Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (12 page)

“No, thank you,” George said.  She walked through the hatch and down the corridor towards the sleeping compartment.  “How did you walk me around?”

“We went around the corridor a few times while everyone else hastily changed the room,” Honoraria explained.  “Couldn’t take you out of middy country, of course.”

“Of course,” George echoed.

Honoraria led her into the sleeping compartment, which was cramped.  The remaining midshipmen were crammed together, cheering loudly.  Someone put a glass in her hand as Fraser called for a toast; she lifted it to her lips and took a careful sip, only to have Honoraria grab the glass and tip it upwards so she drank more than she’d intended.  It tasted like paint stripper, she decided; she gagged on the taste, feeling her mouth going numb, then pushed the glass aside before she could drink any more.  Turning up for duty with a hangover would be disastrous.

“Just take a sobering pill before you turn in for the night,” Honoraria advised.  “That’s what I did.”

“Hey, you did great,” Randy said.  He slapped George on the right shoulder, hard enough to sting.  “I don’t think there’s been a better show since ...”

“Since that one with Midshipman Flowers,” Honoraria said.  She giggled as she took another swig of her drink.  “He started to pray, loudly, right in the middle of the plank.  It tipped and he almost hit the bulkhead.”

“Yeah, that was funny,” Randy agreed.  “And
Nathan
!  You did great too!”

George looked at Nathan, who was sporting a black eye.  “What happened to you?”

“He pushed forward too fast,” Fraser said.  “Nearly got decked by accident.”

“Never mind,” Honoraria said.  “I meant to ask, George, why George?  Did you read too many Enid Blyton books as a little girl?”

George flushed, hesitating.  She wasn't sure she wanted to tell them
that
little story, even though it was nothing
too
embarrassing.  It would only remind Fraser of why he disliked her in the first place.  Who knew if the other midshipmen felt the same way too?  But they’d accepted her now ... would that change, she asked herself, if she reminded them of her background?

“It’s a stupid story,” she said, finally.  “Do you really want to hear it?”

“It can't be worse than Midshipman Lombardi’s claims about the Swedish Woman’s Swimming Team,” Randy said.  “Although that story
did
keep us warm at nights.”

“Shut it,” Fraser growled.  “I want to hear the story.”

“Very well,” George said, throwing caution to the winds.  “When I was young, my mother tried to groom me for the season.  I’d ...”

She broke off as Randy laughed, the others joining in a moment later.  The aristocratic girls who had their seasons in London were sweet dainty things, too fragile to stand up to a gust of wind ... or so she’d charged, during one of many arguments with her sister.  George had been born and bred to the aristocracy, yet she knew she could hardly pass for a debutante attending court for the first time.  The combination of short hair and muscled body would get her laughed out of London, if she’d chosen to go.

“She tried to groom me for the season,” George repeated.  “And every day, she would whine and moan and call me
Georgina. 
I came to hate it.  And eventually I only started answering to
George
.”

Fraser leaned forward.  “Because you want to be a man?”

“Because I’d like to be more than a pretty bauble on some man’s arm,” George said, keeping her anger under tight control.  She just
knew
he’d make fun of her.  “Because I want to be something for myself, not for my family.”

“And yet your connections make it hard for anyone to know what you’ve earned,” Fraser pointed out.  “Did you
actually
score so highly on your exams or did someone twist them in your favour?”

“My family would not arrange for me to get high marks,” George said.

“I hope you’re right,” Fraser said.  He met her eyes, just for a second.  There was a dark burning hatred and resentment flickering in his gaze, then he raised his voice.  “I hope that those of you who are on duty in an hour haven’t been drinking.  If you have, go to sickbay now and ask for a pill.”

“Oh, sir,” Randy moaned.

“No excuses,” Fraser said.  “Unless
you
want to explain why you’re half-drunk on duty.”

George shuddered.  The XO was a formidable woman.  She had no doubt that anyone who turned up drunk on duty would regret it for the rest of their short and miserable lives.

“Come with me,” Fraser ordered.  He led her out of the sleeping compartment and into the private room.  It was a mess, pieces of plastic and rubber scattered on the floor.  Her uniform - and Nathan’s - had been neatly folded and placed on the shelf, next to a handful of unmarked bottles.  “You’re going to clean this compartment, then the sleeping compartment, once the remaining middies hit their racks.”

George opened her mouth to protest - she was on duty in seven hours - then closed it again.  There was no point.  She’d gone through the whole rite, yet Fraser still didn't like or trust her.  All she could do was keep going and hope he’d get over it, eventually.

“Yes, sir,” she said.  She thought about asking him if she could recover her clothes, then decided it was pointless.  “I’ll get right on it.”

Chapter Eleven

“Bridge, this is the Secondary Bridge,” Susan said.  “Confirm disconnect from main command network.”

“Disconnection confirmed,” Lieutenant Theodore Parkinson said.  “I have the conn.”

“Very good,” Susan said.  She glanced at the secondary tactical console.  “Commander Mason, run Tactical Program Alpha-One.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.  “Tactical Program Alpha-One running ... now.”

Susan smiled to herself as the main display lit up with a handful of red icons: a Tadpole fleet carrier and seven escort ships.  Humanity didn't have
much
data on their performance - the Tadpoles were as careful about live-fire exercises as their human counterparts - but MI6 had made a number of very good guesses.  She reminded herself, firmly, that the spooks might be wrong.  The Tadpoles had held the firepower advantage through most of the war, after all, and produced a whole new starship design in record time.

And we’d better hope we don’t go back to war against them
, she thought, as the enemy ships shook down into formation and slipped into an intercept course. 
They were disturbingly formidable enemies
.

“Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam,” she said.  “Tactical analysis?”

The young woman started, clearly surprised by the question.  “Ah ... they’re planning to swamp us with starfighters?”

“Certainly looks that way,” Susan agreed, deadpan.  “And the reason they’re not launching starfighters?”

Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam frowned.  “They know we don’t have any of our own, so they’re conserving their life support packs rather than launching a CSP.”

“Good,” Susan agreed.  She raised her voice.  “Red alert!  All hands to battlestations!”

“Battlestations, aye,” Mason said, as alarms howled through the compartment.  “Enemy carrier is launching starfighters.  I say again, enemy carrier is launching starfighters.”

Susan sucked in her breath as the display sparkled with deadly new icons.  The Tadpoles hadn't drawn any distinction between fighters and bombers, back during the war; their plasma weapons had burned through thin-skinned human ships and ripped through their innards with ease.  Now, with solid-state armour the order of the day, it was quite possible that the Tadpoles had designed a bomber-class starfighter of their own.  They’d need
something
to give them an edge against heavily-armoured ships.

“Alter course,” she ordered.  Now the Tadpoles had launched their starfighters, they’d be doing everything they could to stay out of the battleship’s range.  “Lock in a pursuit course and ramp up the drives.”

“Aye, Commander,” Midshipman Bosworth said.  He’d taken the helm console, after completing the first set of exams.  “Pursuit course laid in.”

Susan smiled, grimly.  No one was entirely sure just how fast the newer classes of Tadpole starships could move, but unless they’d made a radically new breakthrough it was unlikely the fleet carrier could outrace
Vanguard
.  Her escorts could, she assumed, yet they’d have to abandon their charge in order to escape.  Their enemies had to hope their starfighters would be enough to cripple the battleship before she forced her way into weapons range.

“Enemy starfighters approaching engagement range,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.  She sounded nervous, even though it was only a simulation.  But then, a poor showing during a simulation could slow her career, perhaps even torpedo it.  “Point defence is online, ready to fire.”

“Fire at will,” Susan ordered.  “I say again, fire at will.”

The enemy starfighters fell out of their ordered formation, then ducked and weaved their way into a chaotic pattern that made it harder to score a direct hit.  Civilians would stare at the formation and call it madness - no officer would propose it for a flypast unless he wanted to be relieved of duty and reassigned to yet another mining complex - but it was the only way to have any chance of survival.  A single hit with a plasma cannon, even a glancing hit, would be enough to obliterate a fragile starfighter.  Flying a predictable course meant certain death.

And the odds of scoring a hit are lower than the civilians assume
, Susan thought, as
Vanguard’s
point defence opened fire. 
Space is vast and starfighters are tiny
.

“Five enemy starfighters destroyed,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam reported.  Her voice was rising, slightly.  “The remainder are closing in on our hull.”

“Stand by to switch point defence to antimissile duty,” Susan ordered.  She’d programmed the simulation, but she’d added an element of randomness to the situation.  It was just possible that the enemy starfighters would have missiles as well as plasma guns.  “All hands, brace for incoming ...”

“Ah ... missiles away,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.  She sounded hesitant, too hesitant; Susan made a mental note to discuss it with her later.  Certain reports took priority, even if it meant interrupting one’s senior officers.  “Impact in nine ... eight ... seven ...”

Susan nodded, tightly.  Starfighter missiles weren't designed for long-range engagements, which gave them an edge; they were both smaller and faster than the weapons carried in
Vanguard’s
missile tubes.  Hitting them was tricky, even when they were making no attempt to evade enemy fire.  No human could hope to perform the targeting calculations in time.  It was left to the point defence computers, which had a random pattern generator deliberately confusing their fire.  There was a very real chance of taking hits ...

The display flashed red as three missiles struck home.  “Contact nukes, Commander,” Mason reported.  “Damage to decks ...”

“Dispatch damage control teams,” Susan ordered, coldly.  “Combat damage?”

“Turret Three is offline, along with a number of point defence cannons and sensor nodes,” Mason said.  “Tactical datanet has already adjusted to compensate.”

Susan nodded.  One of the many flaws in pre-war ship design had been a conviction that the datanet would remain operational, if the ship took damage.  Successive battles had taught the Royal Navy the folly of that assumption, but it hadn't been until after the war that any sort of permanent fix could be contemplated.  The endless series of redundancies built into the network allowed the overall system to adapt to anything less than the destruction of the entire hull ... although, she had to admit, if the ship took heavy damage, the command network was likely to be completely irrelevant.

She sucked in a breath as she studied the display, leaving Mason and his subordinates to handle the damage control teams.  The enemy starfighters were swooping around, ready to try to pour fire into the gash in the hull.  It would have worked against another ship, even the legendary
Ark Royal
, but
Vanguard’s
designers had woven armour through her decks, rendering the effort pointless.  The damage control teams were already sealing off the exposed sections; the enemy starfighters could pour their fire into the gash to their heart’s content, without doing serious damage.  Even another nuke could be contained.

Unless they come up with something new
, she thought, grimly.  There
was
an element of randomness built into the simulation, after all, with concepts taken from all manner of pre-space books and movies.  Who knew
just
what could go wrong? 
And if it does ...

“Enemy escorts are peeling off,” Mason reported.  “They’re turning to face us.”

“Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, target the escorts with our main guns,” Susan ordered.  If the Tadpoles were foolish enough to come within her range, she was happy to take advantage of it.  But then, they didn't have much choice.  “Continue targeting the starfighters with point defence.”

“Aye, Commander,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.  A handful of red icons separated themselves from the other starfighters and raced away, back towards their carrier.  “I think ...”

She broke off.  Susan sighed.

“Spit it out,” she ordered.

“I think they’re the bombers,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.  “They’d need to rearm.”

“Tag them as priority targets, when they return,” Susan ordered.  Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam was almost certainly right.  The Tadpoles would
have
to rearm their bombers if they had any hope of winning the battle.  “Try to take them down before they have an opportunity to launch their missiles.”

“Aye, Commander,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.  She paused.  “Enemy destroyers are entering weapons range.”

Susan leaned forward.  The Tadpoles had to know
Vanguard
could run their carrier down, given enough time; their only real hope was to slow the battleship - or
ram
her. 
Ark Royal
had killed a Tadpole superdreadnaught through ramming the enemy ship, after all; there was no way to be
sure
what would happen if a destroyer rammed a battleship, but she suspected the impact would, at the very least, cripple the bigger ship.

“Fire,” she ordered.

The Tadpoles had designed the plasma cannons, but human scientists had taken the original concept and run with it.  HMS
Warspite
had mounted a giant plasma cannon, easily five or six times more powerful than the largest weapon the Tadpoles had designed and used it, a decade ago, to cripple an Indian carrier.  And
Vanguard’s
plasma cannons were larger still, designed to avoid many of the problems that had made
Warspite
a flawed tool at best, a one-shot weapon at worst.  The turrets spat out fire at a terrifying rate.

Targeting isn't perfect
, she thought, as one enemy destroyer blew apart under
Vanguard’s
fire. 
Standard countermeasures against mass drivers work just as well against our cannons
.

“Turret One reports overheating,” Mason said.  “Their magnetic bottles are threatening to lose containment.”

“Tell them to discontinue firing and run an emergency cooling routine,” Susan ordered, sharply.  The simulation erred on the side of caution, when it came to predicting just how many shots could be fired before the weapons started to run into problems.  It would be better to have more shots to fire in combat, rather than less.  “If necessary, tell them to strip out the magnetic bottle and replace it with a fresh one.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

“Two more destroyers taken out,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.  The exultation in her voice made Susan smile.  Had she ever been so young?   “The remaining destroyers are opening fire.”

“Order the point defence to take out their missiles,” Susan said.  The Tadpoles were playing it smart, she noted; they wanted to force her to cope with multiple threats at the same time.  But
Vanguard
was practically
designed
to handle multiple threats.  “Turrets are to continue engaging the destroyers; close-range weapons are to handle the starfighters.  Random pattern fire.”

“Aye, Commander,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.

Susan gritted her teeth as the destroyers launched a full salvo of missiles towards the battleship.  They’d be easier targets than the starfighter missiles, but she would be astonished if they were contact nukes.  It was much more likely they were bomb-pumped laser warheads, which would make them far more dangerous.  Powerful laser beams wouldn't be enough to cripple the ship, but there was always the prospect of hitting something vital and causing a chain reaction. 
Vanguard
was designed to keep such disasters from happening, yet the countermeasures had never been fully tested.  The only way to be sure was to take the ship into battle.

She smiled as another enemy destroyer blew apart, the remainder still ramping up their drives as they closed in on the battleship.  They’d find it easier to score hits at that range, but it was clear they also intended to ram.  Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, thankfully, seemed to have them under control; the final destroyers barely had time to launch a second salvo of missiles before they were blown into vapour.  But their last shots might still prove disastrous ...