Across Enemy Space

by L. J. Simpson

  “So we can’t even be sure that Redmayne was intercepted by the Combine?”

  “No.”

  “You know, a part of me actually hopes that he made it all the way across.”

  “Does it still trouble you?” asked Tarr.

  “That we sent a man out with the intention that he would be captured?” said Torrance. “Yes, it does trouble me. I’m not ashamed to admit it. In fact, I’d be ashamed if it didn’t. But if you ask me if I’d do the same again tomorrow, then yes, I would.”

  “Good for you,” said Tarr. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, General. Redmayne volunteered for a job that he knew would be extremely hazardous. If we’d told him the truth about the mission, I believe he would have strapped himself in and gone off just the same.”

  “Though the whole point of the operation was that he shouldn’t know,” said Faulkner. “Redmayne believed that his ship’s data banks held details of the Alliance order of battle.”

  “Whereas all they really contained were large chunks random data, dispersed with a few decipherable fragments to pique the enemy’s interest,” said Tarr.

  “And in his head he carried–”

  “What we put there. Or rather, what we encouraged him to work out for himself. We never implicitly said there would be an attack on Tarsus – it’s simply what the evidence of his own eyes told him. In an interrogation, the difference will work in our favor.”

  ‘In an interrogation’, thought Torrance, wondering what that might entail.

  “I suppose the irony is that if the Combine had blocked our communications just a little earlier, we would have been praying for Redmayne to make it safely across,” said Torrance. “One week earlier and he really would have been carrying our battle plans.”

  “Very true,” said Faulkner. “But if Redmayne has made it across, at least he can reaffirm that the attack will commence on schedule.”

  “And if not, if the Combine is persuaded to transfer just a single division to the Tarsus sector, the operation will have been a success. It will be enough to give us the edge.”

  “Well, we’ll know soon enough,” said Tarr.

  “Brigadier,” said Torrance. “If it’s not in breach if operational security, can I enquire how you gave the Combine Redmayne’s route through enemy space? Something tells me that it wouldn’t have been through Commander Franklin.”

  “You are correct, General,” said Faulkner. “We couldn’t consider using Franklin. It would have been the simplest method but Franklin had never had access to such high level intelligence. His handlers would surely have known that. True, he passed on Stewart’s knowledge of Blowpipe and Divisive, but in that instance he was but the messenger. The Blowpipe/Divisive file carried Admiral Stewart’s call sign.

  “We had another agent in place – one who was in a position to feed the Combine all the necessary data. Following the arrest of Franklin, we had one of our operatives pose as a disaffected and disillusioned signals clerk. He was instructed to hang around the bars and clubs known to be frequented by Franklin’s handlers, to drink more than was good for him and shoot his mouth off about how he’d been shafted by the system. He was also to let slip that had access to sensitive information. It wasn’t long before he was approached by someone from the other side and within a few weeks he was passing information over on a regular basis.”

  “What kind of information?” asked Torrance.

  “It was mostly low level stuff – particularly at the beginning – but all good, solid data. Later on, we gave them selected higher value intelligence. It was necessary in order to gain their full confidence. We were in a high stakes game and he was our ace in the hole. The last piece of intelligence our agent passed on was Redmayne’s planned route through Combine space.”

  “Did your man understand the strategy behind it all?”

  “No, General. I didn’t tell him and he knew better than to ask.”

  “Understood,” said Torrance. “And the enemy cell?”

  “It’s already been broken, though not quite in the way we envisaged. Our operative’s original mission was to infiltrate and expose the cell. In the event, it has proved unnecessary – the leader of the cell in question has chosen to volunteer his services to the Alliance of his own volition. He has asked for asylum, which has been granted.”

  “The leader of the cell, you say? That’s something of a coup,” said Torrance. “What prompted the man to defect?”

  “Suffice to say it was for personal reasons.”

  “How personal?”

  “It involved the murder of his family,” said Faulkner simply.

  “Which is about as personal as it can get,” said Tarr.

  “No argument there,” said Torrance. “And the rest of the cell?”

  “Two have been taken into custody. One further member managed to evade capture but the important thing is that the cell has been dismantled. Our defector – who went by the codename Jacob – is already being debriefed. By the time the interrogation of both he and the captives is complete, I’m confident that I’ll be able to announce further arrests.” With one Jan Godoy at the very top of the list.

  “Good work, Brigadier.”

  “So there you have it, Jonathon,” said Tarr. “We have played our cards the best we can. Now it’s time to leave things to the men and women of the fleet... How long is it now?”

  “Just over eleven hours,” said Torrance, looking at his watch. “A fleet of auxiliaries with jamming support will launch a feint against the Tarsus sector. They’ll turn back before crossing the frontier and that will be the signal to commence the main thrust against Yao. Once we’re across the border, we are hopeful of being able to reestablish communications with the NT.”

  “And then?”

  “We join forces, take Yao and then smash their counter attacks. We force the outer Combine colonies to make terms and then we push into their heartland and end this war forever. Admiral Stewart was right about one thing – this war is an appalling waste. It is an obscenity. It’s time to finish it.”

  Brigadier Faulkner nodded silently and then leaned over to push a button on his desk. A moment later a white coated steward entered the room bearing a tray with three glasses. He placed a glass of mineral water in front of the brigadier and a large glass of rum in front of both Tarr and Torrance.

  “What exactly is this?” asked Torrance as he swirled the rum around his glass, the dark liquid exuding an intoxicating aroma.

  “This,” said Tarr as he gazed almost lovingly at the drink in his hand, “is Pusser’s Navy Rum. Unchanged for more than six hundred years and a tradition amongst sailors that is, I’m sad to say, in decline. I believe it deserves a better fate.”

  “Alas, I am no sailor,” replied Torrance. “But, in the interests of inter service harmony I will strive to acquire the habit. And so, gentlemen, to whom or to what shall we drink?”

  “We would seem to have more than enough candidates,” said Tarr.

  Indeed they did, thought Torrance. They could toast the Alliance, the Northern Territories, the fleet, Major Redmayne, victory… even luck. Then his gaze turned to the faded photograph on the wall of Faulkner’s office.

  “If you will permit me, Brigadier, can I ask of the young lady in the photograph?”

  “The young lady,” echoed Faulkner, a fleeting look of sadness passing over his face. “She is… she was, Ensign Clara Gayle.” He rose from his seat and walked over to the picture. Out of habit he raised a hand to straighten a frame that was already perfectly aligned. “I first met her, oh… almost thirty years ago, right here on Trinity base. I was just a lieutenant at the time, just starting out in intelligence…

  “You know, I can remember the first time I set eyes on her… it seems just like yesterday… She was wandering around the admin complex like a little lost sheep, completely forlorn. I figured she’d lost her way, so I stopped to ask her where she was going and if I could help. I ended up escorting her to the procurement office on the f
ar side of admin. By the time we arrived, I knew for an absolute fact that she was the one for me. I just knew… and I was right. The following months were the happiest of my life, and I like to think, of hers too. They were the very best of times, but then she finished her basic training and was transferred to one of the old Pristine Class corvettes. Remember them, the old Pristines?” he said wistfully.

  Tarr and Torrance both nodded.

  “After that, she was away a lot but we always had her leave to look forward to. Then one day as she went off on another mission, I promised myself that just as soon as she got back, I’d ask her to marry me. I bought the ring and counted off the days to her next leave. But that’s just it… she never came back. Her ship ran into a mine somewhere out in the Rebus sector and was lost with all hands.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Torrance.

  “It was… a long time ago,” said Faulkner soberly. “Do you know, the worst part of it is that I was on the planning team that oversaw her mission. I was just a junior officer at the time but the fact I was partly responsible for sending her into harm’s way is something that haunts me to this very day. And that’s why I keep Clara’s picture on the wall… to remind me. Not simply of my own loss, but what others lose every time I… we… send our people out into harm’s way. People like Clara, Redmayne, and a host of others... heroes all.”

  Faulkner looked across at Tarr and Torrance who simply stared back in silence.

  “Having her picture there keeps me honest, and truth be told, it helps to keep all the other faces at bay. God knows, there have been enough of them.”

  “That there have,” said Torrance heavily as he stood and raised his glass. “Gentlemen, I give you a toast. To Ensign Clara Gayle and Major William Redmayne. To heroes past, and heroes present.” And then he thought of the thousands of men and women now gathering at their staging areas, each waiting to join battle with the enemy.

  “And to all those heroes yet to be.”

  The End

  A message from the author

  Please accept my heartfelt thanks for choosing to read this story. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed the experience. For my part, I enjoyed the writing but of course, without you the reader, it is all a little meaningless.

  Across Enemy Space is my third novel. My previous two offerings, The Blunt End of the Service and The Blunt End of Oblivion, were written primarily as science fiction adventure stories, though both included elements of crime and hopefully, touches of humor. One reviewer described the books as ‘lite sci-fi’, a label which would seem to fit quite well.

  Across Enemy Space began life as a short story and was an attempt to write a harder brand of science fiction. As such, the story is set in a universe of total conflict.

  It seemed a natural progression.

  Born little more than ten years after the end of World War II, my childhood was punctuated with a plethora of war movies typical of the era. As often as not, the main characters were played by actors such as John Wayne or Robert Mitchum if the movie was American, or perhaps John Mills or Richard Todd if it happened to be British (I’m afraid you’ll need to be of a certain age to understand). There would be certain differences, of course – mostly revolving around cultural stereotypes – but the essential ingredients would be the same: a display of bravery, self sacrifice and honor as the principal characters battled to purge the world of tyranny and oppression, occasionally dying a hero’s death in the process.

  Perhaps not the good, clean war it was often portrayed to be, it was nonetheless a righteous war – and undoubtedly a necessary one, fought for the richest and noblest of ideals. Or at least, that’s how it seemed to an impressionable, young teenager, a teenager who quickly became fascinated by war and all the hardware that it spawned; the fighter planes, the bombers, the battle-tanks, the warships, the guns, rockets, missiles and bombs…

  But life is rarely so simple, and as I grew older and approached adult maturity, the newsfeeds presented first the daily horrors of Vietnam, then later the Arab/Israeli conflicts, the Falklands War, the Rwandan genocide… the list goes on… and on… and on.

  And along with it all came a fresh brand of war movie, darker, more brutal, and as Hollywood evolved, unquestionably more authentic; Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket and somewhat later, Saving Private Ryan, a film which held very little back from the viewer – the unadulterated blood and gore a very distant cry from the ‘little red badge of courage’ of years gone by.

  When I began Across Enemy Space, I had it in mind to return to the simpler times of my youth, writing a tale where neither John Wayne nor John Mills would have felt out of place in one of the leading roles – assuming they would have been as content in the depths of space as they were on the Normandy beaches. That’s not to say that it was my intention to portray war in simple comic book terms. It wasn’t, but at the same time I wanted my heroes to be unmistakably heroic and my villains to be unspeakably villainous.

  Well, that was the plan.

  Some years ago, my mother was diagnosed with an illness serious enough to necessitate a number of consultations with a specialist at the Queen Elizabeth hospital in Birmingham, UK.

  One of the largest and most modern hospitals in Britain, the Queen Elizabeth enjoys a fine reputation. Apart from providing a whole range of services for the local population, it has the biggest organ transplant program in Europe and houses the largest single floor critical care unit in the world.

  The Queen Elizabeth Hospital is also home to the Royal Centre for Defense Medicine, the primary receiving unit for military patients from overseas. One of the main functions of the unit is the care of military personnel injured in conflict zones. This of course includes servicemen injured in Iraq and Afghanistan, a great many of them victims of improvised explosive devices.

  With typical pragmatism, my mother faced an uncertain future in the same way that she faced everything else in her life – with courage and dignity. Always uncomplaining, she had nothing but the utmost praise for the hospital staff.

  There is, however, one observation that she made during one of her visits to the Queen Elizabeth, and something that has stayed with me to this day. On that particular visit, she encountered a group of ex-servicemen who were undergoing rehabilitation at the RCDM. She said that it broke her heart to see so many young men – young men in their prime – victims of such grievous, life changing injuries. She worried also about how uncertain their futures must have been.

  My mother spent her late teens working shifts in a munitions factory in the British midlands. Like all British women after 1941, she was called up for war work and spent the rest of the conflict producing anti aircraft artillery shells.

  As World War II ended, I doubt she would have imagined that in her twilight years she would be witnessing the return of yet another generation of shattered servicemen and women. It wasn’t the way it was supposed to work out – it wasn’t what they had been fighting for.

  Or so they thought.

  Some things never change, which I suppose is why Across Enemy Space turned out the way it did. For despite the best performances of John Wayne and John Mills, war must – at the very best – remain no more than an immoral means to a moral end.

  I recognize that there will always be times when it becomes necessary for a nation state or states to take up arms; there is a depressing inevitability to it all. The causes may be righteous – they may not. Whatever the truth, future conflicts will produce yet another generation of servicemen and women to whom we will forever be beholden. Some will be injured in body – still more in mind. Like the servicemen at the RCDM, they are the men and women who must be neither forgotten nor cast aside once the fighting is over.

  I’ve taken great care to ensure that the book is free of typographical errors but as a mere mortal I recognize that to err is indeed to be human. Should you find anything out of place, I sincerely apologize. If you are of a mind, perhaps you could drop me a line and point out the offending word / sentence
/ entire chapter (delete as applicable). I would be very grateful. I note that that the renowned author Stephen King has a page on his web site where he requests readers to report any errors found in his works. What is good enough for Mr. King must surely be good enough for me.

  And finally, within the next few pages you may come across a message from Amazon asking if you might like to rate this book and perhaps leave a review. I fully understand if you choose to skip quickly to the end and begin reading your next book. Truly, I do. However, if you have indeed enjoyed this book, I’d be truly grateful if you might consider writing a review on the Amazon review page. For independent authors like me, honest reviews are of tremendous help and of course, very much appreciated.

  You can mail me at: thebluntend@hotmail.com

  Or catch up with me at: http://thebluntend.weebly.com

  Thanks again,

  L.J. Simpson.

  Also by L.J. Simpson

  The Blunt End of the Service

  Book 1 of the Blunt End series

  With a little more drive and ambition, Chuck Poulson might well have found himself serving as first officer aboard a hyper liner. By the same token, if Cadet Penelope Parker had been prepared to accept the amorous advances of the notorious Commander Dickens, she might well have been posted to the Cromwell, the latest Type 53 destroyer.

  But with things as they stand, Chuck and Penny find themselves serving together aboard the half derelict space station Orbital One, alongside a motley crew of ‘misfits, slackers and has-beens’.

  And that would have been that, but their neatly ordered world is suddenly turned upside down as they find themselves at the centre of intrigue in a plot involving sabotage, larceny and murder. Can Penny redeem herself and put her fledgling career back on track? Can Chuck just muddle through it all with his limbs still attached to his body?

  Cut off from outside help, they find themselves propelled to the sharp end of the service and with things not always as they seem, they must negotiate ruthless staff officers, overcome battle hardened marines and outwit inter-stellar crime syndicates if they are to survive and win the day.