Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) Page 13

  “Yes, Commander,” George said.

  “You have two tasks,” the XO told her. “First, I want a detailed analysis of the whole engagement, from start to finish. I want you to outline ways it could have gone differently, for better or worse. Do not hesitate” - her voice hardened - “to consider mistakes I made, or might have made, as well as your own. I will not be offended by a critical remark, provided you can justify it.”

  George swallowed. “Yes, Commander.”

  “Your second task is to practice reprogramming the system on the fly,” the XO added. “The best tactical officers can program a command macro within seconds, minutes at most, simply by using pre-programmed shortcuts. Commander Mason will assist, if you need assistance.”

  And I had better need it, George thought.

  She shifted uncomfortably. The academy had insisted, time and time again, that everything had to be done by the book. Her tutors had practically sworn that everyone on the ship, from the commanding officer to the ship’s boy, read the manual before doing anything. And yet, none of the officers she’d met seemed inclined to follow the book completely. Even Fraser, as much as he might rebuke her for the slightest mistake, didn't seem bound by the rules.

  The XO met her eyes. “You have a question?”

  George swallowed, again. “Commander,” she said,” at the academy we were taught to avoid shortcuts.”

  “Welcome to the real world,” she said, not unkindly. “It doesn't matter, on this ship, if your salute is perfect or sloppy, or if your uniform isn't folded exactly right. However, it does matter, very much, that you complete your tasks as rapidly as possible. Failing to adapt as quickly as possible to a changing situation can be disastrous.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Commander,” George said.

  The XO looked at Nathan. “And do you feel you could have done anything differently?”

  “No, Commander,” Nathan said.

  George resisted the urge to elbow him. She had the feeling the XO wouldn't have asked if there had been nothing he could have done better. His tasks had been easier than hers, but he’d still had problems. And yet, she couldn't say that out loud, not now. She’d been too busy worrying over her mistakes, while drinking coffee, to consider Nathan’s mistakes ...

  “There are two points you should have considered, at least,” the XO said, coolly. “The first was that you could have rotated the ship, allowing the disabled turret to be replaced by one of the active turrets, the ones that couldn't bring themselves to bear on the enemy ships. Why didn't you consider it?”

  Nathan paled. “I didn't receive orders to rotate the ship ...”

  “No, but you could have suggested it,” the XO pointed out. “Or you could have simply done it for yourself, without orders. The helmsman has authority to angle the ship to bring more weapons to bear on her targets.”

  She paused. “The second point is that you kept charging after the enemy carrier, even when the enemy destroyers reversed course and attempted to ram,” she added. “Why was that a mistake?”

  “It shortened the range between us and them,” Nathan said, after a moment. “They didn't have as far to go to ram us.”

  “Correct,” the XO agreed. Her voice hardened. “A destroyer ramming us would be bad, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Commander,” Nathan said. “However ...”

  He broke off. The XO fixed him with a stern look. “However?”

  Nathan hesitated, then pressed on. “However, reducing our speed or even altering course would not have been effective,” he said. “I think the enemy would still have had a good chance to ram.”

  “They might well have had a chance,” the XO agreed. “However, your task is to make their task as hard as possible. Winning more time, even a minuscule amount of time, might have made the difference between our survival and destruction. Your task, during your time in the helm compartment, is to practice evasive manoeuvres. The next battle we face may be real.”

  “Yes, Commander,” Nathan said.

  The XO nodded. “We have a fortnight before we arrive at Marina for the war games,” she added, after a moment. “I want the two of you ready to move to another department at that point. You should have had enough experience at tactical and the helm to take a place on the duty roster by then.”

  “Yes, Commander,” George said.

  She allowed herself a moment of relief. She’d enjoyed working in the tactical section, but as an officer on the command track she was expected to have at least a basic working knowledge of how the other departments functioned. Where would she go next? The helm, swapping with Nathan? Or engineering? She didn't have the specialised training of an engineering officer, but she could assist the Chief Engineer for a month while learning how he ran his section.

  “And other than that,” the XO said, “how are you fitting into the ship?”

  George hesitated. She thought the other middies had accepted them - they were certainly much more friendly nowadays - but Fraser still hated her, still looked for excuses to assign her to unpleasant or humiliating tasks. And yet, it wasn't something she wanted to complain about, not to the XO. It would just allow Fraser the chance to prove she didn’t belong in the navy. There was no room in the fleet for shirkers, whiners and cheats.

  “We're getting used to it, Commander,” Nathan said. “It’s a great deal harder to find our way around the ship, as the deck plans don’t quite match up with the reality, but we’re learning.”

  The XO smiled. “The builders had problems turning the original set of plans into reality,” she commented. “Vanguard was the first in her class, after all. Hopefully, the other ships will be easier to build now the plans have been modified to respect appearances.”

  She looked at George. “And you, Midshipman Fitzwilliam?”

  “I’ve been getting used to the ship, Commander,” George said. She was not going to tell the XO about Fraser. “It’s definitely very different from Rustbucket.”

  “It would be,” the XO said. “Everything works here.”

  She rose. “Thank you both for coming,” she concluded. “You can now report to your next duty station.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” George said.

  She glanced at her watch as soon as they were outside the cabin. The XO had timed it well; they had barely seventeen minutes before they were expected at their next duty station. She checked the pair of ration bars in her uniform jacket, then glanced at Nathan. He was looking oddly pensive.

  “It didn't occur to me to rotate the ship,” he said. “Do you think that’s going to look bad on my record?”

  George frowned. In hindsight, it had been a stupid mistake. Outside the annual fleet display, when the king would review every Royal Navy starship in the system, there was no reason for a battleship to remain upright at all times. It wasn't a wet-navy ship, after all; it didn't matter to the crew if the ship was the right way up or not, assuming such terms had any meaning in space. Nathan could have rotated the ship easily, knowing that the point defence subroutines would compensate for the sudden shift in position.

  “You made it during a simulation,” she said, as reassuringly as she could. “I don't think it will be counted against you, as long as you learn from the mistake.”

  She sighed, inwardly. They really needed more time on the simulators, but between their duties and Fraser constantly finding them new tasks it was unlikely they’d be able to find time to do anything. She briefly considered appealing to reason, yet Fraser didn’t seem to be particularly reasonable. There were times when George honestly wondered if he had a split personality, when he’d do something decent for the middies and then turn around just to remind her how horrible he could be.

  “I hope you’re right,” Nathan said.

  “Let’s get a move on,” George said, banishing thoughts of Fraser for the moment. She could outlast him, if nothing else. “We’d better be in the tactical compartment before the deadline.”


  ***

  Susan felt an odd sense of ... worry ... as she stopped outside the hatch leading into the captain’s cabin. She hadn't been invited to visit; hell, the only times she’d seen the captain were when he’d been in his office or on the bridge. And, she had to admit, it suited her just fine. Better the captain recluse himself than do something drastic. She still wasn't sure if he’d been seriously considering firing on the courier boat or if he’d merely been testing his crew.

  She braced herself, then pressed her fingers against the buzzer. The hatch slid open at once, something that puzzled her. It was possible, she supposed, that the captain had keyed her into the lock, but the automatic system should have denied her access until the captain authorised it, assuming he was in his cabin. Unless something was wrong ... her hand reached for the pistol on her belt, before she told herself, quite firmly, that she was being silly. The captain was unlikely to be in real trouble.

  The cabin was larger than her own, according to the ship’s blueprints, but it was so crammed with clobber that it looked smaller. Captain Blake, it seemed, was a bit of a packrat. Boxes and suitcases lay everywhere, some lying open, others closed and firmly locked. She stepped forward carefully, taking a moment to admire a painting placed neatly on the bulkhead, looking around for the captain. He was sitting in a stuffed armchair, drinking from a steaming cup and reading a book. It snapped closed before she could make out the title.

  “Commander,” Captain Blake said. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

  “I thought you would appreciate a personal report on the new midshipmen,” Susan said. She found it impossible not to glance around, taking in the piles of books, chessboards and several objects she didn’t recognise. Judging by what was in view, the captain had enough clothes to outfit the entire senior staff. “They’re fitting in very well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Captain Blake said. “One would expect no less from the daughter of Admiral Fitzwilliam.”

  “Niece, sir,” Susan corrected. “She’s his niece.”

  “He clearly had a hand in raising her,” Captain Blake said. “I served under him, you know, back on the border guard. He was a good officer.”

  Susan shrugged. She’d only met Admiral Fitzwilliam once, shortly after the Anglo-Indian War. The Admiralty had awarded the Victoria Cross to the entire crew of Warspite and the task force’s CO - Admiral Fitzwilliam - had been the one to pin the plaque underneath the ship’s commissioning plate. She rather doubted he remembered her. To him, she would have been just another wet-behind-the-ears midshipwoman.

  “She probably deserves some sort of reward,” the captain added. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate, sir,” Susan said. “She has a long way to go before she’s ready for promotion.”

  It was hard to keep the irritation out of her voice. She hadn't had as much time as she would have liked to observe the new midshipmen, but there had been no suggestion that Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam was ready to use her family name to get her way. There was certainly no sign she was a spoiled aristocratic brat like too many girls she recalled from school. But too much favouritism, too soon, could easily change a decent girl into a complete bitch. She’d seen that happen at school too.

  “There will be dinners, of course, when we reach Marina,” the captain said, after a moment. “Perhaps she could be invited. As the junior deck representative, of course.”

  That would be more of a punishment, Susan thought. She would have hated it, back when she’d been a junior officer: too low-ranking to relax and enjoy the meal or to sneak off early, before the innumerable speeches. We should be saving that for someone who’s been really bad.

  “The opportunity is traditionally offered to the first middy,” she said, instead. She had her concerns about him too, but it was just possible he wouldn’t see the assignment as a punishment. “But the Americans may not wish us to bring midshipmen.”

  Captain Blake frowned. “Traditionally, one does bring a midshipman or two.”

  “The Yanks may have different customs,” Susan said. She’d reviewed the arrangements for a handful of diplomatic dinners on Formidable, but they'd been supervised by trained staff from the Foreign Office. Dining with an American Admiral and his staff, hopefully, would be rather less stuffy. “Besides, there are twenty-one of our ships due to attend and thirty-seven of theirs. That’s nearly sixty captains alone.”

  And Admiral Boskone may not be too pleased if he sees you, she added, silently.

  “True,” the captain agreed. He looked down at the deck, resting his hands on his knees as he considered. “However, we must make sure she has an opportunity to shine.”

  He glanced up. “Assign her to the shuttle crews, once she’s finished her time in the tactical department,” he ordered. “That will broaden her mind a little too.”

  Susan nodded, slowly. It was the sort of experience young officers needed, although it tended to come after they’d mastered their bridge duties. And yet, it could be justified, if the captain remained insistent. Young officers needed to learn how to command, sooner or later, and any mistakes made in the shuttlebay wouldn't reflect too badly on the rest of her career.

  And it will give her a break from bridge duties, she thought. I’ve wanted to alter the training patterns for a while now.

  “Midshipman Bosworth will also require a set of non-bridge duties,” she said, out loud. “I ..”

  “Choose one you feel suits him,” the captain said, waving his hand dismissively. “I leave it with you.”

  Social-climber, Susan thought, rudely. At least the captain wasn't making noises about having poor Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam assigned to his personal staff. That would probably have killed her career as surely as if she’d committed mutiny in the heat of battle. It would certainly have made it impossible for anyone to take her seriously. And do you really think Admiral Fitzwilliam will look kindly on you for coddling his niece?

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “And I’ll inform you when we have a complete set of tactical plans for the war games.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Jump completed, Commander.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Reed,” Susan said. “Tactical?”

  “Picking up low-level signals from Marina II, but nothing threatening within immediate detection range,” Mason said. “Unless it’s in stealth, of course.”

  Susan nodded, curtly. Marina was unusual; a G2 star located roughly midway between British and American space, but not one that had given birth to either habitable planets or an asteroid belt. There was a low-level terraforming program underway on Marina II, yet without a clear settlement plan it had to be regarded as highly speculative. But then, America had plenty of small groups that wanted their own planet and were prepared to pay for it. The system was really too close to other inhabited systems to be passed lightly to a potential future enemy.

  “Send our IFF to Admiral Boskone,” she ordered. Unless there had been a delay, the admiral and his task force, returning from the borders, should have reached Marina ahead of Vanguard and her small flotilla. “Inform him that we will reach Marina in roughly ten hours from now, then order the screen to flank us.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

  “Helm, set course for Marina,” Susan added. “Engage.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Reed said. Another low quiver ran through the battleship as the drives came online. “Drives online. All systems functioning at optimal levels.”

  Susan nodded, tightly. Commander Bothell hadn’t hesitated to replace any components that were showing signs of wear and tear, despite increasingly irked complaints from the beancounters back on Earth. Military gear was tough, designed to endure months of harsh treatment, but she couldn’t find any fault with Commander Bothell’s procedures. A faulty component was one that might break in the midst of a battle, regardless of the bureaucratic complaints. It was cheaper to replace a drive motivator than an entire battleship.

/>   And we can do without them burning out as we’re trying to run, she thought, as the display slowly began to fill with icons. The star and its five daughter worlds were easy to detect and track, but she knew from long experience that any starships might well have altered course or changed position before their emissions had been detected and logged. If the Americans happen to be planning an ambush ...

  She smiled at the thought, then frowned. Admiral Boskone was reputed to be a hard-ass; he might well have asked the Americans to try to sneak up on Vanguard or sent one of his own ships to do it. The mission would have been chancy during a live-fire exercise - the near-disaster during the last set of war games had been enough to convince the Admiralty to change the rules with astonishing speed - but now, it risked nothing more than embarrassment for one side or the other. And it was unlikely that the Americans would have had any trouble predicting Vanguard’s rough location. She would have been surprised if there hadn't been a stealthed picket in the previous system.