Ark Royal 2: The Nelson Touch (11 page)

He showered quickly, then dried himself and pulled on his working uniform.  He'd given some thought to meeting the newcomers in his dress blues, but decided that would be just showing off – and besides, the dress uniform was hideously uncomfortable.  Stepping out of the shower, he discovered that Rose had already left, probably heading down to the pilot barracks.  Fortunately, with so few pilots on the carrier, it was unlikely that anyone would notice where she’d been.

We’ll have to be more careful in future
, he thought, as he checked his appearance in the mirror. 
There will be a full complement of pilots once again – and a new XO looking to make her mark on the ship
.

He picked up his terminal, slotted it to his belt, then sighed as he saw the pistol lying beside it.  Captain Fitzwilliam had ordered his crewmembers to carry loaded weapons at all times – and to recertify themselves on the firing range if they hadn't fired a weapon since the Academy.  Kurt was torn between considering it paranoia or a wise precaution; the humans had boarded an alien craft, logically the aliens might try to do the same to them.  Sighing again, he buckled the weapon to his belt and silently resolved to spend more time in the shooting ranges himself.  It would be embarrassing if he was outshot by the new pilots.

Shaking his head, he walked through the hatch and down towards the starboard landing bay.  He was just in time to see the first shuttle make its way into the bay and settle down on the deck, followed rapidly by two more.  Tradition dictated that all pilots had to arrive on their carriers via shuttle, rather than flying their own Spitfires or Hurricanes to their new assignments.  Kurt suspected there was some reason for the tradition, but several hours of searching through the archives had revealed no reason that made sense.  The cynical part of his mind wondered if the original reason was still valid.

Rose entered the compartment, followed by the five other Wing Commanders.  Kurt turned to them and nodded, fighting down a sudden surge of envy. 
They
would be commanding their squadrons in combat, while
he
would be trapped in the CIC, watching helplessly as the young men and women under his command risked their lives.  It was the best job in the Royal Navy.  He silently promised himself that he would take a starfighter out more than once, perhaps allowing each of the Wing Commanders a chance to serve as CAG.  It would be good for their careers, if not their desire to stay in a cockpit.

“I’ve shared out the experienced pilots among you,” Kurt informed them, as the final shuttle landed neatly on the deck.  “I expect you to train hard until the rooks are up to scratch – and don’t make stupid mistakes.”

“Yes, sir,” Wing Commander Paton said.  The others, including Rose, nodded in droll agreement.  Rooks – the Royal Navy’s slang for new pilots – made stupid mistakes all the time, even after six months at the Academy. 
These
newcomers had only had three months of intensive training before being deemed qualified pilots.  “We’ll ride them hard.”

The airlock dinged, announcing that it was now safe to enter the landing bay.  Kurt led the way into the vast compartment, then keyed his terminal.  The shuttle hatches opened, revealing a mob of young men and women spilling out onto the deck.  Some of them he recognised, others had been in other training courses and he’d never seen them before.  Up close, they all looked disturbingly fresh-faced and young.  Behind them, there were a handful of older pilots moving at a more sedate pace.  They’d seen carriers before and saw no need to stare.

Kurt put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.  “Line up in squadrons,” he snapped. 
He’d
done better than that on his first assignment.  “Rooks to the front; older pilots to the rear.”

He concealed his amusement at their expressions.  Every single starfighter pilot believed himself – or herself – to be the best starfighter pilot in the galaxy.  They didn't like having their status as newcomers rubbed in their face, any more than Kurt himself had enjoyed it when he was a rook himself.  But there was no choice.  They had to learn just how little they knew before they actually went into combat. 

It should have taken less than a minute for the lines to form.  Instead, it took almost five minutes ... and it would have been longer if the older pilots hadn't taken charge and started pushing or pulling the rooks into line.  Kurt sighed inwardly, remembering some of the exercises he’d done when he’d been a trainee himself.  This bunch wouldn't have a hope of sorting themselves out by alphabetical order, if the order was given.  And they were likely to wind up on charges for failing to salute a superior officer.

“That was disgraceful,” Kurt said, when they were finally assembled in ragged lines.  It was a damn good thing, he told himself, that the Royal Marines weren't around to watch.  “Parts of your training might have been cut, but there's no excuse for not sorting yourselves out.”

He paused.  “For those of you who don’t know me,” he continued, “my name is Kurt Schneider, Commander Air Group.  My job is to command the starfighters and bombers assigned to the carrier, which includes getting you rooks into shape before we encounter the aliens.  Believe me, I don’t care about what sort of hot shit you consider yourself to be – and you can be damn sure that the aliens don’t care either.  Pilots far more experienced than you have been blown out of space by the aliens, sometimes before they even knew they were under attack.

“These” – he paused to indicate Rose and the others – “are the Wing Commanders, the officers in command of the squadrons you’ll serve in.  Like me, they have all faced the aliens in combat and know their tricks, so I suggest you learn from their experience.  They will hammer you into shape, if necessary, to make sure you fit in.  And if you have real problems fitting in, you will be relieved and sent back to Earth.  We have no time to coddle people here.  Do you understand me?”

There was a ragged chorus of assent.  Kurt gazed over the pilots, noting how some of them seemed to have quailed under his speech and others looked resentful.  The only one who looked almost happy was Charles Augustus.  Indeed, the young man looked
pleased
.  Kurt eyed him suspiciously – pilots were known for being great jokers and playing pranks on their superiors was a common trait during peacetime – then put the matter out of his mind.  There was much else that needed to be said.

“The older pilots amongst you also have experience, so they will be serving as subordinate commanders,” Kurt continued.  “I suggest you learn from their experience too, because it is far easier to learn from someone else’s experience than learning it the hard way.  I do not want to hear any quibbles about pilot equality, not now.  Experience will serve as the basis of seniority.”

He paused, significantly.  In theory, Flight Lieutenants were equals, regardless of experience; in practice, he’d just thrown that convention out of the airlock.  But there was no way he was going to abandon the chance to have more experienced pilots assist with the training, no matter their ranks.  They needed all the help they could get.

“You may have heard rumours about operational deployments,” Kurt concluded.  He’d heard the rumours himself, although nothing had been officially confirmed.  But it was pretty obvious that a task force consisting of six full-sized carriers wasn't going to be patrolling the rear of human space.  “This is not a pleasure cruise.  Any of you who act like you’re on a luxury liner to Jupiter will regret it.”

He paused, again.  “Which leads to one final point,” he added.  “I assume you all brought your duffels?”

The rooks raised their bags.  Kurt smiled; Royal Navy regulations only allowed pilots one medium-sized bag, which had to carry their clothing as well as anything else they wished to bring with them. 
His
training had included a session on how best to pack their bags, but the rooks had largely missed out on
that
piece of vital information.  He'd bet good money that half of the rooks hadn't packed their spare uniforms, or stuffed the bags full of chocolate or pornographic materials.  Or, rather more worryingly, drugs or electronic simulators.  The latter two could get a pilot dishonourably discharged from the service, if he didn't manage to get himself killed first.

“You should have been provided with a list of what you were expected to bring,” Kurt said, dryly.  “If you haven’t brought any of it, you can obtain the missing items from the supply officer – but I’m afraid the costs will be coming out of your salary, as the items in question were supplied by the Royal Navy.  I suggest you do that today, as we will be inspecting your possessions tomorrow.  Which” – he paused, drawing the moment out as long as possible – “leads to the next point.

“There are items that are firmly on the banned list,” he warned.  “You have until the end of today to get rid of them, no questions asked.  The list itself is on the datanet.  If you are caught with any of them afterwards, you will be fined, docked in rank – which is a little pointless at the moment – assigned to punishment duties or the brig ... or dishonourably discharged from the navy.  You’ve all done very well to reach so far so quickly.  It would be a crying shame if you lost it right now.”

He smiled at their expressions.  Whatever happened in Sin City stayed in Sin City – that much was well-known – but it was quite possible to buy items that were legally banned just about everywhere else in the lunar settlement.  Pornography wasn't technically banned, but drugs, simulators and other devices were forbidden.  But pilots, always seeking thrills, had probably decided to risk their careers to buy something they shouldn’t.  He just hoped they had the sense to get rid of anything incriminating before the inspections began.  Someone stupid enough not to do so was probably addicted already.

“That’s the end of my speech,” he said.  “Wing Commander Labara?”

Rose stepped forward.  “When I call your name,” she said, “assemble behind me.”

She ran through eleven names, three of them belonging to experienced pilots.  The rooks, some of them looking noticeably paler than they’d looked when they’d boarded the ship, followed orders, then followed her out of the compartment.  Charles Augustus still showed no sign of anything, but pleasure.  Kurt narrowed his eyes, watched them go – they hadn't learned to march in step, clearly – and then turned back as the other Wing Commanders went through the lists.  Finally, all of the pilots were assigned to a specific squadron and on their way to the barracks.  After the Academy, they’d probably find the barracks something of an improvement.

He made his way back to his office and started to work his way through the reports, waiting to see who would call him first.  Brief updates started to blink up on his terminal within moments, informing him that several rooks had forgotten various important items and would have to order them from the supply officer.  Kurt rolled his eyes when he saw that, as always, they’d forgotten pieces of their uniforms or even their underwear.  How the hell did someone manage to forget navy-issue underpants or bras? 

You were that young too, once
, he reminded himself.  He’d forgotten his uniform jacket, which had cost him a large chunk of his salary. 
And you had the full six months of intensive training
.

Putting the thought aside, he pulled up the planned training schedules and cast his eye down them.  There would be a couple of days for his squadrons to get used to their new starfighters, then they would start training with American, Japanese and French pilots.  It would be interesting, to say the least.  No matter what the Admiral might have said about working together, national rivalry would play a major role in the coming mock battles.

But they won’t be mock when we meet the aliens
, he told himself, sharply. 
By then, we have to learn to work together or die together
.

Chapter Nine

Major Charles Parnell couldn't help but be impressed by USS
Chesty Puller
.  Like most military warships she was as ugly as hell, yet that hardly mattered.  She was designed to take thousands of American Marines into the teeth of enemy fire, land them on hostile ground and provide fire support to them until the enemy were firmly suppressed.  Indeed, she made the transport ships used by the Royal Marines look tiny, although Charles wasn't entirely sure she was a great idea.  Her armour might be heavier than the armour protecting modern carriers, but it was nowhere near as heavy as
Ark Royal’s
.

“Welcome to my ship,” Major General Ross called.  “It's been a long time.”

Charles smiled and shook hands firmly with the Rhino.  They’d met years ago, back during a joint operation in the Horn of Africa, yet another butcher and bolt.  The Rhino had impressed him, once he’d overcome the bombast and realised there was a fine mind hidden under the heavyset expression.  And he’d been quite happy to forget nationalism and work with others to hunt down terrorists, kidnappers and wreckers.

“It has indeed,” he said.  “And now they’re sending you to war against aliens.”

“Hell of a thing,” the Rhino agreed.  “None of us ever really planned for it.”

He waved a hand, indicating the colossal landing bay.  Countless Marines and support staff moved from shuttle to shuttle, inspecting their loads or checking their drives.  Others ran in circles around the bay, getting what exercise they could.  Charles couldn’t help the flicker of envy – a ship dedicated to the Royal Marines would have been very helpful – but he still had his doubts about the concept.