Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (15 page)

“Come in,” she said, as they stumbled to attention.  They’d learn many more shortcuts as their careers progressed, if they didn't decide they weren't cut out for shipboard life after all and request reassignment.  “You both did well on the last set of tactical exercises.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Midshipman Bosworth said.

“Indeed, now you have your helm badge, you can be reassigned,” Susan added.  It looked, very much, as though both midshipmen were trying not to yawn.  She didn't blame them, although she hated the thought of what her first commanding officer would have said if she’d yawned in his face.  “Midshipman Bosworth” - the young man straightened to attention - “you will be reassigned to the engineering compartment, under the supervision of Chief Finch.  I don't expect you to transfer to an engineering track, but it is vitally important that you learn the ins and outs of main engineering.”

“Aye, Commander,” Bosworth said.

“Snatch a cup of coffee, then report to Chief Finch at 1700,” Susan ordered.  “He’ll give you your duty roster for the next fortnight, barring accidents.  Good luck.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Midshipman Bosworth said.

Susan switched her attention to Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam.  The young woman was looking tired, too tired.  She was trying to hide it, obviously, but she really was pushing her limits too far.  Susan felt a flicker of concern, despite her reluctance to treat Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam as anything other than just another junior officer.  It was quite likely the poor girl would fall asleep at the worst possible moment.

“Midshipman Fitzwilliam, you have been assigned to the shuttlebay, under the supervision of the Boatswain, Chief Petty Officer Simon Williams,” she said.  She’d intended to send Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam directly to the shuttlebay, but given her current state that was likely to be dangerous.  “You’re due to report to the shuttlebay at 0800, so go back to middy country and get some sleep.  I expect you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning.”

“Aye, Commander,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said. 

“You are both relieved of all other duties until you have your new duty rosters,” Susan added, after a moment.  “Once you do, coordinate with the first middy to fit your midshipman duties around your assignment duties.  I expect you to handle any clashes calmly and professionally.”

“Aye, Commander,” Bosworth said.

Susan glanced from one to the other, wondering if she should take a closer look at just what was going on in middy country.  Technically, she had the power to inspect every compartment in the ship, but tradition said that middy country was to handle its own affairs unless they got
right
out of hand.  Tradition had its place, she had to admit, yet there were limits.  Maybe the Boatswain would make a formal complaint that would prompt an investigation.

And if that happens, it’s already too late
, she thought.  She'd heard of wardrooms that went bad, but it had never happened on her watch.  Her career might be permanently tainted, certainly if civilians wound up judging the navy. 
Something else needs to be done
.

“I will speak with you after the war games,” she said.  “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, Commander,” Bosworth said.  “Do you know if there will be any shore leave on Marina?”

Susan wondered, absently, just who’d put him up to that question.  It had only been three weeks since
Vanguard’s
crew had enjoyed two weeks of shore leave; even the midshipmen had had a chance to visit Earth, if they wished.  And even the newcomers would have enjoyed a week of leave before they made their way to
Vanguard
.  The only person who’d had their shore leave cut short was Susan herself.

“I believe the Americans have a handful of shore leave domes on the planet, but facilities are very limited,” she said, resisting the urge to tell him off.  “We will see what arrangements can be made after the war games.”

“Yes, Commander,” Bosworth said.

“Dismissed,” Susan said.

She watched them go, unable to keep herself from feeling concerned.  Midshipman Bosworth looked tired, but Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam looked
exhausted
.  It wasn't impossible that she was having problems coping with her duties - some midshipmen took on too much during their first few months on active service - yet she should have had the common sense to admit she was having problems.  Too stubborn ... or too convinced she wouldn't be believed?  It was impossible to do anything without her saying
something
...

Perhaps I will inspect middy country after all
, Susan thought. 
I could do it as part of the preparations for any formal dinners
.

The intercom chimed.  “Commander, this is Parkinson,” a voice said.  “Admiral Boskone has sent us a message packet.”

“Download it to my console,” Susan ordered.  If she was lucky, she’d be able to read it without having to ask the captain.  “Was there anything else?”

“No, Commander,” Parkinson said.  “But I have been picking up more chatter from the fleet’s communications officers.  There’s a lot of favour-trading going on.”

Susan groaned.  “Why am I not surprised?”

“I can see if they want anything from us,” Parkinson offered.  “And see if they have anything
we
might want.”

“Try,” Susan ordered.  Communications officers
talked
.  It was what they did.  “But don’t promise anything.”

She closed the channel as the message packet appeared on her terminal, already decrypting itself.  Not an eyes-only message for the captain, then.  Admiral Boskone was apparently a man of few words.  He intended to inspect
Vanguard
when she entered orbit, before the war games began.  Reading between the lines, Susan suspected he wanted to discuss his tactical concepts too.

And find out what we can do
, she added, silently. 
He won’t have seen a battleship before
.

Rising to her feet, she headed for the hatch.  The captain would have to be warned, of course, and the ship prepared for a high-ranking guest.  Somehow, she doubted the captain would stick up for his position, no matter what regulations and custom said.  She just hoped he wouldn't spend the entire time kissing the admiral’s ass.  Admiral Boskone wasn't supposed to like flattery, but she had no way to know for sure.

And lock me out of the room
, she thought. 
How am I supposed to do my job - and cover for him - if I don’t know what’s going on?

Chapter Fourteen

“You’ve been a bad girl,” Fraser said, as George stepped out of the shower.  “Going to the shuttlebay at
this
point in your career.”

George groaned.  Fraser had been mercifully absent when she’d returned to middy country and climbed into her rack - even
he
wouldn't disturb someone asleep in their rack - but he’d been coming back off-shift when she’d been woken by her bedside alarm and hurried into the shower.  Thankfully, he hadn't been around to realise she hadn't taken a shower
before
hitting her rack or he would have made a fuss about it.  Cleanliness wasn't just next to godliness, as far as the navy was concerned; it was well
above
godliness.

She reached for her underwear and pulled it on, doing her best to ignore him.  A good night’s sleep had made her feel better; she could dress, snatch something to eat and then make her way to the shuttlebay five minutes before her due time.  Fraser snorted rudely and started to undress.  He’d taken the night shift for himself and would need to catch at least six hours of sleep before his next duty shift began.

“I imagine this will look very bad on your record,” Fraser said, as George snapped her jacket into place and checked her appearance in the mirror.  At least she didn't look as though she was on the verge of collapse any longer.  “A midshipman shouldn't be flying shuttles ...”

“It could be fun,” George said, crossly.  Was he right?  She was
meant
to rotate through the different duty compartments, but the XO might have intended to give her a break between tactical and the helm.  Or, perhaps, to see how quickly she adapted when dumped into a whole new environment.  “At least I’d have the chance to go outside.”

“Mind you don’t ram the ship,” Fraser needled.  He stepped to one side as she walked past him, careful not to brush against her.  “They’ll take it out of your salary.”

George shrugged and opened the hatch.  If the shuttle
did
crash into the battleship, which was at least theoretically possible, she rather suspected no one on the craft would survive the experience.  Crews were meant to wear shipsuits and keep their helmets within easy reach, but the impact would probably vaporise the shuttle.  She stepped through the hatch, half-expecting Fraser to call her back for some more makework and was mildly surprised when the hatch closed without him saying a word.  No doubt, the nasty part of her mind noted, he thought being assigned to the shuttlebay was enough of a punishment for being born to the wrong family.

Bastard
, she thought. 
Stupid fucking bastard
.

She pushed her annoyance aside as best as she could as she walked into the wardroom.  It was swarming with crewmen, but the middy table was empty, as always.  They opened their ranks to allow her to walk up to the serving line, leaving her feeling alone in a crowd of older men and women.  It seemed absurd, somehow, to think that she had to give them orders when any one of them had more experience of shipboard life than herself.  She was surprised a few of them hadn't applied for the academy in the hopes of becoming officers themselves.

“We like recruiting mustangs,” her instructor had said.  One of her fellow cadets - Nathan, she thought - had asked why there were small numbers of older recruits scattered amongst the teenagers.  “They already know the most important lessons we teach here.”

George shook her head, ate her breakfast and hurried down to the shuttlebay.  She’d explored it once, back when Nathan and she had been learning how to navigate through the giant battleship, but now it was her duty station.  It was heaving with life; dozens of crewmen were moving shuttlecraft up to the launch hatch, while others were inspecting and repairing a number of other craft.  The shuttlebay itself, she recalled from her exploration, was actually a massive compartment in its own right, honeycombed with smaller hangers so shuttles could be worked on while others were launched into space.  There didn’t seem to be anything out of place.

She looked around, then headed for the shuttlebay office.  Regulations, if she recalled correctly, insisted that
someone
had to be on duty at all times.  If the Boatswain wasn’t there - he’d know she was coming, but he might have other duties - the deck officer would be able to page him for her.  Three crewmen - two young men and a young woman - stepped past her as she reached the hatch, chatting easily amongst themselves.  George felt a sudden stab of envy at their camaraderie.  She was getting on better with the other crewmen, but Fraser’s harassment was making it harder for her to befriend anyone. 

The hatch hissed open, revealing a cramped office overlooking the main shuttlebay.  She could see the darkness of space in the distance as the main doors opened.  There was something out there in the shadows ... she tensed, then relaxed as she realised it was just another shuttlecraft coming in to land.  She watched with admiration as the shuttle glided through the doors and landed neatly on the deck, shuttlebay crewmen hastily rigging up an atmosphere tube rather than taking the time to close the hatch and repressurise the bay.  It had to be a very important guest ...

“That’s the admiral’s shuttle,” a voice said.

George jumped.  She’d been so fascinated by the shuttlecraft that she hadn't noticed the two men in the compartment.  She turned and saw an older man, easily old enough to be her father, sitting in one of the chairs.  There was something about his face that put her instantly at her ease, a sense that he would always be kind and friendly.  His uniform marked him out as the Boatswain.  The dark-haired man next to him was only a year or two older than George herself.

“Jack, dismissed,” the Boatswain said.  He rose and saluted.  “Chief Petty Officer Simon Williams, Midshipwoman.”

“Midshipwoman George Fitzwilliam,” George said, automatically.  She was meant to give orders to someone who’d been in the navy longer than she’d been alive?  Hell, someone who’d been in the navy longer than her uncle?  She shifted awkwardly, unsure what to say or do.  Maybe Fraser was right.  Maybe it
was
a punishment for something.  “The XO ordered me to report to you.”

“I believe she wanted you checked out on a shuttle,” the Boatswain said, calmly.  At least he didn't
sound
as though he was mocking her, although she suspected he’d be smiling on the inside.  But then, he’d probably seen hundreds of young officers coming and going.  “It’s quite a useful skill to know.”

“I haven’t flown a shuttle since the academy,” George said.  That
had
been only a couple of months ago, but she was grimly aware that she barely had a hundred hours of flying to her name.  A dedicated shuttle pilot would have racked up
thousands
by the time he was qualified to serve in the navy.  “I have my certificate, but ...”

“We can work on that,”  the Boatswain assured her.  “If you’ll come with me ...?”

George nodded and allowed him to lead her out of the compartment.

***

Susan couldn't help the sweat trickling down her back as the admiral’s shuttle landed neatly in the shuttlebay, the crew hurrying to affix an atmospheric tube to its airlock.  She’d warned the captain as best as she could, without crossing the lines, but she had no idea what would happen when Admiral Boskone and Captain Blake met face to face.  Hell, she had no idea what the destroyer captains had been saying to the admiral.  It was odd, very odd, for a flotilla commander
not
to enjoy himself passing orders to the screen.  Captain Blake wouldn't get any closer to fleet command until he was promoted.

If he ever is
, she thought.  The airlock hissed open, revealing a tall man walking down the tube and into the ship. 
And if the admiral finds out I passed the screen orders in his name, we’re all likely to get in deep shit
.

“Admiral Boskone,” she said, straightening to attention.  “I’m Commander Susan Onarina, executive officer.  Welcome onboard HMS
Vanguard
.”

The admiral saluted the flag and the portrait of King Charles, then turned to Susan and returned her salute.  His skin was slightly darker than the average, his black eyes hinting at Indian blood somewhere in his family tree.  Probably quite distant, Susan suspected; he wouldn't have been promoted if there was any suggestion he had close ties to India, particularly after the Anglo-Indian War.  He was bald, the complete lack of facial hair suggesting he’d had his skin treated to prevent it from growing back.  That, in Susan’s experience, was unusual.  Very few men seemed willing to destroy their prospects of having a beard, even though naval officers were supposed to be clean-shaven at all times.

“Thank you, Commander,” Boskone said.  His voice held a very definite trace of London, although she couldn't hear any traces of an upper-class accent.  But he would have some connections, she was sure, if he’d made it above Commodore.  “I look forward to a tour, after the meeting.”

“Of course, sir,” Susan said. 
Vanguard
, at least, was in good shape.  She’d have hated to give him a tour when the ship was right out of the shipyards.  “If you’ll come with me?”

She led him into the intership car, answering his questions as best as she could.  Boskone was a carrier admiral, it seemed; from what he said, she suspected he had his doubts about the battleship concept.  But at least he didn't seem inclined to reject the whole idea out of hand either.  The death of INS
Viraat
proved, all too clearly, that naval warfare had changed since the First Interstellar War. 

And it changed then too
, she thought, as they reached the captain’s office. 
Or, at least, the weapons we used to fight changed
.

She pushed the thought aside as the hatch hissed open, revealing that
someone
had cleared up the office.  A bottle of wine sat on the captain’s desk, escorted by three glasses; Susan wondered, inwardly, if she was going to be drinking or if the captain intended to invite someone else to the meeting.  Or he might have assumed the admiral would be bringing an aide.  The captain himself rose, walked around the desk and saluted the admiral.  Susan had to admit that, for once, he looked almost like a captain.

“Admiral Boskone,” Captain Blake said.  “Welcome onboard
Vanguard
.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Admiral Boskone said.  He took a seat, without being invited, and held out a datachip.  “This won’t take long, I hope.  Put the files on the display.”

“My steward has taken the liberty of preparing a meal,” the captain said, as Susan took the chip and slotted it into the terminal.  “I was hoping to speak with you ...”

“After the games, one hopes,” Admiral Boskone said.  “We received word, only a week ago, that one of the American carriers attached to the border guard suffered a critical reactor failure.  Admiral Pournelle intends to dispatch one of his carriers, accompanied by screening elements, to the border to replace her while she limps back to New Washington.  We will only have that carrier present for five days before she has to depart.”

Susan winced.  Accidents happened, she knew, but a critical reactor failure?  Losing one reactor would be worrying, yet unless there was something odd about the carrier’s design she should still be capable of carrying out her duties.  But then, if
she’d
lost a reactor, she’d want it repaired as soon as possible.  And if she wasn't entirely sure what had happened, she’d want her other reactors checked too.

“Admiral Pournelle has a reputation as a skilled tactician,” Admiral Boskone added, as Susan opened the files.  A holographic representation of the Marina System popped up in front of them, surrounded by tactical icons.  She couldn’t help noticing that a handful of the icons represented facilities that were actually nothing more than sensor buoys.  “But he doesn't have actual
experience
in commanding a fleet in combat.  This is the closest either of us will get to gaining that experience unless another war starts.  I don’t intend to waste it.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Blake said.

“The first war game will involve us attacking the American-held system,” Admiral Boskone explained.  “Task Force Churchill will split into two formations; Churchill-One will advance towards the gas giant, while Churchill-Two will advance on Marina itself.  The overall objective will be to defeat the Americans before they can push us back out of the system.”