“Yes, sir,” he said. “It would be pleasant, wouldn't it?”
Ted smiled, then turned to head towards his cabin. “I’m going to get a nap,” he said. He needed a shower too, just to wash the reporters off his skin. “Take command when shift changes, then ping me. I've got paperwork to do.”
“You really should consider coming with us.”
Major Charles Parnell shrugged. The seven-man Russian commando team had largely kept themselves to themselves during the first two weeks of the voyage, even though they’d been given quarters — barracks — right next to the Royal Marines. Now, their leader had finally condescended to speak to the British CO, even though he clearly had his doubts about the wisdom of talking to anyone. But they did have to coordinate their deployment with Ark Royal.
“It might be interesting,” he agreed. “But we have other orders.”
The Russian — the only name he'd given anyone was Ivan, which Charles suspected was a false name — snorted, rudely. He was a terrifyingly big man, his skin bulging with implanted weapons and combat systems. There had been no attempt to make him look normal, something that impressed and alarmed Charles in equal measure. Even the most capable cyborgs in British service still looked human.
“We have ours too,” Ivan said. “We have to get down to the surface before they react to our presence.”
“We understand,” Charles said. It was going to be tricky, even if the alien sensors were no better than human sensors. Entering a planet's atmosphere would leave a trail a blind man could spot. The aliens could simply track them to their destination or intercept them in flight. “You will have all the support we can muster.”
Ivan grunted. “Perhaps you should shoot those reporters out of missile tubes,” he grated. He muttered a handful of Russian words Charles recognised, then slipped back to English. “They are pains in the buttocks.”
“You never spoke a truer word,” Charles said. Royal Marines were discouraged from talking to the press, which hadn't stopped the assholes from badgering him and his men for interviews. It wasn't as if they had anything useful to say — or even anything newsworthy. “I will speak to the XO and ask him to tell them to leave you and your men alone.”
Ivan muttered something in Russian about Siberia and the proper punishment for inquisitive reporters, then tapped the display. “The main body of settlement on New Russia is here,” he said, pointing to the main continent. “We intend to land here.”
Charles gave him a surprised look. Royal Marines were no strangers to long route marches, but Ivan was talking about walking several thousand miles to the settlements. It would take weeks, even for the fittest soldiers in the human sphere. He found himself eying the cyborg implants, wondering if they were far more capable than he had assumed. But there was no way to know.
“There is a hidden military facility not too far from our planned landing zone,” Ivan explained, reluctantly. “The planetary government will have relocated there, as planned, in the wake of the battle. We will make contact with them, then proceed to gain a full report of conditions on the ground.”
“That makes sense,” Charles agreed. He wondered, absently, if the Russians would ever have told anyone about the facility without being pressed, then decided it didn't matter. It wasn't as if British secrets were shared openly either, although he knew that the other human powers had parsed them out. “How do you plan to get down to the surface?”
There was a long awkward pause, long enough to make Charles wonder if the Russians really did have a plan — or if they were merely playing it by ear.
“That,” Ivan admitted finally, “is where we need your help.”
Ted had been right, he knew, when he'd told the reporters that military service was mostly boredom, broken by moments of screaming terror. Knowing was half the battle, as the saying went, yet it wasn't that much help. In a sense, he realised now, he'd been spoilt by spending most of his career as the commander of a starship held in the reserves. It had been simple enough to arrange for bottles of booze to be shipped to him from Earth or even made a brief visit to Sin City or another Luna settlement. The Admiralty had paid so little attention to Ark Royal that he could have turned her into a spacefaring gambling palace and they would never have noticed.
But now, alone and isolated, Ted couldn't help feeling the urge for a drink. It mocked him, reminding him that he hadn't been able to work up the determination to smash his remaining bottles of alcohol… or even to do more than insist that Anderson dismantled his still. He could pour himself a drink, the voice at the back of his head insisted; he could pour himself a drink and take a swig and no one would ever know.
But it wouldn't stop at one glass, he told himself, savagely. Would it?
It wouldn't, he knew. Once, he had finished one or two bottles of Anderson’s rotgut every day. In hindsight, it was a minor miracle he hadn't managed to invalidate himself out of the Royal Navy. It wasn't uncommon for ship-made alcohol to be effectively poison, if the brewer didn't know what he was doing. If the Admiralty had been paying enough attention to realise that he was drinking himself to death…
They knew, his thoughts reminded him. Someone had made note of his drunkenness and reported it to the Admiralty. It had even been in his personal file. They just didn't care.
Angrily, he paced over to the bunk and lay down, pulling the blankets over his head. He felt too keyed up to sleep, too tired to remain awake. There were pills he could take, he knew, but they tended to have unfortunate side-effects. Instead, he closed his eyes and forced himself to mentally recite the regulations governing waste disposal on starships. It was an old trick he’d learned at the Academy. The tutors had sworn blind that it beat counting sheep. Slowly, he fell asleep…
And then the alarms went off.
Ted jerked out of bed as red lights flashed. “Red Alert,” Fitzwilliam’s voice said. “I say again, Red Alert. This is not a drill. All hands to battlestations. Captain to the bridge.”
Cursing, his blood running cold, Ted keyed his bedside console. “Report,” he snapped. “What’s happening?”
“Incoming alien starfighters,” Fitzwilliam reported. There was a grim note to his voice that belayed any hope that it might be a sadistic drill. “We’re under attack!”
Chapter Eighteen
James had privately expected to run into trouble long before they reached New Russia. The aliens weren't fools, whatever else could be said about them, and they would have to suspect that some kind of counter-attack would be mounted as soon as possible. Indeed, given the care the aliens had taken in mounting their invasion, it was unlikely that they would fail to seal the backdoor. Or, at least, to hide picket ships in human systems.
“I’m picking up forty-seven alien starfighters, advancing towards us on attack vector,” Farley reported. “They’re not even trying to stealth themselves.”
“Maybe it’s a diversion,” James said. Where was the Captain? He’d said he was on his way. “Launch all starfighters, then order four squadrons to remain close to the flotilla and provide cover.”