by P J Strebor
The operation had been an outstanding success against incredible odds. Nonetheless Moe sensed Nathan's dissatisfaction. Five civilians were still unaccounted for. Most likely they were hidden within one of the Picaroon’s sensor-blind zones. Behind armored hatches and internal shields the chances of locating and rescuing them in the time available loomed as an impossible task.
Nathan had never tried to disguise his fanatical loathing for Pruessen. After what he had been through as a child slave the thought of leaving children in the hands of such fiends would burn within him. He thinks we've all fallen for his 'I can't remember anything about my time as a slave' spiel. Nathan may have fooled everyone else with the bull but not us. He couldn't hate Pruessens with such passion if he didn't remember a lot of what happened in the north.
The time arrived for the teams to disembark. Alpha team had already returned to the boat with their wounded. Beta Team moved to the aft hatch while the newly call-signed Tackies sprawled on the deck by the port-side bow hatch. Moe felt control returning to her hands as she savored the peace and quiet. After the recent massacre the remaining headhunters were unlikely to venture anywhere near the battle zone.
Moe glanced at Meta who stared back through glazed eyes. She had asked to remain with her team. Due to the large number of wounded filling the landing boats, she got her wish. Ozzie moved gingerly to avoid aggravating his cracked ribs. Even Dearkov was content to enjoy a few moments of idleness. Moe opened her hands palms down, pleased that the embarrassing shaking had gone.
Moe was no longer the tom-boy girl she used to be and felt justifiably proud of holding her own in any fight. But this had been the real deal. It could not get any more real; dark, cherry-red real.
“The blood,” Moe whispered. Did I say that out loud?
“The barbarity,” Ozzie said, his eyes unfocussed
“Can’t believe how much those animals stank.” Meta's lazy half-smile confirmed the drugs were doing their job.
Dearkov’s warped expression reminded Moe of a Kastorian leopard. “I really liked the way they squealed when I hacked into them.”
Nathan had gone mute. He sat slightly off to one side of the group, his head resting against a bulkhead, his eyes closed. Moe knew when to back away and when to break his morose mood. He should feel good about the mission. They had rescued eighteen out of twenty-three civilians. Pruessens by the score had fallen to them with minimal casualties to their own forces. The team had been cut and bruised but they survived the ordeal. All in all a damn fine result. Nathan had to know there was no chance of rescuing the missing children. Moe sidled over and grunted as she dropped beside him.
“A dollar fifty for your thoughts.”
Nathan opened his eyes. He was like a brother to Moe so she knew he would be firmly focused on what had not, rather than what had been accomplished today. Being Nathan he chose not to speak of it.
“I was just thinking about a long hot shower and a drink of something non-regulation.”
The Tackies groaned in agreement.
“I’m going to sleep for the next week,” Ozzie said.
“So what's new?” Meta slurred.
Moe suspected that her friends would be considering the questions raised today. How had Nathan avoided the headhunter patrols? What demon had possessed him during the heat of battle? However, their academy training had prepared them to be not only naval officers but ladies and gentlemen of refined dispositions. No one would be rude enough to broach the subject.
“So, Nathan, what's with the spooky shit?” Meta’s eyes were two bleary slits. Her head drooped to one side.
Nathan’s raised eyebrows indicated he had no idea what she was talking about. Everyone groaned at his usual response.
“I think what my esteemed and semi-delirious friend is trying to ask you, Nathan, is how did you avoid those patrols?” Ozzie asked.
“That's what I said,” Meta slurred.
Nathan tapped his right ear. “Good hearing.”
In an instant Ozzie's affable expression hardened, together with his tone. "We bled together, Nathan." A declaration wrapped in an accusation. A gauntlet thrown down.
Moe caught Nathan’s slight wince. She knew he would deflect the conversation as he always did.
“I had a gut feeling, Ozzie,” he said. “So I followed it.”
His frankness stunned everyone into silence. After several awkward seconds Nathan received support from an unexpected source.
“With all due respect, ladies and gentlemen,” Dearkov said, “you're all full of shit.” Every eye considered the brawny petty officer. “He came up with the plan, he led us to victory over our enemy and he fought with the courage of a Salamisian lion. But all you lot can do is whine about how he saved your collective rumps.”
Nathan thought he handled such moments well but Moe noted the prickly rash on the back of his neck as it flared with the prominence of Quasimodo’s hump.
The uneasy silence lingered until a distinct clang of metal on metal echoed down the corridor. They were on their feet in an instant, swords drawn. Nathan strode along the corridor, Dearkov his shadow. Moe nocked one of the remaining arrows.
They ventured deep into the lateral corridor. The plaintive cry of a distressed individual guided them forward. Ahead, sprawled on the deck next to an access tube, an enemy sailor cradled his foot in his hands. This genius had apparently fallen out of the access tube.
The headhunter's sword lay on the deck beside him but he did not attempt to reach for it when he spied the approaching sailors. Dearkov raised her ax and went for the kill.
“I surrender,” he squealed. His hands covered his head in a useless gesture of protection. Nathan stood before the ax and raised his hand.
“You're not going soft on me are you, Mister Telford?”
Nathan ignored her. He knelt beside the terrified headhunter.
“Name.”
“Flencher.” His narrow eyes darted between Nathan and the ax-wielding petty officer.
Flencher did not fit the headhunter archetype. A short, spare fellow, Moe doubted if he had the strength to lift the enormous sword resting so close to his hand. His voice had a nasal quality. On closer inspection Moe saw that Flencher’s nose had recently been broken. The ill-fitting armor hung off his wiry frame. Obviously, this weak excuse for a man was no warrior.
“Flencher, my name is Telford. I am going to ask you some questions.” Nathan kept his voice to a low whisper. “If you answer my questions honestly you will get to keep on breathing. If not, I shall become quite irritated. Do you clearly understand what I have said to you?”
“Will you take me prisoner?”
Nathan cleared his throat.
“No, I will not,” he ventured.
“Then no deal,” the wiry headhunter said. “If you're going to kill me, get on with it.” Flencher tensed and swallowed nosily but his resolve remained firm. Unlike his knees.
“Are you saying you want to be taken prisoner?”
“What do you think I'm doing on this deck? I was trying to link up with any Athenians still onboard. I don't belong here. I was press ganged from Midway ten months ago. I’m a gentleman's gentleman not a killer. You have no idea what these people are like. They're animals. I want no part of this ship. Take me with you when you go and I will tell you anything you want to know."
“You've got a deal, Flencher. When we leave, you go with us. First, there is something specific I would like to know.”
***
“What do you mean they're not there?” Waugh slumped into the command chair, sighing deeply.
“Skipper,” CPO Stokes said, “I locked onto the hatch right on schedule but the Tackies were nowhere to be seen. I checked the adjoining corridors but found no trace of them.”
“Do you have any idea where they might be, chief?”
“Sorry, skipper.” A long pause followed. “Maybe the team was ambushed and taken prisoner. I mean it's po
ssible, ma’am.”
Waugh struggled with an inner turmoil. Her best instincts compelled her to arm every able-bodied combatant and get her people back. Her duty however, forbade such action.
“Chief Petty Officer Stokes,” she said, “unless you come under direct enemy attack, you will remain locked onto the hatch until 1356 hours. If by that time you have not recovered the team you will disengage your boat and return to Truculent. Am I being clear, chief?”
“Aye-aye, captain,” Stokes said glumly.
“Very well. Carry on. Captain out.”
What the devil could have happen to them? Waugh could not imagine a man like Telford falling into an ambush. Considering the gigantic losses inflicted on Picaroon's crew, only small isolated patrols remained. Where the hell are the Tackies?
Truculent would hit the Rio Grande in sixteen minutes. The most sacrosanct rule in Corps, the Athenian Naval Service and the forces attached to the Coalition League Navy remained as solid today as it had thirty years ago. For no reason could a League vessel cross the border into Pruessen space.
Like it or not, if Telford and his team did not return to LB three by 1356 hours she would be left with no choice in the matter.
CHAPTER 60
Orson disengaged EDF. With the internal sensors restored they revealed the disastrous truth.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Weiss shrieked. “Restore the field immediately.” He leaped from the captain's chair and loomed over Orson, his hand caressing the stock of his sidearm. “Saxon, did you hear me? Get that fucking field back up.”
Orson could visualize the pure joy he would feel from slowly garroting the cowardly headhunter. The twelve heavily armed bridge guards would undoubtedly dispute his fair-minded reasoning. Weiss might be scum but he was their scum. Orson submerged his rage and turned the EDF dial back to the maximum setting.
“Why the hell did you do that, Saxon? There could be Athenians outside the hatch ready to force their way in. Are you mad?”
“We need to have current time intell, Weiss.” Orson had given up trying to conceal his contempt. “We’ve received zero intell since the insulated line to the captain went down.”
“I don't care about intell,” Weiss yelled. “Touch the panel again and it will be the last thing you do.”
“We’re almost at the frontier,” Orson said. “The Athenians won’t remain aboard. It would violate their most sacred military oath.”
Surprisingly, Weiss considered his words. “Helmsman, how long till we cross the border?”
“Fourteen minutes at current speed.”
Orson examined the few readings he managed to record. It confirmed his worse fears. These scum should never have been entrusted with such an important operation. But the Family had refused to listen to him.
Weiss strutted around the bridge buoyed by the news they were minutes from safety.
“Tactical, what internal readings do you have?”
“None, commander.”
“Didn't you get anything when the EDF was disengaged?”
“No sir,” the T-O said. “It was too quick. But Saxon might have.”
“What can you tell me, Saxon?”
“It’s difficult to say with such a short time to record the data,” Orson said impatiently. “However, from what I can ascertain our special platoons have been annihilated by the Athenians.”
Weiss' face paled. “All of them?”
“There’s a few patrols still operating on the upper decks but nothing on deck five.” Orson could not resist a last jibe. “That’s the bad news. Would you care to hear the good news?”
Weiss nodded, his mouth agape.
“Throughout the engagement the EDF worked flawlessly.” He paused shortly before adding, “But we don’t need it anymore.”
“I don't agree with you, lieutenant,” Weiss said, the fear returning to his eyes. “And you will address me as captain.”
Orson ignored him and returned to his readouts. With this fool in charge, Orson's sense of apprehension amplified.
“We will maintain course and speed and to the frontier,” Weiss announced. “When we cross into friendly space I’ll decide what we do next."
Orson's gut twisted into a hard knot.
CHAPTER 61
Nathan faced the team. “I cannot in good conscience leave without the children,” Nathan said, his tone endorsing an unyielding tenor. “I can’t and I won’t. I’m going to find the civvies, with my new friend here.” Flencher smiled halfheartedly when Nathan slapped him on the back. “I am disobeying orders by committing to this action so the rest of you should rendezvous with the landing boat.”
“You really need to lighten up, Nathan,” Moe said. “You don't have to make everything so bloody dramatic do you? We’ll find the civvies, return to Truculent and face the consequences together. All right?”
“Don't even think you’re going to get all of the glory for yourself,” Meta said.
“I could really use a shower,” Ozzie said. “But I suppose I can wait a little longer.”
Dearkov slapped the flat side of her ax into the palm of her hand. Her gruesome expression confirmed her acceptance.
“You know, as acting ensign I could order you jokers to report to the landing boat.” The team chuckled. He cleared his throat. “Very well. We'd better get to it.” He looked at Dearkov and raised an eyebrow. “Feeling fit, petty officer?”
After safely negotiating four decks into the bowels of the enemy ship they approached their destination.
Nathan noted that Petty Officer Dearkov did not appear at all happy with her new assignment. The indignity of carrying the injured former headhunter on her back was testing what little patience she had.
Flencher whispered something into her ear.
Dearkov stopped, plucked Flencher from her back and pinned him to the bulkhead by the throat. Her blazing eyes said much about her restraint.
“Listen to me you scrawny little weasel,” she said. “The only reason your head isn't tucked up your arse is because Mister Telford says so. But if you don't stop talking to me I will hurt you so severely that your grandchildren will cry. Are you reading me shit-for-brains?”
With her hand clamped firmly around his throat he could not reply.
“I'd nod if I were you,” Nathan suggested.
Flencher nodded, frantic eyes bulging from a red face.
Dearkov swung him onto her back with the ease of tossing back a cape.
The team reached the juncture of two main corridors.
“Which way?” Nathan asked the newly reticent Flencher. “She said don't talk to her, not to me. Now which way?”
“Right.” After a dozen paces he said, “Stop here.”
Nathan stood before a hatch embossed with the symbol of a skull and cross bones.
This guy has to be kidding.
“You're sure?”
“The captain keeps the best prizes for himself,” Flencher said.
Dearkov glared over her shoulder. “Get off me.” Flencher instantly dropped to the deck.
Nathan examined the old style hatch. Unlike the other hatches he had encountered aboard Picaroon this one was fitted with a manual locking bar. Nathan stared at the lock before looking to his team.
“You could probably shoot it off … if you had your sidearm.”
His frown indicated he was not impressed with Moe’s attempt at light humor.
“Now you know how it feels.” Moe said.
Dearkov took a step back from the hatch and swung her ax above her head.
“No!” Flencher cried. He hopped toward the hatch, ignoring Dearkov’s blistering glare. “It's cast armor metal. All you'll do is jam the mechanism,” he said, “One of the advantages of being the captain's steward is that I know his secrets.” Flencher manipulated the tumblers until the lock snapped open. “When you raise the locking bar it automatically disengages the internal shielding.”
&nbs
p; “Is it sensor-monitored?”
“No, only the externals are covered by sensors. This is a headhunter ship not a battleship.”
Nathan reached out with his senses. Prep did not respond. He sheathed his sword.
“Wait here,” he said.
Nathan spun the round handle and pulled the hatch open. He slowly stepped into the room. The children, three girls and two boys, ranged in age from about four to eight years. They huddled together on a huge bed, their little chests heaving. He smiled and approached the children slowly, his hands open in a gesture of supplication. Although healthy and unmarked, fear dominated their eyes. At any moment the restrained whimpering would explode into a full-scale panic attack. How to handle this?
“Hello children. I’m an Athenian naval officer and I’m here to take you home to your parents.” He held his breath as five pairs of huge eyes stared at him.
“Our parents are dead.” The pretty blonde girl appeared to be the oldest.
“What’s your name, young lady?”
“Simone Garneau.”
She reminded him of his kid sister Lucy. Not physically but in the wide-eyed innocence young children exhibited.
“Well, Simone Garneau, that’s not true. My crew have rescued them and they are now on my ship.”
“You’re lying,” she cried.
Time for a different tactic. “Mind your manners, Miss Garneau. Athenians don’t lie. Now behave yourself.”
Tick tock. Simone looked at her hands.
“I want to go home,” one of the youngsters whined.
“Are our parents really alive?” Simone asked.
“As I said, my crew rescued them all and you’ll see them real soon. But children,” he hardened his tone moderately, “you all must do exactly what I say when I say it. Understood?”