[Ark Royal 04] - Warspite Read online

  So are the other human powers, he reminded himself, firmly. We’re all weak.

  A pair of starfighters flashed past as they approached the shipyard, weapons at the ready. John watched them go, feeling a hint of wistfulness. It had been years since he’d flown a starfighter and he knew it was unlikely he would ever fly one again, unless he managed to take command of a carrier. Starfighter pilots enjoyed freedoms unknown to the rest of the Navy, although they came with a price. Over eighty percent of the Royal Navy’s pilots had died in the war.

  “Show-offs,” the pilot grumbled. “They could have stayed safely away while they checked our IFF codes.”

  John shrugged. Starfighter pilots loved to show off. Besides, it was much easier to perform a visual check at close range.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The Navy wouldn't have assigned careless bastards to here, of all places.”

  “Ruddy cheek,” the pilot said. “Do they think we’re terrorists?”

  “I doubt it,” John said. “But they do have to be careful.”

  He winced at the thought. International terrorism had been sharply reduced towards the end of the Age of Unrest, although some cynics claimed that levels of terrorist activity were still higher than they’d been before the Troubles. But terrorist activity had been on the rise since the Battle of Earth, as the homeless or the dispossessed lashed out at those they blamed for their torments. Most of it had been small-scale, more like pinpricks than anything else, but it could easily grow worse. A terrorist taking control of an orbital freighter and crashing it into the planet below was everyone’s worst nightmare.

  “And here we are,” the pilot announced. He put on a more formal tone as HMS Warspite came into view. “Your new command, sir.”

  John leaned forward, drinking in the sight. Warspite was definitely sleeker than the pre-war frigates and cruisers the human navies had used to picket systems and escort the giant fleet carriers, but her dark hull was studded with weapons and sensor blisters. She looked almost like a flattened arrowhead, he decided, her dark armour providing protection against everything short of heavy plasma cannons or laser warheads. Or a direct nuclear hit.

  “I can take us around her, if you like,” the pilot offered. “Let you see her from prow to stern.”

  “Please,” John said.

  He pressed his face against the porthole as the pilot took them on a gentle circle of the starship’s hull. Her prow was a weapon, he noted; they’d placed a heavy plasma cannon there, right at the tip of the arrowhead. Two Marine shuttles were docked below her hull, half-shielded by armour plates. The designers had clearly expected that the ship would need to deploy her Marines as rapidly as possible. At the rear, her drive nodes looked bigger and more powerful than anything he would have expected on a ship of her class. But then, they were built with alien technology, he reminded himself. They might not look like standard human designs.

  “Take us to the shuttlebay,” he said, finally. “And tell them that I don’t want a greeting party.”

  “Aye, sir,” the pilot said. The shuttle yawed slightly, then headed right for the gaping hatch in the vessel’s hull. “But they may alert the XO anyway.”

  John had to smile. He’d been told, once, that the way to see if the XO was popular among the crew was to order them not to alert the XO that the captain was boarding - and see if someone alerted her anyway. At the time, he hadn't been sure what to make of it. Now, with years of experience as an XO under his belt, he thought he understood. The Captain was meant to be unapproachable, but the XO was there to take care of the crew.

  “It doesn't matter,” he said. “I just don’t want to waste everyone’s time by forcing them to greet me.”

  A dull tremor ran through the shuttle as Warspite’s gravity field asserted itself over the shuttle’s onboard generator. John braced himself as the shuttle came to a halt, then settled down on the deck and landed with a dull thump. He felt dizzy, just for a second, a sensation that faded away so quickly it was easy to believe he’d imagined it. The boffins swore blind that it was imaginary, but nine out of ten spacers reported it regularly.

  “Good luck, sir,” the pilot said. “Come back safely.”

  John threw him a sharp glance, then picked up his duffle, slung it over his shoulder and stepped out of the hatch. Warm air struck his face at once, carrying with it the fresh smell of a starship newly out of the yards. It wouldn't be long before the presence of two hundred crewmen altered the ship’s smell, but for the moment it smelt clean. He took a long breath, then turned to face the flags painted on the bulkhead. The Union Jack, as always, reminded him of home.

  He saluted, then turned to face the airlock as it hissed open, revealing two people. One of them was surprisingly young for her rank, wearing a commander’s uniform with an alarming lack of service pips; the other was older and darker, wearing an engineer’s overall. John was surprised to realise that he recognised him; Mike Johnston had served as Chief Engineer on HMS Rosemount before being reassigned to the Next Generation Weapons program on Britannia.

  “Captain,” the commander said. She hesitated, then saluted imperfectly. “I’m Commander Juliet Watson, your XO. Welcome onboard HMS Warspite.”

  John felt an icy chill of suspicion - directed at the First Space Lord - as he studied Juliet Watson. She was young, around twenty-five, and her salute wasn't the only imperfect thing about her. Her dark hair was far too long to suit regulations, her uniform looked as if she didn't quite know how to dress herself and the lack of service pips suggested that Warspite was her first operational deployment. It made no sense. He’d had to fight a promotions board all the way to become a line officer, even after the Battle of Bluebell. Had someone seen fit to promote Commander Watson because she had links to the aristocracy? It was possible, but he honestly couldn't recall any aristocratic family with that name - or anything closely related to it.

  “Thank you, Commander,” he said, finally. Maybe appearances were deceiving. “And you, Mike. You’re looking well.”

  Was it his imagination, he asked himself, or did Johnston look relieved to see him? The burly engineer had a reputation for working hard, then drinking and fighting hard; thankfully, he'd never been enough of a drunkard to appear on duty still worse for wear. Some people, like the late lamented Admiral Smith, might have been able to get away with it. An engineering officer who turned up for duty drunk would be lucky if his commander didn't shove him out of the nearest airlock and swear blind it had been a terrible accident.

  “Thank you, sir,” Johnston said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Juliet looked from one to the other. “You know each other?”

  “Served together on Rosemount,” Johnston said, immediately. “It was an exciting deployment.”

  “Very exciting,” John agreed, carefully. Something was definitely not right. “Please would you show me round the ship, then I will formally assume command.”

  Juliet beamed. “It will be my pleasure,” she said. She nodded to Johnston, then turned to lead the way through the airlock. “If you’ll come with me ...?”

  John followed her, glancing from side to side as they entered a long passageway. Half of the inspection hatches were open, revealing various components; a dozen engineering crewmen, some of them obviously borrowed from the shipyard, were working to install dozens of other components before the ship left the yard for good. Juliet moved with easy confidence through the passageway, then stopped in front of a large hatch. It hissed open, revealing a giant engineering compartment.

  “This is Main Engineering,” Juliet said, cheerfully. “As you can see, we actually have three fusion reactors powering the ship, although we could operate quite effectively on just one of them. The third reactor is intended to power our weapons array; naturally, if necessary, we can switch from reactor to reactor, should we require additional power. Our drive fields are actually more sophisticated than anything else known to exist, giving us a speed advantage of twenty percent ov
er the next-fastest human ship. I think we will stack up well against alien technology too, should we meet a Tadpole starship.”

  John frowned. “Do you think they won’t be advancing too?”

  “I imagine they will be trying to figure out how to mix and match their technology with ours, just as we are doing with theirs,” Juliet said. She waved a hand towards a large control panel, then smiled at him. “However, we have an advantage, I believe. Our R&D efforts were given quite a jolt when they showed up, while they enjoyed their technological superiority for far too long.”

  She took a breath, then continued. “Of course, the real objects of interest are the modified Puller Drives,” she said. “Right now, we can access the longer tramlines without worrying about blowing the drive systems, but I believe that is only the tip of the iceberg. Imagine being able to jump from system to system without a tramline. That’s the promise of our research, Captain. We might be able to banish the tramlines once and for all.”

  “It would be great, if it were possible,” John mused.

  “Theoretically, it is possible,” Juliet assured him. “And one day, it will be practically possible too.”

  John couldn't help a sinking feeling in his stomach as Juliet led him on a tour of the rest of the ship. The crew seemed calm and professional, but Juliet herself was far from professional. He was starting to have a feeling that the First Space Lord had had motivations of his own for assigning John to Warspite. A non-standard commander, he’d said. Maybe it was because the crew was non-standard too. John had met officers who would summarily have relieved Juliet of duty by now, just for forgetting to call them sir.

  He pushed the thought to one side as they stepped onto the bridge. Like the rest of the ship, it exuded a sense of newness, of just having come out of the yard. The consoles looked shiny, the command chair looked as if no one had sat in it since it had been installed and the deck plates were shiny. He took a step forward, then glanced back at the rear bulkhead, where the ship’s dedication plaque was placed. Warspite’s motto - belli dura despicio - was clearly written below the list of officers who had attended the ship’s formal commissioning.

  “I despise the hard knocks of war,” he muttered.

  “We have to be careful not to be hit,” Juliet said, suddenly serious. “A single mass driver strike could smash us, no matter how much armour we nail to the hull.”

  John nodded. Once, mass drivers had been practically outlawed by international agreement. Now, everyone was building mass drivers, after seeing just how effective they had been against the Tadpoles. A single kinetic strike would be enough to wreck almost any starship, save for a giant armoured carrier. And even a carrier would require years of work before she could return to duty.

  He sat down in his command chair, then drew the sheet of paper the First Space Lord had given him from his jacket. “Now hear this,” he said. “From the First Space Lord to Captain John Naiser, VC. You are ordered to take command of HMS Warspite ...”

  “I stand relieved,” Juliet said, when he had finished.

  She didn't seem annoyed at losing command, something that bothered John more than he cared to admit. He’d never known an officer who hadn't been a little irked at losing command, save perhaps for young midshipmen who’d been plunged into the fire. No one reached command rank without being ambitious and confident in his abilities. But Juliet had shown no reaction at all.

  “Continue as you were,” John ordered. It was high time he got to the bottom of this, before he tripped over an unexpected surprise. “I need to speak to Engineer Johnston in my cabin, then go through the ship’s files.”

  “Of course, sir,” Juliet said.

  Chapter Three

  “CO wants to see you, Percy,” Captain Kimball said. “You been up to anything I don’t know about?”

  Corporal Percy Schneider shook himself awake. “I don't think so, sir,” he said, as he hastily checked his uniform. “What does he think I did?”

  “I don’t know,” Kimball said. “But you’d better hurry. He didn't look to be in a good mood.”

  He’s never in a good mood, Percy thought, as he swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood. Colonel Hawkins - his men called him the Hawk when they thought he wasn't listening - wasn't a bad sort, but he had grown stricter in the years since the Battle of Earth, when he'd lost his wife and two small children. Percy, who’d lost both of his parents to the war, found it hard to blame him. There were days when he wished he had died instead of his father or mother.

  He checked his appearance, then strode out of the barracks and down towards the CO’s office. Quite why the higher-ups had thought to put 47 Commando in Redford Barracks, Edinburgh, mystified him, although he had to admit it was good for leave. Wearing a Royal Marine uniform was a guarantee that one didn't have to spend the night alone, even if a third of the country wore one uniform or another. The CO was based in a large redbrick building, guarded by a pair of armed soldiers. They nodded to Percy as he approached, then stepped aside to allow him to enter. Thanks to his father, he was the most recognisable soldier on the base.

  Colonel Hawkins didn't hold with luxury, Percy noted with approval as he was shown into the office. A simple folding table, a field-grade terminal and a pistol were the only things in the room, save for a small drinks machine. Percy came to a halt in front of the desk, then saluted. Hawkins looked up, then returned the salute.

  “At ease,” he said. He looked Percy up and down, then sighed. “Is that At Ease for you, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir,” Percy said, stiffly.

  Hawkins shrugged. “Your father’s heroics ensured you could apply for a place in the Academy, if you wanted,” he said. “Instead, you joined the Royal Marines. Was there a reason for that, Corporal?”

  “I wanted to prove myself, sir,” Percy said.

  It was more than that, he knew. He’d been drafted into a disaster recovery unit shortly after the aliens had attacked Earth, where he’d seen Royal Marines spearheading the effort to save as many people from floods and tidal waves as they could. The Marines had impressed him in a way his father, the starfighter pilot, never had. And so, when the time had come to apply for military service, he’d volunteered for the Royal Marines.

  “And so you have,” Hawkins said. “You came second in your class, then you spent six months on Mars, two months on wet-navy duty and four more months here. Which one did you find most interesting?”

  “Mars, sir,” Percy said. “It was a fascinating environment.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Hawkins said. “You know Corporal Tailor? He came down with a particularly nasty stomach flu only two days ago. I was hoping it would respond to medical treatment, but ... well, the doctors say it will be several weeks before he’s fit for duty once again.”

  Percy frowned. “Something biological, sir?”

  “It could be, although the medics think otherwise,” Hawkins said. “He probably just went out on the town and ate something unhealthy before returning to base. Or he picked it up in one of the reclamation zones.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Percy said. The bombardment had left thousands of festering dead bodies in its wake. Disease had swiftly followed, despite modern medical treatment. “I’m sure he will recover.”

  “So am I,” Hawkins said. “However, it leaves me with a problem. Tailor was assigned to Warspite, the latest cruiser. She was intended to take two sections of Royal Marines on her deployment. Naturally, Tailor will be unable to make her departure date.”

  “Yes, sir,” Percy said. There were strict procedures in place for handling injuries or illnesses among the Royal Marines. The affected Marine would be taken off the duty roster until fully recovered, then slotted in wherever possible. It wasn't something he cared to think about, not really. Leaving his mates behind wouldn’t be easy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Not as sorry as you will be,” Hawkins predicted. “I’d like to assign you to cover the slot.”

  Percy blinked. “Me, s
ir?”

  “You,” Hawkins confirmed. “You have the right qualifications for the role. Lieutenant Darryl Hadfield has overall command, with Hastings as CO of Section 1. You’ll take Section 2. I don’t think I need to tell you, Corporal, that this could make your career.”

  “No, sir,” Percy said.

  He considered it, briefly. Serving on a starship, even as third-in-command of the Marine detachment, would put his name to the top of the list for further deployments. It wouldn’t be quite the same as serving on the ground, but ... but it would be fun. Besides, he wasn't blind to the hidden implications either. If he refused the assignment, it was unlikely he’d be offered another one.

  “You’ll catch a shuttle from Turnstile Spaceport tomorrow,” Hawkins said. He tapped his terminal, removed a datachip and passed it to Percy. “Report to the RAF hanger at 1300 for your flight, taking with you a standard deployment bag. Everything else is already on the ship, waiting for you. Tailor’s personal possessions can be stored until his return to active service.”