The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  “Good for you.”

  Waugh’s inscrutable smile was identical to the images Nathan had studied at the academy. My God she’s impressive.

  The captain drained her mug, placed it in the tray and left.

  As soon as the hatch snapped shut Moe's head fell in slow motion to the tabletop. She repeated the process, each time producing a hollow thud when her head hit the table.

  Nathan looked across the table. “Allan Mattich, may I introduce you to Moe Okuma.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Date: 12th July, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent, on station: Ibis Nebula.

  Status: Alert stand down.

  Nathan had been under the shower for less than a minute when his earpiece beeped. Stepping from under the water flow he held the L-M to his throat and keyed it.

  “Telford.” Nathan made sure to hit the stud after making his transmission.

  “Midshipman Telford, report your location.” Tivendale's tone suggested a good mood for a change. Moron.

  “Officer's head, lieutenant.”

  “Very well. Carry on.”

  Odd. Back in his quarters Nathan hit his rack and fell asleep instantly. Sometime later his comm beeped, waking him from a deep slumber. Nathan recalled Leo's warning. There is no excuse for not answering your comm.

  “Telford,” he croaked.

  A slight pause. “Mister Telford, this is Chief Petty Officer Argento, supply office.” Her deep voice carried a disconcerting undertone. “Under orders from the supply officer I must ask you for your location, sir.”

  “Mount Olympus,” he said. Then Nathan thought better of it. Argento undoubtedly had little choice in the matter. “I'm in my quarters, chief.”

  “Thank you. Good night, sir.”

  The interruptions to Nathan’s sleep increased with two or three calls disturbing his rest during every six-hour downtime shift. Unlike Moe, Nathan took time to get back to sleep after each disturbance. As a result he averaged only three hours of fitful sleep per downtime shift.

  CHAPTER 32

  Date: 13th July, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent, on station: Ibis Nebula.

  Status: Alert stand down.

  Waugh contemplated the star map that floated within the holo field. She keyed her larynx mike to connect with the Shipboard Management Computer.

  “SMC, zoom out.”

  The image expanded to encompass the entire Tunguska Fault. The northwestern approaches into League territory were the responsibility of the Bretish Commonwealth. The Francorum Union covered the northeastern approaches.

  Athens plugged the huge gap in between. Due to the elongated nature of this section of the frontier, jutting as it did well into the north, it had acquired the colloquial name of the Slot. This was Monitor Corps patch.

  “SMC, zoom in.” After a few seconds, “Stop.”

  The Ibis Nebula hovered slightly off the dead center of the Slot, one point two light-years from the Rio Grande. Unlike other nebulas, Ibis contained trace quantities of Boronium isotopes that effectively scrambled sensors efforts to penetrate it. The effect worked both ways so a string of small, powerful sensor buoys was seeded from the ingression point to their location. Truculent hovered within the nebula biding her time until an unsuspecting interloper crossed her path.

  Waugh wondered about her decision. Scarcely half a light year from their position was the Poseidon Shoals. Only an insane captain would venture into it. Within the shoals, intense gravity sheer was the norm, together with massive ionic disturbances and hyperspace antimatter eruptions capable of wiping a ship from existence. Waugh played a hunch that greed would overcome the better judgment of certain rapacious captains.

  So Truculent lurked in total secrecy. With sensors set to passive mode and all unnecessary systems shut down, no energy telltales betrayed her position. Day in, day out, Truculent noted the passage of various types of shipping, ranging from foolhardy pleasure yachts to heavy bulk freighters and general-purpose shipping.

  Thirty years in the business of defending the Republic's borders had failed to curb Waugh’s impatience. She had taken a chance, played a hunch, but a month of patient waiting had failed to glean anything close to a positive outcome. Waugh did not care to think about her last patrol being the most disappointing.

  She paced the briefing room before stepping onto the bridge. With tactical sensor functions funneled to the Ops Station, the nearly deserted bridge gave the forlorn impression of a party where all the children had left early.

  “Anything happening, Maggie?”

  Lt Lehmann leaned back in her chair and rubbed the back of her neck. “Not so much as a stray rock, skipper.” Her bored tone matched Waugh's mood.

  “Very well. If you need me I will be on the Parade Ground.”

  “Aye-aye, skipper.”

  Minutes later, clad in a fighting suit, Waugh slipped from the drop shaft onto the boat bay deck. She arched her back, relieved as the vertebra popped.

  The largest open space on the boat, the boat bay and its adjoining hangars were the only areas on Truculent where crewmembers taller than 170 centimeters could stand erect. With a respectful nod to the academy, while being used for this purpose, the boat bay was referred to as the Parade Ground.

  Waugh took in the scene around her and nodded her approval. Activities ranged from one end of the bay to the other. Under the watchful eyes of Senior Chief Petty Officer Scaroni, the CPO’s ran the enlisted crew through a dynamic calisthenics program. Officers performed standard unarmed combat exercises, others practiced the lethal Aikido. Pilots kept their reflexes sharp with Kendo exercises. The marines used the long, cold steel bayonets for the same purpose.

  In a corner on the starboard side of the bay the middies stood in a tight circle. Telford held the rapt attention of every eye and ear in his small group. As captain of the academy Kendo team they deferred to him in all matters pertaining to the ancient art of two-handed sword fighting.

  Telford clapped his gloved hands and the circle broke up. Okuma and Hayden found a clear area for themselves while Telford and Kaspowitz took up positions in a corner. They bowed to one another and drew their swords. The sword tips almost touched.

  Unlike in her day the middies carried their swords strapped to their backs rather than on the left hip. Perhaps this indicated a new trend for a new generation of middies. Or could it be that one of them chose to do it and the others followed?

  The bout had been underway for nearly a minute when Kaspowitz’s impatience showed. Telford remained immobile as if baiting her. She tried circling him but he mirrored her every movement. Kaspowitz advanced aggressively and tried for a head shot. Telford ducked under her wild swing and as she passed he rapped her on the rump with the flat of his sword. From across the Parade Ground Waugh heard her anguished cry.

  Telford smiled at the enraged middy and tapped his left shoulder. As Waugh had observed, Kaspowitz dropped her left shoulder when she attacked. The middy’s grimace indicated her disapproval of having her shortcomings pointed out. A curt nod acknowledged his instruction. Again she approached her opponent but this time showed greater circumspection, one foot ahead of the other in short, sliding increments. Kaspowitz leaped forward and a fierce parry ensued. Failing to find an opening in Telford's defense she backed away. Next she attacked with speed and took a wild swing at his head. Telford ducked under the murderous blow, dropped onto one knee and struck upward. A dull buzz confirmed he had found the heart sensor with the tip of his blade.

  Waugh blinked in astonishment. Telford had read his opponent's movement, apparently before she thought of it herself. And his reactions were bloody fast. Another anguished howl from Kaspowitz. Telford shook his head and tapped his left shoulder.

  “Fast isn't he?” Luis said.

  Waugh had become used to his stealthy approach. Her threat to tie a bell around his neck had fallen on deaf ears.

  “Hmm.”
/>   “You could take him, skip,” O'Donnell said.

  Luis snorted.

  Over the next three minutes Telford tagged his opponent four times without registering a return hit. Kaspowitz had all the requisite skills but even with her blood up was outmatched. In a contest between ice-cold control and passionate fire, control always won.

  After the fifth kill Telford's attention drifted to the other two middies. He said something to Kaspowitz, she objected with a vigorous shake of her head and he acquiesced. Within sixty seconds he had killed her five more times, ending the bout. After a short bow he walked to the other middies.

  Waugh glanced at the boat's command pilot whose mouth hung open. “Still think I can take him, Scobie?”

  “That young man is going to make one hell of a pilot, skip,” O’Donnell said.

  “He could dice you like a blender,” Luis said.

  Waugh set her eyes on her old friend. “Care for a bout, Luis?”

  “I don't have a sword.”

  “You can borrow mine,” O'Donnell offered.

  “No I can't,” Luis said hastily.

  “Suit up, commander. Let's see how your Aikido skills are holding up.” She grinned and added, “Old man.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Date: 14th July, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent.

  Status: Dog tired.

  Nathan returned to his quarters after morning mess and unhooked his rack. As much as he hated to admit it Tivendale's childish campaign was taking its toll. Tivendale had abandoned any pretense of professionalism and openly increased pressure onto the middies. No task was too loathsome, too dirty, too humiliating. No opportunity to make the middies’ lives miserable was missed. Yet they refused to capitulate and fought him right to the edge of insubordination. Babs had said don’t take on an opponent who outguns you. Maybe she was right.

  Although he longed for sleep there was a problem that had been bothering him for days. He placed his rack in the upright position and made for the hatch.

  Allan was sound asleep while Leo reviewed some notes. “Nathan,” Leo whispered, “where are you going?”

  “Need to check on something,” he said, in an equally low whisper. “Be back in a minute.” Nathan slipped through the hatch before Leo could respond.

  Nathan passed the wardroom and hit the hatch call-button to the enlisted quarters. Forty-one ratings rotated through the quarters every six hours. They were crammed into the small area in racks three high with only a few centimeters of headroom between them. When one watch left their racks to go on duty the next watch took their place. Hot racking at its worst.

  When the hatch slid open the stench struck his nose like claws. Nathan began breathing through his mouth. A handful of NCOs sat on the deck playing cards. A petty officer with the nametag Dearkov appeared to be the senior rank.

  “Has someone smuggled a cat onboard the boat?” Nathan grimaced.

  “I don't understand your meaning … sir.” A large-framed, solid young woman with bad skin, Dearkov's scraggily black hair reminded Nathan of a rug stolen from a mangy dog.

  “My meaning is the stink. What the devil is that?”

  “That’d be us … sir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There are forty of us crammed into this area. Sorry if our odor offends you … sir.”

  Nathan's jaw tightened but he ignored Dearkov's rudeness and stepped to the nearest air filtration scrubber mounting. He reached up and unbuttoned the housing. Nathan recoiled as the stench made his eyes water. Shutting the housing he addressed the card players.

  “How long has it been since these scrubbers were replaced?”

  “I wouldn't know – ”

  “Has anyone reported this to the ECO?”

  Dearkov shrugged.

  Nathan resisted the urge to tell her what he thought of her attitude and left. A minute later he slipped from the drop shaft onto deck three. Before entering the supply office he forced his breathing to calm. Fortunately, Tivendale was apparently catching up on his beauty sleep.

  “Good morning, Chief Argento.”

  “Good morning, sir.” Her expression indicated a restive mood.

  “Good to put a face with the voice at last.”

  The face was attractive in a plain sort of way. Argento's large brown eyes took on a wary set.

  “How may I assist you, sir?” Her colonial accent did not sound as pronounced as it had over his earpiece. To have been promoted to chief petty officer at such a young age she must be very good at her job.

  “I’d like thirty air purification scrubbers, thank you,” he said. No reply. “Is there a problem, chief?”

  “I am unable to comply with your request, sir.”

  “Because?”

  Argento cleared her throat. “Sir, our stock of those items was not replenished during our last layover.”

  “Are you saying there are no spare scrubbers aboard this boat?”

  “There are a few, sir.”

  “Good. I'll take all you have.”

  “I can't do that either, sir.”

  Nathan stared coldly at Argento. Until this moment he assumed she hadn’t volunteered to be Tivendale's Judas.

  “Sir, I am under orders from the supply officer not to touch the stock without his express permission.”

  Nathan exhaled slowly as he dropped into the spare seat. He snapped the stud from his epaulet, allowing it to drop over his shoulder. “Talk to me, chief.”

  The knot left Argento's shoulders, a relieved smile forming as she unbuttoned her epaulet. “Off the record, sir?” Nathan replied with an impatient nod. “Firstly sir, the supply officer neglected to order the required stores, even though I had prepared a complete inventory. I highlighted those stores requiring the most urgent attention. When he finally discovered there is actually a need for scrubbers he decided to stash away the few we have for the exclusive use of the senior officers. I guess he thinks if he kisses up to the officers no one will twig to what a screw-up he is.” She smiled uncertainly until Nathan nodded. “But I guess you already know that, Mister Telford.”

  As he reset his epaulet he nodded and made certain his voice did not reflect his inner rage. “Thanks for the heads-up, chief.”

  “Anytime, sir.”

  Nathan left the office and headed back to his quarters. You’re going to earn your pay this week, Nathan.

  CHAPTER 34

  Date: 18th July, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent. Environmental Control Center.

  Status: Condition stand down. Grey watch.

  “I sincerely hope you showered since your last watch, Nathan.” Barbara Grimmett’s expression of exaggerated trepidation brought a smile to his lips.

  “I soaked for an hour in a solution of pressic acid.” Nathan sniffed under the armpits of his freshly cleaned flight suit. “Like a rose garden in spring time.”

  “I am relieved beyond words.” Grimmett cautiously leaned forward to take an exploratory sniff.

  It had taken Nathan four six-hour shifts, spread across three days, to return the air in the enlisted quarters to a tolerable state.

  Since no fresh scrubbers were available Nathan took a different approach. The cargo holds saw little use so the scrubbers were in fair shape. He removed them from the holds and gave them a thorough cleaning before placing them in the enlisted crews’ quarters. Nathan took the filthy scrubbers from the crew quarters to a small corner of the maintenance bay. Nathan soaked the scrubbers in a solution of industrial strength solvent before scouring the bulk of the foul mess from them. They were so badly degraded that the cleaning process was not entirely successful. He fitted the inefficient scrubbers to the cargo holds. Undoubtedly the air in the holds would become unpleasant but that couldn't be helped. The crew always came first. He smiled at that thought.

  Yesterday he stumbled upon two ratings sharing an intimate moment in cargo hold two. He turned his b
ack while they slipped back into their flight suits. They stood to attention awaiting the expected reprimand. No regulation forbade the crew from interacting with one another, as long as they observed military proprieties. He deliberately took his time while forming an appropriate response.

  “Where are you, Chief Petty Officer Rocca,” he asked the young non-com.

  “Sir?”

  “Petty Officer Allenby,” he continued, “Where are you?”

  “Cargo hold two, sir?” she ventured.

  “Under whose authority does cargo hold two fall, Chief Petty Officer Rocca?”

  “Yours sir?” Although his accent bespoke a colonial upbringing his attitude needed readjustment. Nathan's expression said as much.

  “Aw, come on Mister Telford. The crew have been using cargo two, for ah, get-togethers, for years. It's accepted practice.”

  “And how acceptable do you think it will be if the supply officer catches you two numbskulls in flagrante?” Nathan allowed a few moments for the thought to sink in. “Send the word out. The cargo holds are off limits. Forthwith they will be known as the forbidden zone. Tell me you understand my meaning.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” they intoned as one.

  “You two should show a little restraint,” Nathan continued, showing a stern expression not matched by his mood. “Try playing cards or something.” Their expressions were priceless.

  “When I was posted to Audacious a lot of the crew played cards.” He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Apparently the coolant exchange room on deck two, had been used for … the occasional game of cards. I wouldn't know myself but that’s the rumor. And, from what I’ve heard it’s sufficiently cool so the cards, don't stick together.” The two non-coms smiled. “Now follow me and keep quiet.”

  Nathan repeated the grimy business of removal, cleaning and fitting until he completed the disagreeable task. During the process the stinking residue adhered to his hair, skin and clothing with the tenacity of industrial grade adhesive. No amount of scrubbing could remove the final hint of foulness. Despite employing his best cleaning skills his flight suit reeked of such vileness that the ward room officers kept their distance. Help arrived from an unexpected source.