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

At least that explains why I wasn't invited
, John thought. 
The Admiral wouldn't want me to know too much if he was sending me into enemy territory.

“Captain,” a voice called.  “How are you?”

John turned and smiled as he saw Commander Juliet Watson.  She looked more confident than he remembered - but now, at least, she wasn't trying to serve as an XO.  He couldn't help feeling pleased to see her again, even if she’d been an unintentional nuisance on his first deployment.

“I’m fine,” he said.  It would be nice to sit and have a drink with her, but he doubted he had the time.  “I’ve just got to return to my ship.”

“I was hoping Mike would be free this evening,” Juliet said.  “I’ve got a great deal to show him.”

John concealed his amusement with an effort.  Mike Johnston,
Warspite’s
Chief Engineer, had a thing for Juliet, even when she’d been XO.  It had probably worked in her favour - crewmen who would have ignored her wouldn't have dared trifle with the Chief Engineer - but it was skirting the boundaries of regulations.  Now, after she’d been reassigned to Nelson Base, they’d seen each other fairly frequently.  John was mildly surprised he hadn't heard of their engagement by now.

“I’ll see if I can spare him,” he said.  It was hard to say
no
to Juliet.  “But I can't make any promises.”

He nodded to her and headed down towards the airlock.  A pair of marines was standing on guard outside the ship, watching carefully while four crewmen carefully moved a truckload of supplies into
Warspite
.  They saluted John as he approached; he saluted them back, then waited for them to confirm his identity before stepping through the airlock.  It wasn't
likely
the Indians had spies trying to creep onto the ship, yet the possibility couldn't be discounted
completely
.  The Great Powers might have agreed not to wage war on one another, at least before the Tadpoles had shown themselves, but there had been no shortage of attempts to penetrate security systems and steal intelligence and technological data. 

And the Indians might have spies of their own
, he thought. 
No, they will have spies of their own, watching and waiting to see what we do
.

It wasn't a cheerful thought.  The Royal Navy needed to trust its personnel, not start a witch-hunt for Indian spies.  Hell, quite a few crewmen were of Indian descent, although most ties to motherlands had been cut during the Troubles.  Who knew what would happen if they were specifically targeted by the counter-intelligence staff?  The paranoia might do more damage than Indian weapons.

He keyed his wristcom as he entered his ready room.  “Commander Howard, report to my ready room as soon as possible.”

“Aye, Captain,” Howard said.  “I’m on my way.”

John sat down behind his desk and opened his terminal.  The official set of orders was already waiting for him; he skimmed them briefly, then placed the sealed orders in his secure drawer.  They’d remain there until they reached Terra Nova, where he’d need to show them to the XO.  Howard would probably guess their existence once the SAS troopers came onboard - there was no need to transport the SAS to Britannia - but until then the sealed orders had to remain a secret.  It wasn’t particularly clever - John trusted his XO completely - yet there was no choice.  The more people who knew, the greater the chance of an accidental leak.

The hatch opened.  “Captain,” Howard said.

“Take a seat,” John ordered.  He glanced through the list of messages and frowned.  The SAS would be arriving an hour before the planned departure time, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit.  A handful of troopers wouldn’t pose a problem, but their shuttlecraft would have to be stowed away somewhere safe.  “We’re departing for Britannia in two days.”

Howard raised his eyebrows.  “Britannia?”

“We will also be transporting an SAS detachment - probably one or two troops, around sixteen men apiece,” John added.  He’d let Howard draw his own conclusions.  “They’ll have at least one shuttlecraft with them - a non-standard design.  They want her to remain secure.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “We could plug her to the hull and cover her in camo fabric.  She’d remain completely out of sight.”

“Good idea,” John said.  “Make the arrangements; verify the straps yourself, rather than asking anyone else to handle it.  Officially, we’re taking on additional marines rather than anything more ... interesting.”

“Of course, sir,” Howard said.

John smiled.  “We also have permission to take what we need from the stores, so put in requests for everything,” he added.  “Just make sure we have enough room to get through the corridors in case of emergency.”

“I was on
Courageous
, sir,” Howard said.  “I remember.”

“Me too,” John said.  He’d served on
Canopus
... and the escort carrier had been so crammed with supplies that making one’s way through the ship had been difficult.  And, in the end, it hadn't been enough to save her when the Tadpoles came knocking.  “We’ll need everything we can get.”

He took a breath.  “We also have permission to offer shore leave to deserving crewmen,” he added.  “They’re authorised to visit Island One for a couple of hours at a time.  Put together parties of suitable candidates and remind them that anyone who fails to report back will be listed as a deserter.  We can’t afford to delay our departure.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

“And tell the Chief Engineer that he has an hour’s leave tonight, if he wants to use it,” John added, after a moment.  “I think we can spare him that long.”

“Of course, sir,” Howard said.

“I’ll deal with the paperwork now,” John concluded.  He’d be surprised if Howard didn't have a good idea of where they were going, but it wouldn't matter as long as he kept his mouth shut until departure.  “Let me know if there are any problems.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

John smiled to himself as his XO left the compartment.  There
was
no shortage of paperwork, but he couldn't help a thrill of excitement.  After so much, after so many defeats, it felt good to be going back to war.  This time, it was going to be different.  No civilians, no diplomats, no aliens ... just a mission and a chance to test themselves against a peer power.  It would be
very
different.

This time
, he thought,
we’re ready for war
.

Chapter Five

SAS Headquarters, Hereford, Earth

“Welcome to hell, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Percy Schneider sucked in his breath as he was escorted through the heavily-guarded gate and into one of the most secretive military bases in Britain.  It looked, on the surface, to be quite similar to a number of other bases he’d visited, but he couldn't help a thrill of excitement.  Hereford was the home base of the Special Air Service, the toughest Special Forces unit in the world. 
Every
serving soldier - at least, every front-line soldier - hoped to become an SAS trooper or serve in one of the other SF units.  Percy had hoped, one day, to try out for the Special Boat Service, but he’d never expected to visit Hereford until then.  The base was rarely open to visitors.

“Take a long look,” his escort advised dryly.  “There’s nothing really to see here.”

Percy nodded in agreement.  The important parts of the base would be behind a second line of fencing or deep underground, well away from prying eyes.  He might have been asked - ordered - to visit, but he wouldn’t see anything above his pay grade.  There weren't even any troopers in view, although the driver - when he’d been picked up from the railway station - had told him that they spent most of their time training when they weren't actually on active duty.  They wouldn't show off for
him
.

He sighed inwardly, then followed his escort through a set of doors and into a barracks that looked remarkably similar to the barracks in Edinburgh.  The only real difference was a long line of framed newspaper cuttings hanging from the walls, each one talking about the SAS or another SF unit.  He paused long enough to read one dating all the way back to the famed Iranian Embassy Siege before his escort coughed impatiently and led him onwards.  There wasn't anyone else in view until they entered the antechamber, but he could feel unseen eyes watching him.  The base was carefully monitored in case of trouble.

“Captain Drake will see you now,” the escort said, nodding to a door.  “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you,” Percy said.

He braced himself and stepped through the door.  His orders had been clear - he was to make his way to Hereford and report to Captain Drake - but they hadn't told him why.  He didn't think he was in trouble - he hadn't been in command of the base on Vesy when the final battle had begun - yet it was still odd.  It wasn't as if he’d thrown his cap in the ring and applied for SAS Selection.  Offhand, he couldn't recall anyone ever being invited to Hereford merely to speak to one of the SAS officers.

“Lieutenant Schneider,” Captain Christopher Drake said.  His voice was oddly unaccented, but Percy thought he could detect traces of Lancashire.  “We don’t stand on ceremony here, so please take a seat.”

Percy obeyed, studying Drake carefully as he sat down.  He was a tall man, wiry rather than muscular; his eyes were warm, but sharp.  The uniform he wore was completely unmarked, save for a single rank badge; he carried a pistol at his belt, the flap open so he could draw it in a second.  Percy puzzled over it for a long moment, then recalled the number of terrorist threats against military bases during the Age of Unrest.  The bombardment of Earth during the war had unleashed a whole new wave of terrorism.

“I apologise for summoning you here at such short notice,” Drake said.  “Do you know why you are here?”

“Vesy,” Percy guessed.

“Not quite,” Drake said.  “Pegasus.  Specifically, Clarke III.”

Percy nodded slowly.  He’d been on the surface while
Warspite
had been supporting the colony effort, practicing military deployments in utterly alien - and completely inhospitable - terrain.  Clarke might have been fun, if the atmosphere hadn’t been poisonous; they’d joked, at the time, about setting up ski resorts and charging admission.  But now, of course, the Indians were in possession of the gas giant’s moon.  They’d have to be evicted before the colony could resume normal development.

“I read your file,” Drake said.  “It was quite an interesting read.  You joined the marines four years ago; you were assigned to
Warspite
as a Corporal one year ago and took part in the liberation of Vesy from the Russians.  Captain Naiser left you behind, in command of Fort Knight; you served as a combination of outpost commander and diplomat until you were relieved.  Quite an achievement for one so young.”

“Thank you, sir,” Percy said.

“You were promoted to Lieutenant and placed in command of the QRF,” Drake continued, calmly.  “You were on the spot during the troubles on Vesy - eventually, you helped defend Fort Knight long enough to get the civilians off-world before it was too late.   And you’ve been nominated for a couple of medals ...”

Percy frowned, inwardly.  He’d tried to look up Drake’s record on MILNET, only to discover that anything beyond a bare acknowledgement of Drake’s existence - a standard precaution against walts - was classified well above his security clearance.  But someone who held the rank of Captain in the SAS
couldn't
be dismissed.  He’d have more practical experience on active duty than just about anyone Percy knew, save - perhaps - for Sergeant Peerce.  It was unlikely - very unlikely - that Drake was genuinely impressed by Percy’s record.  He’d have to wonder if Percy had been promoted too far, too fast.

“I shall be blunt,” Drake said.  “You’ve been detached to my troop, Percy.  I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said, automatically.

“We’re going to be deploying to Clarke,” Drake explained.  “It won’t be the first planetary insertion we’ve done, Percy, but none of us have actually visited Clarke itself.  You’re one of the few people we can tap for support.  Your CO already approved the transfer before you came here.”

Percy had to smile.  “Does this make me a trooper?”

“Not until you pass Selection,” Drake said.  He smiled, openly.  “But you will be fast-tracked through Selection when you get home.”

If I get home
, Percy thought. 

The thought sent chills down his spine.  He’d heard stories of SAS deployments, including a number of stories that couldn't possibly have been turned into movies.  No one would believe that such operations had ever taken place.  Slipping undetected through a planet’s atmosphere was sanity itself compared to some of the crazier stories he’d been told.  He looked at Drake and wondered, suddenly, just how many of them were true.  Drake didn't look to be the sort of person who ever gave up.

“You’re better placed than some of the people we’ve had to take along,” Drake said.  “You actually went through training, which is more than can be said for some of the intelligence officers.  I assume you know how to fire a gun?”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said, stiffly.  He knew it sounded as though he was being teased, but it was a
very
silly question.  “I came first in my class of shooters.”

Drake smiled.  “You’ll find we’re held to even greater standards,” he said.  “We’ll be testing you out on everything from pistols to sniper rifles.  Did you have any problems operating on Clarke?”

“Our weapons and equipment had to be cold-proofed,” Percy said.  “They
were
designed for unpleasant environments.”

“Always good to check,” Drake said.

Percy couldn't disagree.  There had been cases where weapons had worked perfectly in the laboratory, or out on the training fields, and then jammed up on active service.  The oil had dried, or frozen solid ... it had cost lives, in the past.  He’d been warned to be careful when he’d been deployed to
Warspite
; their equipment
was
rated for all environments, but it was well to be
sure
.  Their weapons could not be allowed to fail when they were advancing on an enemy position.

“I won’t lie to you,” Drake said.  “This will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.  If it was completely up to me, you’d have weeks to prepare yourself for insertion, but we don’t have weeks.  You’ll have a day with us now and then we’re transferring to
Warspite
.”

Percy brightened.  “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be in lockdown, though,” Drake added.  “If you want to write letters or emails, you’ll have to send them through me.  I would advise you not to send anything too explicit, but I could do with a laugh.”

“I’ll try to be blatant,” Percy said, dryly.  “Or would you like me to download a romance novel and copy the interesting parts into an email?”

Drake laughed.  “As long as it’s an
interesting
romance novel.”

Percy snorted.  He’d always detested the thought of someone reading his private mail, but military security came first. 
That
had been made very clear during his first deployment.  The censors didn't really mind if a squaddie spent hours writing a letter to his girlfriend that detailed precisely
what
he intended to do with her when he got home, but they’d be furious if he accidentally revealed operational details.  It would lead to an unpleasant interview with the soldier’s CO and perhaps an immediate flight home.

“I’ll pick something very amusing,” he said.  Penny had given him a copy of one book featuring a Royal Marine for a joke and he’d been left with the impression that the writer had never set eyes on a soldier.  But it had been funny, in a morbid kind of way.  “Or maybe not write anything at all.”

“Good,” Drake said.  “Once the ship is underway, you can meet your friends if you wish, provided you keep up with the training.  I suggest, however, that you concentrate on working with us.  We’re going to need to rely on you once we hit the surface.”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said.

Drake rose.  “For the moment, you’re attached to B Squadron, 5 (Space )Troop,” he said, as he led the way towards the door.  “You
won’t
be a Lieutenant, I’m afraid.  I hope that won’t be a problem?”

“No, sir,” Percy said.  He didn't hold
any
rank in the SAS.  It was unlikely he’d be called upon to take command, or do anything other than share his expertise and serve as a footsoldier.  Hell, if he
did
have to take command, there would be no one left to follow his orders.  “I understand.”

“That’s a relief,” Drake said.  He didn't bother to look back as he headed down the corridor.  “Every so often, we get someone who wants to cling to his old rank.”

Percy wasn't really surprised.  It hadn't been
easy
to get promotion - and he’d been lucky.  He would have had to give up his rank if he applied to join the SAS, but officers attached to the SAS - willingly or unwillingly - might not be so keen to surrender something they’d worked to achieve.  And yet, he was fairly sure he'd be allowed to keep his rank once he returned to his original unit.

He heard the sound of gunfire as they passed through a set of heavy metal doors and walked down a long staircase.  The sound of shooting was growing louder; they stopped outside a second set of doors and donned ear protection before opening the doors.  Inside, there was a shooting range, with a dozen men in black uniforms systematically firing their weapons towards a series of holographic targets.  Four more men were kneeling on the floor, dismantling and reassembling their weapons; it looked very much as though the troopers were test-firing everything they had before boarding the shuttle for
Warspite
.

Drake put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, loudly.  Percy watched with interest as the troopers turned to face their commander.  They had nothing to prove, he noted; they weren't showing off their weapons or thrusting forward, trying to dominate the surroundings.  There was something about the way they moved, an easy confidence in themselves, that was more impressive than any shouting or screaming.

They’ve already been through hell
, he thought.  He’d looked up SAS Selection when he'd completed the Commando Training Course and he’d been impressed. 
And then they went out and did the impossible
.

“This is Percy Schneider,” Drake said, without preamble.  “He visited Clarke III last year, which makes him the closest thing to an expert we have.  He’s a Royal Marine with genuine experience, so don’t expect him to ask which end of a rifle fires the bullets.  Sergeant?”