First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2) (23 page)

“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.”

Of course he will.

“So, not your favorite officer, then?”

“He’s an arsehole.”

Nathan glanced up from his beer. The steward froze as if expecting a rebuke. 

“Arsehole?” Nathan considered the overhead. “Arsehole. I recall the expression from an old movie. Hmm, it has a ring to it.”

Clive jammed a cloth into his mouth to stop laughter from bursting out. “It has a ring to it,” he mimicked. “Good one, Mister Telford.”

“That’s an interesting accent you have, Clive.”

“Raised on the wrong side of the Thames River. Cockney born and bred.”

“So what brings you here?”

“Well, it wasn’t the posters sayin’ join the navy and see Tunguska.” He snorted. “The magistrate gave me a choice. Army, navy or four years in stir. So, ’ere I am.”

“Well, Clive, it’s not the worst posting you could get, is it?”

“Chief steward on board this floatin’ palace? Money for jam, Mister Telford, money for jam.” Clive paused and appeared to be in two minds about continuing. “Ah, sir, can I give ya a piece of advice. Off the record?”

Nathan tapped his left epaulet.

“Admiral Grace, sir,” Clive whispered. “Watch yourself with him.”

Nathan nodded.

“There’s a story been circulating throughout the fleet for years.” Clive checked that no one was within earshot. “Apparently Grace was out walkin’ one day and got bitten by a deadly snake. Well, they called the medicos and worked on him with every gram of expertise they could muster. Unfortunately their best efforts came to naught.” He grinned. “The snake died.”

Nathan chuckled, but got the point. By the time the dinner chime sounded, he had finished his beer and ordered another.

“Nice chatting with you, Clive.” He winked. “Keep out of mischief.”

Nathan left the bar and its colorful steward and approached the long table which ran across the room in front of the wide view-plate. A steward wearing a white coat over black pants directed him to a seat at the opposite end of the table from where Admiral Grace sat at the head. Twenty guests occupied the other chairs, mainly Bretish officers, with a few civvies and three Francorum naval officers.

The next closest rank to him was one of the Francs. A young junior grade lieutenant.

He sipped his beer while subdued conversations began around him. A tall, narrow officer stepped into the room and approached Grace.

“My apologies, Sir Godfrey,” he said. “I needed to sort out some errant ratings.”

“One does not need to apologize, Commodore Dilley. Welcome.”

Nathan glanced to the vacant seat opposite and sighed. Admiral Grace certainly liked his games. Dilley slumped heavily into his chair and barked out an order for rum.

Nathan chose to take the initiative. He raised his glass and smiled. “Good evening, Commodore.” 

Dilley nodded briefly before casting his attention to the far end of the table.

The game’s afoot.

The dinner moved along at a leisurely pace, and some of the officers made fleeting comments to him. Nathan kept his answers brief. He was on his fourth beer by the time they served coffee.

“Ensign Telford,” Admiral Grace said. “As the
hero
of the Genevieve Incident, perhaps you could regale us with a story of your exploits on that mission.”

“Admiral,” Bradman began, “Ensign Telford was one of many who—”

“Oh, come now, Steven, you are not going to deny me some light entertainment, are you?” The admiral would have his fun, regardless. “Or perhaps Ensign Telford would prefer to discuss turning his weapons on to Staffordshire?”

Commodore Dilley’s head snapped around. “So you’re the oath who painted one of my ships?” 

“I told you I would have a treat for you, Wendell.”

Wendell?

“One is most appreciative, Sir Godfrey.”

Nathan sipped his coffee.

“Ensign Telford,” Dilley snapped, “would you care to explain to me why you locked your weapons on to my vessel?”

“Standard operating procedure, Commodore.”

“Blast your SOP, Ensign — why did you train your weapons onto my ship?”

“I didn’t train my weapons. Only my targeting scanner. Commodore.”

“Weapons, scanner, it matters not. Why did you do something so reprehensible to a League ally?”

“Respectfully, Commodore, why did you fail to answer my challenge?”

“Impudent rapscallion,” Dilley blurted. He turned to a captain seated beside him and muttered a complaint. The captain nodded. When Dilley looked away, a short smile darted onto her face and she winked.  

Grace chuckled. From the corner of his eye, Nathan caught Bradman eyeing him.

“Priceless, Ensign Telford.” Grace smiled predatorily. “Now, tell us about the Genevieve Incident.”

“Respectfully, Admiral, I would prefer not to.”

“One would prefer that you did.” The grin remained fixed but the admiral’s expression turned toxic. “Now be upstanding, young sir, and regale us with your feats of outstanding valor.”

Nathan stood and faced his audience. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “There was vicious hand-to-hand combat. People dying horribly all around me. By the time we got aboard the Picaroon, the Franc women had been pack-raped by those animals. A good friend of mine had been captured and tortured to death. They crucified him.”

“Enough!” The admiral’s grin had fled, replaced by a horrified scowl.

“And the blood. Oh yes, Admiral,
one
should never forget the stench of death and the countless buckets of blood.”

“Silence!” Grace leapt to his feet, his face contorted into a cherry-red grimace.

“Aye-aye, Admiral.” Nathan resumed his seat and called for a refill of coffee.

He remained silent throughout the rest of the dinner. Admiral Grace had apparently lost interest in him.

At the conclusion of dinner, the tour of the KC got underway. The admiral and his aide led the way, with Bradman and the Franc captain dogging his tracks. A few Bret naval guests and some civvies made up the rest of the touring party. Being the most junior rank, Nathan followed in their wake.

They started with an inspection of the engineering deck. Nathan stopped describing his surroundings with words like massive, immense, colossal, which were so clearly redundant. He had never in his life seen a more spotless engineering section. Almost too perfect.

“This deck,” Grace said, “contains not one reactor room, but four.” He barked a hearty laugh. “Just let someone try to bring down our shields.”

While they strolled to the next section, Grace waved his hands about him. “This entire BP is covered by heavy-duty shield blisters with triple redundancies. Battle armor was an afterthought.” He grinned. “Three meters thick, of course.”

“When this facility goes online next week, it will be fully automated. The latest generation of our state of the art Polyphemus computer system will control the King Charles. We will keep a token crew aboard, but this effectively frees up an enormous workforce and will save us a fortune.”

Beside Nathan, a young Franc lieutenant pursed his lips and shook his head ever so slightly.

“Now let us see the command and control center.”

They turned in to a long corridor. Nathan noted the thick red line stretching its width. Grace stopped before a battle steel hatch and tapped the wall-mounted comm panel.

“Poly, admit to the C and C,” Grace said. “Authorization Grace, alpha thirteen.”

The outer and two inner hatches slid aside. As with everything else on the KC, its command center was overly large. Work stations filled the room from bulkhead to bulkhead. Oddly enough, off to one side was the barroom and dining area they had occupied earlier.
What a strange setup.

“Only forty personnel are required to run the command side of the King Charles, plus a few maintenance crews and the small harbormaster staff. Ninety-seven percent of all functions will be computer-controlled.”

A short Bretish officer, older by far than Grace, snapped to attention before him.

“Welcome, Sir Godfrey,” he said, while sparing the others a nominal glance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Captain Cowdry. The foremost expert on the Polyphemus computer network. All is well, I trust, Desmond.”

“Of course, Sir Godfrey.” He turned to his audience. “There is no force known to exist capable of threatening the King Charles Battle Platform. Certain details relating to our defense network are classified, but I can assure you this is the most secure installation ever constructed.”

The captain of the Francorum battleship Montcalm

cleared his throat. “What if your computer is compromised?”  

“That is quite impossible.” Cowdry’s face distorted as if the Franc had murdered his cat.

“One should not overreact, Desmond,” Grace soothed. “Captain Roussel was posing a hypothetical question, I am sure.” 

“Yes, yes, of course, Sir Godfrey.” Cowdry cleared his throat. “When this system goes fully online, it will be totally protected. If anyone attempts to interfere or tamper with its programming, which I assure you is quite impossible, the system will recognize the intrusion, trace its source and advise the appropriate authorities. This complex is a fully independent, self-sustaining entity. Since this system is unlinked to any outside network, it is only accessible by personnel in this center. And only two people on the battle platform have access to those protocols.”

The young Franc beside Nathan again shook his head.

“What if an attack force fights its way onto this platform and captures your C and C?” Roussel asked.

While Cowdry began hyperventilating, Grace chuckled. “I would love to see someone try that, Commodore Roussel.” To Cowdry he said, “Desmond, I think a little demonstration will set our allies’ minds at ease. Yes?”

Cowdry’s expression of bafflement faded. “Ah, yes, yes, Sir Godfrey.” He raised his scratchy voice. “Commander Illingworth?”

The Bret officer turned from his board and snapped to attention. “Yes, Sir.” Although in his forties, he was one of the youngest people on the deck.

“Commander, contact Barnham and have her send through a drogue.”

“Captain, shall I bring the station to action stations?” 

While Cowdry groped for words, Admiral Grace answered. “No need for that, Commander. We would get no warning if this was a real attack. Yes? Oh, and let us make it interesting for our guests, shall we? Four drogues, I think, yes, four, if you please, Commander.”

“Aye-aye, Admiral.” Illingworth leaned over the communications station. 

It took only minutes to set up the attack.

“Sir, Barnum is standing by.”

“Very well, Commander.” Cowdry glanced expectantly at Grace, who nodded sharply. “Commence the exercise.”

Illingworth acknowledged, and Nathan began counting in his head. Twelve seconds passed.

“Sir, unauthorized object detected in the channel,” an officer reported. “It is not transmitting League identification friend or foe frequency.”

“Very well,” Illingworth said, turning to Cowdry. “Sir, unauthorized object detected. Suggest we go to action stations.”

“Very well, Commander.”                   

A dull drone sounded three times and the lights dimmed.

“Sir, object does not respond to our challenge.”

Must be a Bret.
Nathan subdued a smile.
 

“Captain—”

Cowdry waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Just do what is necessary, Commander.”

“Sir, all weapons are at your disposal,” a tech said.

“Very well.” Illingworth nodded. “Weapons control, one Mark Fifteen torpedo, conventional warhead only. Lock on to the bandit.”

“Lock on is confirmed, Commander.”

He waited until the drogue cleared of the channel.

“Fire.” 

The glow from the torpedo’s wake illuminated dark space as it streaked through the gloom. Fifteen seconds later it detonated with a brief, fiery blast.

“Bandit destroyed, Sir.”

“Sir,” the tech said, “I have three more bandits approaching at high speed.”

Again Illingworth delayed. Destroying the drogues should not be a problem. They were not equipped with countermeasures or weapons. So why delay?

“Target lead vessel with one Mark Fifteen torpedo, conventional warhead.”

“Sir, locked on to lead ship.”