The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  Nathan’s forward holo panels showed a Cobra-class Pruessen fighter. As he closed with the enemy, his pulsars blasted at its defenses. The moment he pressed the firing stud, his opponent flipped his craft through her axis, displaying her narrowest aspect. Two SR missiles burst from the tubes as a flurry of pulsar fire tore at his fighter. Nathan banked away from the missile while simultaneously sending out a wave of weapons countermeasures. His opponent’s attack had been gutsy but had left him floundering directly within Nathan’s crosshairs. They both fired at the same instant. He sent a sustained focused beam into the enemy’s exposed cockpit, which tore apart. Beams from his opponent stuck his port dorsal, knocking out one stealth engine.

  “Got you,” Lucky screamed from Outrider Four. “It’s taken weeks, but I finally got you.”

  Nathan smiled as Whitney’s laughter continued. Since the incident in the Triton Archipelago, Whitney had started to listen to advice rather than taking it as a personal attack. Accordingly, his flying had improved beyond measure. Along with his attitude.

  “Yeah, Lucky, not bad,” Nathan conceded.

  “Sour grapes, Nathan?”

  Nathan sighed. Whitney still had a way to go. “Not at all. That was the best piece of flying I’ve seen from you. But Lucky, it got you killed.”

  “The way you were waxing my tail, I was dead anyway. At least this way I took you with me.”

  “Fair enough.” He wondered how Whitney would react against a real enemy firing real weaponry.

  If Nathan had learned nothing else from the past three days of TFI sessions, he now knew Bradman honored a fair bet made. The day after settling into the high orbital holding pattern, Bradman let his birds fly.

  Once again the combat sphere showed its adaptability. Any scenario could be displayed during training exercises, showing any vessel in any combat scenario. The chances of running into a Pruessen presence was minimal, but Nathan found shooting up a Cobra to be cathartic.

  “Outrider Five, Insolent.”

  “O/R Five.”

  “Are you having a nice time playing fly-boy, Nathan?” Toni had lightened up considerably in the last three days. Probably because Bradman’s mood had improved.

  “Fighter pilots don’t play, Lieutenant. We practice for the real thing.”

  “Ah huh. I have been asked to advise you that Outriders One and Two have cleared the boat.”

  Nathan’s spine straightened. “Common transmission frequencies?”

  “Negative, on common transmissions.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up, Toni. O/R Five out.”

  “Boss and Dash?”

  “No doubt.” Nathan checked his six.

  “What’s the plan?”

  Over his right shoulder, Nathan saw a ripple of darkness obscure the star patterns.

  “Come about, now! Full ahead.”

  He fired a wide-dispersion pulsar pattern, in the hope of throwing off the attacker’s aim. Lucky joined in and together they pushed through the attack. If this boat was Boss, where was Dash?

  His Prep would be of no good to him in this situation. He was only in danger of being embarrassed. Having flown against these two superb pilots before, he had a fair idea of their individual tactics. If Boss came in alone, then Dash would have to be…

  “Break away, break, break, break.”

  The fighters veered away to port and starboard. Twin focused beams ripped through the space they had just vacated. Dash followed in the volley’s wake, but Nathan found himself out of position to take a shot.

  “Lucky, talk to me.”

  “Damn they’re good. How did you know—”

  “Shit, Whitney, we don’t have time for this. Do you see them?”

  “Negative.”

  This far from the distant primary, spotting a black boat in murky space became nearly impossible. His passive sensors would be of little use against a stealth fighter.

  “They’re playing Hares and Hounds with us, Lucky. I don’t like that one little bit.”

  “Yeah, me either. Any ideas?”

  A smile creased the left side of his face. “The tethered goat?”

  “Oh crap, not again,” Whitney groaned.

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “No.” Silence for a few seconds. “I guess it’s my turn, so let’s go.”

  “Remember, Dash likes to come in on your six, but Boss prefers a frontal attack. Ah, generally.”

  “Got it. Going active. One ping, now.”

  O/R Four engaged his active sensors. The fighter lit up Nathan’s sensors. A flame inviting lethal mosquitoes to attack.

  “Contacts, astern and ahead. Sending coordinates.”

  Nathan pushed his throttles full forward, turning his fighter toward Lucky’s position. He had to be fast or the “enemy” would have Whitney for lunch.

  “I’m taking fire from astern,” Lucky yelled. “Oh crap, I think it’s Boss.”

  “Hang in there, I’m on my way.”

  O/R Five hurtled to Lucky’s rescue. Before he saw the fighters, his sim-com showed the unmistakable signature of pulsar fire. Lucky was fully defensive and, as much as his flying had improved, he could not shake free of Boss.

  High above him he caught a ripple streaking directly for Lucky’s boat. Nathan continued on as if he had not noticed her, and waited. If she was going to launch S/R missiles, she would have done so by now. Dash would close with the embattled Lucky, waiting until the last possible moment. Then she would rip him to pieces at close range with pulsars. Nathan switched from missiles to fine beam pulsars mode and waited. The same way dogfights had been played out over the centuries, everything happened in seconds.

  Nathan swung in behind her and raised the nose of his fighter while depressing the firing stud. The pulse beams tore through Dash’s undersides along her starboard dorsal, knocking out her stealth engine. O/R Two spiraled away to his port side. With Dash out of the way, he could now help Lucky. And he needed help. Boss had closed to extreme energy weapons range and was preparing to fire.

  He closed with the “Cobra”.

  “Lucky, turn to port on my mark. Three, two—”

  Boss fired and Lucky died. Too late.

  O/R One’s simulated cockpit filled his cross-hairs. He fired a two-second focused burst, the canopy exploded and the pilot turned to bloody pulp.

  His fighter bucked as pulse beams ripped along his starboard dorsal. He veered to port with a vicious eight-gee turn. Two missiles waited for him.

  “You are dead. You are dead,” the SMC droned.

  They returned to the boat in line astern formation. By tradition, the first of their number to be splashed led the way. Boss followed with Nathan in tow and the victorious Dash bringing up the rear. He would enjoy, if enjoy was the word, discussing how she had gotten her systems back online so quickly. Nathan should have had a lot more time up his sleeve.

  Back on the boat he retrieved, discarded his helmet and gloves and jogged to Outrider Two’s pier. Boss and Lucky were already waiting at the edge of the gantry.

  “You were a bit late to the party, Nathan.” Lucky’s sour expression changed in an instant. “But you got Boss, so it wasn’t a complete loss. I guess I wasn’t so lucky today.”

  “You get that.”

  “Nicely done, Nathan,” Chappell said. “I haven’t seen anyone doing a McCudden in years.”

  “A what?” Lucky asked.

  “It’s an ancient expression from old Earth’s first world war,” Nathan replied.

  “James McCudden,” Boss added, “was a fighter pilot who got so close to the enemy before firing his guns that he often returned from a patrol with a thin film of his enemy's blood covering the front of his aircraft. Hence the term, Doing a McCudden.”

  “I’ve got to read more,” Lucky said. “But Nathan got you cleanly enough, hey, Boss.”

  “Yeah, I improperly assumed that … O/R Two had gotten him off my six.”


  “It wasn’t for lack of trying, I assure you, Boss. How the hell did Dash get her systems back online so quickly?”

  Chappell smiled in that all-knowing way which made him suspicious.

  The pier slid into place around Outrider Two. While the pilot retrieved, Chappell crossed her arms, a smile forming. The Cheshire FOO? Lucky glanced at him curiously, and Nathan shrugged. With the assistance of the pier commander, the pilot removed gloves, undid straps before finally slipping off the helmet.

  “Holy shit!” Lucky gasped.

  Chappell chuckled. Nathan gaped.

  Captain Bradman strode to where they waited.

  “Really, Esther? You got splashed by a grommit?” He shook his head.

  “Wouldn’t have been a problem if my wingman kept the grommit off my six.”

  Nathan could not recall seeing the skipper grin before. Bradman turned to Nathan, pursed his lips and nodded, ever so slightly. The back of Nathan’s neck burned.

  CHAPTER 34

  Date: 20th March 322 ASC.

  Position: Insolent, sitting in holding pattern, far Cimmerian orbit. Bretish Commonwealth space.

  Status: Alert stand down.

  “Captain,” Reiffel said over the comm, “I have an incoming transmission from Admiral Grace.”

  “Very well, Antonia, put it through.” Bradman blew air out between rounded lips and shut down the briefing room holo display. His comm beeped. “Bradman.”

  “Good day to you, Captain Bradman.”

  “And to you, Admiral Grace. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, nothing momentous, I assure you. As one might imagine, I have been quite busy in preparation for the launching ceremony of our newest battle platform. However, my aide has quite properly reminded me of my tardiness. I have had military captains from every League world over for a tour of our new facility, but with one thing and another I have neglected the two latest arrivals. This evening will be quite an informal affair, Captain, a few of my staff plus you and your, ah, what do you call your first officer?”

  “Operations Officer.” Bradman hoped his voice did not betray his feelings. He hated these pompous ‘informal affairs.’ “I’m afraid I cannot oblige you in that regard. Standing orders require that either the captain or the D-O must be aboard at all times.”

  “D-O?”

  “Operations Officer. Double-O, or more commonly, D-O.”

  “How quaint.”

  Bradman cringed at Grace’s patronizing tone.

  “And you say you are unable to bring your, ah, D-O with you?”

  “I am but a humble servant of the Athenian Republic, Admiral. We all follow the rules, do we not?” At least Reiffel would avoid the ordeal.

  “Indeed so, Captain, indeed so. What? Please excuse me for a moment.” The channel went mute for a few seconds. “My trusty aide has once again come to the fore. If your D-O is unavailable, then bring along that cheeky young fellow who had the temerity to threaten one of my cruisers. What was his name again?”

  “Ensign Telford. But I don’t think—”

  “Captain Bradman,” Grace said, “I trust you will not curtail our entertainment. A young fellow who had the effrontery to threaten a cruiser with one of your little fighters should prove to be a highly amusing dinner guest. Yes?”

  You wanna bet.

  “As you wish, Admiral.”

  “Excellent. Dinner begins at 1800 hours tonight; one would be delighted to have you arrive earlier for cocktails. Yes?”

  “Aye-aye, Admiral.”

  ***

  Nathan peered through the forward view-plate of Landing Boat One. The King Charles Battle Platform appeared big from a distance, but up close the scale of the structure staggered the mind.

  “The Brets certainly don’t do things by halves,” Lieutenant Jay Chai said.

  “The word overkill comes to mind, Bird,” Nathan said.

  “See that,” Bird said, pointing above.

  Nathan tugged at the high collar of his dress uniform and followed the course of Bird’s finger. A dozen defensive pulsar turrets tracked their approach.

  “Like I said, overkill.”

  Nathan had nothing against gun crews practicing their craft, but something about the whole King Charles attitude yelled, “look at me.” Although he had heard the Brets were good in a scrap, their current attitude balked at that hard-fought-for reputation. If Admiral Barrington was anything to go by, they could probably be handy in a fight.

  One of ten boat bays stood open, and at this distance he could see nothing through the view-plate but the battle platform. This “end view”, Nathan reminded himself, represented the narrowest aspect of the KC.

  Bird received landing clearance and Nathan returned to his seat next to the captain.

  The softening in Bradman’s attitude, since entering Cimmerian space, had fled. Nathan suspected that, as with himself, the skipper did not relish the forthcoming social gathering.

  The LB touched down, and Nathan opened the port hatch. Bradman stopped by the hatch and turned to the flight deck.

  “Lieutenant Chai, with any luck we should be back in a couple of hours. Take advantage of the KC’s commissary. I’m told it serves something more appealing than bog stew.”

  “Thanks, Skipper,” Bird said, “shall do.”

  The moment they stepped onto the deck, Nathan’s head swam as a mild case of agoraphobia swept over him. The boat bay could easily accommodate an attack boat. An officer approached.

  “Captain Bradman?”

  “Yes.”

  The Bret glanced at Nathan, amusement touching his lips. “And Ensign Telford?”

  Nathan snapped to attention. “Aye, Sir.”

  “Welcome aboard the King Charles Battle Platform,” he said, shaking Bradman’s hand. “I am Captain Alistair Tufnell, aide-de-camp to Admiral Sir Godfrey Grace. One would be delighted to meet any special needs you may have during your stay with us. Please, do not hesitate to ask.”

  One would like one to stop referring to one in the third person.

  Bradman nodded.

  “Very well, if you would be good enough to step this way?”

  They followed the Bret captain through a series of broad corridors and into a lift which took forever to get to its destination. After marching through more corridors, they finally passed through an huge blast hatch and entered an enormous room. The far wall was a solid, rectangular block of clear composite. The clear screen had been set to maximum magnification so that the Grand Channel appeared to rest at its center, although it was twenty thousand kilometers away. A cluster of brass congregated near a broad, ornate lounge area on the starboard side of the room. Seated in a plush, dark beige chair, an elderly Bretish admiral glanced at the two Athenians as they approached.

  Captain Tufnell waited until the admiral deigned to acknowledge him. Breaking from his conversation, the admiral nodded to his aide.

  “Admiral Sir Godfrey Grace, may I present Captain Steven Bradman of the Athenian warship Insolent.”

  “Welcome aboard, Captain Bradman.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  He glanced over the skipper’s shoulder.

  “And who do we have here, Captain?”

  “As requested, Admiral, this is Ensign Telford.”

  The admiral barked out a hollow laugh. “So, Ensign, you are the young tear-away who has been harassing my ships?”

  Not for the first time in his life, Nathan wondered if this was a rhetorical question. The admiral’s eyes narrowed.

  “Ensign, answer the admiral,” Bradman snapped.

  “Aye, Sir.” Nathan stood rigidly to attention. “Admiral Grace, I only lock my weapons on to enemy vessels. Or those who fail to answer my challenge.”

  Admiral Grace laughed again. This one lacked conviction. “There, see, I told you this young spitfire would not disappoint.” The surrounding officers either nodded or indulged their CO with polite laug
hter.

  “Very well, gentlemen, one does not stand on ceremony here. This is an informal gathering. Please, avail yourself of refreshments. Dinner will be served presently.”

  Grace returned to his conversation. Bradman set a course for the bar, Nathan on his wing.

  “Caledonian whiskey,” Bradman said to the bar steward, holding up two fingers. He downed the double and ordered another.

  “Starting early, Steven?” Admiral Barrington said.

  Nathan snapped to attention. Barrington smiled and shook her head.

  Bradman’s tension eased immediately.

  “So, is anyone going to buy a girl a drink?”

  Bradman relaxed noticeably, pointed to his glass, and held up one finger to the steward.

  “Cheers,” she said. Their fine crystal glasses clinked together.

  “You’re not indulging, Mister Telford?” She tilted her head to the skipper. “You haven’t forbidden him from taking some much-needed pain relief, have you, Steven?”

  Right, the jury is in. Barrington is all right by me.

  “Unless Mister Telford’s arm is broken, he is capable of ordering for himself, Jemima.”

  Stewards hovered expectantly.

  Nathan cleared his throat. “One would greatly enjoy a cold beer.” Both senior officers smothered laughs. “One would prefer Oceanian beer, if one is available.”

  “Coming right up, Sir.”

  Fighting back a powerful smile, Bradman leaned in to his ear. “Knock it off.”

  “Aye-aye, Skip.” Nathan did not need powerful instincts to know he was the fifth wheel on this ground car. He disengaged from the twosome and moved along the bar and out of earshot.

  “One Oceanian beer, Sir,” the steward said.

  “Thanks.” Nathan took a long sip of the cold, amber liquid and sighed.

  The steward began cleaning a crystal glass with a white cloth. “Occie beer is hard to come by, but I have a small quantity stashed away for special occasions. Give the word, Mister Telford, and they’re yours.”

  “Thank you, Clive,” he said, noting his nametag.

  “We’ve all heard what you did to the Staffordshire, Sir.” Clive grinned.

  “Oh?”

  “Staffordshire’s CO isn’t a bad officer, but he had Commodore Dilley on board when you, ah, intercepted his cruiser. Dilley isn’t well-liked. He doesn’t think he’s doin’ his job till he puts some of my chums on report. You’ll see what I mean. He’ll be ’ere tonight.”