First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

“Nathan Telford.”

“If Nathan Telford is as good as you say he is, then it is your duty, Commander, to avail him of the most stringent training you can provide. Anything less is inexcusable. Bad for you, bad for him, bad for the Corps. Now wake up to yourself or I’ll have you relieved of flight operations.”

“On what grounds?”

“You’ve been dragging your feet ever since Jenny made a very human mistake and got herself killed. It was a tragic accident that you’ve allowed to shackle your better judgment. I’ve reviewed your training schedule for Epsilon Flight, and a blind rat could tell you’ve been playing it safe with these kids. Two weeks of safety protocols before you let them in the sims? That’s crazy! They barely made it through section three, no thanks to you. And you’ve been way too soft on them. That will not do.
I’ve let things slide long enough, Henry, but now is the time for you to decide whether you still want the responsibility that goes with this job or whether it’s become too much for you. Don’t make me decide for you.”

“I can handle the responsibility just fine … Captain.” 

Palter softened her manner and resumed her seat. “We go back a long time, Henry. Remember, we were JGs together on the old Vanguard.”

“I remember.” Worsfold’s smile was reminiscent, yet bleak.

“Do you think I enjoyed talking to you this way?”

“I guess not.”

“I’m concerned about you,” she said, looking at him fondly, “you dope.”

His tight smile was forced; she knew he carried a deep and enduring pain. 

“Tell me more about this wonder boy of yours.”

The spark returned to his features. “He’s got monitor commander written all over him. He keeps a lot of himself hidden, even from his friends, but the natural talent and commitment is there. Telford has a singular quality, a certain indefinable something that marks the exceptional from the talented. Like Waugh.”

“You’re comparing Telford to Donatella Waugh?” Palter’s tone held a note of hushed reverence. Waugh stood as an authentic living legend who had rewritten the book on operations along the northern frontier.

“I think so. He’s got the moves and the guts to back them up.”

“I suppose, if you think Telford’s
that
good,” Palter mused aloud, “then it would be prudent to confirm if he can handle the pressure. If he can’t, then the potential will be lost. Don’t you agree?”

She could tell from his sardonic expression that her less-than-subtle approach had gotten his attention.

“I agree that you play the part of the hard bitch really well.”

Palter smiled sweetly, retaining eye contact. “Who says I’m playing?”

Worsfold chuckled noiselessly. “All right, you’ve made your point. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

Palter sent him her best commanding officer stare. “Don’t think for too long, Henry.”

CHAPTER 4

Date: 19
^th
September, 321 ASC.

Position: Training Ship
Chiron
. Two AUs inside the aphelion of the Ithacan system, Athenian core.

Status: Flight Training, Section four: Carrier Qualification.

With a displacement of one point six million tonnes,
Chiron
did not, in any way, resemble a monitor. She could accommodate twenty TF-51s at a time and currently held boats from both Epsilon and Kappa Flights. Mistakes could be made on
Chiron
that would be disastrous to a tiny monitor escort boat.

Among the many dangers that tested a young pilot, landings rated among the most potentially deadly.

With the rigorous level of instruction meted out to the trainees, and computer-guided approaches (coming in on the beam),
Chiron
’s safety record had been unblemished during her eight years of service.

Chiron
came equipped with three purpose-built landing bays, each specifically designed to test a pilot’s ability to trap aboard a monitor. The landing regime came in three specific phases: the Roof, the Maw and the intimidating environs of the Needle.

Trapping aboard ship was an undeniably vital component of their training, but by no means the only area of expertise required for pilots to gain their wings. Together with traps were the trickier aspects of both N-space and hyperspace navigation, space-capable combat sorties and low-level atmospheric exercises. Simulated combat sorties and one-on-one fighter duels known as Hares and Hounds were prized by the trainees, but were nevertheless a strictly controlled part of their overall performance evaluation.

A dramatic shift in priorities had taken place in the last fourteen days. It appeared to Nathan as if the spirit of a deranged Olympian deity had possessed their previously timid CFI. Except for fleeting lapses into humanity, his smile had turned cold and his manner uncompromising. The students’ hidden inclination to consider him in any way “wary” had disappeared in a blink.

Worsfold had also taken a keen interest in Nathan, who felt flattered that the CFI would allocate so much of his precious time to a single student. However, thus far, nothing Nathan did was good enough for him. If Nathan did something wrong, he got hammered. If he did something right, the commander chose not to comment. Worsfold appeared determined to keep him in a state of perpetual stress.

Why is he gunning for me?

“Epsilon One, you are slightly high on the beam. Adjust your approach.”

“Roger, LSO,” Nathan said.
Damn, where’s my head?

Nathan made a fine trim adjustment that brought his TF-51 onto the beam.

“Epsilon One, I see you inbound and on the beam at two thousand meters out.”

“Thank you, LSO.”

“What happened back there?” Lieutenant Hinton occupied the back seat today, while Worsfold harassed some other unfortunate soul.

“Sorry, Lieutenant, it won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” Her disapproving tone lacked teeth, probably because it was his first lapse in concentration.  

Nathan had left the holding pattern behind him, and the enormous ship nearly filled his forward view panels. The green crosshairs projecting onto the center of his forward holo panels showed his position in relation to the Roof. If he dropped below his glide path, the horizontal green line would dip and glow red. If he strayed off the beam, the vertical marker would act the same way. Simple, really.

“Epsilon One, LSO, you are on the beam and in the groove,” the LSO droned.

“LSO, Epsilon One, roger.”
In the groove
indicated a distance to the ship of one thousand meters or less. With skids lowered, he committed himself to the landing. 

The deck of the Roof rushed at him, the white center line directly between his legs. The port and starboard skids struck simultaneously a fraction of a second before the nose skid. A second later, his fighter plowed into the arrester field, jolting to an abrupt stop.   

“Epsilon One, LSO. You were right on the center line and you snagged the third wire. Not bad for a grommit.”

“Thank you, LSO.”

Nathan normally had little time for tradition, but he made an exception to the rule with carrier qual. After a week of training, he had established himself as the “Top Hook”, the student with the best landing grades. According to the research he had done during his third year at the academy, in ancient times when ships were of the wet kind, bringing a craft aboard the ship could at times be an extremely perilous venture. Craft landing on ships had their momentum stopped not by arrester fields, but by wires strung across the deck and snagged by a hook attached to the tail of the fighter. Current fighter pilots had a reputation for being a little crazy, but compared to their heroic forebears they were pussycats. 

Chiron
’s decks did not have wires strung across them. They did, however, have sensor strips embedded into the deck which recorded how well, or badly, a student trapped aboard. Yet another example of the traditional vernacular slipping into the current naval lexicon.

Four sensor strips ran from the leading edge of the fantail forward and were numbered one to four starting at the stern. Snagging the first wire was the worst possible result, indicating that the pilot had dropped dangerously below the glide path and was in danger of striking the ship. The computers, the LSO and especially the instructor in the back seat would never allow that to happen. The second wire confirmed a satisfactory trap. Snagging the third wire was ideal, the very best. Picking up the fourth wire was considered an overshoot, the fighter in danger of missing the arrester field.

“Very well,” Lieutenant Hinton said, “proceed at one-third to training area Beta seven.” 

“Beta seven at one-third, roger.”

The Ithacan system could not have been better tailored to the needs of training command. The system had few planets and an abundance of asteroid fields. It contained nothing of value and had zero occupation, making the area perfect for training command’s purpose.

The training continued, and each day Nathan looked forward to the growing challenges.

CHAPTER 5

Date: 20
^th
October, 321 ASC.

Position: Anchored in space, two AUs inside the aphelion of the Ithacan system.

Status: Fighter training, ongoing. 

After a month of intense training, Commander Worsfold had pushed his students through phase two without reprieve or mercy. Two, and in some cases, when he found himself in a particularly brutal frame of mind, three flight sessions per day were followed with a sixty- to ninety-minute debrief after each sortie. The murderous four-hour sessions and remorseless schedule had exhausted both instructors and students alike.

The students were constantly reminded that space was a dangerous place, but none more so than within the boundaries of the Tunguska Fault. However, if those who plied her oceans showed due respect, she would not kill them. Generally speaking.

Nathan kicked the port mag plating so hard that his starboard dorsal lifted dramatically. 

“That’s a little excessive, don’t you think?” Lieutenant Hinton asked.

“Yes.”
Better to overcompensate than not.

“How did you know to adjust so quickly?”

“I felt it through the seat of my flight suit, Ma’am,” Nathan said. “A class three hyperspace fluctuation. Better known by real pilots as an eddy three.”

“Very good.”

“I caught the edge of an eddy four yesterday when I was out with Skipper. Hmm, interesting. I’ve heard that a class five is ah … intimidating.”

“That’s an understatement a Bret would be proud of. Your EW sensors should, under normal circumstances, pick up eddies one to three well before they get close enough to cause any problems. It’s the fours and fives you have to stay alert for. They are not as powerful, but by virtue of being undetectable they can be far more dangerous. If you can sense them beforehand, as you just did, then you’re ahead of the curve.”

This area of Ithacan space had been specifically chosen for the purpose of sharpening the trainees’ instincts. The most damaged sector of the system had quickly earned a suitable nickname: the Diarrhea Derby. It could not have been better designed for the purpose of training young pilots to develop their burgeoning intuition. There were worse places within the torn fabric of Tunguska, but this area had been deemed to be quite sufficient to test the grommits’ mettle. Worsfold had read the riot act to all students and instructors about adhering to safety protocols within this potentially deadly environment. 

Nathan sensed the next eddy, a strength two, and made a minor pitch adjustment to compensate. 

“That’s more like it,” Lieutenant Hinton said.

“Worsfold to Epsilon flight,” the commander’s voice cut in. “Instructors, take your charges back to the boat. I will trap aboard first and assess your feeble attempts at landing. Worsfold out.”

Twenty minutes later, Nathan maneuvered into the approach pattern. Training on the Roof had finished after two weeks of successful exercises. They had spent the last five days in phase two, the far more intimidating Maw. He had made a number of dead slow traps into its boat bay without difficulty. Nathan would not be surprised if the commander upped the tempo in a week or so.

“Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam, twenty clicks out.”

“LSO, Epsilon One. Roger,” Nathan replied.

In a few weeks he would be expected to do a fast trap into the Maw.

“Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam, ten kilometers out. Secure your engines and prepare for braking.” 

“LSO, Epsilon One. Roger. Securing stealth engines.”

Nathan shut down the drives and lowered his undercarriage. If he received a wave-off, for any reason, his mag plating could maneuver him away from
Chiron
. Secure engines, lower landing gear and decelerate in preparation for trapping aboard. All standard.

“Epsilon One, LSO.” An unaccustomed pause. “Be advised, you are not to decelerate your boat. Today’s exercise is a fast trap.” The LSO’s halting tone confirmed his feelings on the subject.

Nathan’s reply caught in his throat. 

“LSO, Epsilon One instructor,” Hinton said. “Say again?”

“Epsilon One, LSO. Affirmative, Lieutenant, fast trap aboard. Top Hook gets the honor.”

“LSO, Epsilon One instructor. Roger.” Lieutenant Hinton switched to internal comm. “Someone thinks you can do this, but if you don’t feel up to it, say so now.”

Nathan had no doubt who “someone” was. The Maw, although twice the size of a standard monitor landing bay, looked very, very small indeed. Nathan chuckled. A silly response to stress that he simply could not help. 

“I’ll give it a try,” he drawled. Nathan could practically sense his instructor cringing into the back seat.

“SMC, straps.”

The head, arm and leg restraints pinned him to the combat chair so he could move only his feet and fingers. The restraints failed to provide the hoped-for reassurance.   

“Epsilon One, LSO. I have you on the beam, two thousand meters from the boat.”