“That is understandable,” the First Space Lord said. “You will have the power to deal with them, if necessary.”
Ted sighed, again. The War Powers Act did give commanding officers considerable leeway to deal with reporters and other subhuman forms of life, but it was subject to review. He could put a reporter in irons… and, if the Admiralty found it politically embarrassing, they could renounce him after the war.
“Understood, sir,” he said. “We’ll do our very best.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Captain, James decided, as he waited in the shuttlebay, must have realised that James had been speaking to the First Space Lord behind the Captain’s back. It was the only explanation, he felt, for why the Captain had given him the assignment for babysitting the reporters, even though there were more junior officers — including Lieutenant Abramczyk — who could have handled the task. But then, he had to admit, he certainly deserved some kind of punishment for breaking the Captain’s trust. Having to deal with reporters was definitely cruel and unusual punishment.
He shifted uncomfortably inside his dress uniform as the shuttle settled slowly onto the deck, a dull clunk echoing round the shuttlebay as it landed. The PR staffers always looked photogenic, something that had puzzled James until he’d realised that they were trying to impress reporters too ignorant or stupid to know that a clean uniform wasn't always the sign of a competent officer. James had served under one commanding officer who had insisted that his senior officers always wear their dress uniforms, even though regulations only required them for special occasions. He wondered what had happened to that CO as the shuttle’s hatch opened, revealing the reporters.
They weren't a prepossessing bunch, he decided, as they stumbled out onto the deck. A couple wore clothes that looked military, at least when seen from a distance, and several more wore khaki jackets that would have been better suited to embedding with the ground forces, rather than the Royal Navy. The remainder wore a wide variety of civilian clothes, ranging from simple tracksuits to low-cut shirts and miniskirts that would be sure to draw attention from the ship’s crew. A less professional bunch, James decided, would be hard to find. Even the entertainers who made their way from starship to starship looked more professional.
He stepped forward, pasting a smile on his face. His family had taught him how to face the press, although none of their training had covered this exact scenario. The downside of being born into the aristocracy, he’d been told time and time again, was that everything you did was considered newsworthy. You could fart in bed, his grandfather had told him, and someone would consider it news. And while one set of reporters would consider an aristocrat someone to admire, another set would consider him someone to tear down at all costs. Being in the navy, he'd thought, would preserve him from their particular brand of savagery. Clearly, he’d been wrong.
“Welcome onboard Ark Royal,” he said, as he surveyed the reporters. Several of them carried cameras and other forms of recording equipment; he’d have to make sure that none of it interfered with the ship’s systems. “If you’ll come with me…?”
He led them through a maze of corridors and into a small briefing compartment. Two junior crewmen had spent the day transferring all of the boxes of spare parts out of the compartment, just so he could brief the reporters. He scowled inwardly at the waste of time it represented, even though he knew that neither he nor Captain Smith had been offered a choice. The reporters had to be humoured, at least until they crossed the line so badly that no one could argue when the Captain threw them into the brig.
“Please, be seated,” he said, wondering idly which of them would make the first complaint. The overweight man pretending to be a naval officer or the blonde-haired girl who looked thinner than a plastic doll? James had seen children with more meat on their bones than her. “We have a great deal to get through and not much time.”
The reporters should have been briefed on Nelson Base, but James had already privately resolved to run through everything again, anyway. It wouldn't be the first time, Lieutenant Abramczyk had warned him, where a PR officer on a base had neglected to tell the reporters what they needed to hear, fearing that it would destroy his career. James hadn't been surprised at all to hear it. Reporters, in his experience, were rarely smart enough to realise that the military’s rules and regulations existed for a reason.
“How many of you,” he asked, “have embedded on a military starship before?”
A handful of hands — four in all — went up. James sighed, inwardly. At least they weren't all virgins. It wasn't a reassuring thought. Even modern carriers suffered their fair share of accidents when new crewmembers moved in… and some of those accidents were lethal. The reporters were even less prepared for Ark Royal than James himself.
“Right,” he said. “This is a military starship — and a very dangerous environment. Cabins have been assigned to you; I strongly recommend that you remain in your cabins unless you have an escort. If you choose to leave your cabins, bear in mind that there are some parts of the ship that are completely off-limits without prior permission and an escort. Those locations are detailed in your briefing notes.”
He paused. “I understand that you will want interviews with crewmen,” he added. “Such interviews will be arranged upon request. I advise you not to interfere with crewmen as they go about their duties, or to attempt to force them to be interviewed.”
“But you’ll have a chance to brief those you let speak to us,” one of the older reporters objected. “We want unprepared interviews.”
James tried not to roll his eyes. If the reporter had suspected that every one of the prepared interviewees would toe the party line, he shouldn't have said it out loud. Or was he laying the groundwork for attacking the navy if the interviews didn’t turn up anything he wanted? Or was he simply an idiot?
“None of them will be briefed ahead of time,” James said. He shook his head, then pressed onwards. “All of your reports will be viewed by the PR staff before they are transmitted home. Certain pieces of information, outlined in your briefing notes, are not supposed to be included in public reports. If you include them, you will be placed in the brig and left there until we return to Earth, whereupon you will be handed over to the police.”
“The aliens can't intercept our news broadcasts,” another reporter objected. “Those rules are designed to protect the government, not humanity.”
“That’s as may be,” James said, feeling his head start to pound. Perhaps the Captain had something he could drink to relieve his feelings. He’d sooner face a mob of aliens stark naked than reporters. No doubt he would be made to look really ugly when the reporters started releasing their reports. “The point is that operational security cannot be violated without consequences.”
He ran through the rest of the notes — a short primer on how to behave on the ship — and then led them to their cabins. Originally, the cabins had been intended for an Admiral and his staff; they were the largest cabins on the ship. Even three or four reporters to a compartment was better than the junior crewmen received, deep in the bowels of the ship. But the complaining started almost at once.
What exactly did they expect? James asked himself. A massive compartment for each of them, alone? With a bath and a dressing room and…