Kurt looked down at the deck. Berating a normal pilot was one thing; berating the heir to the throne was quite another. The King might have little formal power, but a word or two in the right ear could also be career-wrecking. He understood both the XO’s anger and the Admiral’s argument, even though he tended to sympathise with her. Her career could be destroyed if Prince Henry decided he hated her.
Hell, he thought. My career might have already been damaged. What would Molly make of that?
He knew what she’d think of him having the prince under his command. She’d expect him to befriend the prince, to use him as a contact to promote the family… even though it would be utterly inappropriate. And she would be horrified to hear that he’d disciplined the prince, even though he needed discipline. She’d be terrified at the thought of his retaliation.
The Admiral was right, he knew. They had to keep the secret as closely as possible.
“Yes, sir,” he said, when the Admiral looked at him. “It will go no further than Rose.”
“Make sure of it,” the Admiral warned. He looked around the room. “We will be entering the next system in four hours. By then, I want the Alpha shift to be well-rested and ready for anything.”
Kurt nodded. They had no way of knowing what awaited them on the other side of the tramline. It could be anything from an alien-held system to another largely useless star and a handful of asteroids. Or it could even be a third intelligent race. The thought was surprisingly welcoming. What if there were other aliens, friendlier than the first aliens, out there? Aliens who might just talk to humanity rather than start a war?
“I believe half of my pilots are currently sleeping,” he said. He’d have a few sharp words with the Wing Commanders if they weren’t. “They should be ready to take to their cockpits, if necessary.”
The Admiral smiled. “My aide is insistent that I host a dinner party,” he added. He looked oddly reluctant to do any such thing. “You are all, naturally, invited to attend.”
That wasn’t an invitation, Kurt knew. It was a command.
“Yes, sir,” he said, simply. “I assume it’s for the other commanding officers?”
“Most of them, yes,” the Admiral said. He didn’t sound pleased. “I’d prefer not to host any form of dinner, not now, but we finally have some time to do it.”
Kurt couldn’t disagree with the logic. They’d spent far too much time just rushing around, trying to get the fleet ready for departure. There had been no time for social events. It was odd to think of having one in unknown space, where the aliens might be lurking in the darkness, but it would give the various commanding officers a chance to meet and get to know each other a little better.
“And let’s hope that we aren’t attacked while everyone is here,” the XO said.
“We won’t host the dinner unless the next system is clear,” the Admiral said, firmly. He looked over at Kurt. “Try to organise some get-togethers for pilots too. We may as well try to make sure it isn’t just the commanders who meet and chat.”
“The Japanese aren’t so willing to socialise, outside battle,” Kurt said. “But the French and Americans would certainly come to the party.”
“Good,” the Admiral said. “Just make sure we’re not caught on the hop.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Another boring system,” Admiral Stanley Shallcross said. “I’m starting to think we’re lost.”
Ted had to smile. They’d crossed through the tramline, every weapon and sensor primed for attack, only to discover that the new system was almost as useless as the previous system. The only moment of interest had come when they’d located a planet roughly the size of Luna, but a careful — if long-distance — investigation had revealed no trace of alien settlements. Ted had conceded, reluctantly, that the aliens only used the system as a transit point, if they used it as anything at all. But, with three tramlines going though the system, it was unlikely that they’d completely ignored it.
We’d picket the system if we had it, he thought, even if we didn’t settle the planet. Why didn’t the aliens picket the system?
He pushed the thought out of his head and concentrated on socialising. It wasn’t something he was very good at, even when he’d been a Captain; his career had been largely centred around Ark Royal and no one had ever invited him to any social events. Now, he found it hard to understand why they were even necessary, to the point Lopez had had to argue for hours before he’d reluctantly agreed to host the dinner. She’d pointed out, quite reasonably, that he should be meeting with his subordinates in informal session to help build up a rapport with them. And that it would be good for international relations.
“I don’t think we’re lost,” he said. “We just don’t know where we are.”
The American laughed and downed his glass of juice. Ted had been insistent on one thing; alcohol was not to be served, no matter the lax regulations when senior officers were concerned. So far, no one had complained, which was interesting. The last time he’d heard about a multinational gathering on a carrier, back before the war, a large amount of expensive alcohol had been drunk.
“But enough about the war,” Shallcross added. “We should talk about something else tonight.”
Ted looked across the compartment. Lieutenant Lopez had outdone herself, first in sourcing the food and drinks, then in arranging the decorations so the compartment looked both large enough to hold everyone while also being comfortable. Two-thirds of Ted’s subordinate commanding officers chatted away, learning more about their fellows with each word. Ted just wished he was as good at chatting to strangers as some of his subordinates. It was hard to hold a conversation with anyone new.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, after a moment. He’d read the file the Americans had provided, but it had clearly been sanitized. “Why did you join the navy?”
“My father was a soldier from a family of soldiers,” Shallcross said. “So I joined the navy in teenage rebellion. I meant to go into the SEALS, but it turned out I had a knack for commanding starships and I was told it would be better if I stayed in the command track.”
Ted had to smile. “You don’t seem to have done badly,” he said. “Command of two carriers, then a battle squadron… that’s nothing to sniff at, is it?”
“I like to think so,” Shallcross said. “But my father still thinks I sit on the bridge, sipping my tea, while the groundpounders pound ground.”
Ted lifted an eyebrow. “Tea?”
“Apparently, naval officers are too effeminate to drink coffee,” Shallcross said. He shrugged, expressively. “My father was a very odd man. Went out to Washington as soon as we were all old enough to leave home, built a log cabin and settled in for the long haul. Last I heard, he was organising hunting and crossing swords with the elected mayor of the nearest community.”
“Better than my father,” Ted said. “He died when I was a child.”
He felt oddly morbid for a long moment. It had never really dawned on him until after he’d sobered up that he was now older than his father had been when he’d died. His father had had three kids and a moderately successful career. Ted’s career had stalled until his ship had suddenly become important again and he’d never married, or had children. It was something he’d never really wanted for himself.
But a drunkard wouldn’t make a good father, he reminded himself. And who would want to marry one?