[Ark Royal 04] - Warspite Read online

  ... And then humanity had encountered the Tadpoles. And, if a single elderly carrier had been scrapped, the Tadpoles would have won the war. Instead, they’d been held, barely. And then, when the peace talks had finally concluded, the human race had looked out on a universe that was fundamentally different. They were no longer alone in the universe and, perhaps, it was only a matter of time until they encountered a third intelligent race.

  And who knows, he asked himself, what will happen then?

  The guard stepped forward as John reached the security fence. He didn't quite point his rifle at John’s chest, but the threat was clearly there. London had learned hard lessons about security in the days following the attack on Earth. The food riots and outright panic had made the task of recovery far harder.

  “Papers, please, sir,” the guard said.

  John reached into his uniform jacket and produced his ID card, then the printed letter inviting him to the Ministry of Defence. The letter had been short and to the point, but he had been unable to avoid a thrill of excitement after two weeks on Earth. Paper letters were rarely sent unless he was being summoned for promotion, a new command – or disciplinary action. And he knew he'd done nothing to warrant being hauled up in front of the First Space Lord for a bollocking. That would be the task of his immediate superior.

  “You’ll be met inside the building by a guide,” the guard said, after scrutinising the papers and checking with the building’s datanet. “Remember not to stray from the path, sir.”

  “I know,” John said. Being arrested by the military police and spending the night in the guardhouse wouldn't be fun. “Are there any problems I should know about?”

  “Couple of reports of bandits in the Restricted Zones, but nothing too serious,” the guard said. He stepped backwards and waved John into the building. “Good luck, sir.”

  John smiled, then stepped though the gate into the Ministry of Defence. It was the largest military building in London, apart from the barracks serving the army regiments based in the capital, now that command and control facilities had been moved to secret locations or Nelson Base, hanging in high orbit over the city. Inside, it was decorated with giant paintings showing scenes from British military history, culminating in a painting entitled The Last Flight of Ark Royal. It was surprisingly good, compared to some of the others.

  “Captain Naiser,” a female voice said. “I'm Commander Stephanie Underwood. If you will come with me ...?”

  John nodded, then allowed the young woman to lead him through a network of corridors. Outside the entry lobby, it was surprisingly bare, as if the walls had been stripped of paintings and all other forms of decoration. It was political, he guessed, as Commander Underwood paused in front of a large pair of doors. The Ministry of Defence couldn’t afford to be living it up when a fifth of the British population was still living in shoddy prefabricated accommodation scattered around the countryside.

  “The First Space Lord,” Commander Underwood said.

  “Sir,” John said, stepping into the office. It was as barren as the rest of the building, save for a large holographic display floating over the Admiral’s desk. “Reporting as ordered.”

  “Take a seat, Captain,” Admiral Percy Finnegan said. He returned John’s salute with one of his own. “It's been a while.”

  John sat, resting his hands in his lap. Finnegan had commanded HMS Victorious during the war, where he’d had the dubious pleasure of saving John’s life when his carrier had responded to the report of an attack on Bluebell. John had met him twice, once for a debriefing and once for a transfer from starfighter piloting to mainline command track. Both meetings had been short, formal and largely unemotional.

  “I was reading through your file,” Finnegan said, as he sat down and placed his elbows on his desk. The show of informality didn't help John to relax. “It’s quite an interesting read.”

  “Thank you, sir,” John said.

  “Born twenty-three years ago, in London,” Finnegan continued. “Parents largely absentee; you were practically brought up in boarding school. Joined the Cadet Corps at fourteen, then switched to the Space Cadets at fifteen. Your instructor spoke highly of you and cleared the way for you to enter the Starfighter Training Centre at eighteen. You were involved in an ... incident the week before graduation and were accordingly assigned to HMS Canopus, rather than a posting on a fleet carrier.”

  John stiffened. The ... incident ... had seemed a good idea at the time.

  “You served on Canopus for five months before the Battle of Bluebell, where you were the sole survivor. Your heroics during the battle won you the Victoria Cross. You were asked to return to the Training Centre to share your experience, but instead you requested a switch to command track. May I ask why?”

  There was no point, John knew, in pretending to be mystified by the question.

  “Colin and I were ... close,” he said. “We were wingmates, sir. When he died, I decided not to fly starfighters anymore.”

  “Indeed,” Finnegan said. He took a long breath. “You were appointed First Lieutenant on HMS Rosemount, as she required a CAG at short notice. I might add that you weren't expected to keep that position indefinitely. Captain Preston, however, chose you to succeed Commander Beasley when he was promoted to take command of HMS Jackson. You served as his XO until you were transferred to HMS Spartan. Again, you were quite young for the post.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said.

  “But you would be far from the only officer to be promoted rapidly,” Finnegan concluded, shortly. He met John’s eyes. “Your failure to follow a conventional career path would, under other circumstances, limit your chances of advancement. As it happens, however, we have a posting for you.”

  John kept his face expressionless with an effort. The Royal Navy needed all the trained manpower it could get, after so many officers and men had been killed in the war. In truth, he’d expected to be assigned to the Luna Academy or the Starfighter Training Centre years ago. He would have hated it, but it might be the best place for him to go. The recruits needed someone with genuine experience to ensure they knew what they needed to know.

  “This isn't an easy time for the Navy,” Finnegan continued. “We no longer have enough hulls to meet our commitments, even without having to refit a number of pre-war designs with alien-derived technology. Worse, several second-rank human powers are now in a position to challenge us, because they didn't take such a beating in the war – and then there’s the threat of renewed conflict with the Tadpoles. Accordingly, we’re having to rush a stopgap design of starship into service.”

  John felt a sudden burst of hope as the First Space Lord tapped his console and a holographic image of a starship appeared in front of him. She was larger than a frigate, he noted, although she would still be dwarfed by a fleet carrier. Oddly, she looked smoother and sleeker than the more mundane craft the Royal Navy deployed. He couldn't help being reminded of some of the alien ships he’d seen during the war.

  “The Warspite class is a hodgepodge of human and alien technology,” Finnegan informed him. “They’re armed with a mixture of weaponry, carry alien-grade jump drives and are generally faster and more manoeuvrable than any previous design. On the other hand, the mixture of technology has already led to teething troubles and kinks in the design, which we don’t have time to work out before pressing the ships into deployment. We’re that short of hulls. Unfortunately, they also require non-standard commanders.”

  That made sense, John was sure. The starship’s combination of human and alien technology might daunt a commander with more experience of human starships. He’d have less to unlearn than someone who followed the standard command track to high rank. And besides, if the data at the bottom of the display was accurate, the starship would handle more like a starfighter than any pre-war starship. He was sure, now, that he would assume command of one of the new ships. The thought of the challenge made him smile.

  Finnegan shrugged. “They have considerably more
range than a frigate,” he explained, as the holographic display twisted to show the starship’s interior. “Thanks to some of the alien technology, she can even draw fuel from a gas giant if necessary, although she lacks the machine shops and other onboard replenishment systems of a carrier. In short, she should be ideal for both escort missions, showing the flag and coping with limited problems without needing a major fleet deployment.

  “You will assume command of HMS Warspite,” he concluded. “We already have a task for her, Captain. You will not have a proper period to settle in to your new command.”

  John nodded, unsurprised. The meeting wouldn't have been organised so rapidly if the Royal Navy hadn’t needed to get Warspite into operational service as quickly as possible. It was likely to be a major headache if the ship was as untested as the First Space Lord was suggesting, if only because of the risk of failing components. There had to be a reason for the haste.

  But he would assume command! It didn't matter what Finnegan wanted him to do. All that mattered was that he would be commander of a starship, master under God. It would be the peak of his post-war career.

  “We’ve been probing through the new tramlines,” the First Space Lord said, unaware of John’s inner thoughts. “We’ve had some successes in locating newer ways to travel through human space which will, I suspect, cause a major economic boom once the technology is commonly available. Two months ago, however, a survey ship located a star system on the edge of explored space that possesses no less than seven tramlines, three of them alien-grade. One of them is directly linked to the Cromwell Colony.”

  “Founded just before the war, if I remember correctly,” John said, slowly. There had been a political argument over the British claim to the world, with several second-rank powers asserting that it should be theirs, damn it! Britain already had one major star system and several minor ones. “They were untouched by the fighting, I take it?”

  “They weren't touched directly,” the First Space Lord confirmed, “but there were delays in getting supplies and new colonists out to them. They’re not our concern, though. You will take your ship and a small flotilla of starships to Pegasus, the newly-discovered system, and lay claim to it in the name of the British Crown. Someone else might try to get there first.”

  “Possession being nine-tenths of the law,” John commented. There were endless arguments over who should claim systems with life-bearing worlds, but systems with several tramlines could be equally important. Control over shipping lanes would give the system’s owner a fair source of revenue in its own right – assuming, of course, they could make their will felt. “I assume the system hasn't been formally claimed?”

  “It won’t be, until we have an established presence there,” the First Space Lord warned. “I would prefer to avoid a challenge from one of the other powers over ownership.”

  He stood up. “Your formal orders are here,” he said, holding out a datachip. “You will travel to Warspite and assume command at once. I expect you and the flotilla to be ready to leave within the week, barring accidents. You will not find it an easy task.”

  “I will not let you down,” John assured him, as he took the datachip. There would be more than just his formal orders on the chip, he was sure. He could expect details of everything from his new command to her crew roster. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank me when you come back,” Finnegan said. His voice hardened as he rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Not before.”

  Chapter Two

  “Lots of ships flying through local space right now,” the shuttle pilot observed, in a strong cockney accent. “You know how hard it was to get a permit to fly you to Hamilton?”

  John snorted. “Devilishly easy?”

  The pilot laughed. “Just about,” he said. “But it wasn't easy, you know.”

  “Tell me,” John said. “Does anyone actually fall for that line?”

  “Depends who I’m flying,” the pilot admitted. “Experienced spacers snigger, while inexperienced dirty-feet worry about colliding with an asteroid.”

  John made a show of rolling his eyes. Space was vast. He had a greater chance of winning the lottery - without actually entering - than accidentally hitting an asteroid. The entire Royal Navy could fly through the asteroid belt in tight formation without running a serious risk of striking an asteroid. It only ever happened in bad movies and worse television shows. But then, he had to admit, so much that would have been deemed impossible had happened in the last few years. Humanity had gone to war with an alien race, for one. Why not an asteroid impact?

  He looked at the pilot and smiled. “Reservist?”

  “Used to drive cabs in London for a living,” the pilot confirmed. “Then I was called back to the war, because the last shuttle driver had to go fly starfighters for a living. My wife says it keeps me away from the camps.”

  “Probably a good thing,” John agreed. “Is she staying in the camps?”

  “Nah,” the pilot said. “She’s got a place in Doncaster now, thankfully. My oldest son was in a Reconstruction Brigade, while my daughter and younger son are at boarding school on Luna. I think they both want to follow me into space.”

  John nodded, then turned his attention to the near-space display. Earth was surrounded by orbital defence stations, shipyards and settled asteroids, while hundreds of starships made their way to and from humanity’s homeworld. Two-thirds of the ships, he saw, were colonist-carriers, transporting as many humans from Earth to various colony worlds as possible. Earth had been bombarded during the war and millions of humans had died. No one wanted to risk losing so much of the human race again.

  “I’ve been on one of those ships,” the pilot observed. “I wouldn't go on one again for love or money.”

  “The colonist-carriers?” John asked. “Why?”

  “They cut corners,” the pilot said. “Lots of corners. I think the Chinese actually lost a couple last month, if you believe all the rumours. The ships just aren’t safe.”

  “Risk is our business,” John said, quoting the motto of the British Survey Service. “If we took no risks, we’d still be stuck on Earth.”

  “There’s a difference between taking calculated risks and taking stupid risks,” the pilot countered, with a wink. “Sooner or later, one of the corners they cut is going to catch up with them and a colonist-carrier will be lost. And then all hell will break loose.”

  He was right, John knew. Civilian settlers hadn't signed up to take risks. There were always uncertainties surrounding space transport - all the more so now that humanity knew that hostile aliens existed - but the risks should be cut as much as possible. But he also knew there was no alternative. The colony worlds needed to be expanded as much as possible before humanity ran into the next threat. Or started fighting amongst itself again.

  Which isn't entirely impossible, he thought, coldly. The bombardment did a great deal of damage to our planetary security net.

  “The Indians are building their own carriers now,” the pilot added, as they headed further away from Earth. “I hear tell that they learned from our experiences.”

  “They probably did,” John agreed. Learning from someone else’s mistakes was cheaper than learning from your own. “Armoured hulls, plasma weapons and mass drivers?”

  “Looks that way,” the pilot added. “But then, everyone is also saying that the carrier has had her day.”

  “People say a lot of things,” John said. It was an old debate, sharpened by the outcome of the war. Did the development of rapid-fire plasma weapons ensure that starfighters were no longer relevant ... or would other advances make them harder to target in future? There was no way to know until the human race went back to war. “But not all of them are right.”

  He leaned forward, studying the display. The Indians weren’t the only ones pouring resources into rebuilding their naval power. Near-Earth space was crammed with shipyards: American, French, Chinese and even Russian, as well as the British installations. Newer shipy
ards were springing up too as second-rank powers, seeing an opportunity to join the first-rank powers, worked frantically to build up their own fleets. It was a good thing, he told himself, even though he worried about the future. If humanity hadn’t invested so much money and resources into its pre-war build-up, the war would have been over very quickly and the human race would have lost.

  “I suppose not,” the pilot said. “Time will tell, won’t it?”

  “Yeah,” John agreed. “It always does.”

  Slowly, HMS Hamilton came into visual range. As always, it looked like a handful of half-built starships, surrounded by pods and industrial modules, but it was clear, just from a glance, that the shipbuilding tempo was increasing rapidly. A dozen carriers hovered in the midst of the shipyard, their skeletal hulls illuminated by spotlights mounted on the industrial pods. It would be at least another two years, John knew, before they were completed, then put through their paces and declared ready for deployment. Until then, the Royal Navy would be dangerously weak.