Christopher Nuttall - Ark Royal

He nodded to Commander Fitzwilliam as he entered the shuttlebay, just in time to watch as the shuttle came into land. Fitzwilliam wasn't doing too badly, as far as Ted could tell, although he was clearly unprepared for the carrier’s idiosyncrasies. But then, that would be true of almost everyone in the Royal Navy. The only way to prepare for the carrier was to serve on the carrier. Thankfully, Fitzwilliam was smart enough to listen to his subordinates, rather than lord himself over them. He understood the limitations of his own knowledge.

“Mainly starfighter pilots,” Fitzwilliam said, as the shuttle’s hatch opened. “They seem to think we need them more than engineers and other workers.”

Ted wasn't surprised. Years of experience with the Royal Navy’s bureaucracy had left him convinced that the bureaucrats knew absolutely nothing about commanding a starship. A bureaucrat had determined that Ark Royal needed starfighter pilots and starfighter pilots had been sent, even though there were no starfighters for them to fly. It probably helped that the starfighter pilots were almost all reservists, who really should have been called up later, once the ship was ready for them.

He waited until the pilots were lined up, then stepped forward. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “I will be blunt. There are no starfighters, so we’re adding you to the personnel pool right now. You will start by cleaning out your living space, then helping to prepare the launch tubes for the starfighters, once they finally arrive.”

None of the pilots looked very happy at his words. Ted concealed his amusement with an effort. Pilots were often prima donnas, demanding everything from the very best of rations to having their starfighters prioritised for repair. It was a form of compensation, he had been told, for the simple fact that one hit would destroy their starfighters and kill them. But it was still incredibly annoying.

“As yet, we have no word on when we will actually deploy,” he continued. “However, I will inform you as soon as we get the word.”

He nodded to Fitzwilliam, who stepped forward and led the starfighter pilots towards their living quarters. Their quarters had been largely untouched since Ark Royal had gone into the reserves, leaving the pilots with the task of cleaning them up. It was irritating — Ted would have preferred more time to prepare — but the bureaucrats hadn't given him a choice. They’d already caused the pilots to waste two days at Cochrane.

Shaking his head, he turned and headed back towards his office. The paperwork wouldn't do itself, sadly. And besides, he needed to requisition some other equipment personally. The bureaucrats hadn't listened to Anderson when he’d made the request. But they’d listen to him.

Or so he hoped.

It had been nearly ten years since Kurt Schneider had set foot on a carrier — and that had been a modern carrier, for its time. Ark Royal , by contrast, seemed to have come out of a museum, complete with pieces of outdated equipment that should have been discarded years ago. The air smelled faintly musty as he followed the XO through a series of airlocks and into the quarters set aside for starfighter pilots. When he saw them, he couldn't help swearing out loud.

“Crap,” one of the younger pilots said. She wasn't a reservist; Kurt had no idea what she’d done to be assigned to Ark Royal . “Dust. Dust everywhere.”

“You’ll have to deal with it,” the XO said. “I’m afraid we don’t have time to handle everything ourselves.”

Kurt sighed, but nodded. Their enforced break on Cochrane had allowed him a chance to download the files on Ark Royal — at least the ones available to a reservist without an active clearance — and one thing had been clear. With only forty crewmen assigned to the crew, there was no way the ship could be kept in tip-top condition. It was unfortunate that they would have to clear their own living quarters first, but there was no alternative.

“A word with you, Schneider,” the XO continued. “If you’ll join me outside…?”

It wasn't a request, Kurt knew. He followed the XO back out of the compartment, then into a smaller compartment that was probably intended to be the CAG’s office. All of the equipment that would once have been held there had been stripped out, leaving the compartment thoroughly bare. It was a minor miracle, Kurt decided, that there was even a light. The entire compartment resembled a dim cave, rather than a place to work.

“We are unlikely to receive many active duty starfighter pilots,” the XO said, without preamble. “The ones we do have are the ones with… disciplinary problems. Accordingly, you are appointed Commander Air Group, at least for the moment. Is that acceptable?”

Kurt swallowed. “It's been eight years since I served in a regular unit,” he said, finally. “And I was never more than squadron XO…”

“You’re the best we have,” the XO said. “We may get someone else, someone preferable, later on, but for the moment we have you. Suck it up and deal with it.”

“Yes, sir,” Kurt said. He scowled to himself. How could he be a CAG when there were no starfighters for his pilots to fly? “When are we likely to receive fighters?”

“Hopefully, within the week,” the XO assured him. “But we have to prepare the launch tubes first, you see.”

Kurt nodded, then turned and walked back into his quarters. He knew a couple of the other pilots from his previous service, but it seemed that the bureaucrats — in their infinite wisdom — hadn’t seen fit to keep reserve units together. It wasn't too surprising, he knew; his reserve unit had been scattered over interplanetary space, with a handful of the pilots even based on Britannia rather than Earth. But it still meant that they would have to build up a working relationship faster than anyone would have preferred.

He pursed his lips, then blew a single note. The pilots looked up at him, expectantly. He looked back, wondering which of them were going to be problems. The active duty pilots might have expected to be promoted — maybe that was why some of them had transferred — despite whatever problems were concealed within their files. Normally, they would have been right too. Active duty pilots were considered one grade senior to their reserve counterparts.

“I have been appointed CAG, pro tem ,” he said, shortly. If anyone was disappointed, they’d just have to deal with it. “We should receive our starfighters within the week. However, until then, we will have to prepare the fighter tubes for launch.”

There was some grumbling, but no actual dissent. Kurt allowed himself a moment of relief. They were all adults, thankfully, not little children. Or even big children like Penny and Percy, he added, in the privacy of his own thoughts.

“I know this isn't what we expected when we signed on the dotted line,” he added, “but it has to be done. I’ll speak privately to each of you over the coming week, so we get to know each other a little better. Once we receive our fighters, we will begin regular training. We may be able to cannibalise a simulator from Luna Base, but it won’t be as good as reality.”

He smiled at their expressions. Simulators were good, he had to admit, and much safer than actual training missions, but they didn't quite do everything . Pilots could replay the infamous trench scene in a simulator, or go buzzing through an asteroid field that didn't exist, at least outside the imaginations of science-fiction writers, yet the sense of danger was missing. A crash in a simulator was embarrassing, a crash in a real starfighter was lethal.

“Now,” he said, looking around the compartment. “Time to get this mess cleared up.”