Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (26 page)

“I’ll take him out of here,” Prince Henry said.  “You concentrate on keeping us alive.”

Susan nodded, gratefully.

“Enemy missiles approaching engagement range,” Mason said.  “Point defence armed and ready ... firing missiles.”

And see if we can punch holes in their formation
, Susan thought.  The enemy starfighters were ripping through the formation, despite losing hundreds of pilots to the fleet’s point defence.  They seemed to have targeted the American carrier
Eisenhower
specifically, although Susan wasn't sure what the Americans had done to piss them off.  But then, she had no idea what the contact fleet had done to piss the aliens off either ...

“
Eisenhower
has been destroyed,” Charlotte noted.  “Tadpole-Three is under heavy attack.”

“Missiles entering engagement range,” Mason snapped.

Susan nodded.  Standard laser heads needed to be closer if they wanted to inflict real damage, but the aliens had managed to evade that problem.  She wondered idly how they did it, then dismissed the thought.  The boffins could figure it out, just as they’d worked out how the Tadpole technology worked during the last war.  All that mattered, right now, was saving as much of the fleet as she could ...

She keyed her console.  “All hands, brace for impact,” she snapped.  “I say again, all hands brace for impact!”

“Tadpole-Three has been destroyed,” Charlotte reported.  “Commander ...”

***

Henry felt sweat pouring down his face as he dragged the groggy Captain Blake into his Ready Room, then closed the hatch firmly behind him.  He knew he was in good shape, despite spending most of the last decade behind a desk on Tadpole Prime, but Captain Blake felt like so much deadweight.  Henry dumped the former commanding officer on the deck, then looked around for something he could use to tie the man’s hands.  It was
just
possible that the stunner had caused a heart attack, but it didn't look likely.  Captain Blake wasn't
that
overweight.

Just stupid and foolish
, Henry thought, as he hunted through the Ready Room.  It was crammed with junk, but there was no rope, duct tape or anything else he needed.  He wound up having to convert a dinner tie into a makeshift rope and using it to bind the captain’s hands. 
Why couldn't he have stuffed something useful into his Ready Room
?

Captain Blake groaned.  Henry contemplated stuffing something into the man’s mouth, just to keep him quiet, but it wasn't so easy to gag someone in real life.  Stellar Star might be bound and gagged, stark naked, every second episode; real people needed tougher measures to keep them quiet.  Besides, stunners posed health risks; it was just possible the captain would throw up, or worse, and he’d choke to death on his own vomit if he was gagged. 

I could kill you
, he thought, darkly.  He’d reviewed the captain’s record three times since boarding the battleship, using his access codes to read the classified sections, but there had been nothing to suggest that Captain Blake was a crawling sycophant.  Hell, Henry would have tolerated the sycophancy if Captain Blake had been
competent.  I might even be able to get away with snapping your neck right now
.

He scowled.  It wasn't likely, not really.  But leaving Captain Blake alive created no shortage of problems.  His goddamned contacts were likely to demand the XO be hanged for daring to relieve their precious captain of duty.  And wouldn't
that
cause problems, when the rest of the navy learned what had happened.  The Old Boys Network couldn't be allowed to push a
known
incompetent into command or all hell would break loose.

The captain stared up at him, his eyes flickering from side to side.  Henry had never been stunned in his life, but from what he’d heard it was rather like recovering from a three-day bender.  It would be quite some time before the captain was ready to cause trouble ... he shook his head, tiredly.  Admiral Smith would never have reacted so poorly, nor would Admiral Fitzwilliam.  If nothing else, Henry was sure he could talk to the latter and work to avert a court martial for the XO.  She’d handled the situation poorly, but he had no idea how it could have been handled better.

Accidentally poison the idiot
, he thought,
or let him walk out an airlock
?

The entire ship shook, violently.  He caught hold of a chair and held on for dear life.

***

Susan gripped hold of her console as
Vanguard
shuddered.  She’d seen the specifications, she knew just how much firepower was needed to punch through
Vanguard’s
hull and inflict real damage ... she held herself upright, somehow, as red icons flared over the status display.

“Report,” she snapped.  “How badly were we hit?”

“We took three direct hits,” Mason reported.  “Turret Six has been disabled and is venting plasma, Drive Two is offline.  Engineering and damage control teams are on their way.”

“Understood,” Susan said.  “Helm, how long until we reach the tramline?”

“Ten minutes at current speed,” Reed snapped.  He sounded badly stressed.  “They’re gaining on us.”

And if we ramp up the drives we leave the remaining carriers behind
, Susan thought.  The ambush had been
perfect
. 
Maybe they haven't picked off the last two carriers because they know we’ll be able to move faster without them.

She scowled.  If only she
knew
what the enemy could do ...

“Engineering reports that Drive Two is beyond repair,” Parkinson said.  “The Chief has rerouted power around the fusion core and thinks we shouldn't suffer any major problems as long as we don’t lose more reactor cores.”

“Understood,” Susan said.  The enemy fleet was belching another wave of missiles, but steadily drawing closer.  She could give them a nasty fright, she thought, if they came into energy weapons range.  “And Turret Six?”

“Locked down,” Parkinson said.  His voice darkened.  “There’s the prospect of an explosion.”

Susan winced.  She’d seen those simulations too. 
Vanguard
would survive, of course, but anyone in the turret would be vaporised.  Unless they managed to vent
all
the plasma in time, which would screw up the sensors on the hull ... or if they managed to get out before it blew.

“Have the damage control teams do what they can,” she ordered.  The remaining hit hadn't done more than scorch the hull; silently, she blessed whoever had designed the compound used to armour the ship.  “And see if they can get the crew out before it’s too late.”

“Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

And all we can do is keep going
, Susan thought.  The aliens weren't just aggressive; they were hyper-aggressive.  It made her wonder why they hadn’t already attacked the Tadpoles. 
And hope we reach the tramline before they batter us to death
.

Chapter Twenty-Five

It happened very quickly.

One moment, George had been sitting at the console, watching the battle with growing horror; the next, she’d found herself halfway across the compartment with only a hazy recollection of white light and no clear idea of what had happened to her.  The main lighting had failed, leaving only the emergency lighting casting a baleful red glow over the scene ...

She staggered to her feet, stunned.  There was a faint whistling noise in the distance, which she knew should alarm her ... it was hard, so hard, to think clearly.  She rubbed at her ears as she looked around, staring in disbelief at the ruined consoles.  There had been a power surge, her dazed mind noted, a bad one.  She hadn't seen consoles actually explode outside bad movies and worse fiction.

A groan caught her ear and she turned towards the source.  Peter Barton was lying on the deck, his leg lying at an angle that told her it had to be broken.  She staggered towards him and saw, to her relief, that he was alive and aware.  She’d taken basic medical training back at the academy, but she knew she was nowhere near as capable as a trained medic or the ship’s doctor.

“Emergency splints in the cabinet,” Barton wheezed.  It sounded as though he’d breathed in something harmful, unless her ears were still buggered.  “Hurry.”

George nodded, then stumbled over to the emergency cabinet, trying to spot the rest of the gunnery crew.  Two bodies were lying on the deck, both so badly mangled that she couldn't tell if they were male or female, let alone who they’d been before their deaths.  The faint whistling sound was growing louder ... it dawned on her, suddenly, that there was a hull breach, far too close to her.  Whatever had hit the ship had done
real
damage.

As if you didn't already know that
, she thought, as she pulled emergency supplies out of the cabinet. 
You need to get out of here
.

She took the splint, a pair of facemasks and a handful of other items back over to Barton, who talked her through the process of securing his broken leg.  He was clearly in pain, but he firmly declined her suggestion that he should take a painkiller.  George helped him upright once his leg was firmly in place, then helped him over to one of the intact consoles.  The red icons flashing up in front of her did not look encouraging.

“The plasma containment fields are fading,” he breathed.  “They’re going to explode.”

George stared at him.  “Can't you cool them down?”

“Not in time,” Barton said.  He poked at the console.  “We can't vent the plasma either - the control system’s fried.”

A dull rumble echoed through the compartment.  George almost wet herself in shock before realising that someone was pushing their way through the hatch.  She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Simpson, followed by a gunner she didn't know.  Simpson strode over to join them; George held Barton upright as Simpson went to work on the console, hoping the older man could find a way to handle the situation.  Instead, another panel on the far side of the compartment began to spark, sending smoke drifting up through the air.  She couldn't help noticing that it seemed to be pulled towards the hull ...

“There’s no way to keep the containment tanks from exploding,” Simpson said.  “And the airlocks leading back into the ship are closed and sealed.”

George blanched.  She understood - they couldn't risk causing more damage to the giant battleship - but it meant they were trapped.  There was no way out of the compartment; they’d have to wait until the containment fields exploded and die.  And there was no way to know
when
the containment fields would explode ...

“Get your masks on,” Simpson ordered.  He took charge with practiced ease.  “Ms. Fitzwilliam, you’re in charge of Peter.  Make sure he keeps his mask on too.”

“I’m not dead,” Barton protested.

“You soon will be,” Simpson said.  “The compartment’s life support is also fucked.  What little air we have left is leaking out of the gash in the hull.”

George stared at him.  “What if we made the gash worse?  It would cool the plasma, wouldn’t it?”

“Not enough to matter,” Simpson said.  He gave her a funny little smile.  “Nice thought, though.”

“We could try to fix the venting system,” Barton offered.  “Get the plasma streaming out into space.”

“I was thinking about getting out over the hull,” Simpson said.  He removed gloves from the emergency supplies and passed them around.  “But we can take a look at the venting system on the way out.  Maybe we can fix it.”

He paused.  “You two, wait here,” he added.  “We’ll clear the way.”

“Yes, sir,” George said. 

Simpson didn't sound optimistic, George noted, as she donned her gloves.  Her shipsuit would suffice to keep her alive in space, certainly for less than an hour, but their air supply was very limited.  The masks weren't true helmets.  She watched the two gunners pull the hatch free, then scramble into the tube.  They’d be the first to die if the plasma containment fields collapsed altogether, but Barton and she would die seconds later.  She wondered, vaguely, if she’d see a wave of plasma rushing towards her before everything turned black.

The ship rocked, again.

“We’re taking fire,” Barton said.  He sounded more normal now, thankfully.  “And we’re pushing the drives to the limits.”

George glanced at him.  “How can you be sure?”

“There’s a vibration in the hull,” Barton said.  He shook his head, slowly.  “And to think I was going to ask you out.”

George had to laugh.  “Is this the point where you ask for a last kiss, which turns into an hour of passionate lovemaking in five different positions?”

Barton’s face fell.  “You saw that movie too?”

“I think everyone has seen that movie,” George said.  It had been a major scandal at school when two of the senior boys had sneaked copies into the dorms, but by the time the headmistress found out what was going on just about everyone had seen the movies.  “Is there anything Stellar Star hasn't done?”

She shook her head.  “Besides, I'm sure even a single position would do worse damage to your leg,” she added.  “I don't want to kill you.”

“But think about it,” Barton said.  “
What
a way to die!”

George opened her mouth, unsure what to say.  If they were about to die, a single kiss wouldn't make any difference one way or the other, but if they weren’t ...

“There’s a way out,” Simpson called, his voice echoing back down the tube.  “Come along, now!”

“Thank God,” Barton said.

George nodded in agreement as she helped him into the tube, then followed him as he dragged himself upwards.  She didn't want to die.  The temperature was rising rapidly - the bulkheads seemed warmer to the touch - as they hurried onwards, despite Barton’s broken leg.  Alarms were sounding, a dozen components flashing warning lights as they passed.  It wouldn't be long before one of the containment chambers failed completely, starting off a chain reaction that destroyed the turret.  Faint wisps of smoke were curling out of some systems, the smoke drifting upwards towards the hull breach.  It struck her, suddenly, that some of the automatic sealing systems must have worked.

They must have worked
, she told herself. 
Or the entire compartment would have vented by now.

Simpson was waiting for them at the top of the shaft.  “Make sure your masks are in position, then hold on tight,” he ordered.  “We’re going to blow the hatch.”

George nodded, checking their masks and gloves.  The more of her skin was covered, the better.  She'd seen vacuum burns during their training simulations.  It was like frostbite, she’d been told, only worse.  Humans might not explode when they were exposed to hard vacuum, unlike some early movies had suggested, but it was far from harmless.  She might survive the experience, only to wind up spending the next two months having her skin regenerated.

“I'm ready, sir,” she said.

“Me too,” Barton confirmed.

The hatch blew.  George hung on for dear life as the remaining atmosphere blasted out of the compartment, picking up dozens of pieces of debris and hurling them into space.  Something banged into her leg, almost knocking her free, before the outrush came to an end.  Simpson pulled himself forward, careful not to let go of his grip, and advanced slowly out into hard vacuum.  George braced herself, then moved slowly forward, handhold by handhold.  It felt like it was forever before she climbed out of the ship and onto the hull.

Simpson waved to her, then inched down off the turret - it looked mangled and torn - towards an airlock.  George devoutly
hoped
it was undamaged, then glanced at Barton.  The wounded man was having an easier time of it, now they were out of the gravity field, but the cold would get them if they didn't hurry.  She shivered, feeling the icy grip of death crawling into her flesh, as she hurried down to the airlock.  And then she looked up.

She wasn't really sure
what
she expected to see.  In truth, space battles looked rather unremarkable if seen with the naked eye.  But there were flashes of light, pinpoints that glowed briefly in the darkness, and brilliant flickers of colour as
Vanguard’s
point defence engaged the incoming missiles.  She hoped - prayed - that they made it back through the armour before a missile struck too close to them.  A single hit would be enough to wipe all four of them out of existence.  The captain probably wouldn't even
notice
if they died ...

He’d probably notice my death
, she thought, sourly. 
My uncle would probably ask quite a few questions if I died in wartime
.

The airlock loomed up in front of her.  Simpson opened the hatch, allowing them to scramble inside and slam it closed behind them.  The inner hatch refused to open, but thankfully the atmosphere flowed in, allowing them a chance to relax.  But George felt as though she’d never be warm again ...

***

“The enemy are closing on the rear,” Mason reported.  “And they’re firing yet again.”

We largely classed missiles as useless
, Susan thought. 
Certainly, when they were fired from long range.  But they thought otherwise and the hell of it is that they might be right
.

“Continue firing,” she ordered. 
Vanguard
hadn't been knocked out, far from it, but she’d taken significant damage and so had too many of the other ships.  Only one fleet carrier had survived, the American
Roosevelt
.  She had no idea how they were going to recover and rearm the human fighters, let alone the Tadpole craft.  None of the escort carriers were capable of recovering more than two squadrons of starfighters.  “Time to tramline?”

“Three minutes,” Reed said.

They don’t know about the second set of tramlines
, Susan told herself, firmly. 
They’d be pushing the advantage now, if they knew we were going to jump out and escape.

But her pessimistic side nagged at her. 
Unless they jump through the tramline right after us
, it said. 
We won't have time to reorganise and defend the tramline
.

She scowled.  Defending a tramline was normally impossible, simply because it was difficult to predict precisely where the enemy would arrive.  But this time, they
would
have a chance, if they could reorganise the fleet in time ...

“Pass the word,” she ordered.  “The carriers are to keep moving, as soon as we’re through the tramline, but the heavy-hitters are to turn and prepare to face the enemy.”

“Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

Mason frowned.  “They may overrun us before we reach the tramline,” he said.  “They’re picking up speed.”