Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (17 page)

Susan opened her mouth, but she honestly wasn't sure what to say or do.  There was
no
point in trying to evade, not when the starfighters were easily twice as fast as the destroyers on their best day. 
Vanguard
was solidly armoured, too; she should have no difficulty surviving the first pass and taking a colossal bite out of the American ships.  Unless ... new red icons popped onto the display, as if some malevolent entity had held them in reserve until it was too late.  The Americans had arrived in force ...

“Captain,” Charlotte said.  “The entire American task force is bearing down on us.”

That’s how they did it
, Susan thought, numbly. 
They decided to abandon the planet entirely, trusting that we wouldn't bombard it.  Instead, they focused on the gas giant and now they’ve caught us with our pants down
.

“Alter course,” the captain ordered.  “Thrust us away from them ...”

“Enemy ships are opening fire,” Mason reported.  “Missile ETA roughly two minutes after the starfighters ...”

Susan swore inwardly.  This was no skirmish, this was an outright attempt to defeat Churchill-One in detail.

“Stand by point defence,” she snapped.  “Launch buckshot at the facilities; cover as many possible locations as you can.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

“Incoming message from Captain Nottingham,” Parkinson said.  “He’s requesting permission to deploy starfighters.”

“Do it,” Susan snapped.

“Belay that order,” Captain Blake said.  She could hear panic in his tone.  “They’ll just be destroyed ...”

Susan cursed as the American starfighters lanced into the formation.  Dozens died, picked off by point defence, but the remainder survived to press the attack against the escort carriers.  It only took a handful of missiles to take them both out, leaving Churchill-One without any starfighter cover of its own.  The remaining destroyers lasted only minutes after the escort carriers, leaving
Vanguard
alone.  And she didn't have a hope of outrunning her tormentors ...

“Reverse course,” Susan ordered.  Should she relieve the captain?  Admiral Boskone was likely to explode with rage when he reviewed the engagement report, if only because the best opportunity for relieving the captain had long since vanished.  “Take us right into the teeth of their fire.”

The captain emitted a little moan, but said nothing as the battleship slowly turned and advanced towards the American ships.  Clearly, the dispassionate part of Susan’s mind noted, the Americans had underestimated the battleship.  The damage was mounting up, but it wasn't
serious
, while their fleet carriers and escorts were slowly entering
Vanguard’s
range.

“Fire as soon as we bear,” she ordered, quietly.  The Americans had realised the danger, but they’d have real problems getting out of range before it was too late.  “And don’t let up.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

“Two of our drive rooms have been disabled,” Reed warned.  “Our speed is dropping.”

“Keep us going as long as you can,” Susan ordered.  The Americans had a chance to scatter, and they might well save some of their fleet, but they were going to know they’d been in a fight.  “Open fire.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.  “Firing ... now.”

Susan sucked in a breath as the main guns opened fire, sweeping two American destroyers out of space before concentrating on one of the fleet carriers.  The American carriers had their own protective armour, but it wasn't enough to stand up to
Vanguard
.  Susan allowed herself a moment of vindictive glee as the carrier’s icon dimmed on the display, then watched coldly as the other fleet carrier came under heavy fire.  Her crew were either more experienced or better led, she noted; they managed to keep the carrier going until she was out of
Vanguard’s
effective range.  She was badly damaged, but two of her launch tubes were still intact.  She’d be able to recover the starfighters from the other carrier, although
keeping
them might be tricky.  The Americans might need to land their starfighters on the hull and hope they could be recovered before their life support packs ran out.

And their packs may be lower than normal
, she thought. 
If they launched the starfighters on unpowered ballistic trajectories ...

She had to hand it to Admiral Pournelle.  The tactic had been innovative and, against a fleet carrier, it might well have proved decisive.  Pournelle couldn't have
known
Captain Blake would freeze, when put to the test, so he’d thrown a sucker punch at the entire squadron.  The only thing that had saved Churchill-One from a curbstomp battle had been
Vanguard’s
armour.

And we lost all of the squadron
, she reminded herself.  Fleet carriers took five years to build, but still ... it had been a costly victory. 
Admiral Boskone may not consider the trade-off worthwhile
.

“Captain,” Parkinson said, formally.  “I’m picking up a surrender signal from Admiral Pournelle.  He’s striking the flag.”

“I think we won,” Mason added.  He sounded pleased.  “They really shouldn't have let themselves get so close.”

Susan gritted her teeth.  After killing one fleet carrier, two cruisers and seven destroyers - and crippling another fleet carrier - it was quite possible that Admiral Boskone wouldn't look too closely at the combat records.  Part of her was almost relieved; she wouldn't have to explain why she hadn't either relieved the captain of command or reported his ...
problems
... to superior authority.  And yet, at least it would have ensured she didn’t have to hide anything any longer.

“Signal to all decks,” she ordered, tightly.  “Well done.”

The display flickered as the ‘destroyed’ ships came back to life.  Her crew would probably be swimming in beer, once they returned to Marina.  She had no idea if American crewmen were paid more than British crewmen, but there was nothing else to spend money on while cruising between the stars.  And besides, by any reasonable standard, they’d won. 

And the captain froze up
, she thought, grimly.  Maybe they
had
won, but Captain Nottingham was likely to have a few harsh things to say about the whole affair and so were the other commanding officers.  How could she blame them? 
Now what the hell do I do
?

Chapter Sixteen

“If this is punishment,” George murmured to herself, “I need to be naughtier.”

The Boatswain looked up from his console.  “Pardon, Midshipwoman?”

George felt her cheeks heat.  It was against regulations to fly a shuttlecraft with less than two crewmen, unless it was a major emergency, but she’d been so enraptured by the vision of interplanetary space that she’d forgotten the Boatswain was there.  Being out in space, away from the cramped interior of
Vanguard
, was fantastic.  She was honestly tempted to request a permanent transfer to flying shuttles and to hell with trying to reach command rank.

“I’m sorry, Chief,” she said.  “My mind was wandering.”

“As long as it doesn't wander us straight into another ship,” the Boatswain said, dryly.  “And as long as you don’t lose touch with the fleet.”

George nodded, embarrassed.  The first war game had been followed by a dozen others, ranging from deep-space ambushes to defending the planet against an invading fleet.  She’d been torn between enjoying her birds-eye view of the engagements and envying Nathan and the other midshipmen for serving in the engineering, tactical and helm departments when there were so many interesting things going on.  The experience they were gaining, just from unpredictable fleet games, would be invaluable later in their careers.

But at least I’ve been getting better at issuing commands
, she thought. 
Even if I still make mistakes from time to time
.

She glanced at the Boatswain, who seemed to be paying attention to his console.  He’d saved her from making a number of mistakes, although he’d often let her make the first mistake and only then explain why it
was
a mistake.  The shuttle crews knew what they were doing, after all; George could issue generalised orders, but never specific ones.  She hadn't realised just how little she’d known of shuttle operational procedures - everything from flying to maintenance - until she’d gone to work in the shuttlebay.

“You’re an officer,” the Boatswain had said.  “You find an enlisted crewman who knows how to do any specific task and order him to do it.”

Her console pinged.  “Emergency message,” she said, feeling a sudden flicker of tension running down her spine.  A
real
emergency message, too.  “I’m plotting a course.”

“A pilot - an American pilot - has bailed out of his starfighter,” the Boatswain said, his fingers dancing over his console.  “He suffered a power surge, apparently.  His plasma cannons are threatening to overload.”

George winced as she gunned the engines, sending the shuttle hurtling towards the source of the distress call.  Starfighter plasma cannons had a tendency to overload if they were allowed to overheat through rapid fire, although she wasn't sure just what the Americans had been shooting at with live weapons.  Perhaps it was a drill ... no, every distress signal sent as part of a drill had to be clearly marked as such.  The Royal Navy couldn't afford the risk of growing too used to fake distress calls.

American protocols might be different
, she thought, as her sensors flashed an alert.  The starfighter was very definitely overheating. 
No, it isn’t a drill
.

“Prep the airlock,” she ordered.  The pilot had thrown himself into space, rather than remain with his craft.  An explosion must be imminent.  Very few spacers would take the risk of being lost forever, although the risk was very limited compared to the certainty of being toasted if he stayed too close to the doomed starfighter.  “Does he have an EVA pack?”

“Doesn't look like it,” the Boatswain said.  “He’s not in any sort of controlled flight.”

George hesitated.  Technically, she should remain at the helm, but the Boatswain was a far superior pilot.  And this wasn't a drill ...

“I’m going to grab him,” she said, as she checked her shipsuit.  It wasn't anything like as reliable as a full-sized spacesuit, but it would suffice.  She snapped an EVA pack into place as she spoke.  “Take us away from the craft as soon as I’ve got a firm grip.”

“Understood,” the Boatswain said.

George nodded, locked her helmet in place and hurried to the airlock.  The inner hatch hissed open, revealing a cramped compartment barely large enough for three or four grown men, assuming they were wearing nothing more than their underwear.  Her lips quirked in amusement - it reminded her of one of the more absurd Stellar Star movies - as she fastened her tether to the airlock, then keyed the hatch.  It hissed open, allowing the atmosphere to gust out into interplanetary space.  She tumbled out with it, rather than trying to stay in the airlock.  There was no time to be careful.

For a moment, the sheer vastness of the universe held her in its grip.  Groundhogs never understood; hell, there were spacers who hated the very
thought
of going EVA.  It was so immense and she was so tiny ... even
Vanguard
, the largest ship in the fleet, was nothing more than a mote of dust compared to the Milky Way alone.  All of a sudden, she understood why there were promising cadets at the academy who’d washed out after their first EVAs ...

She pushed the thought aside as she scanned space for the American pilot.  His suit wasn't visible to the naked eye, but her helmet HUD could track the distress beacon.  She keyed her EVA pack on an intercept course, hoping she had a long enough tether to reach the pilot without having to ask the Boatswain to alter the shuttle’s trajectory.  He came into view faster than she’d believed possible, tumbling helplessly through space ... she caught hold of his arm, praying he wasn't panicking.  Panic killed, her instructors had warned her ...

“Hit it,” she said.

The tether grew taut; she half-expected it to snap before she realised it was pulling her and the American away from the starfighter.  She twisted, trying to see it with her naked eye, but she couldn't pick it out, even with the HUD pointing her in the right direction.  Something
twinkled
against the darkness ...

“She lost containment,” the Boatswain said.  “She’s gone.”

George was almost disappointed.  She'd expected something more spectacular, although anything bigger might have killed both of them.  Shaking her head, she keyed the tether and allowed it to pull them back into the airlock, which hissed closed as soon as they were through the hatch.  She motioned for the American to keep his helmet on as the gravity took hold of them, then checked the telltales on his suit.  Everything seemed fine ... she waited until the air pressure equalised, then took off her own helmet.  The American followed suit moments later.

“You’re an angel,” he said, in a strong accent she recognised from the movies.  “That could have been very bad.”

“Someone else would have come to get you,” George said.  The American was darker than the XO, although his eyes were a rather odd purple.  Hadn't that been a fashion in America, once upon a time?  “Are you all right?”

“Merely annoyed with the deckhands,” the American said.  He stuck out a hand.  “Malcolm, Malcolm Douglas.”

“George Fitzwilliam,” George said.  She shook the American’s hand, then led him into the cabin.  It didn’t look as though the American recognised her name, but she couldn't put a name to the highest-ranking American naval officer either.  “We’ll have you back to
Enterprise
in a jiffy.”

“No hurry,” Douglas said.  He glanced around the cabin, then winked at her.  “Can I buy you a drink in the bar?”

George hesitated.  “I don’t know if I’ll get any shore leave,” she said, finally.  Even if shore leave
was
authorised for the midshipmen, Fraser might find an excuse to keep her from getting a few hours away from the ship.  “But if I do, I’ll give you a call.”

“There’s supposed to be a good bar on the surface,” Douglas assured her, as he took one of the rear seats.  “I don’t think there’s anything else for the settlers to do, save watch the terraforming package do its job.”

“Poor bastards,” George said.  The settlement was tiny.  Having a hundred crewmen visiting for shore leave would probably overwhelm the facilities.  “But I’ll give you my private v-mail address and you can message me.”

And hope Fraser doesn't find out about it
, she added.  There was very little true privacy in middy country, but they treasured what little they had. 
He’ll tease me about it for hours
.

She took her seat and powered up the drives, checking the sensors to make sure they had a clear flight path to
Enterprise
.  A pair of shuttles were heading towards where the starfighter had been, although George would have been surprised if they recovered more than a handful of atoms.  There were certainly no large chunks of debris to inspect.  She gunned the drives and sent the shuttle racing towards the American carrier while the Boatswain called ahead for landing clearance.

“We’ll make sure to copy all our files to you,” she called back, as the American carrier grew larger in front of them.  “Do you want anything else?”

“The investigators will no doubt let you know,” Douglas said.  He remained seated until the shuttle had actually docked, unlike some of the others they’d flown around the fleet.  “And thank you, once again.”

“You’re welcome,” George called.

She watched Douglas step out of the hatch, then closed and locked it before separating from the American carrier and heading back into space.  The American ship didn't look
that
different from a British carrier, although she couldn’t help noticing that she had eight flight decks instead of six.  George wasn't sure if they allowed the Americans to launch more starfighters or served as easier targets for enemy fire.  A warhead detonating inside the launch tubes might not destroy the ship, but it would certainly render the tube unusable.

“We have to head back to the mothership,” the Boatswain said.

George sagged, despite herself.  Going back to
Vanguard
meant going back to Fraser, going back to enduring his torments.  She kept telling herself not to give up, she kept telling herself that she’d win his respect, yet ... yet sometimes it felt as if she were fighting an uphill battle, one she was doomed to lose.  Perhaps she should go to the XO after all ...

The Boatswain coughed.  “Would you like to talk about it?”

George blinked.  “Talk about what?”

“Whatever is bothering you,” the Boatswain said.  “I can tell you’re having problems.”

“I’m not,” George lied.  “I just ...”

“I don't think you fell instantly in love with that Yank,” the Boatswain said.  There was something in his tone that suggested she’d disappointed him.  “You certainly didn't fall so deeply that the mere thought of losing him depressed you.”

George blushed, furiously.  “It’s not like that,” she said.  “I ... I liked him, but ...”

The Boatswain smiled.  “So what
is
bothering you?  I am here to advise.”

That
, George knew, was true.  The Boatswain was a father to the men and women under his command, particularly the ones young enough to be his real children.  She’d heard him offering them advice, ranging from quiet words of encouragement to pointing out, sternly, just where they’d gone wrong.  And yet, advising
her
wasn’t his job.  She was, technically, his superior officer ...

And perhaps it was time to throw caution to the winds.

“I have a problem,” she admitted.  “The first middy hates me.”

Once she started to talk, the entire story seemed to just
leap
out of her mouth.  The Boatswain listened, saying nothing, as she described how he’d treated her, from the extra duties to penalising her for even the slightest mistake.  Fraser didn't seem to treat
Nathan
the same way, even though Nathan was just as green as George herself ...

“He’s screwed,” the Boatswain said, when she’d finished.