But she started being standoffish long before we came into money, he thought, as he pulled himself to his feet. Maybe she was having an affair even then.
He sighed, remembering what Father O’Brian had told him the night before his wedding day. Marriage was a lifetime commitment, yet with extended lifespans it was harder and harder to hold a marriage together forever. Couples tended to become partners rather than lovers, raising the children while seeking affairs and excitement outside the homes. The Church disapproved, of course, as did many other major religions, but they could do nothing to stop it. For better or worse, society had changed beyond measure since the days the Church commanded and men obeyed.
Bracing himself, he followed Rose into the shower. Hot water ran down her body, washing away all traces of their lovemaking, but he couldn’t help being tantalised by her breasts. Two children and a life working at a desk had allowed Molly to put on weight; Rose was trim, muscular and far more adventurous. He almost reached for her before she caught his eye and shook her head, firmly. Kurt opened his mouth to object, then remembered that they were meant to be greeting the new pilots as they arrived on Ark Royal. They couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
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.”