Echo of Tomorrow: Book Two (The Drake Chronicles)

by Rob Buckman

  “We took a few good hits sir, one on the port side, amidships, that took out a large number of the weapon systems on that side, plus the point defense operations center as well.”

  “Again indicating that it wasn’t a random hit,” Scott remarked.

  “Yes, sir, the accuracy of the impact was too precise for it to be random.”

  “Next.”

  “The three major hits were at the base of the superstructure, and intended to take out CIC, again, indicating prior knowledge of this ship’s construction,” Ali said, looking up at Scott. “I think the fourth hit on the forward deck was originally aimed at the same location as the other three, but we got lucky. If that had hit its intended target, I doubt either of us would be here right now, sir.”

  “I agree completely, which begs the point: how the hell did they get a copy of the ships specs, and when?” Scott snapped. There was no answer. “I need to have a word with a few people when we get home.”

  “I sincerely hope so, sir, otherwise we’re going to go into battle with a definite disadvantage.”

  Scott nodded in agreement. “Now, the next item of business,” he said, waiting until the steward had finished refilling his coffee mug. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I want you to come up with a way to eliminate your jobs.” Heads snapped up all around the table.

  “I … I don’t understand sir?” Ali said.

  “I was watching the action yesterday, and the whole setup is too cumbersome. It might’ve worked for surface ships three hundred years ago, but at the speed space battles work, and the number of instant decisions that have to be made, we need to find a faster way to react.”

  “Any idea of a direction we should look?” asked the navigation officer, Lieutenant Dan Foster.

  “No Bill, I’m sorry I don’t. Or I should say, I won’t give you one. I want each of you to examine all possible options independent of each other, and see what you come up with.”

  “But you do have a final objective in mind, right?”

  “Yes, with the numbers of trained officers we have, I’d like to see each of you sitting in his or her own captain’s chair.” That got their attention. “At this level of technology and training, I don’t feel we need an officer at each of the major positions, it’s outdated.” Hearing that, most of them agreed.

  After breakfast, Scott and Hardwick took off for a tour of the ship, both dressed as inconspicuously as possible, a skin suit, cover by an old pair of slacks and shirt. Scott didn’t bother pinning on his shoulder tabs. For three hours they roamed about the ship, visiting the damaged areas in emergency breather gear to survey them. Captain Bingham was right, Scott discovered; the hit on the portside impacted directly across from the portside defense CIC, killing or injuring everybody there.

  “When I find out who’s responsible for this, they’re going to pay a high price, Chief,” he muttered.

  “I hope I’m there to assist, sir,” Hardwick answered.

  “I’ll make it a point to see that you are.”

  Scott visited the hospital, and went from bed to bed talking to each person who was awake, or in a condition to talk. The doctor informed him that twenty-six of the worst cases were in the regeneration tanks. Upon viewing them, he saw these were an update of the cold-sleep tanks he and the others had spent so long inside. This wasn’t cold sleep though. In fact, the liquid in which these people were totally immersed was kept at body temperature at all times. Some of the people had radiation poisoning from the nuclear blast; others were ordinary burn casualties; others missing one or more limbs. By using a combination of regeneration liquid and the mad doctor’s genetic treatment, all of them would be restored to perfect health within one week to three months. Very different from the days when war casualties went home to their wives and family with missing limbs or disfiguring scars, and for that Scott was thankful to the little madman. His last stop was the Marine Corps deck, but the moment he stepped out of the elevator and challenged by the guard, the call “Admiral on deck” echoed through the area.

  “I could have told you sir, there is no way you can hide down here,” Hardwick said with a chuckle. A young Marine Corps major came running up, skidding to a halt, and came to attention.

  “Major Jack Allen reporting, Admiral,” he said, snapping a salute.

  “At ease, I just dropped in for an informal visit,” Scott said, returning the salute.

  “I wish you had informed us you were coming sir, we would have had a proper welcoming committee waiting.”

  “I know, why do you think I dropped in unannounced?” he answered, smiling.

  “About time you showed up, skipper!” Pam Brock commented as she walked up.

  “Sergeant Brock! That’s no way to speak to the admiral,” Allen said, face reddened in anger. “Come to attention and salute!”

  Pam gave him one of those looks, usually intended for some raw recruit who’d asked a stupid question. “Keep your pants on, Major, no disrespect intended,” she growled back.

  “That’s a lie, when have you had any respect for senior officers, Pam? You think we’re a bunch of pencil dicks who don’t know our heads from a hole in the ground!” Scott shot back, breaking military protocol by giving her a hug.

  “That’s true, skipper, but you are the exception.” The young Royal Marine Major who’d tried to chastise her, looked outraged at the implication.

  “Cut him some slack, Pam, he’ll learn,” Scott said.

  “Or he’ll be dead,” she answered, looking over her shoulder, and that comment didn’t go unnoticed either.

  To Major Allen he said, “Let me pay my compliments to the commanding officer, then show me where the poker game is.” The major’s eyebrows shot up. He clearly didn’t know about any poker game going on.

  “Did you bring any money?” Pam gave Scott a suspicious look.

  “Hardwick!” he said over his shoulder.

  “Yes sir, you did.”

  Scott put his arm around the young major’s shoulder, and gently walked him away before he could say something to Pam he might regret.

  “You haven’t been with us long, Major, so a word of caution.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Many of the old marines have been with me a long time.” He smiled, thinking of just how long. “So there is a more informal attitude between us. That means no disrespect to me, or my rank, just their way of showing it.”

  “I think I understand, sir, it’s just something of a shock.…”

  “And not the way you were trained in the British Royal Marines.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I understand. But you’ll find that a certain amount of informality goes a long way, and makes your life a lot easier in the long run.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Scott could see he doubted the advice at the moment, but that would change. The old marines would see to that. They had their ways of bringing a young officer around.

  “These people might look like a bunch of teenagers, but they have a lot of experience under their belts,” Scott continued. “You listen, and they will teach you. Got it?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I … think so.”

  Scott met and talked with the CO, a Lieutenant Colonel Kevin Morrow, and after a reasonable time took his leave. Hardwick had vanished while this was going on, but as Scott exited the marine area, Hardwick reappeared and pointed silently down an adjacent companionway. A five-minute walk brought them to a combat vehicle service area, and way in the back, they found the senior NCO poker game in progress. There was one seat open, and Scott took it.

  “House rules and ante?” he asked, pulling the seat closer to the table. There was no need for introductions, since he knew each and every person around the table.

  “Good. Fresh blood,” Sergeant Mack observed.

  “Looks fat,” Sergeant Rives commented. He wasn’t talking about weight.

  “Lambs to the slaughter,” Scott commented, rubbing his hands together.

  “Watch this one,
I think he cheats,” Pam Brock said in a stage whisper that could be heard across a parade ground.

  “I do not!” Scott retorted indignantly. “It’s just that you lot are such rotten players.” The rude comments that came back gave him a warm feeling, and he knew they still accepted him into the small, intimate circle without reservation. They played for three hours before Scott dropped out, and since he was losing, they weren’t too upset.

  “See you soon, Admiral,” Pam said, speaking for them all. Scott waved and took off, pretending not to see CPO Hardwick deposit a bottle of whisky on the table.

  “Don’t drink it all at once, boys and girls,” Hardwick said.

  “Thanks Chief, look after the skipper for us.”

  “I will that, take my word for it.” Together, they wandered about the ship, no particular place in mind, or direction.

  All in all the New Zealand had come through her first battle in fair shape, considering the pounding she’d taken. Yet sadly, Scott knew she wouldn’t be able to stand up to a first-rate ship of the line. They had to have something a lot tougher and meaner. How they would build something like that with their present understanding of the available technology he didn’t know, just that they’d have to find a way. Devon Hawking was a genius when it came to shipbuilding, but as even he said, you can’t build a railroad until its railroad-building time. What was out there that they missed, or didn’t know about, that was the question. In three hundred-odd years, you’d think they would have come up with some startling new inventions, yet sad to say, he’d seen nothing of the kind. Mostly it was improvements on things he knew. Then again, the rifle didn’t change for almost three hundred years during one period, so maybe he was expecting too much of these people.

  The old HMS Vindicator was a classic example of a ship ahead of its time, a ship so intimidating nothing could stand against it. Not in armor, weapons or training. The Blackbird SR71, the original, was another example, as was the DC3, and that was near indestructible and remained in service long after it was supposed to retire. They needed the same kind of thinking that had produced those and other aircraft, and the technology to make them the enemy’s worst nightmare. Nonetheless, no ship, no matter how powerful, was indestructible, especially against a fleet. How would the Vindicator have stood up to a combined fleet action? Look what happened to HMS Hood. Why they sent what was essentially a battle cruiser against a pocket battleship never did make sense to him. That meant they had to have a fleet of ‘Vindicators’, each protecting the other. Warfare had changed since her day, and with good communications, air cover, multi-targeting warheads, and really massive nuclear, or antimatter weapons, Earth’s new fleet of warships would have to be built tough enough to withstand the onslaught and continue giving out better than she received. A tall order, yet a goal that must be aimed for. Scott sat looking into the distance, weighing his options. They needed a game changer.

  Rather than sit in his cabin, he went on a tour of the ship as it limped back to the shipyards for repair and refit. His first call was to the sick bay, and after checking in with the doctor and medic on duty, he visited the injured men and women who were awake and able to talk. He put on a brave face, talking to each and reassuring them that they’d be hale and hearty again very soon. If that little mad doctor, Kessler, was telling him the truth, there would be no one walking around with missing limbs, or disfiguring scars. It was a comfort in a way, but it didn’t mitigate the losses they’d suffered. Even at a rough tally in his head, he estimated they’d lost several thousand men and women in this engagement. Even Kessler couldn’t bring back the dead. In war, men and women died, and that was a fact. It meant that they needed to build stronger ships, thicker shields and more powerful main armament. That was a tall order with what he had to work with, and yet, there had to be engineers, scientists, and technicians in this world he could use; they just had to find them and put them to work.

  That brought up another possibility. So far, none of his people had had a good look at this world in which they lived. What if somewhere out there, someone had come up with a new way to do something like this? They might not see it as a weapon, but even a sheet of paper could be turned into a lethal instrument if you knew how to use it. While he walked, Scott made a mental checklist of things they had to do immediately.

  The sad truth was, they couldn’t go on for long fighting the aliens this way. So far they hadn’t seen their really big guns. Scott remembered a paper written by Major General Orde Charles Wingate, one of his heroes from the Second World War. Wingate proposed setting up a deep penetration group to cut the enemy supply lines. Once the supplies stopped coming, either the rear, or front commander would order a small, lightly armed group to go and investigate the holdup. Of course they were ambushed, so never reported back. Now the enemy commander had a choice to make, and rather than send back frontline troops, weakening his line, he’d order rear-echelon soldiers to move forward to find out what the problem was, and take care of it. This proved true in Burma, but it wasn’t until his supply of food, fuel, and ammo started to get short that the commander would send back frontline troops to destroy whoever was interrupting his supply line. This wasn’t an easy choice to make, since with reduced supplies, and weakening of his front line, the commander risked the tide of war turning against him.

  The one assumption Scott had to make, based on the evidence he’d seen so far, was that these aliens were in a war somewhere. Why they were taking children and young people remained a mystery. Slave labor for their mines and shipyards? Whatever the reason, they needed a constant supply of slaves, and children and young people were easier to train once subjugated and cowed. Scott could see the same analogy working here. So far the aliens had only sent rear-echelon ships back to sort out the pesky humans, and even a quick analysis of the alien ships showed that many of them had prior battle damage, patched-up hulls sent out to do small cleanup work. That hadn’t worked, and if Wingate was correct, the next lot to show up would be better armed, with better ships and weapons, but still not their big front-line ships. With his limited ship-building capacity in Earth orbit, there was no way Scott could build ships fast enough to match what he knew was coming at them. As Wingate pointed out, it took time for the problem to work its way up the chain of command, but at some point, the big guy at the top would find out. How long that would be was an unknown, but not long, he suspected. He made his way back to his cabin and started back in reading reports, thumbprinting some before sending them back, or adding a note here and there. He was halfway down the stack and picking up the next, he started reading the report. Then he muttered an oath.

  “Shit! Just what we don’t need right now.”

  * * * * * *

  Glen Short came awake to the sound of screaming that slowly faded away. He sat up and looked wildly around him, heart pounding, hands sweating, trying to remember where he was. The small, gray concrete room gave him no clue, other than the hard, bench-like bed attached to the wall, and a metal table bolted to the floor. Another horrible scream penetrated the steel door, sounding as if it came from another room close by. Glen jumped off the bed and rushed to the door, but there was no handle on his side. He pounded on it, making it sound like a drum. In answer, the scream came again, chopped off this time by a heavy thud. Glen backed away until he reached the far wall, pressing his back against it. He remembered leaving work from the machine ship. He looked down, saw he was still wearing his work clothes. Then it hit him; he’d stepped through the swinging door into the changing room and found the lights off. He’d reached for the light switch and then … something had knocked him out. Had he been knocked out by an electric shock, or bumped into something? His mind was blank about that.

  Time passed, but how long he didn’t know, as his wristcomp was missing. The light in the cell, as that was where he concluded this was, went off and on at irregular intervals, or so it seemed. After it went off the first time, he lay down and just as he fell asleep, the light came back on. Had he sle
pt eight hours? It didn’t feel like it, more like half an hour. He lost track of how long it stayed on, just that the hot, overly bright light in the ceiling stayed on a long time, so when it did go off, it was a blessed relief. Now, it felt as if he’d only just dropped off to sleep when the light came back on, burning through his eyelids and forcing him awake. Hunger and thirst gnawed at him as he crawled to and sat in the corner, his head drooping, only to come awake and find the light off. After a while he simply lost track of day or night, as they blurred into one long semi-twilight of not being awake or asleep. The incessant screaming and the sound of someone in great pain left him a shivering wreck by the time the door finally opened.

  The next time Glen came awake, an unfamiliar man in a tailored suit walked in. Behind him came two masked men, each carrying a chair. The first placed a chair on the side of the table, and the man in the suit sat down. The second man placed the other chair on the other side of the table, before both men came over to Glen. They picked him up by the arms, but not roughly, and placed him in the second chair. After that, they went to stand on each side of the now-closed door. Another pain-filled shriek filtered through the steel door, sending a shiver of terror down Glen’s spine.