‘…and you are?’ Trenchard asked with a sneer.
‘Warrant Officer Hilary Cochran Sir, but everybody calls me Scarlet,’ the woman said through panting breaths as she smiled hopefully.
‘I’m sure they do Warrant Officer Cochran,’ Trenchard said, deliberately keeping things formal. ‘…and which fucking genius put you in charge?’
Cochran stared at him blankly, her cheeks beginning to redden. ‘Sorry Sir?’
‘I was sent for,’ Trenchard said testily. ‘I still don’t know quite why or by whom.’
‘Yes Sir. The Captain is waiting to see you Sir, he will explain everything,’ Cochran clarified, tripping over her words nervously.
She was probably still used to the extremely structured protocol of the academy and these larger ships. She obviously wasn’t expecting Trenchard’s informal and rather blunt squaddie approach.
‘…and that would be Captain who?’ Trenchard asked, his patience wearing thin.
‘The Captain ordered me not to say Sir,’ Cochran replied. ‘He says that he “wants to see the look on your face”, Sir.’
Puzzled and increasingly annoyed, Trenchard thoughtfully chewed on his cigarette for a moment and then picked up his kit bag. ‘Better lead on then Cochran,’ he said exasperatedly.
‘Yes Sir,’ said Cochran, turning and bustling away across the hangar bay towards the elevator.
Trenchard watched her closely as she walked away. Cochran was definitely a little too eager to please, but his masculine ego couldn’t help but notice that she had a nice backside. Trenchard had always had a thing for bottoms. He liked a woman with, what he described as “a bit of meat on them”. He’d once got a black eye for voicing that opinion out loud in Mike’s Bar to a young female officer when he was more than a little drunk. He smiled to himself at the memory and followed the nice bottom towards the distant elevator, wondering just who the Captain was that had specifically “requested” him in person.
‘Eighteen!’ the crowd shouted in unison as Cochran led Trenchard into the packed-out mess hall. The smells of fresh coffee and stale cooking fat from the evening meal, drifted across the room and the clanking of cutlery being washed echoed out of a metal hatch at the far end. Towards one side of the mess hall it seemed like every member of the crew had gathered around just one table, eagerly peering over one another’s shoulders at a seated figure that Trenchard couldn’t quite make out. Pieces of paper were changing hands, as were notes and coins. There was obviously some kind of gambling going on.
‘What’s the bet?’ Trenchard shouted to Cochran over the hubbub of the crowd.
Gambling was a common event aboard star-ships. It was a good diversion from the day-to-day drudgery of daily duties and there was always someone ready to bet on something.
‘Captain Collins bet Captain… our Captain, that he couldn’t eat twenty of the canteen chilli-dogs,’ Cochran replied over her shoulder.
‘Fat fucker is he?’ Trenchard snarled, a little unkindly.
Cochran gave him a disapproving look, but ignored the comment.
‘I was hoping that I wouldn’t miss the end of the bet. I’ve got fifty quid riding on the Captain in Kittinger’s book.’
Trenchard looked over towards the table. He could make out a tall figure with dark hair in a Captain’s uniform who towered above the rest. He had his arms folded and a despairing look on his face. That must be Captain Collins, thought Trenchard. The seated figure at the table was still partially obscured by the crowd but Trenchard was beginning to suspect that he might know the competitive eater in question. Only one person that he knew could possibly stomach that much chilli-dog. The same person who at the academy, Trenchard had bet couldn’t force a whole heaped plate of Spaghetti Bolognese into his face in one go. The bastard had done it too. It had cost Trenchard a week’s beer money.
‘Nineteen!’ the crowd roared.
The tall man looked sharply at his watch with a scowl. ‘You have thirty seconds!’
Trenchard elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, where his suspicions were confirmed. Sitting at the table, with chilli sauce running down a napkin that was stuffed into his shirt collar, was a mighty man. He wasn’t what you would call fat, but the man had a frame like an oak barrel. He was easily as tall as Captain Collins and broad with it. He had a jolly face with piercing dark eyes and his hair was shaved either side and then plaited into a long pony tail at the back.
‘Twenty-five seconds!’
The man clocked that Trenchard was watching him, winked and then stuffed the last chilli-dog into his mouth in one go to a wild cheer from the crowd. He stood up, ripped the napkin off, threw it into the air and spread his arms wide in celebration.
Captain Collins shook his head forlornly, ripped up his betting slip and threw the pieces into the air in despair. ‘You’ve fucking done it again, eh?’ said the Canadian Collins, shaking the big man’s hand.
‘Pleasure doing business with you!’ said the large man, wiping chilli sauce away from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Here’s your winnings. See you later at the mat-stat briefing,’ said Collins, handing a bottle of rum over to the big man before turning and walking away, shaking his head and muttering.
The big man turned towards Trenchard with a beaming smile. He held his fist to his chest and let out an extremely loud belch and then grinned. ‘Trench!’ he shouted as he extended a hand like a baseball glove.
‘Bird!’ exclaimed Trenchard. ‘I should have fucking known,’ he said, warmly shaking the man’s outstretched hand.
The big man smiled, ‘Hey, that’s Captain Bird to you,’ he said, pointing to the downward red V on his black sleeve.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Trenchard in surprise. ‘When did you get promoted?’
Captain Bird smiled. ‘About a month ago,’ he said. ‘They’re short of Captains for the new Wolverines and with the pirates cutting the supply lines in half, High Command have made this mission a priority.’ Captain Bird put his big meaty hand onto Trenchard’s shoulder and laughed a deep booming laugh. ‘It’s good to see you again Trench. Let’s go to my cabin and I’ll tell you all about it. I bet you could use a drink?’
Bird waved the prized bottle of rum in front of Trenchard’s face.
Trenchard grinned. ‘You just said the magic fucking word, mate!’
Captain Bird led Trenchard through a maze of corridors to his temporary quarters aboard the Breath of Vengeance. The room was small and spartan but it had a table and two chairs which Bird pointed Trenchard towards as he opened a metal locker and took out two shot glasses. The glasses had the design from Mike’s Bar etched onto them and had clearly been “rescued” from the bar on some drunken escapade long ago.
Trenchard smiled when he saw the glasses. ‘You still have those?’ he asked.
Bird nodded and grinned, idly turning on the holographic viewer on the wall. ‘Of course. After what we went through to get these, they’re my most prized possessions.’
Trenchard nodded towards the viewer ‘Is there something on that you desperately want to catch mate?’
Bird looked at the viewer as if he didn’t even recognise it. ‘What? No, that’s just automatic. I like the company,’ he said turning down the volume as the evening news programme began. ‘How’ve you been?’ Bird asked as he poured two shots of “Black Void” rum from the bottle, then took the other seat himself.
‘Good,’ said Trenchard as he took a deep swig of the strong, spicy, caramel flavoured spirit. ‘I’m in command, correction, WAS in command of a pretty good platoon. That was, until some twat “requested” my transfer. Which leads me to my first pertinent question; why the hell did you request me specifically? I haven’t even seen you since we were posted on Mars and that was… what, four years ago?’
Bird ignored the direct insult; he was used to Trenchard’s unique view of the world. He sipped his glass thoughtfully before answering. ‘I need someone as my X.O. who I can trus
t on board the Might of Fortitude,’ he began. ‘There’s a lot of bad feeling in the ranks these days. They’re throwing recruits through training quicker than I can eat a Cornish pasty, to say nothing of this Technologist cult that all the rookies seem to be in to. It’s completely fubar!’
Trenchard grinned. Fubar was old naval slang. It stood for “fucked up beyond all recognition”.
‘Fortunately, I’ve been able to hand pick my crew,’ continued Bird. ‘So I’ve been able to avoid any potential trouble makers. Admiral Fife owes me a favour or two,’ he said winking. ‘I need someone as my second in command who I know has got my back covered. Ever since that vicious bastard Chang was elected as Vice President, he seems to have been steering things his own way. He’s trying to spread what he did on Mars to the rest of the United Worlds. President Smith’s policies are becoming more and more... sinister.’
Bird threw Trenchard a glance that meant “do you understand?” Trenchard understood completely. The Space Navy used to be a proud force, policing the colonies, upholding the law and keeping the peace. In recent months, Chang’s influence on President Smith had seen a complete lack of mercy. He had cracked down hard on the pirates and the insurgent terrorists and had pressured Smith to re-introduce public executions for the worst offenders to make examples out of them. Everyone knew that section forty-two was just the thin end of the wedge.
Trenchard settled for simply replying, ‘I know what you mean…’
‘Long story short,’ continued Bird more brightly, ‘Tempers get frayed when you’re stuck in a tin can for months on end. I want someone as my second in command with a good deal of common sense in case the shit hits the fan while we’re in deep space; someone who knows how to keep order in the ranks and doesn’t take any crap from the rookies. Someone I trust completely. In short, you Trench.’
Trenchard swigged down his glass and Bird poured them both another.
‘I’m flattered,’ he said. ‘I’ll endeavour to repay your faith in me.’
‘One more thing,’ said Bird as he reached into his pocket. He pulled something silver out and dropped it into Trenchard’s full glass of rum.
Trenchard looked at him as if he had gone insane. ‘What the hell?’
Bird smiled. ‘It’s an old tradition aboard the hunter-killers,’ he explained. ‘These Wolverine’s and Hunters are unlike any other ships in the navy. They’re a different breed of crew. Usually you would have to go through weeks of training to even be allowed to step aboard one. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time for that. I was rushed through the Perisher command course by Admiral Fife. Every officer who tries out for Wolverine command or exec must undertake the Perisher, but we don’t have time in your case! You’ll have to make do with these honorary dolphins.’
Trenchard looked into his glass and saw the silver badge lying at the bottom. He had heard about the tradition. It dated back to when submariners qualified in their basic training. They had to know every inch of the submarine like the back of their hand. If they passed the course, there would be a ceremony up on deck where the Captain would give them a large glass of rum with their dolphin badge at the bottom. The crewmember was supposed to swig down the rum and catch the badge in their teeth.
Trenchard gulped down the large measure of rum in one and bit into the metal badge. It had an oily, metallic taste. He spat it out into his palm and studied it. Two arched dolphins faced each other with the United Worlds emblem at the centre; a star surrounded by eight planets. He carefully pinned the badge over his left breast pocket.
‘How’s that?’ he asked.
‘Well at least you look the part,’ said Bird. ‘You’ll have to learn the rest as you go, but be careful. The crew can be vicious if they suspect you’re a skimmer. Just don’t let them know that you haven’t passed the Perisher, or they’ll eat you alive.’ Bird seemed to relax and poured another shot. ‘Tomorrow I’ll give you the grand tour of the vessel before we launch. Until then… a toast,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘To the Might of Fortitude; long may she sail!’
‘The Might!’ replied Trenchard as he clinked his glass to Bird’s and swigged down the shot in one.
Trenchard’s smile abruptly faded. The viewer screen had suddenly caught his attention. The news broadcast picture was showing a courtyard area with four stout wooden posts mounted into the concrete. Four people were being tied to the posts by U.W.S.N. troopers.
‘Turn that up,’ snapped Trenchard with a grim expression on his face.
Bird moved his hand near to the holographic projection and manipulated a virtual control in mid-air. The volume increased and the news presenter’s voice could be heard narrating over the pictures.
‘…transmission is coming to you live from the naval headquarters of Star-spires on Earth. These four insurgent agitators were convicted today for their part in the Europa uprising. Each has been sentenced to death by firing squad, under section forty-two of the criminal code, an amendment recently introduced by President Smith’s administration…’
Captain Bird studied Trenchard’s anguished face. ‘You know them?’ he asked.
‘I arrested them,’ he replied coldly. ‘They were responsible for the deaths of twelve troopers in my platoon.’
On the screen, black canvas bags were forcibly placed over the chained prisoner’s heads. One young man was clearly distraught; tears were streaming down his face as the bag covered his head. He was shaking and a dark patch gradually spread on the front of his trousers. It was the same man whom Trenchard had held a pistol to his forehead on board the Hand of Valour. The others had blank, almost disbelieving expressions on their faces as the black bags dropped down.
‘We will be switching to audio only in a moment when the actual punishment is carried out…’ said the presenter quietly.
Four troopers stepped forwards. Their visors were down and blacked out and they were wearing black breathing masks over their nose and mouth in order to protect their identities. At a command from their officer, they raised their rifles and took aim.
The screen went black.
Four shots rang out with a loud retort…
After a moment of silence, Trenchard snarled, ‘Turn it off!’
Bird waved his hand through the screen’s sensitive airspace and the picture disappeared. He looked thoughtfully at his friend, who had a tight-lipped expression and thunderous eyes.
‘Did they deserve that?’ Bird asked.
Trenchard looked straight into Bird’s eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied.
CHAPTER 4 “LESSONS”
Extract from the Central Computer Network:
ccn.unitedworlds.co.ert/history/space_navy
In the early days of the United Worlds, there was no single police force to keep the peace across the many different colonised planets. Each world had its own militia, army, navy, air and space force. Territorial disputes were common. The central government on Earth realised that a single military organisation was needed and so the United Worlds Space Navy was created. Its mission was to keep the peace and crack down on any criminal activity or border disputes.
Huge military star-ships were constructed and troopers were recruited from every single colonised planet. The plan was to have a multi-cultural peace-keeping force with representatives from all corners of humanity. Unlike previous military organisations, there was no distinction drawn between the different fighting forces and so it was decided to use one single rank structure for the whole of the Space Navy. Thus, infantry troopers who fought on planet surfaces would have a similar rank structure as their comrades aboard the star-ships. In theory, this would build a better team spirit. To be a part of the Space Navy was considered a great honour. Many stayed on after their initial tour of duty and became career troopers. They took the motto of the Space Navy, “Honour, strength and unity”, entirely to heart…
Trenchard awoke with a start and tried to open his eyes. They were crusted with sleep as if he had been unconscious for days rather than hours
. The bright light above the bed dazzled his vision and he blinked furiously. As he looked around he saw a white room with lines of beds along the walls. In confusion, he tried to raise himself off the pillow, which was damp with sweat. With an effort, he struggled into a sitting position and his vision gradually became clear. A blur beside the bed resolved itself slowly into the familiar shape of Bird, who was sitting and reading from a palm held computer device.
Bird looked up and smiled as Trenchard stirred. ‘Morning Trench,’ he chirped brightly. ‘We thought that we lost you for a while there.’
Trenchard tried to speak but found that his throat was dry and hurt like hell.
‘Whoa!’ cried Bird. ‘Don’t try to speak; your throat was nearly cut through by that black suited bastard. The surgeons have managed to repair everything, but you’ll need plenty of rest before you can talk properly. You lost a lot of blood. It’s going to leave you with one hell of a scar.’ Bird leaned closer and clasped Trenchard’s hand warmly. ‘You were lucky there mate…’
Trenchard nodded in understanding and pointed to the palm computer in Bird’s hands. Bird duly passed the machine over to Trenchard. Trenchard tapped at the screen and a small holographic projector shone the words that Trenchard was typing into the air above the screen in glowing green letters.
HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN OUT?
‘Just over a week mate,’ replied Bird. ‘The Martian uprising is mostly under control now. There are just a few sporadic outbreaks of fighting and the occasional roadside bombing, but we’ve got the R.D. on the run. Dasilva sends his regards.’
WHAT HAPPENED ON THE MISSION?
Bird shuffled uncomfortably and looked down for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. The insurgent leaders were all dead, killed by that guy with the sword who cut you up, so we were unable to question any of them and find out who supplied their weapons. They were all navy issue weapons though, older models, but they had definitely been made by the Papaver Corporation. The thing is, High Command have ordered the matter to be closed. They’ve ordered both of us never to mention that fellow in black with the sword. I had a personal visit from Rear Admiral Turner. She was very clear on the point. It was really weird. They just don’t want to know anything about it.’
The Space Navy Series Books One & Two: Including the Kindle novellas Josiah Trenchard and the Might of Fortitude & Josiah Trenchard and the Morgenstern Page 4