A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) (10 page)

“Yeah,” Penny agreed.  “It could.”

She shook her head.  “I think we should probably ask him after the war,” she added.  “But if it’s been classified, Percy, it may have been classified for a reason.”

“I know,” Percy said.  “But I still want to know.”

He glanced at his watch again.  “It’s time to go back to training,” he said.  He swept her into a brief hug.  “I love you, little sister.”

“I’m not that little,” Penny said, hugging him back.  “Good luck with your training.”

Percy’s face darkened.  “I’ll need it.”

Penny watched him go before turning to look back out at the stars.  Their father’s body was lost somewhere in the darkness, she knew; it had certainly never been recovered and shipped home to Earth.  That was true of most of the crewmen who’d died on
Ark Royal
, but she’d tracked down as many death reports as she could and they’d all been listed as going down with the ancient carrier.  Hell, most of the starfighter pilots had died there too.  There was simply no reason to assume their father
hadn’t
died there, save for the simple fact that he
hadn't
been included on a list of the dead ...

And for the fact that Rose Labara and Prince Henry were listed as commanders of the starfighter squadrons
, she thought. 
That should have been dad’s job ... which suggests, very strongly, that dad died before the final battle
.

She shook her head in irritation and turned to walk out of the hatch.  A pair of crewmen nodded politely to her as she left, manhandling another cart crammed with supplies down the corridor towards the tactical compartment.  Penny briefly considered trying to ask them a few questions, but knew it would probably get her in trouble.  Instead, she kept walking until she was standing at the hatch leading into the mess.  A handful of crewmen were sitting at tables, hastily eating as much as they could before going on duty or returning to their quarters to sleep.

“Hey,” the cook called.  “You come to eat something nice?”

Penny smiled.  The cook had been happy to chat with her during the first deployment, joking that he’d undertaken the hardest training course in the Royal Navy.  He hadn't passed, of course; apparently,
no one
passed the catering course.  Penny had to admit the food wasn't five-star, but it was filling and there was plenty of it.  No wonder the cook was overweight ...

But then
, she thought as she walked over to join him,
who’d trust a skinny cook
?

“I could do with it,” she agreed.  “What do you have?”

The cook smiled.  “Suspicious sausages, questionable potatoes, portable human-methane converters ... or fruit and vegetables, if you feel like being picky.”

Penny had to smile.  “Do we have any fresh fruit?”

“Yeah, but not for long,” the cook said.  “Better get your fair share before it’s all gone.”

“Give me some sausages, chips and beans,” Penny said.  She’d have to work it off later, but thankfully they had free access to the exercise compartment.  “Do you have a few moments to chat?”

“Only off the record,” the cook boomed.  He picked up a pair of sausages and dropped them onto a plate, then added the chips and a healthy serving of beans.  “Unless you want to gripe about the food.  There’s no way we can serve fresh food throughout the voyage.”

Penny nodded as she took her plate.  “I have travelled in space before,” she said.  She didn't like to think about where the reprocessed food came from - no one did - but it was just something that had to be endured.  “As long as the supply of hot sauce holds out, we should be fine.”

“Ah, we lost a bottle last night,” the cook said.  “One of those new guys from Marine Country came in, pinched a bottle and downed it like cheap beer, right in front of us.  His poor girlfriend!”

“He actually managed to drink a whole bottle?”  Penny asked.  She’d tasted navy-issue hot sauce in the past, during her first cruise.  It probably violated international laws against chemical weapons just by existing. 
She
had certainly not been able to tolerate more than a drop or two at a time.  “Why?”

“Ah, some stupid contest between them and the marines, I imagine,” the cook said.  “We had a bunch of Paras on
Hamilton
and they spent half their time trying to one-up the marines.”

Penny considered it as she tucked into her food.  A new group of soldiers?  They couldn't be marines ... which meant
what
?  If they were Paras, Percy would probably have mentioned them when she’d talked about Hamish.  And that meant they had to be Special Forces.

“I’m sure you have at least a hundred more bottles,” she said, finally.  “Or did they take them back to their lair to drink too?”

“I hope not,” the cook said.  “It’s bad enough catching crewmen who are trying to raid the galley.”

He grinned.  “But enough about them,” he said.  “How are
you
feeling about going to war?”

“I was on Vesy,” Penny said, automatically.

“This will be different,” the cook said.  He made a show of stirring the beans.  “The Indians will be shooting at us, if they catch wind of our presence.  Perhaps serving beans was a bad idea.”

“I’m torn between excitement and fear,” Penny admitted.  It wasn’t something she’d want to admit to Percy. 
He’d
just point out that she could have stayed on Earth.  “Is it always that way?”

“I was an assistant cook during the first war,” the cook said.  He slapped his belly meaningfully.  “I didn’t actually fight; I just kept the fighters fed and watered.  And I learned there was no point in stressing out, even in the middle of a war zone.  If a missile has our name on it, we’re dead; if it doesn't, we’ll live to see another day.  That’s all that’s important.”

“Very profound,” Penny said.

“We can't all be starship commanders or starfighter jocks,” the cook said.  “Some of us merely keep the rest of the crew alive.  We just do our duty and leave the rest in God’s hands.”

“True,” Penny agreed.  She finished her meal.  “And thank you for the food.”

“I must have done something wrong,” the cook muttered.  He eyed the plate suspiciously.  “You’re the first person who actually thanked me.”

Penny laughed and left the compartment.

Chapter Nine

Nelson Base, Earth Orbit

“That’s the latest report, Admiral,” Commander Sally Acorn said.  “Captain Tracy states that HMS
Lillian
should be ready for departure along with the rest of the task force.”

“I trust you inspected the report carefully,” James said.  “
Lillian
was in the repair yards last week, wasn't she?”

“Yes, sir,” Sally said.  “However, it was only routine maintenance and she
has
been cleared for active service.  The only downside is that some of her crew were drawn from the reserves and need time to work up for duty.”

“Then add her to the fleet list and make sure she’s slotted into the training schedule,” James said, after a moment.  He understood Captain Tracy wanting to get into the fight; James would just have to hope that Captain Tracy hadn't been so determined to be involved that he’d creatively edited his readiness report when the CVE left the yards.  “Give him copies of the security codes and inform him that I’ll expect him to attend the final briefing before departure.”

“Yes, sir,” Sally said.  She cleared her throat.  “Mr. Oswald requested an appointment to speak with you, later in the day.”

“Joy,” James said.  “Inform him that I will see him” - he glanced at his schedule - “at 1500 precisely, on Nelson Base.  I can't afford to take time off to go to London or Luna Nine right now.”

“I’ll see to it,” Sally said.  James didn't envy her.  The intelligence services - MI5 and MI6 - tended to be pushy.  “There was also an update from the Foreign Office.  The Americans will be dispatching another carrier to the border, allowing us to pull one back to reinforce the task force.”

“Good,” James grunted.  It would be at least two months before the carrier arrived, but by then he had a feeling he’d welcome the reinforcements.  “Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” Sally said.

She saluted and withdrew, leaving James alone.  He shook his head tiredly; civilians might expect spacers to study tactics, but the blunt truth was that he spent most of his time studying logistics.  The old saying still held true, even in the twenty-third century; there was no point in coming up with cunning battle plans if one couldn't get the ships out and support them.  It had seemed so much easier when he’d served on
Ark Royal
.

And it was still a pain keeping the task force supplied
, he thought, ruefully. 
We had real problems during Operation Nelson
.

He pushed the thought aside as he checked the latest set of updates.  The task force was taking shape, the ships slowly assembling in orbit near Nelson Base.  He’d considered various ways to try to hide a ship or two, but he rather doubted they could prevent the Indians from making some very good guesses about the task force’s size and composition.  Beyond the warships, a dozen freighters waited, crammed with the supplies they’d need to fight the war.  Losing them, in some ways, would be just as bad as losing the carrier.

But if we do lose the carrier, we lose the ability to take the offensive
, he thought, sourly. 
The Indians will know that as well as we do
.

It was a galling thought.  Seven years ago - when aliens were nothing more than a figment of human imagination - the Indians wouldn't have had a chance.  The Royal Navy could have squashed their entire military in a single battle and that would be that.  But now, between the losses caused by the war and the advancements in military technology, the odds would be far more even.  The Indians, if they took out the carrier, might win by default.

Five years from now, we’ll have a whole fleet of modern carriers
, he thought. 
They picked their time very well
.

His intercom buzzed.  “Admiral,” Sally said.  “Admiral Soskice has arrived.  He’s requesting an immediate meeting.”

Tell him to go away
, James thought.  He wasn't sure he
wanted
to speak to Admiral Soskice, not now. 
Tell him to make an appointment ...

He pushed temptation aside.  “Send him in,” he said.  He had at least half an hour before the next scheduled meeting, unless something came up beforehand.  “I’ll speak to him now.”

The hatch opened, revealing Admiral Soskice.  James had always cordially disliked him - Admiral Soskice had never commanded a ship at war, which made all of his experience theoretical at best - and they’d been rivals over the past two years.  Soskice’s position as head of the Next Generation Weapons program had given him a yen for developing new technology and pushing it into active service, often before it had been properly tested.  James would be the first to admit that
some
of Soskice’s ideas had worked well - the starfighter-mounted plasma cannons, for example - but others had been asking for trouble.

“Admiral,” Soskice said.  With his balding dome and unshaven face, he didn't even manage to
look
like a naval officer.  James couldn't help thinking of him as an academic who was somewhat out of his depth.  The horn-rimmed spectacles only added to that impression.  “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I wasn’t aware you had an appointment,” James said, dryly.  “Doubtless my aide made a terrible mistake.”

“You’re going to be in command of the task force,” Soskice said, sitting down without being invited.  “Do you intend to fight a conventional war?”

“I believe we have little choice,” James said.  “This isn't a war against an alien foe.”

“The balance of technology has shifted,” Soskice said.  “You know that as well as I do.”

“It has changed,” James conceded, reluctantly.  He'd been a mere commander when the Tadpoles had obliterated a multinational naval force - including two British carriers - at New Russia, but he still remembered the shock that had run through the entire navy.  It had been the most one-sided battle since kinetic weapons had been dropped on Argentina during the Third Falklands War.  “But the essentials remain the same.”

“The Indians have been learning from our troubles,” Soskice pointed out.  “Their carriers are armoured with modern plating ...”

“So is the
Teddy
,” James countered.

“And their fleet mix isn't so dependent on starfighters,” Soskice added, ignoring the interruption.  “You know as well as I do, James, that starfighters are no longer the queens of the battlefield.”

“That’s debatable,” James said.

“We’ve run countless simulations that prove it beyond all doubt,” Soskice snapped.  It was an old argument, one they’d had many times before.  “You know that as well as I do.”

James felt his temper flare.  Somehow, he put firm controls on it.

“
You
know as well as
I
do that those simulations depend on what assumptions are programmed into the machines,” he said.  “Your assumptions are always hopelessly pessimistic.”

“And yours are hopelessly optimistic,” Soskice said.  “Are you truly that wedded to the concept of the carrier and her flocks of starfighters?”

“I’m a carrier officer,” James said, curtly. 

He glanced at the picture he’d hung on the bulkhead -
Ark Royal’s
command crew on the eve of her departure for Alien-Prime - and felt a stab of guilt.  He’d tried to ease Commodore Smith out of his command in the hopes it would allow James to claim to have commanded a carrier at a very early age.  Perhaps it would have worked, too, if Smith hadn't cleaned up his act.  There were moments when James wanted to go back in time and punch his younger self in the nose.

“The carrier is a dying breed,” Soskice said.  “There are limits to how much we can protect them against the new developments in weaponry.”

“Defensive technology has also advanced,” James pointed out.

“And starfighters themselves are easy targets for plasma cannons,” Soskice said.  “Their aim may not be perfect, but they can pump out a hell of a lot of fire.  The Indians have
crammed
their ships with plasma cannons.”

“So have we,” James snapped.

“But they’re the ones on the defensive,” Soskice said.  “They have other advantages too.”

James looked him in the eye.  “Do you have a wonder weapon that will blow the enemy ships out of space with the push of a button?”

“No,” Soskice said.  “The closest we have to it is the heavy plasma cannon.”

“Which you mounted on
Warspite
,” James said.  He had to admit that it had proved its value, but only against a target that hadn’t been expecting it.  “We may be able to use it against one of the Indian ships.”

Soskice tapped his knee, impatiently.  “James, the blunt truth is that the pre-war fleet mix is no longer suitable,” he said.  “We had a number of massive carriers and hundreds of tiny frigates and destroyers.  Now ... we need to start work on middling ships.”

It was, James knew, an old problem.  The Royal Navy
needed
carriers to serve as command ships and starfighter platforms, but the huge carriers were extremely big targets.  Smaller ships - the frigates - were tiny, small enough that they could be built in vast numbers without breaking the budget.  But they too had relied on the carriers for logistics support.  Now, with the war exposing weaknesses in humanity’s concepts, there was a need for a whole new class of mid-sized ships, starships that combined the range of a carrier with the mobility of a frigate.

Warspite did well
, he thought, as much as he hated to concede anything to Soskice. 
But it’s dangerous to build a whole new fleet without testing the concepts thoroughly first
.

“Right now, we are going to war,” he said, instead.  “And we’re going to war with the ships we have on hand.  There’s no way to avoid it.  The Indians aren't going to let us wait for five years, or ten, or however long it takes to put a whole new fleet mix together.”

“True,” Soskice said.

“
Warspite
is currently on a mission,” James said.  “Do you have anything else we can use
now
?”

“We’ve been updating the penetrator heads on missile warheads,” Soskice said.  “One of them produces a very weak EMP.  It's useless against starships, of course, because they’re always hardened, but it may cause the plasma containment fields to overload.”

“Useful,” James said.  They’d killed a number of Tadpole starfighters that way.  “Does it actually work in the field?”

“It hasn't been tested,” Soskice said.  “But the lab reports are very promising.”

“They always are,” James said.

He'd wondered why Uncle Winchester had taken early retirement, right up until the time he’d spent a year in the Ministry of Defence, London. 
Every
corporation that produced weapons and technology for the military was determined - very determined - to convince the MOD to buy its products.  A fat military contract could be worth billions of pounds over the next few years.  Naturally, the salesmen went all-out to convince the MOD that the latest gadget would utterly revolutionise the face of war. 

And they’re mostly wrong
, he thought. 
And when we say no, they start whining to the Members of Parliament
.

“We can take a handful along and give them a try,” he said.  The Indians would know the dangers - it wasn't as if the use of EMP in war was a secret - but it was worth adding a couple to the missile load.  “Anything else?”

“Modified drive field launchers,” Soskice said.  “And improved ECM for missile warheads.”

“It’s the drive fields that are the real problem,” James pointed out.