The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  CHAPTER 66

  When the dull ache between Nathan’s shoulder blades erupted into fire, Nathan acted.

  “Bring all systems back online. Full power to shields. Route back-up power to the keel blisters.”

  Even as he talked and before Moe acknowledged, Nathan raised the boat’s nose rotating it through her axis, presenting her keel to the enemy ship. Nathan averted his eyes when the darkness was illuminated by a blinding white flash as Picaroon vaporized.

  Seconds later, Picaroon’s death throes reached out and struck the little craft with a massive, angry fist. The LB spun through her axis out of control. The high-velocity debris slammed into the boat, overloading the shield blisters. More debris continued to hammer the hull, sounding to those inside the boat like house-sized hailstones pounding a metal drum. Systems shorted out and every emergency alarm wailed.

  Eternal seconds later the shock wave passed. They were still alive, for the moment at least. Nathan fought the wildly gyrating boat under control, wishing all the while he had spent more time in the LB simulator. Finally the shuddering craft fell silent and grew still. Nathan took a deep breath.

  Moe’s face had turned white and rigid.

  “I don't think we'll try that again,” Nathan said.

  Moe stared at him for a long moment before remembering how to use her vocal cords.

  “Well I'll be buggered. It worked.”

  “Yeah, I guess our luck …” Nathan’s skin prickled. He glanced around the flight deck. “We’re venting atmosphere. I think it would be a good idea to do something about that, don't you?”

  Moe unbuckled and went to the emergency repairs locker. While she set to work locating and plugging the various small punctures to the flight deck's hull, Nathan stepped through the hatch to check on his passengers. Meta and Ozzie were working on repairs. The kids remained strapped to their seats, shocked but unharmed.

  The middies were plugging the worst of the hull punctures while Dearkov tore a utilities locker apart searching for more sealant. Flencher remained strapped to his seat, a long dribble of vomit on his undershirt.

  “Bad enough to be stripped of my clothing and strapped into this death machine,” he whined, “but then one of your friends vomits on me.”

  “Them’s the breaks, Flencher.” Nathan smiled at Ozzie. “Did you forget to take your medication?”

  Ozzie answered with a crooked smile.

  “It wasn't him,” Flencher said.

  Dearkov rounded on the former headhunter with a blazing expression that could sear marble. The small dribble of vomit sticking to the side of her mouth completed the story. Nathan clamped his jaw and returned to the flight deck. Moe had located and plugged the major leaks and was now huddled over the sensor readouts. Nathan began a systems check.

  Although the shields – along with most of their attitude thrusters and maneuvering plating – were destroyed by the blast, the LB’s hull integrity had held up surprisingly well. Presenting the stronger aspect of her keel to the blast contributed to their survival. Protecting their vitally important engines was a plus. Now, if our luck can hold for just a little longer —

  Crack!

  Nathan cocked his ear. It had been a sharp, distant sound similar to an icicle snapping underfoot. A hasty inspection of the flight deck failed to show where the noise originated.

  Meta stuck her head through the hatchway. “We’ve plugged the larger holes but we’re still venting air. The air recycler is not keeping up with the demands of eleven people. Nathan, we need to get back to Truculent fast or we’re going to be in trouble.”

  “Very well. Moe, I need a course.”

  “I have Truculent. Steer 288 by 351 by 72 and we should make rendezvous in under two minutes.”

  Nathan punched in the coordinates.

  Crack!

  “What is that?” Moe asked.

  “I don't know. And I don't like what I don't know. Let's go home. The comm is in fair shape, try raising the boat. Advise them of our condition and request a straight-in tractor approach.”

  “You've got it, Stanley. Now that Picaroon has gone to the big shipyard in the sky it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Nathan engaged both engines and pushed the throttle controls steadily forward. When the starboard engine reached sixty percent thrust the boat vibrated. He eased off and pushed the port engine fully open.

  Crack! Crack!

  That sound could really get on a person's nerves after a while. The growing ache between his shoulders foretold a far more unpleasant outcome.

  “I've got Truculent.” Moe reported their condition and requested an immediate straight-in tractor approach.

  “Come on home middy,” Waugh said. “Commander O’Donnell is in the LCC awaiting your arrival. Please advise ETA.”

  "One point five minutes, captain," Moe responded.

  “Is everyone all right?”

  Moe glanced at Nathan and smiled. “Excuse me, ma’am, I have something to attend to. I’ll put you over to Mister Telford.”

  “Very well.”

  Moe leaned back and hooked her hands behind her head. Keying his LM he said, “Telford here, skipper. We have taken a few bumps but we're in fair shape. And captain, so are the children.”

  “Outstanding.” An unaccustomed pause. “Mister Telford, who is piloting the LB?”

  “I am, captain. But don't tell the COB or she'll have a stroke.”

  The transmission went mute for a few seconds. The captain's voice returned, laced with suppressed amusement. “I will make sure to keep the shocking news from her.”

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Nathan glanced at Moe. Her smug expression had distorted into one of dismay. She pointed a shaky finger at the clear overhead view-plate. Nathan leaned across and followed the unsteady finger. A jolt of electricity dashed down his spine.

  Crack!

  One sound this time but significantly louder than the others.

  “Mister Telford, are you still with us?”

  “Please stand by, captain, we have a problem.”

  “Standing by.”

  The line etched its way across the overhead view-plate starting at the top corner where it joined the hull. A chunk of high-speed debris had missed the view-plate by millimeters but the kinetic force had crushed the upper housing in several places and sent a concussion wave through the clear composite. It resembled a spreading spider web across the plate. Fine, delicate lines in some spots, but critically deep in others. Total decompression loomed if the plate blew out.

  “It will hold till we get back to the boat.”

  “Yeah,” Moe agreed, “no problem.”

  If my expression matches Moe's face then we're not fooling anyone.

  “Any sealer left?” Nathan asked.

  “I think we used it all."

  “Better find some more don't you think?”

  Moe sprung from her seat and rushed aft.

  The light from Truculent's boat bay glowed in the distance. Having built up sufficient momentum to coast home, Nathan shut down the engines.

  Crack! Crack!

  “No more sealer,” Moe shouted through the hatchway.

  Nathan cleared his throat. “See if you can find a magnetic patch or something.”

  “Right.” Moe stepped through the hatch into the cabin. Nathan closed the hatch and set the lock.

  “What are you doing?” she screamed over his earpiece.

  “Get everyone strapped in. We're doing a fast trap.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Truculent, I am declaring an emergency. Flight deck decompression is imminent. I am bringing the craft in manually for a fast trap. Please initiate all emergency procedures. I'm coming in hot.”

  “This is O'Donnell in the LCC. Follow my instructions and we’ll get you down in one piece.”

  Nathan glanced to where his helmet rolled around the deck. He could not take his hands from the controls to
retrieve it. “Roger, sir. If I do not respond to your signals it means I am unable to do so. Do you understand my meaning?”

  “Roger.”

  Crack! Crack!

  Nathan could see the boat bay clearly now, a single source of light glowing in the endless darkness. Truculent had shut down her engines to avoid any possible interference from her backwash. She had come about to point her stern directly toward his damaged craft. He started hyperventilating. Don’t hold your breath or you’ll rupture your organs.

  “You're on the beam but high,” O'Donnell said. “Drop your nose.”

  With the grav plating torn from the hull Nathan used what remained of the thruster controls to adjust his approach. Small, careful thrusts, gentle and considered.

  “Still high.”

  He hit the attitude thrusters three times while increasing his rate of hyperventilation.

  “Your approach is good but you are drifting to starboard.”

  The boat came tantalizingly close. A few more seconds and ...

  CRACK!

  The view-plate exploded. Nathan closed his eyes and averted his face. Shards of shattered plate blew out into space but some ricocheted off the boat’s interior and into his headhunter armor and lowered face.

  Nathan slowly expelled air from his lungs. With the air in his bloodstream he could remain conscious for about ten seconds. The cold struck him like a million icy needles. He blinked rapidly to prevent his eyeballs from freezing.

  “Veer port! Veer port!” O'Donnell shouted.

  If Nathan could, he would have cursed. He had slid way off the beam and was in danger of running down the starboard side of the boat – or into it. The image of the boat bay faded in and out of his focus as unconsciousness threatened. He kicked the unruly thrusters and the boat slid to port. Bad angle, bad angle. The monitor rushed at his forward view-plate.

  Then something happened. It felt like a balloon popping inside his head. He adjusted the LB's pitch minutely, squaring the craft just enough. It was if he had done it a thousand times before.

  The craft flew into the boat bay at the right height to avoid disaster but way off the center line. The port skid struck the deck with a bone jarring impact and snapped off. The craft careened off the port-side bulkhead and skidded across the boat bay at an oblique angle. When the boat slammed into the arrester field Nathan was pushed into his harness. He gratefully took a full breath of clean monitor air.

  A thin dribble of blood slithered across his cheek.

  CHAPTER 67

  Date: 17th August, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent, En route to the Francorum border.

  Status: Alert stand down.

  Commodore Waugh marched into the boat bay and stopped in her tracks. The stolen headhunter landing boat lay where it had, for lack of a better word, landed. She walked slowly around the old boat running a critical eye over its battered hull. With the grav plating ripped away and most of the thrusters disabled, she wondered if she would have been able to bring the craft home. Stopping before the blown out view-plate she shook her head.

  “That’s got to be the lousiest landing I've ever seen,” O'Donnell said. “But considering…”

  Yes, considering. With the vacuum of space having cut off his air, unconsciousness looming and his eyes threatening to freeze shut, Telford had pulled off a miracle. Waugh left the wreck and strode into the hangar.

  Due to the large influx of wounded, Doctor Kelso had set up a temporary triage in the port-side hangar. He plucked a piece of view-plate from Telford’s head and dropped it into a bowl.

  “How are they Doc?” Waugh asked.

  “They'll live,” he said, continuing his examination. “Kaspowitz has a fractured clavicle, but a little rest and she'll be fine. When I get space in the infirmary I'll reset her shoulder. Telford here has a few cracked ribs, and they all have various degrees of bruising and lacerations. Nothing serious.” Doctor Kelso stepped back from Telford and eyed him critically. “You’ve taken quite a beating young man. Light duties for the next few days. Oh, and try to refrain from chopping off any heads until your ribs heal.”

  The middy nodded. For the first time since coming aboard he did not meet his captain's eyes. They all deserved the highest accolades for their service to the Corps this day. Nonetheless, they had disobeyed orders and Waugh could not allow that to pass unanswered.

  “Get yourselves cleaned up and have something to eat. I shall need to speak with each of you later.” She turned to go then reconsidered. “You did good work today. Well done.” Waugh walked away before any of the stunned group could reply.

  ***

  An hour had passed since the Doc had cleared them to return to light duties. Nathan spent most of the time under a steaming hot shower trying to wash away the foul stench of the headhunter armor. The steaming water had failed to wash away the numbing fatigue and his mounting emotional turmoil.

  “Hey Cookie,” Nathan said, “what poison is on the menu today?”

  “Whatever you want, Mister Telford." Chief Balski said.

  “Well, let's see.” Nathan commenced the ritual. “A nice thick steak with lightly steamed vegetables and a fine mushroom sauce would be fine.”

  Balski’s grin broadened when he produced the meal from a heated serving receptacle and placed it on a tray before him. Nathan's eyes bulged. The steak lapped over the sides of the plate, the mushroom sauce releasing a mouth-watering aroma.

  Balski’s hands went to his hips. “The Corps takes care of our own. I had a suspicion you might order something like this. Enjoy, Mister Telford.”

  Nathan stared at the superb meal, lost for words.

  “Knowing Cookie’s reputation the beast is probably shockingly undercooked,” Moe said from behind. “But it's not likely to jump into your mouth on its own.”

  Nathan cleared his throat, picked up the tray and searched the crowded wardroom for a seat. ‘Auntie’ Barbara Grimmett, true to form, patted the space beside her. After taking his seat he noticed all of the meals were of the same gourmet type.

  “The skipper always rewards a successful mission,” Auntie reminded him.

  Nathan nodded but wondered where his mind had been. The wardroom’s wonderful scent should have alerted him. Two days without sleep and two bloody battles must have taken their toll on him after all. Nathan picked up his utensils and examined the meal.

  “Watch out everyone,” Auntie yelled. “Telford's got a knife in his hands.”

  The back of his neck burned as the wardroom filled with laughter. Nathan offered Babs a short smile before hoeing into his meal. He finished the superb feast, leaned back and sighed contentedly. The weariness threatened to engulf him so he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again the wardroom was empty. He rubbed his face vigorously in a futile attempt to clear the fatigue.

  Nathan’s feet dragged along the deck. His bleary mind still struggled with questions and roiled with confusion. The rage and the killing didn't feel as he thought they should. How the hell had he landed the damaged enemy craft? Nathan considered himself to be a fair pilot but by all rights they should all be splatter marks on Truculent's hull. Somehow they survived.

  There remained the other matter. After ten years of fighting the ghosts from his past until they no longer tortured him, they had unexpectedly returned. ‘You’re weak, boy, weak. Coward!’ Each word bowed his shoulders and cramped his stomach. “Why now?” he whispered. He staggered against a bulkhead his hands covering his ears in a futile attempt to block their accusations. Stop, for God's sake, please stop.

  Nathan felt himself falling, losing grip of his stubborn resolve. He desperately needed to sleep. Perhaps after a long rest he could silence the contemptuous voices and make sense of all this. Trying to push the unsettling thoughts aside he squared his shoulders as his quarters came into view.

  ***

  Moe sat alone in their quarters bent over the computer. With twenty-three
guests aboard, most of the officers were doubling up. Nathan's quarters corralled all four middies. Earlier she had spoken to Meta and Ozzie about her plan.

  “Nathan has always been a little … different,” Ozzie said. “But it’s part of what makes him such an outstanding leader.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Meta said. “I guess spending six years as a Pruessen slave would have done some damage. But Ozzie’s right. He’s always been an odd duck. Don’t get me wrong, we all like him.” She smiled reminiscently. “It’s kinda difficult not to like him. But what happened on Picaroon is a completely new level of weird. ”

  “Have you noticed over the years, that every so often he will slip and say something he shouldn’t know?” Moe asked.

  “Yeah,” Ozzie said. “Now and again he’ll state some fact that the rest of us don’t know. Something not in the manuals or intel readouts. Something that doesn’t make a lot of sense. I thought he still suffered from northern amnesia.”

  “I’ve had my suspicions about that for years,” Meta said. “He’s said he has flashes of remembrance but these flashes are bloody convenient. So what’s going on with Nathan Telford?”

  “What indeed,” Moe said. “But that’s not the issue at the moment. I’ve known Nathan since we were kids and I’m telling you something happened to him today. I need to find out what.”

  “You’re taking a big chance, Moe,” Meta warned. “You know what happens to him when he gets a full head of steam.”

  “Yeah, Moe, watch yourself,” Ozzie added.

  “He won’t hurt me.” Confronting him in his current state of mind carried risks, even to her. For seven years she had awaited this day and was determined to do whatever was required to help him. She loved him; as her best friend of course. Moe could not dismiss the notion that under Nathan’s civilized shell dwelt an enduring pain. For the sake of her friend she must risk awakening his inner demon.