Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (6 page)

George frowned as she checked her own reader, then nodded.  “It’s missing completely,” she said.  Were they meant to look it up for themselves, while they were at the academy?  Had they just failed a test?  Or had something else happened?  “Maybe they want to surprise us.”

“Seems a bit of a petty surprise,” Nathan observed.  “Is that normal?”

“I don’t know,” George admitted.  She’d tried asking her naval relatives for details of their first duty postings, but none of them had been particularly specific.  Perhaps midshipmen didn't do anything spectacular; her uncle, at least, hadn't been particularly successful until the First Interstellar War.  “It could be a bureaucratic mix-up.”

“Or it could be a test to see how we react,” Nathan speculated.  “Prince Henry might have come back from Tadpole Prime to serve as XO.  Or maybe it’s Stellar Star herself!”

“I very much doubt it,” George said, primly.  The thought was amusing, but it was the kind of thing that only happened in bad movies, the ones written and produced by hacks who thought they could substitute nudity for storytelling.  Given how much nudity was available on the datanet, she had a feeling they were wasting their time.  “Every time you hear uncontrolled laughter rippling out of the officers’ wardroom you just
know
they’re watching Stellar Star.”

She glanced through the rest of her reader, but found nothing else beyond basic facts she could have downloaded from the public database, if she’d wished.  Shaking her head, she opened one of the latest novels from her favourite writer and settled down to read.  Her uncle had been the one to introduce her to wet-navy stories and, after she'd gotten used to the tropes, she’d found she rather enjoyed them.  It seemed odd to think that sailing on water could be as dangerous as travelling through interstellar space, but it could be ...

There are no storms in space
, she thought, wryly. 
And fewer enemies.

The intercom bleeped.  “If I could have your attention please,” the shuttle pilot said, “we are currently approaching HMS
Vanguard
.  Passengers are reminded that we are landing in Shuttlebay Four; all passengers are to walk through the hatch and then remain within the reception bay until collected by greeting parties.  Please make sure you take all personal possessions with you upon disembarking this craft, as we will be proceeding to HMS
Rubicon
shortly.”

“As if we brought much,” Nathan muttered.

“Good thing my sister didn't come,” George muttered back.  “Anne has more clothes in her room than everyone in our class, put together.”

“That’s a lot of clothes,” Nathan said.  “How much money did she waste on them?”

George shrugged.  It was impossible to say just how rich her family actually was, not when half of their wealth was invested in everything from land to asteroids and industries.  Her father and grandfather had steered the family through the chaos caused by the bombardment, although they’d taken quite considerable losses after the floodwaters had ravaged Earth.  And, as long as some of her more idle cousins didn't get their hands on any of the steering levers, the family should be wealthy and powerful for a very long time to come. 

And Anne could buy expensive gold bikinis and handbags for years without putting a serious dent in her trust fund
, she thought, darkly.  She’d never gotten along with her sister, who had always preferred to emulate their mother.  But then, it
had
been her sister who had convinced her to shorten her name to
George
. 
Father may give her money, but he’ll never give her the keys to the kingdom
.

She stared down at the deck, despite the urge to stare as the shuttle approached the massive battleship.  Nathan was one of her friends, one of the few who hadn't seen her as a rich bitch or as the ticket to promotion, yet even
he
sometimes showed flickers of envy.  And the hell of it was that he had a point. 
She
had enough money in her trust fund to get out of just about
anything
short of mass murder.  There was no way she
had
to work a day in her life if she didn't want to. 

“She’s impressive as hell,” Nathan said.  A dull thump echoed through the shuttle as the craft touched down in the shuttlebay.  “Ugly, too; she looks like someone crossed a hammer with a dumbbell.”

“Our new home,” George said.

She rose, picked up her holdall and headed for the hatch, feeling an odd twinge of nervousness.  She’d been scared when she’d gone to boarding school - it was customary for aristocratic children to go to boarding school - and uncertain when she’d gone to the academy, but this was different.  A screw-up at the academy might get her expelled, if it was bad enough; it wouldn’t get someone dead.  Here, the slightest mistake could cost the lives of her shipmates.  She hesitated at the hatch, then stepped out of the shuttle and looked around the shuttlebay.  A handful of other shuttles were sitting on the deck, but there was no one in sight.  She followed the lines drawn on the deck through a large airlock, Nathan tagging at her heels, and into a larger room.  A marine stood at the far end, weapon in hand.  It was clear that
no one
was to go into the battleship without an escort.

The hatch opened with a hiss, revealing a dark-skinned woman wearing a commander’s uniform.  George stared, impressed.  The woman’s bearing said, very clearly, that she was not someone to mess with.  She was followed by a tough-looking midshipman who gave her a brief once-over, then scowled at her.  George shivered.  Judging by his age, he was almost certainly the First Middy.

“Midshipman Bosworth, Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes, Commander,” Nathan said.

“I am Commander Onarina,” the Commander said.  “Welcome onboard HMS
Vanguard
.”

“Thank you, Commander,” George said.

“This is Midshipman Fraser,” Commander Onarina added.  “He will see to it that you’re bedded down in middy quarters and give you a basic orientation.  I’m afraid you’ll have to hit the ground running, but your grades suggest you should be up to it.”

George swallowed.  The look in Fraser’s eyes promised nothing, but trouble.

“Thank you, Commander, Nathan said.

“I’ll speak to you all later,” Commander Onarina added.  She studied them both for a long moment, then straightened.  “Dismissed!”

Chapter Five

“Were we ever that young and innocent?”

“Young, perhaps,” Mason said.  “Innocent ... I think not.”

Susan shook her head as the two new middies headed down the corridor, following the First Middy.  The boy - it was hard to think of him as being twenty-two - looked mature enough to cope, but there was a question mark over the girl.  Her file clearly stated she was twenty, having joined the navy at the earliest possible age.  She’d made it through the academy, naturally, but she might well lack the maturity of someone with more life experience.  Still, she’d known what she was getting into when she signed up.  Susan made a mental note to keep an eye on her, then turned to Mason.

“So,” she said.  “You want to complete the tour?”

“Of course, Commander,” Mason said.

He led the way down the corridor towards the rear turrets, chatting all the time.  “The boffins came up with a new material for our internal hull,” he explained, cheerfully.  “In theory, if you were to detonate a nuke inside our hull, the damage would actually be minimal.  No one’s tried, naturally.  I don’t think I’d care to be the person who proposed
that
to the Admiralty.”

“It would be an alarmingly realistic test,” Susan agreed.  “And even if the hull survived, what about the control systems?”

“That’s the real question, Commander,” Mason said.  “The ship has countless redundancies built into the command network.  In theory, we can lose four-fifths of the grid and keep operating, although there are obvious limits.  There are three formal command stations within the hull - the bridge, the secondary bridge and the CIC - and we can steer the ship from Main Engineering, if necessary.  She’s built to take a shitload of damage, really.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to test it,” Susan mused.  “What’s the real danger?”

“You’re familiar with plasma cannons, I assume,” Mason said, as they stepped through a series of airlocks.  “
Warspite’s
giant cannon was merely the first in a series of increasingly dangerous weapons.  Ours are far more powerful than
Warspite’s
and our rate of fire is a great deal more rapid.  The real danger, however, is overheating the guns or losing containment within the plasma chamber.  If the former occurs, we’d have to shut down the guns to allow them to cool; if the latter, we’d have to vent the plasma into space or risk an explosion.”

“It wouldn’t be as bad as a nuke,” Susan pointed out.

“No,” Mason agreed.  “But it
would
ruin the gun completely, perhaps even melt the turret.  I don’t think our engineering crews could repair the damage without a shipyard.”

“And it would have to be a shipyard that had the right parts in stock,” Susan said.  “One of the reports I glanced at said there were shipping problems.”

“There are,” Mason confirmed.  “Each of the main guns needs to be crafted specifically for a battleship.  We couldn't tear a
Warspite
-class cruiser apart to replace the missing gun.”

He waved a hand as they passed through the last airlock and into the turret.  A handful of crewmen were sitting at consoles, practicing their tactical skills against simulated targets, just in case the turret had to engage targets independently.  It wasn't likely, given how much redundancy was built into the system, but it was a wise precaution.  Susan had to admit that Commander Bothell had done an excellent job of preparing the battleship for war.  She just wasn’t sure about the captain.

“We can engage multiple targets simultaneously,” he said, “or concentrate our fire on a single target.  Even a Tadpole superdreadnaught wouldn't be able to stand against our fire for long.”

Susan glanced at him.  “Long enough to ram us?”

“No, according to the simulations,” Mason said.  “In practice ... let’s just say no one wants to try it and find out.”

He shrugged.  “Put a light cruiser like
Warspite
up against us and we’ll blow her out of space casually,” he added.  “She won’t even scratch our paint!  Starfighters ... they shouldn't be able to inflict much damage, save for stripping our hull of weapons and sensor blisters ... and even then, we have hardened replacements in stock.  It won’t be easy for
anyone
to stop us from reaching our destination.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Susan said.  She took one final look around the turret, noting the access hatches that allowed the crew to perform repairs while the ship was underway, then followed him back through the airlock, making a mental note to return at some point and explore the turret thoroughly.  “Where next?”

“Engineering,” Mason said.  “I think you’ll like it.  We have six fusion cores, each one powerful enough to keep the ship moving on its own ...”

Susan couldn't help feeling tired, two hours later; Mason had shown her everything from the fusion cores to the bridge, sickbay and tactical compartment, his personal domain. 
Vanguard
was lavishly equipped, compared to a cruiser; Susan rather suspected that the Admiralty intended to use the battleship as a flagship, if all hell broke loose. 
Vanguard
would tend to draw fire - she was hardly unnoticeable - but she had the greatest chance of surviving a modern-day fleet battle.  The war would have gone very differently if
Vanguard
had fought in the Battle of New Russia.

“I’ll be happy to cede the post to you whenever you want it,” Mason said, as he led the way to her cabin and opened the hatch.  “Commander Bothell’s next duty slot was tomorrow morning” - he glanced at his watch - “seven hours from now.”

Susan nodded, frowning as they walked into the cabin.  It was larger than she’d expected, easily big enough to swing a cat; a giant painting of a starship she didn’t recognise hung against the far bulkhead, illuminated by a lamp mounted on the overhead.    A small bookshelf, embedded in the bulkhead, housed a dozen paper books; beside it, a coffee machine bleeped for attention.  Another portrait - she smiled as she recognised the king - hung above the drinks machine.  She would have bet ten pounds that the XO’s safe was hidden behind the portrait.  It was practically
tradition
.

She looked into the sleeping compartment and frowned.  The bed had been changed, probably by one of the stewards, and her holdall had been placed at the foot of the compartment, but the remainder of Commander Bothell’s possessions had been left in place.  He looked to have been something of a packrat, judging by the books on the shelves.  It was rare for any naval officer to bring physical books onto a starship when they could load thousands, if not millions, of eBooks onto a datapad.  She could download the complete works of
anyone
and read them during long deployments and boring watches.

“I’ll have to get his possessions boxed up,” she said, tightly.  She'd slept in uncomfortable places before - her midshipwoman quarters had been cramped, smelly and thoroughly unpleasant - but she’d never slept in someone else’s room.  “I wish I knew what had happened to him.”

“I’m surprised no one has come to collect them,” Mason said.  “Surely,
someone
must want to go through his possessions to look for clues.”

Susan nodded, slowly.  “I’ll put in a request for an investigative team, then have his possessions put in storage if they’re not interested.  I can't see them
not
wanting to take a look.”

“Technically, they should have sealed the quarters,” Mason said.  “But there’s been a marked
lack
of interest in inspecting his possessions.”

He cleared his throat.  “When do you want to take up your post?”

“I’ll assume the position formally tomorrow, when I take my first watch,” Susan said.  Seven hours ... she could take a nap, then read her way through the personnel files, just to make sure she knew who she was supposed to be commanding.  It would mean hitting the deck running, but she could handle it.  “If that suits you ...”

“Well, I’m
sure
I can serve as the
acting
XO for another few hours,” Mason said, mischievously.  “But I don’t think I want the job permanently.”

Susan frowned, inwardly.  The Paul Mason she recalled had been ambitious, as ambitious as herself.  And he had every right to be irked at her coming in and taking a position he might have thought to be his by right, although it was common for officers who were promoted to XO to be transferred to a whole new ship.  But he hadn't tried to put up a fight or even show passive resistance.  It worried her more than she cared to admit.

“I’ll see you on the bridge,” she said.  She cast a longing look at the sleeping compartment, then back at him.  “It’s been a long day.”

Mason nodded, then strode out of the compartment.  Susan sighed, then sat down in one of the comfortable chairs.  It struck her, looking around, that Commander Bothell hadn't
entertained
in his cabin.  The space might be vast, compared to a junior officer’s cabin, but there were no sofas, no tables, nothing that suggested he ever had guests.  Her old XO on
Cornwall
had been fond of playing poker with the other senior officers - his cabin had been comfortable, if shabby - but Commander Bothell’s cabin was his private place. 

She shook her head in amused disbelief.  It had only been nine hours since she’d been at the school, telling the teenaged children what they could expect if they joined the navy.  And now she was taking up a new post on
Vanguard
, preparing to depart the system in just under a week.  It wasn't what she’d been led to expect.

Rising to her feet, she padded into the bedroom and checked the compartments under the bed.  The steward hadn't removed anything; Susan cursed under her breath as she poked through Commander Bothell’s uniforms, then placed her holdall on the bed and removed fresh clothing for the following day.  She’d have to have HMS
Vanguard
sewn onto her jacket, she reminded herself; the stewards would see to it, if she told them when they took her jacket to be cleaned.  Or she could just draw new supplies from the ship’s stores. 

Gritting her teeth, she undressed and stepped into the shower compartment.  Thankfully,
someone
had taken the original towels and replaced them with fresh ones, along with a small selection of navy-issue toiletries.  She showered quickly, donned fresh underwear and walked back out into the cabin.  Her body wanted sleep, but she knew she had to complete a number of tasks before she closed her eyes.  Sitting down at the desk, she tapped the terminal and accessed the starship’s communications network.  Sending a sealed message back to the Admiralty wasn't difficult, although it ran the risk of drawing attention.  If someone was monitoring her traffic ...

And maybe you’re just being paranoid
, she told herself, firmly. 
You have no reason to suspect foul play
.

She shook her head.  She'd had captains she would follow into the gates of hell itself and captains who had been blustery tyrants, but she’d never known one like Captain Blake.  It was hard to believe the Admiralty knew of his failings ... unless Commander Bothell had been meant to keep him under control.  No, that made no sense.  The Admiralty wouldn't take chances with the commanding officer of a full-sized battleship.  If Captain Blake had been deemed unsuitable for the post, he would have been reassigned, no matter what connections he had.

And that leaves me with a dilemma
, she thought. 
Just what do I do about it
?

“Record the message, then encrypt it for the personal attention of the First Space Lord, to be released if
Vanguard
is declared missing or lost,” she ordered.

“Acknowledged,” the terminal said.  “Key the switch to record.”

Susan tapped the console.  “Sir, if you are receiving this message ...”

She ran through a long explanation of everything that had happened since boarding
Vanguard
, from her meeting with Captain Blake to her inspection of Commander Bothell’s office and concluded with an apology for not sending the message directly to the personnel department.  It would have destroyed her career, she knew, even if Captain Blake had been proven unfit for command.  She would have been lucky not to be shunted sideways to an asteroid mining station until her enlistment expired.