Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (3 page)

“Be that as it may,” Mrs Blackthorn said, “you are still required to talk to students who are interested in a naval career.  If you will follow me ...?”

Susan shrugged and followed the older woman through another maze of corridors and into a comfortable sitting room.  There were seventeen students waiting for her, all in their final two years if the markings on their blazers were the same as they were in her day.  She would have been surprised to encounter any younger pupils, even though they might well be interested.  The upper years guarded career meetings with as much determination as aristocrats defended their clubs from the
hoi polloi
.  Any younger student would probably be given a clip around his ear and told to piss off.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, as she took a seat.  “If you have any questions, I am at your disposal for the rest of the morning.”

She waited, patiently, as a grim-faced teenage girl wearing a maid’s uniform served tea and cakes, passing out scones and jam with an unmistakable lack of enthusiasm.  She was probably on detention, Susan guessed; Mrs Blackthorn had a nasty sense of humour when it came to handing out detentions and making an aristocratic brat serve the tea was
precisely
what she’d do.  Luckily for her, the headmistress’s looming presence kept the students from mocking her or creating a mess for the poor girl to clean up.

“My father is the captain of a starship,” one pimple-faced youth said.  Judging by his posh accent, he’d been born or raised in London.  “He says he can get me onto his ship, if I do well at the academy.”

“That is ...
unlikely
,” Susan told him, bluntly.  The Old Boys Network pervaded the navy, much to her frustration, but it had its limits.  “You’ll almost certainly never be under your father’s command.”

“But he’s a captain,” the youth whined.  “Surely he can get whoever he wants ...”

Susan smirked, inwardly.  “First, you have to graduate from the academy,” she said.  The movies, particularly the one featuring a midshipman with even more pimples than the boy facing her, had a great deal to answer for.  “An acting midshipman who doesn't have an academy record, no matter how clever he is, will
not
be promoted above that spot - technically, he shouldn't have it in the first place. 
Then
you are assigned to the ship that needs you, not the ship that wants you.  You will only be sent to your father’s ship if he has a valid need that can only be filled by you.”

She shrugged and took a sip of her tea.  “But really, would you
want
to serve on your father’s ship?”

“I have a different question,” one of the girls said.  “How do you cope sleeping with the men?”

Susan bit off the comment that came to mind as two of the boys snickered and Mrs Blackthorn’s face narrowed in disapproval.  “I assume you mean sharing quarters, instead of sharing bodily fluids,” she said.  “You get used to it, really.  Frankly, in the academy, you are normally too tired to do anything beyond hitting your bunk and going to sleep.  Happiness, as they say, consists of getting enough sleep.”

She smiled, rather coolly.  “Trust me on this,” she added.  “You’ll have worse problems than spotting a naked man - or being seen naked yourself.”

“But it’s
indecent
,” the girl protested.  “I can't share a room with
boys
!”

“Then don’t join the navy,” Susan snapped.  She rather doubted the girl
really
wanted a naval career, but it was quite possible that her family wanted her to serve.  “The navy doesn’t change its requirements based on your preferences, I’m afraid.  It only changes when there is a solid
reason
to change.”

Like the Battle of New Russia
, she added, silently.  She'd been in the academy at the time, but the she’d been just as scared as her tutors when the news sank in. 
We didn't just get beaten, we got exterminated.

“I believe that naval officers sometimes write letters of recommendation for prospective cadets,” another boy asked.  “How do I get one?”

“You don’t,” Susan said, flatly.  “Letters of recommendation can only be written after the officer in question knows you in a professional capacity.  You
won’t
get one unless you are a crewman who wants to become an officer.  If your father” - she nodded to the first boy - “wrote one for you, it would get him in deep shit.”

“That isn't fair,” the boy objected.  “They’ll have an advantage ...”

“
Life
isn't fair,” Susan said.  “And really, don’t you think a crewman with ten years of experience will look better to the admissions board than an untrained boy?”

She looked up, surprised, as Mrs Blackthorn left the room, then returned, moments later, carrying a datapad, which she held out to Susan.  Susan took it and blinked in surprise.  It was a recall order, summoning her back to London as soon as possible.  Someone had even arranged for her to fly via military jet from the nearest RAF base.

“It seems I have to leave,” she said, rising.  Had Mrs Blackthorn already filed a complaint?  It was possible, but unlikely.  “I’ll hopefully get another chance to speak with you later in the year.”

“Thank you for coming,” Mrs Blackthorn said, once they were outside the building.  “But really ... did you have to be so blunt?”

“It’s tough out there,” Susan said, as she climbed into her car.  “And in space, worse things can happen than writing lines until your hand drops off.”

Chapter Two

“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Commander,” Commodore Sir Travis Younghusband said, once he’d called Susan into his office and pointed her to a chair.  “I knew you were due at least nine days of leave and I apologise for disrupting it and calling you to London.”

“Thank you, sir,” Susan said.  It had to be bad.  Senior officers were rarely apologetic, even if they
had
dragged her all the way to London from Scotland.  The only consolation was that she probably wasn't in trouble for something.  “Hopefully, it will impress on the little children the importance of a naval career.”

“And how you can be jerked around at will by some jerk of a staff officer,” Sir Travis said, dryly.  He’d been a starship officer himself before transferring to the personnel department, Susan recalled; he probably knew
precisely
how she was feeling.  “Do you think there were any good prospects among the Hanover seniors?”

“I didn't have enough time to take their measures, sir,” Susan said, truthfully.  “There were the usual handful of stupid questions, but a year at the academy would knock them into shape or get them on the shuttle back home.”

“Quite, quite,” Sir Travis said.  He leaned back in his chair, his face taking on a grave expression.  “Do you know Commander Bothell, Gordon Bothell?”

Susan hesitated, then shook her head.  “I believe there was a Bothell in the class above me at the academy,” she said, “but I don’t recall much about him.”

“It probably wasn't the same person,” Sir Travis said.  “Commander Bothell left the academy four years before yourself.  But your paths may have crossed at some point since you graduated and took that posting to
Warspite
.”

“I don’t recall, sir,” Susan said.  If Bothell had left the academy in the same year she’d started, he’d almost certainly have become a lieutenant before she’d graduated herself.  It was unlikely they’d share confidences, if they ever met.  “May I ask what this is about?”

Sir Travis sighed.  “Commander Bothell went on leave two weeks ago,” he said.  “He was due to report back to the spaceport four days ago, but failed to show.  We ran through the standard procedures - we checked the local hospitals, police records, even sent a car around to his house - and drew a blank.  Bothell appears to have completely vanished.”

Susan blinked.  The chaos caused by the Bombardment of Earth had helped quite a few people to vanish - hundreds of thousands of records had simply been destroyed and entire communities had been uprooted - but that had been over thirteen years ago.  Why would a naval officer simply
vanish
?  She’d been in the navy long enough to know that accidents happened, that young midshipmen might oversleep after their first visit to the red light district ... and yet, a
Commander
should have known the dangers.  Had something happened to him?

And what
, she asked herself,
does it have to do with me
?

“Commander Bothell was serving as the XO of HMS
Vanguard
,” Sir Travis said, flatly.  “His sudden absence leaves us with a hole that needs to be filled. 
Vanguard’s
second officer has been filling in the gap as best as he can, but he’s the tactical officer; the battleship needs both slots filled.  I know you were slated for
Edinburgh
, but would you be willing to take up the post on
Vanguard
instead?”

Susan thought fast. 
Vanguard
- the Royal Navy’s giant battleship - would be an order of magnitude more complex than HMS
Edinburgh
, perhaps almost as complex as HMS
Formidable
.  It was a daunting prospect, all the more so as her experience as a senior officer was almost entirely based on cruisers.  And yet, if she did well, it would be a boost to her career.  There would be a good chance of receiving a command slot during the next round of promotions. 

And if I turn it down
, she thought grimly,
I’ll never be offered promotion again
.

“I would be honoured,” she said, out loud.  “How long was Commander Bothell on
Vanguard
?”

“Nine months,” Sir Travis said.  He picked a datachip off the desk and held it out to her.  “I suspect he will have had plenty of time to organise everything to suit himself, while you’ll have to do everything in a hurry, but his efficiency reports are first-rate.  You shouldn’t have any problems taking his place.  In the event of him turning up, of course, he will not be permitted to return to
Vanguard
.”

Susan nodded, curtly, as she took the chip.  A day or two late, returning from leave,
might
be overlooked, but a full week would raise a whole string of uncomfortable questions.  If Commander Bothell didn't have a very good excuse for not reporting in - for not even contacting the Admiralty to request compassionate leave - his career would come to a screeching halt.  He’d need a great many patrons in high places to save himself from a dishonourable discharge.  She couldn't help feeling as though she was stepping into someone else’s shoes, without the prior preparation she’d expected on
Edinburgh
, but it was one hell of a challenge.

“I understand, sir,” she said.

“Good,” Sir Travis said.  “
Vanguard
is scheduled to jump out of the system in a week to join a set of war games with the Americans.  You’ll have that long, I think, to get used to your new posting.  The Admiralty would take a dim view of the battleship being late for her first true deployment.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  She glanced at the datachip in her hand, then tucked it away in her jacket.  “When do you want me to leave?”

“We’ve booked a flight for you from Heathrow, departing in two hours,” Sir Travis said, bluntly.  Any thoughts she might have had about visiting her father vanished like new-fallen snow.  “My staff has arranged a car to take you to the spaceport.”

“Thank you, sir,” Susan said.  A civilian would have found it a gross inconvenience, but like most naval officers, she travelled light.  She could draw everything she needed from the battleship’s stores, once she arrived.  “I look forward to the challenge.”

Sir Travis smiled.  “I’m glad to hear it, Commander,” he said.  He rose and held out a hand, which she shook firmly.  “And I wish you the very best of luck.”

Susan saluted, then turned and made her way out of the office and down the stairs to the vehicle pool.  A black car was already waiting for her, a junior midshipman in the driver’s seat.  Susan concealed her amusement as he jumped out of the car, gave her the snappiest salute she’d seen since she left the academy and then opened the door for her. 
She
would have resisted assignment to Earth with all her strength - a lack of spacefaring experience would tell against the young man, when the promotions board considered who to advance up the ladder - but if someone wanted it, who was she to tell him no?

She climbed into the back of the car, then closed the privacy blinds and activated the computer terminal as the car hummed to life.  It would take at least forty minutes to reach the spaceport, no matter what happened; indeed, if traffic had returned to its pre-war norms, it might take longer, much longer, to get to Heathrow.  The computer terminal lit up; she keyed a communications code into the panel and waited.  Five minutes later, her father’s face appeared in the display.

“Susan,” he said.  “I thought you were going back to school!”

Susan had to smile.  Romeo Onarina, her father, had immigrated to Britain from Jamaica, serving in the army before collecting his citizenship papers and marrying her mother.  He’d been in London during the bombardment, somehow keeping his wife alive, only to lose her five years later to a pointless accident.  And yet, somehow, he’d found the strength to carry on.  He was the strongest man she knew.

“I was recalled to the Admiralty,” she said.  “They’re sending me back to duty.”

Her father’s face fell.  “That quickly?”

“I’m due to lift off from Heathrow in less than two hours,” Susan said.  “I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you.”

“Duty calls,” her father said.  He cleared his throat.  “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”

Susan nodded.  Some of her fellow cadets had bitched and moaned about the requirement to write home at least once a week, yet
she’d
never begrudged it.  Yes, the time
could
have been used to study for one of the innumerable exams, but she loved her family.  The three of them had been happy together in a world that eyed immigrants with suspicion.  She’d been scared of losing touch back when she’d gone to Hanover Towers, let alone leaving Earth and heading to Luna.  Her family was all she had in the world.

“I will,” she promised.  “And I’ll try and call again before we leave orbit.”

She closed the connection, then dropped the datachip into the terminal and began to study the battleship.  HMS
Vanguard
had been the topic of some debate during the years following the Anglo-Indian War, although it was generally agreed that the pre-war mix of fleet carriers and destroyers was no longer adequate. 
Warspite
had blown an Indian carrier into a powerless hulk with a single hit, after all.  Besides, with the recent improvements in point defence, it was unlikely that any starfighter could get close enough to a starship to launch its missiles before it was destroyed.

And the fighter jocks still walk around as if they have rods up their butts
, she thought, as she skimmed through the data. 
Don’t they know we lost a third of our pilots during the first year of war?

She pushed the thought aside and kept reading the files, only looking up when the driver took the car through the checkpoint and into the military section of Heathrow Spaceport.  Susan thanked him as he parked outside the terminal, recovered the datachip and hurried into the building.  Thankfully, there were none of the elaborate security procedures for military personnel; the officers scanned her ID, checked her fingerprints and DNA code and then motioned her through the barrier.  It was a relief; every time she passed through the civilian side of the terminal she was
always
singled out for close inspections.  And it never ceased to grate.

The scars of war run deep
, she reminded herself, as she glanced around the terminal.  Dozens of enlisted soldiers, spacers and airmen lounged around, reading datapads or trying to catch up on their sleep, while officers headed for their private lounge. 
And no one will forget in a hurry
.

She picked up a handful of items at the NAAFI, then entered the officer’s lounge and sat down to wait.  Her flight was announced only thirty minutes later, suggesting that the shuttlecraft had been waiting for her; the military, at least, wasn't wedded to the strict timetables followed by civilian craft.  She walked through the terminal, past a handful of enlisted spacers and through the gate.  It still struck her as rude to stride past the spacers - they had arrived first, after all - but she
was
their senior officer.  She wasn't allowed to treat them in any other way.

“Welcome onboard,” the shuttle crewman said.  She was relieved he didn’t go into the faux-stewardess routine practiced by far too many military crews.  It had been funny the first time, but after ten or so repeats it just became annoying.  “We should be docking with HMS
Vanguard
in three hours, forty minutes.”

Susan took her seat, buckled herself in and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.  It had been a long day and it would only get worse, once she actually boarded the battleship.  The children back at Hanover Towers would find it hard to adapt if they ever joined the navy.  It certainly
felt
as though they were crossing time zones, even though - technically - the Royal Navy operated on GMT.  Space Lag was a very real threat.

She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew was hearing the pilot announce the approach to
Vanguard
,  Susan unbuckled herself, rose and peered through the nearest portal as the giant battleship came into view.  It would be her only chance to see an exterior view of the ship for weeks, unless she went EVA or borrowed a shuttle - and besides, she was fascinated.  The images in the files couldn't compare to a real starship.