by Rob Buckman
“Right the first time, Pete. As of this moment, we are the mercenary ship Hemlock under the command of Captain Bear.”
“Oh Lord. Here we go again,” Rice chuckled.
“Sergeant Rice. I’d like you to meet Ex-Corporal Taffy Jones, late of His Majesty’s Royal Marines.” Rice cocked an eye at Taffy.
“Is he now? And what would you like me to do with him?’
“Ummm, good point. He actually signed on to join the Avalon Marines, but the situation has changed since then. Taff, how do you feel about joining the Marines again, with a bump in rank? I’m sure Sergeant Rice could do with some help, seeing as he’s the only senior Marine aboard.”
“I’d be glad to, Sar... Skipper.” He corrected.
“How about you, Sergeant Rice. Could you use some help down on the Marine desk?”
“If I might speak freely, Skipper?”
“Of course.”
“I have one acting Sergeant that I’d like to make permanent, but I can’t until we get back ashore,” he said, scratching his chin in thought.
“As of this moment, and with this,” he tapped the envelope on the table, “I have the authority to do what I want. I’m here by promoting you to WO-1. Promote your acting Staff Sergeant to permanent, and sign Taffy on as Staff Sergeant.” Rice looked at him in surprise. “That way you can split your Marines into two squads each under a team leader.”
“Right, sir, but what are our ROE, our Rules of Engagement?”
“Keep the uniforms as they are, but scrub them and your armor of any insignia and identification marks except your names and ranks.”
“Good point, Skipper. Any well equipped mercenary outfit would have a well-disciplined military force aboard,” the XO put in.
“That was my thought as well. It wouldn’t be unusual to find mercs with old Marine Corps battle gear. Get Taffy, sorry, Sergeant Jones squared away and start on the changes.”
“Aye, sir. Taffy, you’re with me.” With that, they departed.
“Want me to organize a working party to go ex-hull and scrub out the Union Jack and change the name, Skipper?” Conner asked.
“As usual, you are way ahead of me Conner. Yes. I’ll leave that in your capable hands.”
“And the dress code for the duration, Skipper?” Pete asked with a grin.
“Same as before, neat, tidy and colorful. Sidearms at all times, knives optional. All weapons to be locked and loaded, but not charged. Also a gentle reminder to all crew that even if we look like a bunch of privateers, we are still part of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. That means I expect them to conduct themselves as such and maintain normal discipline.”
“We still have the problem of resupply, Skipper,” Pete reminded him.
“True, but I have it on good authority that supplies will be forthcoming once I have decided where we will operate out of. That’s where you and Jan come in, Pete. Get with her and come up with a list of possible locations for use as a Forward Operating Base. Preferably on the far side of Sirrien space.”
“And where is this convoy bound for, Skipper?”
“Oh yes. Forgot to tell you. They are bound for Avalon, so we’ll escort them to Christchurch and turn them over to the Avalon authorities. After that, some shore leave and planning with… well, you know who and then back out to our chosen sphere of operations.”
“And our objective?”
“To create so much pain and confusion in the Sirrien rear that they’ll have to pull units out of their battle line to take care of it.”
“One ship isn’t going to make that much of a difference, Mike.”
“No, it’s not. But what about one hundred other ships like this?”
Pete jerked upright and looked at him, “My god. You mean those ships Avalon is building for… I forgot about them.
“All we have to do is find about two thousand men and women to crew them,” Mike grumbled.
“Oh, right, about two hundred people per ship… Humm, bit of a problem there, Skipper.”
“Let’s worry about that later. I have it on good authority that crews will be made available. Right now, we need to make like the good shepherd and get the flock out of here.
* * * * * *
That was easier said than done. As the Nemesis/Hemlock had never entered the system by either WP, nor was she on the naval list of new ships, she couldn’t just waltz past the OWP sensors like any other ship. The moment she did, they’d have all sorts of nasty stuff coming at them what with the Navy discovering a Sirrien spy ship in-system. Ghosting by under full cloak wasn’t an option. If it didn’t hold up under the full sweep of the OWP sensors, they were dead. There was the other downside. If they went by, even at maximum distance, but close enough to get into range of the WP, they could still be seen on optical. You could just bet the commander of the OWP would be watching for any ship, Sirrien or not, that tried to do that. Again, all sorts of nasty things could happen. Mike wanted to avoid detection and not leave any unanswered question behind him. One look at the battle tank and he knew they only had one option of getting out of the system undetected. Even so it made Mike sweat a little as he thought about it.
“Cindy, I need to take the helm for a while.”
“Captain?” Cindy Loftland looked over her shoulder in surprise.
“XO, will you take over the Conn. I need everyone strapped in and all compartments secured.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Mike could hear the unasked question in his reply, but he didn’t have time to explain it. His window of opportunity was closing rapidly.
Pete hit the alarm for ‘yellow’ alert that sent the crew hurrying to their bunks and action stations. Mike waited until he saw green across the board before relinquishing his seat to Pete. Cindy gave him an odd look as she moved to the second helm control and slipped the VR helmet on. Taking a deep breath Mike took the vacated seat and after one last look round, slipped the VR helmet on as well.
“All sections reporting ready, Skipper,” Pete announced.
“Thank you, number one. Strap in and hold onto your hat.”
Now in the virtual reality of the helm control, space expanded around him and he “saw” the whole of the Sol system. Off to the Port side and “above” him, he could see the Orion Dawn as she headed towards the North WP. Beyond he could see the representation of the OWP and the circling picket ships.
“Gable, check and make sure the cloak is fully engaged, set the inertial dampeners to max.”
“Cloak is set at full. Inertial dampeners to max, aye.” Gable replied.
Mike coasted the Hemlock to a position behind and slightly “below” the stern of the Orion Dawn, but even at fifty thousand yards, he could still feel the graviton wake turbulence from her massive drive system. As he drew closer the buffeting got worse, making the whole ship shake from bow to stern. He pushed the yoke forward to gain a little more speed, aiming for a point between the six banks of drive plates on the Orion Dawn’s stern. Between the two banks was a dead, or clear spot, and as he drew closer, the buffeting grew less. The window between the two banks was narrow, and if he let the Nemesis drift to port or starboard more than a few degrees, the resulting touch from the massive, totally invisible drive plume would severely damage the Nemesis and might even rip her apart.
“Ohhh… sweet Jesus,” Pete muttered. As they drew closer the proximity alarm sounded and was quickly killed by someone.
Pete sucked in his breath, gripping the armrest of the command seat, knuckles white. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His captain was a certified lunatic, yet the sheer brilliance of the maneuver was astonishing. No one but a madman would ever think of pulling off something like this. He heard the hatch open and slowly turning his head saw Conner Blake tiptoed onto the bridge. The moment he saw the battle tank he froze. In a way it was mesmerizing to watch the Nemesis creep slowly underneath the stern of the massive ship. In this position, there was no way the sensor operators on the OWP or the picket ships could see throu
gh the drive plume and “see” her, even at optical range.
Mike held the Nemesis in that position for twenty-five agonizing minutes, sweat pouring down his face, hands as light as a feather on the control yokes. He could only guess when the Orion Dawn would deploy her sails to jump into nth space. The Orion Dawn started to slow as she applied breaking thrust, just perceptibly at first as she came to “slow ahead” for entry. Mike had only one choice. It was far too dangerous to try and back out of this position, so he did the only thing he could. He put the nose of the ship down and applied power, diving down and away just as Hawkins radiation started to surround the Orion Dawn like Saint Elmo’s fire. A small wind blew across the bridge as everybody let out the breath they’d been holding at the same time. Mike switched to autopilot and slumped back into the helmsman seat and did the opposite, and sucked in a deep lung full of life giving air. Now his hands shook like a man with a bad case of palsy, and taking off the helmet and racking it, he wiped his wet face. Cindy handed him a towel, now standard equipment for someone sitting in the first helm chair.
“Thanks, I needed that. You have the helm, Cindy.”
“I have the helm, aye.”
With a little difficulty, Mike stood and made his way back to the command seat. “Well, that was fun.”
Pete giggled, and first officers on His Majesty’s warships aren’t supposed to giggle, but he couldn’t help himself. “Fun‼…” He spluttered. Opening the armrest he pulled out a data pad and quickly started scribbling with a shaky hand as fast as he could.
“What’s that XO?” Pete let out a sound that Mike couldn’t interpret.
“Oh… this… Nothing really, sir. Just my immediate transfer to a nice safe, uninteresting position as the first man on an operational bomb disposal team, sir.” Mike had the grace to blush slightly. “I think I’d be much safer there, and live to see old age.”
“Oh, come on, Pete. It wasn’t that bad.” Mike hurriedly sat in his command chair, as he didn’t think his legs would hold him up much longer. He looked over at Janice and smiled. She didn’t smile back.
“Can we not EVER do that again in my lifetime, SIR?” She responded, tossing her hair over her shoulder in the universal female sign of dismissal.
“Yes, let’s add that to the long list of things not to do again, Skipper,” Gable added, looking a little green around the gills.
“I think I’ll go down to my cabin and freshen up. You have the Conn, Mr. Standish-Owen.” Mike decided that discretion was the better part of valor at the moment, and beat a hasty retreat.
“Aye, aye, Captain. I have the Conn. I’ll finish making out my transfer request there. All crew stand down from Yellow alert,” he ordered.”
“What a bunch of ninnies,” Mike muttered as he left, hearing more than one person snicker as he did.
* * * * * *
It didn’t take long before the convoy turned up, and the Hemlock fell into formation off their starboard bow as they entered nth space. Now off duty, Pete and Jan sat in the wardroom sipping their favorite drinks before heading to their cabins for a well earned rest.
“I know why he didn’t say anything before he did it,” Jan volunteered.
“Did what?” Pete asked. ‘Oh, you mean that… that… crazy stunt…”
“It wasn’t crazy… well, no more than his usual unconventional way of doing things.”
“So what would you call it?”
“A well thought out maneuver to solve an immediate problem.”
“That being, getting us out of Sol system without being detected?”
“Right, and if he’d told you what he was going to do before he did it?” Jan raised one eyebrow in question.
Pete blew out his cheeks and nodded. “I would have tried to talk him out of it,” he admitted at length.
“We… he knew he didn’t have time to argue, or discuss it with you. There wasn’t time once he’d worked out how to get us out of the system.”
“Christ on a crutch! He might have at least warned me,” Pete grumbled, knowing she was right. There hadn’t been time to stop and chat about it, or look at other options. He was the captain, and on his shoulders rested the safety of this ship and her crew.
“You know, before this trip is all over, I’m going to be old and gray,” He muttered into his mug.
“Yeah, but think how distinguished you’ll look to your crew when you have your own command,” Jan chuckled.
“Right! If I live that long.” On that note, they retired to their respective bunks.
* * * * * *
Much of the long trip was boring, jump, exit, move to the next WP, jump, exit, move, but the crew of the Hemlock were accustomed to it. There were a few grumbles about not getting any shore leave on Earth, but the word had spread for the reason why they couldn’t. The thought of a long R&R on Avalon made up for the disappointment, remembering their last one. After they’d exited the last jump, the Rift stars blazed across the screen and they knew they were close. One more jump and they’d be at the Avalon controlled entry point. So far, Jan, Pete, and Mike had managed to plot a roundabout course to avoid the Sirrien controlled WP, thereby doubling the time needed to get to Avalon.
“Set our course for the refueling station, Jan. Might as well top off our tanks while we can,” Pete ordered.
The independent star system of Rheinholt was semi-aligned with the Sirrien Empire on the edge of the galactic arm and one they would have preferred to avoid. According to the database there should only be a few Sirrien patrol vessels in-system, and they’d have to pay the exorbitant transit fees. On the good side, the local customs inspection entailed the transfer of additional credits to the customs office that the local government never got a share of. That was just how Mr. Wellesley wanted it. The fewer people poking their noses in the cargo hold of his three ships, the better he liked it. Pete suspected they were carrying contraband, but Mike seemed unconcerned. Going to Avalon space was a risk for drug smugglers, as Avalon Customs and Excise had a low tolerance for certain types of drugs.
“Anything of interest, Jan?" Pete asked, only vaguely familiar with this system.
“Not much, XO. Just your usual corporation-run star system. Two inhabited planets, extensive mining on three others. Third-generation imported work force for the factories, slave labor by any other name,” she added. “Extensive pollution on both inhabited planets.” It wasn’t a pretty picture, but not one they hadn’t seen before. The corporate bosses didn’t live on any of these planets, so the conditions for the work force or the inhabitants were no concern of theirs. They left all the dirty tasks of actually running the place to their designated overseers. The overseers in turn extracted as much profit for themselves as the company. Depending in which jurisdiction you were in, or if you were an independent star system like Avalon, conditions for the population and workers ranged from abysmal to excellent. Systems that fell under the control of the Sirriens tended to be worse than many others. There wasn’t a lot Earth could do about it. They weren’t an interstellar police force, nor did they have the force or means to enforce any human right issues. That was up to the local people to work out, usually by revolution, which in many cases was very bloody.
“Humm,” Jan muttered, “I don’t like the look of this, XO.”
“What… Oh, I see.” Pete looked up at the battle tank, Five warships had exited twenty minutes behind them, and were now following them on an overtake course. “Any ident code?”
“Working… I think they are Confederate States ships, sir. Wait one while I firm up the picture. Oh my. They look a bit worse for wear,” she said after a moment as the incoming data stream from the sensors added to the growing picture in the tank. She was right, all five ships showed battle damage. One of the three light cruisers showed more than the others. “Humm. Bit of a mixed bunch, Skipper. At least two of the light cruisers are Union ships.”
“Comm, hail them and ask it they need assistance. We might as well act friendly.”
&n
bsp; “Transmitting message, sir.” At this distance, the time lag was minimal, and a few moments later, an incoming vid call came back.
“This is acting captain, Chris Longmire of the Confederate ship Cimarron, thanks for the offer. Who be you?” The drawn face of a youngish man appeared on the main screen.
“This is Standish-Owen, XO of the independent mercenary ship, Hemlock, escorting three merchantmen to Christchurch,” Pete replied.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Standish-Owen, you are going to need it.” Chris Longmire wiped his hand over his face. “The fucking… sorry about that. The Sirriens are on the warpath so you’d better get where you are going and be darn quick about it.”
“Warpath! What happened?” For a moment, Pete thought the young man was about to cry, but he pulled himself together.
“A month ago, they sent four battle fleets into our, and the US of A, star systems and…” He choked up for a moment. “They didn’t give us any warning, no request to surrender… nothing… they just opened fire.”
“Oh my Lord,” Pete reached over and tapped the inter-ship comm system. “Captain to the bridge, Captain to the bridge.” No matter where the skipper was, he’d hear the call. “Can you tell me what happened?” Pete asked, softly.
“They creamed us, I mean they pounded us into scrap metal, us and the Union fleets.” Just then, Mike came running onto the bridge. The news was so startling that the Marine guard forgot to announce him as usual.
* * * * * *
By long tradition the officer of the watch, in this case Chris Longmire, sat in the captain’s chair, and he wondered why this was so. His dark brown eyes swept the bridge, but as usual nothing was out of place. He loved the quiet efficiency of his crew as they went about their duties with little fuss. After eighteen months, they’d shaken down into a well-oiled unit with a little weeding out of malcontents and lead swingers. That was another nautical term he wondered about. Research pointed back to the days of sailing ships before the invention of the fathometer where a man was stationed on the bow of the ship with a long line with a lead weight on the end. The rope was knotted in six-foot, or one fathom intervals, and as the ship entered shallow water, the man would drop the weight to the bottom and call out the depth. Over a long period this could be tiring so he’d call out the depth without actually dropping the line, thereby the term, swinging the lead. He suspected that the tradition of the officer on watch sitting in the command chair was so they’d get a taste of what being the captain felt like. Either way, many of the terms they still used had their roots in the days of wooden ships and sails. He smiled slightly wondering how you’d keelhaul someone in space.