09- We Lead Read online

  “You can't fix everything,” Susan pointed out. “I plotted and carried out a mutiny, technically speaking. They could have hanged me.”

  She sighed. Relieving a superior officer of his post - particularly under fire - was not encouraged. In truth, she was surprised she hadn't been told to quietly resign, thus balancing the need for reward and punishment. She hadn't dared to hope that she'd be left in command of Vanguard. It had simply never occurred to her that her actions would have created a political headache for the government, a headache that could only be resolved by confirming her as Vanguard’s new CO.

  And I’ll probably be kicked out once the war ends, she thought, cynically. If the war ever does end ...

  “I would have tried,” her father said, stubbornly.

  He met her eyes. “You’re not the only person to consider taking such steps.”

  Susan blinked. “You did?”

  “Yes,” her father said.

  He looked down at the table for a long moment. “I didn't have a hope in hell of going to Sandhurst,” he said. “When I joined the army, I was sent to Catterick for basic training and then assigned to the Yorkshire Regiment.”

  Susan nodded, impatiently. A penniless nobody from Jamaica, without connections ... he’d have to do very well to win one of the coveted spots at Sandhurst. And he hadn't. Instead, he’d been trained and then slotted into a regiment. Jamaica had a long history with the British Army, but there was no specifically Jamaican regiment. Only the Ghurkhas and the Sikhs had that honour, for better or worse. It was still a matter of hot dispute.

  “I did well, the first couple of years,” her father added. “We were on patrol, operating from forward bases in Africa and the Middle East. Mainly pirate-hunting, though we got in a little barbarian-chasing too. I was fortunate enough to be promoted to corporal with a promise of a prospective promotion to sergeant, if I chose to throw my hat into the ring for NCO training.”

  “Which you had,” Susan said.

  “This was before my promotion to sergeant,” her father said. He shrugged. “We get a new chap straight out of Sandhurst - a thick-headed second lieutenant with a chin so weak you’d think he’d go have it fixed. Talks like a cup of weak tea passing its way through my digestive system, acts like he wasn't even there a week before getting kicked out. Oh, and did I mention he was the third son of the Duke of Somewhere?”

  “No,” Susan said. She had a nasty feeling she knew where the story was going. Someone with such strong family connections would be virtually guaranteed a place at Sandhurst, regardless of his qualifications. “What happened?”

  “Officers like that ... everyone prefers they just stay in the tents, get drunk and claim the credit,” her father told her. “It would have rankled, of course, but it would have been preferable. This one was too dumb to realise that he really should listen to his NCOs, if he insisted on exercising direct command. He changes everything because he thinks it should be different ...”

  Susan nodded. She’d met quite a few officers who’d insisted on stamping their authority on their ship as quickly as possible, even if their changes were largely cosmetic. It had been annoying, back when she’d been a junior officer. Now, she rather understood how those officers had felt. They’d needed to make it clear that they were in charge.

  “And then we get into a firefight,” her father added. “I’m meant to be leading the patrol, but thickhead decides to take command himself. Not his job, but ... hey, he’s the superior officer, so I swallow it. And then he leads us straight into an ambush, which gets us pinned down in a defile. The bastards can't get to us, but we can't get out either. Bullets are pinging everywhere and it looks bad.

  “Thickhead decides to organise a mass charge, right up the side and into the teeth of enemy fire. Brave, I suppose, but fucking stupid. It’s the sort of thing that only works if you have a patriotic scriptwriter on your side. Our body armour is good, but it’s not that good. I put my foot down and he starts screaming at me, threatening everything from a whipping to being fired out of a cannon. And I start seriously thinking about putting a bullet in his brain.”

  Susan swallowed. “But you didn't?”

  “The Household Cavalry showed up and drove the insurgents away before we could mount the charge or I could kill him,” her father said. “Someone with more rank than I must have ... discussed ... the whole affair with him, because he was surprisingly quiet for the rest of the deployment. I think he took early retirement and left a few years later. He was certainly never put in command of deployed troops again.”

  “Good,” Susan said.

  Her father leaned forward. “You did the right thing in relieving your commanding officer of his post,” he said. “But you did the wrong thing in not telling me.”

  Susan shrugged. “Would you have told your father, if you had shot the idiot?”

  “I would have had to tell him something,” her father said. He conceded the point with a sly nod. “But he wouldn't have been in any position to help.”

  “Neither were you,” Susan said.

  Her father sighed. “At least you survived,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “And you’re getting older. Any chance of a husband or children yet? I could do with grandchildren.”

  Susan shook her head. “I haven’t met anyone, father,” she said. “My career makes it harder to meet men.”

  “I met your mother while I was a serving soldier,” her father pointed out.

  “That’s different,” Susan said. “I’m a commanding officer on a battleship. The men I meet are either my superior officers or my subordinates.”

  “Then spend more time meeting civilians,” her father said. “Should I ask Sandy if he wants a date?”

  Susan would have blushed, if her skin allowed it. “No,” she said, horrified. “Father ...”

  Her father’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Your mother would have approved of him,” he said. “And he’d understand the demands of your career.”

  “I’m not interested at the moment,” Susan said. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

  “There’s more to life than serving in the military,” her father said. He waved a hand around the kitchen. “I can swear to that, Susan.”

  Susan shrugged. She liked the restaurant - she’d spent most of her holidays waiting tables and cleaning after the doors were closed - but she didn't want to spend the rest of her life there. Too many of her friends were trapped in the community, even after the war; unable to leave, unable to build lives away from their childhood homes.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But, for the moment, the navy is my life.”

  Chapter Two

  “Keep your fucking head down!”

  George ducked into the mud as a spray of bullets rattled over her head, trying to compress her body into as small a target as possible. She knew, intellectually, that the bullets weren't real, but the whole scenario was terrifyingly realistic. The exercise ground near Hereford was designed to push soldiers to the limit - and woe betide the soldier who treated the exercises as a game. They might not be shot, if they made a mistake, but they would have to face the wrath of the exercise coordinators and their superior officers.

  And people have died out here, she thought, as the ground shook violently. She stayed low, praying it would be over soon. Accidents happen.

  She glanced up as the shaking came to an end. A line of Royal Marines were running forward to take up defensive positions, their rifles at the ready. Everyone knew the enemy - the opposition force - was on the march. They’d be hit at any moment. She ducked down again as a pair of aircraft zoomed overhead, then cursed her own mistake as she realised they were friendly. The emplaced antiaircraft weapons to the rear would have fired on them if they’d been unfriendly.

  And no one flies now if they can help it, she reminded herself. The HVMs and ground-based lasers were more than capable of blowing anything out of the sky, even a modern stealth aircraft. She’d seen simulations of wars between the Great Pow
ers that ended up looking like a modern version of the First World War. The enemy would slaughter our aircraft as mercilessly as we’d slaughter theirs.

  “Get up,” Sergeant Roberts snapped, as he ran past. “Dig yourself a fucking foxhole!”

  George nodded, scurrying forward until she was just behind the trench. Digging foxholes hadn't been covered in the academy, but she’d learnt hard lessons since she’d been seconded to Hereford. She wasn't quite sure why her superiors - and her family - wanted her to learn groundpounder skills, yet ... she had to admit part of her had enjoyed it. But the rest of her wanted a shower, a long nap and a flight back to HMS Vanguard. The battleship had been a hard posting, harder than she’d anticipated, but she’d been clean. Right now, George was covered in so much mud that she suspected she’d need a series of showers just to dig down to her bare skin.

  She pulled her entrenching tool from her belt and set to work, digging into the ground. The marines were digging with terrifying speed, putting together a trench that looked more sturdy than her own pathetic efforts. She gritted her teeth and worked harder, wishing she’d had longer to prepare. It was impossible to forget that each of the marines had at least three years experience, far more than herself. As far as they were concerned, she was little better than a raw recruit.

  “Incoming,” someone shouted.

  George dived into the foxhole, cursing the puddle of water at the bottom, as mortar shells landed around their position. Dirt tumbled into the hole, mocking her. Water dribbled down afterwards, slowly flooding the bottom. Her boots were good, she knew, but she could still feel water soaking her feet. She’d have to be careful, she reminded herself. She hadn't run the risk of bacterial infections since she’d escaped boarding school.

  Where the gym mistresses were all frightfully keen, she recalled. She’d enjoyed playing games, but some of the other girls had considered gym a foretaste of hell. If you weren't a player - and a good player at that - the gym mistresses hated you. What does it say about them that drill instructors are nicer people?

  She smiled at the thought as she carefully lifted her head and peered south. The enemy was somewhere in the distance, hidden behind a thicket of trees. They’d be probing north, if the intelligence briefing had been remotely accurate, searching out the Royal Marines before they mustered a counterattack. And they already knew where the marines were, she reminded herself, sharply. No one would call down a mortar strike at random and expect it to hit someone.

  Someone moved, behind her. She turned to see Sergeant Roberts, hugging the ground. He was a short burly man, so immensely muscular that she was tempted to suggest that he had muscles on his muscles. She found him a little intimidating, even though he lacked the near-sadism practiced by her gym teachers. He’d certainly made it clear that he would be treating her just like any other recruit, despite her youth, sex and family connections. And the hell of it, she knew, was that he was right. The Royal Marines couldn't afford weak links, even in their naval liaisons.

  “Get your com out,” he growled, pitching his voice low. “They’ll be coming soon.”

  A rattle of gunfire, in the distance, underscored his words. George nodded, then pulled the terminal off her belt and checked the datanet uplink. Thankfully, the exercise coordinators had decided that enemy jamming would be ineffective - this time. The close-air support network opened up in front of her, showing her exact location on the map. She let out a sigh of relief as she entered her ID codes, then settled down to wait. It wouldn't be long now.

  She cursed her digging as the ground quivered, wishing she’d been allowed to join the marines in their trench. But no, she’d been told to dig her own foxhole and hide in it. The marines were skilled diggers, she knew; she wouldn't have got in their way ... she sighed, pushing the thought out of her head. Sergeant Roberts - and his superiors - no doubt had their reasons, even if they didn't make sense to her. Besides, she was meant to pull her own weight.

  An odd silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by bursts of gunfire in the distance. She thought she heard another aircraft, but there was nothing in the grey sky when she looked. A couple of marines hurried past her, expanding the trench to create an escape route, if necessary. She’d been surprised when she’d first seen them doing it, two months ago, but she’d learnt hard lessons since. Trying to escape by running on the surface was just asking for a bullet in the back.

  The marines glanced at her, jabbed a finger towards the escape route to confirm she knew where it was, then headed onwards. George sighed. Three months of training with the marines, three months of tagging along ... and they still hadn't warmed up to her. They were polite enough, she supposed - she’d heard worse in Middy Country - but they weren't very welcoming. She wasn't sure if it was because of her sex or because she’d been forced on them at the last moment - or because they didn't expect her to make it. Maybe it was her sex. There were no female Royal Marines.

  But they’ve obviously worked with women before, she thought, sourly. Everything from intelligence agents to liaison officers.

  The gunfire grew louder. George peered towards the trees, seeing shapes flittering forward and into the muddy field. The enemy was advancing slowly, pushing forward ... they definitely knew the marines were there. But they might also hope that the marines had been killed by the bombardment, clearing the way across the battlefield. She tensed, placing her terminal by the side of the foxhole and aiming her rifle. Maybe she wasn't as good a shot as the marines. She could still take down a few enemy soldiers before they had to retreat ...

  She braced herself, careful to keep her finger off the trigger. Sergeant Roberts had warned his squad, in graphic detail, precisely what would happen to anyone who fired before he issued the order. George had no intention of drawing his wrath, not now. She had no way to be sure, but she had a feeling that her time on the exercise field was drawing to a close. And then? She honestly had no idea. Shipped back to Vanguard or ...?

  “Fire!”

  George fired, automatically. The lead enemy soldiers dropped, their successors falling to the ground and taking cover as the marines opened fire. George searched for a second target, but saw nothing. A handful of enemy soldiers were still in the trees, but they were low ... a rumble echoed through the air, sending more mud cascading into her foxhole. A trio of tanks were advancing north, straight towards the marines. The marines might be able to stop the enemy infantry, but the tanks ...? Their bullets would just bounce off the tanks.

  “Fitzwilliam,” Sergeant Roberts snapped. “Call in a strike!”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” George shouted back.

  Her fingers danced over the terminal, tapping in orders. She cursed the safety precautions built into the network, even as she ordered an immediate strike. But they were necessary. It wouldn't do to accidentally call in a strike on her own position. The command went into the network ... she braced herself, silently praying that the strike wouldn't be aborted by some REMF sipping tea in an office several miles from the front lines. She’d never really understood the resentment some of the groundpounders felt for the Royal Navy - and the army’s own uniformed bureaucrats - until she’d started training with the marines. As bad as her early days on Vanguard had been, they’d been wine and roses compared to training with the marines.

  The notification popped up in front of her. “Ten seconds!”

  “Call at two,” Sergeant Roberts ordered.

  George watched the seconds tick down to zero, hoping - desperately - that nothing would go wrong. Some of the strikes she’d called in had been disrupted, either by enemy counterbattery fire or long-range guns being retasked at very short notice. It awed her to think there was a whole network of guns, missile launchers, aircraft, drones and orbital bombardment stations waiting on her command, but she knew she wasn’t the only Forward Strike Controller on the battlefield. Even without political interference, the network might decide that someone else - perhaps someone in danger of being overrun - needed the strike more than he
r ...

  “Two seconds,” she shouted. “Two seconds!”

  She ducked down as the missiles flashed overhead and slammed into their targets. The ground shook violently, the walls of her foxhole crumbling inwards until she was half-buried in the mud. She forced herself to remain still, even though her instincts were demanding that she scramble out before she was buried completely. Being hit by a piece of flying debris would be embarrassing, particularly as it would be a real injury. The British Army took safety seriously, but there was no way to prevent accidents on an exercise ground. Shit happened.

  The ground stopped shaking. “Get up,” Sergeant Roberts snapped. “Back to the next line of trenches!”

  George pulled herself free of the mud and looked south. There was nothing but burning wreckage where the enemy tanks had been. Her head hurt, just for a second, as she tried to understand what she was seeing. She knew the tanks hadn't been real, right? Or perhaps the missiles hadn't been real? Or ... she dismissed the thought as she crawled towards the escape trench, determined not to give the marines an excuse to hurry her along with a kick. The battlefield - partly simulated or not - was lethal. A mistake could get her killed.