even now, there are differences in our operational protocols.  We can’t afford a communications breakdown in the heat of battle.”

“You’ll have all the time you want,” the Prime Minister said.  “I don’t think I need to tell you, any of you, that this is immensely important.  We cannot afford a defeat.”

James nodded, silently admiring the man’s nerve.  Sending even a small number of carriers to take the offensive risked denuding the defences of Earth.  If the operation failed, or the aliens mounted their own offensive before they realised that
Ark Royal
was in their rear, it could get very sticky.  He had a feeling that quite a few politicians had argued for an attack on New Russia instead.  But, at best, that would only liberate the planet.  It wouldn't threaten the alien homeworlds.

“We won’t let you down,” Admiral Smith said.  James knew him well enough to tell that he wasn't as confident as he sounded.  Even if everything went according to plan the operation would still be very tricky to pull off successfully.  “Does the operation have a name?”

The First Space Lord smiled.  “Operation Nelson,” he said.  “I thought it was fitting.”

Chapter Three

“They look so
young
,” Squadron Commander Rose Labara muttered.

Wing Commander Kurt Schneider couldn't disagree as he watched the trainees filing into the hall.  A handful were older, merchant crewmen who had volunteered for service with the Royal Navy, but the remainder looked as though they should still be in school.  He knew, intellectually, that the youngest of them were eighteen years old, yet his mind refused to grasp it.  The boys looked barely old enough to shave, the girls looked as though they should be more interested in dresses and makeup than flying starfighters against the enemies of humanity.

He shook his head, feeling old.  His son was seventeen and planning to join the Royal Navy next year; his daughter was only a couple of years younger.  Kurt himself was old enough to have fathered most of the trainees; he’d steered them through the compressed training sessions, knowing that many of them would be dead before the end of the year.  The Royal Navy had lost a third of its pre-war pilots in the war, including many Kurt had known personally.  There was no reason to believe that it would improve in the years to come.

Oh, they’d learned a great deal about their enemy, he knew.  They knew how the aliens fought, they knew how to counter alien tactics and technology ... and yet there was still a quiet nagging doubt.  The aliens had proven themselves to be cunning and deadly foes.  Kurt suspected their recent inactivity was not through caution, but a desire to make sure they held the advantage once again before they started their advance on Earth.  When they came, and they would, many of the young men and women in front of him would die.

He cast his eyes over the trainees sitting in the front row, the trainees who had scored the highest in simulation flying.  Sonny, a young man with an unerring knack for pulling off impossible shots; David, a merchant crewman who made up in experience what he lacked in polish; Sandra, a young girl with a flair that impressed even Rose ... and Charles Augustus, a young man with a permanent scowl on his face, yet possessing remarkable determination to crash through the course and win his flight wings.  He’d earned them, Kurt conceded, and yet there was something about Augustus’s attitude that bothered him.  Despite being his superior, he still knew almost nothing about the young man.

Rose elbowed him.  “It's time,” she said.  “Go speak to them, sir.”

Kurt nodded and stepped up onto the stage.  Five hundred pairs of eyes peered at him as he cleared his throat, wishing – once again – that he was better at giving speeches.  The trainees didn't know it, but the ceremony they’d earned had been cut short, just like the rest of their training.  They deserved better, he knew, yet they wouldn't get it.  There were few resources available to mark their graduation in the midst of a war.

The Queen came to my graduation
, he thought, sourly. 
But there are no Royals here
.

“Three months ago, you entered the Academy,” he said.  Over two
thousand
prospective pilots had entered the academy; three-fourths of them had washed out.  He wasn't sure if he should be relieved the compressed system was still excluding the unsuitable or worried that they were expelling pilots who would overcome their flaws, given time.  “Now, you have qualified as pilots.  Your assignments to carriers or orbital support bases are already being selected for you.”

A low ripple ran through the gathered trainees.  They’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that they wouldn't be true pilots until they graduated.  Now, with the course almost over, they could look forward to having their wings pinned to their uniforms and call themselves pilots.

“But you are still very young, very inexperienced,” Kurt continued.  “You have not had the recommended number of hours in actual starfighters, no matter how many hours you have spent in the simulators.  You have faced thousands of simulated aliens, yet you have faced no real danger during your training.  And you have missed out on countless elements of the pre-war training program, everything from naval protocol to naval history.

“You will be assigned to units commanded by officers who
have
had all of that,” he explained.  “They will also have had considerable experience with actually risking their lives in combat against the aliens.  You would be well advised to learn from them, all of you, and not think that you are immortal and invincible.  Because, I assure you, the aliens will happily take advantage of any overconfidence you happen to show.

“You have all done well,” he added.  “Your presence here proves that, as I think you know.  But you have a long way to go.”

He smiled at them.  “Enough of that, for the moment,” he concluded.  “If the first row would like to form an orderly line ...?”

Rose passed him the bag as the front row lined up, producing a ragged line that looked alarmingly unprofessional. Kurt sighed inwardly – standards were definitely slipping – and then opened the bag, revealing the first set of flying wings.  His own set were prominently mounted on his shoulder, a memento of his days in the Academy.  No matter what happened, he knew, they could not be legally taken from him.  Ideally, they would be passed down to his children after he died.

“Form a
proper
line,” Kurt said, in some irritation.  “And try to remember to salute your senior officers when you meet them.”

He sighed at the thought.  Military protocol, no matter what the civilians thought, was important.  It helped to build up both discipline and comradeship between officers and enlisted crewmen.  But the new pilots were very hazy on the finer points of protocol.  A number of them had had to practice saluting for weeks before they had it down to a fine art, while their responses were often wrong or badly out of place.  They meant well, he knew, but they were going to have a rough time of it.  At least the discipline problems had been weeded out early in the training period.

“Congratulations,” he said, as Sonny stepped up to Kurt.  He pinned the wings to Sonny’s shoulder, then shook the young man’s hand.  “I believe your assignment is waiting for you.”

Sonny’s eyes went wide.  “A carrier?”

“Wait and see,” Kurt said.  Ideally, he would have preferred not to send any of the trainees to a carrier, not when they lacked true experience.  But no one had bothered to ask his opinion, nor would it have mattered in any case.  The Royal Navy was desperately short of pilots.  “I think you will serve well, wherever you go.”

The next few pilots passed without a hitch, then Augustus arrived.  Kurt pinned the wings to his shoulder, then blinked in surprise as Augustus leaned forward to whisper in his ear.  “I earned this, didn't I?”

Kurt eyed him, puzzled.  “You passed the course,” he said, dryly.  Augustus was an odd young man, definitely.  He had a chip on his shoulder, yet Kurt had never seen anyone more driven to succeed.  “You earned your wings through your own efforts.”

Augustus smiled openly – the first time Kurt had ever seen such an undisguised expression on his face – and almost skipped off the stage, back to the rear of the compartment.  Kurt watched him go, then turned to the next trainee and carefully pinned her wings on her shoulder, putting Augustus out of his mind.  He would be his commanding officer’s problem, Kurt knew.  However, he was confident that Augustus would do well, even if he did lack spit and polish.

It took nearly two hours to pin the wings on all of the new pilots, but he wouldn't have passed the duty on to anyone else, even if they’d offered him a million pounds.  Finally, it was over, leaving a roomful of newly-minted pilots staring at him.  Judging by their expressions, they weren't in the mood for a long speech.  Kurt smiled as he cleared his throat. 
He
wasn't in any mood for a long speech either.

“Congratulations,” he said.  “I believe that you have been cleared for three days of leave prior to departing for your assignments.  As someone old enough to be your father” – there were some nervous titters from the pilots – “I should warn you that Luna is full of pitfalls, ready to snare unwary young idiots.  If you should happen to be planning a jaunt to Sin City, I suggest you make damn sure you can get back to the Academy if necessary.  And I strongly suggest you check their health certificates before you get into bed with anyone.”

He had to smile at some of the guilty looks.  Sin City was a semi-independent state, dedicated to drinking, gambling and prostitution.  There were few laws and even fewer morals, ensuring that anyone who went there with an open mind was rapidly enjoying whatever pleasure he wanted.  Kurt had been once, as a young pilot, and enjoyed himself more than he cared to admit.  Now, as a father of two, he would prefer to watch as Sin City burned.  But he couldn't deny his pilots the right to choose their own entertainment.

“I would also suggest that you make sure you are not late to your first assignments,” he added.  “It would make a very bad impression on your first commander – and while your records here are sealed, your active duty records are not.”

He paused.  “Good luck, all of you,” he said.  “Dismissed!”

The pilots cheered, then stampeded out of the room.  Kurt rolled his eyes – yep, they were definitely planning to visit Sin City – and then turned to look at the terminal Rose held out to him.  After a moment, he pressed his thumb against the scanner, certifying that five hundred new pilots had just graduated.  For the moment, his duties at the Academy had come to an end.

“We short-changed them, sir,” Rose said.  On duty, she was always professional.  “They deserved a bigger ceremony.”

“I know,” Kurt said, recalling his earlier thoughts.  Pre-war ceremonies had been something to see, even for enlisted crewmen.  Senior officers made an effort to attend, either as participants or just silent observers.  But now ... now, it was just him and his team of training officers.  No senior officer had even attempted to attend.  “It couldn’t be helped.”

He gave her a sidelong look, feeling his breath catch in his throat.  She was beautiful, even with her blonde hair cut short.  Their affair might have been born in tension and the shared certainty of death, but it had endured even after their return to Earth.  He felt guilty, sometimes, yet he couldn't stop himself from touching her.  His wife’s face had faded in his memory.

Rose seemed unaware of his thoughts, thankfully.  “Do you think we’ll be assigned to the next training cycle?”

“I hope not,” Kurt said.  He’d split their time between training prospective pilots and training other instructors from the major interstellar powers, sharing the lessons of war with them.  They’d improved remarkably over the last two months.  “I’ve applied to go back to war.”

The thought caused him another pang of guilt.  He’d accepted the assignment to the Luna Academy without a fight because it would have brought him closer to his family.  But his wife had declined to move to the moon, citing the dangers of alien bombardment, leaving him as isolated as he’d been in deep space.  He’d barely been able to see them once or twice since his assignment had begun.  The only advantage was that he could record messages for them and receive replies within the same day.

“Me too,” Rose admitted.  She paused.  “Was I as bad as some of these trainees?”

Kurt shrugged as he led her away from the hall and headed down towards Officer Country, where they slept when they weren't supervising the barracks.  “I haven't seen your training records,” he reminded her.  “Were you as bad as the idiot who managed to block the toilet and force us to have it fixed?  Or the one who decided to play pranks on the occupants of the other barracks?  Or the one who ...”