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

by Rob Buckman

  "I think we are through the worst of it, sir, but it won't be long before their air defense starts pounding on us!" Operation tech Clarence Reilly called out.

  Mike Gray heard the note of panic in the man's voice, making it sound ragged, almost squeaky. He tried to think of something to say to calm the man, and himself for that matter. Something, anything that sounded convincing.

  "Acknowledged - helm, get us into the dark side of the moon, and down low as quick as you can." He couldn't think of anything else except to get them out of the line of fire before they took another, maybe lethal hit this time.

  To him, his voice sounded like a growl, harsh, unforgiving, and hardly human. He saw the helmsman hunch his massive shoulders as if expecting a blow as he jockeyed the shuttlecraft towards the distant daylight terminator and the dubious safety of the earth like moon’s dark side. In atmosphere, at least they'd have a chance, in space none. He shivered at the thought of that dark, airless void around them. The animal center at the base of Mike Gray's brain screamed at him to get out of here, to cut and run. Get as far away from the incoming death as quickly as possible, yet he didn't. Something other than fear gripped him, something that prevented him giving the order everyone wanted to hear.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” He muttered to himself under his breath. He sure as hell wasn't ready for this.

  His uniform was soaked with sweat, mouth dry and coppery with fear. He was nothing but a lowly Ensign and just qualified to bring coffee to senior officer without spilling it, not that this was the first time he’d been at the center of a shit storm. In this case, he definitely wasn't qualified to sit in the command chair of a ship under fire, nor decide the fate of twenty odd men and women, and yet people were shooting at him, again. Why did this keep happening to him? He shook his head in exasperation, chasing the ghosts of the past back into a dark corner of his mind and concentrated on the task before him. If any local air defense, if any, was slow off the mark they might have a chance, but like they say, hope springs eternal.

  "Get us down under their sensors." He coughed again, his throat burning. "We'll be safe there." About as safe as diving nude into a school of razor fish was his afterthought.

  "Aye-aye, Sir." The helmsman shouted above the shriek of atmosphere rushing by the hull as the assault ship plunged wildly into denser air.

  With their damaged shield the hull started to glow, first red, then white hot, shedding ablative shielding as they went, heat adding to their misery. Mike just hoped and prayed that this mad plunge into the atmosphere was enough to save them…

  The assault ship plunged wildly into denser air, but with their damaged shield the hull started to glow, first red, then white hot, shedding ablative shielding as they went, heat now adding to their misery. Mike hoped and prayed this mad plunge into the atmosphere was enough to save them. It did help in one way, as not fitted with ablative shielding the last of the pursuing missiles quickly burned up and exploded on re-entry.

  "She's heating up, Sir!" A panicky voice shouted.

  "I can see that, damn it! She'll hold. Get us down on the deck and we'll be safe." Mike chided himself for raising his voice, he knew better than that, but prayed he was right.

  The crew’s panic was held in check by nothing more than the slim thread of hope and the habit of obeying orders. It was little enough for any man or woman to bet his life on. If he was wrong, they'd probably never know it. One brief moment of searing pain, then oblivion. He clamped the breathing mask over his nose and mouth, sucking in two long breaths of life giving air. They should be in suits now, but they were gone, along with Leftenant Kelso and CPO Thurman when a stealth mine exploded close to the hull on the Starboard side and took out the suit locker. Now they survived on just the emergence air packs, but even that limited supply was running low. That thought made his ears burn and he angrily shook his head to chase away the damming thought. Claiming he was tired and forgot to have supply load additional breather units didn’t cut any ice. The mine explosion was only the beginning of their troubles. It also injured two other with shards of flying metal, flaying skin from bone and gouging bright slivers of steel from the passageway bulkhead. He lost two more crew members at the same time, both sucked into space before the emergency hatch slammed shut. For a moment he imagined the life sucking cold eating into their bodies, their silent screams forever frozen in their throats. Dying in an explosion, or searing blast of stripped ion from a main weapon battery was something he could live with, at least on an intellectual level. But like most spacemen the thought of being sucked into space without a pressure suit held a special terror.

  Before his untimely and unlamented death, Leftenant Kelso reported that the mission was going according to plan. They'd managed to negotiate the Warp Point after drop off from the carrier without incident, then sneak through the sensor net without detection. Or so they thought. Even now, Mike could still see the smirk on Kelso's pale face as he patted himself on the back, thinking how smart he was at having out-maneuvered the minefield. That arrogance killed him and two good crew members and almost killed the rest of them. There was little consolation in knowing that by ignoring Mike's warning, he and Thurman were now trying to breathe vacuum. Mike for one wasn't going to shed a tear over their demise. Mike Gray was now the only officer alive, and therefore by the grace of god, fate and their lordships at the Admiralty, in command. He didn't want it before, and he didn't want it now, but what Mike wanted didn't matter. By rights he should abort the mission, but the iron mistress of duty came out way ahead of self-preservation. At the time he'd opted to continue, as with no further indication the enemy knew they were there he'd ordered a reluctant crew to continue. So began the long, slow cruise in-system to their destination and the continuation of the mission.

  In the real world officer and ratings alike considered Ensigns a very short step above the lowest form of life on the planet, namely midshipmen, but barely. His graduation from the Naval Academy and commission were less six months old, the ink barely dry on the parchment. Normally the powers-that-be placed him and his kind in charge of the most menial and unimportant duties they could find. Like most young Ensigns he'd expected more, a lot more than just supervising a detail scrubbing decks and painting bulkheads. He dreamt of his own command, possibly a patrol vessel or a cutter. Now he had it, but the reality was nothing like the dream. No grand battles or heroic deeds of daring do. Just shit in your pants scared of dying. Still, it wasn't as if this was the first time he'd felt like this. Onboard H.M.S. Vigilance his lot was to stand around and watch the crew do menial make work jobs like chip rust or paint bulkheads that didn't need chipping or painting in the first place. His authority over even that small detail was slim, and on more than one occasion he'd stupidly let himself be maneuvered him into embarrassing situations; and got himself put on Captain's Mast. He should have known better. Now, those self same people were looking to him to make life and death decisions for all of them. When the shit hit the fan his gut instinct said cut and run. Go back to base and tell them the mission was a failure, but he couldn't, not while there was a chance, even a slim one. No one would say anything if he went back, or fault him for running. Few doubted this mission would succeed in the first place from the scuttlebutt he'd heard around the Junior Officer’s Wardroom. If anything, it seemed this mission was doomed to failure from the get go. How the hell the Admiralty expected one small ship to penetrate a heavily defended star system. Sneak pass the sensor net, minefield, and the planetary defense system, then locate, land and pick up seven cast-a-ways was beyond him. Yet here he was and he at least had to try. Gripping the arm of the command chair with one hand, he tightened the restraints one more time.

  "Helm - maintain course and speed.” Mike didn't know what possessed him to do it, and his gut tied itself into a knot even as he gave the order.

  Men died the last time he'd taken command and their ghosts till haunted him. More than one crew member looked at him, then his companion as if to say
the kid was raving mad, but ingrained habits and obedience to orders took over. They turned back to their instruments and carried on, muttering to themselves and each other. So what else was new? The crew complaining about everything was part of shipboard life; it was when they stopped complaining he knew he was in trouble. For Mike, his training took over, that and the plight of seven stranded people made the decision for him. Six not so important people and one who was. Kelso hadn't said what was so bloody important about that one passenger, but whatever it was, it was sufficient to warrant this hair brained rescue operation. The story, or as much of it as Kelso condescended to tell him, was that a malfunction in a courier ship's navigation system caused it to stray off course, and instead of a safe run home they'd ended up in enemy space with a Sirrien destroyer on their tail. From the tachyon message the pilot managed to transmit before they abandoned ship, he'd pull a brilliant escape maneuver, but not before suffering extensive damage. For a short while they lost the destroyer and their only hope of escape lay in taking to the life pod and abandoning ship. The pilot was smart enough to program in random jumps into the new system and just as obediently the destroyer followed the crippled ship as it ran on without them for precious life giving minutes. That the maneuver was successful was apparent later as long-range sensors picked up the final moments as the destroyer blew the courier ship to hell and gone. Later, a short burst transmission from the lifeboat’s comm system confirmed the Admiralties hope, and fears.

  As far as the Admiralty knew the escape pod remained undetected and its passengers still alive. Now the question was, how to rescue them. From bits and pieces of overheard conversations between Kelso and Thurman, Mike put together a picture of what happened after that. Apparently the courier ship carried something or someone the Admiralty didn't want to fall into Sirrien hands. That meant they had to find a way to rescue the survivors, or at least retrieve the mystery package if it crashed. The backroom boffins tried to come up with a rescue plan as a major assault was out of the question, not without a declaration of war. With the current political situation that was out of the question. His Majesties Royal Navy was in no condition to go to war in the foreseeable future and come out the winner. Typically like bean counters everywhere they weighed the possibilities as a matter of profit and loss in men and ships against success or failure, rejecting one desperate plan after another. With no jump engines and limited propulsion the escape pod slowly dropped deeper into the system's gravity well and beyond the point of any quick recovery by any normal means. The Admiralty knew it remained undetected from the periodic burst transmission, but for how long was anyone's guess. Long-range stealth sensor drones did pin point the survivor's location, and much to everyone's surprise it headed for a landing on a large earth like moon orbiting a gas giant rather than the more inhabited inner planets. That made sense, as the moon like that wouldn’t be heavily populated and probably didn’t have much in the way of an air defense system. Then someone came up with the last of a long line of harebrained idea. Send in a single fast ship with a minimum crew and pulled them out before the Sirriens got wind of it. That obviously caught the imagination of some desk bound Admiral as it offered a hope of success at minimal cost. In their infinite wisdom the Admiralty opted to use a long-range assault ship with a crew of ten and a small Marine detachment for ground extraction. That would only put thirty-two people at risk, and an acceptable loss if the mission went into the Dumpster. Mike however, did wonder at the choice of the volunteer crew for the mission.

  For the man and woman on this ship, failure meant death at the least, something worse if captured. The Sirriens weren't noted for their overly kind treatment of military prisoners. To make matters worse the Admiralty's selection of leadership for this mission left something to be desired. The Right Honorable, Leftenant, Sir Michele Kelso was one of the most disliked officers on board H.M.S. Valiant. Tall, thin, with prematurely hunch shoulders and a beak of a nose. He looked more like a starving undertaker than a naval officer. His arrogance rubbed everyone the wrong way, as if having a title was something special in today's Royal Navy. Forcing junior officers and rating to address him by his title did little to endear him to his brother officers. His nasal, whining voice grated on everyone's nerves like fingernails on a blackboard. It was no wonder they'd chosen Kelso. Any sane Captain would be glad to rid himself of his irritating presents on the off chance something fatal might happen to him. As a mission commander, Mike thought he lacked a few essential ingredients, like a brain, imagination, and guts, to name three. Mike had stubbornly refused to use Kelso's title, simply addressing him as Leftenant, or Sir, per regulations, respecting the uniform, not the man. He couldn't put Mike on report for failure to use his title, but he could, through Chief Petty Officer Thurman, make his life miserable. CPO Thurman on the other hand, disliked Mike from the moment they'd met and took every opportunity to go out of his way to make Mike's life a living hell. Mike just gritted his teeth and went about his duties. This wasn't the time or place to make enemies or risk his new career. His next mistake was volunteering for an unspecified mission, thinking it might get him away from Kelso and Thurman.

  The moment he'd learned Kelso was in charge of the mission he'd tried to find a way out, but once you'd volunteered in this man's Navy it was impossible to un-volunteer not without looking like a coward. To make matters worse, if that was possible, Thurman was cut from the same cloth as Kelso, and it wasn't long before Mike realized the whole crew hated them both. Kelso and Thurman seemed oblivious to it, or just didn't care. Kelso made it clear from the start that he didn't want Mike on this mission and nothing more than an unwanted irritation. Something to be tolerated and kept in the background as much as possible. He probably envisioned Mike treading on his glory, even by association. He didn't want Mike claiming some of the credit, but try as he might, Kelso couldn't get rid of him. Orders were orders. Like it or not he and Mike were stuck with each other and had little choice but to obey. That didn't mean he couldn't make Mike's life as miserable as possible. He'd given him the dirtiest jobs and worked him like a slave. He'd even ordered Mike to personally climb into the shuttles sanitation recycle tank and inspect it to ensure the clean out crew had done the job correctly. They never did, no matter how well they cleaned it. No one liked the job, as most times it didn't matter, the bio filters caught anything nasty left inside. It took an hour of hard scrubbing and a lot of deodorant to get rid of the smell. His roommate's heaped additional humiliation on his head with nasty comments about smelly colonials. CPO Thurman added to his misery by making him the Duty Officer on the dogwatch, the 00.01 to 04.00 shift that everyone tried to avoid like a dose of arctic clap. The only ones awake at that hour were the standby helmsman and the duty engineer. Unlike those two he was ordered to work a full shift the next day.

  After Kelso and Thurman died Mike continued as best he could, even without Kelso Ops-Plan. At this point Mike had no idea of how he was supposed to accomplish the mission and his course of action was to carry on and taking the initiative. He did, setting a course for the survivors last known position. For the first few days they got away with it, falling down the system's gravity well as he worked his way deeper in-system from the jump point. He used whatever was available to mask his ship, something he had a little experience with, having plied the space ways between planets as the sometimes skipper of a deep space tug. Not that any of his current associates, or the Admiralty knew anything about that. First a small asteroid hid the drive signature, then the multiple drive trails of a convoy, but the deeper they penetrated the more difficult it became. In the end, based on the tracer systems of the survivor's location Mike took a daring gamble. Using the codes supplied by Naval Intelligence he run up the enemy's flag, or the electronic equivalent of it, and boldly flew towards his target. He kept the ship's speed deliberately slow and made no effort to hide as they passed more and more ships both military and civilian. He banked on the similarity in ship design to cover any possible close inspection. The
y could stand some electronic inspection, but any ship that came within optical range would know who they were immediately.

  It was hard to hide the bloody great 'Union Jack' painted on the hull. Why the hell Kelso hadn't had it painted out he'd never know, bravado, maybe. It was nerve wracking as the days ticked by, expecting at a challenge at any moment, yet none came. Hour by hour they proceeded in-system towards the Earth's size moon circling a Jovian gas giant that in its own orbit would be a planet. With a life sustaining oxygen biosphere and a .9 gravity field, it was an ideal candidate for mining and colonization. When trouble came it wasn't from a naval vessel but a nosy Merchant Marine Captain. He challenged them and instead of sailing passed at long-range as everyone else did he changed course towards them for a closer look. Mike bluffed as long as he could by sending phony ID signals and out of date passwords, but in the end the ship came within optical range and the game was up. Before his comm tech could react and jam his signal the Captain of the merchantman started screaming for help on all frequencies. For his trouble he got a Mark 42 missile up his drive impeller that effectively shut him up, but it was too late, the damage was done. Now they had no alternative but to run at max speed and hope they could get out of range before something nasty turned up. They almost made it, until they met an outbound picket ship. The battle was short and sharp as the unprepared picket receiving the same welcome message as the merchantman, namely a Mark 42 homing missile. Now the enemy knew where they were and they started taking long-range missile strikes as two Sirrien destroyers fell in pursuit. Their armor and shields helped, as did the ECM, but they couldn't stop them all. He dropped a couple of mines in his wake, more in the hope of slowing them down than anything, doubting he'd get any. At last, a missile, or torpedoes successfully penetrated the shields and took out one of the point defense turrets. It also caused a secondary fire in the electronics control panel just as another missile took out the long-range communication and sensor array. If this were an ordinary naval vessel they'd be dead by now, but assault craft are deliberately built tough and expected to survive a heavy pounding and deliver its cargo alive to a hot LZ.