He Who Dares: Book One (The Gray Chronicals 1)

by Rob Buckman

  “Copy that, Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893, wait one.” Mike could imagine the look on the traffic controller face when he saw the course, he just hoped he’d fudged the numbers sufficient to hide his actual intentions.

  “Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893, I have your orbital insertion point. Come to the following heading and proceed on course. We have cleared an orbital path of traffic for you.”

  "Thanks, Orbital Center."

  "Center uploaded the new information, and Mike waited on tender hooks as the lag time between transmission stretched time to the breaking point. At last, it arrived, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The controller hadn’t looked too closely at the numbers, assuming Mike had run his calculation correctly. No Skipper is going to risk his ship on poor navigation if he could help it. Mike smiled to himself and started to hum. They were committed to the new heading in less than half an hour, and he looked up and said a silent prayer to heaven that Gramps would sleep that long. Someone up there must be on duty, as Gramps slept for an hour. By then there were well into their orbital insertion, Avalon looming large on their view screen.

  “Boy, I needed that.” Gramps said, sitting up and yawning.

  “Glad you could catch a quick nap, Gramps.”

  “How you doing? Want me to spell you for a while?”

  “No, I’m doing great. As fresh as a daisy, whatever that it.”

  “It’s a common flower on old Earth.”

  “Oh, and do they look fresh all the time?”

  “Can’t remember...” His voice cut off as he looked over Mike’s shoulder at the control panel. “What the hell!” He could run a course in his mind just as well as Mike could. “Cutting it a bit close aren’t we?”

  “Just a little, but there is plenty of margin for safety.”

  “Jesus H. Christ on a flaming crutch! Like how much margin and we talking about here?” Mike felt himself cringe, here it comes.

  “At our closest point, we will be 150 miles.”

  “Jeez!” Gramps breathed in his ear. “Orbital is going to scream bloody murder.”

  “Gramps, we need this charter. It could put us in the black for the first time in years, and get the bank off our butts.” Mike pleaded. He felt his grandfather's hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

  “I know, son, and I understand.” He heard Gramps sniff. “You can just bet we’ll be called up before a board of inquiry.”

  “I know, I probably get a black mark on my mate’s ticket, but what the hell, I’ll be in good company with all the others.”

  “True, but it wouldn’t be on your mate’s ticket.”

  “Huh?”

  “It would be on your Captain’s ticket, and that’s not a good thing.”

  “Captain’s...” Mike froze for a moment. “I don’t have a Captain’s ticket.”

  “Yes, you do. You’ve had one for over eight months now.”

  “Good God! When did I...”

  “Sit for the exam?” Gramps chuckled. “You took it over a year ago.”

  “I’ll be damned! How? When?” He spluttered.

  “When you were taking all the courses and doing the ‘test’ exams last year. I just substituted the real exam for the test one.” He laughed. “I was going to save it for your next birthday, but events being what they are."

  “You crafty bastard.”

  “Now is that any way to address the Captain of this fine ship?”

  “Sorry, Gramps.”

  “No, dummy, you don’t get it. Shift over. I’m taking the helm.” He sat down next to him on the bench seat and wriggled his butt across, pushing Mike off.

  “You?” Then Mike got it. “Hell no! It’s my decision and my consequences!” Mike pushed back. They had a butt-wriggling contest for a moment, then.

  “I know you will son, but for something important when you have your own command. For this old Lady, I’ll take whatever crap comes down on her for what we are about to do.” Mike, sigh, knowing he’d lost the argument, and reluctantly relinquished the controls to Gramps.

  “Always remember son, there is only one Master of any ship, no matter how small. Once you are its skipper, whatever happens onboard is your responsibility.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mike sighed again as he sat down on the Cargo Master seat. He understood what Gramps said all too clearly.

  “For the record, this is Captain Andrew Tregallion, Master of the deep space tug Prometheus en-route to a rendezvous with the freighter ‘Martian Star’ of the Blur Star line outbound for Earth.” If there was any doubt about who was in charge during this fly by, Gramps has changed that.

  “Gramps, it’s not fair.” If the Civil Space Board came down on anyone, it would be him, and not Mike.

  “Fair, who said this game was fair? It’s rigged from the moment you were born, until the day you die. Sometimes, just sometimes you can change the odds in your favor, but not often.”

  “How is this turned in your favor, Gramps?”

  “It’s not, it’s turned in yours.” He looked over his shoulder and smiled.

  “This is my last command, son. I’ll never walk on the bridge of another starship, but you will, but not if you have a black mark on your ticket before you even get a chance to get off the ground. Whatever happens, the worse they can do is reprimand me, and that I can live with.”

  “Oh.” Was all Mike could think to say.

  Gramps was doing this for him, as he’d always done. His chest felt tight, and it was difficult to breathe. Was this what being a parent was all about, sacrifice, your dreams, your hopes, and ideals for your child? Someone you loved without question? He stood up and walked across the bridge, hugging the old man tightly, then kissing him on the top of his head. Gramps patted his hand and said nothing. He understood.

  “OK, time to have some fun. How tight did you say we had to be to make it?”

  “Um, well...”

  “Come on, don’t waffle now.”

  “One hundred and ten miles.”

  “Ouch! It’s going to get frigging warm in here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmm, we might even be able to shave that a little closer, give ourselves a little better margin of error.”

  “Jeez, that is cutting it close.”

  “Haven’t had this much fun since I commanded a Royal Navy Destroyer.”

  Mike sat down in the Cargo Master seat and queried all of the containers optical bollards. He didn’t want any problem cropping up once that started their run. He tightened them, pulling the string together into closer harmony. They’d buck and sway, even undulate like a mechanical snake in the turbulence, but with a little bit of luck, a short prayer and faith in the design and capability of the bollards they’d make it thought in one piece. The Prometheus plunged inward towards Avalon Prime, and before Orbital Center could start screaming, she was already committed.

  “Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893! Your flyby a little close according to our plot.”

  “That’s right Orbital Center. We need to pick up speed and a new vector. This sling shot maneuver should do it nicely.”

  “Slingshot! You never said anything about a sling shot!”

  “Look at our numbers OC, and you’ll see we told you what we are going to do.” There was dead silence for a moment, even with the short lag in transmission.

  “This is the Chief Traffic Controller, Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893, I’m ordering you to break off your maneuver, NOW!” Obviously, the controller had bumped it upstairs to his boss.

  “On what ground, Orbital Center?” Mike chuckled. Knowing that ever second Gramps took up in an argument with them, the deeper into the gravity well they fell.

  “I’m giving you a direct order, Prometheus.”

  “You are countermanding your prior clearance Orbital Center?” Gramps manage to sound surprised and outraged at the same time, despite the grin on his face. Luckily, he’d kept the transmission verbal, no visual for them to see the grin.

  “Yes!” The voice snapped back.

&n
bsp; “On what grounds?” He demanded.

  “Ground! Because its unsafe, that's why.”

  “Unsafe! I beg to differ. If you check your Coast Pilots Manual, you will see that we conform to the recommended and approved parameters for this type of maneuver.”

  “What!” They could both hear the outrage in the man’s voice. “That’s preposterous.”

  “No, it’s not. Go check and call me back with a better reason for breaking off. Until then I will remain on course.”

  “I... I... I” Gramps cut the connection.

  “In about twenty two minutes from now we will be so far into the well, there’s no way we can break off, not without causing a bigger cock-up that they have now.” He chuckled.

  “Oh shit! Are we going to be in for it when we get back.”

  “No way. Go read the Manual again, and you will see what I mean.”

  “When did you get time to read it?” Mike demanded.

  “What do you think I do all the time down in the engine room, tend those damn power plants?” In all, it took eighteen of the twenty minutes before Orbital Center got back to them.

  “Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893, be advised, we recommend that you break off your intended sling shot due to high traffic in your proposed flight path!”

  “Won’t wash, OC. You gave me the clearance and rerouted traffic already.” Gramps eye flicked to the ship's clock. “For the record, I have received clearance and I will proceed on course.”

  “Bingo!” Mike muttered.

  “And, I might add at this point, to deviate from my proposed flight path at this time would pose a threat to my ship, the containers, and orbiting traffic.”

  “But! But!”

  Prometheus plunged down, picking up speed as she headed in at a perfect 300 angle, navigational lights strobing ahead of her. Eight minutes later, they brushed the outer fringe of the atmosphere, streaking across the night sky like a giant comet. The pull of Avalon increased the speed even more as they roared around the planet. By this time everyone on the night side could see them, like the flaming arrow of God, Prometheus lived up to her name, stealing fire from the Gods themselves and bringing it to man. Mike was in the engine room by now, cranking up the air conditioning unit, but the temperature on the bridge still climbed as they tore around Avalon. Ionization of both the meteor and the rad screen made them light up, surrounding the ship and containers in a sheath of displaced energy, but the heat had to go somewhere, in as well as out. Gramps shed his jacket, then his sweater as he fought the yoke to hold her steady. Now it was just a question of physics, a fight between velocity and gravity, one cancelling the other. The container string bucked and swayed, undulating back and forth, but the bollards held. Mike bounced back and forth between the bulkhead and he made his way back up to the bridge, laughing at each jolt. No matter what happened this wild ride was worth it. Prometheus exited in a blaze of glory out the other side, having picked up sufficient speed to meet the freighter before she hit the hyper wall. Orbital Center was still screaming, but both Mike and Gramps turned it out as they sang their victory song.

  “Come cheer up my lads, it's to glory we steer,

  To add something more to this wonderful year.

  To honor we call you, as free men, not slaves,

  For who are so free as the sons of the waves.

  Hearts of oak are our ships,

  Heart of oak are our men.

  We are always ready,

  Steady, boys, steady,

  We’ll fight and we'll conquer, again and again.

  Our worthy forefathers, let's give them a cheer,

  To climates unknown did courageously steer.

  Through oceans to deserts, for freedom they came,

  And dying, bequeathed us their freedom and fame.

  Hearts of oak are our ships,

  Heart of oak are our men.

  We are always ready,

  Steady, boys, steady,

  We’ll fight and we'll conquer, again and again.

  “Martian Star, this is Sierra Whisky Gulf 893 do you copy?” Mike called.

  “Prometheus we copy you.” A laughing voice came back at them.

  “This is Captain McGinnis of the Martian Star.”

  “Good to hear your voice Captain.”

  “That was some show you put on back there Prometheus.”

  “Well, you said you wanted this cargo, and we do aim to please.”

  “We see you coming up astern, how long do you calculate for your zero/zero intercept?”

  “If you remain on your current heading and speed, we should be there in two hours and sixteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Mike let out a soft sigh for those happy days of long ago, and brought his mind back to the problem at hand. He ran a calculation on his porta-comp, but as before the insertion into the planets orbit was too high. His second one gave him a better time frame, but not sufficient to transfer the supposed crewmembers. He had to assume the ship’s Captain wouldn’t permit him to transfer anyone while he was boosting out as the Captain of the ‘Martian Star’ had. A slightly lower orbit run gave him the numbers he liked, and he sat back with a smile, punching in his final answer. He sent this to the professor’s desk and leaned back.

  “You have completed the assignment, Cadet Gray?” The Professor sounded surprised.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What!” Someone exclaimed. It was Heartmore. “That’s impossible!”

  “Hardly.” Mike grinned. Heartmore shot him a look of pure venom, as he prided himself on being first in navigation. While this exchange was going on, the Professor looked at Mike’s solution and chuckled.

  “Very good, Cadet Gray.”

  One by one, the others sent in their solution, some just giving up and admitting defeat. Heartmore was the last, and he angrily slapped his port-comp on the desk, grinding his teeth as he sent his results in. The Professor only gave it a cursory glance and shook his head.

  “Well, that was fun.” He stood up and moved to the holo tank.

  “Each of you has submitted a creative solution, and I congratulate you on your efforts. However, only one person found a way around the… I would have said, an impossible problem. I miss judged how creative some cadets can be.” He punched in some numbers on his control keyboard and stood back. Mike’s solution sprang to life in the tank, showing his imaginary ship plunging inward to perform the sling shot maneuver around the planet and rendezvous with the outbound ship.

  “That’s impossible! It can’t be done!” Heartmore exclaimed.

  “In that I tend to agree Cadet Heartmore, but it is creative.”

  “With all due respect Professor,” Mike interjected, “I disagree. It can be done.” The professor looked at him and smiled.

  “I doubt traffic control or the Admiralty would agree.”

  “No, sir, they did agree.” The professor’s bushy eyebrows climbed up his forehead like two lost caterpillars looking for a home.

  “With a lot of screaming and shouting I might add.”

  “Explain.”

  “If you will check the interstellar news database, sir, you will find that the deep space tug ‘Prometheus’ performed an almost identical maneuver around Avalon eight years ago.”

  “Go on.”

  “The tug was hauling a string of ore barges to an outbound freighter called the ‘Martian Star’,” Mike paused. More to cover his intimate knowledge of the incident rather than dramatic effect. “Due to the time constraint, as in your problem, professor, any normal approached would have resulted in a miss. The only solution was a sling shot maneuver around Avalon to pick up sufficient velocity to meet the outbound ship.”

  “And did the ‘Prometheus’ dip so far into the planet’s atmosphere?”

  “Yes, sir. In fact, she transverse the planet at an average orbital height of one hundred and five miles.”

  “No way! She would have burned up!” Heartmore shouted.

  “Not with her meteor an
d atmospheric shields and that of the barges on max.” The professor intoned. “But what about traffic control,” the professor looked around, “they do have one I assume?”

  “Yes, sir, they do. Their course was relayed to traffic control prior to the insertion and her orbital path was cleared.”

  “Spectacular to say the least.”

  “Yes, professor. They say she lit up the night sky as she passed over.”

  “Prometheus, you say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Apropos.” He chuckled. “And the result?”