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.
“But you can see we’ve been adapting,” the Rhino boomed. “You see Mons Meg over there?”
Charles followed his gaze. A large weapon — it looked big enough to be a self-propelled gun — was mounted on tracks. As he watched, a handful of Marines carefully manoeuvred it into a shuttle, taking extreme care.
“It looks as though they expect the weapon to blow up at any moment,” he said.
“They do,” the Rhino said. “That’s one of the first strategic plasma cannons designed and produced for the Corps. It’s actually capable of engaging targets in low orbit from the ground, which should make life interesting for anyone trying to land on the planet. But the plasma containment field is very far from perfect.”