A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) (14 page)

“Prepare for jump,” he ordered.  “Ship’s status?”

“All systems go,” Howard reported.  “Stealth mode has not been compromised.”

John hesitated.  They could run a sweep around the tramline, but there was no way to be
entirely
sure there were no watching eyes.  It had been easier - much easier - during the first war, when he’d been a lowly starfighter pilot.  He hadn't been responsible for an entire ship and crew, not back then.

“Take us through the moment we enter the tramline,” he ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” Armstrong said.  “Jump in seventy seconds and counting.”

John took one final look at the display.  It looked empty, too empty.  He knew he was being silly, but part of him would almost have preferred to see a fleet of advancing warships.  Then, at least, he would have
known
what the enemy was doing.  Instead, he had no way to know what - if anything - was lurking within J-35.  The only certainty he had was that the Indians
would
be firmly entrenched in Pegasus.

“Jump in ten seconds and counting,” Armstrong said.

“Understood,” John said.  He watched the last seconds tick away.  “Take us through.”

He took a long breath as the display blanked out and reformatted itself, again.  This time, it showed Pegasus, where it had all begun.  John remembered escorting the first colonists to the system, back when he’d first been assigned to
Warspite
; he’d walked on the icy surface of Clarke III and admired just how quickly the colonists had started to make the world home.  Governor Brown - he wondered, briefly, what had happened to the man - had even planned to start the long process of terraforming Wells.  The Mars-type world would become a new jewel in the British crown ... assuming, of course, they managed to drive the Indians out of the system.

“Jump complete, sir,” Armstrong said.

“Take us away from the tramline; go passive once we’re at a safe distance,” John ordered.  There was nothing to be gained by rushing in, not when the Indians would definitely have prepared the system to repel attack.  “Status report?”

“I’m picking up a handful of transmissions from Clarke, but nothing solid,” Tara reported, grimly.  “At this distance, sir, we wouldn't see much unless they power up their drives.”

John nodded.  “Inform me the moment you locate that carrier,” he ordered.  “That’s the most dangerous ship in the system.”

The display kept updating, new icons flickering into existence.  It didn't
look
as though any of them were artificial, although it was hard to be sure.  The system had always had a great deal of space junk, one of the reasons why it had been claimed so fast.  There was literally no shortage of raw materials to be turned into everything an industrial society would need.

“They’re setting up a cloudscoop,” Tara said, suddenly.  The display focused suddenly on a structure orbiting the gas giant.  “I don't think it can be anything else.”

“They’re serious about moving in to stay,” Howard commented.  “That’s not a small investment.”

“They’d need to start shipping fuel to Vesy if they want to uplift the natives,” John said.  He wasn't sure if the Indians were sincere about helping the Vesy to reach the stars, but if there were any gains to be had from uplifting aliens the Indians would be in a good position to benefit.  “The sole gas giant in the Vesy System is highly radioactive and impossible to mine.”

“They’re also lobbing ice asteroids towards Wells,” Tara added.  “They must have dumped a terraforming package onto the planet too.”

John swore, inwardly.  It was generally agreed that whoever settled the Earth-like world received title to the rest of the system.  But Pegasus didn't
have
an Earth-like world, unless Wells was reshaped into something habitable.  It would take decades, at the very least, for the world to develop a breathable atmosphere, but if the Indians kick-started a terraforming project they might be able to lay claim to Wells itself.  They’d certainly manage to muddy the political waters still further.

But it will take them decades
, he reassured himself.  Wells was a long-term project. 
The war will be over by then, one way or the other
.

“They might also have dumped colonists on the world,” Howard mused.  “They could certainly do it on Cromwell.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” John said.  It wouldn't be the first time a problem had been solved by forced relocation, but doing it on an interstellar scale would be a logistic nightmare.  Cromwell had only a few thousand colonists; the Indians could overwhelm them easily, just by shipping in ten thousand volunteers from India.  “For the moment, we won't worry about it.”

“Aye, sir,” Howard said. 

A red icon flashed to life on the display.  “Captain,” Tara said.  “I’ve located the carrier.”

John sucked in his breath.  The carrier - INS
Viraat
- was holding position near Clarke III, but keeping her distance from the rocks orbiting the gas giant.  There would be a handful of smaller ships nearby, he was sure, but so far they weren't showing up on the display.  It didn't matter.  He’d seen the intelligence reports - and the carrier herself, back at Vesy.  INS
Viraat
was a deadly threat.

“Her drives are stepped down, as far as I can tell,” Tara added.

“It won’t take them long to flash-wake their systems,” Howard warned.  He frowned, considering the possibilities.  “If their designs are anything like ours, they could be at battlestations within five minutes.”

“We’ll keep our distance,” John said.  He studied the display for a long chilling moment, then tapped a command into the system, sending an update to Drake.  “Designate this point” - he tapped a location on the display - “as Point Alpha, then set course for it.”

“Aye, sir,” Armstrong said.  “Course laid in.”

John took a breath.  Now, the
real
work would begin.

“Take us in,” he ordered. 

Chapter Thirteen

HMS
Theodore Smith
, Earth Orbit

“She’s magnificent,” Commander Sally Acorn breathed.

“Yes, she is,” James agreed, as HMS
Theodore Smith
slowly came into view.  “The most powerful supercarrier designed and launched by the Royal Navy.”

He’d seen the mighty carrier before, but he drank in the details as the shuttle swooped towards the VIP airlock.  The carrier was over three kilometres long, a flattened rectangle flanked by no less than four starfighter launching tubes.  Her hull - lined with modern armour that was actually tougher than the solid-state armour of
Ark Royal
- was studded with point defence weapons, sensor blisters, mass drivers and external missile racks.  She might not be the most agile of starships, but she was definitely faster than the average fleet carrier.

And Ark Royal handled like a commercial megaton freighter four times her size
, he reminded himself.  It felt disloyal to make the comparison, but he couldn't help it. 
Theodore Smith could kick the ass of the fleets we faced without breaking a sweat.

He smiled at the thought as the shuttle docked, the hatch hissing open to reveal a tall dark-haired woman waiting for him.  James smiled in genuine pleasure and saluted, first the flag and then the woman.  She saluted him back at once.

“Admiral Fitzwilliam,” Captain Susan Pole said.  She stuck out a hand in greeting, which James shook firmly.  “Welcome onboard.”

“Thank you, Captain,” James said. 
Theodore Smith
had been his flagship ever since she’d entered service, but he’d spent very little time on her over the past two months.  “It’s a great pleasure to be back.”

Susan smiled.  “I can imagine,” she said, as they turned to head down the long corridor to the CIC.  “I caught the interview last night.”

James made a face.  The media, of course, had been demanding interview after interview, all of which he’d managed to duck until now.  He’d had to go in front of the cameras and answer questions from a whole panel of reporters, none of whom understood the first thing about space warfare.  They certainly didn't seem to realise that it would take at least a fortnight for
any
news to come back from the front; hell, they seemed to imagine that the MOD intended to sit on any messages - sent, no doubt, by FTL transmitter - until they’d been spun into declarations of complete victory.

“All lies, Captain,” he said.  He glanced at Sally, dismissing her to her duties, then turned his gaze back to Susan.  “I trust your ship is ready for departure?”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  There was nothing, but confidence in her voice.  “We finished loading the war stocks last night.  There shouldn't be any problem meeting the scheduled departure date.”

James nodded.  He’d met Susan shortly after his promotion to Commodore, after the final flight of
Ark Royal
.  Like many other officers in the post-war navy, she was young for her role, but there was no doubting her competence.  Indeed, he had a feeling he'd been competing with her for carrier command before the war had started and he’d managed to get himself transferred to
Ark Royal
.  Now, she was his strong right arm.

“The Old Man would be proud,” he said, remembering the struggle to get
Ark Royal
ready for space.  “And he’d be proud of his namesake too.”

“Of course, sir,” Susan said.  “We incorporated a great many lessons from the war into her hull.”

James said nothing else until they passed through the CIC - his staff had arrived earlier, once he’d been able to spare them from Nelson Base - and into his office.  It was larger than he thought he had any right to expect, but the Royal Navy was determined to ensure that flag officers received the very best of everything.  James wasn't sure he approved - he knew that Admiral Smith would
not
have approved - yet it was something he hadn't been able to change.  There were limits, clearly, to the powers of a Vice Admiral.

“I assume you’ve read the classified briefings,” he said, once the hatch was firmly closed behind them.  The compartment had been swept for bugs before a Royal Marine had taken up position outside.  It was as secure as modern technology could make it.  “We have our final orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

“Commodore Nigel Blake will assume command in the event of something happening to me,” James added.  “Commodore Pollock was earmarked for the role, but he has health problems and the doctors believe he’d be better off in a desk job.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  She ran her hand through her short dark hair.  “If something happens to you, it’ll happen to the whole ship.”

“I know,” James said.  Susan would technically be the third in line to take command, if something happened to James and Commodore Blake, but she would almost certainly go down with her ship.  It might not matter; if the carrier was lost, the war would be lost along with it.  “We’ll need to take the time during the voyage to work out the kinks in our arrangements.”

“Not all of us have served together before,” Susan agreed.  She sounded rather frustrated.  It could take months to work a fleet up for combat, yet they were expected to be ready to deploy in a matter of weeks.  “I’ve been running drills with the carrier battle group, sir, but we didn't have the entire task force to play with.”

“We’ll see to it once we’re underway,” James said.  They’d just have to learn on the go, despite the inconvenience.  “Nine more ships will be meeting us in Terra Nova, Captain.  The politicians finally agreed to pull our flotilla out of the system.  The French will be handling rescue duties for British civilians in exchange for political favours.”

“Good,” Susan said.  “The flotilla was a waste of resources from start to finish.”

James nodded in agreement.  “We’re due to depart in seven hours,” he said.  “My staff should have time to complete the first set of arrangements - I need to make a whole series of calls - but please let me know if there are any problems.”

“I’ve worked with your staff before,” Susan said.  “I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about, sir.”

“I hope not,” James agreed.  An Admiral had his own command staff, which sometimes ended up picking fights with the
starship’s
command staff.  James trusted his people - Susan was right; they
had
worked together for years - but he knew there could be problems.  “If there
are
problems, we’ll work them out in the first week of sailing.”

He watched her go, then keyed his console, linking into the secure datanet and requesting a conference with the Prime Minister.  It could be quite some time before the Prime Minister answered - there was no way to know where he was at any given time - so James opened his terminal and began scanning through the long list of reports.  His staff was meant to handle as many of them as possible, yet they tended to be quite conservative about what actually required his attention.  James didn't really blame them for being careful - he would prefer to waste his time than overlook a tiny detail that would turn out to be important later - but it could be annoying.  By the time the communications link lit up, he was more than a little annoyed at whoever had sent a report on projected ammunition expenditures to his terminal.

We always shoot off more ammunition than projected
, he thought, crossly.  He’d learned
that
lesson during his time as an XO. 
Haven’t they noticed that by now
?

“Admiral,” the Prime Minister said.  He sounded tired.  Unlike James, he hadn't been able to avoid either the press or hordes of MPs.  “I apologise for the delay.”

“Thank you for taking the call,” James said.  There were only a handful of people who could call the Prime Minister without clearing it first; he’d known he’d been put on the list after he’d been placed in command of the task force, but he had never taken advantage of it.  “The task force is ready to depart on schedule.”

“That’s good,” the Prime Minister said.  “Parliament wants a victory, Admiral.  It wants it very much.”

James nodded.  Uncle Winchester had briefed him thoroughly, both personally and through his team of political agents.  Parliament was furious about the insult to both British prestige and the global order, but a number of MPs were worried about the cost of the war.  They’d take any opportunity they could to cancel the task force and rely on political pressure to drive the Indians out of Pegasus. 

Which won’t work
, he thought. 
They’ll think they’ve won and dig in harder
.

“You have your orders, covering all the contingencies we anticipated,” the Prime Minister continued.  “You also have authority to negotiate a ceasefire if the Indians agree to vacate the system without any further ado.  I’ve included written authorisation naming you a diplomatic representative, within certain strict limits.”

James nodded, curtly.  Parliament had wanted to send a political representative to accompany the task force, but the Prime Minister had been adamantly opposed and the bill had died in committee.  A diplomatic representative who
wasn’t
tied to the military - or at least lacked a solid grasp of military realities - would be more of a hindrance than a help.  There was simply no room for negotiations.  Either Britain recovered the captured systems or lost them to the Indians.  There was no middle ground.

“I won’t give away the store, sir,” he said.

“Glad to hear it,” the Prime Minister said.  “There hasn't been any formal communications from the Indians, but back-channel messages are still being exchanged.  They’re determined to hold the systems until forced to withdraw.  MI6 has been unable to establish what orders have been given to the enemy commander, Admiral.  However, if they are determined to remain in possession of the stolen territory, the orders will boil down to ‘hold at all costs.’”

“We’ll just have to convince them otherwise, Prime Minister,” James said.  He glanced at his terminal.  “Everything is loaded, even the reporters.”

The Prime Minister smiled, tiredly.  “You have all the authority you need to keep them under control, Admiral,” he said.  “I’m sure a few months in the brig will be enough of a threat if necessary.”

“I hope so,” James said.  Susan had already made it clear to the reporters that certain parts of the carrier were off-limits, but they were the compartments the reporters wanted to visit.  “I think we’ll be feeding them ration bars rather than bread and water.”

“I’m pretty sure there are laws against cruel and unusual punishment,” the Prime Minister said.  He smiled.  “Good luck, Admiral.  The King will be addressing the nation just before your departure.  Princess Elizabeth has already been earmarked for visiting the ships when you return.”

“Thank you, sir,” James said. 

He sighed, inwardly.  There was a need for the Royal Family to at least
pretend
to be involved, but he doubted it would be a pleasant visit.  He’d
met
Princess Elizabeth and decided, in the privacy of his own mind, that if she had a single brain cell in her head it had been turned to mush long ago.  Her brother, at least, had been a starfighter pilot during the war, but he’d headed off to Alien Prime after the final battle to serve as Ambassador.  James rather suspected, from the rumours he’d heard, that Prince Henry had told his family - flatly - that he had no intention of ever taking the throne.  The young man he recalled had been so determined to seek his own destiny that he’d even signed up at the Academy under a false name.

The Prime Minister nodded.  “I’ll see you when you get back, Admiral,” he concluded.  “I wish there was more time to organise a proper departure.”

“We don’t need bands playing, Prime Minister,” James said.  In all honesty, the crews had worked so hard they needed a rest, not a formal departure ceremony.  “There will be time for that when we get home.”

“Good luck,” the Prime Minister said.

James watched his face disappear from the display, then rose to his feet and headed out into the CIC.  It was considerably larger than the CIC on
Ark Royal
, crammed with consoles, holographic displays and a dozen crewmen.  He took a moment to inspect the near-space display - there was no avoiding the handful of foreign warships in orbit around Earth, watching as the task force took shape - and then left the CIC, heading down to the engineering compartment.  Admiral Smith had always toured his ship before departing and it was a tradition James intended to honour.