Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (35 page)

The Captain looked her up and down, inspecting her with minute attention to detail.  George felt sweat prickling at the back of her neck, but held herself still as the Captain nodded once, then turned her attention to Fraser.  The first middy looked frozen, as if he were caught in the headlights of an approaching car, before the Captain took a step backwards.

“Very good,” she said.  “The compartment could do with a more thorough clean, but that will have to wait until we return home. I trust there have been no matters over the last three months that should have been brought to my attention?”

“No, Captain,” Fraser said.  “All matters were dealt with in middy country.”

The Captain gave him a long look, then nodded.  “I’ll expect to see the other midshipmen at the next inspection,” she said.  “You will be given a day’s warning, allowing you to rearrange schedules as necessary.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Fraser said.

George saluted the Captain, then watched as she turned and strode out of the hatch.  She let out a sigh of relief as soon as the hatch was closed.  The inspection had been unpleasant, but she’d had worse at the academy.  It helped, she supposed, that they were expected to have picked up
something
in four years, even if it was just the importance of keeping her compartment clean and tidy.  The fleet might be deep in enemy space, with two midshipmen in sickbay, but the Captain would still have been angry if the compartment had been messy ...

“That was better than I dared hope,” Fraser said.  He looked as relieved as she felt.  “I was expecting something worse.”

“She didn't have the opportunity to inspect the compartment before the battle,” George said, trying to find a bright side.  “She didn't have anything to compare it to.”

“She’s also the commanding officer,” Fraser said.  “There’s no hope of appeal if she decided we needed extra punishment.”

George nodded in agreement, although she had her doubts.  In theory, a junior officer could appeal to the commanding officer if she felt she was being unfairly harassed by her superiors, but in practice it was unlikely the commanding officer would rule in her favour.  The starship commander would support his officers unless there was a very strong reason
not
to.  And bringing something to the attention of the commander might well be a dangerous mistake.

“I didn't think someone
could
smuggle crap into a ship,” she said.  “I ...”

Fraser’s face darkened.  “You can’t get crap into the academy,” he said.  “They search your bags and shit before you go through intake processing, then they do it again when you stagger home from Sin City.  And if you were caught with something - anything - you’d be removed from the academy at once.”

George nodded.  She'd never returned to the academy drunk out of her mind, but she knew cadets who had.  It was a mistake they never repeated.  The tutors put them on heavy duties for the first week after their return, then they had to struggle to catch up with the rest of the class before the exams.  Besides, it wasn't as if it was
hard
to take a pill to sober up.  It just required a little pre-planning before it was too late.

“But if you go on leave, after you are assigned to a starship, your bags are rarely searched,” Fraser added, after a moment.  “You could pick up something really dangerous on the planet and bring it back with you.  Harry ... thought he could get away with it.  We were just lucky that he was caught before he went on duty, drugged and stupid.”

He sounded pretty stupid already, George thought, but she kept that opinion to herself.  She couldn't imagine why anyone would want to experiment with illegal drugs - there were plenty of substances that weren't on the banned list - yet she had to admit there was a certain thrill in doing the forbidden.   And it was possible that Harry had tried the drugs on shore leave, become addicted and then convinced himself that he could control the habit, while onboard ship.  Fraser was right.  The entire crew had been lucky that Harry was caught before it was too late.

Fraser opened the logbook, scribbled a note about the Captain’s visit, then looked up at George.  “I notice you haven't spent any time on the shooting range,” he said.  “And your fighting skills are pathetic.”

“You didn't knock me out,” George pointed out.

“I was
trying
,” Fraser said, “to get you to cry uncle.  Slamming your head against the deck a few times
would
have knocked you out, unless someone has replaced your skull with metal.”

George swallowed.  She was proud of what she’d done, but she knew he was right.  If he’d wanted to kill her, or simply knock her out, he could have done it easily.  And only her stubborn refusal to surrender had earned her some respect.

“We’d better deal with that,” Fraser said.  He gave her a long look, then glanced at the duty roster.  “You have to be in Turret Five in thirty minutes, then you have an hour’s free time ... meet me at the shooting range at 1750, I think.  It’s time we brushed up on our shooting.”

“I don’t think we have a hope of winning the shooting prize,” George said.  “Don’t the marines keep winning it?”

“I wouldn't care to be in
their
shoes if they didn't,” Fraser said.  “Major Andres is
tough
.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  She picked up the record book, then frowned as she read an entry from a year ago.  “What happened here?”

“We had a midshipman who had a habit of ... well, let’s just say it wasn’t a very pleasant habit,” Fraser said, simply.  “I had to thrash some sense into his head.”

He smiled at her stunned expression.  “See you in the shooting range.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

George hesitated outside the hatch leading into the shooting range, unsure if she truly wanted to enter.  She'd fired shotguns and hunting rifles long before she’d passed her basic firearms certification course at the academy, but she hadn't really been fond of using weapons on the estate.  Shooting wild geese and foxes had always struck her as cruel, even though the former made good eating on a winter’s night.  There were just too many young aristocrats who took a sadistic pleasure in hunting the fox over hill and dale before finally running the poor creature to ground.

And the foxes also prey on our farms
, she reminded herself.  Parts of Britain had seen a resurgence in wild animals, after the bombardment. 
They’re making it harder to feed our people
.

She shuddered at the thought, then pushed it aside.  There was no choice, not really; Fraser was the first middy and his word was law, unless she was called away by a senior officer.  If she delayed, Fraser would not be pleased ... she shook her head at the thought, then stepped up to the hatch and pressed her hand against the scanner.  It hissed open, revealing a small waiting room.  Fraser was standing there, drawing a pair of weapons from the armourer.

“I assume you’ve used a SIW-48 before,” he said.  “It was what they fired at the academy during my time.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  “We fired the same weapons.”

“Probably literally,” Fraser commented.  “The SIW-48 - the marines call them Black Betties, for some reason - is a very sturdy weapon.”

He took the box and led the way into the next room.  “Weapons and ammunition are issued if the senior crew believes there’s a chance the starship will be boarded,” he said.  “Right now, guns have been issued to marines and senior staff, but we haven't been armed.  That’s something that may change in the very near future, so I want you to be ready.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

Fraser put the boxes down on the table, then opened one of them, revealing a dull metallic pistol.  “I’ll spare you the lecture,” he said, “as you should have had it drummed into your head at the academy.  “Do you remember the four
don’ts
?”

“Don’t assume the gun is unloaded, don’t point the gun at someone, don’t have your finger on the trigger and don’t shoot without making sure of your target,” George recited.  She’d learned that much from one of her uncles, who had threatened to horsewhip anyone who fooled around with loaded weapons.  “Is that close enough?”

“Close enough,” Fraser agreed.  He shrugged.  “Obviously, don’t point the gun at someone unless you want to shoot them and don’t have your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to fire.  Walking around pretending to be an action hero is a good way to get kicked off the course, which could put a crimp in your career.”

He tapped the weapon in front of her.  “Check it’s unloaded and safe,” he ordered.  “And do it carefully.”

George nodded, picked up the pistol and checked that the safety catch was on, then opened the magazine to make sure the gun was empty.  Some of the instructors at the academy had had a habit of taking a gun, sneaking a blank round into the firing chamber and then issuing demerits to every cadet who didn't recheck the pistol when it was returned to them.  She had a feeling Fraser would be doing that too, later down the line.

“Empty,” she said, holding it up so he could see into the chamber.

“Very good,” Fraser said, dryly.  He removed a clip from the other box and passed it to her, sliding it across the table.  “Now, load the gun and click the safety on and off.”

George frowned, but did as she was told.  Her fingers remembered how to use the weapon, even if her mind was a little iffy.  Fraser watched her like a hawk, then nodded once the gun was loaded and the safety tested.  George held the weapon, careful not to point it at him, as he removed a second gun from the box and loaded it himself, his fingers moving with practiced ease.  He was a great deal quicker than her.

“Keep your weapon in a safe position, then come with me,” he ordered, rising to his feet.  “I have one of the shooting ranges prepared for us.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

She followed him through a hatch into a small airlock, where a handful of ear protectors were hanging from the bulkheads.  Fraser took one and passed it to her, then took a second pair for himself.  George wondered, absently, how the marines coped when they were firing weapons without protection.  Didn't their ears get sore too?

“They learn to cope with it,” Fraser said, when she asked.  “We can repair damaged eardrums, don’t you know?  But it’s better to use protection when necessary.”

George hadn't been sure what to expect from the shooting range, but it turned out to be a long dark room, very much like the one she’d used at the academy.  It was smaller - there was only enough room for three or four people behind the safety line - yet the layout was the same.  Fraser keyed a switch, activating a set of holographic targets, then winked at her as he took up a firing position.  George barely had a second to brace herself before he fired off eight shots in quick succession, hitting all eight of his targets.  The holographic images flickered red or yellow as they dropped to the deck.

“If they turn red, you killed them,” Fraser shouted.  She could barely hear him through the earmuffs.  “Yellow means you wounded them.  The computers generally assume that all wounds are survivable, unless they’re immediately fatal.”

“They said that at the academy too,” George shouted back.  “Does it get more complex?”

“The marines have a much more complicated set-up,” Fraser said.  “But you won’t get to play on that unless you impress them!”

He nodded to the firing line, then reset the display.  “Have a go,” he shouted.  “Fire at will!”

George lifted the gun, braced herself and pulled the trigger.  It jerked in her hand; she cursed, tightened her grip and fired again.  This time, she hit her target, which flashed yellow as it collapsed.  She gritted her teeth, then kept firing, moving her gun from target to target until she ran out of ammunition.  Fraser passed her a second clip; she took it, loaded it into the gun and resumed firing.  One by one, the holographic targets snapped out of existence.

“Your aim isn't bad,” Fraser said, once the last of the targets had vanished.  “You could do with holding the weapon in both hands, but otherwise you’re not doing badly.”

“Oh, good,” George said.

“Of course,” Fraser added in a more even tone, “if this was a real fight, you’d be dead by now.  You take too long to reload.”

“I know,” George said.  She had no fear of firearms - she’d grown up on an estate, after all - but she’d always treated them with respect.  Trying to reload at breakneck pace struck her as a good way to have an accident.  “I need to practice.”

“Practice with a set of blank rounds,” Fraser advised.  “The marines have practice kits you can borrow.”

George blinked in surprise.  “Why don’t they use them at the academy?”

Fraser smirked.  “I was told it breeds complacency,” he said.  “Personally, I always thought the instructors were leery of accidentally loading a set of blanks when they needed
real
ammunition.”

“It would be embarrassing,” George muttered.  “Now what?”

“Now you fire off a few more rounds,” Fraser said.  He passed her a fresh clip, which she slotted into the magazine.  “And keep shooting until we run out of ammunition.”

George wanted to argue, but there was clearly no point.  Instead, she took the weapon and fired, trying to get used to the kick.  Fraser watched her closely as he passed the ammunition, sometimes offering advice when she hesitated.  By the time they ran out of ammunition, George had to admit that she was almost enjoying herself.  It helped, she supposed, that Fraser was actually more helpful than her firearms instructors.  But then, he wasn't trying to teach a dozen cadets at once, some of whom had never touched a weapon in their lives.

“Not bad,” he said, when she was done.  He passed her his gun, then smiled in relief as she checked and cleared the chamber.  “Take the weapons into the next compartment and clean them, while I mop up the spent casings.  They won’t thank us for leaving a mess.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

She was surprised that Fraser hadn’t made
her
clear up the mess, she thought, as she sat back down at the table and dissembled the first pistol.  He certainly
would
have done, a couple of months ago, if he’d bothered to offer her some additional lessons in the first place.  But then, her lack of shooting time probably reflected badly on him.  Middy country needed to compete with every other department on the ship, she decided, as she finished cleaning the first weapon and moved on to the second.  Fraser might not have a hope of winning any tournaments - the marines had been shooting their weapons for years - but he might intend to try to come second or third.

“You scored seven hits out of every ten shots,” Fraser said, as he stepped through the airlock hatch.  “Two thirds of the hits you scored were lethal, which would please your firearms instructor back on the moon.  Nowhere near marine standards, of course ...”

“Of course not,” George agreed.  She ran a hand through her sweaty hair.  “How often do they come here and shoot?”

“They fire off thousands of rounds a day in marine country,” Fraser said.  He sounded surprisingly enthusiastic.  “And they have some really cool shooting galleries for daily training.  They can practice everything from hostage rescue to boarding an alien ship, all without leaving the comfort of their quarters.”

George gave him a sidelong glance.  “Why didn't you join the marines?”

“My father was a Paratrooper until he got too old to be jumping out of airplanes with the young lads,” Fraser said.  “He’d have done his nut if I’d joined the marines.  He wasn't too pleased about me joining the navy - he spent four months on Vesy when I was fourteen and insisted there was still a role for the Paras - but he figured that command of a ship would be an impressive feather in my family’s cap.”

“He would have stopped you joining the marines?”  George asked.  If Fraser’s father had been on Vesy a decade ago, he would have been serving alongside Percy and Penelope, her semi-cousins.  “Really?”

“They used to beat up marines for fun,” Fraser said.  “Or perhaps it was the marines beating up
them
for fun.  It changes depending on whom you ask.”

“I’m sure it does,” George said.

Fraser nodded and checked her work.  “Good enough,” he said, snapping the boxes closed and locking them.  “Did you enjoy it?”

“I suppose,” George said.

“Good, because we’ll be coming back here at least once a week for the next few months,” Fraser said.  “More, if we can arrange it.  After that, I want you continuing to practice shooting on your own.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  She
had
enjoyed it, after all.  “But ... what if we waste all the bullets we need to fight, if we get boarded?”

Fraser laughed.  “I was wondering how long it would take you to ask that question,” he said, dryly.  “You’ll be surprised by how few officers
think
to ask, despite endless lectures on the value of logistics at the academy.”

George frowned, unsure if she should be pleased or embarrassed.

“The short answer is that the machine shop on the ship turns out thousands of cartridges a day,” Fraser explained.  “Those bullets we expended?  The remains get swept up and dumped in the recycler.  Give the machine shop a few days and it’ll turn out enough bullets to fight a minor war.  They’re not actually difficult to produce, unlike so many other pieces of gear we need.”

“I see,” George said.  “And what happens if we
do
run short?”

“There’s a reserve, around ten thousand rounds,” Fraser said.  “That reserve doesn't get touched, ever, unless we’re being boarded.  The marines ensure there’s always an ample supply.  More advanced weapons, of course, are a little harder, but you’d be surprised at what the machine shop can turn out, if necessary.”