The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  “LSO, Epsilon One. Roger.”

  So, the commander wants to fast trap me into the Maw after five days, does he? Well, fine. Bloody fine. I’ll give you your kilo of flesh, you miserable old …

  “Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam and in the groove.”

  “LSO, Epsilon One. Roger.”

  A fast trap did not leave a pilot time for indecision. You either did it or you did not.

  Perspective, it’s only a matter of perspective.

  If he could fast trap onto the Roof, he could fast trap anywhere. Any doubts were only in his head.

  Only in your head, only in your head.

  The approach crosshairs glowed green. He remained firmly on the beam, all his attention concentrated on keeping the crosshairs in the green. Thankfully, Chiron’s engines were closed down, so there should be no problem from her burble. Unless, of course, he or the ship struck a mild eddy at the wrong moment.

  Only in your head.

  A trickle of sweat ran down his face as the TF-51 screamed through the environmental force field into the standard gravity of the boat bay. His skids struck the deck and an instant later he plowed into the arrester field.

  The LSO came back to him, palpable relief in his voice. “You snagged the third wire and were right on the center line. Well done, Epsilon One.”

  “Thank you, LSO. Request permission to taxi to the hangar area.”

  “Permission granted.”

  And fuck you, Worsfold.

  CHAPTER 6

  Date: 20th October, 321 ASC.

  Position: Chiron. The Warren.

  Status: Down time.

  Nathan spent ten minutes showering away the sweat from his first fast trap into the Maw. While he changed into a fresh flight suit, his sense of accomplishment flared suddenly against his rage.

  I like a challenge as much as the next pilot, but fuck me, what the hell was Worsfold thinking?

  He forced such thoughts out of his mind as he stepped into the Warren. The roomy saloon had been set aside for the exclusive use of the trainee pilots. A large area containing comfortable furnishings, recreational games, access to food, fruit juices and, of course, coffee. A place to relax and reflect after another challenging day with their instructors. Compared with a monitor’s tiny officers’ wardroom, this represented an indulgent level of luxury.

  Nathan nodded to a few of the pilots from Kappa Flight who occupied the starboard side of the Warren. They were a good lot, and he knew many of them quite well from the academy. Still, they were competitors, and would become even more competitive as time progressed. Everyone vied for status within the flight standings. The higher a pilot’s standing, the better their chances of gaining a berth on a monitor.

  The greatest fighter training school truism held that more pilots graduated than could be accommodated aboard the limited number of monitor escort boats (MEBs). Within such a super-competitive environment, friendships were strained — and occasionally compromised. Although ambivalent on the subject, Nathan could not ignore the purpose-designed combative nature of the standings.

  There were no official flight leaders in either Epsilon or Kappa Flights. However, one person usually stood out in any group, who would often be sought for their approval or advice, somewhat akin to a big brother or sister. In the case of Kappa Flight, Ensign Janine Gilchrist had become the senior sibling.

  Nathan joined her in the line waiting to use the fruit juice dispenser. About the same height as Nathan, she wore her auburn hair in a bun that exposed her long, graceful neck. Janine had proved to be the undisputed star of the academy’s class of 320 ASC.

  Janine turned and smiled with her eyes as well as her perfectly-formed mouth. Nathan could imagine her charming a Delosian viper out of a tree.

  “Nathan,” she said, lightly touching his arm, “so good to see you.”

  Nathan returned her smile, silently chiding himself for allowing her to work her charms on him.

  “Janine,” he said, bowing slightly. “How goes the training?”

  “Great!” Her enthusiasm, for a change, appeared to be laced with concern. “In fact, I would like to talk to you about something.” Her tone became low, guarded. “Will you join me?”

  Nathan nodded, and after they both filled their cups with fresh fruit juice, Janine selected an unoccupied table as close to the dead center of the room as possible. She took a seat on the starboard side, the Kappas’ side, leaving the port for Nathan. Soon they would be battling head to head for the much prized Ellison trophy. For now, they were couple of old friends having a talk.

  “I have a concern,” Janine began, “and I would appreciate your input.”

  Nathan nodded.

  “We lead the flight ratings, so if you can’t understand my concerns, then I will be left in a bit of a quandary.” Their heads were close to touching and their voices hushed.

  “Just spit it out, Jan — what’s the problem?”

  Janine glanced around, took a long breath and stared at him with an intensity Nathan had never seen from her. “It’s about the commander.”

  Nathan nodded, pleased to be in the role of sage advisor for a change.

  “This goes no further, Nathan. All right?”

  He nodded again.

  “I know you’ve noticed what we all have with regard to the commander. I don’t have a problem with an instructor being a hard case.” She snorted. “We had a few of those back at the Mount, didn’t we? I really don’t like to say this, but I think Worsfold might be losing it.” Jan stared at him for a long moment. “What do you think?”

  The thought had crossed Nathan’s mind on more than one occasion. Today’s little stunt did nothing to help banish the disturbing thought.

  “You seem a little rattled, Jan. What happened?”

  Her smile became sad and reminiscent. “I never could fool you, could I, Nathan? All right.” She moved closer, and her breath touched his cheek. “Skipper ordered me to fast trap aboard today.”

  Nathan felt as if a buffalo had stomped on his stomach. So much for the honor of the Top Hook.

  “Yes, I thought that might get a reaction,” she said, around a tight smile. “He begins by treating us like plebes, then pushes us as if there’s no tomorrow. Does that sound to you like the actions of a stable mind?”

  “Perhaps you should be flattered he considered you so capable.”

  “I almost soiled my flight suit.”

  Nathan smiled. “Me too.”

  Janine’s head snapped back. “He fast trapped you too?” she hissed.

  “Maybe he fast trapped everyone.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Nathan shrugged. Surely Worsfold had not lost his mind? He had turned hard and unreasonable in recent months, but did that necessarily translate into insanity? Over the years Nathan had fallen into a habit with Janine. Whenever she spoke her mind, he could not help but play the part of the devil’s advocate.

  “I’m in the same position as you, Jan,” Nathan said. “I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going on. Perhaps this is his style.”

  “Nathan, his style could get us killed. I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that both my instructor and the LSO were thoroughly unimpressed. We need to do something about this.”

  “Assuming you’re right, what do we do? We are student pilots. He’s the chief flight instructor. Do you want to take the matter directly to him, or go over his head to the captain?”

  Janine blinked a few times in rapid succession. “Do you think we should?”

  Nathan sighed, then shook his head. “He’s a tremendous instructor. I learn more from him in one flight session than I do in a week with my usual instructor. And Emma Hinton is a great pilot. I can’t believe Worsfold is acting against our best interests.” He placed his hands flat on the table. “I am willing to stick with him a bit longer. I think he’s pushing us with a purpose in mind.” Nathan s
hrugged and smiled lazily. “At least I hope that’s the case.”

  “So your suggestion is to do nothing and hope we survive the next two months. That doesn’t sound like the old Nathan Telford.”

  “I don’t see Worsfold as a threat. He is pushing us because we are at the top of the rankings. I want to believe he’s trying to get the best out of us.” Nathan absently rubbed at the bump above his right eyebrow. “I’ll tell you what — if you want to take your concerns to him, I’ll back you.”

  Nathan took a long drink of his cool fruit juice to soothe his parched throat.

  Janine sat for some time, running her finger around the rim of her cup. She stared at him. “All right, I’ll leave it for the time being, but let us make a pact now. If either of us fails to live through this course, the other fronts the captain about Worsfold. Agreed?” Janine offered her hand to seal the deal.

  Nathan shook it. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Date: 5th December, 321 ASC.

  Position: ANS Chiron, standing off the Andimilos Archipelago.

  Status: Hares and Hounds.

  No one complained about Worsfold’s brutal regime on the day the last of them completed phase three. The fast trap into the Needle, under full power. With Chiron’s engines stirring a mass of burble, the final exercise could not have been imagined when they had commenced flight training.

  Worsfold’s relentless badgering had paid off, and every pilot in both Epsilon and Kappa flights had passed — as one comedian instructor put it — with flying colors, two weeks ahead of schedule.

  The commander had smiled for the first time in months. The captain authorized the opening of the liquor cabinet. The Warren transformed into a suitable venue for a much-anticipated celebration.

  Following a time-honored tradition, instructors were invited into their domain. Each trainee told a story about their primary instructor. Knowing better than to go too far, the grommits restricted the scope of their humorous anecdotes. In turn, the instructors returned the favor. Although the trainees cringed — when not laughing at one of their own — the harmless banter served its purpose.

  During the tell-tale part of the evening, Worsfold made an appearance and joined them for a drink. His status as a living legend had been restored. He had eased up slightly on Nathan, but still expected him to do the impossible on the odd occasion.

  The following day, the two flights went out separately with a fifteen-minute window between them. Trainees and instructors alike eagerly awaited the first full day of tactical fighter interdiction training: old style dog-fighting the Corps called Hares and Hounds.

  One-on-one TFI exercises were a critical component of flight training. With the primary flight training taking absolute priority, TFI had been sadly neglected. They had done more dog-fighting exercises in the last four days than they had in all of their flight training combined. Except, of course, when the ensigns managed to sneak some combat time in the sims.

  After months of the mundane exercises, this phase of their training resulted in a unanimous chorus of approval. The adrenaline rush produced by the simulated combat sorties took hours to come down from.

  Nathan had noted, with some concern, a change in some of the trainee pilots’ attitudes. It began with the odd comment, then a joke followed by a ceremonious puffing of the chest. Nothing he had encountered during his training scared him as much as having a wingman with god-like aspirations. They were an outstanding group of young pilots, but as Skipper had said on many occasions, there was no room in a combat sphere for a swollen head.

  CHAPTER 8

  Time: 10th December, 321 ASC.

  Position: Planetoid Cos, Ithacan system.

  Status: High gravity (advanced) atmospheric flight training.

  Chiron’s trainee pilots had passed carrier qualification with two weeks to spare. Their reward for finishing training early was an ongoing series of tactical fighter interdiction exercises.

  Chiron acted as an enemy capital ship and the grommits were given the task of penetrating her fighter screen and successfully attacking her. Some came close, but most were intercepted well before they breached Chiron’s defense envelope. Nevertheless, the experience had been invaluable. The age-old tactics learned at the academy had to be changed on the hop. Innovation became the key ingredient, and post mortems of the day’s unsuccessful sorties gleaned a new understanding of how tactical space warfare worked on a large scale. The instructors took time with their charges to discuss tactics, often into the wee hours of the morning. It recharged the trainees and gave them a renewed sense of wonder with regard to their new professions. The seasoning would come with time.

  As an afterthought, Commander Worsfold added another cherry onto their cake. Five days of advanced flight training around the planetoid Cos was seen by some as a reward, but by most as the greatest challenge they had thus far encountered. Cos had claimed more lives than any other area in training command.

  The small lava rock spun rapidly on its axis, providing the airless world with a gravity of one point nine.

  Nathan prepared his morning coffee before joining his best friend at her table.

  “Morning, Moe.”

  “What’s good about it?”

  Like all of the trainee pilots, she was feeling the bone-numbing fatigue.

  “Hey, we’ve passed carrier qualification. That’s good. And in two weeks we graduate fighter training school and get our wings. That’s good.”

  “If I live that long,” Moe said. “I knew Worsfold was a hardass, but the last three months have been murderous. He’s already won hard case of the year award, so how about cutting us a break? I can barely drag myself out of my rack in the morning.”

  “Only two weeks to go, my friend. You’re tough enough to last two weeks, aren’t you?” Around a wry smile he added, “Or are you getting soft?”

  “Hey, hotshot, I can outlast you any day of the week.” She smiled sweetly. “Just because you’re the chief flight instructor’s pet project, you’re getting off light compared to the rest of us.”

  “My oldest and dearest friend, get stuffed.” He knew she was baiting him, but couldn’t help responding. “Am I flattered that Commander Worsfold has allocated so much of his time to tutor me? Yes, of course I am. He’s a fabulous instructor. But getting off light? I’ve been complaining about him for the last three months. Do you have a memory problem? Or is it a general brain fart?”

  Moe could no longer control her neutral expression. Her laughter drew Nathan in.

  “So why is Worsfold on your case?”

  He shrugged. In reality he had no idea.

  “Hey whatever the reason, it’s worked. You are a shoo-in for the Ellison trophy.”

  “It’s not over yet. And you’re only a few points behind me.”

  “Fourteen isn’t a few, Nate.”

  He yawned. “I thought four years at the academy was tough, but this is …” Nathan shook his head. The words left him before he could form the sentence.

  “Perhaps it’s training command’s policy to stress us out,” Moe said. “You know, simulating battlefield conditions.”

  “Maybe.”

  After breakfast they kitted up: light armor over regulation V-suits.

  Their third day on the rock began as their first had. Nathan and Moe strode toward their boats. “I’ve got a feeling they’re going to qualify us in high gee today,” Moe said. “I really do.”

  “Hope you’re right,” Nathan said. “Another week of ‘get your nose up, Mister Telford’ and I might fly into a mountain to spite him.”

  “Oh, what’s the matter, teacher’s pet,” Moe teased. “Is the big bad commander all over your case?”

  Nathan’s eyes narrowed. She knew how much he hated the term. So the commander had taken a special interest in him. So what? Worsfold could be picky to the point of being pedantic.

  “If they pair us up for Hares and Hounds today,” he said, “I�
�ll be all over you like flies on a carcass, Ensign Okuma.”

  Moe bit her lip and shivered mockingly. Nathan chuckled as he took the gantry steps two at a time.

  “Good morning, Mister Telford,” Worsfold said.

  “Mornin’, Skipper.”

  “Are you up to doing some circuits and bumps today?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very well, then.” The commander’s mouth warped. “If you remember to keep your nose up, I’ll consider it.”

  “Generous as always, Skip.”

  “Let’s get about it, then.”

  Moe might be right about today. It felt … special, somehow.

  Nathan strapped into his chair that sat on the topside of the fuselage. He made a cursory examination of the hangar, noting the access gantry had withdrawn, and the surrounding pier began to separate.

  “SMC, Epsilon One online,” Nathan said in his calm, unhurried baritone.

  “Epsilon One, SMC online, Sir,” the computer acknowledged. With the complexities associated with space travel, no vessel could afford to be without the services of a shipboard management computer.

  “SMC, set status of sphere: real time, non-magnification. Prepare for drop sequence.”

  “Sphere set on real time, non-magnification. Drop sequence initialized. Standing by, Sir.”

  “SMC, drop position on my mark.”

  “Confirmed, on your mark, Sir.”

  “Mark!”

  The iris snapped open, the top cover panel slid aside and the chair dropped into the sphere. The aperture and panel snapped shut above him with a dull metallic clank, an instant after his head cleared it.

  His logic told him a spherical chamber covered by seamless holographic panels surrounded him with a real-time image of the hangar area. His mind told him he floated in mid-air within a gravity-free environment, but his other self would battle against his natural instincts for some time. Monitors and their fighter complement did not stand off from an enemy exchanging massive salvos of torpedoes. They were close-in attack vessels that had to get near to an enemy to do damage. A clear range of view in all directions came in handy.