Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (13 page)

“Direct hit, prow superstructure,” Mason reported.  More red icons flashed into existence on the status display.  “Damage to inner hull ...”

“Enemy starfighters concentrating on our rear,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam added.  “They’re slipping into missile range.”

“Launch a shipkiller keyed for remote detonation,” Susan snapped.  It wasn't a standard tactic, certainly not with fleet carriers or smaller ships, but those starfighters needed to be stopped.  Besides,
Vanguard
had an excellent chance of surviving the tactic without taking damage.  “Now!”

Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam’s fingers danced over her console, but it was clear she hadn't anticipated the order in advance.  It took her several minutes to set up the firing command and, by then, the enemy starfighters had already started to launch their missiles.  The computers insisted that five of them had been taken out, but two survived long enough to slam into the hull and detonate.  Susan felt her lips thin in disapproval - she couldn't help being reminded of Mrs Blackthorn - at the results.  It had been far from perfect.

That’s what simulations are for
, she reminded herself, sternly. 
Sort out these problems before we actually have to take the ship into battle
.

“One of our drive compartments has been disabled,” Mason reported.  “Main Engineering requests permission to shut it down completely.”

“Granted,” Susan said. 
Vanguard
was overpowered, after all.  They could survive losing a single drive compartment.  “Order the entire section sealed off.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

Susan nodded as she looked at the display.  There was little hope of repairing the damage to the drive compartment, certainly not quickly enough to matter.  She’d have the damage control teams concentrating their efforts on damage that
could
be repaired in a hurry.  The battleship wouldn't have any difficulty making her way back to a shipyard, where the drive compartment could be replaced with ease.  It might need to be rebuilt from scratch, but it could be done.

“Enemy carrier coming into range,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.  Thankfully, she hadn't come to pieces over her failure. 
That
would have severely hampered her career.  “She’s locking her weapons on us.”

“Open fire,” Susan ordered.

She allowed her lips to curve into a nasty smile as
Vanguard
opened fire, slamming plasma bolt after plasma bolt into the enemy carrier.  It was anyone’s guess just how much armour the Tadpoles had been adding to their latest generation of fleet carriers, but even
Vanguard
would have had problems standing up to such an immense weight of fire.  And the fleet carrier, like almost all fleet carriers from before the war, mounted almost no heavy weapons on its hull. 
Ark Royal
had been the only ship on both sides that had been effectively a fleet carrier and a battleship rolled into one.

And even the latest fleet carriers try to avoid combat
, she thought. 
The Indians learned that lesson the hard way
.

She watched, feeling a flicker of cold delight, as the enemy carrier was systematically ripped apart.  The simulation had assumed a heavy layer of armour, but not enough to save the carrier;
Vanguard
inflicted too much damage, within a minute, for the carrier to have a hope of escape.  A final salvo slammed deep into her hull, setting off a chain reaction that blew the entire starship into flaming debris.  Susan, who had watched far too many recordings from the Battle of New Russia, couldn't help thinking that it was only just.

“Enemy starfighters are converging on us,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam reported.  “I think they’re going to ram!”

“It isn't as if they have anywhere else to go,” Susan said.  The Tadpoles had never surrendered, although she knew a handful of prisoners had been taken in the early days of the war.  Even if they
did
surrender, keeping the prisoners alive and reasonably healthy would be tricky. 
Vanguard
just wasn't equipped to take non-human prisoners.  “Take them out, if you can ...”

The final enemy starfighters closed in, firing desperately.  Two launched missiles, but the remainder just slammed into the hull.  Susan quietly assessed the damage and concluded, to her relief, that it was minimal.  The only serious damage had been losing the drive compartment and she would have had to lose two more before it became a major problem.

And the damage was only simulated
, she thought. 
A real battle might inflict much less
.

Her thoughts darkened. 
Or much more ...

She tapped a code into her console, ending the simulation.  The displays froze.  She'd have to reconnect the secondary bridge to the main command network before leaving the compartment, but that could wait.  Right now, she needed to address the crew.

“That went well,” she said.  She glanced from face to face.  Mason looked calm and composed, while the two midshipmen looked nervous.  They knew they were on the verge of having their performance dissected.  “Midshipman Bosworth, Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, go have a mug of coffee and a bite to eat, then report to my office in one hour.  We’ll go through your performance then, once I’ve had a chance to study the reports.”

“Yes, Commander,” Fitzwilliam said.

Susan watched the two midshipmen hurry out the hatch, then glanced at Mason.  “Thoughts?”

“I want a mug of coffee too,” Mason said.  “Please ...”

“Get back to work, you slacker,” Susan said, without heat.  She checked the time display and smirked, coldly.  “You’ve got another two hours in the tactical compartment before you get a break.”

“Blast,” Mason said. 

He cleared his throat.  “Bosworth didn't try to alter course to bring other turrets to bear on the enemy, although it could be argued that he wasn't
ordered
to do anything of the sort,” he said, more seriously.  “Fitzwilliam took far too long to fire the shipkiller.  That could have cost us quite badly if we’d been in a real engagement.”

“True,” Susan agreed.  “But it isn't exactly a standard tactic.”

“No, but it’s one we’re going to have to use,” Mason said.  “And we
did
use it during the war.”

Susan nodded.  The Tadpoles had designed their starfighters to take advantage of human weaknesses, but they’d missed one of the implications of nuclear-armed missiles.  They could be geared to produce an EMP, which crippled plasma containment fields and destroyed any Tadpole starfighter unlucky enough to be caught in the blast.  It hadn't taken them long to improvise countermeasures, but a couple of minor battles had ended badly for them because their starfighters had practically been wiped out in the first few seconds.

“We’ll add it to the enhanced training routines,” she said, keying another command into her console.  The displays came back to life as the secondary bridge reconnected to the command datanet, showing
Vanguard’s
slow crawl towards Marina.  “And I’ll see you tonight, for dinner.”

“Yes, Commander,” Mason said.  “Have fun castigating the midshipmen.”

“It’s not fun,” Susan said, dryly.  The midshipmen had made mistakes, but neither of them had screwed up too badly.  “It’s meant to be a learning experience.”

Chapter Twelve

“It feels as if we’re waiting to see the headmaster,” Nathan said, after they’d drunk a mug of coffee each and made their way to the XO’s office.  “As if we’re waiting ...”

“Shut up,” George said.  She’d felt nervous before the initiation rite, but this was worse.  She had failed to anticipate an order, let alone prepare for it.  The XO had good reason to be annoyed with her and, she was morbidly sure, Fraser would rub it in for the next couple of weeks.  “This isn’t
anything
like going to see the headmaster.”

“A good thing too,” Nathan said.  He didn't sound unhappy, but he hadn't screwed up as badly as George.  “Back at my old school, they ...”

“I don’t want to know,” George said.  She stopped outside the XO’s office long enough to brace herself, then pressed her fingers to the buzzer.  “The worst a headmaster can do is expel you or send you to one of the borstals.  That wouldn't be too bad.  But here ... we could be kicked off the ship.”

“I don’t think it would come to that,” Nathan said.  “If they kicked us off right now, we’d be trying to breathe vacuum.”

The hatch hissed open before George could think of a rejoinder.  She scowled at Nathan instead, then led the way into the compartment.  It was larger than she’d expected, larger than the midshipman sleeping and communications compartments put together ... and yet, at the same time, there was something oddly impersonal about it, as if the XO hadn't had the time to make the space
hers
.  The only personal touch was a photograph of a dark-skinned man, a light-skinned woman and a mixed-race girl who couldn't have been older than seven.  It took her a moment to realise that it had to be the XO, long before she’d joined the navy.

“Stand at ease,” the XO ordered.  She was sitting behind her desk, but she wasn't wasting time with petty power games.  George’s uncle had told her that anyone who pretended to read a datapad while you were waiting was either an asshole or insecure.  “So tell me ... what went wrong during the simulation?”

“I fucked ... ah, messed up,” George said.  “I should have had the shipkiller programmed for launch before we engaged the enemy.”

The XO lifted her eyebrows.  “Really?”

George nodded.  It would have been easy to make excuses, but she had the nasty feeling that the XO wouldn't be impressed if she started explaining, as patiently as she could, why it wasn't her fault.  Certainly, she’d had no
reason
to anticipate the order, yet - in hindsight - it was an obvious tactic. 
Vanguard’s
armour could shrug off a contact nuke.  A proximity detonation wouldn't even scorch the hull.  Why
not
use a shipkiller to swat starfighters like bugs?

“One advantage of simulations,” the XO said, after a pause, “is that they allow us to discover such mistakes without being in real danger.  How unpleasant do you think it would have been if it was a real engagement?”

“It would have been very unpleasant, Commander,” George said.  She tensed, wondering just what her punishment would be.  Fraser’s imagination was both innovative and sadistic, but the XO had many more opportunities for making her life miserable.  “They might have fired more missiles into the gash in the hull.”

“They might, yes,” the XO said.  She glanced at a datapad, resting on her desk.  “You’re due in the tactical compartment this afternoon, are you not?”

“Yes, Commander,” George said.

“You have two tasks,” the XO told her.  “First, I want a detailed analysis of the whole engagement, from start to finish.  I want you to outline ways it could have gone differently, for better or worse.  Do not hesitate” - her voice hardened - “to consider mistakes I made, or might have made, as well as your own.  I will not be offended by a critical remark, provided you can justify it.”

George swallowed.  “Yes, Commander.”

“Your second task is to practice reprogramming the system on the fly,” the XO added.  “The best tactical officers can program a command macro within seconds, minutes at most, simply by using pre-programmed shortcuts.  Commander Mason will assist, if you need assistance.”

And I had better need it,
George thought.

She shifted uncomfortably.  The academy had insisted, time and time again, that everything had to be done by the book.  Her tutors had practically
sworn
that everyone on the ship, from the commanding officer to the ship’s boy, read the manual before doing anything.  And yet, none of the officers she’d met seemed inclined to follow the book completely.  Even Fraser, as much as he might rebuke her for the slightest mistake, didn't seem bound by the rules.

The XO met her eyes.  “You have a question?”

George swallowed, again.  “Commander,” she said,” at the academy we were taught to avoid shortcuts.”

“Welcome to the real world,” she said, not unkindly.  “It doesn't matter, on this ship, if your salute is perfect or sloppy, or if your uniform isn't folded exactly right.  However, it does matter, very much, that you complete your tasks as rapidly as possible.  Failing to adapt as quickly as possible to a changing situation can be disastrous.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Commander,” George said.

The XO looked at Nathan.  “And do
you
feel you could have done anything differently?”

“No, Commander,” Nathan said. 

George resisted the urge to elbow him.  She had the feeling the XO wouldn't have asked if there had been
nothing
he could have done better.  His tasks had been easier than hers, but he’d still had problems.  And yet, she couldn't say that out loud, not now.  She’d been too busy worrying over her mistakes, while drinking coffee, to consider Nathan’s mistakes ...

“There are two points you should have considered, at least,” the XO said, coolly.  “The first was that you could have rotated the ship, allowing the disabled turret to be replaced by one of the active turrets, the ones that couldn't bring themselves to bear on the enemy ships.  Why didn't you consider it?”

Nathan paled.  “I didn't receive orders to rotate the ship ...”

“No, but you could have
suggested
it,” the XO pointed out.  “Or you could have simply done it for yourself, without orders.  The helmsman has authority to angle the ship to bring more weapons to bear on her targets.”

She paused.  “The second point is that you kept charging after the enemy carrier, even when the enemy destroyers reversed course and attempted to ram,” she added.  “Why was
that
a mistake?”

“It shortened the range between us and them,” Nathan said, after a moment.  “They didn't have as far to go to ram us.”

“Correct,” the XO agreed.  Her voice hardened.  “A destroyer ramming us would be bad, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Commander,” Nathan said.  “However ...”

He broke off.  The XO fixed him with a stern look.  “However?”

Nathan hesitated, then pressed on.  “However, reducing our speed or even altering course would not have been effective,” he said.  “I think the enemy would still have had a good chance to ram.”

“They might well have had a chance,” the XO agreed.  “
However,
your task is to make
their
task as hard as possible.  Winning more time, even a minuscule amount of time, might have made the difference between our survival and destruction. 
Your
task, during your time in the helm compartment, is to practice evasive manoeuvres.  The next battle we face may be real.”

“Yes, Commander,” Nathan said.

The XO nodded.  “We have a fortnight before we arrive at Marina for the war games,” she added, after a moment.  “I want the two of you ready to move to another department at that point.  You should have had enough experience at tactical and the helm to take a place on the duty roster by then.”

“Yes, Commander,” George said.

She allowed herself a moment of relief.  She’d enjoyed working in the tactical section, but as an officer on the command track she was expected to have at least a basic working knowledge of how the other departments functioned.  Where would she go next?  The helm, swapping with Nathan?  Or engineering?  She didn't have the specialised training of an engineering officer, but she could assist the Chief Engineer for a month while learning how he ran his section.

“And other than that,” the XO said, “how are you fitting into the ship?”

George hesitated.  She thought the other middies had accepted them - they were certainly much more friendly nowadays - but Fraser still hated her, still looked for excuses to assign her to unpleasant or humiliating tasks.  And yet, it wasn't something she wanted to complain about, not to the XO.  It would just allow Fraser the chance to prove she
didn’t
belong in the navy.  There was no room in the fleet for shirkers, whiners and cheats.

“We're getting used to it, Commander,” Nathan said.  “It’s a great deal harder to find our way around the ship, as the deck plans don’t quite match up with the reality, but we’re learning.”

The XO smiled.  “The builders had problems turning the original set of plans into reality,” she commented.  “
Vanguard
was the first in her class, after all.  Hopefully, the other ships will be easier to build now the plans have been modified to respect appearances.”

She looked at George.  “And you, Midshipman Fitzwilliam?”

“I’ve been getting used to the ship, Commander,” George said.  She was
not
going to tell the XO about Fraser.  “It’s definitely very different from
Rustbucket
.”

“It would be,” the XO said.  “Everything works here.”

She rose.  “Thank you both for coming,” she concluded.  “You can now report to your next duty station.”

“Thank you, Commander,” George said.

She glanced at her watch as soon as they were outside the cabin.  The XO had timed it well; they had barely seventeen minutes before they were expected at their next duty station.  She checked the pair of ration bars in her uniform jacket, then glanced at Nathan.  He was looking oddly pensive.

“It didn't occur to me to rotate the ship,” he said.  “Do you think that’s going to look bad on my record?”

George frowned.  In hindsight, it
had
been a stupid mistake.  Outside the annual fleet display, when the king would review every Royal Navy starship in the system, there was no reason for a battleship to remain upright at all times.  It wasn't a wet-navy ship, after all; it didn't matter to the crew if the ship was the right way up or not, assuming such terms had any meaning in space.  Nathan could have rotated the ship easily, knowing that the point defence subroutines would compensate for the sudden shift in position.

“You made it during a simulation,” she said, as reassuringly as she could.  “I don't think it will be counted against you, as long as you learn from the mistake.”

She sighed, inwardly.  They really needed more time on the simulators, but between their duties and Fraser constantly finding them new tasks it was unlikely they’d be able to find time to do
anything
.  She briefly considered appealing to reason, yet Fraser didn’t seem to be particularly reasonable.  There were times when George honestly wondered if he had a split personality, when he’d do something decent for the middies and then turn around just to remind her how horrible he could be. 

“I hope you’re right,” Nathan said.

“Let’s get a move on,” George said, banishing thoughts of Fraser for the moment.  She could outlast him, if nothing else.  “We’d better be in the tactical compartment before the deadline.”

***

Susan felt an odd sense of ... worry ... as she stopped outside the hatch leading into the captain’s cabin.  She hadn't been invited to visit; hell, the only times she’d
seen
the captain were when he’d been in his office or on the bridge.  And, she had to admit, it suited her just fine.  Better the captain recluse himself than do something drastic.  She still wasn't sure if he’d been seriously considering firing on the courier boat or if he’d merely been testing his crew.