Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (9 page)

“Yes, sir,” George said, resignedly. 

She cursed under her breath.  As much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to think that Fraser believed there were
thirty
hours in a day, instead of twenty-four.  Between preparing for her role in the tactical department, reading endless briefing notes and exercising, she hardly had any time to handle the chores Fraser seemed determined to bury her in.  Nathan did as much as he could, but Fraser had made it clear that
she
was to handle her own chores.

It would be so easy just to leave
, she thought.  Fraser had taunted her with the prospect of being put off
Vanguard
just before she left Sol, but she’d looked it up and he’d been right.  If she failed to impress her superiors, she
could
be returned to the academy.  It would mean the end of her career, at least on starships, but it was a possibility. 
And a word of complaint from me in the right ears would ruin him
.

She gritted her teeth.  It would be easy, so easy, but she was damned if she was letting him win.  Her semi-cousin had gone through hell to join the Royal Marines; his stories had chilled her to the bone, even though she’d known
she
had no intention of joining the marines.  And for all Fraser’s best efforts, he wasn't working her anything like as hard as the marine recruits.  Why, she even had twenty minutes to herself every day!

I can take it
, she thought, scowling. 
Whatever you pour onto me, I can take it
.

“Dismissed,” the captain said, quietly.

George rose to her feet and followed Fraser, Nathan and two of the other midshipmen out of the compartment.  The captain hadn't spoken a word to any of them, but she saw him watching her - again - as she walked through the hatch and out into the corridors.  It had been an awkward dinner, she knew; too close to the senior officers for comfort, too formal to allow any real chatter.  Even Fraser hadn't had the nerve to speak out loud.

“We leave in two days,” Fraser said, after he pulled George and Nathan into the private compartment.  “I am required to ask now, for the record; do either of you want to leave this ship?”

“No, sir,” Nathan said.

“No, sir,” George echoed.

She thought she saw a flicker of disappointment on Fraser’s face, but it vanished too quickly for her to be sure.   Had he really wanted to drive her into quitting, despite the risks it raised for his career?  Or did he genuinely believe her inexperience made her a danger to the ship and her crew?  Fraser seemed nothing more than a bully, yet much of his advice, however presented, was sound.  She had the feeling he genuinely worked to care for the midshipmen under his supervision.

And he’s an asshole
, she thought. 
It doesn't excuse anything
.

“Very well,” Fraser said.  “You’ve had most of your orientation, so tomorrow you join the main duty roster.  Bosworth, you will report to the helmsman at 0800; you’ll find the full details in your message box.  Try not to ram the ship into any asteroids or it’ll be taken out of your salary.”

“Sir, the odds of us hitting an asteroid are staggeringly low,” Nathan protested.

“And the odds of encountering alien life, fifteen years ago, were
also
staggeringly low,” Fraser pointed out, curtly.  “You’re not immune to incompetence or bad luck just because you’re flying a battleship instead of a starfighter.”

“I’ve never flown a starfighter in my life,” Nathan said.

“Try one of the simulators while you’re at Sin City,” Fraser said.  “You can fly down the Death Star trench, if you like, shooting off missiles all the while.  Or, if you have a friend in the training centre, you can borrow one of their simulators.”

He cleared his throat.  “Fitzwilliam, you will report to the tactical compartment at 0800 tomorrow,” he said, addressing George.  “I would suggest you made every effort to impress Commander Mason, but it’s probably a waste of time.  He’ll just take one look at your name and approve you for active service.”

“I don’t think he will, sir,” George said.  “My uncle would go ballistic.”

Fraser’s face darkened.  George knew, immediately, that mentioning her uncle, the First Space Lord, had been a mistake.  Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam had spent half of his term in office battling officers who put family names ahead of service records - he’d admitted there was a certain level of hypocritical humour in the whole affair - but his success had been somewhat limited.  The Old Boy Network pervaded the entire navy.

“Your uncle’s opinion doesn't matter,” he snarled.  “You’ll report to Commander Mason and you’ll make damn sure you do a good job.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

“Good,” Fraser said.  His voice calmed, slightly.  “I want you both to exercise, then scrub the toilets before you go to your bunks.  Remember to reset your alarms and
don’t
wake anyone when you get up.”

George nodded.  Nathan
had
accidentally awoken a midshipman on their second day, who had brutally cursed him out.  Fraser had assigned extra push-ups for punishment, promising that the next punishment would be a great deal worse.  George believed him.  After having been jerked awake far too often at the academy, it was hard not to feel that anyone who accidentally woke up a midshipman deserved the harshest of punishments.

“Go,” Fraser ordered.  “And report to me, tomorrow, after you complete your first duty shifts.”

George groaned.  Unless she was very quick, she would have hardly any time to eat before starting her
second
duty shift.  Maybe she could smuggle out a pair of ration bars and eat them on the way back to the tactical compartment.  Or maybe that was a bad idea.  There was no regulation against eating in the corridors, but it was frowned upon.  Fraser had threatened them with being ordered to mop the corridors before, after all.

I shall survive
, she thought, eying Fraser. 
And I will not let you drive me away
.

“Yes, sir,” she said. 

Chapter Eight

It said something about the designer, Susan thought, that
Vanguard’s
bridge was easily the largest in the fleet.
  Warspite’s
bridge had been cramped,
Cornwall’s
bridge had only been marginally larger, but
Vanguard’s
was easily ten times larger than her cabin, even though it was crammed with consoles, holographic displays and a handful of comfortable chairs for visiting dignitaries.  She sat in the XO’s chair, next to the command chair, and watched as the crew made hasty preparations to depart Sol.  The omnipresent sound of the drives was growing louder, as if
Vanguard
herself was keen to depart.  Susan found it hard to blame the giant battleship.

She tossed the captain a sidelong glance, careful to keep her thoughts to herself.  It was standard procedure for the captain to be on one bridge and the XO to be on the other, just in case something went wrong, but Captain Blake had repeated his insistence that Susan join him on the main bridge.  There
were
captains who would cheerfully allow their junior officers to watch as the ship jumped out of the system, knowing it would be their first trip away from Earth, yet
she
was an experienced spacer.  She’d made her first jump on
Warspite
, over a decade ago.  It just didn’t make sense.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Theodore Parkinson said.  The communications officer looked up from his console.  “All five of our escorts report ready to depart on schedule.”

“Good,” Captain Blake said.  He glanced at the timer.  “Inform them that we will depart in ten minutes, barring accidents.”

Susan frowned, inwardly.  Captain Blake should
also
be informing
Earth
of his intended departure, just in case the Admiralty wanted
Vanguard
to remain in the system for some reason.  Most captains hurried to notify their superiors, just to enjoy the moment when they were truly independent, free of outside authority, but Captain Blake seemed oddly hesitant to cut his ties to Earth.  She’d wondered if he had a wife or mistress on Earth, yet - as far as she could tell - he’d spent all his time in his cabin.  And the ship’s manifest didn't imply that the captain had a ... companion on the ship.

Unless he’s bonking a crewwoman
, she thought, darkly.  It would be a major scandal if he was, she knew, even if it was truly consensual.  A senior officer could not have a relationship with a junior officer - or a crewman - without raising the spectre of favouritism. 
But the only person who seems to see him regularly is his steward
.

She sighed to herself.  A week of going through Commander Bothell’s notes hadn't turned up anything interesting, beyond a handful of notes on the ship’s tactical performance that she intended to study once they departed Earth.  There was still no reason for his absense ... she was honestly starting to wonder if he’d gone swimming in the ocean and drowned, the undercurrents carrying his body well away from the mainland.  The Admiralty had ordered her to box up his possessions and send them back to Earth, but they hadn't shown any interest in searching his cabin or interviewing any friends he might have had amongst the crew.  If, of course, he’d
had
friends.  Commander Bothell’s log entries had made him sound like a human computer, rather than a living breathing person.

Pushing the thought aside, she looked down at her console as the flood of departmental updates began to appear in front of her. 
Vanguard
was a well-oiled machine, she had to admit; there had been no real problems in the week since she’d assumed the post and started to assert her authority.  The suspicious part of her mind insisted that she only needed to wait for the penny to drop, but it was hard to see what was likely to go wrong.  Commander Bothell had done a
very
good job.

And they wouldn't assign halfwits to a battleship
, she reminded herself.  Collectively,
Vanguard’s
senior officers had over a hundred years of experience in their various fields, while the junior officers had been at the top of their years at the academy. 
I barely need to do anything
.

“Commander,” Captain Blake said.  “Perhaps you would care to take the conn?”

Susan blinked in surprise.  Very - very - few captains, at least in her experience, would give up the pleasure of commanding their ship as they entered or departed the Sol System.  The only time it had
ever
occurred, in her experience, had been when
Cornwall
had been carrying the Second Space Lord back to Earth and
he’d
been a renowned commanding officer in his youth.  But for Captain Blake to give it to
her
?  It might have been a generous gesture, yet she couldn't help thinking that it was worrying.  She’d seen nothing to suggest the captain was a generous person.

“Yes, sir,” she said.  It
was
a honour - and it would have been a greater one if she hadn't been sure there was a sting in the tail somewhere.  “It would be my pleasure.”

She cleared her throat.  “I have the conn.”

“You have the conn,” the captain confirmed.

Susan braced herself as she studied the display.  Technically, the captain should have left the bridge, just to avoid confusion, but he was still sitting in his command chair, watching her through dark eyes.  Was this some sort of test?  Or was he blind to the implications, to the suggestion he didn't trust her to handle it?  Or ... she glanced down at her console, then cleared her throat again.  All she could do was carry out her duty and hope for the best.

“Helm,” she said.  “Lay in a direct course for the tramline to Terra Nova.”

“Aye, Commander,” Lieutenant David Reed said.  He was a thin bespectacled man, a man who would have looked more natural in a university than on a starship’s bridge, but his records suggested more than
mere
competence.  “Course laid in.”

Susan smiled, despite her worries.  Reed would have had the course plotted out hours ago, along with several other potential courses, or she’d eat her uniform jacket.  Hell, helmsmen were
encouraged
to play with their consoles when they weren't actually required to work, just to keep their skills sharp. 
Vanguard
wasn’t anything like as manoeuvrable as a cruiser or a destroyer, let alone a starfighter, but his skills might make the difference between life and death for the entire crew.

“Communications, inform Earth that we will depart in” - she glanced at the timer - “five minutes, then copy our primary datacore to Nelson Base,” she ordered.  The sealed message she’d prepared would be included in the dump, but it wouldn't go any further unless she was declared dead or missing.  “And then make one final check with our escorts.”

She sensed, more than heard, the captain stirring beside her, but he said nothing. 
Vanguard
didn't need an escort - the idea was absurd, given that she was the most powerful ship in space - yet she would have one until the war games were completed.  It made sense to travel in convoy, she supposed.  She hadn't been on
Warspite
for her maiden voyage, but she’d heard stories from the old sweats.  Losing power immediately after jumping through a tramline could have killed the entire crew.

“Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

Susan nodded to herself.  Parkinson wasn't just hyper-competent, judging by his file, but wasted in his current post.  There were only a hundred communications officers who could talk to the Tadpoles, all of whom had been assigned to the embassy on Tadpole Prime after completing their training.  She honestly wasn't sure
why
Parkinson had been assigned to
Vanguard
, unless
someone
at the Admiralty was anticipating either joint operations or another war.  Even if
he’d
hoped for his own command, one day, it was unlikely the Admiralty would let him.  There simply weren't enough officers with his skills.

I must talk to him at some point
, she told herself. 
And make sure he doesn’t resent his position
.

“All ships confirm,” Parkinson added, after a moment.  “And Nelson Base has sent us a good luck message.”

“Good,” Susan said.  If she’d been the commanding officer, she would have been delighted at the simple message.  In theory, starship commanders were the masters of their ships but in practice the Admiralty could overrule any commanding officer in the Sol System.  And yet, now, they were ready to head out beyond the tramline.  “Helm, take us out of orbit and straight for the tramline.”

“Aye, Commander,” Reed said.

Susan felt the battleship
quiver
beneath her feet, but there was none of the faint sense of acceleration she recalled from her earlier posts.  The doctors insisted the crews were imagining it - a compensator accident would kill the entire crew instantly, if the system failed - yet starship crewmen were equally insistent that the sensation was real.  But on
Vanguard
, there was almost nothing.  She eyed the console, half-convinced they weren't moving at all; it insisted the battleship was departing orbit and heading directly for the tramline.  Maybe there was something different about the drives ...

Or maybe the ship’s too large to produce the sensation
, she thought.  She’d experienced it on a fleet carrier, but no carrier - not even the legendary
Ark Royal
- was anything like as solid as
Vanguard
. 
It could be spread through the hull ...

“Picking up speed now, Commander,” Reed reported.  “Tramline ETA: five hours, forty minutes.”

“Understood,” Susan said. 
Vanguard
was fast, but she needed to build up her speed gradually.  A smaller ship had a very good chance of making an escape before the battleship caught up with her.  “And our escorts?”

“Matching course and speed,” Mason reported.  He sounded oddly concerned.  “Commander, a courier boat left orbit five minutes after our departure, heading for the tramline.  She’s matching our course and speed.”

Susan glanced at Captain Blake?  Coincidence?  It wasn't as if the Admiralty could ban courier boats leaving orbit, even if the latest battleship was
also
leaving orbit.  But a courier boat should have been easily able to outpace
Vanguard
, reaching the tramline well before the battleship.  Matching course and speed was odd, to say the least.

She looked back at the display.  “Do you have an ID on the boat?”

“She’s civilian, Commander,” Mason said.  “British-flagged, but civilian.”

“Spies,” Captain Blake said.  “Is she within active sensor range?”

Mason hesitated.  Susan cursed under her breath.  Was Captain Blake resuming command?  If so, he should say so.  It was confusing now ... and, if all hell broke loose, it might well be lethal.  They couldn't afford a disagreement over who was in command of the battleship if energy starships appeared and opened fire.

“She’s not using active sensors, sir,” Mason said, finally.  “I don’t think she’ll be able to pull much from our hull.”

Susan studied the display, thinking hard.  The media?  No one outside the Admiralty, as far as she knew, had any reason to suspect that
anything
had gone wrong on
Vanguard
.  There had been no alert issued for Commander Bothell, no suggestion that he might have deserted ... there was no reason for the media to be taking an interest.  Or maybe there was.  The battleship
was
going to take part in war games, after all.  The media might be interested in seeing just what the Admiralty had done with the billions of pounds invested into shipbuilding by Parliament.

Captain Blake leaned forward.  “Is she within weapons range?”

Susan stared.  Was Blake
mad
?

“She’s within missile range,” Mason said, carefully.  Susan couldn't help thinking he sounded nervous.  Firing on hostile ships was one thing, but firing on a civilian courier boat - a
British
civilian courier boat - was insane!  “I don’t know what ECM countermeasures or point defence she’s carrying.  Hitting her might be tricky.”